Vital Secrets (29 page)

“Again, you are right, and wise beyond your years. But,
you see, I, too, was confused. Tessa was not the first woman I had loved, and I knew when she came to me that I should not approach her on those terms. She needed a mother.” Her eyes looked away. “All children do.” She covered her momentary distress by refilling her sherry glass from the decanter beside her on the floor.

“You lost your own mother when you were very young?”

“I never knew her. Still, I missed her. Odd, isn't it?”

“Not at all,” Marc said, having known such a feeling himself.

“Ultimately, we became … involved, and though I tried several times to end it, Tess wouldn't hear of it and I was miserable at the thought. We convinced ourselves it was right.”

“Surely you were risking everything, the company, the—”

“Perhaps. But I was determined that Tessa not become entangled with any other members of the troupe. So when I saw Jason pursuing her, I read him the riot act. And for a while everything was fine, until Tessa—”

“Started showing an interest in him.”

“Yes. You saw for yourself, though, on Monday afternoon how she used the attraction to get back at me because I refused to favour her over Thea in the distribution of parts. She is too young to understand the difference between personal and artistic decisions. Besides which, Thea has been a loyal member of the company and a good friend since joining it.”

“You planned to help her through her pregnancy?”

The smile returned briefly. “My, you
are
good at this
detecting business. Thea came to me after Jason's death. If only she'd come sooner.”

“You might have got them safely married?”

“Something like that.”

“It must have been you who talked her out of killing herself after his death.”

“I certainly tried. Anyway, when I saw Tessa and Ensign Hilliard hitting it off so well, I was not only not concerned, I was actually pleased. I was sure he would take her in the way of a man—she was shamelessly testing her seduction techniques on him—and that she would then have some better notion about that sort of love, with the certainty that we would be on our way to Detroit by week's end and any emotional connection would be broken permanently.”

“You were willing to let Tessa make a choice? Was that not dangerous for you? You might have lost her affection for good.”

“That is true, and I thought I was strong enough to carry it off. I even pictured myself as noble and self-sacrificing, a mother letting the child choose the world over her.” Her face clouded over. “But, alas, I was not that brave. When Tessa and Hilliard went into her room, I assumed the worst, and braced for it. I went to my bedroom, where I could not possibly be privy to any of the goings-on through the wall. I even put my infamous earplugs in. But not for long. Soon I found myself standing, naked and fearful, right over there with my ear pressed to the wallpaper. I could hear their giggling and the clink of glasses. Then nothing for a long time. I became
alarmed. Before I could make up my mind what to do—perhaps get dressed and try a discreet rap on their door—I heard Tessa's cry. It wasn't a scream. It was a sharp yelp of surprise and physical pain. That's all. But I knew what it meant.” At last she looked away, abashed.

Marc understood at last how the crime had been accomplished. “There were two cries, weren't there? The first one heard only by you.”

She swung her head around to face him, the glorious ropes of her sandy hair swinging sensuously in the variable light. She was smiling through a scrim of tears. “Ah, you are far too young to be so clever. You must come from exceptional stock.”

Marc was flattered, unaccountably, but pressed on. “That's how you and you alone were able to get down to that room, kill Merriwether, entrap Hilliard, and get back here.”

“That's right. Of course, I had no conception of what was actually going on in there, you understand. I was out of my mind with jealousy and anger at Tessa and at my own foolish weakness: I simply ran out into the hall without a stitch on, the candlestick in my hand. I just assumed that it was the soldier on top of her. Then I was shocked to see the candlestick suddenly smeared with blood and hair, even more to see Jason on the floor, staring up and dazed, his eyes slowly closing. I had hit him a savage blow, but had no memory of it.

“It must have taken me a minute or so to comprehend what I had done. Then the rage took hold, pure and
unstoppable. The violator was not young Hilliard, whose amorous pawings I could understand, but Jason Merriwether, a man to whom I had given a second life. I put my trust in him, was about to make him a partner in the Bowery Theatre. And I had specifically warned him away from Tessa. You can't imagine how betrayed I felt. In that moment, I hated all men, monsters who had done nothing but betray me all my adult life. I saw the gleam on the sword, I don't think I even knew it was Hill-iard's, but I pulled it out, walked over to Jason, and plunged it through the son-of-a-bitch's heart.”

The recollection of that grotesque act had brought sweat to her brow and a tremble to her lip. In a quieter tone she continued. “The blood began spouting everywhere, and I instinctively jumped aside. Some splattered me, but I was naked, so no harm done. I went over to check on Tessa, but I was shaking so hard by then I could not properly detect her pulse. She began breathing regularly with that little-girl snore I know so well. I was sure now that she was all right, and had seen nothing. I took a large handkerchief of hers and dipped it in Jason's blood and smeared it on Hilliard—it took several trips to soak his uniform. And I knew, as you said, how it would go when the two of them were discovered. Then I came back here, unseen.”

“That explains why I could find no evidence of blood being splattered on Rick's tunic: you smeared it with a cloth. And there was a set of boot-prints approaching the body because Rick never did stagger back to the settee. You or Jason must
have knocked the ashtray onto the floor after he was struck. But you still had a bloody handkerchief and a candlestick to dispose of.”

“Yes. I had put on a little fire in the stove earlier, so I started it up and burned the hanky.”

“I found traces of it in the ash in your grate yesterday.”

“Did you?”

“But the candlestick would be harder to hide. Why didn't you just wipe it clean?”

“I intended to. It took a few minutes for the fire to get going, and I also realized that I needed to wash myself thoroughly—I had some blood on my hands and arms. So I did that, praying that neither Hilliard nor Tessa would wake up too soon, and praying also that it would be Hilliard first so Tessa might be spared the scene in that room. I was more anxious about that than making sure I wasn't caught. I had just dried myself and slipped into a nightgown when I heard Tessa scream loud enough to wake the dead. My heart turned to ice. But the die was cast. I grabbed the candlestick, ran into my bedroom, threw myself down, jammed the candlestick under the blanket, stuffed in my earplugs, and tried to calm myself. It seemed like an eternity before Clarence and Jeremiah came rushing in to fetch me. And the rest you know.”

Yes. Rick waking when Tessa screamed, not at the gory sight of Merriwether on the floor, but rather at her handsome young soldier, apparently mortally wounded on the settee. For her, it had been the nightmarish image of a stabbed and dying
lover: she didn't yet know that one of her nightmare cries had been real and had sealed Rick Hilliard's fate.

“Tessa didn't see Merriwether,” Marc said. “She saw only Rick. Being drugged, she has no recollection of the rape except for the initial jab of pain. She doesn't even know she screamed aloud that second time. And now the blood on Rick has become a hero's badge of devotion.”

“Tessa has come through this ordeal better than any of us. I have committed murder, killed a man I once admired and respected. I can never forgive myself for that. Nor will any rationalization justify it or mitigate the remorse I feel. What's more, and just as bad, I have allowed an innocent, even noble, young man to be falsely accused. But I have suffered much before this, and gone on. I hope I have the strength to do so this time.”

Marc's head jerked back as if struck. He had assumed that this voluntary and detailed confession had been done as a form of expiation prior to her surrendering to the authorities. But she had just informed him that she expected to carry on with her life, chastened perhaps but unpunished.

“Mrs. Thedford,” he began in what he hoped was a severe tone, “you are aware that I admire you and that I abhor the violence done upon Tessa by Merriwether. But I represent the lieutenant-governor and the Crown in this matter, and I have no choice but to do my duty. I intend to wait while you get dressed, then escort you to Government House. There you will be incarcerated, and I will wake up my friend, free him from the fantasy he has been living, and return him to the world.”

She smiled. There was true warmth in it. Then she frowned. “You must believe me when I tell you I am truly sorry for what I've put your friend through. I regretted what I had done the moment I saw him again in that room, dazed and self-accusing. But there was no turning back. And I knew it would only be a question of a day or two before he was exonerated. But then, when I learned he was your friend, I felt dreadful.”

“You're telling me that you intended to confess all along? And yet you expect to get on a steamer tomorrow and sail off for Detroit?”

“Yes. That is what I have just done, confessed my guilt. And, yes, at noon tomorrow, my company and I will be bound for Detroit.” She seemed amused, though there was an edge of solemnness in her gaze as well.

“Then you don't know me very well.”

“On the contrary, I know more about you than you can imagine.”

“That's as absurd as your thinking I won't take you to the governor.”

“You will not do so, not because of what I've said or may do, but because of who I am.”

“You're Annemarie Thedford.”

“Am I?”

“That may be a stage name, I realize, but what does it matter to me if you have another?”

“A great deal, I hope.”

She leaned over and laid a hand on his knee. “My real
name is a variant which I adopted many years ago—after I left England. Look at me. I am tall and fair and blue-eyed.”

Annemarie Thedford.
A name from the past flashed before him. But it was impossible. That person was long dead. Dead before he had been born. Yet, just as she whispered the words to him—as if speaking them too loudly might annihilate what they named—he said them silently to himself.

“Mary Ann Edwards.”

She gazed steadfastly at him, waiting for the shock to pass and the implications to sink in. Finally, he was able to say, “You are my aunt Mary.”

“Not quite,” she said. “I am your mother.”

W
hen Marc had recovered enough to find breath and voice, he heard himself say, “But that's not possible. Mary is dead, I've seen her grave. And my parents were Thomas and Margaret Evans. They are also dead.”

Mary Ann Edwards took Marc's hands in hers in a grip that was both tender and firm. “I'm sorry that I could find no gentler way to convey such news to you. But I was as stunned and bewildered by it as you are now.”

“But how? When?” Marc stammered as the chilling implications of her claim began to take hold.

“‘How' is a very long story. ‘When' was yesterday at luncheon.”

“When you met Major Jenkin.”

“Yes. Such a dear man. I took an immediate liking to him. He loves to reminisce, so I encouraged him to tell me about the wars in Europe. Well, he kept mentioning his best friend Frederick. To be polite, I asked a question or two about this Frederick.”

“And you discovered his name was Edwards.”

“Yes. My brother, whom I last saw leaving for Europe in 1805 or '06.”

“But surely you were not surprised to hear his name mentioned by Jenkin?”

“When I first met you on Monday, I noticed your name, of course, but Edwards is a common enough surname in southern England. It occurred to me that you might be a distant cousin—your height and colouring were right—but that was all. I was more concerned with your bearing and intelligence. But when I realized that Owen knew Frederick well, I began to pester him with questions about the family, about my nephews in France, and he eventually got around to Jabez and the estate in Kent. Then I was certain. It was both strange and exciting to hear about my brothers after twenty-seven years of pretending they didn't exist.”

Marc began, vaguely, to sense where the story was heading. “And at some point, my name was mentioned.”

“Yes.” She gave his fingers a squeeze. Part of him wanted to tear away from her grip and this scourging narrative, but another part admitted that he must know the truth, whatever
the cost. “Owen, dear soul, was going on about how wonderful Jabez was—it was all I could do to hold my tongue—and how he'd adopted a five-year-old lad whose parents had died and, he said, this was all the more admirable because the boy's father was a mere gamekeeper and the mother a tenant-farmer's daughter. He must have thought me mad, the look I had on my face, when I demanded to know their names. It took him a minute or two, and I thought I might faint waiting, but he finally said Thomas and Margaret Evans. And then I knew for certain. I let him babble on—oh, how grateful I was for his garrulousness. But the child who was ripped from my breast, who I never would have abandoned for the world, was alive, was thriving, and close enough to touch.”