Susan Carroll (38 page)

Phaedra could not conceal a start at this
mention of her grandfather, but the doctor was too overcome to
notice her dismay. The old man sought surreptitiously to wipe his
eyes.

"The rest of the tale you've likely heard.
James was duly hanged. I brought his body back for burial in the
churchyard here. Maida's heart was quite broken. Between losing
both her son and her daughter, I saw her health fail more each day.
She became thinner and paler."

"But what about Jason?" Phaedra asked,
feeling that the younger brother was like a lost shadow in all of
these tragic events.

Was it her imagination, or did Glencoe
hesitate before saying, "I sent him away, to take his mother out of
the country. A mistake on my part. I should have seen at the outset
that Maida was not strong enough to survive the voyage, but she was
not about to be separated from her son, and it seemed the best I
could do for the boy. I feared for his reason. After James was
hanged, he retreated so far into himself, that he terrified me. No
grief, no emotion of any kind, it was as though his heart were
encased in ice."

The doctor's words painted such an accurate
picture of Armande that Phaedra had to look away to hide the tears
that filled her eyes.

Glencoe's voice thickened with self-reproach.
"Mayhap if I had been there that night with James, I could have
prevented ... " He allowed the thought to trail away unspoken,
shaking his head. "Well, it is of no avail raking over the past. I
have done it often enough to know there is no profit in it."

He reluctantly inched the figurines across
the tea table toward Phaedra. "I am sorry I cannot be of more help
to you, Miss Fitzhurst. I am sure Jason would have been delighted
to have this work of his sister's returned.”

"But you are.certain there is no way of
tracing Jason," Gilly persisted. "What if he had decided to leave
Canada and return to England?"

"God forbid!" The doctor exclaimed. "I would
hope not. There is nothing for the lad here but bitter memories. I
have always prayed that he started his life anew and put the past
behind him."

Phaedra had not the heart to tell the old man
her fear that his prayers had gone unanswered. She tensed as Gilly
maneuvered himself toward the cabinet.

"I see you possess some fine examples of
Julianna's work yourself, Doctor. And bless me! Are those little
portraits of the Lethingtons? Such a handsome family."

"Aye, so they were," Glencoe said.

Phaedra shot to her feet. "Gilly, we have
taken enough of the doctor's time."

But the doctor had already risen from his
seat and shuffled forward to open the cabinet. "Of course, Julianna
is not amongst them, since it was her own hand that painted these."
Phaedra watched with dread as the old man handed up the ovals to
Gilly one by one for his inspection.

Phaedra sank back upon the settee, digging
her nails into the faded velvet. Her gaze never left Gilly's face,
and she knew immediately from the arrested expression in his eyes
that he had found the evidence he sought.

Silently, he held out one of the miniatures
to her. For a long moment she refused to take it. Then her fingers
closed about the smooth oval of china. Slowly she lowered her gaze
to the portrait, wondering at the sudden sharp ache that pierced
through her. Had she still been foolish enough to hope it would be
the face of a stranger she gazed upon?

But it was Armande looking exactly as he had
a few days ago in the meadow, his blue eyes laughing. Except that
the man in the portrait was somewhat younger, an Armande with no
shadows brushing his face, caught in all the strength, the
arrogance, the innocence of his youth by his sister's loving
artistry.

Not Armande, Phaedra reminded herself sadly,
but- "Jason Lethington."

She didn't realize she had spoken the name
aloud until Dr. Glencoe turned toward her with a look of mild
astonishment.

"Oh, no, my dear. You've made a mistake."

When she glanced up at the old man
uncomprehendingly, he said, "That is not Jason's portrait you are
holding. That is our poor Jamey. James Lethington."

Before the curricle Gilly had hired had even
come to a stop, Phaedra gathered up her skirts, and leaped to the
ground. She swayed slightly as her feet hit, but quickly regained
her balance and rushed off into the darkness. With only the moon to
light her way, she ran through the graveyard behind the small
church. Behind her she heard Gilly utter an oath. He hissed her
name while he strove to secure the horse's lead reins to the
cemetery's iron gate.

But Phaedra was lost to everything except the
sensations of shock and horror that rose up in her breast,
threatening to suffocate her. With little thought for the sanctity
of the dead, she stumbled across the mound of a new-laid grave and
made wildly for that corner of the churchyard where Dr. Glencoe
claimed he had seen James Lethington laid to rest.

She staggered to a halt and stood gasping
several moments before she could focus on the weather-worn stones
before her. In the moonlight she could just barely make out the
simple carvings. A succession of unknown names passed before her
eyes until she came to the last and smallest headstone.

JAMES LETHINGTON ... BELOVED SON OF MAIDA AND
DANIEL LETHINGTON.

"There!" she cried. "It isn't true. I knew it
wasn't." Her voice broke as she relived again that chilling moment
in the doctor's cottage, hearing the old man identify the portrait
of the man she loved as that of the murderer James Lethington. The
doctor's sight must be failing, his words must be false for here
was James Lethington's grave before her, the dust long settled over
his tormented soul.

She heard Gilly's footsteps as he came
running up behind her. "Fae-"

"Look for yourself," she said shrilly. "James
Lethington is buried beneath six feet of earth. Armande is not
..."

Gilly forced her around and held her close,
as though the fierceness of his hug could still her shaking, hold
at bay her fears and dispel the nightmare that descended upon
her.

"The old man is mad." She muffled the words
against his cloak. “It is impossible."

"I was as shocked as you, Fae. But as for
being impossible, I am afraid it is not."

"Then you are telling me I have fallen in
love with a ghost."

"No. James Lethington is very much
alive."

She drew away from Gilly, shaking her head.
"Ewan saw him hang. Dr. Glencoe brought the body back here for
burial."

"Aye, but did you notice the good doctor's
reaction after he identified James? You turned white as bed linens.
Then when I began to hint we thought we might have seen the man in
the portrait, Glencoe hustled us out like we were carriers of the
pox. I would wager my last shilling it was because the doctor knows
James is not dead."

"Then what did he do? Practice some magic
arts upon the crowd so that they all simply thought they saw James
hang?"

"What I'm thinking happened is a deal worse
than that." As the moonlight skimmed Gilly's features, she realized
her carefree cousin had never looked so grim. "You've never been to
a hanging, Fae. You could not imagine how horrible it is. Very few
snap their necks at once. Most die by slow strangulation."

"I've been regaled with enough of my
grandfather's gruesome tales. I don't need you to-"

"I am only trying to explain to you that
James would not be the first man to survive such an ordeal. I've
heard of cases where doctors can detect signs of life in the
condemned even after dangling for an hour. They can revive a hanged
man."

Phaedra turned away, but she could not shut
out the sound of Gilly's voice. "The procedure is known as a
bronchotomy. The surgeon makes an incision in the base of the
throat, which helps the man start to breathe again."

Phaedra's hands flew to her throat. But it
was not her own flesh she was feeling, but rather the memory of
Armande's neck, of running her fingers over that tiny scar. A
result of something a friend had done, he had told her.

Gilly continued, "Dr. Glencoe admits he was
there at the hanging to recover the body. If James had been yet
alive, he could have revived him and spirited him away, and buried
anything in that grave, even a coffin weighted with rocks."

Phaedra walked away from Gilly, toward the
gravestone of James Lethington. She bent to trace the carved lines
with her fingers as though somehow her touch could draw forth the
secrets of the grave, raise up the spirit of a dead man to refute
Gilly's words. But she heard nothing but the wind whispering
mournfully through the grass. The coldness of the stone seemed to
seep through her like the chill of death itself.

Gilly settled her cloak more snugly about
her, then wrapped his arm around her waist, drawing her away from
the headstone. "Come, Fae. Lingering here will change nothing. It
is time I was taking you home."

She said nothing, permitting Gilly to lead
her back to the curricle. They rode away from Hampstead in silence,
the sleepy village already lost in the hush of night. Gilly, ever
alert to the dangers of traveling after dark, kept a brace of
loaded pistols at the ready. Phaedra sat numbly beside him, with no
fear of highwaymen. Her terrors were the conjurings of her own
mind, phantom memories of a summer that would never come again, an
illusion born of the heat and a too-bright sun. She had stripped
away Armande's mask at last, and found not love, but death.

The long, dreary ride back to Heath passed in
a blur. The plan had been for her to slip back unseen from the
day's outing. Even now Lucy was covering for her, saying that her
mistress was in bed, ill from her shock of Hester Searle's
death.

But such small deceptions did not seem to
matter any longer. Wearily Phaedra directed Gilly to drive her up
to the Heath's main gates. The sleepy-eyed porter regarded her
arrival with some surprise, then shuffled to swing wide the iron
bars.

The curricle swept down the length of the
gravel drive. Blackheath House was silent and dark at this late
hour. The moonlight skating off the stark block of granite,
unadorned except for the tall white Corinthian pillars, gave the
mansion the look of a Greek temple-cold and forbidding, awaiting
its sacrifice.

When Gilly drew the curricle to a halt, he
twisted the leather of the reins between his hands, nervous and
unsure about permitting her to alight. "I never counted on us
returning so late. Perhaps I should come in with you. We could talk
to your grandfather now-"

"No!" Phaedra cried. “Grandfather is likely
already in bed. Surely there is no need to disturb him
tonight."

Gilly placed his hand soothingly over hers,
but his voice was firm as he said, "It is a different situation
now, Fae. Your grandfather has a right to know he harbors a
murderer under his roof."

"Don't call him that."

"Fae, you cannot still be denying-"

"I'm not denying anything. I'm only asking
you for a little more time to think matters through." She clutched
at her cousin's fingers, pleading. "Give me just the one more
night, Gilly. Then tomorrow, we can do whatever you think
necessary."

He held her hand for a long time, obviously
uneasy at her proposal. Finally, with great reluctance, he agreed.
"I suppose you have been through enough hell for one day. But you
take great care. And for the love of God, stay away from de
LeCroix."

That was an easy pledge to make. Phaedra was
afraid to face Armande, knowing what she did, terrified to look
into his eyes, and see the eyes of James Lethington staring back at
her. Yet she bridled. "He would never hurt me, Gilly."

"Perhaps I don't believe he would, either,"
was her cousin's last admonishment, "but all the same, you keep
your door locked."

Alighting from the curricle, he saw her
safely back up the lane to the house, not parting from her until
she slipped in through the front door.

Despite the fact that it was not yet
midnight, the Heath seemed oppressively silent. None of the footmen
were in attendance, nor did she see any of the other servants as
she stepped into the front hall. Without Hester's grim presence,
the household had already grown a bit lax.

She supposed she should count herself
fortunate that someone had remembered to leave an oil lamp burning
upon the hall table. She found a candle end in one of the drawers
and touched it to a lamp's wick to light her way up to bed. She
should have been grateful to find no one abroad, for her return
would go unremarked. But the house's relentless silence preyed upon
nerves already stretched taut from the shock she had received at
Glencoe's cottage.

The candle trembled in her grasp as she
glided through the hall. The stone walls loomed above her, the
candle flame sparked glints of illumination upon the collection of
medieval weaponry. She averted her eyes, trying to avoid the sight
of wicked curving hooks and sharp blades.

She loathed the hall even in the daytime. Why
now, of all nights, was she lingering here instead of bolting up to
the security of her bedchamber? Perhaps she sought to prove to
herself that she was not afraid. Sometime in the hours between now
and dawn she would have to come to terms with the truth of
Armande's identity as James Lethington. Perhaps that was best done
here in the hall, where it had all begun seven years ago-the chain
of tragedy that reached out from the past to threaten her.

Drawing in a deep breath, she forced her feet
past that one part of the hall she had always avoided. The suit of
armor stood cloaked in shadow, the lifeless man of iron menacing
her with the weapon in its upraised gauntlet. Mocking eyes seemed
to regard her through the slits in the plumed helmet, the lower
joining of the visor appearing curved into a taunting smile.