All Who Are Lost (Ashmore's Folly Book 1)

by Forrest, Lindsey

  I asked if I could use a recorder. I’m used to recording thanks to Daddy. So Kevin gave me this digital recorder.

  I much prefer recording. If I say the wrong thing, or I decide I don’t feel like Kevin hearing the deepest, darkest secrets of my soul, I can just hit that delete button, and poof! The file is erased from the memory card, and it’s like I never said it. If I never said it, then it didn’t happen. Isn’t technology wonderful?

  So now I have this dilemma that’s a long time coming. What’s truth, and what’s a lie? What really happened, and what did I fib about to get out of a jam?

  Perhaps I should write down the lies to keep them straight. I actually do a pretty good job, but sometimes it gets to be such a strain, trying to remember which story I told Daddy and which one I told Richard, not to mention the thousands of lies I’ve told Lucy.

  The more I think about this, the more I think I’ll do it just for myself. Seeing Laura again has brought back a flood of memories. Since Francie appears to be among the missing – wonder what happened there, note to self, ask Lucy – Laurie is now the only other person on earth who knows how it was to grow up in that house. From her words – no, Daddy thought I was training for opera! – her memories are as dark as mine. But she’ll never say anything. You can bet that Miss Cat Courtney doesn’t want the world to know that, for all intents and purposes, she grew up as an abused child. She’ll take that to her grave.

  But I don’t want to take it all to my grave. I want the truth to come out someday – Mama’s death, Daddy’s obsession, my marriage. There’s definitely one truth that should come out, but I want to control the timing on that, to minimize the fallout. Maybe I should start trying to remember everything, so that someday when I’m old and gray, I can write my memoirs and set the record straight.

  I can see it now.

  Memoirs of a Golden Girl Gone Bad?

  The Broken Bride?

  Two Men Too Many?

  Just Leave Me Alone?

  ~•~

  So where should I start?

  I’ll start with me, Diana.

  My name is Diana Renée Dane-Abbott Ashmore. I am the oldest daughter of Dominic Abbott, ex-monk, and Renée Dane Marlowe, Countess of Shilleen, and when I was five years old, I watched as my father let my mother drown off the coast of Ireland.

  Maybe not a good place to start… okay, let’s try this. I am the wife of Richard Patrick Ashmore, master of Ashmore Park, God’s gift to architecture, and all-around Mr. Perfect. I married him eighteen long, long years ago, and for the last seventeen, we’ve hardly spoken to each other.

  Oops! Well, that’s laying it on the line. But is being Mrs. Richard Ashmore me? Isn’t that the problem, that it never has been me?

  So who am I? Let’s see….

  ~•~

  I really like this wine. This is fun. I should have done this years ago.

  ~•~

  I’ve always thought I’d make a good hermit.

  I read somewhere that women are never hermits because they have an enduring need for companionship and bonding. Nonsense! I could be perfectly happy with my piano, my house, my own company. If I could do anything in the world, anything at all, I’d escape to a desert island and lie in the sun staring at the clouds.

  Or go live in a nice little place in Paris. Sleep with a man now and then. Drink some wine (okay, so I do that already, probably a lot more than I should, and truth to tell, I sleep with a man now and then too – also probably more than I should). Play the piano! And never sing another note as long as I live.

  The sleeping with a man is important, and so is the “now and then.” I do like men, and I do like snuggling up to a warm male body on occasion. Despite what Mr. Perfect believes, because his entire world view is founded on thinking the worst of me, I am not a sex-crazed slut stumbling from bed to bed in search of the perfect orgasm. I’ve had some good lovers in my life, one more than a little good, but I can take or leave sex. Mostly leave it.

  Well, that’s not the only thing Richard is wrong about, is it?

  So where are we? Oh, yes, I am a musician! A pianist. Mark that, because it is important. I am not the second coming of Renée Dane, soprano. My mother was one of the great Medeas in opera history, and from the time Daddy retrieved me from the foster home where my sisters and I lived while he was on trial for her murder, he intended me to wipe her memory out. Diana Abbott would take Renée Dane’s place on the opera stage, his own created star. From that moment, everything in my life, every waking moment of every day, was orchestrated to bring about the desired result. I learned languages. I worked on posture and breathing. I followed a prescribed regimen of exercises every day, because a good singer stays in shape (contrary to all that you hear about heavy-chested sopranos). I practiced two hours on the piano and endured two hours of voice lessons – and that was on school days! You can imagine how hellish weekends and holidays were.

  And everything went according to plan, until the usual happened. Girl met boy, and….

  That’s true on the surface. But I don’t think it’s the true me. Why doesn’t it feel true?

  Probably because truth is not what my life is about.

  ~•~

  All right, here’s truth for you.

  My life has revolved around two men.

  My father. I think of him, and all I remember is: I want.

  I want you to practice more.

  I want that perfect high E.

  I want my star.

  I want her back.

  He never stopped wanting from me. My voice, my talent, my soul. And I never satisfied him. How could I? I wasn’t my mother, not by a long shot. I just looked like her. I didn’t sing like her, I didn’t have her ambition. I just knew how to please men in bed, like her. Face it, in the end, isn’t that all she was really known for?

  Well, that and getting killed.

  And my second male nexus. Richard. Did I love him ever? I certainly had every reason to, and he had every reason to expect that I did. He was my escape, my savior, and who wouldn’t love a savior? Especially one who looked (looks) like that.

  But I think of Richard, and all I remember is: I want. He never stopped wanting either – not for a long time. Jailers don’t always carry keys, or even chain you to an operatic score and make you practice until you’re so tired you can’t even remember what language you’re singing in. Sometimes they place the bars of expectation around you. Sometimes they jail you with a wedding ring and “wife.” Or, worse, with a baby in your belly, when all you want is to be young.

  I want you to love me.

  I want you to be my wife.

  I want you to be the mother of my children.

  I want you to be satisfied with our life together.

  Did I love my father, tyrannical, charming, manipulative, utterly and completely selfish? Oh, yes. I was my mother’s daughter. No matter what he did, I feared him, I adored him.

  Did I love Richard, handsome, intelligent, courteous, the answer to a maiden’s prayer? No. I was my father’s daughter. Most of the time, I just wanted to smash his face in.

  Chapter 10: Blood Between Us, Love

  SHE’D SAID THAT SHE NEVER wanted to see him again.

  And how often had she told Meg to be careful what she asked for?

  ~•~

  Monday saw Laura moved into Edwards Lake. Her clothes were stored in the armoire, her linens put away in a lovely cedar-lined closet, her Kurzweil and laptop plugged in, her music set out on the piano. Tuesday, she had one expected delivery – Max, her cat, whose indignation at his flight from Texas she assuaged with generous helpings of tuna – and one unexpected delivery – a bouquet of daisies and baby’s breath left at her back door. Can’t wait to meet you, Aunt Laura! You’re the best! Love, Julie. Wednesday, she welcomed two expected guests, Lucy and Tom, for dinner – and one unexpected guest, Diana, who showed up in time for dessert.

  “The club can spare me for an hour,” Diana said defensively to Lucy’s pointed
look.

  Dinner might have been fun, if only Diana hadn’t morosely withdrawn into herself. Laura kept no liquor on hand, so Diana substituted numerous trips to the powder room and kept quiet the rest of the time. If she seemed subdued, Laura thought, it was because Tom Maitland had very little use for her, and she knew it.

  Laura liked Tom on sight. He hadn’t the charm Cam had turned on and off at will, and next to Richard he suffered both in height and devastating good looks. He looked what he was – a lawyer sliding towards forty, a middle-of-the-road citizen with sandy hair, conservative clothing, and a kind manner. Kind above all. He didn’t wait for Lucy to perform introductions; he came towards Laura, took her in his arms, and kissed her cheek. “Welcome home, Laura. You’ve been missed.” Then a grin. “Can I have your autograph?”

  “As many as you want.”

  Tom adored Lucy. How nice to see after eight years of marriage, Laura thought wistfully, watching him reach for his wife’s hand. She and Cam had never looked so at each other, had never talked and touched and so eagerly bonded together. Not for Lucy and Tom, the long awkward silences at dinner, the welcome relief of the phone ringing or a child’s intrusion. Lucky Lucy. She’d found a man to laugh with.

  “Now about the benefit,” Lucy interrupted her thoughts, and enthusiastically dug into her mint chocolate chip ice cream as if she hadn’t spent the day laid out by morning sickness.

  “Okay.” Lucy didn’t want her just to write a check; her sister wanted her to actually invest herself, to atone for the fourteen years of silence. “I’ll do it.”

  “Great,” said Lucy. “Let’s start making plans. How long are you here for?”

  They settled on a date a week before Laura’s expected return to London to prepare for the tour (“Maybe if I’m really good,” said Lucy, “I’ll still fit into my evening clothes,” and Tom pretended to miss the disgusted look Diana roused herself enough to send his way). Laura handed her a proposed playlist, as close to the tour program as she could legally get, and offered to polish up a new song for a world premiere. They discussed financing, publicity, logistics – matters Cat Courtney never dealt with herself – and, as they talked, Laura noticed that Diana’s interest slipped away by the minute.

  “Do you still want to do this?” she finally asked her sister.

  “What?” Diana woke up. “Oh, sure. Just get me the music so I can start work.”

  Less than a whole-hearted endorsement, but Diana didn’t seem prepared to offer more. Laura gave them her standard contract; she wanted protection against the vagaries of an owner whose mood depended on the contents of a bottle and her ubiquitous handkerchief. Maybe Diana divined her reasoning, for she insisted on writing her accompaniment into the contract, and Lucy said, “Good. Now you can’t bail out of this.”

  Whether she meant Diana or Laura, she didn’t specify.

  By the time the evening wrapped up, Lucy and Tom had hammered out a proposal to submit to Laura’s manager, Diana had made two more trips to the powder room that had cheered her up considerably but induced another attack of the sniffles, and Laura felt torn between fury and fear of what she would find once they left.

  Diana came to life only at the door, with a shriek. “What’s that?”

  “That” weighed fourteen pounds and was waving the plumed tail he was so proud of. Laura laughed and scooped him up. “This is Max, my best friend and soul mate. Max, meet family.”

  But Diana was backing away, real panic in her face. “My God, it’s a cat.”

  Out of some recess of her mind came a picture: Diana, stranded on a chair, hysterically crying, while below her a wide-eyed calico sat and washed its paws. “Oh, Di, I’m sorry, I forgot. Here, Lucy, take him—”

  Diana was wheezing now, hyperventilating, eyes fixed on Max in fear, even as Lucy bundled the miscreant, over vociferous protests, into the drawing room. Laura ignored Tom rolling his eyes and drew Diana out onto the veranda. “Come on, Di, he’s in the house, he can’t get to you—”

  She spent a lot of time nursing her sisters, she thought, even as she smoothed Diana’s damp forehead and patted her back.

  Her words must have penetrated Diana’s haze, for her sister came to herself once she realized they were outside, that a solid oak door stood between her and Max. Her gasps slowed down. “I’m sorry,” she managed between hard breaths. “Of course you have a cat. I know it’s stupid—”

  “Not everyone likes cats,” Laura said soothingly. “It’s all right.”

  A trace of moonlight glimmered through the trees and washed out the lines of fear. With her breathing returning to normal, Diana looked more alert than she had all evening. “Julie will like him. She loves animals.”

  Had she screamed out an obscenity, she couldn’t have startled Laura more, and she saw it. A measuring look came into her eyes. “Haven’t you met Julie yet? Lucy said you’d talked to Richard.”

  “No,” said Laura, thinking rapidly. She sensed danger in admitting to that evening with Richard; she wanted to head Diana off as quickly as possible. “I called over there, and no one answered.”

  “Oh, they’re not there. Richard’s out of town.” They turned around at Lucy’s voice from the open door. “Julie’s staying with the McIntires until he gets back.”

  “Why isn’t she with you?” Diana said sharply.

  “She has a cold. I couldn’t afford the risk at this stage.”

  So no use looking for him, no use hoping that he would turn up at the door. At the moment, Laura would have liked him to materialize, so that he could look into Diana’s devastated eyes and see the damage he and Julie had done.

  She said flatly, “Why isn’t she with you, Di?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lucy frown and shake her head.

  “Oh, God forbid!” Diana showed surprising animation. “I might corrupt her – I’m certainly not the parent Mr. God Almighty Perfect Ashmore is. Just ask him! My God, she’s sixteen, what does he think I’ll do to her—”

  “Di,” Lucy’s voice cut right through her words. “Come on now, we’ve been over this time after time. Laurie, don’t start anything with her. She knows better. Richard’s within his rights, and the courts back him up. Until you straighten up,” she punctuated her words with a sharp glance at Diana’s handkerchief, “he’s not going to change his mind.”

  So Richard and Diana had already been to court. But, of course, she remembered Lucy talking about a long-ago custody battle. My God, it was bloody! I never saw anything as vicious….

  Diana said bitterly, “Julie is nowhere near as innocent as everyone thinks. And she needs her mother. Oh, I know,” she gestured towards Lucy, “you do everything you can, Luce, but you’ve got your own baby to think about now. Richard can’t rely on you to mother Julie forever. Honestly, what does he think I’ll do, hand her a bottle of Scotch and tell her bottoms up?”

  So Diana understood her own terrible problems. Laura thought of asking if she might expose Julie to the fine white grains that no doubt now decorated the downstairs powder room, and then stopped before she could voice the thought. She saw the bravado on Diana’s face; she heard the tremor in her voice that admitted that she did not stand on the moral high ground that she would have preferred. She saw, too, the desolate chill in Diana’s eyes; she heard the real grief underlying her words.

  How much had Diana’s loneliness, child of Richard’s separation of mother from daughter, brought her to this sorry pass?

  “How long has it been since – no,” Laura held up her hand as she saw Lucy open her mouth. “No, Lucy, I want to know. Di, when did you last see Julie?”

  “Oh, God.” Diana thought. “Christmas, maybe?”

  And they stood now in the middle of June. Almost six months. She thought of going six months, six weeks, without seeing Meg. She wasn’t doing well after little more than six days.

  “Do you really want to see her, Di? I mean, for her sake, not just for yours?”

  “Laurie.” Lucy sounded
pained. “Don’t push this. You don’t want to get involved, believe me. This isn’t a good thing to get in the middle of.”

  She ignored that. “Di?”

  But Diana had drifted out of hearing.

  Surely Diana could stay on the straight and narrow long enough to keep her daughter for a few days. And if Julie herself balked – well, Richard must know that no teenage girl was mature enough to realize how much, someday, she would regret spurning her mother.

  Cam would have torn me apart if I ever kept Meg from him.

  She looked at Diana, fumbling for her keys in the moonlight, and she said softly, “You’ll see your daughter, Di. I’ll make sure of that.”

  ~•~

  Tom Maitland showed his steel the next day.

  “I’m sorry to bring this up,” he said, after a few preliminary thank-yous for dinner. “I overheard you talking to Diana last night. Laura, you need to stay out of this.”

  She’d had the night to rethink her words. It had struck her that, if Cam had indulged in recreational drugs instead of recreational women, she would not have been generous in sharing custody. As Lucy had said, Richard was well within his rights; he’d no doubt resent her interference, and rightly so.

  “I’m sorry, Tom,” she apologized. “I know it’s none of my business—”

  “No,” and she understood then what made Tom Maitland a fine lawyer. “It’s not. I know you’re new back in the family, and I realize you don’t understand what’s been going on. I’ll tell you now, and I expect you to do as I tell you. Don’t interfere in this. Richard will cut you to ribbons, and he’ll have my wholehearted support. Diana is trying to provoke a fight with him, and she is using Julie because she knows damn well that Julie is the most precious thing in the world to him and he’ll do anything and make any concessions to keep her safe.”

  No one had spoken to Cat Courtney like that in years, and Laura St. Bride knew perfectly well she deserved it. She said softly, “I understand, Tom. I have a daughter of my own.”