Winterwood Page 27

  But a moment later Charlotte came in. She was dripping and exhausted. She allowed her wet riding habit and her boots to be taken off, and then sank back on the couch.

  “I only went to the village.” There was a curious furtive look in her eyes. She said petulantly, “Why do you all stare at me? Has something happened while I was out?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Then no one is coming. The hoaxer—”

  Her words were cut off as there came a sound of horses trotting and wheels crunching on gravel. The horses slowed to a walk, stopped. Someone was tugging the doorbell. The clamor sounded through the hall.

  Charlotte was on her feet, her hand to her throat. She gave a stifled exclamation and suddenly, like Jonathon Peate, fled. But there was no ferry steamer and a passage to the Continent for her. She could only go upstairs and cower in her bedroom, probably behind a locked door.

  No one followed her, for they were all waiting breathlessly to see who was to be admitted.

  Daniel himself had swung the door open. And in stumbled a small figure, black-bonneted and caped. At first she looked around nervously, not lifting her veil. Then she saw Lavinia, and for some reason this gave her confidence, for she flung back her veil and hurried forward.

  “Oh, Miss Hurst, I’m so glad you’re still here. I had to come back to see if everything was all right. I had your letter saying you was so worried about Miss Flora. It was that which made me go to Venice. I was so shocked with what you said about the laudanum and all. I’d never have thought I had the courage to make such a journey, but that gave it to me.”

  Then she realized she was standing immediately in front of Daniel, and hastily bobbed him a curtsey.

  The visitor was no mysterious countess, no threatening villain. She was only Eliza.

  “I’d have been back sooner, but that dreadful storm delayed the steamer. As it was, the crossing was something fearful. I was prostrate. But I’m recovered now. Miss Hurst, tell me quickly, is Miss Flora all right?”

  Lavinia flung her arms round the little figure. Her face was radiant with relief.

  “Mr. Meryon, I see it all now. It’s Eliza who has been to Venice, and sending those letters. Isn’t that so, Eliza?”

  Eliza nodded. “And such a journey it was, all alone. I only did it because my lady had asked me to. Not long before she died, sir. She wrote those letters and said if I thought things was not all they should be at Winterwood I was to travel to Venice and post them. They was to give certain people a fright. She said she could have her joke, too. She’d be laughing in her grave, she said. But I do hope, sir, the letters didn’t do harm. No more than a little fright they were meant to be. I think that was to be mostly for her nephew, Mr. Peate. She had taken a dislike to him in her last days. Is that all they did, sir? Give Mr. Peate a fright?”

  “They did that, Eliza,” Daniel said gravely. “We must hear more about this. But later. I’m sure you’re tired from your journey. Go and get a meal, and then I expect you’d like your old room back.”

  “You mean I’m to stay, sir? But the mistress—”

  “I mean you to stay, Eliza. I can appreciate loyalty as well as Lady Tameson could. By the way, you must be recompensed for your traveling expenses.”

  “Oh, no sir. The diamond brooch was for that. That was my lady’s instructions. I was to sell it. I did, and got a hundred pounds for it, though I fancy I should have got more. But there wasn’t time to fiddle-faddle about that. So there’s no expenses, sir. I only hope my lady did some good. She meant to, poor soul.”

  “More good than she knew,” said Daniel dryly. “She has benefited various charities to the extent of a fortune. And my daughter is no longer burdened with wealth. So the old lady can rest peacefully. Both of them can.”

  “Both of them, sir?”

  “I see you don’t know the whole story, Eliza. Perhaps Miss Hurst will take you upstairs and tell it to you.”

  Lavinia put her arm around the little weary figure.

  “Yes, indeed, Eliza. And Flora will be overjoyed to see you.”

  Eliza had one more question to ask.

  “The mistress, sir? Is she all right?”

  Daniel’s mouth tightened.

  “Yes, she’s well, Eliza. She’s been riding in the rain, as she likes to do. She’s gone up to rest.”

  He moved toward the fire, obviously not intending to put Charlotte out of her suspense at once. Perhaps he thought she deserved a great deal more suspense than the next hour or two spent trembling behind a locked door. She had admitted attempting to murder her own daughter. How could he ever forgive her, or live with her again?

  Flora was indeed overjoyed to see Eliza. She flung her arms about her, exclaiming, “Do you mean you have been writing those mysterious letters? Oh, Eliza, how wicked!”

  “I only posted them, Miss Flora.”

  “What an odd thing for Great-aunt Tameson to ask you to do. But I am sure, if she told you to, you were right to obey.” Then Flora, no longer interested in a problem that was solved, had to burst out with her own news. “Eliza, did you know that I can walk again?”

  “Well, I never did!”

  “I’ll show you. And that horrid Mr. Peate has left us. So now we can all be happy. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  Eliza exchanged a glance with Lavinia. Happy, it said, you poor little thing, when your own mother wanted to do away with you.

  She was longing to hear the whole story, but the long journey had taken its toll. She was nodding in her chair. Lavinia ordered her to go to bed at once, and the same thing applied to Flora.

  “Oh, Miss Hurst! You’re behaving just like a mother,” was the last thing Flora murmured sleepily.

  So it happened that Lavinia was the only one awake when Daniel’s urgent voice at the door whispered, “Miss Hurst! Can you come? We can’t rouse Charlotte.”

  He was in the passage, his face wild with shock. He held an empty bottle in his hands. It bore the familiar red label indicating poison.

  “I should have guessed. She said she had ridden to the village. She went to get more laudanum. When she heard the cab arriving with Eliza and rushed upstairs, she must have taken it. We had to get into her bedroom through the dressing room, breaking the lock of the door.”

  The locked door between herself and her husband. That, too, he was admitting in his distress.

  “Is she—dead?”

  “I fear so.”

  Lavinia put her hand in his.

  “She may only have meant to sleep. To escape for a little while. As she has at other times.”

  “Perhaps. Joseph has gone for the doctor.”

  “Can I go up to her?”

  “No, no. Bertha is with her. I won’t have you distressed. You have suffered far too much for us already.”

  He had not let her hand go and now she drew him to the stairs.

  “Then let us go down and wait for the doctor. I think you have suffered enough, too.”

  “So long as you stay by me. You will do that, Lavinia?”

  “Always,” she said steadily.

  Chapter 23

  IT SEEMED AS IF the children would never let her out of their sight, even the quiet, uncommunicative Simon, unhappily brought home from school for his mother’s funeral. Edward had grown subdued and quite tractable. He obeyed Mr. Bush at last, and hadn’t teased Flora for days. He was too young to fully understand what had happened and seemed only relieved that now he would not have to live in London alone with Mamma.

  Charlotte’s undisciplined love had imposed a too heavy burden on the little boy, Lavinia realized. That must have been the reason for the wild rages and tantrums. Now he was cautiously beginning to enjoy the peaceful routine so necessary to a happy childhood.

  Flora, too, after her first shocked grief, had grown quieter, older, and touchingly dignified.

  “We must look after Papa, Miss Hurst,” she had said at the very beginning.

  “Yes, but—”

  “You can
’t think of leaving, Miss Hurst, You can never leave us now.”

  She had promised on that fatal night to stay by Daniel. But she had only meant that to be over the worst days of the funeral and the inquest. The verdict had been death by misadventure. It seemed that most of the servants knew of Charlotte’s weakness for the soothing effects of small doses of laudanum, and it was assumed that on this occasion, owing to her agitation, she had accidentally taken too much.

  The truth would never be known. And that, Lavinia thought, seemed unimportant. Charlotte had threatened the life of her own daughter, and now, by some ironic justice, was dead herself. The fact was all that mattered.

  But their own lives had to go on, hers, the children’s, Daniel’s. Only a little healing time could go by until decisions were made.

  Daniel, however, did not intend to wait for anything like the usual period of mourning. Only a week after the funeral he sent for Lavinia.

  She stood in the familiar study, seeing the firelight wash over the ceiling and the paneled walls, and thought only that a man should not have aged so much in so short a time. Robin had done so in prison, but Daniel had not been in prison. Except the one of his own making. For suddenly he began to tell Lavinia about his marriage to Charlotte.

  “I loved her once. We were both very young, she only seventeen. She was like quicksilver, thistledown. She wasn’t really made for touching. She hated having babies, hated marriage. When one finds out these things too late—it is a tragedy. Then this mental instability began. I was never easy about her. She was always unpredictable, doing and saying wild things, making scenes constantly, upsetting the children or the servants. I haven’t been in love with her for a very long time. Is that a terrible thing to say about one’s wife?”

  “Not when it’s true. And not to me.”

  “No, not to you.” He gave a half smile, grateful, tender.” What would I have done without you?”

  “I promised to stay with you.” But now her words were automatic, for she knew what was coming. He was about to ask her to be his wife, and what would he say when he knew the truth about her, the fatal stain on her character? Would she be a fitter mistress of Winterwood than poor Charlotte with her wild and criminal behavior?

  He crossed over to her, looking down at her quizzically.

  “Are you regretting that promise? You suddenly look unhappy.”

  “No, I’m not regretting it.”

  “Then will you regret it if I ask you to be my wife?”

  “Oh, Daniel!” Her voice choked. At last he had said the words she had thought could never be said. But they could not be answered until her carefully guarded secret had been told. She knew now that there must be absolute truth between them.

  “Then answer me, Lavinia. I didn’t expect you to hesitate. Is it too soon after Charlotte’s death? Have I offended your sense of decorum?”

  She gave a short laugh at that. “You will scarcely think I care about decorum when I have told you my story. I should have told it to you long ago. I should never have deceived you.”

  He took her hands, his eyes still quizzical, even faintly amused.

  “What is this terrible story?”

  She began to relate it quickly, the whole sordid scandal, her brother in Pentonville prison awaiting transfer to Dartmoor, where he would finish his seven years’ sentence for manslaughter, herself the chief witness in the trial, her character in shreds as she had stood day after day being ruthlessly cross-examined.

  After the trial she had resigned herself to her life being ruined, she admitted.

  “But poor Robin has much the worst part,” she said. “Seven years in prison.”

  “He deserves it.”

  “Oh, but he was only reckless and hot-headed. He loves me dearly.”

  “It would not be the way I would love a sister.”

  Lavinia looked at his angry face and her heart sank.

  “I only ask that Flora not be told this story. I would like her to go on thinking well of me after I have gone.”

  “After you have gone! But what of your promise to stay?”

  Lavinia made herself look at him steadily.

  “When I gave it you didn’t know this lamentable story of mine. I absolve you completely from your offer since you made it in ignorance.”

  “Ignorance!” His eyes were positively twinkling. “My dearest innocent Lavinia, I have always known your past.”

  She stared at him in amazement.

  “I have wanted to protect you ever since. Don’t look so unbelieving, my love. Did you think your Cousin Marion could refrain from telling it to me at the first opportunity in Venice? Such a wonderful malicious story about the beautiful young woman she was so jealous of. Come, darling, you really must acquaint yourself more completely with human nature if you are to bring up my children. And later, God willing, our own.”

  “You knew it—all the time!” she whispered.

  He smiled again before taking her in his arms.

  “Our children we must wait for, but for this”—his lips were on hers—“I wait no longer.”

  About the Author

  Dorothy Eden (1912–1982) was the internationally acclaimed author of more than forty bestselling gothic, romantic suspense, and historical novels. Born in New Zealand, where she attended school and worked as a legal secretary, she moved to London in 1954 and continued to write prolifically. Eden’s novels are known for their suspenseful, spellbinding plots, finely drawn characters, authentic historical detail, and often a hint of spookiness. Her novel of pioneer life in Australia, The Vines of Yarrabee, spent four months on the New York Times bestseller list. Her gothic historical novels Ravenscroft, Darkwater, and Winterwood are considered by critics and readers alike to be classics of the genre.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

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

  Copyright © 1967 by Dorothy Eden

  Cover design by Connie Gabbert

  978-1-4804-2981-9

  This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media

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