Chapter 70
“Is Vi still in her room?” Rosie said as she raced into the kitchen.
Etterly was sitting alone at the big table. “You’re dripping all over the clean floor,” he said. “Get some towels.”
Rosie ignored him and ran up the back staircase, dripping all over that as well, and leaving a trail of water behind her as she skidded to a stop in front of Violet’s room.
“Vi! Open up!” she said, pounding on the door, then trying the knob. The door was still locked.
“Vi! You’ll never believe it!” Rosie said as she continued pounding.
“Vi! Let me in!” Rosie said, shouting now. “He’s alive!”
Violet opened the door an inch and peered out at Rosie. “What are you saying?”
Rosie pushed the door open and threw her arms around Violet, soaking her to the skin.
“Vi! Your Lord Trevelton! He’s alive! He’s alive!” She hugged Violet tightly and then, although she hadn’t felt at all like crying, she started crying anyway. “They’re alive! Both of them!”
“Rosie, calm down,” Violet said as something similar to hope seemed to surround her. “Are you hallucinating? The two of them are dead. We saw it happen. I saw his corpse.”
“No! The two of them are alive,” Rosie said as she collapsed onto the one chair in Violet’s small bedroom, put her head in her hands, and cried even harder.
“Rosie, please. I know you want me to feel better, but I’ve seen a corpse before. I know what a dead person looks like. And Trevelton is dead.”
“Vi, you don’t know anything.”
“Calm down and tell me what happened.”
Rosie looked up at her friend and kept on crying.
“We were all in the kitchen. I mean, you weren’t there—you were up here—but everyone else was there. And Johnny came barging in and said that the two men hadn’t killed each other after all and that we had to prepare a feast for them and take it out there immediately. They were quite hungry and it couldn’t wait another moment.”
“Oh. Johnny.” The burgeoning hope that Rosie had seen in her friend vanished. “Now I understand. He has quite an imagination.” Violet retreated back into herself.
Rosie reached up and grabbed Violet’s hand.
“You don’t understand. I was just there. Out in the stables. They’re alive. Both of them. We took trays out to them and they’re eating and drinking. Johnny said they were still arguing when he and Mr. Calvert first got there and they had to wait and they had cigars and—”
“Rosie. Are you telling me the truth? You’re not just saying this to make me feel better?”
“Vi, you know what I think about that Lord Trevelton. He’s no good for you. But he is alive. Not even injured. Not even a little bit. Neither is Lord Saybrook. Neither of them.”
“How is it possible?”
“I don’t know, Vi. I just know it’s true. I saw them. They were eating and talking and drinking and joking. Johnny got out the best bottle of wine from the cellar. Mrs. Allman said it was all right. And Cook went out to the stables with us. She said she had to see them for herself.”
“You’re certain? Absolutely certain?”
“I was there, Vi. As close to them as I am to you. Well, almost.”
“Ephraim,” Violet said as she sat on the edge of her bed and felt around for his letter, but it was out of reach, resting on top of the pillow, and Rosie wouldn’t let go of her hand.
“They’re alive, Vi,” Rosie said. “But he’s still all wrong for you.”
“He’s just a farmer, Rosie. He’s not some rich peer. Ephraim Croft. Not Lord Trevelton.”
“Don’t ever pretend to be dead, Vi. It’d just kill me.”
Chapter 71
Very satisfying, don’t you think? The words worked themselves around in her imagination, looping into themselves, twining themselves around her neck and into her throat.
Marguerite leaned over and threw up into the toilet again, then sat back against the cool tile walls, the only relief she’d get while she waited until the next wave of nausea hit her.
Very satisfying, don’t you think? Marguerite couldn’t forget Clive’s words, couldn’t forget the look on Clive’s face when he’d said them. Not just because Clive had used the words so cruelly against her, but because they were true.
It had been very satisfying to kill her father. And Clive had known it.
To see the look on her father’s face when he sensed he was going to die. To watch him struggle and try to regain his purchase in a world he’d no longer be permitted to occupy. To see the pleading look in his eyes and stare back into them as she tightened the cord around his neck.
She hadn’t spoken to him that day, even when she killed him. It wasn’t like the kind of murder they have in fabulas, where the killer spends time letting the victim know exactly why they deserve to die, delivering an eloquent speech and giving the victim a chance to argue their case. But her father had no case to argue.
As soon as her mother and brother had left the house that day, Marguerite had drugged her father’s ever-present ale, and while he was unconscious she’d bound him, using the techniques she’d studied, sure he’d never be able to escape.
But she’d waited for him to wake up before she killed him. She wanted him to see that she was his murderer. She wanted that very satisfaction that Clive guessed she knew about. Or perhaps every murderer feels this way, she thought.
Her father couldn’t be allowed to continue. It was one thing that he’d continually raped and beaten her until she’d been old enough to fight back, but when she saw him going into her little brother’s room that night, she’d made an immediate decision.
The nausea rose again, but she felt she could ride it out. She put her hand on her throat and willed herself to breathe deeply.
When you want something, when you choose something, when you know that it has to be done, when you know without question that you’ll do it, barriers fall away and everything opens up for you. In less than a day she learned all she needed to know to kill him, and she’d done it without a second thought.
Very satisfying. Yes, she did think so. Very satisfying to know that your young brother would never have to see his monstrous father again, would never have to bear the horrors of his abuse. To know that your mother would be saved the fear and subjugation of her daily life. To know that you’d done something direct and useful and just and right.
Even if you had to leave your home. Even if you could never see your mother and brother again. Even so, it was very satisfying.
On her way out of the house, carefully leaving everything so it would be obvious that her mother and her little brother were innocent of the deed, Marguerite had been overwhelmed with a certainty that she’d fulfilled her life’s purpose—ridding the universe of Lawrence Rhodes, Outworld 15’s governor general, largest property holder, most underhanded merchant, and most despicable resident.
Killing him couldn’t balance out the years she’d suffered his violence and the innumerable times he’d raped her, but she’d saved her brother much of what she’d endured, and knowing that was a large part of the satisfaction.
Stowed away on the transport, she’d replayed not just her father’s death but also the scene she imagined must have taken place when her mother and brother arrived home. They would’ve been unable to get into the house, since Marguerite had secured all the entries from inside before her escape.
She’d studied how to do that too, so that neither her brother nor her mother would be suspected of the murder, and she knew from reading the linear afterward that she herself was the only suspect.
Marguerite’s nausea became uncontrollable and she cast her accounts yet again. Was her body trying to rid itself of her and Nicholas’s son?
Nicholas Coburn. Yet another man who’d used her, deceiving her by surreptitiously feeding her the antidote. No wonder he’d been so anxious to return to Earth. He didn’t want to face her when she realized what
he’d done.
Marguerite washed her face, dressed in her best afternoon dress, a yellow-gold gown, covered herself with her light burgundy pelisse, and headed downstairs.
Clive’s words echoed in her mind. Very satisfying, don’t you think?
Chapter 72
Violet waited for a few minutes after Rosie left, but no matter what technique she tried—and she knew many actor’s tricks to quiet her nerves—none of them worked. Her entire body was restless with the news. Trevelton was alive.
While she was sitting on the floor, doing an ancient breath series that her favorite acting teacher had sworn by, she had a dreadful fantasy where Rosie came to visit her in Los Angeles and told her that Booker Holm was alive. That it had all been a sham and he wasn’t dead. He was fine.
Would she still have to pay off his debts? Was he hiding from her? Was she still married to him? Did he no longer want her? Was this just another of Booker’s many lies?
She couldn’t control her breaths, and her visualizations were all turning sour on her. She next pictured Charlotte, a veritable goddess, pouring herself over Trevelton while he stroked her and told her over and over how much he loved her, and every once in a while glanced up to make sure that Violet was taking it all in. They were a gorgeous couple.
Violet read Trevelton’s letter again. Ephraim Croft. A farmer. She wanted to rip the letter to shreds but she couldn’t do it.
He was alive, but he wasn’t here. He wasn’t with her. He’d been resurrected but hadn’t immediately felt compelled to see her first. Instead he was out in the stables with his old pal—the very pal who he’d been dueling just hours before—and now they were drinking and eating and having a grand time.
To hell with Violet Aldrich. Who was she anyway? Lady Patience Barrington’s lady’s maid. An actor hired to play a part that no one else would want. Someone he could love if only he could love someone who wasn’t Charlotte. The same Charlotte who’d run off with his pal. Who’d betrayed him.
Yet he loved Charlotte and not her. Of course, she didn’t love him. She hadn’t loved Booker either. She loved no one.
There. That was better. The breath series was finally working.
She picked up Trevelton’s letter, stuffed it back into its envelope, and went downstairs. She shrugged into one of the oilskin coats hanging on the hooks by the back door and was about to leave when Mrs. Allman called to her.
“Violet. I was going to send for you.” Jewel Allman, who often looked stern, looked particularly stern at that moment.
Violet’s heart skittered through her chest. She was going to be fired. Mrs. Allman had misunderstood and thought she was the cause of the duel. Now that the men were both alive again, she wasn’t going to let it happen twice. The transport fare would not only wipe out Violet’s earnings so far but would put her in debt for years.
“Yes, Mrs. Allman.” Violet took off the oilskin coat and put it back on its hook, shoving the letter into its left-hand pocket. She didn’t want Mrs. Allman to see what she’d been holding.
“Come into my office with me, Violet,” Mrs. Allman said as she started walking.
“Yes, Mrs. Allman,” Violet said.
When she’d gotten to 5730, Violet had resolved never to say anything more than her lines. Yes, my lady. No, my lord. Yes, Mr. Calvert. Yes, Mrs. Allman.
This was clearly how she’d gotten into trouble. Not only saying more than her lines, but, even worse, having a very public affair with Lord Trevelton. With Ephraim Croft, who’d paid for the fun of coming to a majestic, seducing a lady’s maid, having a pretend duel with his best friend, and reminding himself of how much he loved his ex, Charlotte.
Now she would just say what was expected of her, what she was getting paid for—for at least another few moments. Nothing more.
When they got to Jewel Allman’s starkly plain office, Mrs. Allman motioned for Violet to precede her, then closed and locked the door behind them.
Why didn’t Jewel Allman have any adornments in her office? And no windows? It seemed so wrong. She was the historitor, the producer. She was running the show.
If this were Violet’s show to run, she’d have the prettiest room in the place, and a window. No, three windows. She’d have a love seat to read on in the afternoons. A stained glass lampshade. Plush carpeting. Tassels on the drapery cords.
Violet sat in the interrogation chair and waited. Would her pay be prorated by the hour or the day? Would today count as an entire day? Would Mrs. Allman consider recommending her for another majestic? She’d desperately need the work.
She’d scrub floors over at Brixton. Every manor house needed someone to scrub floors, didn’t it? Yes, that’s what she’d suggest. No transport necessary. And she’d never speak more than her lines again. She’d swear to it. Yes, my lord. No, my lady.
She’d beg if she had to. The years of paying Booker’s debts splayed themselves out in front of her. That bastard. Liar. Deceiver. Leaving her with all his problems. If it weren’t for him . . .
“So I’d like to know your decision,” Mrs. Allman said.
Violet shook her head. What decision was that? Had Mrs. Allman been talking?
“Violet, have you heard a word I said?” Mrs. Allman picked up a rather lethal-looking letter opener and tapped its point on the desk.
“No, Mrs. Allman.” Might as well be honest. Against everything she’d been taught and everything she’d ever practiced, Violet held her breath, awaiting the worst.
“There’s been a communication from Los Angeles. The producers of Mirage have a part for you and want you back as soon as possible.”
Chapter 73
Lady Patience was sitting in the solarium, despite the dismal weather. Maybe it should be called the rain room, she thought. A more fitting name.
If she’d known before she came on this majestic that it was going to rain all the time, she might not have come. If she’d known that there would be no suitable mate for her here, no one who’d interest her in the least, she would have done something else instead.
She could have gone on a tour of the family business’s facilities, for example. Or redone the house yet again. Or bought a new one.
Or gone to a majestic in the thirty-fifth instead. She’d heard that you could be a player there, getting one of the best rooms, and have your choice of men, all of them thinking you were an actor and not a player.
It might be fun to be a whore for a few months, to have no one know that she could afford to be a player at a majestic every day for the next ten centuries if she’d wanted to. Or lived that long. Or hadn’t found someone to share her life with yet.
If she rang the bell, would Calvert come? Or would that gossipy footman show up instead? Always looking like he was going to start laughing at her.
As though she couldn’t just as easily laugh at herself. Lady Patience Barrington. Pamela Hyland would certainly laugh at such a person.
Although the dress she was wearing was quite lovely. She’d take it back with her. She looked good in blue. The high waistline hid her worst, intractable, flaws. And the fabric was exquisite.
What was going on with Vernie? She’d initially thought how fun it would be to have her friend with her here, but Vernie was never around. Always sashaying off with that sleazy viscount and the boorish baron.
“Lady Patience,” said the duchess. She was at the doorway of the solarium, dressed in a stunning yellow-gold gown, made more stunning by the burgundy pelisse that was over it. But the duchess herself looked exceptionally pale. Perhaps she hadn’t yet heard.
“Your Grace,” Lady Patience said. “It’s wonderful news, isn’t it?”
The duchess flinched, then quickly recovered and sat down across from Lady Patience.
“Is it?”
“About Lord Trevelton and Lord Saybrook,” Lady Patience said.
The duchess looked shocked and actually gasped. “I wouldn’t think you could call that wonderful news, Lady Patience.”
“You haven’
t heard, have you? They’re alive, Your Grace.”
“Oh God.” Sophia looked around the solarium as if concerned that someone else had overheard her ill-advised comments. “I didn’t know. Please forgive me. I thought you were saying . . .” The duchess seemed close to tears.
“Yes, it’s very surprising. Apparently Calvert—well, he’s just marvelous, don’t you think? He was clever enough to have prepared the pistols with harmless projectiles. The men were merely stunned. Or knocked unconscious. I didn’t get all the details. They’re out in the stables now, having a feast.”
“You’re certain of this? That footman is quite a storyteller.” Sophia had her hand on her throat.
“Oh yes. Jewel Allman told everyone. It’s true. Lettie must be so relieved. And . . .” Lady Patience stopped herself as she fixed her gaze on the duchess. “Your Grace, is something the matter?”
“Do you think we can talk privately?” Sophia said.
“Almost everyone went out to the stables, so there’s little chance we’d be interrupted. I couldn’t face another slog in the rain. I’m sure they’ll be here for dinner and we’ll hear everything then.”
The duchess looked at the entryway, then got up and closed the door and sat down next to Lady Patience on the woven sofa.
“Pamela,” she said. “I need to speak to someone. And I can’t trust anyone here.”
“Your Grace,” Lady Patience said. “Marguerite. I will tell no one. You know that.”
“I do,” said the duchess. “But this mustn’t leave this room.”
“It won’t. I know we don’t know each other that well, Marguerite, but I feel that I’ve come to know you a bit better here. Odd, since we’re almost neighbors at home.”
“Clive can never know,” Marguerite said in a whisper. “Ever.”
“I have no contact with him,” Pamela said. She wouldn’t give the supposed investment specialist—and actual weapons dealer—so much as a nod if she saw him in town. A despicable creature. She’d never understood how Marguerite could be his wife. Those creepy yellow eyes of his. The way he looked at you, at everyone, like he was sizing you up for some gruesome purpose.
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