Beck wanted to push the terror of the memories out of his head. At some point, his hat had tumbled to the floor. He hadn’t realized it when it happened, but now he didn’t bother to pick it up. Instead, he walked out of the room,thatroom, shocked by what he now knew... and his own guilt. Why had he not helped his mother? Why had he hidden?
And why had it taken a French bullet to his temple to make him remember?
Now that he did, he wished that bullet had done its job.
Gwendolyn followed him, hovering as if worried.
He moved to the front window that overlooked the calm, deep waters of the river. “He strangled her and threw her into the river.”
“Did you see the murder?”
“No, but I heard her die. I peeked from where I was hiding. I saw him pick her up. Her arms, her legs, her head dangled loose. Her hair had come undone. She always had her hair pinned. Then I heard the splash. He came back for me. He knew I hadn’t left. My hiding place was amongst those junipers at the side of the cottage.”
Beck remembered holding his breath, shocked by what Winstead had done. It had been summer. He and his mother came to the cottage every day. “She didn’t like Colemore. She and my aunt argued all the time. It was about money. My aunt and uncle wanted more. Mother refused.”
He had liked to escape to the cottage. He enjoyed riding in the yellow-and-white cart, and sometimes his mother let him take the reins.
Funny that he could recall the arguments. He remembered his mother talking to him, explaining that his uncle and aunt needed to live within their means. Her English was excellent, but there was a hint of the country of her birth.
Just as Gwendolyn had the smallest lilt of Ireland in her speech—
“Beck?”
He faced her, glad she was here. The memories, as shocking as they were, were slowly settling into mere facts.
“Winstead lifted me out from my hiding spot. He held me by the scruff of the neck, like a cat does her kittens. I was crying. He asked me if I was scared, and I said I wanted my mother.” He looked back at the water. “He carried me to the river’s edge. Mother’s body was in the water, face down. I reached for her, and Winstead let go of me. I dropped into the river. It’s deep there, just off the shore. The boat was tied up, and I tried to reach for it, but my clothes weighed me down. My hand hit the hull. I dug my nails into the boards, trying to find a hold.”
The sensation of drowning fell over him. He’d tried to kick his legs, to stay up. Winstead had leaned down with one meaty hand as if to push him under...
“He pulled me out.” This image was very clear. “He grabbed me by the arm I’d stretched out to the boat and yanked me up onto the shore. He was crying. He said he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t murder me. Then he held me and sobbed while I coughed up water.”
“Did he say what changed his mind?”
Beck shook his head, and then remembered the words. “I’m not a killer.” He scowled. “Except he killed her, didn’t he? I don’t remember him hesitating in taking her life. And she was beautiful, Gwendolyn. Just like in the portrait.”
“The portrait?”
“The one in the library.” Tears filled his eyes. Not the tears of a frightened boy but the emotions of a man’s sorrow. Grief filled him, not just for her death, but for all that he had lost. His motherhadn’t been a whore. She hadn’t abandoned him. She’d loved him.
Gwendolyn moved to his side. She placed a hand on his arm. He was glad she was there.
“He told me I had to shut my mouth about what I saw. I had to forget everything or he’d throw me back in the river as he had my mother. He then gave me to a woman who was on her way to London.”
“Did you know the woman?”
Beck shook his head. “He did, but I don’t think I’d ever seen her before. The woman took me to London, but I was unhappy. I was grieving and scared. She told me I was too much trouble. She passed me on to Madam. I learned then that I had best be good because nobody cared about me. No one was left.”
It all fell into place. The turbulence inside him that the cottage had created subsided. What had been dark and heavy took on purpose. He glanced back at the river with its water reflecting the morning sun. There was the dark green of the grass, the trees, and the sound of horses impatient to return to the stables.
He’d had a mother... and she had loved him very much.
And someone had her murdered.
“I feel as if something exploded inside of my head.” He gave a short laugh. “Thatiswhat a French bullet did.” He turned to her and noticed the marks of tears on her face. “Gwendolyn, I didn’t mean to burden you.”
She swiped at her cheeks with her gloved hand. “What would have happened if you hadbeen here alone and had those memories? I’m glad I was here.”
“You don’t think I’m mad? What if that was all made up?”
