Brenda Joyce

by The Rival

  “You have no right to the earldom.” It was Stanhope, speaking decisively for the first time. “You are a bastard, not the heir. Garrick is my heir.”

  Richard’s fists were clenched. His entire body was shaking. “So now you disown me?”

  “No. I will not disown you. I will provide for you, and well. But you are not the heir to my title, my estates, my fortune.” Stanhope looked at Garrick.

  “If you knew all along that Richard was a fraud, why did you pretend to believe him to be Lionel?” Garrick asked. “Why did you declare him to be your heir? I am sure you have a clever reason, but good God, look at what you have done to my mother!”

  “It was a way to bring you to heel. Considering that you have no filial sense of duty, I had no choice but to use whatever advantage I had.”

  Garrick opened his mouth, an unkind epithet on the tip of his tongue, but Olivia suddenly took his hand and the curse died unspoken. He put his arm around her. Hannah was on Olivia’s other side. “Well, Father. Your stratagem has failed. I am not a puppet, to dance upon your strings. I am not accepting this earldom. I am leaving the country, with Olivia and her daughter. And I don’t give a damn what happens to the earldom,” Garrick said.

  “Garrick!” the earl cried in shock.

  But Garrick turned his back upon him. He faced Richard, his bastard brother. “Tell me the truth. Did you and your mother kill Lionel?” But he knew that the answer was no. It made no sense for them to have done the deed and then wait so many years to perpetrate such a sham.

  Richard returned his regard unflinchingly. He did not look away, and his eyes were not opaque. “No. We are not murderers. I don’t know who killed him, or what happened,” he said without hesitation. “It was only when you returned from Barbados that I realized I should come forward and claim the earldom for myself. I am telling the truth. If I had murdered him, I would not have waited fourteen years to do so. In fact,” he said, “I would never have let you dig up the body, either.”

  The two half-brothers and the earl entered the manor, everyone strangely silent. No one had spoken since they had left the keep, with servants bringing back the body on a sledge for a proper burial. Olivia and Hannah had returned to the manor earlier. Garrick now watched as Lionel stood in the front hall, unmoving, while the earl walked through it, heading toward the study, or so Garrick suspected. Stanhope’s shoulders were slumped. He appeared old, even defeated, and for one moment as he watched his father disappear, Garrick felt sorry for him.

  “Now what?” Richard asked.

  Garrick turned. This impostor was his half-brother; finally the circumstances of the past months made so much sense. But the answer to the question “Why?” still eluded everyone. Perhaps, Garrick thought, the answer to Lionel’s disappearance and murder was not meant to be found.

  He thought about his dead brother with sadness, but it was a brief feeling, and it was no longer intense. “Now we bury Lionel as he deserves,” Garrick said, heading decisively toward the stairs.

  “Wait.” Richard rushed after him. “What will Father do?”

  Garrick met his blue gaze. The impostor was no longer confident; there was anxiety in his eyes. Garrick did not want to feel any sympathy for him, and he refused to think about a young bastard boy abandoned and unclaimed by his real father, denied the privileges of wealth and station, growing up poor and hungry and angry. “He will come around, I think, because you are his son, and I am not ever returning.”

  He bounded up the stairs and hurried to his mother’s apartments, dreading telling her what he must. He raised his fist to knock on her closed door, then hesitated. He could clearly hear her weeping.

  Garrick knocked, filled with tension. Straining to hear, he realized she had ceased crying, and suddenly the door opened. Eleanor forced a smile.

  “Why are you crying?” Garrick asked simply.

  Her face crumpled and she turned away, weeping anew.

  Stricken, Garrick went to her and put his arm around her. “Please, do not cry. Mother, I wish you had not come to the crag.”

  She sniffed into a handkerchief, nodding, and finally looked at him. “I also wish I had not come.” She walked away, and to his dismay, he saw it was to refill an empty port glass. The bottle, he remarked, was already a third empty.

  “Are you so unhappy that you must drink before dinner?” he asked gently.

  She sipped and faced him. “Yes.”

  He did not know what to say to that.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  He removed his wet mantle and sat down. “We found Lionel’s body. He is dead. He died when he was just a boy. There was proof, that old coin he wore around his neck.”

  She stared at him speechlessly.

  He wet his lips, standing. “The impostor is Father’s byblow. Apparently before he married you he got a housemaid pregnant. His real name is Richard Nelson.”

  She continued to stare at him, having lost all of her color.

  Worried, Garrick went to her. “I am sorry to be the one to tell you this.”

  Breathing harshly, she turned away. “I knew. I knew he was dead. Dear, dear God.”

  “How could you know?” Garrick asked. “Do not blame yourself—”

  She interrupted him by running across the room, bending, and unlocking the doors to a sideboard’s cabinet. He glimpsed the empty bottles hidden there and winced, determined to end his mother’s drinking once and for all. Then he stared. She had straightened and was holding a leather-bound book. “Take this,” she cried. “For I can no longer bear the guilt!”

  Confused, Garrick took the volume. “What is this?” he asked, flipping it open. Quickly he realized that it was his mother’s diary. And suddenly he had the urge to dispose of it—before he or anyone could see the contents.

  “My journal,” she said, her face distinctly gray. “I stopped writing in it fourteen years ago.”

  Garrick froze. Dread filled him, and with it came a vivid recollection of Olivia’s warning, that the suffering was not over yet. His fingers moved of their own accord, against his will. He found the last entry. It was dated April 23, 1746—two weeks after Lionel’s disappearance. He had no wish to read the entry, but the name MacDonald leapt off the page at him. Startled, his gaze slammed to it again. He read, “The new laird, Ross MacDonald, Meg’s little brother, now a man bent on vengeance.”

  Frightened, Garrick slammed the book closed and jerked his gaze to his mother. She was crying soundlessly as she gulped down the port, her tears spilling into the glass.

  “Stop!” he shouted, suddenly enraged. Before he knew what he was doing he tore the glass from her hand and threw it across the room. It landed on the carpet without breaking. The port wine was darkly red against the pale rug.

  He inhaled. “I am sorry. My God. What is in this diary?”

  She looked at him, and it was an eternity before she answered. “They did not know. He did not know. Meg’s brother never knew that Lionel was his own flesh and blood when he abducted him and—” She broke off. “He never knew when he killed him,” she whispered hoarsely.

  Chills swept over him. Suddenly he was gripping his mother, shaking her. “I don’t understand any of this!” But he did. Oh, God, he did.

  “Ross MacDonald loved Meg and he abducted Lionel to avenge her death, thinking him to be my son—not hers! There was a note that told how Lionel had been abducted, and why. I destroyed it.” She trembled violently in his arms.

  He stared, sick with shock, unable to believe what he had heard—unable to believe his mother’s duplicity, her guilt. “But why?” he asked numbly. “Why? You could have saved his life!”

  “I hated your father,” she said, and as he released her she slumped, becoming as old and ugly as his father. “I hated him because of you. Because he favored Lionel and made you so unhappy all of the time. I never thought the MacDonalds would kill him. Oh, God, I was glad he took Lionel. I was glad because, with Lionel gone, maybe, one day, he would treat you
fairly, maybe, one day, he would start loving you, Garrick.” She lifted her wet eyes to his.

  He was in shock. He could not speak.

  “I didn’t even know until today that he was truly dead,” Eleanor cried. “I had been hoping so much that Lionel had truly returned—as if that could redeem me for the past!” Briefly she closed her eyes. “I destroyed the note. I was foxed most of the time. I could not think clearly. And what if they had taken you, instead? Don’t look at me that way!” She suddenly flashed. “I have more than paid for my crime! I have lived with a hideous guilt every day of my life—I have lived with nothing but regrets!”

  Garrick had never been more ill. He turned away from her, trying desperately to understand. He realized he had dropped the diary, and he bent to retrieve it. He would not give it to the earl. Not ever.

  “I am sorry,” she said, walking away from him.

  He did not turn. More suffering. He crossed the room slowly, very tired now, feeling like an old man himself. How right Olivia had been.

  Then came the wave of grief, astonishing in its intensity. Mother. How could you! If she had spoken up, Lionel might not be dead.

  When he reached the door he abruptly felt a blast of frigid air, and suddenly, too late, he realized she had opened the window and he knew. He whirled.

  Screaming, “Mother, don’t!”

  Eleanor slipped onto the windowsill, not looking back, and launched herself to her death.

  STANHOPE HALL

  She had known where she would find him. Olivia paused, clasping a bouquet of daffodils in her hands, gentle, early spring sunshine washing over the family cemetery, casting the pale headstones, the larger white marble crypt, the grass and trees in a warm, mellow light. Garrick stood before the high marble vault with his back to her, his head bowed. She ached for him, sharing his pain and his grief.

  She had not moved, and the countryside was stunningly silent, lacking even birdsong, but slowly Garrick turned, sensing her presence. He smiled slightly at her.

  Her heart leapt a little as it always did at the sight of him, because she loved him so and he had given her the miracle of freedom and hope. She started toward him.

  When she came abreast of him, he accepted the flowers, laid them down at the foot of the crypt, and he put his arm around her. “How are you?” she asked softly.

  Their gazes met. “I have you,” he said, after a pause. “You, and Hannah.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “Yes, you do,” she said. “How was the funeral?” It had been a private ceremony, held just yesterday—three days after the countess’s suicide.

  “Horrid.”

  She pressed closer to him. “I wish there is something I could say, or do, to make you feel better,” she began.

  He turned fully toward her. “Having you here, with me, is all that I need.” He cupped her face in his strong hands. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, smiling at the irony of his asking about her welfare. “Hannah and I have taken lodgings at the Mayfair, but nothing could keep me away from the Hall today. Garrick, I am so sorry this happened.”

  Tears shone in his eyes. “Although I will always miss her, and although I will never understand how she could have destroyed that note, in a way I am glad that she has finally found her own relief, and her own freedom. She wasn’t bad and she wasn’t evil.”

  “She was human,” Olivia said gently. “And she loved you with all of her heart and her entire soul.” Olivia smiled and touched his lips with her forefinger. “And I love you, Garrick. I will always love you.”

  He held her hard, then, burying his face against her hair. “How soon,” he whispered roughly, “can you and Hannah be ready to depart?”

  Olivia was surprised and she met his regard. How serious he was. “If you wish to leave within the hour, we would be ready, Hannah and I.”

  He smiled. And the dull light in his eyes changed, warming, becoming vital and alive. “Only you,” he whispered, “would make such a reply.”

  Olivia did not hesitate. “I have waited an entire lifetime to find you, Garrick. I am tired of waiting.”

  “I am tired of waiting, too,” he said simply. “Can you manage, even though it will be some time before your marriage is annulled?”

  She nodded. “Arlen is perverse and unpredictable. It has crossed my mind that in the end he might not annul our marriage, just to spite me and prevent me from marrying you. But I no longer care. I only care that we are together, you and I and Hannah.”

  He studied her. “That is all that I care about, too, at this point, Olivia. There has been so much suffering, but I can feel that we are on the verge of so much happiness. I have given this a great deal of thought. I want to take you and Hannah to America.”

  Her eyes widened. An image of the colonial land she had never actually seen appeared in her mind, drawn from etchings and watercolors so often displayed in the newspapers and journals she read. Olivia imagined a land filled with thick forests and red-skinned natives, but the beaches were the color of pearls, the lakes emerald-green, the skies impossibly blue. Her heart raced. Excitement swept through her. And it was joyous. “A foreign land, where no one knows anything about us. The perfect place to begin a new life,” she said, suddenly overwhelmed.

  “Those are my thoughts exactly,” Garrick said, tilting up her chin. His lips on hers were soft and tender and gentle. “It is a land, they say, of infinite opportunity.”

  “Oh, Garrick.” She clasped his hands. “America. How perfect.”

  “No, Olivia,” he said, smiling. “You are perfect.” And he pulled her close again.

  ONE MONTH LATER

  The day was perfectly placid, warm with a soft breeze, mellow clouds drifting in the sunlit sky; in short, it was the perfect day to set sail for a foreign land.

  Garrick stared up at the frigate that was bound for the American colonies, specifically for the port of Jamestown. He quickly spied Olivia and Hannah standing at the railing, in spite of the other passengers crowding there and the sailors preparing to disembark. Olivia was lovely in a pale green dress and mantle with a white hat, while Hannah, in a yellow-flocked ensemble, restrained Treve on a leash. Mother and daughter were waving at him, smiling widely.

  He was smiling, too, not just with his mouth, but with his heart and his soul. He lifted his hand and waved back at them. How beautiful they were. How he could gaze upon them this way for an eternity—for the eternity Olivia had promised him.

  “Garrick.”

  The moment broken, his smile fading, Garrick turned to the earl of Stanhope, who stood at his left side. His half-brother, Richard, was beside him.

  “How can I convince you to change your mind?” the earl asked. As usual, he made a splendid figure in a boldly blue frock coat and immaculate white breeches and stockings. He no longer appeared his age, but a dozen years older, at the least. The discovery of Lionel’s body and his own wife’s death had taken their toll. Garrick was beginning to understand that he had loved Eleanor, in his own way.

  “I am not changing my mind,” Garrick said firmly. “There is nothing here for me.”

  The earl stared, absorbing that. Glancing at Richard, Garrick saw satisfaction in his blue eyes. “Will I ever see you again?” Stanhope asked.

  “I doubt it,” Garrick said truthfully.

  The earl made a face, partly resignation, partly dismay. “I do love you, you know.”

  Garrick blinked in shock. Then he said, “Father, actions speak louder than words. And your words are a bit late—twenty-six years too late, in fact.”

  “Very well. But know this. If you ever decide to return, you are more than welcome—and I will tell the world the truth about Lionel and make you my heir.”

  If hope flickered in his father’s eyes, Garrick did not see it. “Leave society to its delusions,” he said. He spoke about the fact that the earl had kept the truth about Lionel a secret, and to this day, the peerage believed Richard Nelson to be Lionel De Vere. The pretender had not
been unmasked after all, although rumors were running wild in Cornwall, but Garrick no longer cared. Let Richard take the title and the earldom. He himself was free at long last.

  “It is time for me to go,” Garrick said. He looked at Richard, the man still calling himself Lionel. He nodded. “I wish you no ill,” he said.

  Richard shrugged. “Bon voyage,” he said. “I am sorry you shall not be present at my wedding.” But his tone made his feelings obvious—he did not give a damn.

  “I do wish you and Elizabeth a very long and happy union,” Garrick said, careful to keep any mockery out of his tone. How they suited one another—how they deserved one another. And how it would torment and agonize Arlen—deservedly so. Garrick faced his father. “I will write, when it is time to do so,” he said. “After we are settled.”

  The earl hesitated. Then he glanced from Garrick to the frigate and back again. “I owe you this much,” he said. “I will make sure Arlen Grey annuls the marriage so you can marry Olivia.”

  Garrick stared, amazed. When he had recovered he said, “And when you ask for repayment of such a debt?”

  The earl smiled. “Then you shall owe me, shall you not?”

  Garrick knew that one day that day would come. “You will never change,” he said, but without rancor.

  “No. I am too old to change. But I am not a bad man, Garrick. Difficult, perhaps, but that is all.” The earl smiled. “I will get my heir,” he said flatly. “For there is nothing I want more.”

  “For once, we are in complete agreement,” Garrick said, knowing his father would succeed, for the stakes meant everything to him. And he thought about Olivia one day soon carrying his child and being his wife. Wonder and awe filled him. Garrick bowed. “Good-bye, Father.”

  The earl nodded gruffly, not reaching out to embrace him. That would have been awkward for them both.