The Third Heiress (51 page)
Authors: Brenda Joyce
The way she would die.
For Anne had left her to die, without food, without water.
A cramp seized Kate, not for the first time. She could barely clutch herself, her muscles were so weak. Kate moaned, rocking slightly, the pain unbearable. The spasm lasted much longer this time than before. Kate finally cried out.
And when the spasm had died, Kate felt the trickle of warm wet blood between her legs and tears slipped down her face. She clawed the wet earth beneath her, but it was not a pillow, and it could not give her any comfort.
She was losing Edward’s child the way she was losing her life. How she missed him. Was he frantically searching for her? Or because she had left Peter with his mother, did he take that as a sign that she had abandoned him?
She would never see him again. The realization was brutal.
She would never see her son again. The realization was agonizing.
More silent, salty tears fell.
A click sounded loudly, penetrating the silence of the tower, the aching stillness, penetrating her thoughts.
Kate’s lids lifted.
Her heart raced as she watched, disbelieving, the door to the tower slowly opening. She stiffened—expecting to see Anne.
But a big man in coarse clothes whom she did not know stood there, holding a bucket and a package, staring at her.
Water! He had to be bringing her water—maybe she would not die after all! Kate wanted to sit up. Desperately. But she did not have the strength to do more than lie there and watch him.
He set the bucket down by the door, then also set down a brown paper parcel.
Wait. Kate realized she hadn’t spoken aloud, and she tried to wet her dry lips, to no avail. “Wait.” But her cry was hoarse, low, and inaudible—a pitiful attempt at speech.
He turned and left.
The lock clicked again loudly in the door.
Kate’s hopes plummeted.
He had left her to die
. She wanted to scream, to shout after him, to pound the earth, to sob. But she did none of those things. She was too weak, she could not move. So she lay there, panting, fighting waves of nausea and pain.
He had left her to die
. She wanted to scream, to shout after him, to pound the earth, to sob. But she did none of those things. She was too weak, she could not move. So she lay there, panting, fighting waves of nausea and pain.
And then she thought, but he had brought water. I will not die.
Kate fought for courage and resolve, for strength. And she began the
endless, painful process of crawling forward, inch by painful inch, toward the water bucket. She had to stop repeatedly, panting badly, her heart thundering at an alarming rate, wondering if it might not give out on her. She was so weak. She had never been this weak before. It was frightening.
endless, painful process of crawling forward, inch by painful inch, toward the water bucket. She had to stop repeatedly, panting badly, her heart thundering at an alarming rate, wondering if it might not give out on her. She was so weak. She had never been this weak before. It was frightening.
She finally reached the bucket. A cup floated in the water. Kate had never been so thirsty in her life—she had never wanted anything more. Her thirst gave her the strength to sit up and reach for the cup. Half of the water spilled down her chin and chest.
And then she stopped.
Her mind, functioning so oddly now, made a terrible deduction. She had been locked up in the tower for days, maybe even a week. What if he did not come back for another week? She must ration the water. Kate let the cup slip from her fingers, back into the pail, despondency settling over her like heavy chain mail.
She could smell food. The saliva increased in her mouth and she tore open the paper parcel. In it was stale bread and moldy cheese. Kate was not disappointed. It was a glorious sight. She tore into the bread, stuffing it into her mouth, and ripped off a piece of cheese, but in the end could only ingest a few bites. Then she collapsed, severely exhausted, incapable of further movement.
Night fell.
She slept.
When Kate opened her eyes, she thought—and hoped—she felt slightly better, and looking up through the holes in the roof, she saw a sky brilliant with stars and a crescent moon. Bitter sorrow washed over her and more tears fell as she thought about those she loved and missed desperately, whom she might never see again. She was too young to die, dear God.
Maybe, just maybe, she would live. If God blessed her with a miracle. But if she did not live, there was something she had to do.
Anne could not get away with this.
Kate slowly removed the locket from her neck. The task seemed endless, her fingers refusing to work adeptly, and when she was done, she had to rest for a few more moments. Then she began another long journey—crawling inch by inch to the nearest wall. Pausing many times to rest. Getting there took forever. It took more than fortitude, it took absolute determination. And when she was there, she was not through. Somehow she sat up, clawing her way up the stone. Her hands and fingers were numb and bloody.
And using the clasp, she began to engrave a message onto the stone.
A message for anyone who might find it and read it, anyone at all.
“I
s this a joke?” Jill asked slowly, sick with dread. For she knew it was not. Lucinda’s expression—and the gun she held—told her that.
s this a joke?” Jill asked slowly, sick with dread. For she knew it was not. Lucinda’s expression—and the gun she held—told her that.
Alex’s grip on her wrist tightened, a warning for her not to speak.
“I don’t like jokes, they are a waste of time and so very American,” Lucinda said with disdain. “Shame on you, Mr. Preston,” she added. “Allowing her to destroy the good Collinsworth name.”
Jill stared, incredulous but not disbelieving. “Lucinda—what are you doing?” But she knew. Oh, God, she did. What had Thomas said? That Lucinda was, perhaps, as loyal as any Collinsworth? Lucinda, who had been director of Uxbridge Hall for well over twenty years. Lucinda, who knew as much about Kate and Anne and Edward as anyone.
Lucinda, who was her friend.
Or who had appeared to be her friend.
An accomplice was out there, Jill realized. Unless Lucinda had not cared if she lived or died, someone else had cut those brake lines. But was it Alex? Again, it crossed Jill’s mind that William was at the house. Either with Margaret—or he had come with Lucinda and Jill had assumed his passenger to be his wife.
Lucinda did not smile. “I am doing what Mr. Preston has failed to do, my dear. I am going to prevent you from destroying the Collinsworth family,” she said. “I have devoted the last twenty-five years of my life
to this family. I have devoted the past twenty-five years of my life to his lordship. What you are doing is intolerable—destroying a great man and his family—tainting their immortality.” Her stare was hard. “Mr. Preston, I wish you were not here. But you are, and the greater good must prevail. Please move away from Jill.”
to this family. I have devoted the past twenty-five years of my life to his lordship. What you are doing is intolerable—destroying a great man and his family—tainting their immortality.” Her stare was hard. “Mr. Preston, I wish you were not here. But you are, and the greater good must prevail. Please move away from Jill.”
Alex did not move. “Lucinda, Jill is not about to destroy anyone,” Alex said quietly. “Why don’t you give me the gun before someone gets hurt and you are guilty of a felonious crime.” His tone was firm and commanding. “We both know you did not cut the brake lines. This does not have to go any further than it already has. I think, with some persuasion and compromise, we can all walk away from this satisfied.”
“She has gone too far, Mr. Preston,” Lucinda said as flatly, standing as still as a statue. The gun in her hand did not waver, not even slightly, and that frightened Jill even more. “I had hoped you or Thomas would dissuade her from her quest, but neither of you did so. If I had guessed when I first met her that it would come to this, I would have never befriended her as I did.” Lucinda blinked at Jill. “It was amazing, the first time I saw you, I felt as if I were seeing a ghost. I made the connection between you and Kate immediately. As I believe everyone did. And I thought, Thank God Anne is not here to see this day. She was probably turning over in her grave, my dear, knowing you were with her grandson, knowing you had come to town, knowing what you were about.
“I made a terribly erroneous assumption. I assumed you would learn that Kate was your great-grandmother—and she was, my dear—and that you would leave it at that. Her son, Peter, despised the family—Anne hated him, and Edward was never there. When he was eighteen he ran away to New York, giving up a small fortune as well as his entire heritage. I had no idea you would be so terribly stubborn.”
“Lucinda, give me the gun,” Alex said. “Jill doesn’t want to destroy anyone.”
Jill gripped Alex’s wrist. “So Peter was raised by the family?”
“Not exactly. He spent his first few years at Stainesmore, with the best care, as Edward wished. As soon as he was old enough, he was sent off to Eton. He hardly suffered, except, of course, Anne would not allow him to set foot in any of her homes—including Uxbridge Hall and the house in Kensington Palace Gardens. But can you blame her?”
It was almost too much to absorb. “How do you know that Kate is my great-grandmother?” Lucinda had no DNA tests to go on.
Lucinda smiled. “Anne kept a journal. For the course of her entire life. It is very explicit. When Peter ran off, Edward’s heart was broken all over
again. How angry Anne was. Not that Peter was gone—that thrilled her—but that Edward was distressed. And he hired investigators to locate his son—against Anne’s will. I am certain that Edward knew where Peter was, and I do believe he even tried to contact him several times.” Lucinda shrugged. “But Peter wanted nothing to do with the family, not ever again.”
again. How angry Anne was. Not that Peter was gone—that thrilled her—but that Edward was distressed. And he hired investigators to locate his son—against Anne’s will. I am certain that Edward knew where Peter was, and I do believe he even tried to contact him several times.” Lucinda shrugged. “But Peter wanted nothing to do with the family, not ever again.”
Jill could not speak.
“Mr. Preston? Stand aside. I have no wish to hurt you.”
Alex did not move. “Give me the gun,” Alex said. He stepped toward her, hand outstretched.
She pointed the gun at him, causing Jill to cry out—suddenly terrified. Not for herself, but for Alex. “I suspect you are fond of her, Mr. Preston. But alas, that is of no avail. And in the end, I am quite certain you will come to the same conclusion.”
“Lucinda,” Jill said quickly, “give Alex the gun. I know you don’t want to hurt anyone. There’s been enough scandal and deception to last hundreds of years, hasn’t there?”
“Any scandal that now ensues will be laid at my feet,” Lucinda said flatly.
“You can’t possibly want to martyr yourself—not over this,” Jill cried.
“I am hoping William will be able to talk some sense into Mr. Preston.”
“My uncle would never justify a murder. Lucinda, before you break the law, give me the gun.” Alex took another step forward.
Lucinda whirled, pointing the gun at him—and he was only five or six yards from her. “Stop right there.”
“Alex!” Jill cried, terrified that he would choose this moment to play the hero and prove himself to her.
But he froze. Smiling—and it was strained. “My uncle will not approve of this,” he repeated. “You won’t get away with this,” he said quietly. “This is 1999—not 1909.”
“Injustice is a fact of life. Is not Kate’s death proof of that?” Lucinda replied.
Thump, thump, thump. Jill touched her heavy heart. “Was she murdered? Someone dug up her grave recently. Was that you? Did you think to hide the evidence?”
Lucinda’s brows lifted in surprise. “I believe that was Mr. Preston.”
Jill whirled to stare at Alex.
“Jill,” Alex said. “I decided to exhume the body. But there was no body, no coffin, nothing. The grave was bogus. She was never buried there.”
Jill was stunned. “I don’t understand.”
“That grave’s a red herring, but for the life of me, I can’t think why.”
“Where is Kate?” Jill cried to Lucinda.
Lucinda did not bat an eye. “I don’t know.”
“Did Edward kill Kate?’
“No,” Lucinda said firmly. “Edward did not kill Kate. He was in love with her. Don’t you know that he was never the same man after she disappeared? He grieved until his very own death. Kate’s ghost stood between them, between him and Anne, for his entire lifetime.”
“Then … who?” Jill asked slowly. She felt ill. The best of friends … the worst of enemies. The hairs stood up all over her body and somehow she knew. “It was Anne.” Suddenly she gasped. “Anne killed her—and out of guilt, or some other perverse emotion—she put that headstone there!”
“Who killed Kate, and why, is a secret, my dear, that has gone to the grave with Kate. And it will stay buried there—for all of our sakes. Please step aside, Mr. Preston. Although I am a very good shot, I have never shot another human being before, and I might very well hurt you, which I prefer not doing.”
“I’m not moving,” Alex said.
Jill felt real terror then.
“You underestimate me,” Lucinda said. “You see, I cannot allow William to suffer any more than he already has.”
Her words were not even finished when Alex leaped forward, at her. The gunshot sounded, a deafening blast, its sound magnified within the four stone walls of the tower.
“Alex,” Jill screamed as he collapsed.
She was on her knees, bending over him, his face in her hands. His eyes were closed; in the darkness, his face had turned gray. And there it was, a bright red blossom on his shirt and Jill thought, Oh, God, not again! She pulled Alex into her arms. “Don’t you dare die!”
“Jill, please stand up.”
Jill froze at the sound of Lucinda’s cold voice. She looked up.
Lucinda continued to point the gun at Jill. “I am sorry,” she said. “I liked Mr. Preston.”
Jill didn’t think. She grabbed a handful of dirt and flung it with all of her might. Lucinda cried out in surprise, reflexively jerking backward. Jill launched herself at Lucinda, but Lucinda was a big, strong, outdoorsy woman, and it was like landing on a brick wall. She pushed Jill off as if she were a fly. Jill went sailing backward, landing on her back on the hard earthen floor. For an instant, she saw stars.
As her vision cleared, Lucinda loomed over her, her expression finally furious, aiming the gun at Jill’s head.
The clarity was stunning. In that instant, Jill knew she had been a fool to ever doubt Alex. So many images and memories and hopes and dreams swirled through her mind that Jill felt a terrible and bitter regret that it would all end now, like this.
She was too young to die.
A shadow closed in on Lucinda from behind. Alex.
Jill must have made a sound of surprise, because Lucinda whirled as Alex charged her. He hit her like a battering ram. Lucinda was driven backward under the force of his assault, into the wall. They grappled for the gun and an instant later it went off, another deafening explosion.
They fell to the ground together.
“No!” Jill cried, on her feet. An instant later she pulled Alex off of Lucinda. He was a dead weight in her arms. Her terror was magnified.
“Alex,” she whispered, cradling him.
His lashes fluttered and his eyes opened.
“Thank God,” Jill cried, a sob.
“Lucinda,” he said.
Jill jerked, her gaze slamming to the other woman, who lay on her back, eyes wide open and unseeing. A huge red hole was in the middle of her chest. “I think she’s dead,” Jill whispered, stunned.
She looked down at the man in her arms and saw his eyes were closed. “Don’t you dare die,” she shouted, and she kissed his head, hard.
“Wouldn’t think of it,” he said.
JANUARY 12, 1909
W
ater.
ater.
Kate was desperate.
No one had brought her water, or food, in days. It was as if she had been forgotten.
She was dying and she knew it. It was what Anne had wanted all along. So she could have Edward … Kate’s thoughts veered wildly. What did Edward think? Had he searched for her? Was the countess taking care of Peter? Peter! There was such a stabbing pain in Kate’s breast as she thought about her infant son, knowing she would never lay eyes on him again … and the smallest anger rose up inside of her, but it was weak and faint, as she was, and overshadowed by the fear of the specter of death.
Kate did not want to die.
She was only eighteen.
She wanted to live.
Anne. Her image was always there, haunting Kate, but not as she had once known her, shy and timid, afraid to be carefree, but as she was now, a cruel, coldhearted monster. Anne, who had professed to love her forever, who had so foully betrayed her. Were Anne and Edward married? Kate had no idea how much time had elapsed since her imprisonment. Clearly Anne wanted her to die very, very slowly. But the other day, it had snowed.
Just a flurry, but the fat, wet snowflakes had drifted in through the holes in the roof, settling on the dark earth like white four-leaf clovers, mesmerizing Kate.
Kate wanted to sleep. She was so cold, so exhausted, so thirsty, but beyond hunger, and sleep beckoned, dangerously. She was afraid to fall asleep, afraid she might never wake up. Drifting with her wildly changing, kaleidoscope thoughts was so much easier, safer.
If only …
At times, Kate could see Edward so clearly, she felt that they were together, and if she had the strength to reach out, she would actually touch him. She saw him in his smoking jacket and slippers, in her sitting room, bouncing Peter on his knee. He was smiling at their son, and then he’d look up, across the room, at her. His smile changed. It warmed. The look he gave her was reserved exclusively for her, the look a man gives a woman he loves …
It was so vivid, so real. On some level, Kate knew she was hallucinating. She did not want her hallucinations to stop.
Anne appeared. Cold, hateful, evil.
Kate wanted her to go away. She wanted to be left alone with Edward and their son, she did not want to be confronted by the coldhearted murderess.
Light. Bright, white, streaming through the roof of the tower.
Kate blinked in surprise. She had been so cold, so utterly exhausted. But suddenly she wasn’t cold anymore, and she wasn’t tired. The light wasn’t just bright, it was warm, bathing the interior of the tower, bathing Kate. Where was the sunlight coming from in the midst of this gray dismal winter day? It was so bright, so clear, so pure. It was so … calming. Kate suddenly smiled.
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