The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 3

by Nora Roberts

  He must have dozed, for when he opened his eyes the sun was up. Still early, he decided, but the General and her troop of whirlwinds would be coming along shortly to storm through his house with mops and brooms and God knew.

  Maybe the place needed to be cleaned up, shaken out. It was still his. He wasn’t giving it up. Whatever had happened, whatever shared it with him, he wasn’t giving it up.

  And by Christ, he wasn’t giving Lena up, either.

  He sat up, scowling, and saw her sitting in the chair across the room. She wore jeans, a plain white T-shirt. There were three small bouquets lying in her lap.

  “You up for a little drive?” she asked him.

  “I guess.”

  “Put a shirt on, and some shoes.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way.”

  She drove, and he kept the flowers in his lap now.

  “I want to take flowers to her. To Marie Rose.” As her ancestor, Lena thought, as her father. “I thought you might like to visit there, too.”

  He said nothing.

  “Grandmama told me,” Lena continued, “how Marie Rose used to go to the cemetery once a year on her birthday. She’d bring him flowers. This morning, when I went over to change my clothes, she told me where we’d find his crypt, and we picked these from the marsh. I want to take flowers to Lucian, too.”

  He picked one clutch up. “Your symbol of pity?”

  “If that’s the best we can do.”

  “And the others?”

  “Marie Rose took them to her mother, once a year as well. A part of her must’ve known. She went to the river, every year on her birthday, and dropped flowers in the water. Grandmama told me where.”

  She drove smoothly, a little fast, then slowed to turn into the cemetery. “I know you’re still angry with him, and with me. If you don’t want to do this, you can wait in the car. I won’t blame you.”

  “Why are you doing it?”

  “He’s part of me. Through blood, and more. If I can find a way to accept who birthed me, if I can live with that, then I can find a way to accept this. To live with it.”

  She stopped the car, took two of the bouquets. “It’s a little walk from here. It shouldn’t take me long.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  He got out, but didn’t—as she’d grown used to—reach for her hand. They wound their way over the paths between the tombs, the ornate grilles, the marble angels and through shadows thrown by crosses.

  She stopped at one of the raised tombs. There were many, simple and unadorned. Her grandfather rested here, and others who were parts and pieces of her. But today she had come only for one.

  Her hands gripped tight on the flowers. Marie Rose, she read. Blood of my blood, heart of my heart.

  “Grandmama, she told me Marie Rose was a happy woman, she had a good life. She was content with it. That might not be enough to make up for what was done, but if it had been done different . . . Well, I don’t see how I’d be standing here with you this morning.”

  She started to lay the flowers, and Declan closed his hand over hers on the stems. They placed them on the grave—the baby, the girl, the old woman, together.

  “He’s a ways from here,” Lena managed. Her voice was thick, her vision blurry as she turned away.

  They walked through the sunlight, through the shadows of the tombs, in silence.

  The Manet crypt was a towering square, its porticoes carved, its doors thick and studded. Topping it was a fierce angel, holding a harp as a soldier might a shield.

  “Cheerful,” Declan commented. “I’d say none of them went gently into that good night.” He glanced around, saw the plain concrete box on a raised slab. The plaque read: LUCIAN EDUARD MANET. 1877–1900.

  “He’s out here?”

  “He wasn’t to be forgiven,” Lena explained. “Not for his marriage, his child, his embarrassing death. They called it accidental drowning, though everyone knew it was suicide. But though Josephine wouldn’t have him in the family crypt, she wanted him buried on consecrated ground. Otherwise, there would have been yet another scandal.”

  Declan looked back at the crypt. “Bitch.”

  “He had no grandparents, as I did, to love him. To soften the blows. He had a twin brother who loathed him simply because he existed. He had money and position, education and privilege. But no love. Until Abigail. Then they took her from him.”

  She laid the flowers for him. “He did the best he could. It just wasn’t enough.”

  “You’re stronger than he ever was. Smarter, more resilient.”

  “I hope so. And I hope he rests soon. The flowers won’t last long in this sun, but . . . Well, you do what you can.”

  She walked away without another word. Declan lingered a moment more, staring at the plaque, then the flowers. Then he went with his impulse, took a single flower out of the bouquet, and laid it on top of the tomb.

  Lena put her sunglasses on because her eyes were tearing. “That was kind.”

  “Well, you do what you can.” This time, he took her hand.

  They didn’t speak on the drive back. Nor did Rufus or Odette come out of the house when Lena parked in front of it. He remained silent as she led the way through the marsh. Silent, as he remembered the way in the night, with the chill in the air, the flitting moonlight, the call of an owl. And the panting breaths of a killer and his accomplice.

  “Do you want to go back? You’re awfully pale.”

  “No.” Sweat ran down his back despite the cold under his skin. “I need to do this.”

  “It’s not much farther.”

  There were marsh flowers springing up along the edges of the narrow, beaten path. He concentrated on them, on the color, the small beauty. But when she stopped on the bank, he was out of breath and dizzy.

  “It was here. Right here.”

  “I know. Marie Rose came here, to this spot. Her heart knew.” This time she handed him the bouquet and drew a single flower out.

  Declan let the flowers fall into the river, watched the color, the small beauty, float on the brown water. “Not everybody can put flowers on his own grave.”

  “I’m sorry.” Tears slid down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry.” She knelt, tossed the flower where it would drift alone. She groped for Declan’s hand. “I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

  “Don’t.” He drew her to her feet, into his arms. “It’s all right.”

  “He didn’t trust enough. I didn’t. Too much grief and not enough faith. Then, now.”

  “There’s been enough grieving. Then, now.” He tipped up her face. And said what he’d realized was inside him—inside Abigail—at the moment they’d taken flowers to Marie Rose. “I forgive you.”

  “You’re more forgiving than she was.”

  “Maybe. Maybe that’s why we keep going around. Gives us a chance to fix things we screwed up.”

  “Or make the same mistakes again. I’ve got something else to give you. But not here. Back at the Hall. It’s the right place to give it to you.”

  “Okay.” He kissed her hand. “We’re okay.”

  “I think we’re getting there. I’d like to walk back, get my bearings.”

  “Good idea.”

  “There’s something I’d like to ask you to do,” she said as they took the path again. “I’d like to put up three markers, maybe near the pond. One for Lucian, one for Abby and one for Marie Rose. I think it’s time they were together.”

  “I think they are together now.” Or nearly, he thought. Very nearly, because there was a lightness in his heart he hadn’t expected to feel again. “But the markers would be a nice memory. We’ll pick out a spot, put them in. Then we’ll plant something there, together.”

  She nodded. “A willow maybe.”

  “Like the one she liked so much.” He nodded. “Sometimes you put things back the way they were, sometimes you change them. We’ll do both. Then when our kids come along, we can have picnics near there,
and tell them the story.” He waited a beat. “You didn’t tell me to shut up.”

  “Cher, you just wear me out. Looks like your soldiers are here.”

  He glanced over, wincing when he saw the cars. “Won’t this be fun? Look, let’s sneak up the front stairs and lock ourselves in my bedroom. I feel like I could sleep for a week now.”

  “The bedroom’s fine, but I’ve only got an hour. Then I’ve got to go in to work.”

  “I’ve got an hour in me,” he replied, then tapped a finger to his lips and crept up the stairs. “Ever roll around naked in bed with a houseful of women scrubbing floors outside the room?”

  “No, and that’s not on the schedule for this morning.”

  “Spoilsport.”

  “Declan. No, leave the doors open. No, just hold on—”

  “That’s what I’m doing,” he said when he’d locked her in his arms. “Holding on. And God, God, it feels good. I’ve missed you,” he murmured, and understood it was Abby as much as himself who held close.

  A circle, nearly forged again, he thought. And this time, it wouldn’t break.

  She’s losing, he realized. Josephine. It was all slipping out of her hands.

  “I’ve got things to say to you.”

  “I’m done with talking.” He laid his lips on hers in a soft, sumptuous kiss. “Lie down with me, Lena. Just lie down with me. I’ve really missed holding you.”

  “I need to do this standing up.” She eased away and stood in the spill of sunlight. “I’ve done things my way up till now, and that’s worked out just fine for me. You’ve complicated things, confused things, irritated me, and turned my life upside down with what was, what is, what might be. I’ve never cared much for might be’s, Declan.”

  “How about will be’s?”

  “That’s your hard head talking. I love that about you. I love so many things about you, I’ve lost count. So here I am stuck with some damn rich Yankee.”

  Everything inside him swelled, then went bright as the sun. “Angelina.”

  “You just wait till I’m finished.” She sighed, paused until she was certain she could speak calmly. “I’ve got a lot of friends who care about me, maybe even love me the way friends do. I had my grandpapa, who made me the light of his life. I’ve got Grandmama. But nobody ever loved me just like you do. And the hell of it is, I never loved anybody the way I love you. So.”

  She lifted her arms, unclasped the chain around her neck. She held it out to him, the little key dangling. “This is yours now, and has been for some time, I guess. You’re the key, cher. You always were.”

  He took it, then delighted her by clasping it around his own neck. “I’m going to make you so happy.”

  “You damn well better. We getting married or what?”

  “You better believe it.” With a laugh, he scooped her off her feet, spun her around in circles. “Do you feel it?”

  “Feel what? My head’s spinning.”

  “The house is ours now. Only ours.” He set her on her feet. “No more ghosts. No more lives but ours. And we’re just beginning.”

  She slid her arms around him, lifted her mouth to his. “Welcome home.”

  Still holding close, she drew out the pocket watch, turned it faceup. They watched time move on.

  When the Lusitania sank, one survivor became a changed man, giving up his life as a petty thief—but keeping the small silver statue he lifted, a family heirloom to future generations. Now, nearly a century later, that priceless heirloom, one of a long-separated set of three, has been stolen. And Malachi, Gideon, and Rebecca Sullivan are determined to recover their great-great-grandfather’s treasure, reunite the Three Fates, and make their fortune.

  The quest will take them from their home in Ireland to Helsinki, Prague, and New York, where they will meet a brilliant scholar who will aid them in their hunt—and an ambitious woman who will stop at nothing to acquire the Fates . . .

  Three Fates

  “Satisfying . . . intriguing [and] romantic. The characters are all different and all likable. You’ll become caught up in their lives, their antics and their emotions and will miss them when they’re gone.”

  —The State (Columbia, SC)

  “Vivid characters, a strong plot.”

  —The Providence (RI) Journal

  “The potent mix of suspense and legend conjures a fast-paced and compelling plot.”

  —Bath Chronicle

  “A rapid pace . . . [A] fascinating read. The Sullivan siblings and their significant others are a varied group that makes for lively scenes and interactions.”

  —BookBrowser

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  THREE FATES

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with G. P. Putnam’s Sons

  Copyright © 2002 by Nora Roberts

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  For information address: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-14387-2

  A JOVE BOOK® Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To Dan and Stacie: May the tapestry of your lives be woven with rosy threads of love, the deep reds of passion, the quiet blues of understanding and contentment, and the bright, bright silver of humor.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  PART ONE - Spinning

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  PART TWO - Measuring

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  PART THREE - Cutting

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Epilogue

  PART ONE

  Spinning

  Oh, what a tangled web we weave,

  When first we practice to deceive!

  SIR WALTER SCOTT

  One

  May 7, 1915

  HAPPILY unaware he’d be dead in twenty-three minutes, Hutes, Henry W. Wyley imagined pinching the nicely rounded rump of the young blonde who was directly in his line of sight. It was a perfectly harmless fantasy that did nothing to distress the blonde, or Henry’s wife, and put Henry himself in the best of moods.

  With a lap robe tucked around his pudgy knees and a plump belly well satisfied by a late and luxurious lunch, he sat in the bracing sea air with his wife, Edith—whose bum, bless her, was flat as a pancake—enjoying the blonde’s derriere along with a fine cup of Earl Grey.

  Henry, a portly man with a robust laugh and an eye for the ladies, didn’t bother to stir himself to join other passengers at the rail fo
r a glimpse of Ireland’s shimmering coast. He’d seen it before and assumed he’d have plenty of opportunities to see it again if he cared to.

  Though what fascinated people about cliffs and grass eluded him. Henry was an avowed urbanite who preferred the solidity of steel and concrete. And at this particular moment, he was much more interested in the dainty chocolate cookies served with the tea than the vista.

  Particularly when the blonde moved on.

  Though Edith fussed at him not to make a pig of himself, he gobbled up three cookies with cheerful relish. Edith, being Edith, refrained. It was a pity she denied herself that small pleasure in the last moments of her life, but she would die as she’d lived, worrying about her husband’s extra tonnage and brushing at the crumbs that scattered carelessly on his shirtfront.

  Henry, however, was a man who believed in indulgence. What, after all, was the point of being rich if you didn’t treat yourself to the finer things? He’d been poor, and he’d been hungry. Rich and well fed was better.

  He’d never been handsome, but when a man had money he was called substantial rather than fat, interesting rather than homely. Henry appreciated the absurdity of the distinction.

  At just before three in the afternoon on that sparkling May day, the wind blew at his odd little coal-colored toupee, whipped high, happy color into his pudgy cheeks. He had a gold watch in his pocket, a ruby pin in his tie. His Edith, scrawny as a chicken, was decked out in the best of Parisian couture. He was worth nearly three million. Not as much as Alfred Vanderbilt, who was crossing the Atlantic as well, but enough to content Henry. Enough, he thought with pride as he considered a fourth cookie, to pay for first-class accommodations on this floating palace. Enough to see that his children had received first-class educations and that his grandchildren would as well.