Chapter 39

39

MERCY KEEP, PRESENT DAY

E llen and Ben stared at one another, neither one wanting to be the first to break the silence; neither even knowing what to say.

"Is that all? Is that the end of it?"

Ellen tipped the folio so he could see there were no more written pages. There was a very old paper with a charcoal drawing on it. A child-like sketch of a forest and a large field enclosed within tall walls, but that was all. Her eyes were gritty from having to cipher passages that were scrawled, others where the writing was smudged or unclear. Her mouth was dry after reading for many hours and she reached for her forgotten wine glass, taking several small sips, then several larger ones to drain it.

Ben noticed and pushed himself out of the wing chair—they had placed two in front of a cozy fire while Ellen was reading—and fetched the bottle of Pinot to refill both their glasses. There was only enough for half of one top-up, so he found another bottle and bought some time uncorking it while his mind swirled around the revelations contained in the rose folio .

The foundation for his work in archaeology was history, and if what Ellen had just been reading to him was true, then history had suffered a horrendous miscarriage. Court intrigue and treachery amongst royals in the thirteenth century was rampant, but to murder one heir to the throne and blind another was a bold and outrageous act of regicide, cruelty, and deceit on John Lackland's part. Of lesser importance, although still a stain on his character, he had kept an impostor in prison for thirty-nine years and God only knows who she was or what power he and his son had over her to make her keep her silence.

According to what Enndolynn Ware had written, holding family members as hostages seemed to be a favored method.

As for Eleanor of Brittany, she truly was the Lost Princess of legend. She'd fled the king's clutches and found freedom and love in France, only to have to return to England to throw any scent of an heir away from her uncle. She had sacrificed herself and her happiness, knowing Eduard's secret had to be kept unto death in order to let him live.

"Are you crushing the grapes yourself?"

Ben roused himself and carried the open bottle back to the hearthside. Ellen had polished off the half glass and was holding the empty out for more.

Ellen.

Ben stared at her, the bottle poised over her glass but not tipped enough to pour.

Ellen Bowe was a descendant of the Plantagenet kings. Ben himself had helped Ethan trace the ancestral tree back to the ethereal Enndolynn Ware, never suspecting in a million years where that bloodline might lead .

He tipped the bottle and filled Ellen's glass, then filled his own to the brim.

"A tangled web," he murmured.

"What did you say?"

"Sir Walter Scott. ‘What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.' I would say what you have just been reading is pretty damned tangled and I would say almost impossible to believe if it wasn't for the Langton document. Did I miss mention of how it came into Enndolynn's possession?"

"No, no mention of it. I don't think." She looked at how much wine he had poured in her glass. "As much as I enjoy your company, I'm seeing three of you right now, and a fourth is likely to appear if I finish this."

When he kept staring at her without smiling or speaking, she frowned. "What?"

"Do you realize," he said slowly, "had fate run its true, straight course, you might well be the Queen of England right now?"

She yawned as she straightened the pages of the folio and carefully replaced them in the leather binding. "Assuming there were no more murdering uncles along the way. I suppose it is intriguing to wonder what things might have changed, how things might have turned out differently."

"Everything," he said bluntly. "Everything would have changed. Everything would be different. There would be no England as we know it. No key figures like Henry VIII, no Anne Boleyn and thus no Elizabeth I. The armada might have won the day and we would be speaking Spanish right now. There would have been no Bonnie Prince Charlie, no Jacobite rebellion, no Cromwell, no restoration, no Victoria, no British Empire sent out to colonize half the world. There might not even be an America as we know it. No Boston tea party, no War of Independence. I expect you also might have been speaking Spanish since there would have been no one to stop the Conquistadors from claiming the New World and spreading throughout the Continent. Canada might still be intact, since the French had colonized her first, but India and most, if not all of Europe would have had a very different history."

"All because an uncle murdered his nephew," she murmured.

"Greed and jealousy affect the destinies of families all the time," Ben said with a small shrug. "Not always with such staggering repercussions, I grant you, but it happens."

Ellen looked down at the pages of the folio. "What am I to do with this?"

"There isn't much you can do, I'm afraid. It makes for a fascinating story, but without proof, that's all it is. The Langton paper will tickle the historical bones of a thousand professors, and change a few footnotes in history books, but he was only witness to a marriage, not a birth. All of the supplementary details come from pages that only you can read and others see as gibberish. I really don't see it going any further… unless, of course, you want to become the 21st Century Anastasia, wandering around knocking on doors, demanding to be recognized as heir to the Angevin dynasty."

"Thank you, no. Heir to all of this—" she waved a hand around— "is proving to be enough of a challenge."

"Ah, speaking of challenges," Excitement rose in his voice again. "I believe I may have found him."

"Found who?"

"Enndolynn Ware's knight in shining armor." He picked up one of the dozen books he had laid open on the coffee table and carried it over to where Ellen was sitting. "There was no listing for a Rennwick de Beauvoir, which is not all that unusual for a minor knight in service to a lord or lady, especially since record-keeping was hit and miss. But he was successful enough to have had land of his own, and when you described the brooch he was wearing… a gold winged griffin on a blue field… I attacked it that way and found a Rannald La Voire. The name is different, but assuming they would have wanted some degree of anonymity, it is close enough to fit the search. Even more telling, the motto on the heraldic crest is: Loyalty above all."

She took a sip of wine. "Is there mention of a wife? A family?"

"No names. Just ‘issue: five'."

She spoke through another yawn. "Not the dozen he promised, if it was him."

"No, but I would wager every sock in my drawer that one of their offspring married into the Wardieu line somewhere along the way. Which explains why you are here today. I will have to take another close look at the family trees to see where they converge."

"Not tonight, I hope."

Ben tipped his head and listened to the muted chiming of a clock out in the main hall. "Hell and damnation, your highness. It is four in the morning and we have been locked away in here since noon. Mrs. Winklebottom will undoubtedly have an imprint of a keyhole around her eye trying to find out what we've been up to."

Ellen laughed, then stretched as she uncurled her legs and stood. "Call me your highness again, oaf, and you will be locked away in the dungeons of Bloodmoor Keep with nothing but Mrs. Winklebottom's ghastly shepherd pie. "

His eyebrow arched. "I detect a note of hereditary cruelty."

"It would only be cruel if there were no bathroom facilities. And on that note, I am going to seek some comfort now and find my way to bed." She her glass aside. "As you said before, everything will still be here in the morning."

"Of course. Yes. I do tend to let my enthusiasm get the better of me sometimes. Things like this give me a second, third, and fourth wind."

"Really?" She stood and laced her fingers through his on her way to the door. "In that case, I can think of far better ways to put some of that energy to use."

"I thought you were tired."

"I feel a second wind coming on."

An hour later, Ellen was still awake. Despite the pleasant aftereffects of lovemaking, and the lulling sound of Ben's easy breathing beside her, thoughts of kings and queens and secret heirs kept spinning through her mind. And something else.

"Are you awake?" she whispered.

"Mmn. Barely."

"There is something that has been bothering me."

"Only one thing?"

When she didn't answer, he slid his arm across her belly and leaned over slightly to kiss her bare shoulder. "If you tell me what it is, perhaps I can help."

"My uncle Henry. When I first got here, you asked me if I had noted the familial resemblance in the portraits in the gallery, the ones depicting the generations of heirs of the estate going back a few hundred years. And yes, I did. Because they were all blonde-haired and blue-eyed. "

"As are you."

"But not my uncle Henry. He didn't exactly fit the profile, did he? According to the pictures I've seen, he had dark hair and dark eyes."

"That he did. Brown hair, brown eyes from his father's side, I believe."

"So… doesn't that sort of break the thread?"

"I think I see where you are going with this."

"Do you? My father and Henry were fraternal twins, not identical. My dad was blond-haired and blue-eyed."

"Unusual, but not impossible, I don't think."

"What about Malcolm? He was dark-haired as well, and as the eldest, he should have been first in line to inherit."

"But he died in the war."

"Sort of like Richard the Lionheart, leaving two brothers behind, the dark-haired John Lackland and the blond-haired Geoffrey, Duke of Brittany."

"How do you know the Duke had blond hair?"

"It would make sense if Eleanor was blonde and blue-eyed." She tipped her head to give him better access as Ben nuzzled his way into the side of her neck. "What color was Arthur's hair?"

"I don't know. There were no family photographs."

She tugged a lock of his hair and won a soft ouch before he intensified his nuzzling and ran his tongue around the tingling nerves beneath her ear.

"Fifty-nine seconds," he murmured.

"Is that all you need?"

He lifted his head and bit her lip lightly. "I will remind you that you said that. No. Ethan told you there were fifty-nine seconds between himself and William, didn't he?"

She nodded and remembered. "He did, yes."

"Contrary to what you might think, a lot can happen in fifty-nine seconds. Races are won, records are set. Hearts can stop and be resuscitated." He moved a lock of her hair and kissed her shoulder. "Did you not say Abigail kept in touch with your father? Perhaps she knows what caused the brothers to split. It does sort of make you believe in fate, however, because here you are, assuming your rightful place as heir. And here I am having no luck whatsoever diverting your attention."

"Don't undersell yourself," she said. "You're having a little luck."

"Just a little?" His mouth trailed a path of tiny, nibbling kisses down to the soft rise of her breast. His lips closed around her nipple and his tongue teased the tender flesh until the bud tightened.

"We really should get some sleep," she said on a gasp.

He lifted his head, releasing the nipple with a soft sucking sound. His hand slid down from her belly and his fingers dipped into the sleek wetness between her thighs. "Shall I stop?"

She pressed closer to him and slid a bare leg up and over his, giving his agile probing full, shameless access. "Stop and I will have you beheaded."

Ben's arm was draped across her belly. Ellen lifted it carefully so she could slide out from beneath it without waking him. She sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, her body still soft and runny inside, her skin acutely sensitive to the smallest draft of air brushing across it.

Daylight was glowing behind the curtains and a quick squint at the clock told her it was almost ten o'clock. Odd, that Miriam hadn't come in yet, although it was more likely she had and discreetly withdrawn again. She would have had an eyeful but hopefully was discreet enough not to share what she saw with Mrs. Winklebottom.

Ellen glanced over her shoulder. Ben was sprawled out like a bronzed Adonis, the corner of the sheet barely covering his groin. How long had she known him? A week? She had never believed in love at first sight—still didn't—but heart-stopping attraction at first sight? Yes. She thought of Sam, her on again off again boyfriend back home and realized she had never felt this way waking up beside him. Never believed she wanted to prowl back into his arms and stay there for the rest of the day.

There were a lot of things she hadn't believed in before coming to England. Finding herself drawn to a strong, sensitive, funny, capable man was probably the one she should have the fewest doubts about. And, as her body was quick to remind her, no regrets.

She tiptoed into the bathroom and did what she had to do as quietly as possible, but when she reached into the shower and turned the taps on, the noise the pipes made would have awakened the Kraken. She spun the handle to turn it off, but the groaning and rattling continued unabated.

"Oh, what the hell," she muttered and stepped inside. Cranked up to full, the water was hot, the stream was strong and prickling and almost compensated for the sound of the pipes letting everyone within a five-mile radius of the house know she was awake. She lathered her hair and lathered her body, and when she was towelled dry and wrapped in a big comfy robe, she returned to the bedroom only to find the bed empty and no remnants of Ben's scattered clothing on the floor.

Miriam re-appeared before she had finished drying her hair and dressing. She came with coffee, buttered crumpets, and a sly smile.

"I was here earlier, but Mrs. Winklebottom stopped me in the hallway and told me I shouldn't disturb you."

"Mrs.—?"

"She knows everything, Miss," Miriam whispered. "She has eyes and ears everywhere."

Ellen almost groaned. She was fairly certain the housekeeper did not have a very high opinion of her to begin with. She would no doubt equate sleeping with a man who was basically one of the manor's employees with her nephew sleeping with one of the maids. Probably worse. Ethan was sure to hear about it, which would cause his spectacles to fog up. Veronica might be the only one impressed, but that was hardly a point in her favor.

Best to face the dragon head-on.

"Where is Abigail now?"

"Eleven o'clock? She'll be walking around with her white gloves on making sure the girls have dusted and waxed everything properly. She said to remind you we are expecting a visit from the vicar today."

Ellen had completely forgotten. She also had to think very hard to remember what day it was. Wednesday? Thursday? She was fairly sure she'd lost one in there somewhere.

She gulped her coffee, ate her crumpets, and ran the brush through her hair one last time before leaving Miriam humming and stripping the bed behind her.

She found Mrs. Winklebottom and the vicar at the same time. The Reverend Mr. Podd had just arrived and was standing in the foyer as Ellen descended the staircase. The two had their heads together, murmuring and both looked up when they heard footsteps on the stairs.

A tad leery of what they might be whispering, Ellen felt a blush warming her cheeks. But the vicar was quick to smile in greeting and met her on the bottom step with his hand thrust out to shake. "Miss Ellen Ward. A sincere pleasure, I assure you."

"Bowe," she corrected him. "Ellen Bowe."

"Ah yes, beg pardon. I do recall now that Abigail said you took your grandmother's name. She was a lovely lady, very elegant in bearing, and generous in her charity to those less fortunate."

From a distance the vicar had looked like a robust middle-aged man with brown hair and a straightforward strut. Up close, she could see the lines on his face, the wrinkled wattle on his neck supported by the stiff white collar.

"You knew my grandmother?"

"I used to work here as a boy. My father was head groom and I helped muck out the stables. Dreadful job, but when you're six it is all good fun. Gweneth was an excellent horsewoman and rode every morning. She would always bring her horse a fresh red apple and me a cookie or a sweet. We were all quite devastated by the accident that took her and your grandfather."

Ellen stole a quick glance at Mrs. Winklebottom, who put a finger to the corner of her mouth and wiggled it. Ellen felt her own mouth and brushed away a crumpet crumb.

"Will you be joining us for lunch, Reverent Podd?" Mrs. Winklebottom inquired.

"I would like nothing better, Abigail, but alas, I must decline. One of my parishioners is quite ill and I was actually on my way to visit with him but I thought I should stop in here first to at least introduce myself. "

"To put a sticky hand in Master Henry's closets, more like."

The vicar sighed. "Now Abigail, you know that is not entirely true."

"Not entirely false either. He weren't even ash in the urn and you were at the door, hat in hand."

"We have villagers in need who could make good use of a stout pair of trousers and a warm jacket."

"I would be happy to donate the clothes to people who can use them," Ellen interjected quickly. "Mrs. Winklebottom and I can go through the closets and send whatever she suggests as being suitable over to the church."

The vicar spread his arms. "That would be most appreciated. And most generous of you."

"I'll show you to the door, shall I?" Mrs. Winklebottom held out her arm. "Wouldn't want to keep a sick parishioner waiting."

When she had hustled him out, she came back to where Ellen was standing by the stairs.

"I gather you do not like the vicar?"

Mrs. Winklebottom snorted. "I was married to him for ten years. Liked him fair enough then, I suppose. Enjoyed his wine a bit too much, he did. Called it ‘white tea'. Fell out of the pulpit one day after too much ‘tea' and that was that. Will you be wanting lunch first or shall we get it over with? The sooner we send him a box or two, the less likely we are to hear from him for a while."

Since Ellen wished to stay on her good side, she suggested, "We can go on up now, if that suits you."

"Suits me fine. Then I can send the girls in to do a thorough clean. "

An hour later, her uncle's closets and dresser drawers had been gone through and several piles of clothing were ready to be boxed up.

"What about the frocks?" Abigail asked. "Your grandmother was a great one for attending costume balls and holding them here at Mercy, and Miss Rachel kept up the tradition. You might want to keep some of them, they weren't cheaply made. Same with her jewelry. Wormsley has the valuable pieces locked in a safety deposit box, but some of the good costume pieces are in here."

She rifled through her ring of keys and unlocked one of the drawers. It was wide and deep and the overhead lights revealed a glittering array of bracelets and necklaces and earrings. Ellen had a small chain that her father had given her, her mother's wedding rings, and a watch as the full extent of her metallic wealth.

"These are all lovely," she said, underwhelmed by her own reaction.

"Most were collected by your grandmother."

Ellen picked up a particularly gaudy art deco brooch. A reflection of light bounced off another object beneath it in the drawer, drawing her attention. It was a locket with beautiful patterns inlaid on the surface and framed with a delicate lacework of filigreed gold, some of which had been bent and broken off. It looked old and tarnished and Ellen might not have picked it up if not for the sudden buzzing of a tiny gnat in her ear. She raised a hand to brush it away then something made her reach down into the drawer to pick up the locket.

She opened the tiny hasp with a fingernail.

Inside the locket was an oval with the portrait of a woman hand-painted on the surface. Some of the paint was worn thin and it had been sealed with a hard, protective coating, but there was no mistaking the face in the portrait. The woman had silver blonde hair and sky-blue eyes.

She turned the locket over to see if there was any engraving on the back, but the apart from scrolls and curly-cues, it was blank. She looked at the portrait again and felt an odd tightness in her chest.

Could it possibly be the same…?

"How the devil did that get in the drawer?" Mrs. Winklebottom bustled forward. "That was your grandmother's, and certainly not a costume piece. I could swear I sent it with the rest of her good jewels to be put in the bank for safekeeping. In fact, I know I did because it was a family heirloom and she called it one of her most valued possessions. She loved it because the girl in the portrait looked just like her." She stopped and blinked, then looked up into Ellen's face. "And just like you, I warrant."

"I wish I had known her," Ellen said with genuine regret.

Silence throbbed between them for a few minutes.

"Abigail… why did my father leave England? Why did he cut himself off from the family?"

The housekeeper drew a deep breath then went back to folding a jacket. "What makes you think I would know the whys and wherefores?"

It was on the tip of Ellen's tongue to say what Miriam had told her about Mrs. Winklebottom knowing everything that went on in the house but she thought better of it.

"Ethan said my father stayed in touch. That he sent you the occasional letter."

"Didn't ask him to. Didn't think it was proper, especially after Miss Rachel died. But then, I always did have a soft spot for him. Always smiling, always getting into mischief."

"As I understand it, she died long after my father left. "

Mrs. Winklebottom set the jacket down and when she stood, her mouth was a stern line.

"Master Henry worshipped the very ground Miss Rachel walked on. Followed her about like a puppy, always at her beck and call even when she didn't beckon or call him. Some might have seen it as devotion, but you ask me, he smothered her. Now, I don't like to speak ill of the dead, and she was a lovely girl, but she married Henry for all the wrong reasons. They say as how money can't buy love, but it can certainly buy young ladies who like to spend thousands on their clothes, have personal hairdressers, people to do their makeup and give pedicures and manicures and shoot organic water into their bowels when they're feeling out of sorts.

"They lived in London for a few years, while he tried to start up an export business. Artifacts, that sort of thing. But it never got off the ground. Failed miserably, in fact, and at his father's insistence they moved back here so he could learn how to run the estate when the time came for him to take it over. It was day and night to living in London and Rachel went from thinking life here was quaint to thinking it was deadly dull and boring.

"William had been living abroad at the time, travelling and teaching in Europe, but that same summer he came home. Next to Henry in his stiff tweed sportscoats and horn-rimmed glasses, William was like a fresh, cool breeze blowing in off the ocean. He was dashing and manly and exuberant, that golden hair of his always a tad too long and looking as if he'd just rolled out of bed. When Rachel set eyes on him, well… that was that."

Ellen was almost afraid to ask. "They had an affair?"

"Gracious no. Miss Rachel was all for it. She tried everything to seduce him, but he wasn't having any of it. Henry, of course, was as jealous of his brother as the day was long and didn't believe the flirting and seducing was all one sided. When she got pregnant, Henry hadn't touched her for months and he accused William of being the father. Regardless how adamantly William denied it, Henry took up a gun and tried to shoot him. He missed and hit Rachel, which caused her to miscarry. It also ended any chance of her having another child.

"That was the night your grandparents died. They were called about the shooting and were trying to get home fast. It was raining and the roads were slick…"

Mrs. Winklebottom stopped to gather herself. She was twisting the ring of keys in her hand, making them jingle.

"After the funeral, Henry was beside himself. He was ranting and screaming and blamed William for everything. Your father went down to London for a while to let him cool off, but Henry had Ethan inform him in no uncertain terms that he was no longer welcome here. Told him if he ever set foot on the estate again, he would use a shotgun next time and wouldn't miss."

"Even though he did nothing wrong?"

"Rachel never confessed to who the real father was and Henry was never convinced it wasn't William. They kept to their separate rooms for the next few years and for all that Henry continued to dote on her, she became more and more depressed and erratic. She took to drinking heavily, taking drugs to sleep, drugs to wake up. Then one night, she took something that made her think she could fly. She wandered up to the ruins, and that was the end of it. Henry went to a dark place after that. Cursed your father, cursed the castle, cursed God." She crossed herself quickly.

"He never tried to reconcile with my father?"

"Henry Ward was a proud man. And stubborn. Even more, though, I think he knew all along he weren't supposed to inherit Mercy Keep. Maybe he thought he weren't supposed to have Rachel either. Aye, that would spin a man's brain."

"What do you mean he knew he weren't… wasn't supposed to inherit?"

The housekeeper drew a large breath that plumped out her bosoms with authority. "The twins were born by caesarian. Your grandmother tried to give birth normal, tried her best at it for nigh on twenty-six hours, but William's little head got stuck and the doctors decided they had to take both boys out quick or they would lose them. Henry had to come out first so they could pull William free. Poor wee thing looked like his head had been in a cone. But because of that, Henry's birth was listed first and he was declared the oldest."

"By fifty-nine seconds," Ellen whispered.

"Aye, boggles the mind, it does, how much could have been different but for those fifty-nine seconds."