Winterwood (34 page)

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.

I
T 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.”

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.

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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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