Wicked Deception (Wicked Magic Book 1)

by Raisa Greywood

  Her parents had been involved with Angeline. Her instincts told her it was true, though she had no evidence. She pulled a somewhat newer volume from the chest; its pristine cover showing very little wear. Her mother hadn't written very much in this journal.

  March 15, 1868

  I've named my son Gabriel, after the archangel. I hope that a godly name will protect him and give him strength. Despite his errant behavior in my womb, he is a sweet child. His cherubic face melts my heart. When I set him to suck at my breast, his tiny hands clutch at my flesh as if he will never let me go.

  My son is truly a wondrous blessing. If he is my reward, then I shall be happy to endure a thousand years of torment for just a moment to hold him in my arms.

  I've sent a letter to James, but I understand he is with Angela in Italy, unable to return to see his new son. I want to be upset, but I am unable to spare the energy. Gabriel demands all my attention.

  I cannot find the words to say how much I love this small child. So beautiful and innocent. I am devoted to him.

  Tears made the ink run on the page, and Elizabeth closed the volume to protect it. Perhaps, her emotions were too close to the surface. Perhaps, she identified with this stranger who had been her mother. She wiped her eyes on her handkerchief and opened the volume once more.

  Chapter 10

  Marriage is the torment of one, the felicity of two, the strife and enmity of three.

  Washington Irving

  May 17, 1868

  My son is gone from me. My husband's harlot ripped him away and drew a blade across his tiny throat as James restrained me. His scream of pain cut off into a gurgle that broke something in me. I am numb now.

  James tells me that we can have another child. He tells me that my son was a sacrifice so that we might enjoy prosperity. He told our friends and servants that Gabriel suffered a cradle death, hiding the horrible wound at his throat under angelic white swaddling, impassive as I cried when my baby was lowered into an unforgiving earth.

  I wanted to shout and tell the world what happened, yet the words wouldn't come. I blame myself for this. I was too weak to protect my baby, and I pray to God I never have another.

  The flowers and renewal of spring mock me. I cannot bear even the sunlight.

  Small blessings indeed, but Angela is gone from our lives. She's left James. He's despondent, but I can't bring myself to care. I don't care when he creeps into my chamber and takes what isn't offered, calling me by her name. I should, though. He will leave me with another babe, and I can't stomach the thought.

  The fool is devastated over the loss of the whore who murdered what I hope to be his only son. His very presence makes me ill.

  Elizabeth's hand flew across her belly, unconsciously protecting the tiny life nestled inside her. Had her brother been some sort of unholy payment to the witch? Her mother had made no mention of seeing this Angela in intimate circumstances. Were her words simply those of a woman enraged and mourning? She turned the page to the final entry and blinked.

  Her mother had placed her thoughts in such journals regularly, disgorging her daily life onto the pages at regular intervals until well after she married. Yet she wrote nothing between that horrible May in 1868 and 1875. Her mother hadn't even mentioned her birth. Elizabeth tried not to feel hurt by that. It was clear from her writings that her mother had been suffering the loss of Gabriel.

  She had to squint at the haphazard penmanship. Her breath caught as she realized that the date was only a few days prior to her mother's death.

  September 23, 1875

  Elizabeth is a pretty, dutiful child, yet I hate her. She has eyes like her father's, and those eyes remind me of how many times he took me against my will, hoping I would spawn another son.

  She brings me drawings and posies on occasion. Is she trying to purchase my affections with such offerings? No, she's but a child not yet away from leading strings. Still innocent despite the sins of her sire.

  I try to be a good mama to her, but I cannot tolerate her presence. She gazes at me with those whiskey eyes, soft but reproving as if she judges me for my sins. I hate her, but can't help loving her. She reminds me of Gabriel, and it's as if he's come back to torment me for my weakness.

  James and I avoid each other. Mutual hatred marks our days. He hates me because I didn't give him another son. I hate him because he took Gabriel from me. Neither of us can stomach the sight of Elizabeth, for she is living proof of our failures. Hating Elizabeth is the one thing upon which we agree.

  I should feel bad for that, yet I do not. I only pray that she is wiser than her mother and chooses a better man than I did. I can't help but wish her and her sire both to the deepest pits of hell.

  The doctor has given me laudanum for my nervous condition, patting my hand as he tells me to eat more. I only nod and agree that I shall try. It is bitter, the taste matching the rest of my life, but I've come to enjoy it as I now associate it with fleeting moments of relief from the hell of my existence. I've been saving it, allowing the nightmares free rein for a little bit longer. I have several tablespoons in a bottle hidden in the pocket of my winter cloak now, and I'm sure that will be enough.

  I only wish I could give it to Elizabeth to save her from the pain that will surely mark her future. She is such a trusting and obedient child that she will take it if I mix it with sugar. Yet I will leave the child be. It is not for me to pass judgment, and it pleases me to think she will suffer for the sin of being fathered by my rapist husband. It also pleases me to know that my husband will be left to care for her by himself. He hates her perhaps more than I do.

  A smear of ink covered part of the page and Elizabeth had to squint to read the rest. Nausea churned in her belly, making her wonder if she ought to put the vile tome away for later. She sighed and turned her attention back to her mother's last words, scrawled erratically across two pages.

  September 25, 1875

  I asked the physician to bring me another bottle of that precious elixir. I lied and told him I'd dropped the one he brought a few days ago. He chided me once again for not eating properly. His solicitous attention is rather nice, and I found myself eating just to make him smile.

  Elizabeth had tea with us, gifting me with the last of the roses from the garden I no longer tend. She's such a mannerly child that I often find it difficult to remember who sired her. The physician made much of her, complimenting her on her dutiful care.

  She tried to tell me a story after he'd left, yet I sent her away. I want those precious spoonfuls of blessed deliverance. I am afraid that I shall give it to her if she stays.

  Dear journal, I believe this shall be my last entry. I find it amusing that my daughter might read these words someday.

  Elizabeth Jane Stratton, I wish you to hell. I hope that you suffer agony and share the fiery pits with your father. Yet because I love and hate you in equal measure, I pray with my last breath that you find deliverance from your torment. Your only crime was to have been born, after all.

  Elizabeth closed the journal, stroking her hand over the leather binding before dropping it to the floor and hurrying to the bathing chamber. Her guts wrenched as she cast up her accounts into the porcelain commode, purging her mother's hate from her body along with the half scone she'd eaten with her tea.

  She supposed she ought to give the woman credit. Her recollection was dim, but she didn't recall her mother ever giving vent to her true feelings. She couldn't help but want to rebuke her mother for her weakness, though. According to her journal, she'd never met the witch until she took Gabriel.

  She'd never suffered abuse, never been whipped, or made to commit egregious acts of perversion. She'd simply sat in an empty house feeling sorry for herself, swilling down laudanum instead of doing something more productive. Elizabeth stood and straightened her spine.

  Her mother's prayers had been answered. Elizabeth counted herself wiser and stronger, despite her unfortunate marriage. If Angeline sought her child for the same fate shared
by her poor brother, she would soon learn that not all women were as weak as Rosalind Stratton.

  The lamb who dared to lie with the lion got eaten. She intended to be the lion.

  With a heavy heart, she returned to the chest and carefully fed every one of the leather volumes into the beckoning flames of the hearth. If her mother wanted to be dead and forgotten, she would oblige those wishes. Her father… She sat back on her heels for a moment, considering the man who had sired her.

  Her father could rot, and she'd be hard pressed to don mourning black. Perhaps God would have mercy upon him, for he would not find it from her. She could perhaps forgive him for his actions while under Angela's control, but nothing would make her forgive him for driving her mother to suicide.

  Once that chore was done and her mother's words were ashes in the grate, she went to her nest on the floor and curled up, covering herself with the warm blankets.

  She wondered if she'd been too hasty when she'd burned her mother's words. She should have overcome her distaste for reading those intensely personal thoughts and looked to see if there was more information that might have helped her. Yet she didn't believe there had been anything of use. Her mother had been too busy bemoaning her fate to consider there might have been another course of action open to her.

  The only thing that confused her was the prosperity her mother had mentioned.

  There had been wealth during her childhood. They'd had servants and their house had been clean and in good repair. She'd had pretty dresses and her own pony. After her mother died, things had begun to disappear. Paintings removed, furnishings and carpets vanished, along with the fine carriage and her father's lovely phaeton.

  She vividly recalled her nursemaid angrily packing up her cases, only softening for a moment to smile fondly and tousle Elizabeth's hair one last time before storming from the house.

  What had happened to the wealth her parents had enjoyed? Had her father lost it? More likely he'd either managed it poorly or simply gambled it away. Perhaps he'd spent it on another mistress or most likely, the fine brandy he swilled like cheap gin. More importantly, what had Angela paid them for the life of their only son?

  And why had Angela, or perhaps Angeline, murdered the infant in the first place? What did it gain her to do something so awful?

  She tried to forget the words in that last entry. Though she understood her mother's despondency and subsequent malaise of spirit to some degree, her mother's true thoughts were horrifying, and she wished she'd never known her mother had harbored such ill-will toward her. She would instead try to remember the times her mother had been kind.

  She fought a battle on two fronts: Angeline at her front, while Richard snapped at her heels. She would need all her strength and wisdom to fight them. Perhaps Roland might become an ally in her two-front battle, but she had better sense than to count on it.

  Trust nothing in this house. It would be her mantra, and she whispered the words to herself as she tried to find rest. The elusive state of grace escaped her, and she was wide awake when a maid entered to rouse her in time for supper.

  ∞∞∞

  While uneventful, supper was fraught with tension. Angeline insisted she use a chair and eat from the table like an adult human, yet for the first time, Elizabeth missed the anonymity allowed to her when she ate from the floor.

  When she was on the floor, Richard and Angeline didn't look at her, or even pay much attention to their silent pet. Tonight, facing Angeline while trying to maintain her placidity was aggravating and taxed her dwindling reserves. Even at this early stage, the babe in her belly took much from her. That damned spell had clouded her awareness of her own body, and she hadn't recognized the symptoms for what they were. Despite her vow to stay vigilant and alert, her eyes drifted shut many times.

  Clearly tired of her inattention, Angeline snapped her fingers next to Elizabeth's ear. "Go to bed, pet. You are poor company when you fall asleep over your dessert."

  "Forgive me, my lady." The meek reply was automatic, thankfully. "I will be well-rested tomorrow."

  "Be sure that you are," Angeline snapped. "Richard should return before the evening meal. And sleep in the bed tonight. It's clear you don't rest well in your place on the floor."

  Angeline grinned wickedly, sending an involuntary shiver down Elizabeth's spine. "Perhaps we'll set up the nursery for you tomorrow. Naughty girls who don't sleep should be punished soundly and sent to bed in their nurseries, don't you think?"

  Elizabeth stood and curtsied, tugging the short hem of her chemise as wide as she could. "Yes, my lady."

  "Out with you, pet. I expect more attentive behavior tomorrow."

  With a last curtsy, Elizabeth scurried away, cursing herself for her inattention. Perhaps the nursery was the right place for her. She clearly didn't possess the strength of will to compete on this dangerous playing field. And Richard would be home tomorrow. How would she protect herself and her child from both of them?

  Bloody hell, it was almost easier when she was a willing slave and didn't know any better. She slowed as she approached the lord's chamber. The thought was so very tempting, yet she couldn't do that. What would they do to her babe if she was unaware? No, she would not take that simple path.

  No one helped her with her toilet at bedtime. The water from the basin tap was cold, but she splashed her face and took care of her teeth, determined to retain as much of her humanity as she could. She left the chemise on a chair and crawled into the vast bed, wondering if Angeline would sleep there this night.

  Despite her exhaustion, sleep eluded her as she struggled to think of a way to get rid of Angeline. She pushed the thoughts away and rolled over, determined to find rest. It did her no good to think when her brain was so muddled. Something would come to her tomorrow.

  With that thought, her brain relaxed enough to let her sleep, though she was plagued by dreams that she couldn't remember upon awakening.

  ∞∞∞

  She woke tangled in the bedsheets and coated with chill sweat that made her shiver as she extracted herself from the twining mass of fabric that sought to entrap her. Finally extricating herself, she pulled one of Angeline's silk chemises over her head. She would burn every last one once she'd gotten rid of the hag. Yet for now, she would be expected to wear them.

  A soft knock announced Sarah with her breakfast, and she blinked in surprise. Angeline usually made her eat in the morning room with her and Richard. She didn't know what to think about that.

  "Lady Angeline has said you're to have the day to yourself until teatime." She set the tray on the table and nodded when Elizabeth thanked her. The maid hadn't seemed to notice anything different in her appearance or demeanor, but she wasn't sure that Sarah would notice if her head was taken off her shoulders and reattached facing backward.

  The new situation was a conundrum, to be sure. Elizabeth pulled one of her old work dresses over the chemise. She didn't mind the chemises. If they were a bit longer, they would be almost perfect as undergarments. She didn't like the tied straps, though. They should be smoothly stitched to lay flat under clothing. The garments were comfortable, but they were never intended to be worn instead of proper attire!

  She refused to think about the lack of drawers. The modiste had brought several lovely ones, but Richard and Angeline had forbidden her from wearing them, along with the new corsets. Pets weren't allowed to wear undergarments, after all. She didn't miss the corsets.

  Laughing to herself, she decided that Vicar Reynolds from her home church would be pleased that she'd found a silver lining in this appalling cloud.

  The stockings were a bother she didn't care to indulge, yet she knew they were expected. She would put them on before tea.

  Her belly rumbled uncomfortably and she hurried to her breakfast. Eating helped her nausea. She'd only been sick one time, directly after reading her mother's journals. It was hardly a scientific observation.

  As she ate, she considered her plans for the day. She owed a let
ter to Vicar Reynolds. He should have received a chess move from her days ago. Angeline and Richard indulged her in that, though Angeline had refused to let her write to…

  Bloody hell! She held in her gasp as the epiphany came in a fit of elucidation, flame to dry tinder. Of course, Angeline would refuse to let her write her father. She was afraid her name would be mentioned. She'd even said that Elizabeth shouldn't mention her name to the vicar. The evidence tying Angela to Angeline was circumstantial, to be sure, but why else would the hag have forbidden letters to her father?

  She rubbed her belly and laughed, her voice low and husky with wicked intent. "Oh, little one. We will have such fun together, you and I." The letters took her no time at all, and in a trice, she'd sealed them and written the vicar's address on the envelope containing both missives.

  As she went downstairs, she saw Stevens hand several pieces of mail to a footman. She hurried forward and put hers into the pile. He glanced briefly at the address and added the earl's stamp to her envelope.

  She so looked forward to introducing Angeline to such an old and dear friend. Laughing under her breath, she made her way into the library. It was time to get to work.

  She settled down in her favorite spot in the library, checking first for mice. She couldn't wait to get all this old furniture out of the house! Yet the mouse infestation was the least of her worries.

  Though she dared not, she wanted to write a list of information she needed. It always helped her organize her thoughts. But such a list could be found, which would render everything she'd done thus far useless. She would just have to muddle through without it.

  She smiled as she moved her bishop to put Vicar Reynolds into checkmate. He was truly a horrible player, yet he was such a kindly old man that she continued their games.

  That task completed, she turned her attention to the enigmatic Lucrezia and searched for the tome she'd seen. She would give anything for the chance to visit the Royal Library in London, but she would have no access to that exalted place, even if she were able to get there. She stilled at the thought. No, she would not give anything, nor would she ever utter such a witless cliché again. Some things were beyond price.