The Broken (Echoes from the Past Book 8)

by Shapiro, Irina

  Gabe gave her a seductive smile. “Allow me to remind you just how useful I can be. Come to bed.”

  “I don’t need reminding,” Quinn said as she stood and walked into his arms. “And I don’t need a bed.”

  She pulled him toward a cushioned chaise and lay down, pulling up the skirt of her summer dress inch by inch.

  “I think you forgot to put on knickers,” Gabe said as he took in his wife.

  “I never forget anything.”

  Chapter 23

  January 1956

  London, England

  Helen stood in front of Edith’s door, her hand hovering just above the brass doorknob. She was determined to go in this time instead of making up an excuse and walking away as she had done several times over the past few months. It’d been four months since her mother’s death, but Helen had done nothing more than strip the bed and air out the room after the undertakers had taken Edith’s body away. David had made no mention of Edith’s room until that morning, and now there was no avoiding the unsavory task.

  “Darling, do you think it might be time to clear out your mother’s room?” he’d asked over breakfast.

  “I’ll get round to it eventually.”

  “Don’t you want to prepare the nursery?” he’d asked, his gaze sliding to her rounded belly. “I can’t paint it until you clear out your mum’s belongings.”

  It wasn’t as if she didn’t have the time. She’d had to resign from her job at the hospital once she learned she was pregnant, and spent her days cleaning, cooking, and visiting with her friend Lynn, who was glad of the company. Sometimes, when Helen got bored, she even went to see Agnes. She wasn’t accustomed to spending so much time on her own and needed projects to fill her time. She’d reorganized every cupboard, thrown away some of her mother’s dusty silk flowers, and purchased new curtains for the parlor. She’d asked David to move the furniture and hung a new picture in their bedroom. It was a nautical scene that reminded her of the beach in Bournemouth where David had proposed to her. There was nothing left for her to do except turn her attention to the nursery.

  “All right, I’ll do it today.”

  “Don’t overtire yourself. A little at a time. Would you like me to get a couple of boxes on the way home?”

  “Yes, please. I’m going to donate most of Mum’s things to the charity shop.”

  “That sounds like a good idea. I’ll take everything down whenever you’re ready.”

  David had finished his tea, given her a sweet kiss, and headed for the door. “Have a good day,” he’d called out before closing the door behind him.

  Helen had put away the butter and milk, stowed the remaining bread in the bread box, and washed the breakfast dishes. She’d swept the floor, dusted the furniture, and walked to the butcher’s and greengrocer’s to pick up something for their supper. Having returned, she’d made herself a cup of tea and stared morosely out the window. There was nothing left to do, and no excuses left to make. Having several hours before she needed to start on dinner, she’d finished her tea, rinsed out her cup, and headed for the stairs, feeling as if she were ascending a scaffold.

  As she stood outside the room, poised to enter, Helen reflected that she didn’t miss her mother, exactly, but Edith was frequently in her thoughts, especially when she was doing housework. Her mother had been very particular, and Helen often felt as if Edith were standing next to her, grading her performance. Thankfully, she didn’t conjure up Edith when she was in bed with David. Edith never intruded on that side of her marriage, but Helen had never heard anything in all her years of sharing a wall with her parents that would lead her to believe that they had ever been intimate. Her mother would have been surprised to learn that Helen quite enjoyed that side of things. Pregnancy seemed to have awakened an insatiable hunger, which David was only too happy to satisfy. Once they had grown more comfortable with each other, David had become eager to try new things and pleased her in ways she’d never imagined, and she was happy to return the favor, secretly enjoying her ability to bring him so much pleasure.

  Helen dragged her mind out of the bedroom and pushed open the door, finally ready to tackle the task at hand. The room looked exactly as it had when Edith was alive. Helen had even made up the bed, although no one was likely to sleep in it. Edith’s reading glasses were still on the nightstand, atop the book she’d been reading. Helen sighed. Disposing of a person’s effects was never a pleasant task, especially when one had no desire to hold on to anything. Helen would keep Edith’s jewelry, but she’d never wear any of her things; she was sure of that.

  Starting with the wardrobe, Helen pulled out Edith’s dresses, coats, and hats. A few items were too threadbare to donate, but most things went into a pile on the bed. The charity shop would be only too happy to accept such a bounty. Most of Edith’s things still had years of wear left in them.

  Helen had nearly finished with the wardrobe when she spotted an old biscuit tin at the back of the shelf where Edith kept the hat boxes. She couldn’t reach it, so she fetched a broom and used it to move the box forward until she could retrieve it more easily.

  The box was full of papers. There was a neatly tied packet of letters, sent by Harry Brent to his wife from France during the Great War. There were also several sepia photographs that Helen had never seen before. One was a picture of her mother, aged about twenty. She looked young and pretty, her expression coy. A small smile tugged at her lips, as if she had been trying to keep a straight face for the photograph but failed. Helen had never seen her mother look like that. Playfulness was not a trait she’d ever associated with Edith.

  The second photograph was of a man dressed in a tweed suit and cap. He looked directly into the camera and smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Helen’s breath caught in her throat. Had the picture been recent, he could have passed for David’s younger brother. Helen turned the photograph over. There, in faded ink, was an inscription: Edward Edevane, October 1916. With trembling hands, she set it aside and continued rifling through the contents. She found her parents’ marriage certificate and her father’s death certificate, but not her birth certificate, which Edith must have kept in a different place.

  All the way at the bottom of the box was a blank envelope. She pulled it out and looked inside, extracting a single sheet of paper. It was still crisp to the touch. Helen unfolded the paper and stared at the neat writing. It was a certificate of birth. The mother was listed as Edith Brent, but the father’s name was left blank. The child had been born in London on March 21, 1917—David’s birthday—and his name was David Edward Edevane.

  Helen’s hand flew to cover her mouth as a gasp of shock tore from her chest. The typed letters danced before her eyes. How was this possible? How could Edith be David’s birth mother? She’d been married at the time of his birth, and Harry had been far away, in Verdun. He hadn’t returned home until the following year. Helen had been born years later. Her mother had confessed once that she hadn’t been able to conceive for a long time and had never become pregnant again after giving birth to Helen. Helen had been Edith and Harry’s miracle baby—a wonderful gift, her father had called her.

  Harry Brent clearly hadn’t been David’s father, or Edith would have kept the baby. Helen picked up the photograph of the young man in the tweed suit. Now she understood the resemblance to David. The man was his father, but who was he, and what had become of him? Did he know he had a son?

  Helen began to tremble as the magnitude of her discovery finally sank in. David was her brother. No wonder they’d experienced such an immediate connection. They got on incredibly well, even now that they were living together as man and wife. In all their time together, they’d never once had a serious argument. They were so in tune, it amazed her sometimes that they’d been lucky enough to find each other. But their compatibility wasn’t random; it was written in their blood. They were committing incest, and their baby would be a child conceived in sin.

  Helen bolted from the room and got to the bat
hroom just in time. She sank to her knees and was violently ill, heaving until there was nothing left in her stomach. “No,” she moaned. “No.”

  She remained on the floor, pressing her forehead to the cool porcelain of the toilet, too weak to get up. There had to be a logical explanation. It was all a terrible mistake. Edith had been the most proper, unyielding woman Helen had ever known. She couldn’t reconcile the mother she’d known to a married woman who’d indulged in an affair while her husband was fighting for his country, then dumped her child in an orphanage as if he were unwanted baggage. It simply didn’t add up. David had said that he was one of the few children at the orphanage to know his birth name. Perhaps Edith had meant to come back for him.

  A strangled moan escaped Helen’s lips as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Yes, Edith would have come back for him if her husband never returned, but Harry had survived. Harry had come back to his wife, unlike so many others whose remains still rested in French soil, so Edith had had no choice but to forget about her child and play the loving wife. How could she tell her husband that she’d been unfaithful to him and given birth to her lover’s child? Harry would have never forgiven her, nor would he have let her go. He’d loved her, more than she’d ever loved him, if Helen was any judge of human behavior. He would have fought to save his marriage, and Edith might have stayed because she had been too frightened of the consequences to ask for a divorce.

  Divorce was scandalous, especially at that time. Edith’s name would have been dragged through the courts, possibly even published in the papers. It would make for a sensational story, especially if her lover had been married as well. Edith would have sooner died than suffer such humiliation, so she’d sacrificed her love child for her own security and reputation. She’d never visited David, as far as Helen knew. She’d simply forgotten all about him. Or maybe not. She’d kept his birth certificate and the photograph of his father. Perhaps Edith had suffered the pangs of a guilty conscience, or perhaps she’d really loved David’s father and had spent the rest of her life mourning a love that could never be, and a child who was forever lost to her.

  What had it been like for Edith to see David walk through the door that fatal Sunday? No wonder her heart had given out. To be faced with the son she’d abandoned was shocking enough, but to discover that he was engaged to her daughter was probably more than she could take. To tell Helen the truth would have taken great courage, but to withhold it would be paramount to sanctioning her children’s incestuous marriage. How could Edith have stood by and allowed her daughter to marry her own brother and have children by him?

  “Dear God,” Helen moaned miserably. “What am I to do?” Her hand instinctively went to her belly, where her unsuspecting child was kicking viciously, not best pleased by Helen’s hunched position. She finally stood and forced herself to wash her hands and face. She went downstairs and sat down at the kitchen table, her mind enveloped in a fog of misery and disbelief. She had to tell David. She had to show him the indisputable proof of their relationship. Besides, he had a right to know who his parents were. Maybe his father was still alive, and it wasn’t too late for them to get to know each other.

  Whatever for? a small voice asked inside her head. What will you accomplish by telling him the truth? You’re already married. You have a child on the way. The truth will destroy all three of you. Your baby will be branded a child of incest, and your divorce proceedings will make the papers. Everyone will know your name and your story. Everyone will learn of your shame.

  Helen slowly got to her feet. Her limbs felt unbearably heavy, and her head was pounding. She needed someone to talk to, but she could hardly confide in the vicar, or Dr. Ross. They might demand that she dissolve the marriage immediately, or they would report her to the authorities. Could she confide in Sarah? She was newly married herself and expecting her first child. She would understand. She would advise Helen what to do.

  Helen went out into the corridor, put on her coat and shoes, took her umbrella and handbag, and let herself out. She’d be back before David returned from work, and by the time she saw him this evening, her mind would be made up, one way or the other.

  Chapter 24

  Helen divested herself of her coat and shoes, dropped her umbrella in the stand, and walked into the parlor, where she poured herself a small sherry from a decanter on the sideboard. No one had touched the sherry since Edith had died. It had been her drink of choice, and she’d allowed herself a small glass once a week as a treat, usually on Saturday night. Helen sipped the sherry, enjoying its cloying sweetness as it slid down her throat. She hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, and the sherry went straight to her head, making her feel a bit woozy. She sat down on the sofa and stared at the ticking clock. She had three hours until David returned home from work. She’d have to get started on dinner soon, but she had a few minutes.

  She’d never made it to Sarah’s house. In fact, she hadn’t even walked as far as the bus stop. Having taken a dozen steps, Helen had realized that if she told Sarah what she’d learned, she’d never be able to take it back. Sarah would surely tell Bertie, and maybe even her mother. Bertie might tell a mate over a pint, and Sarah’s mother would share the story with her friends over her weekly game of bridge. Sarah herself might tell one of her neighbors, or even someone they’d worked with at the hospital. Before the week was out, at least a half dozen people would know, for who could keep such a juicy tale to themselves?

  Helen couldn’t bear for anyone to know the truth, to talk about it, dissect it, shake their heads in astonishment, and pronounce their judgment. No, the secret would die with her. Not even David would learn the truth. She loved him too much to burden him with the knowledge that could destroy their marriage and taint his love for their baby before it was even born.

  Helen set down her empty glass on the sideboard and trudged up the stairs. Retrieving the tin from the top shelf of the wardrobe, where she’d left it only a quarter of an hour before, she brought it down to the kitchen and took out David’s birth certificate and the photograph of his father. She left the rest of the papers in the tin. They held no interest for her.

  Striking a match, Helen set the certificate alight, and watched it burn until the flame nearly touched her fingers. She dropped it in the sink, then did the same with the photo. It broke her heart to watch David’s beloved features turn to ash, but she had no choice. She could never show him the likeness of his father or explain how she’d come by it.

  The ashes littered the bottom of the sink, and Helen turned on the faucet and washed them away, watching in mesmerized silence as the evidence that could destroy her life slid down the drain. She opened the kitchen window to let out the smoke and turned her mind to more important things. By the time David came home, dinner was ready, Edith’s room had been cleared out, and Helen smiled serenely at her husband, glad to have him home.

  “Well, I see you’ve been busy. Are you not keeping anything?” he asked as he took in the pile of dresses and coats on the bed. “Not even any of her jewelry?” he asked when he noticed a small jewelry box next to the clothing. “Surely you’d want to hold on to something.”

  Helen shook her head. “Maybe you can sell it. I don’t want any of it.”

  Edith’s jewelry felt tainted to her now, especially the pearls, which she’d worn in the photograph that now rested at the bottom of the tin. Her lover might have touched those pearls, and David’s tiny fingers might have reached for the pearls when she held him in her arms before giving him away. No, Helen could never bring herself to even take them out of the jewelry box, much less put them on.

  “You might regret it later. Maybe you should hold on to it for a while?”

  “No.”

  “All right. I’ll see what I can get for the lot. Should be enough to buy a grand new pram, and then some.”

  “Yes,” Helen agreed. “Those pearls are worth quite a lot. Maybe we can buy ourselves new bedroom furniture. We can use a bigger bed now that there are tw
o of us,” Helen said. She and David slept in her childhood bed, which was way too narrow for a couple to share.

  David grinned. “I think that’s a smashing idea. Who needs pearls when you can have a roomy new bed? I’ll go tomorrow before work. Is that soon enough for you, Mrs. Edevane?” he asked, pulling her into an embrace and kissing the tip of her nose.

  “Yes, that will suit,” Helen replied with mock seriousness. “And make sure to haggle. Don’t accept the first offer.”

  “I wouldn’t dare. I will get a good price. I promise. Enough for us to get new furniture, a pram, and a cot and bureau for the nursery.”

  “Good man,” Helen replied. “Wash your hands. Dinner’s ready.” Helen watched as David walked away, loosening his tie as he went, then she returned to the kitchen.

  Later, she drew a bath and soaked for a long while, staring at the empty space where the silk violets had been. No amount of bathing would ever wash her conscience clean. Their lives were forever tainted, and those of the children to come. How little she’d understood of her parents’ marriage and how ignorant she had been of her mother’s true nature. And now, through no fault of her own, she’d been forced to become just as duplicitous. She would have to hide her secret for the rest of her life, and make sure David never discovered the truth of what she’d done. He was a man who valued honesty, who’d rather know the very worst rather than be kept in the dark. He’d never forgive her if he found out. He’d no longer love her.

  That night, when David reached for her, Helen told him she was too tired after clearing out the room, so he simply held her and went to sleep. It felt odd to be held so closely by a man who was really her brother.

  I mustn’t let this change me, change us. I must put this poisonous knowledge out of my mind, Helen thought as she lay sleepless in David’s arms. But the idea of making love to him made her feel dirty and sinful. Her love, which until that morning had been pure and true, was now something to be ashamed of. Her desire for him made her cringe with embarrassment.