by Jo Goodman
Clara was edging a few recalcitrant peas onto her fork with her fingers. “I know where it is,” she said, her eyebrows drawn together as she concentrated on her food.
“You do?”
She nodded, happily putting the peas in her mouth. “I have it.” It suddenly occurred to her that perhaps she had done something wrong. Her chin began to tremble. “I thought it was mine. It has my face inside.”
“No harm’s been done,” Shannon said quickly. “I should like it very much if you would get it for me.”
“Now?”
“Yes, please.”
Clara looked at her father for permission to leave the table. When it was granted she scooted off her chair and ran to the door, which Cody gallantly opened for her.
“I wonder how the minx came by it,” he said, returning to his seat. “Could she really have mistaken the portrait for her own?”
“Indeed she could have,” Shannon said. “She is nearly the perfect image of her grandmother.”
Aurora grew thoughtful. “How odd. I used to imagine Clara was a changeling because she looked like no one I knew.”
“Oh, my dear,” said Molly, “I think she is every inch her father’s daughter.”
Brandon smiled softly. “In manner, perhaps. Certainly not in her features.”
Molly’s hands fluttered to her lap as her dinner plate was unobtrusively removed by one of the servants and replaced by a plate of sweetmeats, almonds, and raisins. “What can be more important than her manner?” she asked. “That is where her strength lies.”
“I appreciate you saying so,” said Brandon. “I think so, too.”
Aurora caught Brandon’s eye. “I agree. She is very much like her father in manner.”
Beneath the table Brandon’s hands clenched into tight fists, though he accepted Aurora’s statement at face value, pretending a compliment had been intended rather than a subtle reminder that he was not Clara’s father.
Clara chose that moment to return to the dining room, dangling the locket from her wrist. “Here it is, Mishannon.”
“Thank you, darling.” She accepted the necklace after Clara had climbed onto her chair. Opening the locket, she showed the portrait once again to Clara. “This is your grandmother, Clara, when she was only a few years older than you are now. Her name was Mary Kilmartin Stewart.” Lovingly Shannon passed the tip of her forefinger across the painted miniature. “You’ve given me great pleasure by returning this, Clara. Here, Aurora, this is our mother.”
Aurora took the locket, placing it in the heart of her palm. She stared at it a long moment, then her eyes lifted and settled first on Clara, then on Shannon. She felt the press of tears as she studied her sister’s face, finding in it a certain gentleness that she knew was not reflected in her own. Aurora experienced a hesitancy foreign to her, and uncomfortable with the sudden doubts that assailed her, she resolutely pushed them to the back of her mind. “Thank you,” she whispered, forcing the words past the ache in her throat.
Brandon regarded his wife thoughtfully, trying to name what it was he had just witnessed. There had been a moment, brief to be sure, when he saw Aurora as vulnerable, open to pain and some inner torment. As cynical as he considered himself where Aurora was concerned, he believed that on this occasion she was profoundly moved by the portrait of her mother and that her gratitude was sincere. He noticed that Cody was frowning, as if he was also attempting to make sense of the same puzzle.
Aurora passed the locket to Reverend Whittaker. “Remarkable,” he said, showing it to his wife. In turn Brandon and Cody examined the miniature. Clara found herself sharing the attention with her grandmother’s portrait as each person inevitably looked at her after studying the painting. When the necklace passed into her hands again, she fairly beamed. “My face,” she announced proudly. Dutifully, but rather reluctantly, she started to return the locket to Shannon.
“Would you like it for your own?” Shannon asked.
Brandon held up his hand. “No, Shannon, it is too valuable a piece for Clara to have yet.”
“She’s kept it safe these past months when I thought it lost,” she objected. “Where did you find it, Clara?”
“It fell out of Martha’s pocket when she was tucking me in one night.”
“Does she know you have it?”
“I don’t think so.”
Shannon looked at Brandon. “Martha must have removed it when she was caring for me and never mentioned it because she thought she lost it.” She brushed back a lock of hair from Clara’s temple. “Where have you kept it all this time, poppet?”
“With my other pretties. In the box Unca Cody made for me.”
Shannon appealed to Brandon, then Aurora. “I think it can remain there safely. I truly want Clara to have it.”
Aurora took Shannon’s side. “Say yes, Bran. Clara has already shown she can care for it.”
Brandon surrendered, looking vaguely sheepish. His grin was that of a young boy. “All right. She may have the locket. But keep it with your precious things, young lady, until your mother or Mishannon says you may wear it.”
“May I wear it now?” Clara asked ingenuously.
“Certainly,” Aurora answered.
Cody was inspired to suggest a toast. Since the servants were momentarily elsewhere, he and Brandon excused themselves from the table and went to the sideboard. Aurora requested her drink last, preferring white wine to the burgundy everyone else drank. Cody served the drinks from a silver tray with a flourish that Shannon noticed seemed to amuse even Aurora.
Aurora took her glass, holding it in her lap until Cody had served everyone. She returned Molly Whittaker’s warm smile. When Brandon raised his glass, she raised her own.
“To Mary Kilmartin Stewart,” Brandon said.
“Grandmother of an angel,” added Cody, nudging Clara, who, at that moment at least, did look very angelic as she fingered the locket lying against her shirred bodice.
Following Brandon’s lead, Shannon lifted her glass to her lips and drank deeply. Caught up in a flood of memories, she didn’t notice immediately that Aurora was suddenly sitting straighter in her chair, her violet eyes huge and darkening with a mixture of surprise and pain.
Robert Whittaker jumped from his chair as Aurora lurched to her feet. He quickly took the glass from Aurora’s hand and set it down, putting one arm about Aurora’s shoulders and a hand at her elbow to support her. “My dear, what is it?” He gave her a light tap on her back as she struggled for air. Beads of perspiration were already forming above her lip, and her face was unnaturally flushed.
“What’s wrong with Mama?” Clara cried plaintively. When none of the adults answered her, or appeared to have heard her question, she began to weep.
Shannon pulled Clara onto her lap and held her tightly, averting the child’s face from her mother’s pain. Brandon’s chair tipped backward as he leaped to his feet to come to Aurora’s assistance.
“Haven’t you done enough?” Aurora gasped accusingly. She cowered in the safe haven of Robert’s arms as Brandon approached. Clawing at her throat with one hand, she tried to ward Brandon off with the other, forcing Whittaker to retreat a few steps from the table. “It’s true then,” she rasped. “You want me gone so badly that you would try to kill me.”
Ignoring the charge she made, Brandon took Aurora from Robert’s arms as her knees buckled beneath her and her eyes rolled back. Her head lolled to one side when Brandon lifted her.
“Now see here,” Robert sputtered as Brandon kissed his wife on the lips. “I don’t think that—”
Mingling with the flavor of wine on Aurora’s mouth was the taste of some bitter drug. “Cody! Get Martha! Have her prepare a purgative, and bring it to Aurora’s chamber. It was the wine. She’s been poisoned.”
Robert picked up Aurora’s glass, swirling it under his nose as Cody ran out of the room. Tentatively he tasted it. “Dear God” was all he said as he set it down.
Brandon started toward the door, s
hifting Aurora’s weight in his arms. “Molly, please come with me. I find myself in need of a witness not of this family.”
Molly hesitated, glancing uncertainly at her husband. “Go on, dear,” said Robert. “Aurora requires your protection.”
Shannon gasped at the veiled condemnation of Brandon. She hugged Clara tighter, hoping the child had not understood all that had just passed. “I’m taking Clara to the nursery,” she said when Brandon and Molly were gone. “I’ll return once she’s settled. Excuse me, please.”
The door to Aurora’s bedchamber was already closed when Shannon passed it on the way to the nursery. Clara did not even ask to see her mother, and Shannon assumed it was because she was too frightened. With Addie’s assistance, Shannon readied Clara for bed and stayed with her, holding her hand and offering reassurances until she fell asleep. Leaving Clara in Addie’s care, Shannon returned to the dining room. Except for a single glass of white wine, everything had been cleared from the table.
Cody looked up when Shannon entered. He was sitting in Brandon’s chair at the head of the table, his feet propped on the seat of another chair he had pulled out for that purpose. His arms were crossed in front of him. A black scowl etched his features as he turned from Shannon and continued to study the glass of wine.
“Where is Dr. Whittaker?” Shannon asked, taking a seat on Cody’s right so she could face the door.
“He stepped outside. Declared he needed fresh air.” Cody grimaced. “More likely he didn’t want my tainted company.”
“Cody! Why do you say that?”
“I poured her drink, Shannon. I wouldn’t be surprised if Brandon suspected me of doing this.” He massaged his eyebrows with his thumb and forefinger.
“I swear I didn’t know there was anything in it. Brandon handed me the bottle. ‘Finish this one,’ he says. And I did. God help me, I even served her the glass.”
“Dr. Whittaker doesn’t accuse you, Cody. He thinks Brandon is responsible.”
“That doesn’t lift my spirits one whit. Bran’s not capable of something like this, no matter how damning it looks.” His expression was earnest as he caught Shannon’s troubled eyes. “You do believe that, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. And I trust in your innocence as well.” She shook her head wearily. “There remains the question of who is guilty. I suppose almost anyone could have added poison to the bottle.”
“True. Nearly all the house servants know Aurora rarely drinks anything but white wine.”
“She did not suffer any ill effects yesterday when she drank at dinner. Was her wine from the same bottle?”
“I assume it was. Martha poured last evening.” Cody kicked away the chair under his feet in disgust. “This speculation does us no good. Unless we surprise someone in the act of trying to hurt Rory, we will never know who is responsible.”
Dr. Whittaker’s return to the dining room did nothing to alleviate the ponderous silence that had settled between Cody and Shannon. He joined their vigil, waiting for word from abovestairs.
Shannon’s head lifted as she recognized Brandon’s footsteps in the hallway. A moment later he stood in the doorway, his face gray with fatigue, his eyes dull. He spoke to Dr. Whittaker. “Aurora is going to recover. She is asking to speak with you. Molly and Martha are with her now.”
Robert nodded gravely and excused himself, brushing by Brandon without meeting his eyes.
Brandon opened one of the drawers in the sideboard and took out a box of cheroots. He lifted a candle, lighted the cheroot, and then offered the box to Cody.
Cody held his palm up, refusing the offer. “I take it the poison is out of her system.”
Brandon inhaled deeply and blew out the smoke slowly. “Yes. She’s weak now, but that is more the effect of Martha’s physic than any lingering effects of the poison. Martha believes she will be well by morning. Aurora’s fortunate she was able to taste the poison so quickly, else she may have drained her glass. Who can say how much more she needed to drink before she was beyond help?”
Shannon had no answer for the rhetorical question he posed. She went to Brandon’s side. “You’ve cut yourself,” she said, touching her finger to a long, ugly scratch on his jaw.
“Have I?” He lifted his palm and felt the scratch. “It must have happened when I set Aurora on her bed. I think she caught me with her ring.”
Shannon took a kerchief from beneath the fall of lace at her elbow and erased the trace of blood from Brandon’s jaw. “Please, come, sit down. You look as if you are ready to drop. Was it very bad?”
“Bad enough,” Brandon said tersely, taking a seat at the table. “She had convulsions.”
Shannon slipped a saucer for Brandon’s ashes in front of him. “Convulsions? A seizure, you mean?”
He nodded. “I don’t understand it,” he said softly, speaking as if no one else were in the room. “I was so certain…I thought after the fall…But this? To go so far? It doesn’t seem possible.”
Cody put his hand on his brother’s arm. “What are you saying, Bran? What doesn’t seem possible?”
“What? Oh, nothing. It’s of no consequence.”
Cody started to say something, but the quick negative shake of Shannon’s head warned him against it. He slumped back in his chair.
“Will you send someone for Sir James?” she asked.
“On the morrow, if Aurora wishes. I doubt anything will come of his presence.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” sighed Cody. “We must catch the culprit ourselves. It is the only way to prove our innocence.”
Brandon ground out his cheroot. “How is Clara?”
“She’s sleeping now,” Shannon answered. “She doesn’t really understand what happened. She only knows that her mother was very ill. What she witnessed frightened her.”
Robert and Molly Whittaker chose that moment to return to the dining room. “Aurora’s resting comfortably,” Robert said. “Molly and I will take our leave now.”
Brandon stood. “Who is with her?”
“Martha. She plans to spend the night in Aurora’s bedchamber.”
He took a step forward. “Aurora’s wrong, Dr. Whittaker,” Brandon said evenly. “She knows as little about who poisoned her as Cody and I. The accusation she flung at my head is a false one.”
Dr. Whittaker’s thin face was impassive. “She told me upstairs that you planned this to force my hand.”
“Force your hand?”
“Frighten me into granting the divorce lest you kill your wife instead.”
“That’s absurd! I don’t want Aurora dead!”
“Neither do I,” he said solemnly. “Your wife does not want a divorce, Brandon. She has opened her heart, admitted her sins, and begged forgiveness.” For a heartbeat his eyes shifted to Shannon. “Perhaps it is time you do the same before another of God’s commandments is broken.” He took his wife by the elbow. “We will see ourselves out. Come, Molly.”
Brandon did not move until he heard the outer door close, then he took Aurora’s glass from the table and flung it violently across the room. Droplets of white wine, like tears, slid slowly down the wall and were given sound by the sob Shannon could not bite back.
* * *
The scarlet plume in her riding hat dipped and swayed as Aurora dismounted in front of the former trysting cottage of William Fleming and Hannah Grant. She secured Pilgrim to a broken fence post at the side of the cabin before letting herself in the cabin’s only door at the front.
Parker glanced up from polishing his rifle stock as Aurora swept in the room. He regarded her lazily, his heavy lids half-closed, one brow arched upward in surprise or amusement. “You’re looking well,” he said. “I confess I had not expected to see you this soon, or perhaps I have miscounted the days. Wasn’t it just above a week ago that you were poisoned?”
Aurora tore off her riding gloves and threw them on the table in front of Parker. “How did you know when it happened? Oh, never mind. I doubt that you’
ll tell me the truth anyway.” She glanced around the dreary cabin, wondering, not for the first time, how Parker could like spending so much time in it. It seemed ridiculous when he had known all the comforts of Belletraine that he should actually appear to enjoy laying his own fires in the stone hearth, or preparing his food on a spit he had fashioned himself. The single bed, with its feather tick lumpy and matted from the damp, stood against one log wall. Parker had evidently risen not long ago, because he hadn’t attempted to straighten the quilts and blankets that were scattered on the bed. It was the only thing in the room that was not in order. Parker had meticulously arranged his kettles and skillets from largest to smallest on the hearth’s broad mantel, and his few items of clothing were hung on large nails he had driven into the wall at the foot of the bed. His scrupulous neatness grated on her nerves. There was an obsessive quality about Parker that never failed to give Aurora pause.
“I wasn’t certain if you would be here. So often it seems I ride out and you are elsewhere.” Aurora warmed her hands by the fire, then turned her back on it and lifted her skirts to take the chill from her backside. “It occurs to me that there should be more honesty between us, Parker. If there is someone at the folly who is in your employ, then I should know who it is. We are, after all, working together.”
Parker set down his rifle and tipped his chair back, regarding Aurora consideringly. What a beautiful witch she was, he thought, dressed in her scarlet and black, saucily thrusting her derriere at the flames. He smiled, thinking they would deal well together in hell.
“What has amused you?” she demanded, lowering her skirts.
“A private thought that need not concern you,” he said, dropping his chair back to the dirt floor. “As well, you need not be concerned by the matter of an accomplice. Allow me my secrets, love.”