“Oh. I miss you, Luke, but you’re doing the right thing. Give my love to Abe, okay?”
“I love you, Babe.”
“And I love you. See you soon, Luke.”
Suddenly, a cloud of weariness, heavy and dark, descended upon my shoulders. With an effort to stand tall, I walked slowly to my room, my thoughts dulled. I opened the door to the soulful sound of Faith Hill wailing from my radio. “Ahh, Rosabelle. I’m home,” I sighed, as I clicked the remote to “off” and flopped onto the bed. In the silence, I could hear the birds pecking and flapping at the windows.
To the lilting lullaby notes I had come to know so well, I drifted off humming, “Flow gently, sweet Afton.”
TWENTY-FIVE
“We need a change of pace,” Uncle Hunter announced at the breakfast table next morning. “There’s a big county fair at the auction center today. We’re going. All of us. We’ll pick Jefferson up at his camp on the way, make a day of it. What do you say?” He looked at Aunt Monica and me expectantly.
“Oh, Hunter. What a lovely idea! A real family outing,” my aunt said.
He beamed. “Miss Emma!” he called into the kitchen. “Come here, please. How’d you like a well-earned day off?”
Miss Emma appeared in the doorway. “A day off?”
“The county fair. Crafts, quilts, baked goods. Paintings and lacework, jellies and jams and pies.”
“Why, that would be nice,” she brightened. “Just give me a chance to spritz up the kitchen and get out of this apron.” She disappeared into the next room, looking pleased.
Aunt Monica pushed back her chair. “I’ll have to get ready, Hunter. Oh, my hair’s a fright. I’ll need a little time to do something with it.”
“Your hair is beautiful as always, my dear. We do want an early start, you know.” Uncle Hunter winked at me. He was in a rare, jovial mood.
“The linen pants outfit,” my aunt murmured as she left the room. “It makes just the right understatement.”
“Well, Ashby.” My uncle turned his smiling countenance on me. “It will do you good to get off the estate, have a little fun and a genuine experience with the country gentry.”
I had been planning my answer for some minutes. “You know, the fair sounds wonderful, but I’m afraid I might be a real drag on everybody’s fun. I still don’t have my full energy back.”
My uncle’s face fell. “How thoughtless of me. I’m sure you know best. By all means, stay home. Enjoy the quiet and get your rest.” He stood up. “Let me just check on the temporary stable hands we’ve hired to replace Luke and Abe and then we’ll get everyone rounded up. You take it easy, now.” He looked genuinely concerned.
“Thanks. Thanks for being so understanding.”
I waited a good thirty minutes after they left before approaching my uncle’s study. With trembling hands, I slowly opened the door, cringing when it creaked. I’m doing the right thing, I thought, every nerve on edge. I may never have such an opportunity again.
Okay, so I was trespassing, poking my nose into my uncle’s private papers, but I had to find out what was in my grandmother’s diary. If he was using it to work up his genealogy, it very likely lay in his office, in what I hoped would be an obvious place.
Never having been in the room before, I was curious enough to take in my surroundings. Very masculine in décor, the dark wood-paneled walls and deep red carpet contrasted with the bright sheen of the mahogany desk and its gleaming brass accessories, book ends shaped like world globes, a stand-up pen set, letter holders and trays. A handsome, well-ordered, spit-and-polish den with my uncle’s imprint on every detail.
If I expected Grandmother Lenore’s diary to be in evidence, I was sadly disappointed. The desktop held only papers, which appeared to be bills and invoices. The drawers were securely locked. I scrutinized the book shelves behind the desk, but no diary appeared among them. One look at my uncle’s computer told me it was password blocked. Curious that there was no evidence of a working genealogy, I began sorting through a file folder of papers in the rack beside the printer. It appeared to contain legal documents, and I was about to replace it, when something caught my eye. It was a hand-written note at the bottom of an expense sheet with Fred Taylor, Attorney at Law printed on the letterhead. “You’ve had ample time, my friend. I don’t care where you find the funds, but find them you must. I have my own debts to pay. There are plenty of people who’d benefit from knowing the truth about Overhome.” It was signed, Fred.
Whoa. What was this? I re-read the note, then scanned the page above. It looked as if my uncle had been making payments to Fred Taylor in escalating amounts for a number of months. Could it be a case of extortion? I rifled through the rest of the file. There were multiple papers appearing to pertain to the estate, all couched in legal jargon I found incomprehensible.
Looking up from my reading, I turned and found myself staring into the dark blue eyes of my uncle, looking as poised and natural as if we were meeting at a garden party. “Is this any way for a convalescent to act?” His eyes glittered like polished glass. “May I congratulate you on your perseverance?”
In stunned silence, I stared at him.
“I’d say we have some things to discuss, beginning with your curiosity about my personal papers in my personal study while you thought I would be gone. Clever of me, eh?”
So it was a set-up. “I was looking for my grandmother’s diary,” I managed to croak, shaking from head to toe. “You stole it from Miss Emma, didn’t you?” I surprised myself with my boldness.
“As a matter of fact, I did, my dear nosy niece. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“I beg to differ.” I hoped my voice sounded strong and filled with confidence, but it was all fake. I was terrified. “I’ll bet you wanted to know what your mother had to say about our ghost Rosabelle.”
His face darkened and I backed away with an involuntary flinch.
He spoke through clinched teeth. “I long ago discovered the secret connection, the Overton bloodline. It was all in my mother’s diary. But, there was always the possibility you were Marian’s bastard.”
“So, you invited me here to see if Rosabelle would make herself known? To prove my legitimacy. Why would you care? And couldn’t you just have a DNA test done on me, instead of going to all this trouble?”
“It was important to your uncle because of the change in Thomas Overton’s will, Ashby,” a clear voice intruded. Miss Emma’s slim, upright figure glided into the room. “Don’t look so shocked, Hunter. I found a ride back from the fair, practically followed you home. I suspected you wanted to find Ashby alone so that—”
“You meddling, old fool,” my uncle ground out between his teeth.
“I’m here to help you, Hunter.” Miss Emma’s voice was even and low and fearless.
My mind was awhirl. Whose side was she on, anyway? My uncle looked like he meant to do something drastic.
“You can still get out of this, you know, Hunter,” she continued. “Tell the truth, the truth that your father changed his will the day before he died. Changed it for the sole purpose of keeping you miserable and under his control even after he was gone.”
Rage radiated from every pore of my uncle’s body. “My father had already disinherited Madison. Washington was dead. Overhome should be mine. All mine. And when I die, it must go to Jefferson, the rightful heir.”
“Thomas Overton enjoyed hurting people, enjoyed the power he wielded with his wealth, didn’t he, Hunter? He wanted to ruin your life.” Miss Emma sounded like a psychologist reasoning with a patient.
“As I ruined his when I made my mother’s horse run her under a tree. It was her handkerchief. I waved it at her, thinking she would want it for her riding habit, and it spooked her horse. I killed my own mother, the only person who ever loved me.” He appeared to be talking to himself now.
I watched with bated breath while my pulse throbbed in my throat. A little at a time, I edged ever so slowly toward the doorway.
“Oh, I killed her all right. Just as I killed Washington and Marian. I made the call that sent them to their deaths. I called to tell them Father was dying. They came, they died. But Father lived on and on. And then, at the very last moment, he changed the will.”
“Washington and Marian’s accident was a terrible coincidence, Hunter. That is all it was. Now is your chance to make it up to Lenore. She would want you to come clean, to tell the truth about the will—”
“My father was a monster. He left everything to the oldest living bloodline grandchild. That would be you, Ashby. Not me, not my son, but you. Of course, he doubted your legitimacy and so disregarded you as the inheritor.” His eyes probed mine. “You are the one to legally inherit Overhome. And now that you approach the legal age…well, you see the problem.”
“At the time, of course, Jefferson had not been born,” Miss Emma said. “Hunter never imagined he’d have a son or grow to love him so much. But as Jeff grew, so did Hunter’s concern as to the future of the estate.”
My uncle’s face took on a bewildered look.
“Oh, I understand you better than you do yourself, Hunter,” she said. “Even that black-hearted father of yours was not able to eradicate all the goodness from your soul. You love your son as your father never dreamed of loving you.”
Hunter stood, blinking, the vein in his forehead throbbing, as Miss Emma went on. “I had to find out for sure that it was you who’d stolen Lenore’s diary and that you meant to harm Ashby. I wanted to be 100 percent sure. I promised your mother I would look after you, and I hoped, to the end, that I was wrong about your evil intentions. Now you have a chance to redeem yourself.”
Anonymous as I wanted to remain, I had to ask a question. “Fred Taylor, the lawyer. The payments and his demand for money.” I indicated the balance sheet in the folder I’d read through. “What…?”
My uncle, apparently, regaining his composure, spoke in a monotone. “My father gave the will to Bill Taylor to hold in trust the day before he died. Bill kept the new will a secret, and, when he passed on some years later, his son Fred, my childhood playmate, took over the firm. Fred struggled to keep the firm going, but he’s a spendthrift, a wastrel, and he needed money. He came to me when Jefferson turned six, showed me the will he’d unearthed from old files that left everything to you, and offered to destroy the revised will in exchange for property and money.”
“Ahh. Fred Taylor got greedy,” Miss Emma nodded. “He’d let it slip to me about the will, but I knew nothing about his ulterior motive. Now I understand. All those property foreclosures you two collaborated on, Fred’s efforts to cook the books, which Luke discovered. If you didn’t deliver more blackmail money, Fred threatened to expose the legitimate will. Yes. Now I understand.”
My uncle turned to me. “Coincidentally, about the same time, your mother began pressing for a family reunion. It was only a matter of time until Madison would have returned to Overhome—the Prodigal Son, with the bloodline daughter discovered to be the true heir to the estate.” He seemed almost apologetic.
“I had to take action to save Overhome for Jefferson. You do understand, don’t you, Ashby? Of course, first I had to make sure you were really Washington’s daughter. Rosabelle clinched that.” He flashed a cold-eyed smile. “It is really quite regrettable, in a way. I must confess, aside from your resourcefulness, you’ve gained my admiration in other ways. You’ve turned out to be an excellent horsewoman, and, unfortunately, my son Jefferson is quite taken with you, as is my wife. Yes, Ashby, you’ve been full of surprises, a real challenge. I had to work hard to keep one step ahead of you.”
Uncle Hunter’s face morphed, melting like wax. The half-smiling lips turning downward, as he changed from Jekyl to Hyde before my eyes. As he talked, I had managed to move my way to Miss Emma’s side, but no further. She touched my arm with her hand and cast her eyes toward the door. I knew she wanted me to make a break for it. I was sure she would try to shield me from my uncle to give me time to escape.
He was rambling now, the pupils of his eyes mere pin pricks, all but oblivious to the two quaking women in his presence. “I stole the diary because I wanted to reacquaint myself with her protective specter. One must be careful when dealing with the likes of Rosabelle.” He made a noise that, in a happier setting, might have been a chuckle. “I certainly would not want old Rosie coming after me, now would I? But she’s always had it in for wayward animals, so we’ll just have to make sure the accident appears to be the animal’s fault.”
“Accident?” Miss Emma was unable to stifle the tremor in her voice. “What are you talking about? What accident?”
“Oh, but I have it all figured out, dear lady. It’s taken me most of the summer to lay my plans and they are perfectly in place now. Fortunately, early on, Ashby managed to fall off her horse on her own. That was a bonus. Later, the night she followed my torch in the woods, I made Sasha rear and unseat her. I then attempted to finish her off with a good hard blow to the head. She survived, of course, but even that worked in my favor, helping to established a record of riding accidents that are well-documented by our family doctor.” He looked pleased with himself.
“I thought you saved me that night, Uncle Hunter, saved me because you cared about me.”
“Well, yes. That worked out rather well. Luke happened to come along and report you missing shortly after I returned to the house. He never suspected my part in it. It put me in the ironic position of being both your attacker and your savior.” He laughed mirthlessly. “We’ll just have to do it again. Only this time, we will succeed. The body count at my hands already stands at three, so what’s to keep me from adding another one?” He glanced at Miss Emma. “Or two, to the account sheet?”
I was afraid to look at Miss Emma, afraid she was as immobilized by fear as I was.
My uncle went on. “Now that we all know Rosabelle is hovering about, all I have to do is make sure the accident looks like Sasha’s fault. Rosabelle will appear to exact her revenge, will do away with your horse, and no one is the wiser.” He gave a regretful glance at the old family retainer. “You, Miss Emma. You are, sadly, old and tired. I shall miss you.”
“Don’t be a fool, Hunter. You’ll never get away with it.” Behind her back she gently nudged me toward the door.
Horrified as I was, I had to keep my wits about me. Suddenly, she pushed forward and made a desperate grab at my uncle in an effort to give me a chance to run, but she only succeeded in delaying him temporarily. He swatted her away as though she were a fly. I watched in horror as she crumpled to the floor, where she lay as still as death. Knowing I could not waste a minute, I made a frantic lunge for the threshold.
“Not so fast.” My uncle locked my wrists with a vice-grip of his hands. “We’re going for a horseback ride, just the two of us. A nice ride on the trail.”
TWENTY-SIX
He had thought of everything. Sasha was already saddled, along with his own horse, Goblin. My last thin threads of hope frayed. My uncle was an expert rider, the best in Virginia, Jeff had once told me. Goblin was powerful and fast. With the approach of his master, he snorted, ready for a ride that I knew would be fast and furious. How could I hope to escape?
“What are you going to do to me?” I asked, stalling for time, but unable to control my quavering voice. “How are you going to do it?”
“Curious to the end, are you? Well, where’s the harm in telling you? You won’t be around to report any tales.” Still gripping me by the wrists, he thrust me toward Sasha with a rough shove.
“Go ahead. Climb on. I’ll do the sporting thing and give you a head start. Then, a little chase to the bridge, a little tumble into the creek, an unfortunate drowning. All chalked up to an accident-prone, novice rider, out for a solitary trot.”
In spite of my terror, I realized what a very sick man my uncle was. His attitude was so cavalier, so unfeeling, inhuman. He wa
s a monster and he meant to kill me. I would not let myself dwell on how slim my chances of survival were. I focused on the idea that Miss Emma would revive, call for help, and that if I could prolong the chase until that happened, there was a chance for me, for Sasha. And my uncle could be carted off to the loony bin where he belonged.
Goblin whinnied and stamped his foot, impatient for a run. “Get on with it, Ashby. You see, Goblin is growing restless. The clock starts now.”
Fastening my foot into the stirrup, I threw my leg over Sasha’s back and urged him forward, my mind working feverishly all the while. Fear licked at my heart, burning into my dry throat. Avoid the bridge. Avoid the bridge, I droned over and over. With a clatter of hooves and a whoosh of dust, I bolted at full gallop across the fields and past the riding ring. To elude him, I would have to enter the woods, but in order to do that, I had to cross the creek without using the bridge where my uncle planned to stage the “accident.” I held the slim hope I’d have enough of a head start to simply walk Sasha down the steep bank, across the creek, and up the opposite side. But if Uncle Hunter were hot on my tail, Sasha and I would have to make a huge jump across the creek, something we had never before attempted.
Behind me Goblin’s hooves echoed; Hunter had made no attempt to catch up. “The sporting thing,” my uncle had said. It was like a game to him, a fox hunt; I was the fox. He would enjoy the chase as much as the capture.
Sasha and I pounded our way to the line of trees at the north end of the field. My brain worked desperately, keeping pace with the rapid rhythm of Sasha’s flying feet. Avoid the bridge. Avoid the bridge, the bridge, the bridge. My mantra struck a galloping cadence as I flew on the edge of the wind.
A Red Red Rose Page 20