Pandora. Her step-sister.
She hadn’t seen Pandora since she ran away from her father’s estate in the country. That was right before she turned sixteen.
She’d thought she’d left that part of her past behind her. Yes, she had relived the past many times since running away, but she never believed she’d ever come across Pandora again. Pandora had been betrothed to the Duke of Philton. He had planned to live in Denmark. He wasn’t supposed to be in London.
But it’d been six years since she last saw Pandora. It was possible she didn’t marry the duke. It was possible she married someone else. It was possible she didn’t marry anyone at all. Marcy’s father had been wealthy. Pandora wouldn’t have needed a gentleman to provide for her, even after the title and estate transferred to her father’s nephew.
However Pandora had ended up in London, she knew Marcy was here. Perhaps Pandora saw her at the ball. There were so many people there that Marcy hadn’t noticed her. If Pandora saw her before Marcy had a chance to see her, then she could have hidden in the crowd.
Marcy bit her lower lip. Lewis’ clothes stood out since they were so bright. It would be hard to miss him, and she had been on his arm for a good portion of the evening. Maybe Lewis’ attire had given Pandora the advantage Marcy didn’t have.
This didn’t explain how Pandora knew where Marcy lived. Nor did it explain how Pandora knew Marcy had married Lewis. And, most of all, it didn’t explain how Pandora knew Marcy’s secret sin.
But she did know. Because the one sentence Pandora had written let Marcy know her sin hadn’t been a secret to everyone. Marcy swallowed the lump in her throat and read the sentence again.
I know what you did six years ago to the decanter.
Eight words. Eight words that formed one simple sentence. And it told Marcy everything. Pandora knew she’d put poison in her step-mother’s decanter. Marcy had thought she’d gotten rid of the evidence before she could get caught. She’d been careful to make sure no one was in the room with her.
As much as Marcy didn’t want to go over the past, especially not now when she was happy, it crept up around her. It wove around her like a dark lover and insisted it join her, to slip back into her memories one more time. And so, she obeyed and thought back on the worst part of her life…
Marcy was thirteen when her mother died. She mourned her mother’s death every day. Her father had, too, but then he had decided that Marcy needed another mother. So a year after her mother died, he married Pandora’s mother. “This will be good for you,” her father had told Marcy. “Every girl needs a mother.”
Shortly after the wedding, he went on with his new life, doting on his new wife and daughter. Pandora was three years older than Marcy, so her father seemed to forget all about her and focused on getting Pandora ready for receiving visitors. Though they were in the country, he had sent invitations to gentlemen he was acquainted with in London who had sons of marriageable age.
Marcy didn’t know how the rest of the world could move on while hers had fallen apart. She didn’t know if her father loved Pandora’s mother. In her state of mind, she hadn’t cared. She missed her mother, and it seemed to her that no one else did.
Then her father died. A year after his marriage to Pandora’s mother, he died while asleep. He hadn’t been sick. He’d been just fine. Marcy’s mother had been sick for almost a month before she passed on. But there had been no such warning to prepare her for losing her father.
And that made Marcy suspect foul play. She watched her step-mother and step-sister carefully, looking for any clues that might tell her who’d had a hand in his death. Pandora had just secured the betrothal of the Duke of Philton. The upcoming marriage was all Pandora talked about. Marcy doubted Pandora thought of anything else. So Marcy turned her attention to her step-mother.
And one day, while Marcy was crying over the loss of her mother and father, she slipped into her step-mother’s den. Pandora had asked her mother to take a walk with her. Pandora hadn’t asked Marcy to come along, but then, she never did.
But, this time, Marcy was glad for it since it meant she had a chance to go into the den. Her father had only been dead for two weeks. Which meant the wounds were still new…still fresh. And Marcy was desperate to find something—anything—that would tell her exactly how her father died.
So she took the opportunity to slip into the den while no one was looking. Right there, on top of the desk, was her father’s will. It was a new will he’d drawn up after her mother’s death. Her father had drawn up a new will that stated after the estate was handed to his nephew, half of his money would go to Marcy and the other half would go to Marcy’s step-mother.
She wiped more tears from her eyes with her handkerchief and sorted through the drawers. And that was when she found it. Her answer. The will was the motive. The cause of death was in the small bottle her step-mother had hidden in the top drawer of the desk. Poison.
To make sure she was seeing things right, Marcy pulled the bottle out and read the label more closely in the sunlight pouring in through the window. On the label was the word Hemlock. Yes, it was poison all right. Her father had an assortment of books, and she recalled reading about the dangers of ingesting hemlock. She didn’t need the warning label on the bottle to know how dangerous it was.
Her gaze went back to the will lying on the desk. What better way to get full control of money than murder? Ladies, after all, didn’t have control of money until their husbands were out of the way.
Marcy’s eyes filled up with tears, and she hurried to brush them away. Poison. Her step-mother had poisoned her father to get his money. She’d never loved him. She’d only married him in order to get wealthy. She briefly recalled her father mentioning that her step-mother and her step-sister hadn’t had much of anything because her first husband had gambled all the time. He’d agreed to marry her because of a mutual friend who thought the two could benefit from the arrangement. Marcy would get a mother, and the step-mother and Pandora would be financially secure. Her father had been so naïve, so trusting. Never once did he think someone would kill him to get his money.
Remembering that she was in the den when she wasn’t supposed to be, Marcy hurried to put the bottle back in the drawer and left the room.
The rest of the day was a blur. She was overwhelmed with both grief and anger. No one but her knew the truth. They all believed her step-mother was a sweet and gracious lady. They would never suspect her capable of murder. And that meant her step-mother would get away with it. No one was going to hold her accountable. And what would be next? If her step-mother was willing to kill Marcy’s father to get half of his money, what was to stop her from killing Marcy to get the rest of it? Once someone killed, wasn’t it easier to keep on killing?
So now Marcy had two thoughts—two very strong thoughts—compelling her to do something she’d never thought she would ever do. Not only did she feel a burning need to avenge her father’s death, but she needed to protect herself, too. And there was only way she was going to do that.
She needed to strike first.
Claiming a headache, Marcy skipped dinner that evening. Instead, she slipped into the den and put some of the hemlock into the decanter of sherry her step-mother kept on the desk. If her step-mother took such delight in killing others, let her experience what it was like. Let her go through the suffering of not being able to move while she was dying. Let her go through the same suffering she’d put Marcy’s father through. If the lady could kill with such abandon, then so could Marcy.
Ever since her father’s death, her step-mother hadn’t shown one ounce of guilt. Sure, she’d shed her tears, but they were fake. They were all fake. They had to be fake if she was so concerned about the contents in the will. And besides, Marcy had a right to protect herself. She had a right to make sure her step-mother didn’t kill her, too.
Once she returned the bottle to the drawer, she left the den. She hurried off into the servants’ stairwell so no one would see he
r. Tears blurred her vision, but the heat of her anger propelled her forward.
When she made it to her bedchamber, she thought she could have peace. No one would be the wiser. After her step-mother poured the sherry into her glass and drank it, Marcy would get the satisfaction of avenging her father’s death while saving her own life.
But as the minutes ticked on the clock in her room, her anger began to recede, and in its place came the prickling of her conscience. She tried to will it away. She kept telling herself she had a right to do this. It was justified. She wouldn’t have done this to someone who was innocent. Her step-mother was guilty. She needed to pay for her sins. Justice had to prevail.
She went from sitting on her bed to pacing the room. She kept reminding herself that she’d only done what was right. Her cause was just. It was necessary.
No, it’s wrong, came the unrelenting argument in her mind, and the more she tried to push against it, the stronger it got.
Soon, her hands were shaking, and then she felt cold. She kept pacing, but no matter how much she moved, the chill of terror wound its grip tighter and tighter around her. Her conscience screamed at her that she was no better than her step-mother. If she let her step-mother drink the sherry from that decanter, she was going to be a killer.
I’m not a murderer. That’s not who I am.
She checked the clock. Thirty minutes. Only thirty minutes had passed? She could have sworn it’d been hours.
But that was good. When she’d come up here, her step-mother was still having dinner. That meant there was time to get the decanter out of the den.
She rushed to her bedchamber door.
Then she stopped. You pour the sherry out of her decanter, and then what? Wait for her to slip the hemlock into your drink?
She glanced around the room. She had things—expensive things. Her father had been generous to her. And some of the gifts he’d given her would be easy to carry out of here. The jewelry would fit into a valise. Then she could sell it. She’d live very well off of the sale of her jewelry until she married. In two months, she would be sixteen. She was almost of marriageable age right now. In a couple of years, she’d have a husband. Then she wouldn’t have to worry about money ever again. She would pack her things, along with all of her jewelry, and run away. She’d leave before her step-mother could kill her.
Assured that this new plan would work, she hurried down the hall, trying to keep as quiet as possible as she did so. Once more, she went through the servants’ stairwell until she reached the floor that led to the den. She made sure no one was in the hallway before she snuck toward the room. When she reached it, she opened the door a crack. Good. No one was there.
She still had time.
She went into the room and softly closed the door behind her. She ran over to the desk then stopped in dread when she saw the decanter. With what remaining light was coming in through the window, it looked as if some of the sherry was missing from it.
No. It’s impossible. I came in here right after dinner was ready.
Her step-mother should still be eating. She never finished a meal that fast.
There’s less sherry in the decanter than there was before. That can only mean one thing.
Her gaze went to the glasses around the decanter. Three. She counted three of them. Her gut tightened in dread.
She distinctly remembered seeing four when she was in here only a half hour ago.
She covered her mouth so that no one would hear her scream. She was a murderer. She’d just killed her step-mother. Even if her step-mother hadn’t felt the effects of the poison yet, she soon would. And there was nothing Marcy could do to stop it. Not at this point. Once someone drank the poison, there was no going back. Her step-mother was going to be dead by morning.
She grabbed the decanter and ran back out of the den, this time not as careful as she was before. She ran back up the servants’ stairwell and then to her bedchamber. She opened the window and poured out the entire contents of the decanter. Then she shut the window, clasping the decanter to her chest.
Escape!
She had to get out of here. Once Pandora or a servant found her step-mother’s dead body, they would know she’d been murdered. Then they would figure out she was the one who’d done the crime. Pandora, especially, would point the finger at her. And Pandora would be right. Because it was the truth. Marcy had just killed her step-mother. There was no getting around it. It didn’t even matter what the motive was. All that mattered was that she’d done it. She was a monster.
She grabbed a small trunk and threw the decanter, clothes, her journal, and other things into it. She made haste in case someone came to check on her. She finished within five minutes, and then she picked up the trunk and snuck out of the manor. She went as quietly as she dared without losing momentum.
By the time she made it outside, she remembered the jewelry. She’d forgotten to take it. How could she have forgotten something as important as the jewelry? She turned back to the manor but saw a movement in one of the windows and jerked back.
She almost tripped, but she managed to regain her footing. Then she turned her attention back to the stables and ran, her hands clenching the handles on the trunk as if her life depended on it. The moon would soon be out. Which was good. It would give her enough light to travel.
“Lady Marcy,” the stable boy said in surprise as she hurried into the stables.
She shrieked and nearly dropped her trunk.
He stopped cleaning one of the stalls and came over to her. She scanned the stables and realized she and the stable boy were alone. Though he was two years younger than her, he was taller, and he was probably stronger, too. But, she was a duke’s daughter, and that gave her authority over him. He couldn’t stop her.
“I order you to put this in the small carriage,” she said, doing her best to sound forceful. He opened his mouth to speak, so she added, “I am Lady Marcy. I suggest you remember your place.” She set the trunk down and gestured to a small carriage that was nearby. “Be quick, and don’t tell anyone.”
He shut his mouth and did as she wished. Then he hitched up a horse to it. The entire time, she kept glancing around, praying no one would discover them.
When he led the carriage over to her, he asked, “Should I summon the coachman, or would you rather I drive you?”
“I’ll drive myself.” She grabbed the reins out of his hands, and without another word, she urged the horse forward.
She traveled all through the night. She only stopped once to put on the cloak she’d packed and to relieve her bladder. Other than that, she pushed the horse as far as it would go.
The entire time, she kept wondering when Pandora and the servants would find out her step-mother was dead. How long would it take for them to discover she was a murderer?
She took random pathways. She didn’t stick to the main highway. It was a dangerous thing she’d done, and she was lucky no harm had come to her. Though, if it had, she would have deserved it. Killers deserved exactly what they got.
By noon the next day, she took off the cloak. After putting it back in the trunk, she took the decanter out so she wouldn’t ever have to see it again. Then she let the horse and carriage go. She mostly dragged the trunk over the next two days. There was no one around for miles. She was completely alone. Maybe she should have been scared, but she could only think of that horrible moment in the den when she’d realized her step-mother had taken some of the poisoned sherry from the decanter. Over and over, it played in her mind. Unrelenting. Accusing. Taunting. She was stuck in her own hell, and nothing short of death was going to relieve it.
By the time she reached Stephen’s manor, she was so exhausted and hungry that she collapsed and went unconscious. It was the first time her conscience ceased to bother her. But when she woke up in a drawing room that needed repair and cleaning, her conscience was still there, insisting she end it all now and just let herself die.
And yet, something kept her hanging on. Some
thing had prompted her to ask for a position at Stephen’s manor. She had sworn she’d do anything. He had needed a maid. Very few people were willing to work for him. She’d thought it was because he was frightening with his mask, but she’d soon learned he wasn’t as horrifying as he appeared.
The days passed and turned into months. The months turned into years. The night she’d poisoned her step-mother still haunted her. There had been no getting away from it. But she slowly managed to get to a point when she could look at herself in the mirror.
Then her friendship with Patricia happened. And then she’d fallen in love with Lewis. And for the first time in a very long time, she felt something she hadn’t had since her father died: hope.
Marcy blinked, and tears fell from her eyes as she read back over the missive. The missive with that single sentence. I know what you did six years ago to the decanter.
Pandora was in London, and she knew the truth.
The hope Marcy had been experiencing was now gone.
Chapter Thirteen
Lewis noticed a change in Marcy as soon as he returned to the townhouse. For one, she didn’t run up to meet him when he stepped through the entryway, and two, there was no singing coming from the drawing room, even though she was there.
She was running a clean cloth over the arm of one of the chairs. He expected her to turn her attention to the other arm of the chair when she was finished with the first one, but she didn’t. She just kept wiping down that one arm. Though she looked at the arm, she didn’t seem to be aware of what she was doing.
He couldn’t imagine what was wrong. Everything was fine when he’d left earlier that day. She’d been smiling in that special way that made his heart warm in pleasure. Now, she was listless. It was as if someone had come along and sapped all of the energy out of her.
He approached her. “Marcy, what’s wrong?”
She glanced up, and there was almost a hint of surprise in her eyes. Almost. Whatever was bothering her had a firm hold on her. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just,” her gaze went back to the arm of the chair she was wiping down, “cleaning.”
One Enchanted Evening (Marriage by Fairytale Book 2) Page 11