I handed Bill his ice bag and sat on the arm of his chair, where I could keep an eye on him. The back parlor looked as drab and spiritless as it had the last time I’d been there. Darkness had swallowed the trees beyond the picture windows, and table lamps had been lit at either end of the couch. The soft light took the edge off the general dinginess and brought out the red-gold highlights in Gerald’s chestnut hair. Gerald was dressed much as he’d been when I’d last seen him, in faded jeans and a forest-green shirt made of soft, old cotton.
Willis, Sr., looked different, somehow, but I couldn’t put my finger on what had changed. He sat facing Bill and me, near the end of the couch where Mrs. Burweed had piled pillows for Gerald’s head. He wore an impeccably tailored charcoal-gray pinstripe suit, with a white shirt and an exquisite silver-gray silk tie, but there was nothing unusual in that. Like Nell, Willis, Sr., was always well dressed. His white hair flowed back from his high forehead, and his gray eyes were as serene as ever. A bit brighter than usual, perhaps, when they sought me out, but I’d expected that. He had to be pleased as punch to see Bill and me together. At the moment, however, his attention was focused on Nell.
Nell was perched on a footstool between the hearth and Willis, Sr.’s chair, speaking quietly with him. Suddenly, they looked in my direction, and I saw Willis, Sr., nod. At which point, Nell gave me a smile so dazzling it nearly blinded me.
“Mr. Willis! You all right?” Paul stood in the doorway, peering suspiciously around the back parlor, clutching a tire iron in one hand and Reginald in the other. He must have realized what an incongruous picture he presented, because he immediately darted across the room to hand Reginald over to me.
“Thanks, Paul.” I deposited Reginald in Bill’s lap, hoping that my bunny would exert a benign influence on my husband’s bad temper. “But I think you’d better get rid of the tire iron before Mrs. Burweed sees it. We’ve only just persuaded her not to call the cops.”
Paul looked over his shoulder and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “But Master Bill said his father was in grave danger.”
“Did he?” Willis, Sr., looked at Bill, who was conducting a careful survey of the ceiling. “How extraordinary. Perhaps my son suffered a blow to the head when he broke his arm. As you can see, Paul, I am not in any danger, grave or otherwise.”
Paul hefted the tire iron. “I’ll shove this back in the boot, then, and see if this Mrs. Burweed of yours can scare us up a pot o’ tea.”
“And sandwiches,” Nell called. “Lori’s had no dinner.”
“Righty-ho, my lady,” said Paul. He scanned the room and shook his head. “Looks like a ruddy war zone in here.” He turned on his heel and was gone.
“Gerald,” said Willis, Sr., “since this is your home, I feel compelled to ask if you approve of the proposed changes to this evening’s schedule of events. Are you quite up to continuing our discussion?”
“By all means.” Gerald slid his long legs over the edge of the couch and pushed himself to a sitting position. He placed one hand on the pile of pillows to steady himself and lowered the ice bag from his eye, which was swollen shut and livid. The bruise was sure to cover half of his face by morning.
“Christ,” Bill muttered. He passed Reginald back to me and went to sit next to Gerald. “Let me have a look at that.” Gerald tilted his head obligingly and smoothed his chestnut hair back from his forehead. “I’m sorry about this, Gerald.”
“Tush,” said Gerald. “Had I been in your position, I‘d’ve had the bounder’s head off.”
Bill frowned. “I think I should run you in for an X-ray.”
“A cup of tea will suffice.” Gerald raised the ice bag to his eye and extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Cousin.”
Bill grinned shamefacedly and took Gerald’s hand gingerly in his own. “Likewise, Cousin. I’ve heard a lot about you, and although I hate to say it, it all seems to be true.”
“I believe I’ll take that as a compliment,” said Gerald.
Willis, Sr., stood. He was a slight man, not nearly as tall or as broad-shouldered as his son, but at that moment he seemed to fill the room. “Before we continue,” he said, fixing each of us with the stem gaze of a disapproving schoolmaster, “I would appreciate it if someone would tell me why the three of you are here. Eleanor, I think.” He clasped his hands behind his back and nodded to Nell. “A brief account, if you please ... ?”
Nell took Willis, Sr.’s instructions to heart—her summary was a masterpiece of concision. She left out so much, in fact, that her entire account of our rich and varied travels took about three minutes and amounted to something along the lines of: “We were worried about you, William, so we followed you.”
Bill’s description of his misadventures at Little Moose Lake was equally succinct: “I was worried about Lori, so I flew over to find out what was wrong. Banged myself up a bit on the way.”
Willis, Sr., nodded sagely, looked from Nell to Bill, then walked over to stand directly in front of me. “Lori? Perhaps you will be more forthcoming?”
Before I could reply, the hall door opened and Mrs. Burweed and Paul came in, bearing tea, a massive spread of sandwiches, and a three-tiered pastry stand filled with butterscotch brownies. Willis, Sr., insisted that I have a bite to eat, but the minute I’d finished his gaze was back on me, kindly yet unwavering.
I answered his question as best I could. “At first,” I said, from my perch on the arm of Bill’s chair, “Nell and I came after you to try to talk you out of leaving Boston.”
“My fault,” said Bill. “If I hadn’t been such an idiot, you’d never have thought of leaving.”
“But you have been an idiot,” Willis, Sr., pointed out.
Bill ducked his head. “I know, and I’m sorrier than I can say, Father. Please don’t leave the mansion because of my stupidity. We need you.”
“I promise you,” Willis, Sr., agreed readily, “I will not leave Boston.”
I stared at him, taken aback by the ease with which he’d thrown up his complex plans. “But what about the house you’ve rented in Finch and all of that office furniture and equipment?”
“I am certain that it will be put to good use,” Willis, Sr., said. “Now, please continue with your account, Lori. You have explained why you followed me at first. Am I to understand that your motivation changed at some point?”
“Almost as soon as I began to meet Gerald’s family.” I glanced hesitantly toward the couch.
“Please, Lori,” Gerald said with a languid wave of his hand, “speak freely. Your father-in-law has been doing so all afternoon.”
“Once I met Lucy and Arthur and Uncle Williston,” I said to Willis, Sr., “I guess I stopped worrying about you and began worrying about ... everything else.”
“Such as?” Willis, Sr., coaxed.
I ticked off items on my fingers. “Such as ... why Gerald left the firm—and why he was seeing Sally. Such as who Sybella Markham was. Such as why you think number three, Anne Elizabeth Court, belongs to you.” I flung my hands up. “It’s a tangle of unconnected bits and pieces, but—”
“You’re half right,” Gerald said softly. “It is a tangle, I’ll grant you, but the bits and pieces are very much connected.” He pressed his palms together and slowly interlaced his slender fingers. “Sybella and Sally ... past and present ... the sins of the fathers and of the sons ...” His voice faded to a whisper as he pressed his clasped hands to his forehead.
Willis, Sr., regarded him steadily. “What a wearisome burden for one man to bear,” he said. “It is time to put it down, Gerald. It is time to tell us the truth.” He resumed his seat, took his pocket watch from his waistcoat, consulted it, and returned it to his pocket. “Considering our earlier discussion and the time factor involved, I would like you to start by telling us the truth about Sybella.”
“I knew it,” Nell said under her breath. “I knew Sybella was real.”
29.
Gerald’s boyish charm had deserted him. He looked
exhausted, drained, as though the strain of the past two years had finally overwhelmed him. He leaned forward on the couch, bowed his head, and caught his lower lip between his teeth, just as he’d done in the silent, empty aisle at Saint Bartholomew’s.
“Sybella Markham,” he began, “was the only child of a coachmaker in Bath.” He spoke to no one in particular, in a dazed and distant voice, scarcely moving, and never looking up. “Her parents died when she was still quite young, but her father had made provisions for her future. He’d bought property, from which his daughter would derive an ample income, and he’d placed her welfare in the hands of the most respectable solicitors in Bath.”
“The firm of Willis & Willis,” said Bill.
“It was just the one Willis back then,” Gerald informed him. “Sir Williston Willis, knighted for services to the Crown. He had twin boys, a wife, and more than enough room in his fine house for his new ward, young Sybella. The years passed, the boys grew into manhood, and their father eventually died.”
“That’s when his widow decided to try her wings in London,” I said, and from the comer of my eye I saw Nell nod.
Gerald reached for the ice bag and held it to his swollen face. “Julia Louise decided many things after her husband’s death. She decided to marry Sybella to the elder twin, and thus acquire her ward’s valuable properties. She also decided to move the family firm into one of those properties before the wedding had taken place.”
Nell continued to nod as Gerald confirmed her hunches, one by one. “But Sybella didn’t marry the elder twin,” she ventured, “because she fell in love with his younger brother. Isn’t that right?”
“Foolish Sybella.” Gerald sighed. “She not only fell in love with the scapegrace Lord William, she married him, secretly, and presented Julia Louise with a fait accompli.”
“Julia Louise must have been furious,” said Nell. “Did she send Sybella away, as she did with Lord William?”
Gerald’s lips quivered into something very like a smile. “I suppose you could say that, yes. She sent her son to the colonies, certainly, where he founded Cousin William’s branch of the family.”
“Wait a minute,” I objected. “Lord William’s wife was named Charlotte Something-or-other. Are you saying that he was a bigamist? Is that why Julia Louise was so ashamed of him?”
Gerald seemed to fold in on himself in a fit of silent laughter that ended in a sob. He rubbed his forehead for a moment, as though collecting his wits, then rose to his feet abruptly and left the room. When he returned he was carrying a wooden crate similar to those I’d seen in the reliquary room during my first visit to the Larches. He placed the crate on the coffee table and beckoned to us to come closer. I stood at Bill’s side, peering nervously at Gerald, unsettled by his reaction to my question.
When we’d gathered round the crate, Gerald bent to lift the lid, and I leaned forward for a better view. At first I couldn’t tell what I was looking at. Something white, with bits of cloth, and a strange, musty odor.
“Good God.” Bill recoiled, gasping, his hand covering his mouth.
I looked again and my heart stood still as my brain accepted what my eyes were seeing—a skull, a human skull, yawned grotesquely from a nest of human bones. A strand or two of golden hair still clung to the fragile temples, and the tattered remains of an embroidered gown lay among the brittle bones. A ring, perhaps a wedding band, gleamed on what once had been a dainty finger, and a scrap of wizened leather—a shoe?—poked out of a delicate rib cage.
“Allow me to introduce Sybella Willis.” Gerald’s eye was dull and lifeless. “Well before he reached the colonies, you see, Lord William was a widower.”
“Sybella?” Nell whispered, raising a hand to her own golden hair.
Willis, Sr., pulled Nell to him and ordered Bill to close the crate immediately. Gerald swayed on his feet until his knees buckled and he sank onto the couch, his face in his hands. I took Nell from Willis, Sr., and steered her to his chair while he retrieved a flask from his briefcase. He opened it, and crossed to sit beside Gerald.
“Brandy,” he said gently. “Drink.”
Gerald took the flask and lifted it to his lips with trembling hands, then passed it on to Bill, who drank as well. Bill offered the flask to me, and when I waved it off, he set it on an end table.
“Forgive me,” Gerald murmured. “Shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that.”
“It has been preying on your mind, no doubt,” Willis, Sr., said.
Gerald gave another sob of laughter, quickly suppressed, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I haven’t looked in the box since I first ...” He touched the crate with the tips of his fingers. “Strange, how she reaches across the centuries to tear at your heart. But she was so young, and she died so horribly.”
I tucked Bertie into Nell’s arms and wrapped her hands in both of mine to warm them. She was staring at the box, frozen in horror, and I motioned for Bill to remove it. He slid it awkwardly from the table and dragged it into the hall. The moment it was out of sight, Nell seemed to thaw all at once, bending over and moaning softly, “That’s why he thought I was a ghost....”
The words brought Gerald to his feet. He came to kneel at Nell’s side, stricken. “I’m so sorry, Nell, I should never have—”
Nell raised her head to look at him. She was dry-eyed, but deathly pale. “We must give her a proper burial,” she said, in a surprisingly steady voice.
Gerald nodded eagerly. “Yes, I’d thought of that. I wanted to inter her near her husband, but I didn’t know how to go about ...” He broke off and looked at Willis, Sr.
“I will see to it,” Willis, Sr., promised. “Sybella shall be buried near Lord William.”
“Nell’s had enough,” I said, chafing her hands. “I think she and Bertie should wait in the kitchen until we’re through in here.”
“No.” Nell pulled her hands away. “I won’t leave. It was just ... the suddenness. I wasn’t expecting ...” She clutched Bertie. “I want to hear what happened. I won’t be able to sleep unless I hear.”
“But, sweetie,” I said, ruffling her curls, “you might not be able to sleep if you do hear.”
“No,” she repeated firmly. “My dreams would be far worse than anything Gerald can tell us.”
I looked to Willis, Sr., and he nodded. Gerald fetched the afghan Mrs. Burweed had brought for him and draped it around Nell’s shoulders, then went back to his place on the couch. I sat on the footstool, at Nell’s elbow, and we waited, lost in our own thoughts, until Bill returned.
Willis, Sr., broke the silence as soon as Bill was seated. “On our side of the Atlantic,” he said to Gerald, “it has long been believed—though never proved—that the founder of our family was betrayed by his mother and brother. Lord William never dropped his claim that they had murdered his first wife, Sybella.”
“It’s true,” said Gerald. “There was no love lost between Julia Louise and Lord William. She loathed him and he despised her.”
“She must have been afraid that he’d boot her out of Sybella’s building,” I said.
“I’m sure he would have,” said Gerald. “As was Julia Louise. That’s why she ordered Sir Williston to kill the girl. She herself took care of Lord William’s deportation. She had him drugged and smuggled onto a ship bound for the colonies. Before he was halfway across the ocean, his young wife had been smothered in her bed. They buried her body in the vaults beneath number three, Anne Elizabeth Court.”
“But if they buried her, then how...?” I looked uncertainly at Gerald. “You didn’t ... ?”
“Not I,” said Gerald. “Sir Williston. I believe he truly loved Sybella, in a terribly twisted way. He exhumed her body after Julia Louise had died, and put the remains in a box. He used to talk with them each night, before he went to bed.”
“Gerald,” Nell said, “how do you know all of this?”
“Sir Williston kept a diary,” he answered. “Can you imagine? He recorded every word he
spoke to his darling Sybella, and her replies as well.” Gerald shuddered. “It is ... an unsettling document.”
Willis, Sr., handed Gerald the flask and waited patiently for him to drink before asking, “Did Sir Williston record his crimes in the diary?”
Gerald nodded. “He and Julia Louise spread a rumor that Sybella had run off. They disinherited Lord William and seized Sybella’s property. Julia Louise ordered Sir Williston to destroy every piece of paper bearing Sybella’s name, but he couldn’t bring himself to erase her existence so completely. He kept the original documents. They’re tucked between the pages of his diary.”
“Not all of them,” I said.
Gerald looked at me uncomprehendingly. “I beg your pardon?”
“When we went to see Uncle Williston,” I explained, “he gave us the deed to number three, Anne Elizabeth Court. He’d hidden it in his kneehole desk. It’s in Sybella’s name.”
“Good Lord,” Gerald said weakly. “So that’s where it got to. I wondered why it wasn’t in the diary with everything else. Uncle Williston must’ve removed it shortly before he—”
“Uncle Williston knows about the diary?” I exclaimed, aghast. “Gerald—he doesn’t know about ... what’s in the crate, as well, does he?”
Gerald’s eye, which had brightened briefly, dimmed again. “Of course he does. He’s always known. That’s why he knows so much about Sir Williston.” A new note had entered Gerald’s voice, a brittle undertone. “For nearly three hundred years, the diary and Sybella’s remains have been passed from eldest son to eldest son. Grandfather gave them to Uncle Williston, and Uncle Williston passed them on to Arthur.”
“But ... that’s not right,” I said, perplexed. “They should have come to your father and you. You’re the eldest son of the Willis family.”
“My father and I were passed over.” Gerald lowered his gaze to the floor. “We’re not to the manor born, you see, not fit to be told the family’s most intimate secrets. They’d rather trust an oaf like Arthur than the son of a...” Gerald faltered.
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