The adulteress (45 page)

Because that meant giving me a glimpse of future happiness had I been to blame?

There were times when I called myself murderess as well as adulteress.

And there was Dickon smiling that cold insolent smile . . . putting all his cards on the table ... his aces, which he would play with relish and ruin us . . . most of all Charles.

Charles could not afford to be involved in further scandal. It would finish his career as a doctor.

And I . . . how could I prove that Jean-Louis had taken the extra dose himself?

Dickon stook up and put his hand on my arm.

"Think about it, Zipporah," he said. "I'd be a good son-in-law. You'd be surprised how good. I've always been fond of y 3U. . . . You mustn't stand in our way, though . . . and now I shall go and break the good news to Lottie that I am here."

I did not know how to act. I could not bear to tell Charles what had happened. I did not know what action he would take. I felt he might say, "Let him do his worst. Let us tell Lottie everything and let her decide what sort of man this is she plans to marry."

Lottie was a child. I could not believe that her feelings were very deeply involved as yet. But what could I do?

An idea came to me. Suppose she went right away . . . suppose she saw an entirely new world? Would such a prospect be attractive enough to take her away from Dickon?

It was a chance. It was something I had wanted to do for a long time.

320

In fact ever since I had thought of marrying Charles I had wanted to do this.

I went to the little ebony box which I always kept locked. I opened it and took out a small piece of paper.

Written on it were the words Gerard d'Aubigne, Chateau d'Aubigne, Eure, France.

I held it in my hands for a long time and I seemed to see his face smiling at me.

Would he remember? I was sure he would. He had sworn he would never forget but perhaps such vows came easily to men like him.

This was a flimsy straw. It was all I had. I clung to it. I picked up a pen and started to write, and as I did so ... it all came back . . . the first meeting on the haunted patch, the headlong rush to passion.

"There was a child," I wrote. "A daughter ... a delightful girl. She is in some danger now. ... If you would invite her to your chateau, I would perhaps get her to come to see you. I am sure she would wish to see her father. . . ."

I sealed the letter.

Old Jethro's grandson was a good boy, an adventurous boy. I could trust him, I was sure.

I sent for him and told him that I wanted him to leave as soon as he could for France. It was a secret mission so he was not to tell anyone where he was going.

He was to hand this letter to a certain Gerard d'Aubigne and to no one else. If he could not find him or learned that he was out of France or dead, he was to come straight back to me with the letter.

Jethro's grandson's eyes sparkled at the prospect of carrying out the mission. As I said, he was a boy who dreamed of great adventures.

He was here in the house. Dickon the destroyer.

I hated him, because I could see that he held our destinies in his hands. Whichever way I turned I knew that we could not stand out against him.

I could for myself. I would defy him. But what of Charles? Suppose they discovered that Jean-Louis had died from an excess of the drug? Charles had said he had died of heart failure. He would be ruined. Old scandals would be revived. It would be remembered that he had prescribed that which killed his wife and child.

As for myself... I would stand exposed, adulteress and perhaps murderess. I would face all that to save Lottie . . . but should I save her? I could not do this to Charles.

I had to see him.

I rode into town and was relieved to find him there.

He listened in shocked silence to what I had to tell him.

"That fiend knows everything," he said.

"He admits to having his spies. Someone must have seen us together . . . and told him. Evalina! You remember that day in the woods. It might even have been Hetty. She was under his spell in a way, I believe. . . . One can never be sure with Dickon. He has a sort of evil power. Lottie's life will be ruined if she marries him. All he wants is Eversleigh. She would never understand his ways. He would break her heart. Charles, what can we do?"

He said: "We can stand up and face everything."

"They will say we killed Jean-Louis. We shall never be able to explain. Your career will be at an end. You will never be allowed to practice again."

"It would be the end ... for both of us, Zipporah," he said. "Murder . . . yes, they would say it was murder."

"I could have stopped him," I said. "I will take the blame. It is mine. I should have stopped him."

"You knew how he suffered."

"But I let him do that. I knew what he was doing . . . and I let him."

"Because you knew it was his wish."

"Oh, Charles, what are we to do?"

"I don't know. We have to think. We must not act rash-

ly."

"I have done something, Charles. I have written to Lottie's father. I have asked him to invite her there to see him. When I hear from him I shall send her to him. That will take her away . . . for a while. New impressions ... I was thinking . . ."

"It might help. Who can say? In the meantime . . ."

"Yes," I said, "in the meantime . . . ?"

"We can only wait."

He kissed me tenderly.

"Perhaps it will come right in the end. Do you think it will, Zipporah?"

"Yes," I said, "if we let it . . . perhaps it will. We shall have to forget so much."

I saw his tortured face, then he said: "I don't think I ever could be at peace remembering. You see, Dorinda so much wanted to live. Jean-Louis wanted to die."

Then he held me against him. We clung together. We were both afraid to look too far ahead.

I rode slowly back to the house. It was deserted. There seemed to be an unnatural quiet everywhere. I went to my room and as I glanced out of the window I saw that there was a strange glow in the sky.

I ran toward it.

Fire. In the distance. I saw the billowing smoke and the flames shooting up.

I wondered where it could be.

I went downstairs. I saw one of the older women servants in the hall.

I said: "There's a fire somewhere."

"Yes," she said. "It's the hospital. They'm all gone over to lend a hand."

I ran out into the stables.

Within a short while I was riding hard for the hospital.

The Decision

I could not believe that this dreadful thing had happened. It had come so suddenly, so unexpectedly, shattering our lives.

Charles had died a hero's death. He had died rescuing women and children from his hospital. He had saved several lives and that would be the greatest compensation to him. I could only hope that he was happy now.

The Forsters took me back to Enderby. We mourned together. Everything forgotten but our loss. I think they had known how it was with Charles and me and they were pleased because I had brought some happiness into his life.

The mothers and children who had been rescued that night were taken to another hospital some miles away, for Charles's building was a complete wreck.

Life was ironical, for the hero of the hour was Dickon. He had mustered a fire-fighting force and had several times plunged into the inferno and rescued women and children. His heroic deeds were talked of everywhere.

I was unable to think of anything during the days that followed except that I had lost Charles. There would never be that life together which we had planned. Perhaps it would never have been idyllic because there would have been too many memories to overcome.

I went back to Eversleigh and thought: What shall I do now?

I had lost my lover but my problem remained. I must stand and face it alone.

I need not worry about Charles now. Nothing could harm him. But Dickon was still in a position to blackmail me, to have me accused of murder.

I felt numb . . . sometimes not caring what he did. . . . Only wishing to save Lottie.

But how could I save Lottie? If I stood convicted as a murderess would that make her turn even more to Dickon?

There was another tragedy. We discovered on the morning after the fire that Miss Carter was missing. Several people had seen her in the hospital and no one had seen her after-

ward; it could only be assumed that she must have been one of the victims. Lottie was very upset. She had been fond of Miss Carter for all that she had poked gentle fun at her.

Life had to go on. I was alone now.

I thought: And Dickon is here . . . in this house. And what will happen when he comes face to face with James Fenton, as he decidedly must?

Will James want to leave?

Trivial problems, perhaps, compared with the great one which stared me in the face.

Lottie's future . . . with Dickon. I could not bear to think of that.

He sought me out, as he said, for a little chat. . . . He was as suave and nonchalant as ever.

"A great tragedy this fire. All the doctor's good work gone up in smoke."

"His career, which you were planning to ruin . . . over."

"I was only planning to ruin it if you would not be sensible. I did give you the chance, didn't I?"

"Oh, Dickon . . . life is so tragic . . . can't you just try to let us be at peace for a while."

"My dearest cousin, it is what I wish more than anything. We will all be happy here at Eversleigh."

"Do you want it as much as all that, Dickon?"

"I want it completely and absolutely. I always made up my mind it would be mine. And it should be, Zipporah. I'm one of the family. I am the man of the family. It was crazy of Uncle Carl to leave it to you when I was there. I know my father was a damned Jacobite . . . but so was your grandfather .. . the most damned and mighty of them all. It's madness. It belongs to me and I intend to have it."

"Using Lottie as the means to get it."

"And at the same time making a very good husband to Lottie."

"I know what you're like. You'd never be faithful to her."

He cocked an eyebrow and looked at me quizzically. "Infidelity . . . what does it matter if the wronged doesn't know, eh? And it happens where you'd least expect it."

He had silenced me, as he knew he would.

"But to marry like this ... so calculatedly."

"One should always calculate on important matters. Lottie wants it. I couldn't achieve it otherwise, could I?"

"You have taken advantage of her youth to present yourself as some sort of hero."

"I'm a buccaneer by nature. Lottie was a challenge. ... I could never resist them. I'm sorry you've lost your doctor."

"His death makes your blackmailing less effective. I have only myself to think of now. I do not care very much what happens to me. I am going to tell Lottie everything. I am going to tell her that you are blackmailing me . . . that you want to marry her solely because she is the heiress to Evers-leigh. I could cut her out of my will."

"To whom would you leave Eversleigh then? You couldn't leave it outside the family, could you? Uncle Carl couldn't, although he wanted it for his housekeeper-mistress. No . . . I'm the rightful heir. All the Eversleighs would rise up in their graves and tell you so. A bit of a rogue . . . but then most of us are. We are all sinners, even those who seem most virtuous. I'll tell you something. It was your Miss Carter who started the fire at the hospital."

"I don't believe it."

"It's true. I could have saved her . . . but she wouldn't be saved. She was a challenge, wasn't she? The prim virtuous spinster. It was wrong, I know . . . but I couldn't resist."

"You mean that you . . . ?"

"Yes . . . you've guessed it. The lady lost her virginity at Clavering. I have a good line in seduction for earnest spinsters."

"You are a fiend."

"Yes, I am indeed. I was rather sorry afterwards, but you see, she was so pious. I just had to see if it worked. Of course she believed she was destined for hell fire afterwards. She was a little mad, you know. . . . Once when the gardeners at Clavering were burning leaves . . . she tried to leap into the fire. I saved her then ... I talked to her . . . but she was bent on self-destruction. She need not have taken so many with her, but you see, in her eyes they were all wicked too, fallen women the lot of them . . . and the doctor . . . well, he had fallen from grace too, hadn't he? I set her to spy on you. She knew that you and the doctor were lovers. She knew that there was something odd about the laudanum because when he was dead she saw the bottle on the table. All this she told me. . . . She was very loquacious on the subject of sin. Everybody around us was a sinner. I think she reveled in the sins of others because she believed herself to have sinned hei-

nously and that she was lost to glory forever. She was a fanatic. I saw her standing on a ledge with a piece of burning wood, like a flaming torch, in her hand. She was waving it about and calling on God to witness her repentance. 'Give me your hand,' I said. *I can take you to safety' and she answered: 'Leave me alone. I may be saving my soul. I am expiating my sin by dying in this fire and taking other sinners with me.' "

"What a dreadful story."

"It's true. As for your Charles, I might have saved him too. But he was like the captain who won't leave the sinking ship. Very noble, he was. . . . But then he was a sinner like the rest of us, wasn't he? And like poor Madeleine he had some notion that he was expiating his sins. Dear Zipporah. We're all sinners. Don't condemn one because his sins are a little different from yours."

"Oh, Dickon," I said, "I'm so tired of you and your talk and your ways. All I want is for you to leave me in peace . . . with my daughter."

"Be reasonable, dear Zipporah. Be sensible . . . and we shall all live happily ever after."

It is hard to remember those days now. They seem so long ago. Each morning I awoke I thought: Charles is dead. I am alone now.

Dickon went back to Clavering. He held my hands almost tenderly as he said good-bye.