“The novice and the young mother remained in discreet correspondence for years. The novice kept the young mother apprised of her son’s progress, in such a way that no one who read the letters would know what they were reading. There was no connection between the novice and the mother, and no way to trace them back together.

  “The novice ended up leaving the convent before taking her final vows. She’d never wanted to be there, and the boy gave her a sense of purpose. She wanted a family and life of her own, but while she was from a good family, she was not from a titled or landed family, so her options for a husband were limited to her own class. But the now former novice had grander ambitions for herself, and once the boy was grown, the novice named her price for her discretion and her work ensuring that he had been raised right. She knew that his mother, now married to a man at the highest level, would do anything to keep her secret buried, and her price was high. Her price was that she wanted to marry a titled gentleman. But not just any titled gentleman. She wanted an Earl, the shooting friend of her father’s who already had a wife.”

  Marie’s stomach sank, but she didn’t dare interrupt or move a muscle.

  “She began as his mistress. It was all very indiscreet at first: against a tree during a shooting party, or in a closet during a dance. She described their intimate encounters as wicked. She said that he loved the idea of defiling something sacred. Of all his mistresses, she swiftly became his favorite. It was all so sinful, she said she could just taste it. They both found it an irresistible aphrodisiac.

  “And then she became pregnant.

  “This was not cause for concern. This Earl had sired a number of illegitimate children over the years. But time was ticking away. He had no heir, and he needed one soon.

  “The former novice said she would have the child and would make its paternity known. And the Earl, well, he embraced the idea. His wife had given him only daughters, no sons. This young woman could give him the son he’d needed. He could not let his brother inherit the Earldom. So he knew he had to somehow get out of his marriage. He had never hidden his dalliances with others from his wife; indeed, he’d been rather open about it. He amplified the affair, drove his wife to insanity until she did the honorable thing and ended her life. And thus Louise Goodman became the next Countess Kenfield. And just a few short months after the wedding, she gave the Earl what he’d always needed and wanted: a son and heir.”

  The Dowager Duchess gripped the blanket with her clawed hand.

  “For twenty years this arrangement worked. Until the day, six months ago, when the Earl and Countess Kenfield went to Zeebrugge. They had never been. They stepped off the ferry, and immediately saw something impossible. The Earl’s late wife, the former Countess Kenfield, very much alive and well. Standing on the deck. Staring at them both. Like she was a ghost, reminding them of their sin.

  “The sight of her scared your father to death. He suffered his heart attack as soon as his eyes found the eyes of your mother. They stared at each other until his heart gave out. In the commotion, she vanished.”

  Marie suppressed a smile at her mother’s final revenge. She couldn’t decide whether it was her father’s cowardice or her mother’s courage that had killed him. She decided it didn’t matter.

  Oh, if only Emma were here to listen to this.

  “Countess Kenfield returned home, buried her husband, and watched her son inherit the Earldom. He made for an excellent master of Ellthrop, just as she’d always hoped he would.

  “The problem was, with your mother still alive, he was a bastard, just like the other children that her husband had sired with women to whom he was not legally married.

  “In an instant, it was clear what would happen if anyone else knew your mother was still alive. The Countess’s entire life would fall apart.

  “We were all very content to let you go. But there was the matter of your brother demanding the Kenfield jewelry back. We searched and realized it was all missing. The sapphire engagement ring, a highly distinctive piece, might have appeared on the black market. And then we learned about the child you carried. Your husband’s child. So I sent the person I trusted most to investigate. And he found you in Brugge, and saw who you had been in touch with. He understood the implications. He alerted me.”

  The Dowager Duchess released her grip.

  “We were content to let the child go. We were content to let the jewels go. But knowing that your mother was alive, and that you knew and were going to find her . . . that was too great a risk. Your mother had to be eliminated, officially and completely, so that your brother’s succession to the Earldom cannot be questioned. Louise could not allow that, and after what she did for John Hart and his mother, I cannot allow that to happen to her. Questions are problematic. Questions lead to trouble. So questions must not be asked. All loose ends must be tied up.”

  She stood up and made for the door.

  “That’s what this was all about? Not the jewels or your grandchild. It was to stop them from spilling your dirty secret?”

  The Dowager Duchess glared. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I think it is your dirty secret that could not be allowed to be shared, and that dirty secret is the fact that your useless mother lived. That loose end needed to be tied up. And it was. Neatly.”

  “What about Dirk? And Jane? They know too.”

  The Dowager Duchess shrugged. “With what proof? John Hart saw to that. He is . . .” The Dowager Duchess appeared to swell with the closest thing to motherly pride that Marie had ever seen in her. “He is impeccable.”

  “Is that what I am too? A loose end?” Marie asked.

  The Dowager Duchess turned around. She moved that corner of her perfect mouth ever so slightly.

  “You’re here so that you cannot share what you know with anyone. And as long as we have you, we might as well wait until we know whether you’re carrying my son’s heir. If you are, that son can easily become my son’s child with his new wife. For, of course, he’s already found a new Duchess, though they haven’t been to the Church yet. Insurance, you know, just in case the new Duchess proves as useless as you at the one thing you were born to do.”

  “He’ll never agree to that,” Marie said.

  The Dowager Duchess barked that horrible laugh again.

  “My dear, he will do as he is told, just as you will. You know that he will.”

  “And then, what, I just give my son up?”

  The Dowager Duchess raised her eyebrows a fraction of an inch. “Can you not figure it out? You’re the loose end, after all.”

  Marie gulped. “And if I’m carrying a daughter?”

  The Dowager Duchess barked her horrible laugh again, turning the blood in Marie’s veins to ice.

  “Use your imagination.”

  She left, slammed the door behind her. The sound of the key turning in the lock was deafening and final.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Marie couldn’t tell if days or weeks or months passed while she was in that room, with no windows and a door she couldn’t open. No way of knowing whether it was morning or night. She could only measure time by counting her heartbeats and by the swell of her belly, which grew firmer and larger each day. It was still small enough to not be obtrusive, and could be hidden under her clothes. But she knew that wouldn’t last for long.

  Her baby was growing, and she was alone. She wanted her mother more than ever.

  Food was delivered by anonymous servants who kept their heads down. They retrieved the empty plates. They never responded to Marie, no matter how often she tried to speak to them, to tell them who she was, to ask who they were, to ask what day it was, to ask if she could see her husband, see her mother-in-law, see a doctor, see anyone. They slipped away, silent. Her requests were never granted, even if they were passed on.

  She would lie back and rub her belly, contemplating this child whom she was destined never to know. She would think about her mother, and in the privacy of the room, she would cry. She no longer had access to books, so she escaped into fantasy. Charlotte would have loved being a grandmother. And Emma . . . Emma would have shed some of her defenses to help her care for the child, just as she had done when she agreed to join Marie on their failed escape. Marie knew in her bones that it would have been wonderful to raise that baby together, all three of them. They could have had the family she’d been denied.

  If it was a girl, she would have named her Alice, just to make her family whole again. Perhaps that would have defrosted some of Alice’s hostility, and she would have made overtures toward them again.

  Alice. Poor Alice. Least loved by herself. Least appreciated by herself. Overlooked by everyone. Forgotten by everyone. Maybe even by John Hart.

  Marie sat up.

  Forgotten by everyone.

  Maybe even by John Hart.

  Alice had been sent to find them. The Dowager Duchess never mentioned her.

  Was Alice safe? Had she also been tied up as a loose end?

  Would learning that her sister and mother were truly dead make a difference to her now? Could it change her thought?

  Could Marie reach out to her? Get her a message? Would Alice even accept it? And if she did, would she do anything to help Marie? Their last meeting hadn’t exactly ended well.

  Marie searched around the room. Bed. Washbasin. Toilet. No window. A locked door. A small air vent, too small for her to even consider squeezing through, especially since she was destined only to become larger with each day.

  And anonymous servants who came in to serve her. The only time the door was ever opened or closed, if only for a few seconds.

  Did Marie have it in her?

  Could she do it?

  She knew that she had to. Knew deep in her marrow that she was carrying a daughter. As the baby became more of a reality than an idea, Marie’s awareness grew. She couldn’t feel her child move yet, but she knew, somehow, that it was a daughter.

  Marie owed it to her.

  She paced the small corner of the room.

  Could she do it?

  What would she do it with?

  And how would she get out once she did?

  She shook her head.

  She couldn’t even think the words to herself. But she forced herself to.

  Because the realization hit her like a slap to the face.

  No one was coming to save her. There was only one way out of this room, only one way to save her child and, if she was lucky, save herself. She didn’t want to do it. But it was the only way.

  She was actually contemplating killing someone. Someone innocent.

  But she was doing it to protect her child. All she had left. And she had no choice but to spend her last days protecting her. Which meant having to make a very difficult choice.

  She looked at her hands, soft and pink, which had never done a day’s hard labor in her entire life.

  She opened and closed her fists. Clenched them tight as she could until the knuckles turned white and her fingernails cut into her palms.

  She stared at them, these hands. These hands that could be weapons, if she tried.

  She had run before. Now running wasn’t going to be an option. For a member of a species with only two options when in danger, fight or flight, she had only one choice left.

  It was a difficult choice.

  But given what was at stake, there was no choice at all.

  Then she felt it.

  The small flutter behind her belly button. She knew what it was, her child urging her to action. She was the mother now, the protector. She would do for her daughter what her mother had done for her: protect her.

  She heard the turn of the lock. In walked a servant, head bowed and covered, as usual, delivering her a meal. Was it the same girl who did it every day? Marie had no idea.

  The door was open. Only a crack, but it was open. She could see a sliver of light behind it.

  Marie’s breath quickened. The girl was small, unarmed, focused on her task. It would only take a second. She looked at her hands again. Could she do it? Do it now? Marie wasn’t strong herself, but she was bigger. Strong enough, especially with adrenaline in her system. It would only take a second. A second that was the difference between life and death, freedom and imprisonment, between acceptance and perseverance.

  Marie closed her eyes, clenched her fists, and took a deep breath. She imagined what it would be like to overpower or kill this poor girl. She imagined what it would be like to not attack her. In the length of a heartbeat, she saw both her outcomes, and made her choice.

  She opened her eyes, ready to strike.

  The girl was closing the door behind her.

  Marie chased after her, but she hit the door just as the lock clicked into place.

  Marie choked out a sob, covered her eyes with her hand, turned, and slid down the doorway until she crumpled into a heap on the floor. She pulled her knees to her chest, something she knew she would be unable to do soon. If she was lucky. She felt another kick within her, the baby reprimanding her for her cowardice. I know, little one, she thought. I thought I had it in me too.

  She wallowed there for a few minutes. She’d been ready, but hadn’t been fast enough. She couldn’t live like this. Who knew how many days she had left?

  She looked at the small table next to her, where the servant had left her meal. Watery soup in a white porcelain bowl. Same as every day.

  Marie reached out her hand and swept it to the floor. The spoon clattered and the bowl shattered.

  And Marie screamed, confident that no one could hear.

  Chapter Forty

  Time moved even more slowly after that. Recriminations always make the hours grow longer.

  Marie heard the door unlock, but she was so numb by that point she did not get up. She couldn’t try again and fail again. She lay still as she waited for the expected shuffle of a servant girl’s footsteps. She didn’t bother to open her eyes. Not worth the effort.

  Instead, she heard the unmistakable sound of hard-soled shoes. It wasn’t a servant girl, who was meant to be neither seen nor heard. This was the sound of a man who commanded, probably demanded, attention. The sound all women were conditioned to respond to, one they had all learned to fear. It trumped depression, resignation, and despair. She snapped her eyes open and sat up.

  A man with a thick mustache, white coat, and black bag entered the room. “Lift up your shirt,” the man said without introducing himself.

  Marie wrapped her blanket more tightly around herself. Was he crazy? She wasn’t undressing for him. “Who are you?”

  A servant girl ran in with a chair for the man and set it by the door, and he took a seat. “I don’t have time for foolishness,” he said.

  “But I don’t know who you are or why you’re here or why you want me to remove my clothes,” Marie pointed out.

  “Nor is it any of your concern,” he told her. “I’ve been permitted entry to the house and to this room, and you are to do as I say.”

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  He held up a small machine with a coiled cord that connected it to a small wand. “I’m here to check the progress of your pregnancy.” It was a portable ultrasound machine.

  “You mean, learn the sex of the child?” If it revealed that it was the daughter she knew she was carrying . . .

  “There’s no need for profanity,” he said, referring to the word “sex” spoken by a woman. “I have a schedule to keep, and it’s not your place to question me. Now, lift your shirt.”

  Marie’s shaking hands went to her midsection. “But I’m not wearing a shirt, sir. I have a dress on.” It was an old, white linen nightdress that had probably sat in a wardrobe for a generation or more.

  The man looked at his watch and gave an impatient sigh. “Very well.” He opened the door and called to the servant girl. Within a few minutes, she had returned with a shirt and skirt. The man tossed them at Marie, who failed to catch them and they fell on the floor. “Put these on. I’ll be back in one minute.” He went to the door and barked some more orders at the girl, who quickly shuffled away, then slammed the door behind him.

  Marie bent down to pick up the clothes. The shirt was at her feet, but the skirt had slid under the bed. She got on her knees to look for it, and stifled a gasp. There it was, the salvation she had been looking for. She reached under the bed with trembling hands. This had to be a sign. This was it. No time for self-doubt. No more recriminations. She would not get a second chance.

  She pulled back onto her heels, but did not get up. She shut her eyes.

  Exactly sixty seconds later, the door opened and she heard the insistent footsteps again. She hadn’t moved from her spot. The door slammed shut, but did not lock.

  “What are you doing?” the man spat at her. “I told you to get dressed. I have a schedule to keep, and you’re wasting my time.”

  She did not respond, and his reaction was everything she hoped.

  “Get up from there,” he commanded. Marie remained in place. She braced herself.

  “I said get up!”

  He grabbed at her elbow.

  She thought of Emma.

  Now.

  Marie took the six-inch piece of broken bowl and, without thinking about it, jammed the sharp end into the man’s side. With a shout, he let her go and collapsed to the ground. He grabbed at her, but Marie dodged his grip. She ran for the unlocked door, pushed it open, and then shoved it shut. The key was in the lock. She locked it, removed the key, and turned around.

  She stood in a corridor that she did not recognize. Definitely in one of the service areas of Grayside. No one was there, but she knew that wouldn’t last long. She looked down at her hands. Just a bit of blood, just enough to remind her of what she’d actually done. She wiped them on her white nightdress.

  It didn’t feel real. She didn’t feel sorry. And this was no time to dwell on it. She heard his cries behind the door, and scurried down the hallway. There were few doors and no windows until she rounded a corner. Once she did, she saw a small window to the right, just a little bit larger than her own head. She had to stand on her tiptoes to see out, but she could make out some of the large knotted yew trees that she recognized as being part of the back gardens at Grayside. The ones that had been planted the same year the house had been built and looked as dead and diseased as the family who lived there. Maybe the groundwater had poisoned all of them. The branches were touching the ground, as if the tree were trying to crawl back into the earth and away from this place. Marie had always hated those trees. But they served a purpose. She must be on the fourth floor and, judging by where the trees were, she was just above the rooms where she herself had lived when she had been the Duchess.