Secrets in the Snow

by Michaela MacColl

  Eliza staggered back. “But little Daniel is eight. That means Jean was with Marie . . . He asked me to hire her . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “I’m sorry. But the resemblance is clear.” Jane wondered that Eliza had never remarked upon it herself, but then Eliza rarely confronted uncomfortable truths.

  Eliza sank into an armchair. “I wish I could say I don’t believe it. But knowing what Jean did to save himself, I realize I didn’t know him at all.” She looked up at Jane with imploring eyes. “But why would Marie kill him?”

  “I don’t know,” Jane said, sitting on a battered settee, “but he was not the man you thought he was. Perhaps he betrayed her, too.”

  “How do you know it was Marie?”

  “She used her special dressmaking scissors to do it. He must have torn her necklace off her neck as he staggered to the ground.”

  “But she had her necklace!” Eliza was grasping at straws.

  “I think Jacques has been protecting her. He replaced her necklace with his own. He left a knife in the corpse and hid the scissors. He hid Jean’s things—perhaps in the barn. He’s been in and out of there all week taking care of your horses.”

  Eliza stared at a spot where the brown wallpaper was peeling from the wall. “But why?”

  A voice from the door startled them both. “Why? I’ll tell you why.” Marie’s beautiful face was transformed from a servant into a Fury. She stepped inside the room and shut the door behind her.

  Jane’s breath quickened when she heard the turning of the key in the door. Marie turned to face them. She had a coat folded over her arm, hiding her right hand.

  “Daniel was Jean’s son,” Marie cried. “He should have been the heir! He’s healthy and will grow strong. Hastings never will.” Eliza caught her breath, but Jane didn’t take her gaze off the maid.

  Marie went on, the resentments of almost a decade spilling out. “But I was content so long as Jean took care of us. He arranged for me to marry René, who was kind enough. He pretended Daniel was his son so we were safe, and indeed, he was a good father to my boy.” Her voice trembled. “But Jean’s thoughtlessness got René killed. And Jean left me in the dark even longer than you. When it was I who loved him.”

  She glared at Eliza. “You pretended to mourn, but you were quick enough to start dancing and entertaining. Not even a year, and you have your eye on that young Mr. Austen! But I suffered! I had lost the man I loved.”

  “He wasn’t worthy of love from either of you,” Jane argued.

  Marie shrugged. “But I did love him. I would have done anything he asked. When I thought he was dead, my love died too. And then, c’était un miracle! Madame told me he was alive; I thought he had come back for Daniel and me. But I followed you that night. I crept into the church and heard everything.” Tears streamed down Marie’s cheeks. “He said he wanted to bring Madame to America. He was going to leave me here.” She dashed away the tears with the back of her hand. “That I could not forgive. I waited until you two left, with your high-and-mighty words. Then I confronted him. And do you know what he said?”

  Jane was silent, confident that Marie would tell her everything.

  “He said that if I would steal Madame’s jewels and money then I could go with him.” She clenched her fists. “First he made me a fool. Then he wanted to make me a thief. I told him I wouldn’t do it. He was so angry with me that he stormed out of the church.”

  It was impossible that they could be in a house full of people but still fearful for their lives. But Jane knew Marie was capable of killing; they weren’t safe locked in a room with her. Sick with fear, Jane still couldn’t keep from asking, “Did you drop one of Madame’s handkerchiefs then?”

  “By mistake I dropped one that Madame had discarded. Madame thinks she is being kind when she gives me her fine things that she no longer wants. As if I should be grateful for her leavings.”

  “I thought we were friends,” Eliza said weakly.

  “We were never friends, Madame.”

  “But those times you took care of me when I was sick?” Eliza wailed. “How often did you comfort me when I despaired about Hastings’ health? Are you saying that was all a lie?”

  Marie, for the first time, looked uncertain. “Perhaps not. But did you ever comfort me?”

  “I never knew how you suffered,” Eliza said sadly.

  Jane’s eyes darted between the two women. Whether she had acted intentionally or not, Eliza had done well to remind Marie of their shared past. Jane and Eliza might still leave this room unscathed.

  “He acted as if my feelings were of no account, either,” Eliza said sympathetically. “He never understood either of us.”

  Marie shot Eliza a surprised and grateful look. In a low voice, she said, “I told him I would expose him and tell the world that he was alive and that he had let two men die for him.”

  “That would ruin him . . . and me,” Eliza said.

  Jane pictured the scene. The handsome count striding angrily out into the snowstorm. The wronged woman following him into the churchyard.

  “He hit me.” Marie’s hand touched her cheek. Jane looked closely and could see a bruise there, partially hidden by cosmetics. “He told me that I was insane. He said that if I did what I threatened, he would take Daniel away with him to America. I would never see my son again.”

  “What did you do?” Jane asked, although she thought she knew.

  “When he started to walk away, I pulled the scissors from my skirt.” Jane nodded; she recalled the special pocket Marie wore around her waist for her dressmaking shears. “Then I stabbed him in the back.”

  Jane and Eliza were stunned by Marie’s bald confession.

  “He staggered and tried to keep his footing by holding onto me. But I was finished helping him! I shoved him away but he grabbed at my throat. He caught my necklace—the one he had given my husband—and tore it from my throat.”

  “What did you do then?” Jane asked in a hushed voice.

  “I came home,” Marie said simply. “I told Jacques everything. If I were to hang for murder, I wanted him to take care of Daniel. He convinced me that Jean was a man who deserved killing. He killed René. Jacques said it was an eye for an eye.”

  Marie dropped her coat. She leveled the Comte’s pistol at Jane and Eliza. “Now to take care of you and Madame.”

  CHAPTER 21

  “I have heard it all; and how you will explain

  away any part of your guilt in that dreadful

  business I confess is beyond my comprehension.”

  SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

  Eliza leapt to her feet and stood next to Jane. “Marie, don’t shoot!” She grabbed her cousin’s hand and clung to it tightly.

  “You don’t want to do this,” Jane said urgently. “Marie, you’re a mother—could you really deprive little Hastings of his own mother?”

  Marie’s eyes widened, and the hand holding the pistol wobbled.

  “You killed the Comte, yes. But he was a despicable man who had treated you badly and abandoned you and your son,” Jane went on, pouring all the persuasion she had into her words. “But it is a far cry from that to murdering us.” Jane knew the power of words; murder was a particularly ugly one. Her body trembling, she waited for Marie’s answer.

  Marie dropped her hand to her side. Jane rushed forward and snatched the gun. She handed it to Eliza, a veteran of a hundred shooting outings and familiar with guns.

  Breathless, Jane took Marie’s arm and led her to the settee. “Marie, sit down. We’ll do our best for you with the magistrate, I promise.”

  “I cannot hang. What will Daniel do without me?” Marie buried her face in her hands.

  “Jane, look,” Eliza said in a low voice. She held out the pistol. “It was not even loaded.”

  “Marie, what were you planning to do?” Jane asked.

  Looking down, Marie said, “Jacques has arranged for me to leave. Immédiatement. Today while he was in Basingstoke,
Jacques sent word to our friends to collect Daniel from Madame’s house. Once we were together, I would have disappeared. I’d go somewhere far enough away that English law could not touch me.”

  “The French might even have welcomed you back with open arms,” Jane observed.

  “They wanted the Comte de Feuillide dead, and now he is.” Marie straightened her back and lifted her chin. “I have letters from Jean that prove Daniel is his son. If there is ever a possibility of recovering the Comte’s estate, Daniel will be waiting.” She rummaged through her pocket. Jane tensed, but then relaxed when Marie pulled out a handkerchief. One of Eliza’s, naturally. Marie dabbed at her eyes.

  “Why did you come to my room, then?” Jane asked, puzzled. Surely, Marie’s best option had been to run as quickly and as fast as she could. Marie’s hand went to the base of her throat.

  “You came back for the locket?”

  “It is the only portrait I have of my son,” she said simply. “It will be my solace in prison.”

  Without a word, Jane dropped it into Marie’s hand.

  “Merci, mademoiselle.” Her tears flowed freely. Suddenly she was kneeling in front of Eliza, holding out her hands to her former mistress. “Madame, I know I have wronged you. But I only did so out of love. Please, let me go.”

  Over Marie’s head Eliza and Jane exchanged a long stricken look. Jane shook her head. She wasn’t going to let Eliza’s sentiment interfere with punishing a murderer. Even one as pitiable as Marie.

  “We are sorry for you, we truly are,” Jane said. “But the authorities will be here soon.”

  “Miss Austen, do you want me to be hanged? I have no choice but to run. And then I’ll be no use to Daniel at all.”

  “You’ll never get away,” Jane said.

  “Please,” Marie whispered.

  “Jean has caused enough grief,” Eliza said suddenly. “We cannot let him claim another life. Jane, how can we help her escape?”

  Jane blinked, for once at a loss for words. “It’s no small thing you are suggesting, cousin. We’d be breaking the law.” She winced, thinking of Tom’s reaction to what she was contemplating.

  But was it so wrong? The Comte had been a despicable man. He had been the cause of the death of two men. Marie had been his victim as much as his murderer.

  “Jane, our duty is to another woman. A mother!” Eliza said, tapping her slippered foot impatiently.

  The law was clear—but was it right? Daniel would be an orphan unless Jane helped his mother. Her inaction would be responsible for ruining that little boy’s life. For what? Justice for the Comte? A man who deserved none. Could she live with that? She rather thought she could not.

  She sat at Eliza’s dressing table, wishing for a pen and paper to help her plot an escape. “You have transportation?” she asked Marie.

  “Jacques has arranged a horse. I can ride.”

  “That’s not good enough. A young woman traveling alone is too conspicuous. And the horse will have to rest. You’ll get to London faster in Eliza’s carriage.”

  “Yes, take my carriage!” Eliza said eagerly.

  Marie backed up half a step. “I cannot drive it!”

  “Jacques can,” Jane replied.

  Marie’s eyes went to the ceiling as if she were praying. “Jacques can say you forced him to drive you,” Jane said, pointing at the pistol. Eliza handed the gun back to Marie.

  A tapping at the door startled them. “Jane? Jane, are you there?” It was Tom’s worried voice.

  “Since when are you so well acquainted with Mr. Lefroy that he comes to your room?” Eliza whispered archly.

  “Sssh,” Jane hissed.

  Tom raised his voice slightly. “Jane, open the door. Your maid said you were in your room. I must see you!”

  With a finger to her lips, Jane instructed the others not to speak. She went to the door and opened it a crack.

  “Yes?”

  “Jane, you ran away like a hound on the scent . . .”

  “Are you comparing me to a dog?” Jane asked with a small smile. Behind her, she heard Eliza stifling a laugh.

  “Not at all, I didn’t mean . . .” Tom sputtered. “I thought we were past playing games.”

  Jane took a deep breath. “So we are.”

  “When you ran away,” he said, “I thought you had solved the puzzle. Do you know who killed the Comte?”

  Jane glanced at Marie, her back pressed to the wall, clutching her locket in her hand.

  Tom would not forgive what Jane was about to do. But she had already decided that Marie’s need was greater than Tom’s precious law. “I was wrong,” she said finally.

  His face fell. “That’s too bad. Why don’t we discuss the circumstances? Together I’m sure we can find the solution.”

  Jane hesitated. “It’s not seemly for you to be outside my bedroom door. Wait for me in the parlor; I’ll be right down.”

  Tom shook his head. “James and your mother are in the parlor. Don’t make me wait in there.”

  Jane half-smiled. “My father’s study, then. It’s in the back of the house. If anyone asks, say you are looking for a book. That is the only excuse anyone would need in this house.”

  “Very well,” Tom said reluctantly. “But hurry. We have much to talk about.” Jane abruptly shut the door in his face.

  “What shall we do?” Eliza asked.

  “I sent him to Father’s office because it is on the far side of the house from the stables. He won’t see the carriage leave, I hope,” Jane said. She gripped Eliza’s hands. “Get whatever money you have. Then you and Marie must go to the stables. Jacques must be back soon. Have him harness the horses. The snow is melted enough that you can get through. When all this dies down, Jacques can bring her carriage back to Eliza.”

  Marie nodded mutely.

  “And Mr. Lefroy?” Eliza asked.

  “I’ll distract him as long as I can.” Jane dug in her pocket and pulled out the two gold chains with the identical crosses. She turned to Marie. “Take these. They belong to you and Jacques.”

  “Bless you, Miss Austen,” Marie replied fervently.

  Before Eliza slipped out the door, she said, “I know something about men—more than you, my dear cousin Jane—and if Mr. Lefroy realizes you’ve helped Marie to escape, he shan’t forgive you.”

  “I know,” Jane said bleakly. The choice had come upon her so quickly, but even if she had infinite time to decide she felt she would come to the same decision.

  Jane stayed in her room for a few minutes, picking up a book, brushing her hair. Anything to use up some time. Finally, she could dawdle no longer.

  She started downstairs. When she reached her father’s study, she steeled herself before opening the door.

  Tom was pacing in Reverend Austen’s office. “Finally!” he said. “I don’t understand you. Everything in our investigation was at breakneck pace. Until now. How can you slow down when we are so close to the end?”

  “Even a bloodhound gets tired,” Jane said, not meeting his eyes.

  “Let us go over the ground again,” he said. “I’ve taken the liberty of jotting down some notes. First . . .”

  Jane cut him off, more sharply than she intended. “Tom, forget about the murder!”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Are you all right?” He led her to the battered leather sofa. “Sit down. I knew you would feel the shock sooner or later.”

  Jane let herself be led. Tom thought she was a weak-minded woman who would swoon at the thought of a little murder. Well, it was as good a way to keep him occupied as any.

  “Thank you,” she said in a weak voice. “Perhaps you could pour me a glass of sherry?” With a languid hand she indicated the decanter. Tom hurried to pour them both a glass of the straw-colored liquid.

  “You look pale,” he said. He reached over and brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead. “I think you had better rest. We can talk later.”

  She put her glass on the side table and caught his hand in
her own. She pressed it against her cheek, wishing she could tell him the truth. But Marie’s safety depended on Jane lying to Tom. He must not go looking for Marie or Jacques.

  “Jane!” he cried in a low voice. He leaned in and kissed her lips. She was overwhelmed with the sense of him. His cologne, the sweet taste of sherry on his lips, his shoulder touching hers.

  She closed her eyes, trying to commit every detail of the kiss to memory. Sitting there, Jane wished they would have many more intimate moments together. But even in the warmth of that moment, she knew it was fleeting.

  Outside there was the unmistakable sound of a horse neighing and the sound of carriage wheels in the snow. Tom unceremoniously leapt to his feet, abandoning Jane on the sofa. “Your brother must have seen reason and brought back the magistrate.” He headed for the door.

  “Tom, wait,” Jane called, but it was futile. He was rushing to the front door. She followed more slowly. When she caught him up, he was staring down the lane, puzzled. “That was your cousin’s carriage. Is she going somewhere?”

  “No,” Jane answered.

  “Then where is it going? The snow has melted a little, but it’s still rough traveling.”

  Jane took a deep breath. Marie was safely away. There wasn’t a horse or carriage in the village that could catch her. By the time Tom managed to do anything, Marie would be long gone.

  “Jacques is taking Marie to London,” she said.

  “Marie? But we haven’t talked to her yet. Those shears are very suspicious . . .” His voice trailed off. “Marie did it, didn’t she?”

  Jane nodded.

  “And you knew. Did you know she was running away?” There was a note of pleading in his voice.

  The temptation was there. Tom wanted her to lie to him; that was clear. If Jane could bring herself to dissemble, she and Tom might have a future. There might be other kisses and arguments and reconciliations. All she had to do was lie.

  “I knew,” Jane admitted. “I helped her.”

  Looking down the road, he murmured, “I should go after them.”