Parting the Veil by Paulette Kennedy
CHAPTER 43
She was a prisoner now.
From Ada’s bed, Eliza watched the tumbling snow, its downy serenity giving little comfort as it enfolded the hills and clung to the naked branches of the birchwood grove in the distance. Night would be falling soon, and Ada’s room was frigid and mean—a room with windows locked and barred from the outside. A room where no one would hear her cries for help. Eliza shivered, running her hands over her arms. She only wore the thin cotton blouse and dungarees she’d escaped in. They stank of sour sweat and chafed against her skin. Malcolm had promised to give her a bath and a change of clothing that evening, but she didn’t trust him.
She should never have trusted him.
Her ankle still throbbed dully, like a toothache set into her bones. It had been two days since her injury, by her account. Possibly three. Malcolm had kept her in an opium-clouded stupor. She’d drifted in and out of consciousness so many times she couldn’t be sure of the days.
Upon their return to the manor, he’d been ostensibly tender and doting. Too tender. He laid her on the chesterfield in the library and applied compresses to her swollen ankle, all the while plying her with romantic platitudes. He brewed cup after cup of tea she refused to drink, until her thirst became unbearable. Just as she suspected, the tea contained a sedative. After her second cup, the wallpaper began to waver and flow like incandescent water. She dimly remembered the feeling of being picked up again and carried. When she finally woke, her head pounding like a drum, she’d found herself here and realized Malcolm had turned a corner from which there would be no return.
Eliza pushed herself up against the headboard and looked about the room, wiping the crust from her eyes. It looked much the same as it had on her first visit to the south wing. Ada’s bottle-green dressing gown was still draped over the screen and the objects on her bureau showed no signs of having been disturbed. That was one mystery solved—if Ada were still living in the house, she would have had no reason not to still be residing in this room. She wasn’t here.
Eliza suddenly remembered the tin she’d found in the chimney. Had Malcolm discovered it in her pocket and taken it? She patted the leg of her trousers. It was still there, along with the luckenbooth. She brought out the little box, weighing it in her hand. It was so light that whatever was inside couldn’t amount to much. Eliza carefully opened the lid. Inside there were several pieces of paper, neatly folded and stacked, tied with a faded violet ribbon.
She pulled at the ribbon’s tail and it came loose in her hands. With hollow excitement (what did solving an old mystery matter now?), Eliza unfolded the first paper. It was a drawing. In it, the same young man from Ada’s locket sat in the crook of a tree, one leg crossed casually over the other. He was well dressed, with wide eyes beneath the brim of his derby. Eliza turned it over. Written in the bottom corner was: Matthew, April 1894, drawn by Gabriel Winfield.
The mysterious M. That explained Turner’s reaction when she’d mentioned the name Matthew. And Gabriel had known this Matthew—they’d obviously been friends, otherwise he wouldn’t have had occasion to draw him. School or navy chums, perhaps? That would explain how Ada had met him. Eliza put the drawing to the side and unfolded the next item. It was a newspaper clipping.
Havenwood Manor Burns! the headline screamed. Beneath the boldface, there was a photograph of the house, the south wing’s upper floor brimming with flames beneath a pitch-black sky. The article was dated December 23, 1896, and it was short, stating the fire had started under mysterious circumstances attributed to a ruptured gas line. The casualties were listed:
Thomas Winfield, 4th Lord Havenwood, aged 68 years
Lieutenant Gabriel Winfield, aged 22 years
Dolores Galbraith, housekeeper, aged 54 years
There was no mention of Ada or Malcolm. Eliza folded the newsprint and removed the next item. It was a letter. Eliza recognized Eastleigh’s perfect, aristocratic penmanship immediately.
November 1st, 1892
Lord Havenwood,
As you well know, upon the death of my father, the estate and the title have fallen to me. Matters have been poorly managed. I have done up our books. My father’s laxity regarding your debts has been fully revealed. You are in prodigious arrears, Thomas. I have attached the balance sheet. Perhaps you did not realize these numbers were being kept. Perhaps you thought a hand of cards now and again would not add up to this amount. You were rather free with your bets, and now I must be called to collect upon my father’s generosity. You must remit the sum total of your debt by the beginning of January, else I will be forced to lay claim to your estate’s rents.
With all sincerity,
Charles Lancashire
Earl of Eastleigh
There were three more letters from Eastleigh beneath.
January 5th, 1893
Havenwood,
We are at an impasse, it would seem. As you are unable to pay me outright, I will begin calling upon your tenants at the beginning of next month. I hold four mortgages against your estate. Lest you see your family fall into penury and your property seized, you will not impede me. This has been an issue of your own making. I am merely the creditor.
Charles Lancashire
Earl of Eastleigh
February 2nd, 1893
Havenwood,
You are sorely lacking, sir. Do you realize how long it would take to resolve your mortgages with your paltry rents alone? Two lifetimes! And I do not wish to wait that long.
There is something else you have which might allay your debt.
I have long looked with covetous eyes upon your wife.
If you will agree to enter into an agreement with me, whereupon I am allowed to visit Lady Havenwood’s chambers and disport myself there, I will apply the sum of fifty pounds per week against your debt. If you agree to this arrangement, apply your signature to the promissory note and send it to me posthaste. I would desire my own key to her room, as well as the assurance she will cheerfully submit to my attentions.
Charles Lancashire
Earl of Eastleigh
February 4th, 1893
Havenwood,
You, sir, you surprise me with your enthusiastic response! Your terms are most curious and unexpected, yet I can see the logic behind your wishes. You may observe my congress with your wife, if it so titillates you. Beyond the keyhole, as it were. I shall make my first visit to her chambers on the morrow. We shall keep one another in check. If anyone should hear of this, we would both see our good names ruined. No one can know of our arrangement. This is imperative.
Much obliged,
Charles Lancashire
Earl of Eastleigh
Vomit flooded Eliza’s mouth. She leaned over the edge of the mattress and heaved onto the floor. Nothing but bile came forth. Eliza remembered the feel of Eastleigh’s greedy hands clasping her waist, the possessiveness of his slimy kiss. She had been a conquest for him—a challenge and a prize. Just like Ada. Malcolm had at least been truthful about Eastleigh. He’d protected her, only to turn tail and become the serpent in the garden himself. But why?
Eliza took a shaky breath and unfolded the next piece of paper, its edges torn. It was one of the missing entries from Ada’s diary.
June 18th, 1893
Our plan is becoming reality. My long-tormented marriage is almost at an end. Beatrice has played her part well. Eastleigh is as regular with his visits as clockwork. Every Sunday, just before four o’clock, Beatrice climbs into the dumbwaiter in the basement and hauls herself upstairs. As Eastleigh ruts with me, Beatrice spies through the top of the dumbwaiter to make sure his actions are witnessed and that I am as safe as I can be, should he turn violent. Beatrice is so specific in her recounting of Eastleigh’s anatomy and the physical nature of the ordeal that I am often amused. As that miserable, grunting fool spends himself within me (it is quite brief, thanks be to God, as is his member), I only think of the day when I will use him to bring my husband begging for mercy at last. If he refuses to grant me a divorce settlement, Beatrice will go to the papers and reveal his and Eastleigh’s debauched arrangement for all the world to see.
I disguise myself and use the dumbwaiter in my room to sneak out to meet Beatrice in Winchester once a week to go over her records. We have a merry time, laughing at the pub and drinking to old H’s ruin. I think of the future, when Beatrice and I will be safe beside Brynmoor’s hearth, to love and live out our days in happy companionship, and where I at last can be free. Oh, I cannot wait!
Realization broke over Eliza. Ada and Beatrice had been more than friends. They’d been lovers. She imagined them together, in a cozy hunting lodge made of fieldstone beneath a fog-wrapped mountain. It was a lovely picture—but one that had never come to pass. Something had happened to thwart Ada’s plans and bring about Beatrice’s death, leaving her spirit to roam restlessly within this house. Eliza opened the final folded paper. A feeling of dread came over her as she read what she already knew in her heart.
December 17th, 1896
At last, I have discovered what happened to my love. She is dead, my Beatrice, and has been for nigh on three years. Gabriel came to me, weeping in my arms like a child as he told me the truth of what they made him do. Of how they kept him silent, with threats against my life and his own, should their shameful secrets ever be revealed to the world. They shall pay, my enemies. I will take my revenge. For every cruel fist that bloodied my body and broke the will of my sons. For each time I’ve had to endure Eastleigh’s loathsome, crawling touch. For every devious deception. They shall pay. They think me weak. But I have become vengeance.
There was a creak outside her door, and the crystal doorknob began to twist as a key rattled in the lock. Eliza scooted backward on the mattress and shoved the papers and cigarette tin beneath the pillow. Malcolm pushed through the door, carrying a salver stacked with plates and a tea service. He set it down on the mattress and gave a toothsome grin.
“I’ve brought refreshments, darling. I’ve even made you a toasted cheese sandwich.” He shrugged. “It’s the only thing I know how to cook, I’m afraid.”
At an earlier time in their marriage, this sort of proclamation would have charmed her. Now it rankled her every nerve. Her knees shook, whether from hunger or fear, she couldn’t know. “How long are you going to keep me in here?” she asked. She reached out for the sandwich. She sniffed it, then pulled apart the bread to inspect the hummocky layer of melted cheese.
“Don’t be concerned. I haven’t poisoned it. It wouldn’t be in my best interest to kill you, seeing as you’ve my heir in your belly. I’ve only locked you away to protect you from yourself.”
“I don’t know what to think, Malcolm. Locking me up doesn’t seem like the sort of thing a normal husband does.” Eliza bit into the sandwich, the salty taste of the cheese exploding on her tongue. “Hardly conventional.”
“I suppose we do have a rather unconventional marriage.” He grinned and sat on the stool by Ada’s dressing table. “I was thinking about the carriage ride we took, that last warm day of autumn. Wasn’t it lovely? Perhaps when you’re better, we can go again.”
Eliza swallowed her tea to chase the dry sandwich down her throat. “Seems a lifetime ago. I thought we’d turned a corner that day. I thought we’d be happy.”
Malcolm tilted his chin and looked at her. “So did I. You know, I didn’t think much of you, at first.”
“You certainly could have fooled me.”
“Oh, but I did fool you. Quite well, for my part.” He gave a wistful look and clapped his hands on the top of his knees. “Well. I’ve rats to poison and grates to blacken. I’ve been rather industrious since our staff left. I daresay we won’t need them anymore. Now, isn’t that modern of me?” He rose, turning toward the door.
“I thought you were going to give me a bath and change of clothes. And this room is so cold. Can I at least have my sweater back?”
“You’re so very spoiled.” He frowned and clucked. “I simply haven’t the time to give you a bath tonight. Perhaps tomorrow.”
“Fuck you, Malcolm,” she spat.
He stood and backed away, his green eyes glinting hard as quartz. “Do manage to be good until morning, dearest wife.”
The door shut with a snick, followed by Malcolm’s key turning the lock. Eliza screamed a string of expletives and flung the porcelain teapot against the wall, where it shattered into creamy shards, the tea splashing onto the dressing table mirror. Her reflection was crazed, her eyes wild with her fury. But there was something else there—something she hadn’t felt in a long while—the blazing, heart-pounding will to survive and protect her unborn child. No matter the cost.
To escape her captivity, she’d have to play a game. A game that would likely end with killing Malcolm. Would she be able to kill him, if it came to it? She closed her eyes, remembering their courtship. But that charming man she’d met on a summer balcony wasn’t him—it never had been. It was all a lie—he was a lie—nurtured by her own foolish naïveté and unwillingness to face the truth.
Yes. If she had to, she would kill him. For her baby. For herself.
As December rolled onward, Eliza made her plan. She had nothing but time, after all.
Her ankle had healed quickly. She’d tested it every day, slowly putting more and more weight upon it. At first, it had been painful and arduous to even manage standing. A sharp hiss of breath would burst from her lips as soon as her foot touched the floor. Now, little more than a week later, she was able to walk in a steady line across the room, almost as well as she had before the trap had caught her. Only a trace of yellow bruising surrounded the scabbed marks where the metal teeth had punctured her flesh. A few more days, and she’d be whole.
But Malcolm needn’t know that.
She played her part well. When Malcolm brought her food twice a day, she pretended to be sleeping, or delirious with pain. When he touched her ankle, poking with cool fingertips, she cried out as if he’d whipped her with a riding crop. Her ruse seemed to be working.
On a particularly frigid day, when every joint ached from the cold, she heard Malcolm’s step outside her room. She decided she was ready. She arranged her filthy hair on the pillow to make it look as if she had been sleeping. When he opened the door, dragging a triangular shaft of amber light behind him, she sat up, pretending at feverish confusion. Her heart thumped with excitement. He’d left the door slightly ajar. This was her chance.
“I’ve brought you beef tea, darling. For the baby.” Malcolm set the tea tray with its tureen of soup on the bed, then settled on the edge of the mattress. He began swiping butter on soda crackers, chattering away about the weather and the war.
Eliza didn’t waste another breath.
She lunged for the tureen and flung the hot broth in Malcolm’s face. He gave an enraged roar and covered his eyes with his hands. “You little whore!”
Eliza scrambled clumsily toward the door.
It was a foolish mistake.
Malcolm recovered more quickly than she’d bargained for. With grasping hands, he shoved her back onto the mattress, then extended his leg, slamming the door shut with his foot. Now that her egress was blocked, she’d have no choice. She’d have to fight.
With a scream of righteous rage, Eliza pounced on Malcolm’s back like a jungle cat and began clawing at his neck. He spun in a circle as she wrapped her legs around his hips, locking herself to him and pounding his shoulders with her fists. He backed toward the bed, laughing, and lay down on top of her, crushing her beneath him. She thrashed and bucked her hips until he rolled off. He pinned her wrists to the mattress with his hands and crouched over her on all fours. Broth dripped from his ears and hair onto her face. The skin over his cheeks was angry and scalded. His neck bore her scratches, oozing scarlet lines of blood.
At least she’d wounded him. There was some satisfaction in that.
“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” he spat. “Try that business again, and I’ll have to tie you up.” He bent and kissed her neck, his tongue hot against her pulse. She recoiled in disgust. “You’d like that, I think.”
“Get off me!” she screamed. Her knees strove to find his groin. He wedged himself between her legs and crushed his hips against her own. Eliza gathered her saliva in her mouth and spat it in Malcolm’s face.
He stood, wiping the viscous gob from his forehead, a look of disdain snarling his lip. “You’re so very lucky you’re with child. But women often die after childbirth, just like my grandmother. Or stumble in front of carriages to be trampled by horses.” Malcolm smirked. “Or they drown with their pockets full of stones. Tell me, darling, which would you prefer when the time comes? I know you’re rather fond of water.”
A blade of panic cut through Eliza, but she wouldn’t give him the pleasure of seeing her fear. “I hate you, Malcolm.”
He backed toward the door with a contemptuous sniff. “I assure you, Lady Havenwood, the feeling is quite mutual.”