Nero's Fiddle (27 page)

Fierce love ran in their family, the woman each knew what they wanted and set out to seize it. “If he was my father, why didn’t he love me?” Cara asked, her voice a bare whisper, an echo of the small child inside who lost so much. The child whose father rejected her and left her to a cruel fate to fuel his own lust for an artifact.

“Oh darling, it was never your fault.” Nan moved sofas, stretched an arm around Cara and then pulled her into a warm embrace. “When your mother died, something inside your father broke. You were such a gorgeous and precocious child, Gideon and I hoped you would fix him.”

Moisture welled up in her eyes and threatened to spill down her cheeks.

“We thought you would remind Lucas of her and give him something to live for, but his soul withered without Bella.”

Cara shook her head. “He never loved me, he gave me away, Nan. I thought he might not have been my father, which was why he let Clayton have me.” How could a parent give away a child? Had she been so horrid?

Tears rolled down her face as Nan rocked her. “You reminded him too much of her and all he lost. We should have removed you earlier and I can never make that up to you. It destroyed Gideon that he could not save you. He was too sick, we had to hold him down to stop him trying to travel to London and kill Clayton himself. I lost him and you that week.”

She never attended her grandfather’s funeral, confined to her bed for long weeks while her injuries healed. Another death to add to her tally. The sobs could no longer be contained. “I killed my mother and my grandfather. You must hate me.” Tears rolled and blurred her vision.

Nan held her tight. “You give me purpose. You are not to blame for God taking those we love too early.”

The parlour door opened and Nate strode in, pulled by Cara’s distress. He sat on the sofa and took her from Nan. Drawing her into his arms, he let her grief soak his shirt.

Nan let her cry out the pain for several minutes before she spoke again. Her words were not directed at Cara, but at the ghosts still clinging to their world. “Lucas became obsessed with getting your mother back.”

The words filtered through Cara’s brain. “Back? But she was dead!”

“He studied languages and ancient cultures at Oxford. When he left the Foreign Service and took up his position as a scholar, he sprouted a particular interest in mysterious artifacts. He believed there was a way to return Bella to him. For three years, he kept her body in the basement of your house before we managed to remove our poor child and inter her in the family crypt.”

Cara curled into Nate, needing the anchor of his touch. “Three years, three years,” she muttered, the time period significant but facts slow to trickle to her mind past the newly opened wound. She pulled her thoughts out of the mire. “His diaries, I only have them starting 1844, but he was always scribbling. He must have earlier ones, hidden somewhere.”

Nan rose and crossed to her davenport standing by the window. She pressed the centre of a carved flower and released a hidden catch. The side panel popped open and she withdrew a bundle of diaries. “I have them from 1839, the year before you were born, through to 1844. He tucked the completed books in with Bella.”

Curiosity fought the pain and won. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Did Bella keep a diary?” One last strand of hope to know her mother.

Nan shook her head. “That child was too busy living to write about it.” She handed over the slender volumes to Nate.

Cara stared at the notebooks. Within, the history of her parents beckoned, and perhaps clues about the Curator that might help in their forthcoming meeting. She reached out a hand to touch the bundle.

“He became involved in something dark, Cara. His obsession with reviving your mother turned into something twisted, which consumed what little remained of his soul. Please be careful; I’ll not lose you down the same path.” Nan stroked her hair away from her forehead, before pressing a kiss to her skin.

“I’ll stay with you,” Nate said, passing her the diaries.

“No, I need to take this journey alone.” She laid her hand over his. “But coffee would be appreciated, it’s going to be a long night.”

All afternoon and long into the night, Cara read her father’s diaries. She learned that tired of the constant overseas travel and separation from his beloved Isabella, Lord Devon resigned his diplomatic post and took up a position with the British Museum in London. His diaries narrated the passion of a new life when her parents moved into the Soho house and every day contained a multitude of blessings.

Next came the hope and joy on learning Bella was expecting after six years of marriage and then the fear that gnawed at him after they lost three previous children to miscarriages and the risks to Bella’s health. Her father wrote with awe about how he laid his hands on his wife’s stomach and felt the child press into his hand for the first time. Their hope soared that this child would live to make their world complete.

His work at the museum diverted his mind and worries. There he came into contact with a wealthy benefactor who sought his assistance in translating old texts. The Curator took Lucas under his wing. That work turned his scholarly interests in the ancient world into a different pursuit.

20 December 1840 and Lucas wrote of Bella’s water breaking and their excitement to finally meet their child. Cara knew this part of the story. Her mother never emerged from the birthing room. Nothing but blank pages followed that entry. Ink-smeared blotches where her father’s tears fell, words unable to describe his grief. He simply wrote the date. Page after page of damp, distorted dates. Tears streamed down her cheeks and dried. She picked up the next book and flicked through. When the words started again, they showed the man’s broken heart had deteriorated into darkness. He transformed into the cold void Cara knew.

Without Bella, he first lost his light, then his world, and ultimately his way.

Leicester, Friday 7
^th
February, 1862

The morning sunlight crept into the room and illuminated the bed. Woken by the increasing light, Nate stirred next to her. Cara watched as he opened his eyes and fixated on the weight holding him immobile. The furry ginger shape reclined on his chest. Passing over the cat, he reached out a hand and brushed a shadow under her eyes. “You’ve read all night.”

She took hold of his hand and gave him a faint smile. “I snuck in but you were fast asleep so I carried on. Your snoring would have kept me awake anyway.”

He gave a sleepy half frown. “I do not snore.”

“Do so. Even the cat thinks so.” She stroked the tom asleep on Nate’s chest.

The cat had his back to Nate and faced his feet. The feline managed to simultaneously deny Nate’s existence while sucking up the warmth from his body.

“Damn cat. I thought I was being long-lined off the Aurora with the pressure on my chest.” He pushed the animal to one side to sit up. He drew her hand to him and nibbled her fingertips. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” the word rasped from her throat. “It’s too hard. He spilled his love for her over hundreds of pages and thousands of words, but never had a single one for me.” A sob swelled in her chest and she closed her eyes against rising tears. The pain was so raw, like she lost them both all over again.

Nate pulled her into his arms. “You are loved,” he whispered against her hair. “Never doubt that for a moment.” Between them no more words were necessary. His love enveloped her and became the sword that speared the demons clawing at her mind.

Her world steadied on its axis and she drew a deep breath. She could retell the relevant parts, where it intersected with the Curator. The rest needed to be shut away, the pain needed to mellow and dull before she could face the full story. Nan was right, far too much to bear to see the man Lucas was, not the monster he became.

“During his work at the museum, my father encountered stories and legends about artifacts. After Bella died, one story consumed him. The legend centred on a phoenix feather.”

The cat glared at Nate and tried to climb back on his chest, hampered by the fact this particular mountain was now sitting up. Nate kept pushing the cat down but the determined feline kept marching back up the bed. Cara picked him up and deposited him by her side before the two males came to blows.

“Legends said if you placed the phoenix feather in the hands of a deceased person and then cremated the body with dragon’s breath they would be reborn from the ashes. He wanted to bring her back, that’s why he kept her body. There was a way to give her back her life. He just needed to find the feather and a dragon.”

Nate blew out a soft whistle. “He sought two mythical creatures. Only a handful of people know that dragons are real, and even less know where to find a living one. As for a phoenix, I suspect they are rarer still.”

The ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Notice neither of us has said there’s no such thing as a phoenix.”

She annoyed the cat and rolled onto her stomach and propped her hands under her chin. “The Curator used my father to translate old texts and to acquire various artifacts. In return, he promised to tell him where to find the feather and a dragon. The diaries ramble after a certain point, but it seems they had a falling out in 1844 and Father left his employ. Lucas was desperate to bring Bella back but came to believe the Curator was toying with him and withholding the information. He suspected the Curator wanted something more from him, something he could not give. I wonder what?”

“We may find out. He has answered my message and said we may call on him this evening.”

London, Saturday 8
^th
February, 1862

he snow piled up on the ground, froze over and still more snow fell. People whispered that God would withhold spring after the unnatural events of October and the queen’s heavy mourning for Albert. They spoke that sinners would be picked off by divine fire as your name appeared on his list. The churches were packed to capacity with people eager to confess and the Enforcers faced a similar line of petty criminals looking to go straight before they burned. Mutterings on street corners turned to louder voices wondering what England had done to warrant His wrath. Was it connected to their queen and the unholy storm she unleashed last year? Was God sending a message that she was not their true queen?