In the Brief Eternal Silence (79 page)

And Bathsheba conceived of another child and
this child survived. And do you know what this child's name was,
Dante? I am sure that you do, but I shall remind you because it
pleases me to speak of it. It was Solomon, the wise king.

And so you see, Dante, God can take our own
willfulness and use it to His advantage, even when we think we are
going quite contrary to Him. And if He can accomplish so much when
we are going against Him, think of how much He can accomplish when
we are working with Him. And I think He must have great plans for
you and your willfulness. I think that He has known for many years
exactly how He shall use you and your unorthodox self-education in
the ways of fury and vengeance, and that from your prior sins will
be born wisdom if you will now, finally, only learn to accept His
will in the stead of your own.

And I do not know if He will mete out
punishment, or if He sees you lying here now and considers the
tally paid fully. I only beg that you live not only for me but for
yourself and to fulfill whatever tasks He may now set before
you.

He squeezed her hand and she leaned to lay
her cheek next to his. He turned his head in closed eyes searching
and she followed his direction and moved her mouth to touch his
lips.

Even that light touch sent a shiver up her
back and when she went to withdraw, he moved his mouth in silent
demand for further contact and she obeyed. She trembled as his hand
tightened in hers and her mouth locked fully with his. His shallow
breathing deepened as he pulled great lungfuls of air from her own
body and into his. And she nurtured him with her mouth and felt him
drawing strength from her as though she were some manner of
restorative unique only to him. And if she felt drained
simultaneously, she did not count it as cost but as profit. Her
head swam as she closed her eyes and she shook at the urgency of
his mouth on hers. And he ravished her mouth as though he would
devour her in total as an antidote to his pain.

There was a discreet tap on the door, and
with an effort she let off from his mouth. His eyes opened at this
interruption but he only sighed as he looked upon her and then his
eyes closed again and she was certain that he slept.

The door opened and she turned her head,
afraid that she was flushed as well as dizzy and the doctor and
Bertie entered the room. Bertie came to her and Lizzie arose and he
took her in his arms. “Are you all right, Miss Murdock?” he asked.
“For he will kill me, you know, if he comes through this to find
that I have let you die from exhaustion and worry.”

And she gave a soft laugh but did not answer
as she was not certain if she were all right or not.

The doctor observed, “He has gained some
color in his cheeks at least. That is a good sign. And he seems to
be sleeping well enough that I will hold off on the laudanum.”

And it was at that point that Miss Murdock
was certain he would live. And whether it was God's will or St.
James' will or her own will, she could not be sure, but suspected
that it was all three of theirs, and who would dare to try and go
against that combination?

Chapter Thirty

The dowager traveled late into the night and
as it was the first time she had done so in many years, her driver
and her footman found much to comment upon this circumstance. And
much to be unhappy about, as they were not getting younger either
and quite resented the fact that they were not afforded the luxury
of a break for the night but were forced to gallivant toward London
as though they were half their ages and of less than half their
wits.

But the duchess tolerated no bellyaching, and
she told them that the horses were to be changed out as needed and
that they were to continue without delay to her London home. She,
however, slept as well as she were ever able to sleep, despite the
jouncing of the coach. And if she knew herself to be very weak in
her old age, she only reassured herself that this would all soon be
over and that she could rest a great deal longer, and no doubt
better, then.

Her thoughts churned with leaving her
grandson. She worried about him and only the thought of Miss
Murdock being there consoled her. He had looked very bad when she
left, and she knew not if he were to live or die, but she knew
where her duty lay and his accident and Andrew's lesser misfortune
allowed her to attend that duty without interference from either of
those two men.

She was set upon keeping St. James, if he
survived, from killing Lydia, as she was sure was his intent. And
Andrew must not then seek to kill his cousin, as she was sure would
be his intent. And which would fall in that circumstance, she did
not know, but it was an unacceptable conclusion with either result
and she knew herself capable of preventing it. But it meant that
she must reach London before either of them were able. If indeed,
St. James were ever able.

So she traveled through the night and she
slept as she went, resolved to see this through to the end and to
give both of her grandsons a clear future with both of them alive
and hopefully upon speaking terms. That one or the other or both
should despise her for interfering, she thought of not at all. It
did not particularly concern her.

It was in the wee hours of the morning when
she arrived and it was with weariness that she allowed herself to
be helped from the coach at the front of her London home. She
looked up at it, thinking of how many times over the years she had
been dropped here. First as a blushing bride and now sixty years
later as an old widow. And all the years in between seemed but a
blink of an eye. The raising of two sons. The death of her husband,
the deaths of her son and daughter-in-law and that un-born
grandchild. The raising of Dante when she was getting beyond the
age of controlling one of his temperament. The death of Morty.

And she remembered that foreboding she had
felt when she had read a letter from St. James informing her of a
Miss Murdock being sent to her, and although she held a great deal
of affection for that young Miss, she also now understood that
foreboding. But she was not afraid any longer. No, she was not
afraid now that she understood all of it clearly.

For she had faint suspicions for many years.
The suspicions had seemed such madness that she refused to
entertain them. But the letter in her reticule from Tyler now
confirmed them and she did not doubt her grandson of his
conclusions.

She was certain that Dante had tread
carefully, that he had been absolutely sure, or he would not have
voiced the thought. All the same, she had to be certain also, and
she fingered the head of her gold handled cane as she stood there
at the foot of the steps to her own door and looked up at the mute,
black windows above her.

She had to be absolutely sure.

The old lady nodded and the driver and the
footman that patiently supported her moved now and helped her up
the stairs. They unlocked the front door and helped her inside and
she bade that she be seated on the upholstered bench that stood
along one wall and that they fetch Ashton from his bed, please, and
they did so.

And she reflected not at all as she waited,
but only sat with head bowed and her fingers working the top of her
cane and studied the parquet flooring that rested beneath her old
and twisted feet shod in her comfortable, old lady shoes.

Ashton came and she dismissed the footman and
the carriage driver and then looked up to him. She gave a faint
smile and took his old arm he held down to her.

“To bed, milady?”

“Not yet, Ashton. I fear that we must wake
Lady Lydia.”

“As you wish.” He helped her to her feet and
together, the old Duchess and the old butler struggled up the
stairs in the silence of

the house.

“This is a bad piece of business, Ashton. Are
you up for it?”

“Yes, milady.”

They reached the top of the stairs and
shuffled down the hallway, through Lady Lydia's sitting room to her
bedchamber door.

“Shall I knock?” Ashton asked.

“I think not. Merely throw open the door and
let us see how the snake sleeps in its nest while its poison works
upon its victims far off.”

Ashton turned the knob and opened the door
inward, and the Dowager saw that Lady Lydia did not sleep, but by
the light of a single lamp was packing her baggage.

She turned as she must have heard their near
silent entering, or perhaps it was just the sudden admittance of
fresh air that alerted her, a small flickering of the flame in the
lamp. She looked frightened in that instance, her blue eyes
widening, but when she saw it was the old lady and the old man, her
look turned contemptuous.

She turned her head in an effort to hide this
expression. “Lady Lenora, I had not realized that you had returned.
Did my being up somehow disturb you?”

“I find much about you disturbing, Lydia,”
the Dowager said. “What are you doing?”

With only her night clothing and a robe on
and without her stays, Lydia appeared neither as delicate nor as
helpless as she normally did. “I was packing a few of my things,”
she answered. “I find that I am getting arthritis, which should not
surprise me, although I do so hate getting old, and I was rather
thinking of traveling to Bath on the morrow to find some relief in
the waters. As I could not sleep, I was going ahead and packing a
little. That is all.”

The duchess leaned upon her cane and Ashton
almost as equally bowed held to her arm to support her. Her faded
eyes studied her daughter-in-law as she moved about the room. The
innocent, vapid eyes that she had always marked off to a lacking of
intelligence. The vain silkiness of her bedclothes and robe. She
may be up in the middle of the night, but she had found time for a
faint hint of rouge, a slight blush across the lips and a little
light rice powder to fill in the coming wrinkles on her face. Ah,
but her face and her form had once been her greatest asset and she
was loathe to admit that perhaps their value had decreased to a
degree, even at this late date. “You lie so glibly, Lydia,” the
duchess commented. “Tell me, do you think of these stories before
hand or are you able to come up with them truly on the spur of a
moment?”

And Lydia flushed but her eyes, which had
been exuding innocence and warmth turned more pointed. “I resent
that very much, Lenora.”

“And I resent the deaths of my son and
daughter-in-law and unborn grandchild very much. And I daresay
Morty also.”

Lydia stopped her packing, standing in
stunned silence. The old Dowager almost believed that St. James was
wrong (please, Lord, let him be wrong!) after all. But then Lydia
laughed with a sudden unpleasant shrillness and it cut off
awkwardly at the end. “I do not know whether to laugh or to cry to
have you make such a mad accusation, Lenora,” she choked. “I can
see you would rather believe any thing than believe that your
darling St. James could be behind any of this. For it was he that
killed Morty. I am certain of it.”

The duchess straightened from her bowed and
weary stance. “I should have expected that you would fight, would
do as much damage as you could with your lies rather than accept
that you have lost at last,” she said to her daughter-in-law. “I
suppose you will next have me believe that at the age of ten he
planned the death of his own parents.”

“And I should say he may have!” Lydia
insisted and she was shaking. “For he has always been evil, even at
that age. It is only that he looks like your late husband that you
refuse to see anything bad in him, despite how many times he has
flaunted it in your very face!”

“I do not doubt that in your mind you do find
him somehow at fault,” the duchess agreed. “Tell me, Lydia. Tell me
of my grandson's guilt. Convince me of how he has been behind the
all of this even from the age of ten.”

But Lydia, whose intention had been just
that, perversely changed her mind. For to be invited to do so
seemed somehow not promising. She turned from the Duchess, and with
desperation began again to pack in the low light of the lamp. “You
will not draw me into this debate, for I am quite above it,” she
warned. “I have no doubt that he has gone to you with some tale
that makes me seem somehow at fault, for he has always hated me,
you know.”

“Why would he hate you, Lydia?” the dowager
asked, and she motioned at last for a chair and Ashton brought one,
so that she sat, but she somehow contrived for the door to be
directly at her back.

Lydia halted in her packing as she saw the
Duchess blocked her way of exit and the lines in her face seemed
heavier, and the weight she had put on in her middle age seemed
more cumbersome, and not at all the graceful woman she normally
was. She went to her dresser and pulled open a drawer and retrieved
a handkerchief to dab at her eyes. “You have me so upset already,”
she told her mother-in-law. “To even suggest—!”

“Why would my grandson hate you, Lydia? I
truly wish to know.”

“Because I know what he is,” Lydia said
without looking at her. “I am not blind as you seem to be and as
Andrew seems to be. I have known what he is since he was born, for
he is like his father you know. Evil.”

“Indeed?” The dowager raised her silver
brows. “And how was his father evil, Lydia, for I confess it quite
escaped my notice that I had somehow raised the spawn of the
devil.”

“Oh, of course you would not see it!” Lydia
turned to look at the Dowager. “He was always the shining apple of
your eye, was he not? The glorious Duke of St. James. A true
gentleman everyone called him. But they knew nothing of how he
really was. Nothing! I knew, though. I knew more than any one! He
was deceitful, dishonorable and adulterous. The only difference
between he and St. James is that your grandson has not even the
decency to try and hide what he is, but flaunts it for all to see
and for all to be embarrassed by.”