I know someone who might help—he did once before... greedy little hoodlum.
Tomorrow I’ll search him out. There must be some way to be rid of Sarah Hopkins!
Peter swallowed convulsively. His head registered what he was reading, making sense of the words. His heart refused to believe it... the fire ...
April 3, 1886, was the next entry...
Nothing works!
God! She has the lives of a wretched cat!
Today’s accident was almost too much—I am running out of opportunities. And Peter is growing suspicious. She gets closer and closer and there is nothing I can do. Nothing! That shameless harlot is a danger to all I have built. Peter would have had nothing were it not for me! They say it was Mary’s money that saved him, but the stupid fool would never touch Christopher’s funds—all the more for me! What bloody good is money to a boy who cannot see! Peter would have ended with nothing but the clothes upon his back were it not for contacts I have given him. Me! Without me, Peter would have nothing!
He bloody well owes me. And he owes me everything! I will not stand by and watch him give it all to some witch with a pretty face.
I will not lose everything!
This time I’ll not leave it in somebody else’s hands.
Peter thought he was going to be ill. The carriage accident... Ruth? Were these Ruth’s words? How was it he had never seen her hatred before now? What had he ever done to incur it? She had always been distant, never sharing much of her thoughts or her time with him, but she had given so much to Christopher. He had never guessed at the fury she hid behind the emptiness of her eyes—had always believed she’d simply lacked a passion for life. How wrong he was...
Her next entry seemed confused... fragmented thoughts... angry and yet subdued... The laudanum, he thought...
What is today’s date?
My head is killing me.
One day has passed since that night. One day and another... half. Is that right?
My last entry is marked the 3rd, so it must be the 5th April 5, 1886. How ironic that it should be nearly six years to the date since Mary’s death.
God, I can’t believe it. Everything I have tried has failed. If I don’t do something, I will lose everything. How unfair to be in this position—why me? Why?
Damn the unfairness of it all!
Damn Sarah Hopkins—Woodard—or whatever the hell her bloody name is!
Peter already suspects—yet I cannot kill him. No, can’t kill Peter. They will put him away...
Sarah should be the one dead. Not Mel. Little liar! She wasn’t blind! God, she isn’t even blind, and Peter seems not to care that she lied her way into this house!
How much did she see the night of the fire? How much does she know? I must find out tomorrow. Over tea. I’ll talk to her. Find out. Tea would be good. Can’t fail.
If I fail, it will be the end.
I refuse to fail.
Scratched into the bottom of the page with such force it made Peter’s gut twist was ...
Die, Sarah! Die!
Peter’s reaction was physical. He felt it like a punch to his gut. All these years he had harbored his wife’s murderer. She was his goddamned sister! How had he been so blind?
His hands shook as he set down the journal, and his heart pounded as he looked at his son.
“Christopher,” he said sternly, taking him by the shoulder and gripping him firmly, “this is very important, son.”
Christopher nodded.
“Everything will be all right, but I want you to stay here in this room. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes, sir,” he said, and Peter rose from the bed, retrieving the journal.
“Stay here,” he directed, and went in search of his sister and the woman he loved.
Instinctively he knew that where he found one, he would find the other.
His sister needed help. He intended to give it to her.
He only hoped he wasn’t too late.
God, for Sarah’s sake, for his sake, for Christopher’s sake, he prayed it wasn’t too late! He didn’t want to live without Sarah—didn’t think he could bear losing her, too.
He heard their voices at the end of the corridor, and with his heart tripping in relief and clutching the journal in his hand, he rushed to the parlor.
He thrust open the doors to find them seated cozily before a small table set with tea for two. It was a picture-perfect image, tarnished only by the knowledge of what he had read within the journal he held in his hand.
“Peter!” Sarah exclaimed, and rose at once, dropping her cup on the saucer. The fine porcelain shattered, spilling hot tea on the table. It soaked into the cloth and trickled to the floor. She ran to his side, her face ashen.
His sister sat there, quite serenely, hardly fazed by the sound of breaking china… except when he looked into her eyes. They were filled with something like defeat in that instant. Her gaze centered upon the book he held in his hand, and he thought she might faint where she sat. Her eyes rolled back and her head lolled backward a bit, but she sat straight once more and faced him squarely.
He drew Sarah into his arms, clutching her to him, embracing her with a hand at her back, relief and too many other emotions warring within him. He wanted to tell his sister that he would help her. Wanted to see her rot in jail for taking Mary’s life. He didn’t know what the hell to do, what to say, what to feel—except relief that Sarah was unharmed.
Ruth’s gaze never left them.
Her expression wavered between sadness and fright and anger and confusion. “I never had a chance, Peter,” she said calmly, and then reached out to lift up the full cup of tea that sat untouched before her.
Peter watched her with a sense of numbness, as though he were standing in the middle of a dream he did not quite comprehend. Somewhere deep within he understood what his brain would not register. He held Sarah close as he watched his sister rise to her feet.
Sarah turned as Ruth lifted the cup to her lips. “Oh God!” she cried out, and her knees buckled. Peter caught her, though still he did not quite comprehend.
“I never had a chance,” Ruth said once more, sadly, and drank down the entire cup of tea. She poured herself another and drank it down as well, and it was in that instant as she guzzled the last of it that Peter fully understood what she had done.
He watched in stunned disbelief as she wobbled on her feet and then crumpled with a thump to the floor. Sarah cried out at the sound and buried her head against his chest, clutching his shirt in horror. She began to sob and he pressed her against him, dropping the journal at their feet and holding her with both arms.
His mind reeled as he stared at his sister’s body lying so limp on the floor.
It was over—over before he had even begun to comprehend what had happened—and he was, for in instant, too stunned even to blink.
Chapter 34
Ruth’s funeral had been as quiet an affair as was possible, considering that there had been three deaths at the Holland estate in the last six years, with two of them occurring in the past week. It was difficult to feel any sense of justice after reading Ruth’s journals in their entirety. Ruth had been a desperate woman who had felt herself a victim at the hands of men. Sarah and Mary both were representative of all that Ruth had been denied in her life. And more, both of them had stood in the way—or so Ruth had thought—of all that she had felt should have been hers. It was difficult to blame Ruth entirely. Sarah blamed society in part for making women feel so helpless that they should resort to such desperate measures.
And yet Sarah had known many women in similar situations as Ruth—Mel, for example. Mel had found a way to survive and to do it with zest and pride and joy.
Some women were born victims, it seemed.
Sarah only thanked God Christopher was safe. She had accomplished what she had set out to do—uncover Mary’s murderer and safeguard her son. Only she’d done something more in the process... something she’d only realized without a doubt as she’d watc
hed them lower Ruth’s casket into the ground.
She’d fallen in love with Peter Holland.
She kept her silence even after they left the cemetery and were safely away from the prying eyes of the press. She sat within the carriage, Christopher beside her, holding his little hand. His father sat before them, staring out the window.
Sarah watched him, admiring his beautiful face, wanting nothing more than to take that face in her hands and whisper I love you against his mouth.
She did love him, and her heart ached to hold him.
She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him.
Swallowing, she turned again to stare out the window, watching the streets pass by.
“Sarah,” he called softly, and his voice was like a whisper to her heart.
Sarah blinked, and turned to him as he drew something from his coat. Without another word, he reached out to place the item on her lap.
It was a book.
Mary’s?
“Is it...”
“Mary’s journal,” he affirmed. “I thought you might like to read it.”
Sarah stared at the tiny book he’d presented to her, thinking how ironic it was that she’d searched so diligently for it as evidence, only to find Ruth’s diary, instead. She met Peter’s gaze.
He was watching her, frowning. “I’m sorry,” he offered with a sad shake of his head. “I know she was dear to you.”
Sarah nodded, and reached out almost reverently to lift the book into her hands, inspecting it.
It was small—deep red leather, embossed with Mary’s name at the bottom right corner in delicate print. Sarah smoothed her finger over the gold lettering, trying to find the courage to open it and read Mary’s last recorded words.
She turned the book and found it locked, and peered up at Peter in surprise. “You never opened it?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t find it until some time after the investigation,” he told her. “As I said ... I think I was afraid to know what she had to say.”
Sarah thought she understood. She was afraid as well, and yet for her, at least, it was time to face her cousin.
“I never found the key,” he said.
Examining the delicate lock, she remembered the tiny charm she’d found in the first room she’d slept in. She wondered if it had survived the fire, wondered, too, if it might possibly be the key to Mary’s final journal. She hadn’t been in that room at all since the night of the fire, hadn’t had any reason to go back, as she’d inspected both that room and the nursery quite thoroughly and to no avail.
“Where did you find it?” she asked, still scrutinizing the fine gold lock.
“In the nursery,” he told her.
Sarah nodded. It made sense, then, that she would have kept the key in her room.
Her throat felt suddenly too tight to speak. Gratitude overwhelmed her. She knew it couldn’t be easy for him to hand her a record of his past mistakes. “Thank you, Peter,” she whispered, and looked up into his eyes.
She caught a glimmer as he nodded and turned away.
Mary’s last entry was dated the eve of April 15, 1880.
Through the entire journal there was nothing revealed that might have shed light upon her murder, and yet Mary had unknowingly left Sarah with so much insight into hers and Peter’s relationship.
It seemed quite clear to Sarah what happened between them—at least from Mary’s point of view.
She just didn’t know Peter’s.
It seemed to her that Mary had never been certain of Peter’s love—his affection, yes, but never his love. In her own words she had tried so desperately to win him, but Peter had never fully given his heart and then finally had withdrawn from her completely.
Toward the end of her life, however, the last few entries in particular, Mary had begun to realize she’d handled her marriage terribly, that she had perhaps reacted to his withdrawal from a point of pain and not logically at all. She had begun to realize that her fears were simply that, her fears, and that if his eyes had wandered, then it had been because she had abandoned him so completely. She’d seemed pretty certain, however, that he had not, because she’d confronted his friend Cile directly about their relationship, and Cile had answered honestly—that yes, she did love Peter, but that Peter had never returned her affections, and that she’d respected his vows.
Apparently, however, Peter had confided in Cile, because Cile had also revealed to Mary the depths of Peter’s disappointment over their failing marriage. It seemed Peter blamed himself for Mary’s withdrawal—for not reassuring her when she’d needed it most. And perhaps that was true, but Mary and Peter had been so young, and these things were so much easier to see in hindsight.
And yet, according to the journal, Mary had begun to understand the mistakes they had made, had nearly decided to move back into her own room—nearly, though not quite...
As it turned out, she never had.
Pride had kept her from it.
Pride was a thief.
The two of them might have been happy together, but pride had kept Mary from going back to her husband, and pride had kept Peter from going to her.
Pride had kept Sarah and Mary apart, as well.
It wasn’t until she turned the final page that she found the lock of hair—hair the color of Christopher’s, though it was much too thick a lock to belong to a six-month-old child. It was secured to the back inside cover with a single phrase written beneath it: I’m sorry, my dear Sarah.
Sarah’s heart jolted as she realized what it was.
Mary’s hair.
Emotions choked her as she stared at her cousin’s lock of hair, blinking away tears as she remembered a time so very long ago when they’d made each other vows. How old had they been? Sixteen? Seventeen? She had almost forgotten that day. But Mary hadn’t, and the apology choked her breath away.
Swallowing the knot in her throat, she closed the journal and laid her head back against the chair in Mary’s room, trying not to weep over so much regret.
She stared at the bed where Mellie had died and where Mary had once slept and wondered why she had subconsciously chosen this room to read Mary’s last words.
Not to punish herself, perhaps, but as a reminder that all that had passed before need not pass in vain. It was possible to learn from past mistakes.
Although Mary had never written Sarah to say so, it was apparent that she had begun to soften toward her, and at the point of Mary’s death it had become more a matter of pride than anything else—pride alone had kept her from breaching the silence between them. As Mary had pointed out in her journal, Sarah had been as capable of breaking the silence as Mary had been, and Mary had felt Sarah responsible for making the first attempt.
And perhaps rightly so.
It was true... Sarah could have... and probably should have been the one to raise the white flag. It had been her own ultimatum that had damaged their relationship to begin with. That she had not relented was something Sarah would have to live with for the rest of her life.
And yet, must she punish herself forever simply because she had not had the insight and fortitude to make the right decision all those years ago?
Was it right for Peter to continue to blame himself for his mistakes with Mary?
The answer was no.
And Mary hadn’t continued to blame her, either—nor Peter. She had long forgiven Sarah, except for her stubbornness. It had saddened and angered Mary that Sarah had gone so very long without apologizing. And it had hurt her immensely that she’d felt Sarah hadn’t cared enough.
If Mary had only known.
If she’d only realized how often Sarah had berated herself for her own stubborn youthful pride... Why couldn’t she have let it go long enough to right the wrongs between them?
Such foolishness.
But what was done was done, and Sarah could hardly undo the damage now.
The question now was...
Could she walk away from Peter?
; Could she simply pack her bags and go?
And the answer was no.
She lifted a brow as she thought about Peter’s proposal, and then Christopher’s, and smiled.
It was a bold thing to do, but she wasn’t the sort to wait about for things to happen. Her uncle had always taught her that if she wanted something badly enough, she need only pursue it.
Why should it be a man’s right to ask a woman to wed?
She had as much right as he, did she not?
She only prayed Christopher had been speaking for his father when he had asked her to marry them, because she would die if Peter should say no now, if he should laugh in her face.
And with that in mind, she rose determinedly from her chair, took a deep breath, and marched toward Peter’s office.
She found him sitting at his desk, sifting through his papers, but it was obvious to Sarah that his mind was not on his work. His sister’s death, no matter that they were not close, had left him in a state of shock.
She wanted to hold him in that instant.
She wanted to make love to him... for the rest of her life.
“Peter,” she began. He peered up at her, his eyes full of sorrow. Now was not the time to speak of Ruth; perhaps later when the wound was not so fresh. There was nothing he might have done differently; he couldn’t have known. Looking back on it, the signs were there, but there was nothing in Ruth’s demeanor that might have led them to such a horrifying conclusion. Sarah was going to make him understand that—wouldn’t let him blame himself.
He’d been blaming himself for far too much, far too long.
“I have been thinking,” Sarah continued, and took a deep breath, trying not to smile at what she was about to say.
“Forgive me for bringing this up at such a terrible time,” she said, marching into his office and standing before his desk, “but I have been ignoring the matter of my reputation far too long, you see... I cannot remain oblivious to it now that my task here is done.”
He stared at her, unblinking, and she began to ramble.
Three Redeemable Rogues Page 77