by Candace Camp
“I’ll just fetch a pot for you,” Celia said calmly and went to do so.
Juliana summoned the last of her strength. She knew that before long she was going to be thoroughly and violently ill. Her stomach was roiling now. She most desperately did not want to appear in such a state before Nicholas.
“You’d better go on,” she told him, struggling to sound normal.
“No. We’ll go another day,” Nicholas said quickly. His face was, she noted, much paler than usual. “I will stay here with you.”
“No. No, please. I’ll be fine. It’s just a little sickness, probably something I ate. Celia will take care of me.”
“But I—”
“No, really.” Juliana stretched out a hand toward him pleadingly. “I want you to go. You need to talk to her. We mustn’t let her slip through our fingers. I will be right as rain by the time you get back. You’ll see. But I really don’t think we should wait.”
Nicholas looked torn. “No, I can’t leave you like this.”
“Just a spot of wooziness, sir,” Celia spoke up. “I’m thinking it might turn out to be delightful news.” She nodded at him and smiled.
“What?”
“Your being just married and all. Wouldn’t be at all surprising,” she went on with a knowing look.
“What?” He stared at the maid, stunned. “Are you joking?” He looked back at Juliana, and now a smile was starting on his lips. “Is it? Do you think so?”
“I don’t know,” Juliana said miserably. She sincerely hoped that this was not morning sickness, as she wasn’t sure she could bear feeling like this every day for several months.
Nicholas was grinning now, and he bent down to kiss the top of her head. “All right. I will go. But perhaps we should send for the doctor.”
“It’s far too early to know,” Juliana murmured. She gritted her teeth as another wave of nausea swept her, and dug her fingers into the bedding.
Nicholas went to the door, promising to be back as soon as he could. Juliana mumbled something in reply, and as soon as he was gone, she turned gratefully to Celia, who was holding out a chamberpot, and proceeded to empty the contents of her stomach.
NICHOLAS RODE rather than taking the carriage, eager to get to Bridgewater and back as soon as possible. He was torn between elation at the thought that Juliana might be pregnant and a deep fear at the fact that she was so ill. He had seen the paleness of her face, the sweat that beaded her brow. Surely morning sickness did not affect one so badly, did it?
His desire had been to stay by her side, to help her in whatever way he could, even if it was only to hold her hand. But he could see in her face that she wished him gone. She was trying to act as if it were nothing, to pretend to be less ill in front of him. He could understand that; he knew how proud and independent a woman Juliana was. It would be humiliating for her to be ill in front of him. She would be happier if he was not there. For that reason, more than any other, he had agreed to go, for, quite frankly, his need to know who had killed Crandall was far outweighed by his concern for Juliana.
He had to admit, however, that it was good to be out, to be doing something active to keep his mind from dwelling on the possibilities of what could be wrong with Juliana. The sight of her pale face, the misery in her eyes, had chilled him to the core.
It was nothing serious, he told himself firmly, pushing down the terror that was trying to claw its way up his throat. Juliana was not about to die. It was a spot of bad food, as she had said, or perhaps her maid’s hintings at pregnancy were accurate. She was young; she was healthy. It was foolish to even think she could fall prey to some serious illness.
Such thoughts spurred him on, and he reached the town of Bridgewater in record time. It took only a few inquiries to locate the house of Annie Sawyer’s cousin, and soon he was knocking at the front door of a small old wattle-and-daub cottage.
The door was opened after a moment by a young woman. She stared at Nicholas in slack-jawed amazement. “Cor…”
“I am looking for Miss Annie Sawyer,” Nicholas began.
“Annie?” The woman appeared even more astounded.
“Yes. Is she here?” Nicholas prodded gently.
“Oh! Yes! Yes, of course she is. Pardon me manners, sir. We don’t usually get the likes of you come calling.” She bobbed a curtsey to him and gestured him inside. “I’ll, um, just get her. Would you like to…?” She glanced around the interior of the small house as if she had never noticed it before. She waved vaguely in the direction of the front room, where there were several chairs, and a few stools, as well. “Please, sit down, sir. I’ll, um, fetch Annie for you.”
Nicholas walked into the room and stood, waiting, looking about him. A few moments later, Annie came rushing into the room, appearing almost as dumbstruck as the woman who had answered the door. Was there, Nicholas wondered, also just a touch of trepidation in the girl’s gaze?
“Hello, Annie.”
“My lord! What are you doing here?” She seemed to realize the rudeness of her remark, for she quickly added, “I’m sorry, my lord, but you’ve fair thrown me for a loop.”
“I came to ask you a few questions,” Nicholas told her.
Now the wary look was definitely uppermost in the former maid’s face. “Questions?” she repeated doubtfully.
“Yes. I went to see your mother yesterday, and she said you had come here.”
“Me mother!” Annie looked as if she could not quite picture that meeting. “But why—I mean—”
“There were some things I needed to ask you. About Mr. Barre’s murder.”
He was watching her closely, and he did not miss the tightening of her face at the mention of Crandall’s name.
Annie glanced away. “I’m sure I don’t know nothing about that, sir.”
“Perhaps you know more than you think. Certainly more than you have let anyone know.”
“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” she retorted, the fear that crept into her eyes belying her words.
“I think you do. It looks very odd, your leaving your home this way,” Nicholas went on.
Annie stared at him, nonplussed. “Odd? What do you mean?”
“Well, when someone has been murdered, and then someone in that same person’s household suddenly flees the area, it is rather suspicious.”
The girl stiffened, indignation flooding her features. “You saying that I killed Mr. Crandall?”
“I’m not saying anything of the sort. I am merely pointing out that your departure makes one wonder.”
“I didn’t have aught to do with it. Or with him,” Annie told him flatly.
“Yet clearly you know something about what happened.”
“I never!” Annie protested.
“Then why did someone send you fifty pounds? And why did you leave town?”
“I didn’t want to work there no more, that’s all,” Annie protested. “A house where there’s been killing done? I couldn’t work there. It was too scary.”
“It is a frightening thought,” Nicholas admitted. “Still, I think everyone will agree that there were a number of people who might have wished Crandall ill. It seems likely that whoever killed him has no interest in killing anyone else.” He paused, adding thoughtfully, “Unless, of course, he thought that someone else in the house could give him away.”
Annie sucked in her breath. “No! I don’t know nothing!”
“I think you do, Annie. It’s as clear as day. I have only to look at your face. Did you see Crandall that night? Did you see who killed him?”
“No!”
“The only way to keep yourself out of danger is to tell what you know,” Nicholas told her sternly. “Once you have revealed your secret, there is no reason for anyone to harm you to shut you up.”
“I didn’t see nothing! I just…” She sighed, then said in a flat voice, “I was going outside to set out some more food. I was carrying a big bowl, and Mr. Crandall reached out and grabbed me. I nearly dropped it, I d
id, and then he took it from me and set it on the table, saying wouldn’t I like to be doing something more fun than carrying great heavy bowls. And I told him it was my job. He just laughed and held on to me so tight I could scarcely breathe, and then he began to kiss me.”
She looked down, flushing at the memory. “He was always doing that, pinching me or putting his arm around me or grabbing at me. None of us wanted to go into a room if he was the only one there.”
Nicholas studied the girl. Gently he said, “Did you fight him off, Annie? Did you pick up the poker to keep him away?”
“No!” The maid looked up at him, alarmed. “I never! I just pushed at him and told him I had to go, but he was that drunk, sir, and he kept holding on. It was like he had six hands that night. But then Mrs. Barre come in and saw us—”
“His wife?”
“Oh, no, my lord, not her. She’d’ve just started crying. It was the old Mrs. Barre. His mum.”
“Lilith?”
Annie nodded. “Yes. She yelled at him to stop—well, she didn’t yell exactly. She didn’t raise her voice none, but it cracked like a whip, like she can do.”
“I know.”
“And he let go of me, just like that. So I picked up my bowl and ran out of the room, fast as I could. And that’s all I know, I swear it. That’s all I seen. But it couldn’t’ve been her who killed him, could it? Not his mother!”
Nicholas just looked at her for a long moment, the uneasiness inside him growing and solidifying. Lilith! It had never occurred to either him or Juliana that Crandall’s mother could have been the murderer.
Even now, hearing Annie’s story, the idea seemed absurd. Despite her recent indications of being tired of his behavior, Lilith had adored her son. Indeed, Nicholas did not think that, other than her horses, there was anyone or anything that Lilith loved besides Crandall. She could not have killed him.
“It wasn’t wrong not to tell, was it?” Annie asked. “Mrs. Barre couldn’t’ve been the one to kill him.”
“No doubt you are right,” Nicholas reassured her. But his own mind, as he walked out of the house and mounted his horse, was not so clear.
Someone had, after all, sent Annie money. Clearly, whoever that person was thought she knew something incriminating. Who else would have sent the money beside Lilith? And why else would she have sent it, except to keep Annie from telling what she knew?
Nicholas turned toward home, the doubts multiplying within him. Why had Lilith not told everyone that she had seen Crandall in the room where he was killed shortly before his murder? Why would his own mother conceal knowledge that might help them catch the murderer?
It made no sense…unless she did not want the murderer caught.
He thought of Juliana at home, helpless and ill in bed. She would never think that Lilith could be the murderer. She might be on her guard against others in the house, but not against her.
Fear flashed through him, and he dug his heels into his horse’s side, urging him into a gallop.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
JULIANA LAY back against her pillow with a sigh. There was nothing left in her stomach to come up, and there had not been the last several times, so she had merely heaved dryly for a few minutes before the spasms subsided.
At least, she thought, the bouts were growing fewer, and there was more time in between them. And the strange way her mouth kept watering had slowed down, as well. She preferred not to test her dizziness, so she continued to lie on her pillow, eyes closed.
She wondered what time it was. The morning must have passed by now. It seemed as if it had been hours and hours, but she supposed that her misery made it seem longer than it really was. She wished, not for the first time, that she had not sent Nicholas away. Little as she wanted him to see her this way, there had been several times when she had felt so scared that she had longed for him to be there. Things were less frightening, more bearable, with Nicholas around.
For the first time, too, she spared a thought for what he had learned from Annie. Perhaps, she thought, that meant she really was feeling better at last. Celia seemed to think she was, for she had gone downstairs to get some clear hot broth for her mistress, hoping she might now be able to keep something down.
The door opened, and someone entered, a woman by the sound of her skirts. Juliana did not make the effort of opening her eyes, assuming it was her maid returning.
But then the woman spoke, and she recognized the voice.
“Aunt Lilith?” Surprised, Juliana opened her eyes and looked at the woman approaching her bed, a small tray in her hands.
“Yes,” Lilith said. “I’ve come to see how you are.”
“Better, I think.”
As though sensing Juliana’s surprise, Lilith gave her a faint smile and said, “I am rather adept at nursing patients, you know. I did, after all, raise two children, and I tended to Trenton all through his last illness.”
Juliana forbore to mention that it was not Lilith’s nursing skills that she questioned, but her kindness.
“I have some syrup here for you,” Lilith said, setting down the tray on the table beside the bed. There was a glass with a little water in it, and a small stoppered vial of brownish liquid. Juliana looked distastefully at the liquid. She had no desire to drink anything, let alone the brackish-looking syrup in the vial.
“I don’t think I’m up to it,” she began.
“Nonsense,” Lilith said in her usual peremptory manner. “It will make you feel better. It’s an old remedy my mother used to prepare for us when we were ill.”
“I’m really feeling better,” Juliana protested feebly, eyeing Lilith askance as she pulled the stopper from the small glass bottle and poured the bit of brown liquid into the glass of water.
“Don’t be childish, Juliana,” Lilith said, swirling the liquid around in the glass. “It tastes a little bitter, but you will feel much better after you take it.”
Lilith picked up the glass and turned back to the bed. Juliana edged a little farther away. Just the sight of the concoction made her stomach churn queasily. She cast about for something to delay Lilith, hoping that Celia would come back in and persuade Lilith not to force the medicine on her.
Her eyes fell on the brooch at the throat of Lilith’s neck, a braided length of dark hair made into an ornament. Lilith, seeing the direction of her eyes, reached up and touched the brooch. “It’s a mourning brooch. I made it from a length of Crandall’s hair.”
Lilith’s eyes glittered with tears, and Juliana felt a pang of pity for the woman. “I’m sorry.”
Lilith shook her head slightly. “He was a wonderful boy. He loved me. He wasn’t what everyone tries to make him out to be. And I won’t have his image besmirched by those who were jealous of him.”
Her face hardened as she spoke, her gaze turning inward. Juliana started to speak, to try to offer the woman some comfort, when suddenly she thought of Lilith at the wedding reception. She had had on a light gray dress, and at the neckline of it, there had been a brooch—not one like this, but a large thing made of diamonds and rubies.
Suddenly Juliana was gripped with fear. She stared at the brooch; then her eyes flew to Lilith’s face. Dread filled her, and she lay frozen, staring at the other woman.
Lilith’s eyes lit with an unholy fire and she leaned forward, grasping Juliana’s shoulder and bringing the glass toward her. “Drink,” she demanded. “Go on. Drink it.”
“No!” Juliana started to roll across the bed, but Lilith grabbed her arm, holding on tightly. She set the glass down on the table and placed both hands on Juliana’s shoulders, holding her to the mattress, as she climbed up onto the bed, throwing her leg across Juliana and pinning her down.
“You will. You will!” Lilith rasped, her eyes bright with madness. Her face loomed over Juliana, a harsh mask of hate. Her fingers dug into Juliana’s shoulders as she pressed down on her with all her weight. Juliana could not believe how strong she was, and her own muscles were weak from the hours of vom
iting.
“Let go of me!” Juliana yelled with all the strength she could muster. She cursed the illness that had left her so weak, and even as she thought it, she knew. “You! You did this to me. You gave me something this morning to make me ill.” Her mind raced. “In the tea. You handed me tea.”
“Irises!” Lilith made a disdainful noise. “They won’t kill you, only make you sick a bit. But they were close at hand. I had to purchase some time to get the yew needles. Fitting, isn’t it, that you’ll die like your mother?”
Juliana went still, staring up at Lilith as the woman’s words sank into her. “My mother! You killed her, too?”
“Of course I did. I knew no one would suspect. Yew seeds are quite poisonous. I ground them up, put a decoction of them in your mother’s migraine medicine, and the next time she had one of her headaches…” Lilith shrugged.
Juliana’s eyes filled with tears. “You killed her?”
“She took my husband from me,” Lilith replied simply. “I thought if she were gone, then he would come back to me.” Her gaze hardened. “But he kept on doing the same things, hanging about with harlots, shaming me, disdaining me. He got one of the maids pregnant. In my own home!”
Bright spots of color flared in her cheeks, and there was a distant look in her eyes as she went on, speaking almost to herself. “He refused to be a good husband. I tried. I gave him every chance.”
“Then you killed him?” Juliana guessed. She had to keep Lilith talking. Perhaps the woman’s grip would lessen as she talked, and if Juliana gathered her strength, she could break free from her.
“Of course I did. Differently, of course. It wouldn’t do to have another person drop dead from a seeming heart attack, would it?” Lilith’s lip curled. “No one suspected—why would anyone think I knew anything of poisons?” Her voice dripped scorn. “Fools! As if I hadn’t learned them at my father’s knee—all the plants that hurt and kill your horse. I knew what to avoid and exactly what to use to make one appear to die of a heart attack—or a disease. I gave Trenton ragwort—little bits of it every day or two for weeks and weeks. It destroys your liver, you know. Everyone thought the dropsy was from his years of drinking. It was a fitting end. I was glad to see him suffer.”