When Swallows Fall

by Gloria Davidson Marlow

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Praise for Gloria Davidson Marlow

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  A word about the author...

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  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  When Swallows Fall

  by

  Gloria Davidson Marlow

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  When Swallows Fall

  COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Gloria Davidson Marlow

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First American Rose Edition, 2014

  Print ISBN 978-1-62830-112-0

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-113-7

  Published in the United States of America

  Praise for Gloria Davidson Marlow

  “SWEET SACRIFICES grabs you right from the beginning and doesn’t let go. A surprisingly good mystery with some suspense and clean romance adding interest to the story.… The setting is a well done historical.… I loved how the story developed, and the little twists and turns played within the characters’ relationships…emotional, not just romantic…SWEET SACRIFICES is wonderful to read.”

  ~Vicky, Sizzling Hot Book Reviews (5 Hearts)

  “SWEET SACRIFICES ensnares the reader’s emotions and imagination with heartbreaking scenes of Kendal’s past when she is at the mercy of circumstances she cannot control. [With] compelling, interwoven subplots that reveal Kendall’s strength, courage, and capacity to love…the story, so full of sacrifices, becomes a story of amazing, euphoric love that is strong, patient, and true. This story shows the flaws and foibles of human nature, but it, most of all, shows love that overcomes all.”

  ~Camellia, Long and Short Romance Reviews(4 Books)

  “Turning a tangled web of deceit and pain into a sweet love story is not an easy thing to do.… Immediately drawn to her characters and driven by the constant mystery surrounding them, I couldn't put the book down.… Seamlessly blended into the romance is a mystery. Ms Marlow has written a well-developed story with multi-dimensional characters, each with enough depth to stand on their own. The characters seem real, the issues authentic, and the conclusion an unexpected happily ever after. This is a sweet romance and a great read.”

  ~Rebecca, The Romance Reviews (4 Stars)

  Dedication

  To Jason, Forrest, Melissa, and Curtis

  Chapter One

  Ophelia and Desdemona. Those were the names my mother whispered as the midwife placed my newborn self in the crook of one of her arms and my twin sister in the other. According to the story my father was told by the midwife, and which he relayed to us many times over the ensuing years, they were the last words my mother spoke before passing quietly into the life beyond this mortal plane.

  I would wonder as we grew to adulthood if my mother, in those last moments of her life, caught a glimpse into the future, or if it was simply her love of all things Shakespearean that fueled her desire to name us for two such tragic females. As she stared down at her tiny infant daughters, had she seen two women destined for heartache from the moment they were born? Or, as my father explained, was she simply a country vicar’s wife, enamored with the works of Shakespeare and dazzled by a recent trip to the theater?

  Whatever her reasons, my father honored what was apparently her last wish and wrote those names on our birth records. He rarely used the names, however, preferring to call us Desi and Fee, and raising us in a quiet little hamlet near the James River, ninety miles south of the bright lights of Richmond and the theatrical tragedies that had so enthralled our mother.

  On the clear autumn day that John Bailey, the local constable and my late father’s closest friend, found me planting flower bulbs in my spring garden, I would wonder again if my mother had foreseen the tragedy that was about to unfold.

  “Good morning, John,” I called gaily as he entered the gate and came toward the spot where I knelt on the newly turned ground.

  “Mornin’, Fee.” Something in his voice made me look at him more closely. His lined face was drawn, his eyes shadowed, and in his hand, he clutched a familiar-looking paper. My stomach dropped. Once before, he had entered my yard with a telegram in his hand.

  Six years ago, the telegram from my sister informed me of her marriage to the man I loved. Other than my telegram telling her of our father’s death nearly a year later, and her reply that she would be unable to attend his funeral, it had been the last communication between us. I doubted this one held any better tidings.

  I got to my feet, wiped my hands on my apron, and straightened the kerchief that covered my thick black hair before reaching for the parchment.

  “Fee,” he murmured, but I cut him off.

  “Is it from Desi?” I asked, trying to hide the quaver of my voice. Perhaps I already knew what it would say. All my life, I had heard tales of twins who knew each other’s pain or read each other’s minds, but Desdemona and I had always been too busy cultivating our differences to pay much attention to our similarities. At some point in time, those differences seemed to have severed any ties that might once have bound us. Now, a hollow pit formed in my stomach as I held out my hand. “Give it to me.”

  He placed it in my palm, his strong old fingers closing around mine for just a moment. He said my name again, and I shook my head in denial of the sympathy his voice held.

  Tears clouded my vision as I stared down at the three words that separated my sister and me forever.

  Desdemona is dead.

  “How?” I whispered. “What happened to her?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve sent a telegram back, asking for more information about her death, as well as when the funeral will be held. As soon as I hear from them, I’ll come around to tell you what I’ve learned. I’m sorry, Fee. I know how much you loved her. How close the two of you were.”

  Were. What a horrible word to describe my relationship with my sister, a painful reminder that everything between us had suddenly become past tense.

  “Thank you, John. Would you have Amos make travel arrangements for me to leave as early in the m
orning as possible?”

  “Of course. Would you like to come out to the house with me? Jess will be happy for the company, and it would keep you from being alone. Or I could take you up to Mrs. Dupree’s house, if you’d rather.”

  His wife, Jess, was a kind woman and the closest thing to an aunt I had ever known. She would cluck and fuss over me, insisting I allow her to coddle me through my shock and grief. Adelaide Dupree, who was more grandmother than aunt and had taken Desi and me in hand when our father would have allowed us to run wild, would feed me until I could barely walk while she lectured me on mourning etiquette and regaled me with stories of the many people she had lived to mourn in her lifetime. My nerves were simply too exposed for such ministrations at the moment, however, and I shook my head.

  “No, but thank you. I need to pack and prepare the house for my departure. I will let you know right away if I need anything,” I assured him when he looked as if he might protest.

  He looked doubtful but accepted my assurance without argument. With a pat on my arm and another murmured condolence, he was gone, leaving me alone with my grief and regret.

  My bags were packed and I was pacing the tiny living room of my childhood home when he came again. What he brought was news that seemed to connect me to my sister in a way nothing had done in the last six years. As certainly as I knew that it was my face that stared back at me in the mirror each morning, I knew the words he spoke were untrue.

  Our love for the same man may have ripped us apart, but in that moment, our mutual love for him brought Desdemona and me back together.

  Even as John Bailey told me the sparse details he’d learned of her death, I heard Desi whisper a denial. Cade Scott might be any number of things, but a murderer he was not.

  Chapter Two

  I arrived at Almenara just before dusk the next evening. In the fading light, I could see the stone lighthouse Cade had described to me long ago. Built years before the main house, it was the beacon that gave the plantation its Spanish name.

  My first thought as we crested the small hill that hid Cade’s ancestral home from the main road was that it was far too innocent-looking a place to be the site of Desdemona’s murder. A large house built of white stone, with pillars supporting the porch, black shutters framing the windows, and well-tended cotton fields lining the gravel drive, it was difficult to believe it housed someone evil enough to kill. My sister was dead, however, and as we rushed up the drive, a mist rolled in from the ocean, nearly obscuring the house and the fields from view. Leaning closer to the window, I scanned each shadowed face we passed, wondering if it was the face of a killer.

  When we at last came to a stop in the wide paved drive in front of the house, I alighted, ignoring the shocked gasp of the young man who helped me down, just as I had the wide-eyed surprise of the man who picked me up from the station and brought me here.

  It was impossible to ignore the horror of the petite, dark-haired maid who pulled the door open at my knock, however. Before I could speak a word, she let loose a bloodcurdling scream and crumpled to the ground.

  Within seconds, there were at least a dozen servants gaping at me as I knelt beside the girl slowly regaining her senses. As soon as her eyes opened, she shot upright, scrambling away from me in a panic. At last, a woman in the black, high-necked uniform of a housekeeper stepped forward.

  “Good evening, miss. May I help you?” Years of keeping a gaggle of young maids in line worked to keep her voice steady, but beneath her cool demeanor her face was pale and her gray eyes puzzled.

  “I am Ophelia Garrett. Desdemona Scott was my sister.” I stood up, holding my hand out to her as I did so.

  A sigh of relief rippled through the room, and the rigid shoulders of the housekeeper relaxed.

  “Miss Garrett,” she said, taking my hand in hers, “please forgive our surprise. We had no idea Mrs. Scott had a sister.”

  As was her custom, Desdemona had left me behind and never looked back. I must admit it stung a bit to think that no one here had known of my existence.

  “Fee?” No one except him, I corrected myself, turning at the sound of Cade’s low, familiar voice. He stood above us, looking down on the foyer from the upstairs landing.

  In the years since Cade married my sister, I had tried to convince myself that the handsome young man I remembered was somewhat embellished by my own fertile imagination. As he stood before me now, partially illuminated by the dimming light from the window behind him, I knew I was wrong. If anything, my memories were duller than reality. Eyes dark as night swept over me, and I felt my breath catch in my throat as his burning gaze came to rest on my face. The years seemed to slip away, and for a moment we were young again and free of regret. I could almost smell the jasmine that bloomed along the riverbank where we had walked hand in hand, hear the cries of the street vendors and the gentle splash of the oars in the water. For one long moment, I could almost taste his kiss.

  I tore my gaze away from his and forced myself to stand straighter. He was my sister’s husband, after all, and I could not and would not allow myself to give in to the attraction I had once felt for him.

  “I’m so sorry to hear about Desdemona, Cade,” I said, a bit surprised at the normality of my voice and by my stilted words.

  “As am I, Ophelia,” he said, once more the self-assured master of Almenara. His lips curled into a mocking imitation of the smile I remembered, and his eyes hardened to obsidian ice. He came down the stairs toward me, greeting me with a cold, quick embrace. “I hated the impersonal means of alerting you to your sister’s death, but there was no other way. As I’m sure you’ve been told, I am not free to leave Almenara at this time.”

  A murmur of disapproval followed his announcement, reminding me of the servants still grouped about us, studying me with open curiosity.

  “Could we speak privately, please?” I asked, the coldness of my voice matching his. “I have a great number of questions.”

  “Yes, of course. Follow me.” To the housekeeper, he said, “Mrs. Hartley, please bring a pot of tea to my study momentarily.”

  I followed him down the wide, shadowed hallway, glancing into the dark rooms on either side as we passed.

  A cry of distress escaped me as we came to a room that was obviously a ballroom. Black velvet shrouded the mirrors lining the walls, but candlelight glinted off the gold trim and cast a peaceful glow across the polished oak of the casket containing my sister’s earthly remains.

  I wasn’t sure why Cade thought we could walk past without him even mentioning the fact that Desi rested there, but I could see that he had.

  “Let’s talk first, Fee,” he suggested softly, reaching for my arm when he realized I intended to enter the room. “There are things you should know at once.”

  I rejected his words and impatience as I shook off his hand and crossed the polished parquet floor to stand beside the coffin. The lid was closed and locked, and a large portrait of Desdemona rested on a flower-covered table beside the casket. Shining blue eyes, raven hair, and the aura that lured men to her like flies were so evident in the portrait, it was as if she were standing before me. Remorse filled me, and, for the first time since John Bailey handed me the letter informing me of her death, sobs overtook me.

  I felt Cade come to stand behind me, and I fought the urge to fling myself against him, to feel comforting arms about me as I cried.

  “Ophelia,” he said, placing a large hand on my shoulder.

  I swung around to face him.

  “What happened to her, Cade?” I cried out, all the forced haughtiness of moments before gone as we faced each other.

  “Come. We can’t talk here.”

  He wrapped his arm around my shoulder and led me from the room. After passing several closed doors, he ushered me into a large masculine study, pointed me to a leather upholstered chair, and took his seat behind the mahogany desk in front of the window.

  I dabbed my eyes, trying to get hold of my emotions and concentrate on the ex
planation I felt certain Cade was about to offer.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture I remembered quite well from the time I’d known him. “What did they tell you?”

  “They told me she was gone,” I said, reluctant to say more. Surely he knew the rest of the message that had been delivered back to us in answer to John’s questions.

  He lifted his gaze to mine, inviting the whole of what I’d been told. Although the details had been few, the gist of them was unmistakable.

  “They said you murdered her, but I can’t believe that.”

  His dark eyes delved the depth of mine, as if searching for the truth of my words.

  “Tell me how she died,” I insisted softly. “Please.”

  He was silent for so long I began to wonder if he intended to say anything at all. Finally, he motioned toward the window behind his desk.

  “When it’s daylight, you can see from here the old lighthouse overlooking the bay. You would have had a good view of it from the main road before the fog rolled in, even at dusk. My great-grandparents moved here a hundred years ago to tend it and built the plantation while doing so. The lighthouse hasn’t been used in years, and it’s nearly invisible on a moonless night like tonight. Desdemona went there every day. Her body was found on the rocks below, three days ago.”

  I stared at him, trying to gauge his frame of mind and the reason for such dispassionate words to describe Desdemona’s death. Certainly he was just as overcome with grief and shock as I was. Surely he was heartbroken at the loss of his wife.