The Heir

by Catherine Coulter

  The walls began to tremble around her. She tensed her body for the inevitable pain. She knew it must be just moments away. She’d brought this on herself. She was a fool. But, Justin, she didn’t want to leave Justin. Dear God, she was only eighteen years old. She didn’t want to die. She sobbed aloud, tears burning her eyes. Then she shook herself. Fool, one hundred times a fool, and now she was crying like a ninny. She got herself together. She raised her candle. In the dim candlelight she saw the far wall of the cell gently collapse forward, strewing more stone and rubble toward her. She closed her eyes tightly, fighting the swirling dust, and buried her face against the wall.

  The oak beams overhead gave a final groan and fell silent. She raised her head and knew a moment of surprise that she was still alive. She raised her candle again. She swallowed another sob. Alive, yes, but buried amid a tomb of rubble.

  She surged to her feet and screamed, “Gervaise? Gervaise, are you all right? Where are you?”

  She waited many long agonizing moments before she heard his voice on the other side of the crumbled doorway, muffled by the thick pile of stone between them. “Arabella? Is that you? Thank God you are alive. Are you safe?”

  Safe? Was he perfectly mad? Still, she felt better hearing his voice.

  “Yes, I am all right. There is much fallen stone and dust is clogging the air, but I am as yet unharmed.”

  His voice came clearer now, confident and sure. “Do not worry, Arabella. The passage still seems safe. I am going to fetch help. I swear that I will not be long. You must be brave. I shall return soon.”

  He would get Justin. Thank God the passage had not caved in. She thought of her husband and calmed. She must be patient. She wiped her hands across her forehead and saw in the flickering candlelight traces of smeared blood. How odd, she thought, for she hadn’t felt any pain at all. A falling stone had cut into her scalp, and now her hair was matted with blood. Better her hair than dripping off her nose. She laughed. That was better. Justin would come. Everything would be all right.

  The silence was a heavy weight. The minutes stretched out endlessly. Slowly she crawled to the center of the small cell. The sand floor was strewn with jagged pieces of stone, each positioned, it seemed, to poke and cut her palms and knees. She gritted her teeth against the sharp jabs. Carefully she cleared a small space and sat up, lifting the candle to look about her. The doorway looked as if it had vomited stone, leaving only a small space at the very top. She remembered the sound of collapse from the wall beside her, and carefully brought the candle about.

  The breath caught in her throat, then spurted free. She screamed, a piercing, horrified sound that echoed back to her. Amid the fallen stone, stretched out toward her like death beckoning from hell, was a skeleton’s hand. The bony fingers nearly touched her skirt. She scrambled back on her heels and closed her eyes, fighting down another scream. The image of a cowled monk, his head and face covered in a rough woolen robe, filled her mind.

  She forced her eyes open and gazed again at the grotesque curling fingers. Slowly she raised the candle and forced herself to look into the hollow created by the collapsing wall. The skeleton’s outstretched arm was attached to a body. It lay on its side, facing away from her, yet the head was twisted nearly backward, its eye sockets staring at her, but there were no eyes to see her. Broken teeth hung loosely in the gaping mouth. A white peruke was askew atop its fleshless head.

  Arabella shuddered, gooseflesh rising on her arms. The remains of a long-dead monk would have been less terrifying. She felt a ghastly chill, the formless cold sweep of death.

  For several moments she fought silently to force her courage to the forefront. As if to prove to herself that she wasn’t a coward, she reached out her fingers and touched the filthy worm-eaten velvet sleeve that covered the skeleton’s arm. How strange, she thought, it was still soft to the touch. She looked more closely. It was the skeleton of a man, dressed in a dark green coat and velvet breeches that fitted below the knees. She remembered as a child that her father had worn such a style. The man could not have been buried more than twenty years in his ancient tomb. She leaned closer and saw a gaping hole over the man’s chest. It gave witness to his manner of death. At least he’d been dead before he’d been entombed.

  It required a great effort of will for Arabella to slip her fingers into the coat pockets. Perhaps the man must have had some paper, some document to tell who he was. The pockets were empty. She drew a deep breath and plunged her hand into his breeches pocket. Her fingers closed around a small square of folded paper. Slowly she drew it out and sat back on her heels.

  She unfolded the paper and saw that it was a letter. The ink was so faded with age that she had to hold the candle dangerously close to its yellowed edges.

  She managed to make out the date—1789. The month had become illegible over the years. She looked down at the body of the letter and wanted to cry out in vexation, for it was written in French. With frustrating slowness she translated the letter word by word. She read:

  My beloved Charles, even though he knows of the growing unrest, the now violent revolts of the rabble against us, he forces me to come. He keeps my baby here to ensure my return to England. You know he is furious over what he believes to be my family’s treachery. He wants the remainder of my promised dowry. Listen, my love, do not worry, for I have a plan that will free us forever from him. Once in France, I shall travel to the château . . .

  Try as she might, Arabella could not make out the next few lines. They blurred into shadowy shapes. Who was this Charles, anyway? And this woman? She shook her head and skipped the smudged lines.

  Though our little Gervaise cannot escape with us, I have learned to bear the pain of separation. At least he will know safety with my brother. Josette will post this, my last letter to you. Soon, my love, we will be together again. I know that we can escape him and rescue Elsbeth. We shall be rich, my darling, rich from his greed. A new life. Freedom. I trust in God and in you. Magdalaine.

  Arabella sat quietly with the letter laying loosely in her fingers. She felt as if Magdalaine had come to her and unraveled the tangled, poignant threads of her short life. This man, Charles, was Magdalaine’s lover. Gervaise was their child. He was not the Comte de Trécassis, but a bastard. She reeled back then as it struck her. Magdalaine was also Elsbeth’s mother. Dear God. Elsbeth was his half-sister. Oh God, did he know? Surely not, even he could not be so evil. Of course, she was aware of the likeness of their features. But now she no longer saw it as the mere resemblance of cousins, but the deep inherited traits of brother and sister.

  Poor Elsbeth. Dear God, she had to protect her sister. She couldn’t let her ever find out that she had made love with her own brother. It would destroy her.

  Arabella jerked as the truth hit her. Her father’s first wife had been unfaithful to him. Indeed, she had borne a child before her marriage to him. Had the Trécassis family bribed her father with some fantastic sum to marry Magdalaine to save themselves from scandal? She looked down again at the letter. If only she could make out those yellowed blurred lines. She read once again.

  “We shall be rich, my darling, rich from his greed.”

  She sat silently for a long while, sorting through what she knew and what she could only guess at. She looked back at the skeleton, her eyes fastening on the bullet hole in his chest. She thought of the times her father had expressly forbidden her to explore the ruins. Was it simply because he had feared for her safety?

  No.

  Her father must have killed this man, Charles. A duel of honor—yes, it must have been a duel of honor. Her father was no murderer, no matter what, no.

  She suddenly remembered that Magdalaine had died suddenly after her return from France. She felt her blood freeze in her veins. A hoarse sob broke from her throat. “No, God, please no. He did not kill her, too. He would not have. No, please.”

  Yet the faded passionate words from so long ago were damning. Hate, pain, and suffering clutched at her from eve
ry word. Her only thought now was to protect her father’s name, to destroy this wretched letter. She jerked it up and with quivering fingers drew it near to the slender candle flame. She was not certain what stopped her, but she pulled the paper back, folded it again into a small square, and slipped it into the sole of her shoe.

  The candle was burning low. It could not be much longer now. Gervaise said he would fetch help. Gervaise. An impostor, a liar. She remembered the strange thudding sound just before the stones over the doorway collapsed. Had he trapped her in here on purpose? Had he tried to kill her? If so, why? What in heaven’s name did he want?

  The candle sputtered and died. Her voice caught on a sob as she was plunged into darkness, her only companion a long-dead man who had betrayed her father.

  As Gervaise jerked open the great front doors of Evesham Abbey and burst into the entrance hall, he yelled, “Crupper, quickly, fetch his lordship. Her ladyship is trapped by fallen rock in the old abbey ruins. Be quick, man, quick, before it is too late.” He was panting hard from his run from the ruins, he could barely catch his breath.

  What had the Frenchman said? “Her ladyship? Trapped?” he repeated slowly, staring at the foreigner he wanted so very much to leave.

  “Damn it, man, we must be quick. The rocks may collapse on her at any moment. She could already be dead! Hurry, hurry, fetch the earl.”

  At that moment, the earl appeared at the top of the stairs. “What is this about Arabella being trapped? In the old abbey ruins, you say?” He bounded down the stairs.

  “We were exploring the subterranean chambers in the old abbey ruins. One of the chambers caved in and she is trapped. It is all my fault. Oh please, my lord, we must hurry.”

  “She is still alive?” The earl’s voice was as hard and cold as granite.

  “Yes, yes, I called to her. She is unharmed, but I fear there will be more falling stone. It is all unstable.”

  The earl threw back his head, and bellowed, “Giles!”

  When the second footman came running into the entrance hall, the earl said, “Go quickly, Giles, and fetch James and all the stable hands. Tell them to gather their shovels and picks. Her ladyship is trapped beneath the ruins of the old abbey. Go, man, I shall meet you there.”

  The earl turned to Crupper. “Inform Lady Ann and Elsbeth. I shall be at the ruins.” He turned to follow Giles, then stopped abruptly and looked back to see Gervaise quickly mounting the staircase.

  “Monsieur.” His voice was soft, yet it cut through the air with the sharpness of a rapier.

  Gervaise spun on his heel and turned to face the cold set features of the earl.

  “Do you not wish to assist in rescuing my wife? Did you not say it was your fault? Are you not concerned?”

  Ah, the earl’s voice was so soft, so quiet—it scared the comte to his toes. “I—certainly, my lord. I merely intended to go to my room for but an instant.” Damnation, what was he to do now? “Please, my lord, you must hurry. I shall join you in a moment.”

  The earl said very quietly, “I do not think so, monsieur. You will not join me in a moment. You will not go to your bedchamber. You see, I require your presence at once. Now, not a minute from now.”

  What to do? Gervaise cursed with silent fluency. All this and he would gain nothing at all. It was very hard to clamp down on his rage, but he managed it, shrugging. “As you will, my lord.”

  The earl turned to the now astonished Crupper and said in a loud, clear voice, “You will remain here, Crupper, and, if you will, guard Evesham Abbey. No one—I repeat, no one—is allowed beyond the entrance hall until my return. Do you understand?”

  The old man felt mired in confusion. He heard the earl’s words and, of course, understood them, though their intent was quite lost on him. It was what his lordship required of him. It was enough that he could obey. “Yes, my lord. I will remain here. No one will enter.”

  “Excellent, Crupper. Monsieur? Let us go.” The earl stepped back and waited for Gervaise to precede him through the front doors.

  Arabella drew her legs up close to her chest and hugged herself for warmth. The dust and sand had settled and she could breathe more easily. She tried not to think of the skeleton but an arm’s reach away, and of the terrible truth that she had discovered. Surely Justin must come to her soon, if, she thought grimly, Gervaise indeed wanted her to be rescued. But what had he to gain by leaving her here? What of Justin? Of course he would come for her. That, she could not doubt.

  She felt tears sting her eyes. The wetness of her tears mixed with the grime about her eyes and burned. She lifted a corner of her skirt and rubbed it against her cheeks.

  Suddenly she thought she heard movement from the other side of the fallen wall. She raised her head and peered into the blackness.

  “Arabella? Can you hear me?”

  “Justin!” She jumped to her feet, bruises and cuts forgotten. “I knew you would come. I’m trapped in here. Please, oh, please, get me out of here.”

  Again she heard his voice, calm and clear. “Listen to me, Bella. I want you to move to the far corner of the chamber and protect your head with your arms. This is a tricky business. The beams are unstable above the door. I want you far away from them in case there is more collapsing.”

  “But, Justin, I can start pulling rocks away from this side. I’m not hurt and I’m strong, you know that. I can help—”

  She thought she heard a low chuckle. The voice that reached her but a moment later was irate. “Damn it, woman, do as I tell you. I am glad that you are quite unharmed, and I wish you to remain that way. Move to the far side of the chamber. Do it now. I want you out of there.”

  She groped her way back to the corner and slipped down to her knees and covered her head.

  It seemed to Arabella that with each stone dislodged from its place, the walls and ceiling shuddered and groaned. She herself shuddered with their every movement. She felt it the most joyous sight imaginable when Justin pulled away enough rubble to ease his body through the opening.

  Someone handed him a candle. The small cell was flooded with light. Light and life, she thought, and she was alive.

  The earl called over his shoulder, “James, stay back. I shall bring her ladyship out.”

  Arabella rose slowly to her feet. She walked straight into her husband’s arms. She pressed her face against his shoulder. “I am very glad you came to rescue me,” she said simply. She raised her face. “You are the most beautiful man in the whole world. Before I believed you only the most beautiful man in England, but no longer. The world, my lord, the whole world.”

  “Am I now? Well, you never doubted, did you, that I would come and fetch you? Why, who would argue with me? Who would yell at me? Who would kiss me so sweetly?”

  She buried her face again in his shoulder. “You believe me,” she whispered. “You believe me now. You know he was never my lover.”

  He was silent for a moment. She felt the slight stiffening of his body, and she wanted to weep. “It doesn’t matter.” Ah, but it did. It stood between them as the collapsed door had stood between them.

  “But you came for me. I thank you for that.” He was rubbing his chin against her hair.

  He drew back. “We have much to talk about, you and I. Come now, let’s get out of here. I have no great desire to further test your charmed existence.”

  “A moment, Justin, I was not alone here.” She took the candle from his fingers and carefully moved its light to shine upon the skeleton.

  He couldn’t believe his eyes. “Good God, I don’t believe this.” He looked at her and marveled at her steadiness. He dropped to his knees and briefly examined the skeleton. After a moment he rose and dusted off his breeches. “First let’s get you out of this place, then I’ll see that this poor fellow receives a proper burial. I don’t suppose you know who he is? No, certainly not.”

  He held the light for her as she slipped from her prison into freedom. She thought of the letter now rubbing against the sole of her fo
ot. She felt weighted down with unsought, damning knowledge. There was much to consider—her father’s name, and of course, Elsbeth. She determined at that moment to hold her tongue; no one must know what she had discovered, even Justin, until she had time to think, to sort through all that she now knew.

  When she emerged into the bright sunlight, she looked about her, realizing for the first time in her eighteen years how very precious life was. She savored the hot sun beating down upon her face.

  Like a small child awakening from a nightmare, she walked to her mother and threw her arms about her shoulders.

  “My sweet girl,” Lady Ann said, stroking her daughter’s filthy hair. “My dearest heart, it’s all right, it’s quite all right. You’re safe now. You’re with Mama. Goodness, you’ve cut your scalp, but no matter. We will take care of that.”

  But she wasn’t safe, none of them were. Whether the threat was from the comte or from the letter in the sole of her shoe, she knew there would not be safety for a very long time.

  27

  “You’re a mess,” the earl said, his hands around his wife’s upper arms. He realized he was afraid to let her go. “It was so damned close,” he said, pulling her against him, holding her hard against him. “Too damned close. You won’t do that to me again, will you, Arabella?”

  She shook her head against his shoulder. “It was awful. I didn’t think I’d ever see the sunlight again the way it slants over the house in the late afternoon.” She paused a moment, rubbing her nose against the soft material of his jacket. “I was afraid I would never see you again.”

  “Ah,” he said. He lifted her chin with his finger, stared down at her for a very long time, then kissed her, very gently. “We both need to bathe. Let me look at that cut in your hair.”

  It wasn’t as bad as it looked, thank God. He let the matted hair fall back. It had just bled a lot, as did most scalp wounds.

  “You’ll do. Bathe now. Then, I would like to speak with you.”