The Shivering Sands (51 page)

She walked about my room—a strange shadowy figure in her long skirts and her chiffon blouse with the loose bishop’s sleeves caught in at the wrists.

“I am the murderess. I…Mrs. Verlaine…not Alice.”

I said: “Mrs. Lincroft, try not to distress yourself. This is a terrible thing. But the doctors will know what to do with Alice. Where is she now?”

“She is sleeping. She looked so strange when they brought her back. She behaved as though nothing had happened. She was so gentle…so sweet…as she always was.”

“There is something terrible wrong with Alice.”

“I know,” she said. Then: “I know what is wrong with my daughter.”

“You know?”

“She cared so much that she should live here; it was important to her that she should be Sir William’s daughter…she wanted to own this place…”

“But how could she?”

“She would never accept defeat. Even now…she does not. She behaves as though nothing has happened, as though…in time she will convince us of this.”

Mrs. Lincroft was silent for a moment and then she went on: “I shall have to tell the truth now. There is no holding back. Perhaps I should have told it years ago. But I kept my secret. I kept it well and no one knew. No one at all…least of all Alice. I felt it was important that no one should know…not only for my sake but mainly for hers. But you are supposed to be resting. Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you. It will only disturb you. Anyone would be disturbed by such a story.”

“Tell me, please, Mrs. Lincroft. I want to know.”

“You already know that Sir William was my lover and that I came here as a penniless girl to be a companion to his wife. You know of the position between us; you know of the death of Beau and how Lady Stacy shot herself soon afterwards. The gypsy spoke the truth. It was because of us…Sir William and myself. There was a scene when she found us together and that, added to her grief over Beau’s death, was more than she could endure. I went away when she died. We thought it best for a while. I was very unhappy. I did not think Sir William would want me back, and I was terribly shocked by the tragedy for which we were responsible…and I could only remind him of it. During the years he has tried to convince himself that she killed herself because of her grief over Beau—but in his heart he knew that that wasn’t true. It was her grief over his infidelity. But for that, he could have helped her over the tragedy. But Sir William tried to force himself to believe that it was due to Beau’s death. He blamed Napier; and every time he saw his son he was reminded of what he had done. And so…he could not bear the sight of Napier. He blamed Napier for everything so that he could stop blaming himself. People often hate those to whom they are unjust.”

“I know this is true,” I replied. “Poor Napier.”

“Napier knew this. But he could not get over the fact that he had killed his beloved brother, and he seemed to
want
to be blamed. You see he took the responsibility for Allegra’s existence on his own shoulders.”

“People’s motives are so mixed…so difficult to fathom.”

She nodded and went on: “I was frightened when I left here. I knew I had to find another job. First though I took a little holiday.” She shivered and it was evident that she found it a great effort to go on. “I met a man. He was charming, attentive…and I was greatly attracted to him…and he to me. He talked of marriage and all in the space of a fortnight we became lovers. He left me at the boardinghouse where we were staying and said he would go back to his home in London and in a week or so send for me. We were to be married there. He was arrested and I learned that my lover was a homicidal maniac who had already murdered three women. He had escaped from Broadmoor and in his lucid moments appeared to be perfectly normal. I believe that had he not been arrested he would have murdered me in time. Perhaps it would have been better if he had. I was completely shattered when this was discovered. I hastily left the boardinghouse and tried to lose myself in London. And then I discovered that I was to have a child: ‘Gentleman’ Terrall’s child.”

I caught my breath. Now I understood why she had been upset when she had seen the announcement of this man’s escape, how relieved by his recapture. This man…Alice’s father!

“I was desperate!” she said. “What would you have done, Mrs. Verlaine? What could anyone have done? Tell me that. I was alone in the world…about to have a madman’s child. What could I do? I made a plan. I wrote to Sir William. I told him I was going to have a child…
his
child. It was easy to delude him by making Alice six months older than she actually is. He sent me money…enough to enable me to get comfortably through my difficult time. And when Alice was two years old I came back as Mrs. Lincroft, a widow with one child, and that is where I have been ever since.”

“Oh, Mrs. Lincroft, how sorry I am for you.”

She rocked herself gently to and fro. “What tragedies we hide behind our masks,” she murmured. “And one builds a little refuge and one feels one is safe but there is the slippery step…at everybody’s door.”

“And now?” I asked.

“Who knows?” she answered. “I expect they will take her away from me now. I must tell them the truth. My poor child…She was so like him…I used to watch for the signs. He had her gentleness. He wanted to be good, I am sure.”

I could only murmur my sympathy. I could offer her nothing else.

“What will become of us?” she murmured. “What will become of us now.”

Alice herself decided what should be done.

The day after we had come back from the caves she was missing. Her little room was as neat as ever, the bed made, the coverlet smooth; everything neatly folded in her drawers.

But there was no Alice.

I knew where she was. She had heard that she was not Sir William’s daughter, that she would have to go away. This was something she had vowed she would never do. She had determined she would stay at Lovat Stacy forever. She would not accept the fact that it was not her home.

She would always think of the dramatic effect. Beside the shifting sands she had dropped a handkerchief with
A
neatly embroidered in the corner.

I pictured her standing there, holding her candle in her hand. Now she would be buried forever in the land which she had determined should be her own.

Nothing would be the same again. Between the new and the old life was a great chasm which could never be crossed. The past was dead and the future was vital and living. For one thing Death had taught me when it had come close to me and all but taken me by the hand was that I wanted to live. I wanted desperately to live. I wanted to build up a new life over the ruins which should be so completely hidden that it would be as though they had never existed.

There were two men waiting for me. One was cool and charming, so certain of his place in the world; and the other was scarred by life. Godfrey was so sure, Napier so unsure.

They had both been at hand when I needed them; they had both been watchful since the fire; in their different ways they loved me. Godfrey tenderly, kindly, gently and perhaps dispassionately; perhaps he had chosen me because I would make a suitable wife. And Napier fiercely, possessively, desperately.

“Marry Godfrey,” my head told me. “Go right away from here and forget your nightmares. Live graciously…bring up a family in ideal surroundings…comfortable and easy.”

“But,” said my heart, “this is where you belong.” Nightmares, perhaps. Memories. Devils to fight, his and your own. Pietro to mock you for having once more followed the call of the heart.

And when Napier came to me and took my hands in his, different now, Napier the free man, he said: “Now I suppose you think you should marry Godfrey and settle down in your country vicarage while you await your bishopric. But you’re not going to.” And he laughed and I laughed with him. “You’re going to be a fool, Caroline. Everyone will tell you you’re a fool.”

“Not everyone,” I said.

And I was confident. My heart would always win.

Eleanor Alice Burford Hibbert, better known to readers as Victoria Holt, Philippa Carr, and Jean Plaidy, is one of the world’s most beloved and enduring authors. Her career spanned five decades and she continued to write historical fiction and romantic suspense until her death in 1993. She has sold more than 100 million books and has twenty-one international bestsellers.

Mistress of Mellyn (1960)

Kirkland Revels (1962)

Bride of Pendorric (1963)

The Legend of the Seventh Virgin (1965)

Menfreya in the Morning (1966)

The King of the Castle (1967)

The Queen’s Confession: The Story of Marie-Antoinette (1968)

The Shivering Sands (1969)

The Secret Woman (1970)

Shadow of the Lynx (1971)

On the Night of the Seventh Moon (1972)

The Curse of the Kings (1973)

The House of a Thousand Lanterns (1974)

Lord of the Far Island (1975)

The Pride of the Peacock (1976)

Devil on Horseback (1977)

My Enemy, the Queen (1978)

Spring of the Tiger (1979)

Mask of the Enchantress (1980)

Judas Kiss (1981)

The Demon Lover (1982)

The Time of the Hunter’s Moon (1983)

The Landower Legacy (1984)

The Road to Paradise Island (1985)

Secret for a Nightingale (1986)

Silk Vendetta (1987)

The India Fan (1988)

The Captive (1989)

Snare of Serpents (1990)

Daughter of Deceit (1991)

Seven for a Secret (1992)

The Black Opal (1993)

Copyright © 1969, 2013 by Victoria Holt

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Originally published in 1969 by Doubleday and Company, Inc.

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