Janet folded her hands in her lap as a feeling of helplessness pressed down on her. Overhead, the parchment leaves rustled and she whispered a prayer for her grandmother.
Seized by a spirit of restlessness, Janet rose to continue her morning trek. Sweeping around to the right of the house, she ducked under one of the many grape arbors that circled the rear grounds. The vines had produced many a liter of fine wine for the Lancaster dinner table. Janet crossed the yard, stopped and shaded her eyes against the sun. The back of the house was winged, forming a U-shape around an inner courtyard. Large morning-windows, designed specifically to capture the early sunrise, filled the wall of the dining hall on the first floor.
At the edge of the yard, a footpath led toward the shot tower and, beyond that, on to the sea. Janet walked in that direction. She could hear the pounding surf on the far side of the tower.
Jason Lancaster had built the tower when it became evident that a war between the states was imminent. Lead ore was plentiful in the surrounding area, and the enterprising Lancaster saw no good reason not to use it to his advantage. Having made a fortune in land development and the mining of minerals, his offer to the governor to build the structure to supply ammunition to the Union was not from any sense of patriotic duty. Rather, he saw it as a means to help end the war quickly so that the country in general, and the Lancasters in particular, could get back to the business of prosperity. Jason Lancaster considered the Civil War merely a matter of inconvenience.
The tower had a twenty-foot square base and was constructed like a fortress. The rough walls were two feet thick and built of stone quarried from nearby limestone deposits. It rose seventy feet above the ground, with an inside sunken shaft of equal distance. An iron-grilled gate sagged on rusty hinges and did little to guard the entrance to the interior. Janet tugged at the gate until it finally opened wide enough for her to squeeze through. The earthen floor permeated the interior with a dank, musty odor. The sunken shaft that extended belowground had a well-like opening in the middle of the floor. Looking more like an afterthought than any real safety measure, the hole had been crisscrossed with plywood. Janet nudged the decaying wood with her shoe and the curled edges of the laminated sheets easily split apart. She hoped that some poor unfortunate soul never had to depend on the barrier to halt his headlong tumble into the shaft. Perhaps she should mention to her grandmother that Duffy ought to have someone come out and close the opening off in a more permanent way.
Narrow wooden stairs wound around the inside walls all the way to the top. From the middle of the room, Janet looked up at the platform high overhead. Cut away from the center of the platform—directly above the hole to the underground shaft—was an opening perhaps three feet square that could be fitted with metal sieves. From there the lead, which had to be carried up the steps and melted over the open fireplace, was poured through the mesh screens to produce small droplets. The meshes would vary in size, depending upon the caliber of shot desired. Once the liquid metal was poured from above, it cooled on its way down the long fall-way called a drop and formed into spherical shapes before finally landing in a large kettle of water at the base of the underground shaft, where the shot hardened. The ammunition was then collected and carried through a tunnel that led from the shaft to the edge of the water some distance away; from there it was loaded onto transport vessels and taken to distribution points.
Janet touched the wobbly handrail at the foot of the stairs and remembered the day she had climbed to the top, crawled through a window onto a lookout ledge, and scanned the horizon—looking for no-account scalawags. Her grandfather found her there and even the most earnest entreaty from her grandmother had not lessened the punishment for the eight-year-old. The building had been unsafe then and had only deteriorated into a further state of disrepair in the ensuing years. Looking at the decaying steps, she was grateful that she no longer possessed a child’s curiosity.
She turned away, stepping again into the sunlight, and shoved the gate over the entrance. Trudging back toward the house, the lack of sleep from the previous night caught up with her and suddenly she was beyond weary. She ducked under an archway of withered vines and reentered the courtyard. Moving to the right side of the house, she rounded the corner on the carriage-house side. Duffy was busy rubbing away a cloudy film of wax from the vintage Rolls Royce.
He looked up.
“Miss Janet,” he said, “Lettie tells me Madam had a bad night. Hope she’s feeling better this morning.”
“Thank you, Duffy. She’s asleep right now, and I’m trying to get a breath of fresh air and clear away the brain grunge.”
“Fresh air’ll do you good,” he agreed. “And when Madam wakes tell her I was asking after her.” He shook his head. “Fine lady she is, real fine lady.”
Janet smiled. “I’ll be sure and do that,” she said as she walked off toward the porch.
Lettie was coming down the stairs as she entered the front door. Janet looked at her, a frown gathering between her eyes.
“She’s still asleep,” Lettie said in a whisper. “But her breathing’s much more reliable.”
Janet smiled at the good news. “I think I’ll look in for a second and then maybe catch a quick nap. Lettie, you’ll call me when she wakes?”
“Yes, Miss. I’ll come straightaway.”
Janet climbed the stairs and silently opened the door to the sickroom. Satisfied that all was reasonably well, she headed up to her own floor. Slipping off her damp shoes, she flopped down on the freshly made bed and laced her fingers under her head. She forced herself to lie still and to keep her eyes closed, but her mind would not quieten. Soon she was staring at the ceiling and becoming restless.
Rising, she left the bedroom, padded down the corridor and pushed open the door at the far end of the hallway. The room was littered with canvases and easels and tubes of paint. Misty sunshine filtered into the room from overhead skylights. Janet scrounged through half-finished works—works long forgotten: pastel gardens with fountains where Victorian ladies strolled at eventide. Almost always her gardens included shadowed nooks and crannies where she imagined lovers might steal a moment to linger, to touch a hand, to kiss an eager mouth. As Janet brushed her fingertips across a canvas she could hear, in her imagination, the nightingale calling for his mate to come to the fountain.
Finally, her tired legs carried her to a daybed in the corner and she dropped gratefully onto the crumpled pillows. There, among the friendly smells of her old companions, she was able to sleep. Small lines between her eyes faded away and her face relaxed in repose. It seemed she had only closed her eyes when a hand touched her shoulder.
“Miss Janet,” a voice came through her sleep.
Janet’s eyes flew open. “Is she awake?”
Lettie nodded. “She’s awake and asking for you.”
Janet felt a gnawing in the pit of her stomach. “What time is it? How long have I been asleep?”
“A good while. It’s after four. You go and see about your grandmother, and I’ll bring you a lovely cup of tea.”
“That would be nice.”
Janet sprang from the small bed and rushed back to her room to make herself presentable. She swiped a damp cloth over her face and touched a light coat of lipstick to her mouth. Running a quick comb through her hair, she shook back the flaming mass and tried to plump the top. Anxious to be on her way, she hurried from the room and bounded down the stairs.
Hesitating briefly outside the door, Janet ran her hands down the sides of her legs and touched her hair before turning the knob and entering her grandmother’s bedchamber.
FOUR
Elizabeth Lancaster’s round little head receded into a mound of pillows, her silver hair brushed back from a face that still held an unhealthy pallor. Her skeletal arms crossed her bosom and lay against the front of a handmade bed-jacket. Janet smothered a cry when her grandmother opened her eyes, which looked anguished and fearful. She darted to the bedside and gathered the small body into
her arms.
“Oh, Grandmother, thank God you’re feeling better.” Janet held her away and frowned. “You gave us quite a scare.”
“I’m sorry to ruin your visit, my dear. But now I think I’m feeling stronger.” She patted a spot on the mattress.
Janet perched gingerly on the edge.
“You know Janet, Doctor says it’s my heart. He insists that I remain calm and not become disconcerted.”
“Did something happen to upset you? Is that what brought on this attack?”
“Perhaps so, dear.” The old woman spoke with deliberation, measuring her words. “Perhaps.” She threaded her fingers. “I didn’t want to call you. I don’t disrupt other people’s lives. You know I don’t.”
“Grandmother, it’s okay.”
“All day yesterday, and even last night after you arrived, I thought about what I have to say to you. I suppose it distressed me more than I realized.”
“What could you have to tell me that would possibly put you in such a state as to jeopardize your life?”
The reply was interrupted as Lettie entered the room carrying a tray. Janet rose from the bed and pulled a small table forward. Lettie placed the tray on the table and looked up.
“Shall I pour, Miss?”
“Thank you Lettie, but let me do it. You brought two cups. It’s all right for Grandmother to have tea?”
“Doctor said tea and a little toast and jam would be fine,” Lettie said as she rearranged the teapot and cups.
Being always considerate, the woman removed the lid from the sugar bowl and turned the creamer so the handle would be convenient for Janet to reach. Satisfied with her efforts, she turned to leave the room.
“If you need anything else, just let me know. That’s what I’m here for.” Then she left, closing the door behind her.
“Let’s get you comfortable,” Janet said, easing her grandmother up on the pillows. “I don’t know about you, but I could do with a bite, myself.”
She positioned the wicker bed-tray in place and draped a linen napkin across the concave chest of the patient. After she poured the tea and set the cup on the cork-lined tray, she spread wild-strawberry jam on bread that was still warm from the oven.
Dragging a chair from the corner, Janet unfolded the napkin across her knees. Taking a healthy bite of bread, followed by a long swallow of tea, she set the cup down and turned back to the subject at hand.
“Okay now, out with it.” She looked straight into the aging and watery eyes of her grandmother. “What have you fretted about so much that it’s pushed you into a serious illness?”
“It’s about the will.”
“Grandmother, the will’s not important. There isn’t anything that could possibly be on that piece of paper that’s more important than your health.”
Elizabeth Lancaster gnashed her teeth and set her thin lips in a stubborn line—an affectation Janet was more than familiar with.
“Janet, please,” she said. “Let me finish.” She unlaced her fingers and strained herself slightly forward. “And show me the courtesy of not interrupting.”
Properly chastised, Janet sat back in the chair and waited.
The old lady drew a ragged breath and relaxed her body as if preparing herself for an arduous journey. She took a sip of tea.
“Now,” she began. “First of all, you have assumed, and rightly so, because you had no cause to believe otherwise, that you are the last of the Lancaster line. You would further assume that, being the last, you would inherit the entire Lancaster estate, minus anything left to the servants and the endowment to the library. Also, there’s an annual grant to the Children’s Hospital that is to continue. Under no circumstances are these endowments to be tampered with. Do you understand?”
Janet nodded and waited for her to continue.
“It’s what you don’t know that’s so difficult.” A slight tremor shook Elizabeth Lancaster’s hand as she reached her cup to Janet and motioned for her to remove the tray. “You see, Janet,” she said, then paused to catch her breath, “you don’t know about Etienne.”
“Etienne?”
“Your cousin.” Her voice dropped almost beyond hearing. “Isabella’s son.” As she spoke, color crept over her face and flushed her gaunt cheeks. “Isabella’s illegitimate son.”
Janet took the other woman’s frail hand. “Grandmother, don’t you remember, Isabella died when she was a tot.”
The pale eyes misted. “No, Janet,” she said, shaking her head. “Don’t look at me as if I’ve lost my mind. You’re probably thinking that I suffered some memory loss during this bout of illness. Isabella did not die.” She paused. “But I suppose, in a way, you could say she did—it was the same thing. She was banished from this house by her father when it was learned that she was to have a child.”
As her grandmother talked, Janet noticed her bony hands clench and unclench against the bedspread.
“You remember how he was—your grandfather— always expecting more than most people could deliver. Perfection was not an unknown quality to him.”
Not unlike yourself, Janet thought, though not unkindly.
“And Isabella, our beautiful, headstrong firstborn, was always falling short,” she went on. “She never made any attempt to mollify him, and that seemed to make him more determined than ever to mold her into an obedient daughter—into an ideal Lancaster. When he found out she was to have a child, he flew into a rage and ordered her from her home—the only home she had ever known.”
She fell silent again and the trembling of her thin body was clearly visible beneath the covers.
Janet rose slowly from the chair, taking a moment to collect her thoughts and get her mind around all she’d just heard. She stepped to the side of the bed and placed an arm around the fragile shoulders. Nipping her lower lip, she cautioned herself not to become angry with the feeble little person lying there on the bed.
“And you kept this from me all these years?”
The old woman gave a scant nod and her head sank lower into the pillows.
“Have you seen them? Do you know where they are?”
Her grandmother failed to respond and Janet knew better than to press for an answer.
She stepped back to the chair and dropped down. Imagine that, she thought, a cousin. The idea was just about the most exciting thing she’d ever heard. All this time believing that she was the last of the bunch—the end of the line. And now to find out differently. The whole idea left her mind reeling. She scooted the chair closer to the bed and reached for the cold, grasping hand.
“Tell me about them, please.”
The old lady roused herself. “I don’t know that I can, yet I must try. This is the reason I summoned you here this weekend.” She hesitated briefly and then seemed to find an added measure of strength. “We had such high hopes for Isabella. From the time she was born she was rebellious and insistent on having her way—it was a power thing, I think, between those two. Power was like a religion with the Lancasters. I’ve always been of a mind that there was a deficiency there somewhere, a flaw in the bloodline that came out in her and not your father. So kind and considerate was our son, so much the opposite. Nevertheless, your grandfather doted on Isabella and tended to be over-protective and demanding. As I said, he always expected too much. They clashed on a daily basis.” Her breath was rapidly depleting as she raised a bony finger and pointed toward the ceiling. “Her room was just down the corridor from his chambers.”
“Where my art studio is now?”
The old woman nodded. “I could hear them shouting at each other. Their voices constantly echoed throughout this house. Her father would forbid her to leave the grounds and Isabella would clatter down the stairs, insisting she would do as she pleased, and then the front door would slam.” Her lower lip quivered. “Oh, their fights were tremendous.”
“It must have been terrible for you.”
“When he asked her who the father of the baby was, she laughed and said she di
dn’t know.” Elizabeth Lancaster gave a pitiful smile. “Even if she did know—and I think most surely she did—she would’ve said she didn’t, just to set him off. He became furious and demanded that she leave his presence and the sanctity of his house. She swore, taking the Lord’s name in vain. ‘There is no sanctity in this house,’ she screamed at him.”
Janet wanted to interrupt, to ask questions, but dared not. She sat quietly and waited.
“He cut her off financially, refusing to help in any way.” Her eyes clouded with remembrance. “Later she rang me to say that she was in New York and was well. I suspected she needed money, and I helped her to the extent I could, without her father knowing. It wasn’t much, he held a pretty tight purse.” She closed her eyes. “Over the years, she kept in touch. I knew when the lad was born and that he had been named Etienne.”
She gave a rueful smile. “Isabella had an affinity for anything French. The last I heard from her was about fifteen—maybe twenty—years ago.” She stared up and seemed to count away the years in her fevered brain. “Time goes so quickly that it’s easy to lose track. I received a short missive via the post. She said Etienne was studying drama and was planning to go into the theatre—on the legitimate stage, of all things. Such trashy people, thespians. Trashy and common.” She sighed. “She said he was doing quite well, but then Isabella always did have this great need to exaggerate. So I have no way of knowing the real truth. I’ve heard nothing since,” she concluded and her body went slack.
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