The Fate of Mercy Alban
Read The Fate of Mercy Alban Online
Authors: Wendy Webb
The Fate of Mercy Alban
“If Sarah Waters and Stephen King had a love child, it would be Wendy Webb!”
—M. J. Rose, author of
The Book of Lost Fragrances
“A perfect read for a dark and stormy night. A haunted house, a decade-old murder mystery, supernatural thrills, secret passageways, romance, and a likeable heroine. What’s not to like?”
—Phillip Margolin,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Proof Positive
“In the gothic tradition of
Rebecca
and
The House of the Seven Gables
, Wendy Webb’s intoxicating mystery
The Fate of Mercy Alban
follows one family’s effort to confront the secrets of its own sordid past as they haunt the last remaining members of the storied Alban clan. Hidden passages, portraits with moving eyes, and the conflicting mandates of wealth, power, and love weave together to create a story that will send chills down your spine. Read in a well-lit room!”
—Katherine Howe, author of
The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane
and
The House of Velvet and Glass
FOR MY PARENTS,
Joan and Toby
Webb
Praise for
The Fate of Mercy Alban
A Conversation with Wendy Webb
People were gathering at Alban House for the family’s annual summer solstice party—a happy occasion. At least it was supposed to be.
Fate Alban had come running down into the garden that morning wearing the delicate floral print dress she used to like so much, her wispy cornsilk hair fluttering behind her as she ran. She was laughing, a big, throaty laugh that seemed impossible coming out of a girl as small as she. Adele had been sketching on the cool marble bench next to the fountain when Fate flopped down beside her, breathless, and said: “Draw me, why don’t you?”
So Adele turned to a new page in her sketchbook and put pencil to paper, amused by the way Fate’s hair was framing her face like a halo. The sunlight streamed through the leaves, and Fate blinked against it before placing one hand, wrist as slim as a reed, across her forehead.
Adele looked down at her sketchbook and was surprised to see she hadn’t drawn Fate’s face, not exactly. It was off somehow. Adele wondered what she had gotten wrong—the angle of Fate’s nose? the arch of her brow?—and she squinted to focus more intently on the page.
As she looked closer, the drawing began to move and shimmer, its eyes glowing with life, its mouth contorting from Fate’s sweet grin into a wicked smile baring the teeth of a predator. Adele tried to tear her eyes away from the image but found she was caught there, locked into whatever malevolent magic had suddenly taken hold of the page. She could not look away as the image of Fate’s beautiful face morphed into that of a hideous demon.
“I’m coming for you,” the image hissed.
Adele’s eyes shot open and she sat up with a start. She looked around her room, quieting her racing heart by taking in the familiar—yes, there was her desk, the fireplace, the tapestry hanging on the wall—reminding herself she was safe. That terrible day was long in the past. But even after a lifetime filled with love and loss, births and deaths, weddings and funerals, and the glorious minutiae of everyday living, the memory still gnawed at Adele, creeping every so often out of the vault she had constructed inside of her heart to contain it.
A soft rapping at the door brought Adele back to herself, shaking the familiar dream and the ache that always came with it from her mind.
Jane poked her head into the room. “You awake, Mrs. Alban?”
“I’m up, Jane.” Adele smiled as she slid her feet into slippers and rested a moment, making sure she was steady enough to stand. “It’s a strange sensation, dreaming I’m twenty years old and waking up to seventy. Doesn’t seem quite fair, somehow.”
“Beats the alternative, so it does.” Jane chuckled, crossing the room to draw back the curtains and open the French doors leading out to the patio. “I’ve got your breakfast all set up out here. Shall I help you?” She came toward Adele, holding her arms wide.
“I can manage, for goodness’ sake.” Adele wrapped a thick terrycloth robe around her brittle frame. “She’s old and rusty, but she still runs.”
Jane hovered as Adele made her way out the doors and onto the patio, where coffee, yogurt, croissants, and the morning paper were waiting. Adele braced herself on the back of the chair before sinking down into it. “Another gorgeous morning,” she said with a sigh, gazing out over the lake. “I’ll tell you, Jane, if I live to be two hundred years old, I’ll never tire of this view.”
Before her lay a wide expanse of water; steam hovered just above the lake’s surface. A rower appeared out of the fog, gliding up the shoreline before vanishing silently into the mist. In another time, Adele would’ve been out there with him, greeting the early morning with the familiar push-and-pull movements she loved. Not anymore. How many decades had it been since she last rowed?
Jane poured a cup of coffee and Adele added a splash of cream before lifting it to her lips, savoring the heat as it slipped down her throat.
“The journalist called again,” Jane sniffed. “He’s not going away quietly, that one.”
Adele rolled her eyes as she tore off a piece of a croissant and buttered it. “I’m too old for this, Jane.”
“Aren’t we all?” she said.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have opened the house to tours. It’s when strangers started coming that all of this was dredged up again.”
Adele took another sip of her coffee, the dream still hovering on the edges of her mind.
“You were here that summer,” she said, the past closing in around her as she stared out across the hazy lake. “You had come over from the old country with your mother years before, isn’t that right? You were learning what it took to run this household, even then, young as you were. Your mother was teaching you the tricks of the trade.”
“That’s right, ma’am, sure enough.” Jane smiled. It was a conversation the two women had had often over the years.
Adele nodded and let out a sigh. “So long ago. You know, Jane, you and I, Mr. Jameson, and Carter are the only ones still alive who were here that summer. When we’re gone, nobody will remember what really happened that day.”
Jane put a hand on Adele’s shoulder. “Aye,” she said, “but perhaps that’s just how it should be. Let the spirits of the dead rest, I say.”
Adele swiveled in her chair to look at the hill in the back of the house. “I’m not so sure about that,” she said. “I’ve been thinking—maybe I will talk to the man, Jane. Maybe it’s time the truth comes out. Call him back, will you? Tell him to come this afternoon.”
She chewed her croissant as she considered what to do next. “Before he comes, I think I’ll go for a walk on the hill,” she said finally. “It’ll do me good, getting a bit of exercise.”
Jane crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Do you think that’s wise, ma’am? You’ve been ill and …” She clucked in disapproval.
“Oh, I know it’s not wise.” Adele chuckled. “But at my age, who cares?”
“Shall I ask Mr. Jameson to accompany you?”
“I’m sure he’s got enough to do in the garden.” Adele smiled, rising from the table. “I’ll be fine on my own.”
Jane knew better than to try to talk the woman out of whatever she set her mind to doing. Half an hour later, she watched from the patio as Adele pushed open the side door, waved, and started across the lawn.
The walk took Adele’s breath quickly, much more quickly than she had remembered, and at this, she smirked.
The ravages of age
. When she reached the hilltop, she sank down into the soft grass, breathing heavily, and surveyed what was before her.
From this height, she could see all fifteen acres of the property—the house, the extensive gardens, the lawn, and the lakeshore beyond it. If she turned a bit, she could follow the shore-line all the way to downtown, where new shops and restaurants were popping up in the century-old storefronts. She saw the paved path, all four miles of it, snaking along the shoreline, where people were riding their bicycles, walking dogs, or running. A single freighter hovered on the horizon of this Great Lake as gaggles of kayakers paddled their way up the shore. Tourists were waking up in the hotels along the beach, she thought, and marveling at the view. It really was quite magnificent.
That’s when she heard the noise, soft and low. A delicate hissing on the wind. Whispers all around her. Adele put a hand to her throat and turned her head this way and that but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Grass bowing low in greeting to the soft breeze. A hummingbird visiting a flower. A caterpillar feasting on a leaf. She exhaled, satisfied she had been imagining things. No whispers here.
