Lydia’s amber-tinged eyes hardened slightly. “It seems your father set her up with a yearly stipend. It was conditional, of course. She wasn’t allowed to speak to Mimi Lisette or see me, ever again. So long as she kept her end of the agreement, I’d be raised as a lady instead of aservant and given every opportunity you had. She hadn’t a clue about his death until his lawyer contacted her when her stipend expired at my coming-of-age this year.”
“God.” Eliza sat back, thunderstruck. How many lies had Nicholas Sullivan told over the years? The more she learned, the harder it became to reconcile her father’s good traits with the bad. Could you continue to love someone, even after you knew they’d done wrong? “Lyddie. I’m so sorry...”
Lydia put up her hand. “I’ve tried not to be angry, but I find my resentment has grown claws and teeth over the years. And Ishouldbe angry, Liza. I knew there was something false about all the stories they told, from the time I was little. Starting with that preacher whose name changed depending on who you asked. I think my mamandidcome to the house, once. You probably don’t remember it, but I do. I was five, maybe six. She stood by the fence rail and waved at me while I was playing with my dolls under the elm tree. I had on a white dress, tied with a green sash. Even my dolls were white.” Lydia voice wavered. “Your maman did the best she could, I suppose, raising us as equals, but I always knew we weren’t. It was in every moment of every day—how you were served first at dinnertime and how your dresses were just a bit finer than my own.”
“Maman could be unwittingly cruel.”
Lydia shook her head. “Perhaps she meant to be, perhaps not. It’s a tall order to be given, to raise your husband’s illegitimate child as your ward. Especially after losing so many babies. I’m sure she knew the truth. Still, I’ve found reason to forgive her. But I can’t, not in a thousand years, forgive the man who took my mother from me.” Tears sparkled in Lydia’s eyes, then spilled over and ran down the full curve of her cheek. “I’d always thought she’d abandoned me. That she didn’t want me. Mimi Lisette was only trying to protect me from the truth so she could be near me. To protect me. But now that I know...I owemy maman the chance to see me. I need to set things right between us. As best I can.”
“What are you trying to say, cher?”
“Please promise you won’t be angry with me.”
“Why would I be?”
“I’ve decided I’m postponing my wedding. I’m going home for the winter. To New Orleans.”
“What?” The ocean roared in Eliza’s ears. Her coffee cup trembled in its saucer, and she hastily set it down.
“I’m going, Liza. I told Clarence last night.”
“I—” Eliza choked on her words, her mouth closing and opening like a fish. “When?”
“I leave in two days.”
“Can’t you wait until the storms have gone? It’s dangerous to make the crossing now.” Eliza was grasping, helplessly holding on to anything that might keep her sister with her, if only for another day. “I was hoping we might at least have Christmas together. With Malcolm gone, this house...”
“Perhaps you should go to Sherbourne House. Stay the winter there, at least until Malcolm returns.” Lydia took both Eliza’s hands in her own. “With the war on, there likely won’t be another passenger ship until winter is over and I don’t want to wait. Clarence has asked I return before March, to tend to the injured soldiers returning home. But this is something I must do for myself. To have peace and the answers to questions I could never ask before. If I’m to be happy...”
Eliza gasped, choking back tears. “I think I understand, sister. I do.”
Lydia gently squeezed Eliza’s fingers. “You can’t understand, Liza. But I love you all the same for trying.”
The same steamship that had brought Eliza and Lydia to Hampshire bellowed alongside the pier, its twin stacks smoking. A cold, drizzling rain sprayed over the slick wooden gangway. The raucous carousel was silent now, its horses frozen in place. Whitecaps lashed at the pilings and the wind bit at Eliza’s face beneath her hat.
It was a miserable day. In every way.
“Write to me when you arrive home, cher,” Eliza said, straightening Lydia’s coat collar as she’d done when she was little. “And if you come upon a semaphore station on your way, please send me a telegram. I’ll worry if you don’t.”
“I’ll be all right. I’m the one who worries, remember?” Lydia’s voice broke. “You’ll pack up and go to Sherbourne House tonight, yes?”
“Yes, I will,” Eliza said, her eyes downcast. “I love you. So very much.” Eliza kissed Lydia’s cheek and tasted the salt from her tears. Her throat clenched, threatening to steal her words. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.”
“You’re stronger than you know. It’s well past time you learned it.” Lydia clasped Eliza’s hands. “I love you, my silly little fool. It’s not forever. You’ll only be a prayer away.”
Eliza stood on the pier until theEvangelinawas a shining dot on the horizon. She’d kept her tears hidden from Lydia, but as Turner drove her back to Cheltenbridge, she wailed her grief inside the curtained landau. For all of Lydia’s consoling words, their parting felt as final as death.
CHAPTER 32
Eliza didn’t go to Sherbourne House the evening after Lydia’s departure, or the days after. While the guilt over lying to her sister niggled at her conscience, Havenwood Manor and its secrets would not relinquish their hold. She was driven to find out the truth.
October was nearly spent, and Malcolm still had not written. Despite Turner’s assurances he was alive and well, the sense of dread Eliza felt whenever she thought of her husband sickened her stomach. Shirley had attempted to keep Eliza occupied with carving jack-o’-lanterns and crafting brooms out of straw and birch branches “to sweep the Evil One away.” But no matter how diligent the little housekeeper’s efforts at cheering her were, Eliza’s mood remained sullen and dark.
That morning, she’d finally gotten the nerve to open the copy ofThe Portrait of a Ladyshe’d found in Ada’s room. Instead of the pages of the novel she was expecting to find, she discovered the book had been hollowed out with the blade of a knife and filled with memento mori—a locket inlaid with plaited dark hair and a time-worn photograph. When Eliza turned the photograph over, her heart lurched to her knees. Her husband lay in a coffin, his hands folded over his chest in the semblance of serenity, his dark hair curling around his pale face. Shedropped the book and its contents to the floor and cried out, sending Shirley running into her room.
“Where in heavens did you find this?” Shirley asked, picking up the photograph. As the housekeeper tucked the celluloid image back into the book, Eliza noticed the neat script printed on its border:Gabriel Winfield, 1896
Not Malcolm. Gabriel.
