She stepped back before she could stop herself. What more had Vincent done? Her hands wouldn’t stop trembling, so she gripped her apron. “What is it?” A quiver slipped out in her voice, no matter how she tried to stop it.
Thomas’s expression softened, but he didn’t put the paper away. “It’s a letter. Or maybe an affidavit. It’s about your mother.”
The room swayed around her, and she grabbed the counter to keep herself upright. This was it. Somehow Vincent had managed to spread his poison to this new life she’d dared hope for with the Balfours. Without even finding her, he’d stolen her safe haven here with the truth of his horrific deeds—the one he’d threatened to pin on her mother and by extension, her. Like mother, like daughter.
“Rose, come sit down.” Thomas gripped her arm. Not rough, but strong. Drawing her toward the chairs around the table.
She wanted to pull away, but she had to face this. Had to set the record straight for Mama. Even if it meant the Balfours would make her leave.
Her legs felt like water as he guided her to the chair. The wooden seat felt solid beneath her, but nothing else did—not the familiar warmth of the kitchen, not the safety she’d foolishly allowed herself to believe in.
“What does it say?” The words came out as barely a whisper.
He unfolded the paper and laid it in front of her. “You should read it for yourself.”
The words blurred before her eyes, swimming together like ink in water. She blinked hard, forcing herself to focus on the meticulous script she’d always hated.
Statement Regarding the Death of Lady Catherine Balfour
I, Vincent Dunhill, do hereby attest that Mrs. Margaret Prescott, lady’s maid to the deceased, did willfully and with malicious intent administer poison to her ladyship over the course of several weeks in the spring of 1847. Mrs. Prescott confessed this crime to me before our marriage, claiming she needed the jewelry and personal effects she would inherit from her ladyship to better provide for her daughter’s future. She begged me to keep her secret, which I have done out of Christian charity and concern for her young daughter. However, should Mrs. Prescott or her daughter Rose ever attempt to contact the Balfour family or make claims against the estate, I feel duty-bound to reveal this terrible truth.
She pressed her hand against her mouth, fighting the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm her.
“Rose.” Thomas’s voice came from so far away. “Rose, breathe.”
She couldn’t. The kitchen walls pressed in, the scents of herbs and cooking meat cloying. Suffocating. Vincent’s lies stared back at her from the page—lies so carefully crafted, they would seem believable to anyone who hadn’t known her mother’s gentle heart.
“It’s not true.” The words tumbled out, raw and desperate. “Thomas, you have to know it’s not true. My mother would never—she loved Lady Balfour. She grieved for months after she died.”
“I know.” His voice was gentle. “Rose, I know.”
She looked up at him through the blur of tears. When had they started falling? “You do?”
His expression remained steady, patient. “Rose, we all know your mother loved my mother like a sister. The idea that she would hurt her…” He shook his head. “It’s impossible.”
The tightness in her chest loosened just enough to let her draw a shaky breath. “Vincent killed her.” The words tasted like ash in her mouth, but she forced them out. “He was courting Mama then, visiting the ranch. He had access to the house, to the kitchen. And after she died, Vincent married Mama so quickly…”
Thomas frowned. “Rose, my mother was sick. The doctor diagnosed consumption. I’ve heard the stories about the blood in her handkerchiefs, though she always tried to hide them.”
Of course Lady Balfour had been sick—Rose remembered the long afternoons reading to her, the way her ladyship had grown thinner and weaker with each passing day. But that didn’t mean…
“She was sick, yes.” Every word felt like torture, but she had to tell the truth. They needed to know. “But after we left, after Vincent married my mother, he told her he’d poisoned her ladyship. When he would come to visit, he added something to her tea. And I think he even left a medicine he told Mama would help her ladyship recover. He made my mother sign this statement. Used it to force her to sing in his theater every night.”
Thomas leaned forward. “Rose, you need to tell James about this.” His voice wasn’t hard exactly. Not mean. Just firm.
Tell James. The two words echoed in her mind like a death knell.
The panic that had been building in her chest exploded into something wild and desperate. “I can’t. Thomas, I can’t tell him this.” She should tell him, but the thought of the disappointment on his face. Nay, anger most likely. Would he make her leave? James had never looked at her with anything except affection. If he hated her, if what Vincent had done turned that warmth into loathing…she wasn’t sure she could stand it.
“Rose—”
“You don’t understand.” She pushed back from the table, the chair scraping against the wooden floor. The letter lay there between them, Vincent’s poisonous lies staring up at her like a living thing. “If he thinks my mother had anything to do with your mother’s death…”
Her stomach heaved. She pressed her hand against her mouth, fighting down the bile surging up her throat. James had been so young when his mother died, but she remembered the devastation in his green eyes, the way he’d cried. How could she tell him her mama had been the one to bring his mother’s murderer into their home?
Thomas stood slowly, his movements careful as though she were a spooked horse that might bolt. “Rose, James cares about you. He’s not going to believe Vincent’s lies any more than I do. But either way, this is an important detail between the two of you. You need to tell him.”
Between the two of you…
