“Yes, do sit down and be quiet,” Marston ordered. “We haven’t time for your delicate constitution.” He and Thomas turned back to the gathering.
It frustrated Evie that they had dismissed her, knowing she wouldn’t dare defy them. With a heavy sigh, she did as she was told—just as they had known she would.
If I had more courage, I would stalk from this room and give
them all something of a shock.
She frowned and looked down at her gloved hands.
If I had more courage, I would have stood up to
Father and refused to marry Thomas Gadston. It isn’t as if he cares
about me or loves me
.
No, love might have actually made the arrangement bearable. Even if the love had only been on Thomas’s side, Evie might have learned to return his feelings. Instead, they both found the arrangement a misery. Thankfully, Gadston had never even attended her properly as a husband. He had never visited her room to consummate the marriage, and rumor had it, he never would. The household servants often whispered of unthinkable, unholy interests held by her husband, and while Evie found such ideas abominable, she was just as glad to be left to herself.
“You do make a good point.” Mitchell’s deep voice broke through Evie’s thoughts. “If she were to be murdered, then everyone would suspect our family. It would have to look like an accident.”
“Or a suicide,” Marston suggested.
Evie cringed at the word. She was immediately taken back in time to when she was four years old. It was Christmas Day, and gifts had already been exchanged. Evie had received a pretty new doll and a handmade wicker perambulator. She loved her holiday dress and especially her kid-leather button-top shoes.
The morning had been a happy one, she recalled. Father had not raised his voice or his hand to any of them. Even Jeannette, who generally had a whining, weepy temperament, seemed content.
Still, that day became the worst in Evie’s life. She had been a fearless child, often making her way in secret to the attic, where she would search through long-forgotten trunks and crates to see what treasures they might hold. On that Christmas morning, she remembered a particularly lovely hatbox that contained doll clothes and thought they might work well for her new baby.
The attic and its dark shadows had never frightened her. Here was the only quiet and peaceful room in the entire house. Here, Evie could sit and play and dream.
But that day there was to be no peace in her lovely hideaway— or ever again, for that matter. She had heard her mama’s footsteps on the attic floor and hid away to avoid being chastised. Mama went to the small door that led outside to a railed walk. Evie had heard her call it a widow’s walk. It was a wondrous place at the top of their mansion, where her mother could pace away her frustrations.
Evie watched her there on more than one occasion. Mama would walk and cry softly into a lace-edged handkerchief. Always, Evie wanted to go to her, but she never did. Even at her young age, Evie knew her mother would have been embarrassed that Evie knew of her misery and shame. But for Evie, it was a special kind of bond that knit them together in a way she knew none of the other children shared. Not only was she the one child who favored their mother’s features instead of their father’s, but Evie was also the one whose soul was intricately tied to Mother because of this secret.
Moving to a place in the attic where she could watch her mother out of a decorative oval window, Evie longed to go to her— to comfort her. It was cold outside, much too cold to be walking without a coat, yet her mother didn’t have so much as a wrap.
How strange it seemed. Mama stopped pacing and stood at the rail doing nothing. She seemed to stare out across the landscape as if contemplating the future. Evie heard a disturbance behind her and ducked down just before her father entered the attic. He walked with determined steps to the widow’s walk door and stepped outside to join his wife. Again Evie was drawn to the window, wondering if they would fight, as they so often did. To her surprise, however, Father embraced Mama. The sight caused Evie to feel a surge of hope. Maybe her mother would learn to smile again and be happy.
Evie gripped the windowsill and watched with a sense of anticipation as her father lifted her mother in his arms and pressed his lips to hers. Then without warning, Father stepped to the far edge of the walkway and without so much as a word, threw her mama over the rail.
Evie’s eyes widened and she barely suppressed a cry as her father hurriedly bound back into the attic and headed downstairs. Stunned, Evie sat for several moments, unable to move. Had she really just witnessed her father kill her mother?
But maybe Mama hadn’t died from the fall. Maybe it was just done in jest. Evie bit her lower lip and summoned up her courage. Just then, she heard someone scream and knew her fears were realized. She raced from the attic and back to her second-floor bedroom, where she hurriedly climbed into bed and burrowed deep within the sanctuary of the covers.
What if Father found out that she’d seen him? Would he throw her from the roof, as well?
“Evie? Evie are you all right?”
For a moment Evie didn’t recognize the voice of her sister. She glanced up to find herself safe in her brother’s parlor, with everyone watching her. Watching and waiting for some explanation of why she had failed to respond.
“I’m . . . sorry,” she said, hesitating only a moment. “What was it you asked?”
Jeannette moved closer. “I asked if you were all right. You seem quite pale. You aren’t with child, are you?”
Evie was shocked at the question. She would have laughed out loud at the lunacy of the idea had her husband not been fixing her with a most serious expression.
“I don’t think so, Jeannette. I’m simply overly tired.”
Her husband looked away with a thin smile edging his lips. “She has been far too busy of late. I believe I will send her on a trip for a rest.”
With that they all seemed to forget about her and went back to their discussion of what to do with Lydia. Evie breathed a sigh of relief and folded her hands. She would have to be more careful. She had never told anyone of what she had witnessed that day in the attic, and she never would, for fear of what might happen to her. People with secrets did not bode well in this family.
L
ydia sorted through her jewelry, separating out what she knew to be Gray family heirlooms from the things her husband had bought particularly for her use. She had never cared for any of the pieces. All of them were ostentatious and tasteless, as far as she was concerned. Floyd Gray never did anything out of affection, but rather out of a need to impress those around him. The heavy necklaces of gold and sapphires, rubies and onyx, and diamonds and pearls had been designed in multiple tiers to capture the attention of others. Matching earrings, too, that dangled long and heavy. Lydia remembered getting headaches just wearing them.
Other pieces were ghastly for the combination of jewels used. They were Mr. Gray’s attempt at creativity, but they were truly awful. One in particular was of amethyst, topaz, and emeralds. The jeweler had fashioned the stones in a series of bizarre flowers that encircled the neck on a thick vine of gold. Another piece was something Lydia could only describe as a spider’s web of silver with large stones of varying colors sprinkled liberally throughout. When worn, it looked like a strange sort of jeweled chain mail for the neck.
“Well, I certainly have no need of these.” She gathered the hideous pieces and secured them in their cases. She would let Evie and Jeannette have them, and if they didn’t want them, she would give them to Mitchell and Marston—a sort of peace offering, along with the rest of the home’s furnishings.
She had no desire to take anything that belonged to the family or had been given her by Floyd. Certainly not the outlandish clothes he had made her wear. No, she would have several new, more serviceable pieces made before departing Kansas City and leave all of the rest behind.
“I’m starting a new life,” she reminded herself. In all honesty, it was more like she was finally being allowed a life. She thought about living in Alaska with her aunt and felt awash in giddiness.
A knock on the door startled Lydia for a moment. It was almost as if someone had sensed her happiness and had come to put an end to it. “Come in.” She looked up to find a dour-faced woman nearly twice Lydia’s age at her door. “What is it, Mary?”
“The Gray sons are here to speak with you.”
Lydia had been expecting them. After all, it was already half past eight in the morning. It was amazing they had waited this long.
“Very well. Tell them I’ll be down directly.”
Mary looked at her a moment, then gave a huff and closed the door as she left. Lydia knew none of the servants had much use for her. She had never had so much as a single confidante in the entire staff. They were too afraid. They knew who paid their wages, and they weren’t about to alienate the master by cozying up to the wife he despised. No doubt they were all confused as to who held the purse strings now.
Lydia stood and once again surveyed the display of jewelry on her bed. Should she tell Mitchell and Marston her plans? Would they be pleased or just further angered that she should dare to even pretend she had the right to divvy up their father’s property?
Making her way downstairs, Lydia knew it would not do to appear nervous or weak. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. It would be hard to stand up to Floyd Gray’s sons, but she would manage it.
She found Marston and Mitchell huddled together in the same room where their father had been laid out for the funeral. Gone were all reminders of that hideous day, but Lydia could still envision the scene in her mind.
“You took your sweet time in attending us,” Mitchell said with a scowl. “I suppose you believe yourself to be somehow in charge, what with the absurdity of the will in question.”
“Is it in question?” Lydia asked, her voice strong and clear.
“You know it is. It’s just a matter of time before we have this resolved in our favor. Father never intended you to inherit anything that belonged to him. You know that as well as we do.”
“I know that your father never thought it possible that he would die.”
“Don’t act so smug,” Marston said, taking a step toward her. “We will see the wrong made right.”
“Despite your attempts to set the circumstance in your favor,” Lydia began, “I still have no need to concern myself. My father has left me sufficiently able to care for my own needs.”
She crossed the room and took a seat in her rocking chair. She folded her hands together and looked up at the men who approached her. They towered over her for a moment, as if hoping to intimidate her. When she said nothing, Mitchell finally sat opposite her, while Marston continued to stand.
“The fact of the matter is you know full well you are not entitled to our properties and businesses, whether they were shared by your father or not. We expect you to accompany us to our lawyer to put an end to this farce.”
Lydia could see that Mitchell looked rather nervous. He had a tick just under his left eye, and he shifted his weight continuously as if his seat were red hot. Marston, meanwhile, held his hands behind his back and watched her carefully. Lydia knew he was looking for some sign of weakness in her—some chink in the armor she had carefully fitted around her. She felt like prey being watched by a wild animal.
Imagining a strain of a Beethoven pastorale through her head, Lydia calmed.
They cannot hurt me anymore. They cannot take
away my freedom.
She drew a deep breath and met their gazes once again.
“Mr. Robinson is handling all of my legal affairs for me. You may take up this matter with him.”
“No. You will come with us,” Marston insisted, stepping toward her. “Today.”
“Oh, do sit down, Marston.” She tried her best to sound indifferent to his approach, but in her mind, she could very nearly feel the blows he so obviously longed to deliver. “I will not be bullied by anyone anymore.” The words gave her strength.
Marston looked at her oddly for a moment. He seemed uncertain— almost confused by her declaration.
Good,
Lydia thought.
The
prey has fought back. If I can only manage to keep them imbalanced
with my reactions, then I will have the advantage.
“We hardly need Mr. Robinson to handle affairs for you,” Mitchell finally stated. He motioned Marston to join him on the couch. “Mr. Sterling is far better equipped to deal with this situation. He has represented our father and the Grays’ business dealings for the last twenty-some years.”
“Perhaps for that very reason I prefer to have my own legal representation. To approach Mr. Sterling,” she stated quite logically, “would seem a conflict to his position with you and your desires.”
“Not at all,” Mitchell interjected quickly. “Mr. Sterling can easily represent all of us. He can clear up the mistakes and see our father’s true intentions fulfilled.”
“I cannot say what your father intended, except through the instructions he left behind.” Lydia tilted her head as if considering the situation quite intently. “Your father was a brilliant man—a solid businessman, well known for his ability to manage his affairs. How could any of us suppose that this matter went unattended by him? Should I honestly believe that your father—my husband—had no understanding or knowledge of the law?”
“You play a dangerous game, Lydia,” Marston replied, narrowing his eyes.
“I play no game at all,” she responded. “I was there, you will remember, the day the contract was signed between my father and yours. My wedding day was no more of my choosing than the terms of the will were of yours.”
Marston tensed. “It was clearly a mistake and you know it.”
Lydia shook her head. “That is hardly a part of my understanding. That is why I have chosen to rely upon Mr. Robinson for assistance in this situation. I am a mere woman of twenty-eight, uneducated and ignorant, as you have so often pointed out. I was forced into marriage with your father as a means to benefit his financial standings. Now that he is dead, I am no longer obligated to such an arrangement.”