by Cameron Judd
“By which you mean me,” Kenton said.
“Yes. Please be patient with me—I will try to make it as clear as I can, as quickly as I can.” She cleared her throat. “Life on the Kevington estate was sometimes difficult for us, but all in all, I was happy. The people I knew as my parents were good people, both of them, and raised me well. My father, Jack Frye, was an honest man, and simple. He loved my mother and myself dearly, and was loved in return.
“I had no brothers or sisters, and on the estate I seldom had playmates of my own age. There were on occasion other children, the offspring of other servants in the household, but these seldom stayed for long. Dr. Kevington was a difficult man to work for, often harsh and sometimes cruel. He loved liquor, and when he had had too much of it, could treat his servants with the greatest disdain. As a child I found him frightening, and tried to keep my distance from him. There were times I saw him watching me as I played or worked on the grounds, though, staring at me from behind the tall glass window of his study, with the oddest and most hateful of expressions. I felt he had an unaccountable loathing for me, and I sometimes dreamed of him at night, awakening in a fright.
“As fearful of Dr. Kevington as I was, though, I held a deep and unshakable interest in his wife, who was seldom seen. She stayed mostly in her chamber, a room I never saw, apart from its great, wide windows that looked down onto the gardens of the estate. I could see it from a window of my own room, in a cottage that we lived in on the southern edge of the estate. Sometimes she would be in the window, looking out. When the light was right, I could see her well enough to gain an impression of how she looked. What I couldn’t make out with my eyes I would fill in with my imagination.
“She was a beautiful woman, with pale skin, and long, dark hair. Sometimes she stood at the window, but usually she sat. Often she wore a white gown. My mother would scold me when I watched her. She would tell me that Dr. Kevington was jealous of his wife, and treated her as his own private treasure, and so I shouldn’t look at her or Dr. Kevington might become angry.
“I couldn’t really understand why that should be. Why would Dr. Kevington care if a servant girl watched his wife sometimes as she sat by her window? But my mother was adamant about this. She told me that it was important that I always stay far away from Mrs. Kevington.
“This, of course, only made Mrs. Kevington more mysterious and intriguing to me. I wanted to see her up close, maybe even talk to her. Somehow I had the notion that she was interested in me—that sometimes she was watching me while I watched her. I told this to my father once, and he laughed, and told me that I was a foolish little girl spinning silly dreams. But when he told my mother what I had said, she grew angry, and told me again I was never to have anything to do with Mrs. Kevington, and that Mrs. Kevington was very sick, and did not want to be bothered with silly servant girls. And so I never saw Dr. Kevington’s wife up close through all my girlhood.
“But I did see her son. Paul Kevington was about a year younger than I. Though he was expected to stay away from the servants, when he was a boy he slipped away sometimes and would come and play with me and some of the other few servant children on the estate.
“In those days, I liked Paul, because he was fine-looking, and rich, and part of the world inside the house that I seldom was allowed to enter except to labor over the dishes in the kitchen washroom. I wanted to ask him about his mother, but I was always afraid to do it.
“As Paul grew older, his feelings began to change. He became unwilling to associate with the servants on any level but that of superior to underling. He stopped slipping away to play with me and other servant children, and began growing cold and rude whenever I did chance to see him. He was becoming more like his father, and less like the kind and loving person I imagined his mother to be.
“As the years passed, other changes came. Mrs. Kevington disappeared from her window. My mother told me that her health was improving. She was moving around the house now, and speaking for the first time in years. I was glad to note this, because I still felt a natural affection for Mrs. Kevington, even though I had yet to meet her.
“Paul Kevington began to come around again. He was interested in me once more, but his interest was different. I began to think that he was in love with me, though with Paul it was difficult to tell where love left off and lust began. I was an innocent girl, not accustomed to the ways of a worldly young man. But eventually, I was affected by his attentions, and began to feel what I thought was love toward him.
“Paul was physically forward with me, but I had been raised well and refused what he would have me do. It was at those times that I wondered if he truly loved me, because he would grow furiously angry, and accuse me of being false-hearted. As time passed I found my resolve beginning to weaken. He vowed to me that he wished to marry me, and that there was no sin in what he wished me to do. You will pardon me, Mr. Kenton, for speaking so openly with you about such private things.”
“I understand,” Kenton said.
“Ultimately, however, I found I simply couldn’t yield. I made the decision to tell him this, though I dreaded what I expected would be an angry reaction. To my surprise, I found him much changed the next time I spoke to him. He told me that he no longer wished my company, or my hand in marriage.
“I was shocked by this, unable to understand his change of heart. He seemed angry with me, repelled by me, but he wouldn’t tell me why. When I asked him if there was hope that we might yet reconcile with one other, he simply laughed, very coldly.
“My mother, who had always been able to read my feelings, saw that something was amiss with me. For two days I hardly ate, cried often, and withdrew from the fellowship of my family. She asked me to tell her what was wrong, and at last I did. I confessed to her the romance that I had carried on with Paul Kevington, and told her as well about his sudden change in manner toward me.
“As soon as I had told her the name of the man I loved, she went pale, and seemed ill. I knew right away that there were aspects to this matter that I did not yet know. She called me aside, into a private place, and told me information that changed my life and broke my heart.
“She told me that I could never love Paul Kevington, or have any relationship with him of the sort I had intended. Paul Kevington, she told me, was my brother. I was stunned, and asked her how this could be. Surely there was a mistake. But she was insistent: Paul Kevington was my brother by blood, sharing not the same father but the same mother. My mother, she told me, was the mysterious Mrs. Kevington, the same woman I had watched for so many years through the tall window. Though my mind rejected this information at first, my heart knew straightaway that it was true. I had had an innate awareness of some special link to the woman behind the window. Now I understood what it was.
“I demanded of my mother—or, I should say, the woman who for all those years I had believed was my mother—an explanation of how I had come to be raised as a servant if in fact I was the child of the lady of the house.
“She told me the story that she had never expected to tell, and which, in fact, both she and her husband, my surrogate father, had vowed never to reveal to me. Despite that vow, she chose to tell me the full truth, because my feelings for Paul Kevington gave me a right to know. And so she told me the story of the woman behind the window, your Victoria.”
CHAPTER 28
RACHEL paused a moment, clearing her throat again. Even that brief delay was agonizing to Kenton.
“Please go on! What did she tell you?” Kenton urged.
“Mrs. David Kevington, she said, was not the first wife of Dr. Kevington. His original wife had died many years before, shortly before Dr. Kevington journeyed to the United States. The circumstances of her death, she told me, were mysterious. The marriage between the pair had been troubled, and some whispered that Dr. Kevington had poisoned his first wife.
“While Dr. Kevington was in the United States, she said, he became enamored of a beautiful, dark-haired woman who was the wife
of a traveling American journalist. She told me the journalist’s name was Brady Kenton. Though she didn’t know all the details herself, she told me that Dr. Kevington had returned to England after the crash of a train in which both he and Mrs. Kenton had been passengers. She had been severely hurt, left senseless and unable to awaken, and he had brought her home with him to care for her to nurse her back to health.
“Dr. Kevington said they had been married in the United States, after she had divorced her journalist husband. The new Mrs. Kevington, as she was perceived, remained in her coma for month on month. Dr. Kevington tended her devotedly, but her prospects appeared uncertain at best.
“Complicating the matter was a fact that became evident only after time: the new Mrs. Kevington was with child. This fact created much consternation on Dr. Kevington’s part, my surrogate mother observed. The child was not his, but that of his wife’s first husband. This child, he said, would never be raised in his household.
“When her time came, Mrs. Kevington, still in a coma, gave birth to a daughter … to me. Immediately, I was taken from my natural mother and given to Jack and Molly Frye, who were told to raise me as their own, replacing the child stillborn to them shortly before. Thus I became Rachel Frye, the daughter of servants in the Kevington household, and my true mother, who gave birth to me with no knowledge of it, never even saw me in circumstances to let her know who I was.
“My surrogate parents, though they were paid by Dr. Kevington to take me as their own, were not mercenary in their motives. The loss of their blood child had left a great vacancy in their hearts, one that I filled. Jack Frye in particular seemed devoted to making my life better than the one he and his wife lived, and took pains to make sure I received as much education as possible. Though he himself was scarcely literate, he bought books for me, and had his wife teach me to read. Through the years he maintained a library for me, encouraging me to teach myself as much as I could, and to become well-spoken and articulate.
“I think he did this because he knew that my birthright and true station in life was being denied to me. I did what he asked, and as a result was able to provide myself with a formal education that I believe equaled or bettered the formal educations of many in better circumstances.”
“Your articulateness verifies that,” Kenton said. “You’re a very well spoken young lady.” As he spoke he was looking out across the rail yard, watching a train being pulled around into the rail yard, ready for departure.
“After my birth, Mrs. Kevington began to emerge from her coma. At times, I’m told, she would awaken, though never fully. She was initially unable to speak, though as time passed she began to be able to converse to a limited degree. The injuries she had suffered in the railroad accident had left her in a dire condition, though with Dr. Kevington’s care she was beginning to improve, and there was hope that someday she would be fully restored.
“But there was a dark side. Molly Frye told me that Dr. Kevington took advantage of the limited understanding of his wife to persuade her that he truly was her husband, and that you, Mr. Kenton, were dead. He wanted her fully for himself, with no devotion left in her for you or anyone else from her former life.
“In her weakened state, it’s likely that she accepted what he told her. My surrogate mother sometimes tended to her; she described her as a sad, quiet woman, a shadow of a person … but a shadow that was becoming fuller and richer with each passing month. But those months stretched into years, as you know, and at length the woman who had been Mrs. Brady Kenton became in her own mind wife of Dr. David Kevington.
“Shortly after my birth, Mrs. Kevington was again with child, this time fathered by Dr. Kevington. Just over a year after I was born, Paul Kevington came into the world. I have already told you some of his history and manner, and how I came to fall in love with him, not knowing we shared the same mother. My surrogate mother, who was quite perceptive where Paul Kevington was concerned, pointed out something to me that I had missed myself: Paul’s suddenly harsh manner toward me was surely an indication that his own father had told him the same story that my surrogate mother had told me. He had learned our true kinship, and that we never could have a relationship other than that of brother and sister.
“I later learned that he had indeed been told the truth, by his own father. The circumstances had been much like my own: Dr. Kevington had learned that Paul loved me, and was forced to tell him that I was in truth his half sister.
“Paul Kevington, oddly, seemed to hold the circumstances of our births against me, as if my parentage were my own fault. He seemed to resent me because of this twisted hand that fate had dealt us.
“Paul Kevington and I parted with me brokenhearted and him full of anger. At the time I thought our situation was the most ironic and sorrowful turn of events that could have come. Soon, though, I began to learn more of the true nature of Paul Kevington, and to realize that it was my good fortune that he and I could have no part of one another.
“Let me tell you about Paul. He is a most remarkable young man, very talented in many ways. He is a skilled actor, capable of taking over a stage and playing virtually any role to perfection. He is equally skilled as an artist and writer. All in all, the man should have been able to make a good showing for himself in almost any area he might choose. But one quality he lacks: he possesses no evident human sense of morality. Paul Kevington is a man completely without sense of right and wrong, devoted only to his own well-being and pleasure. I am ashamed, in fact, that I share a blood kinship with such a man.
“After our relationship was finished, Paul turned his attentions to another young woman who lived in poor quarters within a mile of the Kevington estate. Her name was Jenny; she was a common and uneducated girl, but one of extraordinary beauty. It was clear to me what Paul’s intentions toward her were. I was beginning to comprehend that he lacked the ability to truly love a woman. His interests were entirely for his own physical gratification.
“Jenny, though, was unable to see this, though I spoke to her more than once and warned her. She was flattered by the attention given her by a handsome and wealthy young man, who was known for his talents as well as his fine looks.
“I knew his intention was to take advantage of her, and I was correct. She came to me one evening, crying, telling me she was carrying Paul’s child, and that Paul refused even to speak to her about it. Her father was a hard man, stern in his morality, and she knew she faced the most severe consequences for what she had done. Feeling pity for her, I told her I would find a way to help her. I spoke to a priest I knew, a man of good heart and forgiving nature, and made arrangements to meet her at a hidden place to help her escape from both her father and from Paul. She was afraid of Paul; some of the things he had said had made her fear he might seek to hurt her or even kill her in order to keep the child from being born.
“Before I could go to her, though, my surrogate father became ill. His heart simply failed him. I went to his side, and stayed with him for nearly a day until, very quietly, he died. I held his hand and wept.
“Then I remembered the meeting I had missed. I left, and went to look for her in the place we had said we would meet.
“I found the priest’s corpse lying on a woodland trail before I got there. He had been stabbed. Terrified, I wanted to run away, but I worried about what had happened to Jenny. I moved ahead, and came upon her just in time to see her dying as Paul Kevington stabbed her again and again. I ran; he saw me, and chased me. I knew that he would kill me, no matter what.
“I hid for two days, afraid to reveal my presence to anyone. I stole food, lived in a barn loft, starting at every sound and shadow. Paul Kevington did not find me, but I soon realized that if he couldn’t find me, he could still find my family. I ran home, and found my mother stabbed to death in her own bed.
“She had already been found by a neighbor. Because I had been absent it was feared at first that I was dead, as well, or that I was guilty of the killing. I learned these things from a nei
ghbor who knew me well, and discovered that my surrogate mother had told her enough of my situation that she understood what was happening. She told me that there was no hope for me; Paul Kevington and his father would be believed, no matter what they said, whereas I, as a common servant girl, would not be. Paul Kevington could not afford to leave me alive, not after I had witnessed him committing murder. I had to flee the country. Otherwise he would find me and kill me.
“I had done research and discovered that Brady Kenton was not dead. I determined to find you, because I wanted to know the man who truly was my father. I took money that my surrogate father had saved for many years, which he kept buried in a jar at the rear of our house beneath an oak tree. With that money and the help of friends, I was able to secretly obtain passage on a ship and come to the United States.
“Once here, I quickly found that Brady Kenton was a far more famous man in this country than I had realized. I studied the Illustrated American, reading every story of yours that I could find. I studied your pictures, and was shocked to find that in many of them I could detect a subtle image of the same face I had seen through the glass of that high window in the Kevington house.”
“Yes,” Kenton said. “It’s been my habit to include her image in my work as a tribute to her. Most people, though, are not perceptive enough to spot the images.”
She took this as a compliment and smiled at him; to Kenton it was again like seeing his long-lost wife, and melted something inside of him. He was finding all of this almost too much to take in. After years of not knowing the truth, it was almost impossible to believe he was finally learning it.
Rachel continued her story. “I began trying to track you down. I had thought I could go to the headquarters of the Illustrated American and simply find you there, but soon learned that you’re a man without a home, constantly traveling. To make matters more difficult, I discovered that you tended not to follow your schedules very closely. Not even the Illustrated American knew where you were … or if they did, they would not reveal it.