Winterwood (33 page)

“It was too late,” said Charlotte, suddenly opening her eyes wide. She saw Lavinia and seemed surprised, as if she had been completely lost in her nightmare.

“Miss Hurst! Why aren’t you with Flora? Are you sure it’s safe to leave her? I thought you were afraid. She’s much too rich for a child. A child who can’t walk. A cripple. And she gets the fortune while Teddy—my darling Teddy—”

The wandering voice died away. But the terrible question had been answered at last. There had been an attempt on Flora’s life. By Jonathon Peate? By her own mother?

Pain creased Charlotte’s forehead.

“Jonathon made me do that—with the laudanum. It was horrible. But he threatened. He wanted so much. He talked of nothing but money.”

“How could he demand money from you?” Daniel asked. “What right had he to? Was it because of something that happened in Venice? Because that’s where it began, isn’t it? Tell us, Charlotte.”

For a little while it seemed again as if Charlotte was not going to be able to speak. But presently she overcame her agitation and began to tell the strange story in a low but unexpectedly composed voice.

There had been a dead body when she had arrived at her aunt’s
palazzo
in Venice. The old woman there told Charlotte she had arrived too late. Her aunt was dead. It was a great pity, because there had been no time to remake her will, as she had promised to do, in Charlotte’s favor. As it stood, all her fortune went to various charities.

The old woman had been Lady Tameson’s companion, an Englishwoman whose name was Sprott. She had one son, Jonathon. He, too, had been at the
palazzo
when Charlotte had arrived. It was he who had made the clever plan that was going to enrich both Charlotte and himself.

His mother had heart trouble and was unlikely to live very long. So why should she not impersonate the dead Contessa, who lay upstairs awaiting her funeral? Indeed, the impersonation had already begun, for the doctor who had attended the Contessa and signed her death certificate had been informed that his patient had been Mrs. Amelia Sprott. Jonathon had instigated the deception. He had anticipated Charlotte’s agreeing with him that it would be a disastrous shame if all that fortune went to charity. It belonged rightfully to Charlotte, and of course to him, Jonathon, for his help in such a daring plot. Though he promised not to be greedy. He would demand only a small share, perhaps twenty thousand pounds. When he received it, he would disappear out of Charlotte’s life forever. She could rely on him.

So the funeral of the supposed Mrs. Sprott had taken place. The new Aunt Tameson waited in her
palazzo
to be transported to England. There was only one important thing for her to do. Imitate the Contessa’s handwriting. She had to practice a great deal. Everything else was easy. She relished wearing the jewelry and the good clothes and preparing to die a countess. It was true that she had been afraid, at first. She seemed to be intimidated by her son, but the histrionic had an appeal to her, and she had obtained a macabre pleasure from her role.

But there was one thing no one had anticipated—that she would begin to find Charlotte’s and Jonathon’s scheming too distasteful, that she would despise Edward as a spoiled rude child, and that she would grow to love Flora.

She had quarreled with her son when he came to see her at Winterwood because of his greedy demands. This had made her suddenly decide to play her own game. Flora, the sensitive crippled child, should get the fortune that was not hers to give.

This scheme successfully accomplished and the will accepted as legitimate, Jonathon, in a fury, still demanded his due. Charlotte must provide it somehow; otherwise he would expose her, and she would not only face criminal charges but all that great fortune would disappear from the Meryon family forever. However, if Flora were to accidentally die, Jonathon pointed out diabolically, and what was she but a poor useless cripple, the money would remain in the family, and accessible.

When the clumsy plot on Flora’s life failed, Charlotte was sickened, and tried to placate Jonathon by going to London, taking her jewelry from the bank and giving it to him to sell in New York. There were wealthy men in New York, the new railroad and oil tycoons, who would pay large sums for genuine ancestral diamonds to hang around their wives’ necks. At last Jonathon, perhaps a little cowardly himself about such a dangerous scheme as child murder, agreed to accept this payment and leave. But he refused to leave before Christmas because he had other business to complete, more romantic business. He had made a proposal of marriage.

So they would be gay until Christmas. Charlotte would wear her beautiful gowns to drive away gloom, and Jonathon would enjoy the hospitality of Winterwood to the full for these last days.

But again their plans had gone awry. The letters had begun to come from Venice.

Who had been buried in Venice? Was the Contessa not dead at all?

Charlotte had thought the letters another trick of Jonathon’s to frighten her into obtaining more money. There was no doubt it was he who had slipped upstairs and rung the little silver bell in Lady Tameson’s room and, counting on the servants’ alarm, had been able to leave the room unnoticed. But these letters were another thing. They had come direct from Venice. Had his mother tricked him, and the woman who had died not been the Contessa at all? Was she due to arrive at Winterwood, as the letters said?

Even Charlotte, sitting there like a ghost, talking now as if she could not stop about the coffin, the jewels, the gondolas making a black shadow on the blue water, the laudanum to make one sleep, the carelessly shrilling cicadas, Jonathon’s voice constantly in her ear demanding more and more, could not answer the final question. There was nothing to do but wait and see who might arrive.

The morning was endless. Lavinia didn’t suppose five minutes went by without someone jumping up to look out of the window. But the drive, curving away beneath the leafless trees, remained empty. It continued to rain, water dripping off the sphinxes’ heads, and lying in glassy pools on the paving stones and the rose garden. The day was gray and brown and dull amber. Fires crackled cheerfully in all the rooms, but the wind howled in the chimneys and the heavy depression was indoors as well as out.

Lavinia kept Flora in the yellow parlor, and at her request Mr. Bush brought Edward there, too. The young man was ingenious at inventing informative games to be played with pencil and paper, but for once Flora failed to respond pleasurably to this activity. She was as much on tenterhooks as everyone else.

The day wore on and there was no sound of carriage wheels, no vehicle laden with traveling boxes and a mysterious occupant coming up the drive. They were waiting for a ghost.

Just before dusk Charlotte’s control broke. She disappeared upstairs and came down in her riding habit. She said she was suffocating, she must get out, she must ride.

“Don’t be mad! It’s blowing a gale,” Daniel protested.

“But I am mad,” she shouted back at him, laughing, her eyes shining in her white face. “You’ve always known that. Haven’t you, my love?”

“Charlotte, I forbid you to go out alone.”

“Oh, I’m not alone. Peters is here with my horse.”

“Then keep him with you.”

“Of course. Why are you fussing so? You know I can ride, gale or no gale.”

She could, too. She looked superb as she galloped away, a slim upright figure completely at one with the horse. Lavinia saw Flora watching her, her face tight and still, and knew suddenly why the child had once ridden so recklessly and fallen. She had been competing with her beautiful mother.

Daniel put his arm around her shoulders.

“We’ll have you mounted again in a few weeks, my pet.”

“A few weeks! Why not this week, Papa?”

“You may be walked around on Nicky, certainly.”

“Nicky! My old pony! Papa, are you crazy?”

“No. And neither do I intend you to be. You will have patience.”

But although his voice was kind, it was abstracted. His mind had followed Charlotte on her wild gallop. Did he think he should have prevented her going, or at least gone with her to protect her? But could anyone protect her from the furies that must now pursue her?

Another slow hour went by. Sir Timothy came in to report that he and Simon had finished their game of chess, and Simon had won. The boy was getting too good.

“By Jove, Daniel, this house is like a morgue today. Everyone sitting about as if they expect the crack of doom. No sign of our anticipated traveler yet?”

“No,” said Daniel shortly.

“Then we can give her up for today.”

“Why do you imagine the sex of this person is feminine, Sir Timothy?” Lavinia asked.

“There’s no question about it, Miss Hurst. Only a woman would behave in such a devious way. Anonymous letters, violet velvet gowns! That only comes from a most romantic mind. This is a damn bad business all round. I don’t know what’s to come of it.”

Daniel turned from the window and came to kiss Flora on the forehead.

“Upstairs with you.”

“Oh, Papa, no!” Flora’s eyes were wide with alarm. “Why am I to be sent away? Am I not allowed to see the lady who arrives?”

“It is highly doubtful any lady will be arriving. Do as I say.”

Flora knew her father well enough to realize that this was one occasion when blandishments would not sway him. In any case, she had to admit that she was extremely tired, and would be glad if Joseph would carry her up the stairs.

“For quite the last time,” she assured him. “Tomorrow I will be much stronger.”

Lavinia, gathering up Flora’s belongings to follow, lingered long enough to hear Daniel calling for a hurricane lamp. He was worried about Charlotte.

But a moment later Charlotte came in. She was dripping and exhausted. She allowed her wet riding habit and her boots to be taken off, and then sank back on the couch.

“I only went to the village.” There was a curious furtive look in her eyes. She said petulantly, “Why do you all stare at me? Has something happened while I was out?”

“No, nothing.”

“Then no one is coming. The hoaxer—”

Her words were cut off as there came a sound of horses trotting and wheels crunching on gravel. The horses slowed to a walk, stopped. Someone was tugging the doorbell. The clamor sounded through the hall.

Charlotte was on her feet, her hand to her throat. She gave a stifled exclamation and suddenly, like Jonathon Peate, fled. But there was no ferry steamer and a passage to the Continent for her. She could only go upstairs and cower in her bedroom, probably behind a locked door.

No one followed her, for they were all waiting breathlessly to see who was to be admitted.

Daniel himself had swung the door open. And in stumbled a small figure, black-bonneted and caped. At first she looked around nervously, not lifting her veil. Then she saw Lavinia, and for some reason this gave her confidence, for she flung back her veil and hurried forward.

“Oh, Miss Hurst, I’m so glad you’re still here. I had to come back to see if everything was all right. I had your letter saying you was so worried about Miss Flora. It was that which made me go to Venice. I was so shocked with what you said about the laudanum and all. I’d never have thought I had the courage to make such a journey, but that gave it to me.”

Then she realized she was standing immediately in front of Daniel, and hastily bobbed him a curtsey.

The visitor was no mysterious countess, no threatening villain. She was only Eliza.

“I’d have been back sooner, but that dreadful storm delayed the steamer. As it was, the crossing was something fearful. I was prostrate. But I’m recovered now. Miss Hurst, tell me quickly, is Miss Flora all right?”

Lavinia flung her arms round the little figure. Her face was radiant with relief.

“Mr. Meryon, I see it all now. It’s Eliza who has been to Venice, and sending those letters. Isn’t that so, Eliza?”

Eliza nodded. “And such a journey it was, all alone. I only did it because my lady had asked me to. Not long before she died, sir. She wrote those letters and said if I thought things was not all they should be at Winterwood I was to travel to Venice and post them. They was to give certain people a fright. She said she could have her joke, too. She’d be laughing in her grave, she said. But I do hope, sir, the letters didn’t do harm. No more than a little fright they were meant to be. I think that was to be mostly for her nephew, Mr. Peate. She had taken a dislike to him in her last days. Is that all they did, sir? Give Mr. Peate a fright?”

“They did that, Eliza,” Daniel said gravely. “We must hear more about this. But later. I’m sure you’re tired from your journey. Go and get a meal, and then I expect you’d like your old room back.”

“You mean I’m to stay, sir? But the mistress—”

“I mean you to stay, Eliza. I can appreciate loyalty as well as Lady Tameson could. By the way, you must be recompensed for your traveling expenses.”

“Oh, no sir. The diamond brooch was for that. That was my lady’s instructions. I was to sell it. I did, and got a hundred pounds for it, though I fancy I should have got more. But there wasn’t time to fiddle-faddle about that. So there’s no expenses, sir. I only hope my lady did some good. She meant to, poor soul.”

“More good than she knew,” said Daniel dryly. “She has benefited various charities to the extent of a fortune. And my daughter is no longer burdened with wealth. So the old lady can rest peacefully. Both of them can.”

“Both of them, sir?”

“I see you don’t know the whole story, Eliza. Perhaps Miss Hurst will take you upstairs and tell it to you.”

Lavinia put her arm around the little weary figure.

“Yes, indeed, Eliza. And Flora will be overjoyed to see you.”

Eliza had one more question to ask.

“The mistress, sir? Is she all right?”

Daniel’s mouth tightened.

“Yes, she’s well, Eliza. She’s been riding in the rain, as she likes to do. She’s gone up to rest.”

He moved toward the fire, obviously not intending to put Charlotte out of her suspense at once. Perhaps he thought she deserved a great deal more suspense than the next hour or two spent trembling behind a locked door. She had admitted attempting to murder her own daughter. How could he ever forgive her, or live with her again?