Fiona

by Meredith Moore

  I can’t lie. Not to Gareth. Not when he’s the one person in the world who’s stood by my side. “I love him,” I admit.

  He meets my eyes and nods once, quickly. “I’ll get us another round. Be right back, okay? And then we can make a plan.”

  I nod, my eyes brimming with grateful tears, and settle back into the booth as he heads for the bar. I eat the rest of the almonds and finish my drink and let the burning warmth from the whisky and the fire spread through me. I’m safe.

  When I look back toward the bar, though, Gareth isn’t there. I search the crowd, and he’s definitely not among them.

  I stand up, a feeling of dread growing in the pit of my stomach. I walk past all the patrons, through the door, and back out into the cold. And find Gareth on his cell phone.

  CHAPTER 33

  “Just hurry,” he says before hanging up and turning around to come back inside.

  As soon as he spots me, I start running. “Fee!” he calls out, but I’m into the woods before he can catch me.

  He’ll go for the car now and try to track me down. I keep running, deeper into the woods but still following the road as closely as I dare toward Dunraven Manor. It’s a couple of miles away, and I know Gareth will overtake me soon. But if I stay far enough from the road, hidden in the dense trees, maybe he won’t see me.

  Evening is falling, and there are plenty of cars zipping by. I don’t stop to look for Gareth’s. I just stumble along as best as I can, pushing my way through the scratching, searching trees. The whisky and the fire have brought some feeling back into my feet, and I feel the blood pumping through me, warming me, as I run faster.

  I’m out of breath with a painful stitch in my side by the time I finally reach a tall stone wall. The edge of the Dunraven Manor property. I climb over the wall as quickly and quietly as possible, then sprint for the manor house. I know every camera in the trees is pointed at me, but I don’t care. I want them to know that I’m here.

  Once I’m inside that house, I’ll be safe. I hope.

  Sure enough, before I’m less than halfway to the house, someone behind me yells, “Stop!”

  I whirl around to face the same guard who found me the first time I came here. He recognizes me just as I recognize him. “What are you doing here?” he asks gruffly. “You need to leave.” He grabs my arm and starts dragging me off.

  “Wait,” I say, pulling my arm from his grasp. “You have to let me inside. I have to see the Cavendishes.”

  He frowns at me, the wrinkles deepening in his weathered face. “Then you can call and make an appointment. But you’re not getting anywhere near them tonight.”

  He starts dragging me off again, but I stand my ground.

  “My name is Fiona,” I say. “I’m Moira’s daughter.”

  He stares at me, his brow furrowed. “I don’t understand,” he says after a stretch of silence.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish are my grandparents. And I need to see them. Now.”

  He drops my arm and takes a step back. “Is this a joke? I’ve never heard anything about Moira having a child.”

  Maybe my grandparents really never knew about me. Either that or they were too ashamed to tell anyone. “I was born in Texas. My mother raised me until she committed suicide. My mother was their daughter, and I’m their granddaughter.”

  The guard blinks, then looks from me to the manor house and back again. “Well . . . I suppose we’ll see what Mrs. Drummond has to say about this,” he says, stumbling over his words.

  “Thank you,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster.

  We walk in silence, glancing at each other out of the corners of our eyes every so often.

  The housekeeper is standing outside the front door, watching us walk up.

  “You’re the girl who was here last month. The trespasser,” she says once we’re close enough to hear. “I thought it was you on the security camera. What’s this about?” she asks the guard.

  “She says she’s their granddaughter.”

  “Granddaughter?” Mrs. Drummond says with a laugh. It fades when she sees the serious look on my face.

  I tell her who my mother is, but she still looks confused.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, taking one step closer to her. “But could you please just talk to them? Ask them if they’ll see me?”

  She wrings her hands in worry but finally nods. “Wait here,” she says.

  The guard stays with me, and we wait in silence until Mrs. Drummond comes back. Her expression is so grave that for a moment I’m sure they’ve refused to meet with me.

  But instead, she gives me a small nod of assent. “They’ll see you,” she says somewhat uncertainly. “But you have to understand, they’re very old, and not well. If this is some kind of joke, or a trick—”

  “It’s not,” I say, looking her right in the eye. “I promise.”

  She studies me for a moment, then gestures toward the door. “Come with me.”

  We climb up a grand staircase, the railing matching the gold filigree details on the walls. There is nothing medieval about this manor house—it’s only a couple of centuries old, and well planned. No twisty staircases or uneven floors to be found.

  As we climb, I try to wrap my head around that the fact that this is where my mother grew up. She knew every inch of these elaborate rooms, was familiar with every piece of antique furniture, knew the story behind every portrait lining the walls. This was her home, where she had her family. The one she left behind without a second glance.

  I think with a quiver: Maybe I shouldn’t be here. I don’t know anything about these people, except for that it’s quite possible they don’t know about me. Or maybe it’s that they don’t want to know me. My mother ran away from them as quickly as she could, as soon as she got the chance. Why would they help me?

  Even if they don’t help me, I still want answers. And this is the only way I’m going to get them. That determination propels me up the last few steps.

  Mrs. Drummond knocks quietly on the door in front of us. “Come in,” a very strong, clear voice calls out. My grandmother?

  We walk into another ornate room, with a large fireplace, one of the grandest grand pianos I’ve ever seen, and so many portraits of kilted men along the walls that it’s as if they’re covered in plaid wallpaper.

  And then I see them, my mother’s parents, sitting on a curved Victorian sofa in the middle of the room. Mr. Cavendish reads a newspaper—Charlie’s newspaper—and Mrs. Cavendish is writing something on a small lap desk. A letter. Mr. Cavendish looks up when I walk in, but she keeps writing.

  They are both small, smaller than I thought they would be given my mother’s willowy height. Mrs. Cavendish’s hair is coiled into an elegant bun, and Mr. Cavendish wears a well-tailored three-piece suit, as if they’ve decided they must dress to match the opulence of their home. Tentatively, I step closer, examining their faces for familiar traits, anything that might remind me of my mother. Or myself.

  Mr. Cavendish’s mouth has dropped open at the sight of me. “Your hair—” he chokes out. He turns to Mrs. Cavendish, and she finally looks at me. “She has Moira’s hair.”

  They both stare at me, as if marveling at my long red curls, and I awkwardly shift from one foot to the other.

  “That will be all, Mrs. Drummond,” Mrs. Cavendish says. Mrs. Drummond nods and slips back out the door, leaving me alone with them.

  “Well, girl,” my grandmother says finally, her voice dry. “What do you have to say for yourself?” She sets aside her lap desk and crosses her hands together, studying me. Everything about her breathes elegance and refinement, even though she wears only a simple gold wedding band and no makeup. It’s the way she moves, her posture. My mother had that same gracefulness.

  “Let’s start at the beginning,” Mrs. Cavendish says, surely noticing that I’m too overwhelmed to s
peak. “You claim to be our granddaughter.”

  “Y-yes,” I stutter out.

  “Moira never had a child.”

  So they never heard about me. Which means I need to start with the hardest part. “My name is Fiona. My mother, Moira Cavendish, gave birth to me in Austin, Texas, about seven years after she left yo—after she left Scotland. She raised me there until she . . . she died when I was twelve.”

  I pause, watching them, waiting for their reaction.

  They look at each other, solemn and sad. They knew she was dead. “Did Lily tell you?” I ask.

  “Lily told us, yes. About her suicide,” my grandfather says slowly, and I can hear the grief in his voice, still so fresh after all these years. “But she never mentioned anything about a daughter.”

  Why? Why would Lily try to hide me from them?

  “Lily was always keeping us in the loop on Moira’s life in the States. Why wouldn’t she tell us about you?” my grandmother asks, echoing my thoughts, her left eyebrow arching.

  Was that lie, that omission, part of an old promise to my mother? Did Lily think she was somehow protecting me from the Cavendishes? Or was she keeping me from them for some other reason? What secrets had she been hiding?

  “Suppose what you say is true,” my grandmother continues. “What mother would commit suicide when she had a young daughter to raise? Who could be that irresponsible?”

  “She was sick,” I say. “With schizophrenia. Didn’t Lily tell you that?” I ask.

  My grandparents glance at each other again. “We know of the family illness,” my grandfather says finally, his voice much softer than his wife’s. “My aunt suffered from it as well.”

  “We raised Moira to be stronger than any illness,” my grandmother says, her voice cutting in over her husband’s.

  I straighten my shoulders, staring at this hard woman in shock. “Schizophrenics can’t help their actions,” I say slowly, trying to make her hear me. “Not without medication.”

  “And was she on medication?” my grandmother asks, delicately arching an eyebrow again.

  “No,” I admit.

  She nods, receiving the answer she expected. “This is all ridiculous. A ridiculous fairy tale spun by a poor American who thinks she can strike it rich by preying on our sympathies. We won’t fall for it.”

  I stand up, furious. “I don’t want your money.”

  I see now how stupid I was to come here. These people—or at least this woman—would never lift a finger to help me, especially not if I told them I was currently being accused of having the same “family illness” as my mother. I’m wasting my time.

  My grandmother stands at the same time I do, straightening out imaginary wrinkles in her pale pink skirt suit. She is short, only coming up to my shoulder, but she stares me down with plenty of authority. “Any money that you might have been after wouldn’t have gone to you anyhow. All of our fortune will go to the poor Moffat children, the ones who truly deserve it.”

  “The Moffats?” I say, thinking I must have heard her wrong.

  She quirks that eyebrow up again. “Yes. Lily was like a daughter to us, much more loyal and obedient than Moira ever was. She stayed near, always visited,” she adds, and her voice breaks slightly, revealing the hurt underneath. “Lily was our family, and her children are our family, too. You are nothing but a fraud. A mistake.”

  Her words sting, but I brush them aside. Their money—their considerable fortune, this house, everything—is going to the Moffats.

  Because they didn’t know that they had a granddaughter.

  Of course. That’s why Lily never told my grandparents about me. She probably passed it off to my mother like she was just keeping her promise to her, but really she wanted my inheritance. The newspaper was failing, and if she wanted to keep the castle and her fancy lifestyle, she needed money however she could get it.

  So why bring me here, mere miles away from my grandparents’ home? It doesn’t make sense.

  I don’t say another word to the Cavendishes. I can’t. Instead, I flee the room, running down the staircase and out into the entry hall. I need to shift my focus back to Blair.

  CHAPTER 34

  Mrs. Drummond is waiting for me at the front door. “Is everything all right?” she asks, her voice full of concern.

  “Yes, fine,” I lie. “I just need to go.”

  “Should I call Albert to come get you?” she asks softly.

  I shake my head, the horror of Albert coming here and taking me right back to the hospital eclipsing the threat of tears. And Gareth is still out there somewhere, in the Fintair car. Will he come looking for me? Did Albert tell him I might come here? “No,” I croak out. “I—I don’t want to bother him. Is there someone here who could drive me back to Fintair Castle?”

  “I can,” Mrs. Drummond says, pulling a set of keys out of a drawer by the door.

  “I don’t want to mess up your day—” I begin, but she waves her hand at me.

  “It’s the least I can do,” she says, and in her expression, I see that she believes me. I know that she knows I’m truly Moira’s daughter. “Wait here.”

  She rushes out the door and pulls around a few moments later in a big black car with tinted windows. “Get in,” she calls.

  I climb into the passenger seat, and we start driving away from Dunraven Manor. I look in the side mirror at it for a few moments as the estate fades away into the distance, a heavy sense of disappointment settling over me. I certainly didn’t expect an unquestioningly warm welcome from my grandparents, but I would never have imagined them to be so cruel. To dismiss schizophrenia as some kind of weakness of character . . . my hands are still shaking with anger.

  I have to focus on what I can do at the castle to prove that Blair isn’t who she says she is. I have to do that for Charlie. And for Poppy, too.

  He didn’t believe you, the nasty voice in my head says. He left you in that hospital. Why should you do anything for him?

  Of course he didn’t believe me. There was overwhelming evidence that I was not trustworthy, that I was a danger. Evidence that Blair planted incredibly convincingly.

  And then there is the fact that I love him.

  I love him, no matter what he does or doesn’t feel about me. I can’t let him be with a girl evil and twisted enough to cook up this plot against me. He deserves to be happy, not to give his life over to a psychopath.

  And if she is the one who killed Copperfield, she’s even more dangerous than I originally thought. Just thinking about it makes me feel sick to my stomach. I have to save Poppy and Charlie from her. I have to at least try.

  That sickening feeling intensifies as we get closer and closer to the castle. I pick at the cuticle of my left index finger until it bleeds, trying to come up with some sort of plan. All I can think to do is sneak in and head straight for Lily’s desk. I remember that tempting locked drawer, and I know that if Lily was hiding any secrets, that’s where they would be. And I remember the time Blair came into the study, claiming to be looking for Charlie when Alice and I were in there cleaning. Was she really going for that drawer?

  There have to be some answers in there. About why Lily never told my grandparents about me. About why Blair has been trying to drive me crazy. About something.

  It’s not much of a plan, but it’s all I’ve got.

  We reach the familiar landmarks leading up to the turnoff for the castle, and I can’t keep still.

  “Could you drop me off here?” I ask before we get to the turnoff.

  Mrs. Drummond pulls the car over and stops. “Are you sure?” she asks. Her concern is growing.

  “Yes, I—I just want to walk,” I say, trying to sound assuring. “I need to clear my head.”

  “Okay.”

  She’s silent as I get out of the car, then she waves goodbye and drives off. I can only hope t
hat she won’t call Albert or Mabel and tell them that I’m on the property.

  I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, then head for the low stone wall that surrounds the grounds. I hop over it quickly, dusting off my hands as I crash onward. There are no security cameras here like there are at Dunraven Manor, but I can’t shake the nervous feeling that I’m being watched.

  Dusk is falling, and the fog is rolling in. Soon it will be so thick that it’ll swallow me whole. I hurry onward. I know the estate well enough to navigate it now, but the fog of the witching hour has a way of turning me around and tricking me. I have to get through a patch of woods before I reach the open lawn around the castle.

  I start running, the bushes and tree trunks grasping for me, trying to trip me and scratch me up. Now I’ll look even more like a wild animal than I already do.

  I’m not quick enough. The fog enshrouds me before I’m halfway to the castle.

  I slow to a walk, trying to catch my breath, which sounds much too loud in this small space that my world has become. I can barely see a foot in front of me, but I do my best not to panic, holding my hands out to feel my way through. The branches scratch at my skin, and I stumble over rocks every few steps.

  Just when I’m sure I’m completely lost, I hear a noise to my left, something that sounds so much like a human sigh. All the breath evaporates from my body. Then another sound: the swish of a long skirt. Blair?

  The Grey Lady?

  Mom?

  I force myself to keep moving, to keep putting one foot in front of the other in a straight line. I can do this. I have to do this.

  Something nudges my left elbow, hard, and I scream. My wail is lost in the fog.

  I finally stop screaming, and now there is nothing but silence. The nudge has pushed me slightly off course, to the right. Is someone trying to push me off the path? Or trying to guide me?

  “Who are you?” I whisper into the silence.

  No answer. I try to tell myself that I’m just imagining things, but there’s no way I can actually believe that. Not right now, not in this fog. There is someone—something—out here with me, I’m sure of it.