Lord Monroe's Dark Tower: The Albright Sisters: Book 2 (23 page)

The sound of footsteps approaching announced Flavian’s entrance. He smiled, a radiant, beautiful smile that pierced her heart like no dagger ever could. “We’ve got our man.”

Claire touched her throat. Though the coach incident happened nearly two weeks ago, it pained her to speak, but the discomfort was easing. “You found someone?” she rasped.

“He’s a Quaker by the name of William Tuke. For the last ten years, he’s operated an asylum called the ‘York Retreat.’ The institution believes in humane care, in good food, and a beautiful setting.”

Claire swallowed, “But York … it’s so far from here.”

He bent over her and kissed the top of her head. “What a wonder you are. After all Abella has done that you would care to have her within a thousand miles is amazing.”

Claire didn’t actually, but if Abella were far away, then Flavian would be gone a lot. He’d seen what the girl was capable of, but couldn’t help loving her all the same.

Clearing her throat, Claire reached for his hand. “She’s your daughter, isn’t she?”

He looked stunned. “How did you guess?”

“It’s not in her features. But you sang to me, didn’t you, when I was bedridden? I pretended to be asleep because I knew you’d stop if you thought I was listening.” He looked down, shamefaced. “You’ve a beautiful voice. Your daughter inherited your talent.”

“Ah,” he said. His eyes were bleak with sorrow. “I’m afraid she’s inherited a few not-so-fine features from me as well.”

“Such as?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Claire rubbed her arms. She’d encountered this argument from men before. “Of all the ancestors in the long gallery, you never mentioned one who is mad, and you don’t suffer the same delusions as Abella.”

“The sins of the father are visited upon … ”

“No. Men overestimate their role in the traits of their children. The mother has at least as much influence.” Flavian looked doubtful, so Claire plunged on, though her throat began to hurt. “My Uncle Sebastian bred champion race horses. He paid attention to the dams as well as the stallions. The same is true of humans.

“So, who is Abella’s mother?”

The pain that washed over Flavian’s features frightened her. He turned away as if he were about to leave the room. Catching himself, he sat beside her on the settee instead. “You’re to be my wife. Surely, no one can expect me to keep this a secret from you. What you meant to ask is … who
was
Abella’s mother.”

“She’s gone then?”

He took Claire’s hand, squeezed the fingers, then rose like a sleepwalker and went to a globe fixed on an elaborately carved pedestal. Giving it a spin, he watched the earth go by, as if he looked to each passing country for the right words. Brooding, aging right before her eyes, Claire knew that at last she would understand the darkness that plagued her future husband’s soul.

He stopped the globe at Spain. “When we fought the battle of Algeciras, I had just turned fourteen. But Hernando made a terrible mistake when he fished me out of the water. Valencia, his sister, was sixteen, and to me she was the living embodiment of an angel. Day after day, she hovered near my bed, tending to the wound on my thigh, feeding me food and water. And she was beautiful — like Abella — with black hair and dancing eyes.

“Is she the girl who hanged herself — the damsel with cinnamon skin?”

He nodded. “She pretended to know more about the world than I, yet she was just as ignorant … perhaps more so. At any rate, I loved her, and she loved me.”

“Like Romeo and Juliette … Spain and England … The Montagues and Capulets.”

He smiled at her reference to the Shakespeare play — a grim little smile that quickly disappeared. “Even then, I saw the parallels, but I conveniently forgot that Shakespeare’s lovers were doomed.”

He traced the outline of Spain with his index finger then brought the digit to his lips. “I’d heard talk from the sailors but scarcely knew what I was doing. We kissed and fumbled … ” He spun the globe again, this time in disgust; he abandoned it and fixed himself a brandy. When he sat beside Claire again, his back was stiff and his eyes remote. “Valencia was more than four months gone by the time we realized she was with child. That’s how innocent we were.”

He shook his head and swallowed half the drink. “Her father, Caballero de Vargas-Duarte, attacked me with a sword as I lay asleep. Who knows what woke me, but I managed to leap out of the window in time.

“But, dear God, the trouble I caused that poor girl,” Flavian swirled his brandy then sucked air between his teeth in a long, mournful breath. “Her mother shunned her, drawing on the full power of the Catholic Church to shame her. And her father … oh her father … he used the pregnancy to indulge his sadistic tendencies. He poked her with needles, fed her gruel, and shackled her as a whore, just to name a few of the tortures she endured.

“As for me, Hernando hid me at a friend’s house where I lived in jolly comfort drinking Amontillado and eating fine Spanish cuisine. I didn’t see Valencia until after Abella was born. Hernando forced his parents to bring her to a masquerade ball we contrived to hold at the friend’s house. It was a ruse so I could see her again.

“I should have donned the costume of a fool; instead, I went as Romeo. She dressed as the Black Death — the plague.

Running a hand through his hair, Flavian swallowed the last of his drink. “She was radiant that night, but I saw beneath her excitement what her father had done to her. There was no flesh on her bones. All of it had gone to nursing Abella. Her arms were bruised, her face, gaunt beneath the powder. She begged me to help her, to take her and the child away. She wept in my arms, cried out all the misdeeds of her father. In my arms … she was … I could feel her breaking in two. Yet, I did nothing. Fourteen-years-old, a hunted alien in a strange land where we were at war … But why did I have to say it? Why couldn’t I have given her hope?” He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubbed hard.

Claire touched his shoulder and he shuddered. Springing to his feet, he returned to the decanter and poured another snifter. After he’d tossed it back, he looked at her as if he suddenly remembered she was in the room. “I’m sorry, would you like a drink?”

She shook her head. “What happened?”

“After the party, I decided to throw stones at her window. She would step onto her balcony like Juliet, and I would tell her I had a plan for us to escape. But she’d already stepped onto the balcony. She’d already listened to a voice telling her of a way to escape. She’d tied a rope around her neck and jumped. I cut her down. Her body was warm, yet I couldn’t save her.”

Claire went to him and added brandy to the snifter. She held his icy fingers and willed heat into them. “I’m sorry.” She stroked his cheek. “Forgive yourself.”

He jerked away. “I could have given her hope.”

“And you, powerless yourself?” she shook her head. “It’s a miracle you got home.”

Flavian stared out the window, eyes unblinking. “I wanted to keep you safe from a man such as myself, but I’m defenseless against you.”

“Then never let me out of your sight.” She swallowed. It was difficult to talk. “Perhaps we can convince this man, Tuke, to open an asylum here — The Bournemouth Retreat.”

He smiled and his powerful arms slipped around her shoulders, bathing her in the warmth of his masculine body. “Forgive yourself,” Claire coaxed, “Give me hope for happiness.” His gaze shifted ever so slightly, but Claire detected a slight relaxing in his jaw and understanding in his eyes.

“There’s hope,” he said, planting a kiss. “Now come with me, my extraordinary woman. I’ve something to show you that I think you’ll like.” He took her hand and led her out the door. Lilies, snapdragon, and Queen Anne’s lace filled the flowerbeds. White moths circumnavigated one another before landing among the stalks, and the buzz of enterprising insects filled the air.

“It’s nice,” she said, holding her throat, “so pretty.”

“This is more magnificent. Just wait.” He wiped his mouth, as excited as a schoolboy.

They rounded a corner of the house and the looming tower came into full view. Leaning against its gray stone facade was a pile of detritus two stories high. Everything Abella had collected in a massive heap. Claire stopped, slack jawed at the sight.

“Here,” Flavian led her to a bench on the lawn, “now you can watch us cart it all away.”

Claire sat and shook her head in wonder. “How?”

Slipping onto the bench beside her, he threw an arm over the back and draped his hand on her shoulder. “Maybe she sensed that I would brook no argument, but she agreed without a struggle. It’s been hard for her, watching the servants throw her treasures out the window. But I told her we’ll burn it, so Hernando will receive her gift in heaven.”

Claire patted his knee. “It’s better.”

He laughed. “My, what a burden it’s been. I didn’t know the weight of it until I saw it all heaped on the lawn. It’s as if I carried all that offal on my shoulders.”

“You’re happy.”

“I am happy.” He glanced around them, then leaned in and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “You,” he said, pointing at her heart.

It hurt to laugh, so she checked that no one was watching and cupped his face in her hands.

He kissed her palm, and his mood grew serious. “By God, Claire,” he took her in his arms, “I don’t deserve you.” He kissed her over and over. “How the heavens have shone on my sinful life.” He kissed her one last time on the lips. “I must tell Abella.” As he started across the lawn, he turned, and walking backwards, said, “I was thinking I’d build a music conservatory for her at the asylum … one with plenty of room for an audience.”

Claire nodded, the neck muscles closing around a painful swelling in her throat. “Perfection.”

“How I love you, woman.” He rushed back to her, lifted her from the bench, and then buried her mouth in his. The kiss developed into a languorous exploration. Lips, tongue, the fine bristles of his chin — Claire forgot the pain in her throat, the trauma of Abella’s attempts on her life … Even the grass beneath her feet vanished into the sensuality of that kiss.

She ended the embrace and tugged his hand. “I’ll come, too.”

“You should wait down … ”

“No.” Claire smoothed his lapel. “I’m afraid of her. Terrified. She needs to become just a person to me again because I want this plan to work.”

• • •

The squat door to the tower boasted a newly outfitted bolt. Made of black iron, the rod fit into a hole drilled deep in the stone arch surrounding the entry. As Flavian loosened it, the metal bar ground in its path. At the sound, Claire’s heart sped and her vision narrowed, so that the door, which was a few feet in front of her, seemed hundreds of yards away — a tiny, distant speck wavering in uncertain light. She dug her nails into her palm, hoping the sensation would keep her from fainting.

The door swung open — black and gaping. It wasn’t until Flavian took her hand that she found the ability to move. “You’ll be safe,” he whispered. “I won’t leave your side.”

Claire’s heart clanged with each step as they ascended the stairs. A certainty gripped her that when she entered those walls, she’d scream, run, and collapse like a carriage losing its wheels. Yet when she rounded the last corner to the third floor, she realized she’d forgotten about the jumble on the lawn. The tower was clean now — a vast stretch of empty space that rang with Abella’s melancholy song. Stripped of the signs of her madness, the tower, which once held such dread, became just another hallway. She let go of Flavian’s hand and patted his sleeve. “I’m ready.”

• • •

The room had been stripped of its piles of rags and useless filth. The bed sported new linens, and a fresh coat of white paint enlivened the walls. The room blazed with light from the window and two oil lamps that burned despite the heat of the day. Abella stood by the window looking through its leaded pane. She sang the last sorrowful note of her melody, tapering the sound to the thinness of a rapier. When the sonance ended, without turning, she said, “I hear you coming. Little creatures who carry news,
si
?”

“Good news,” Claire said.

Abella whirled and strutted toward her. Before Flavian could move to protect her, Claire stopped him with a touch. She stood her ground and stared into the black diamonds of Abella’s eyes.

“You brave lady,” Abella said, tossing her head.

Claire kept very still. “Yes.”

“Humph.” Abella inched back, temporarily defeated. “They give me the eggs this morning, Vav. I no like eggs.” She shuddered.

Flavian put his hand on Claire’s waist. “We’ve found a place for you.”

Abella clenched her fists. “That’s right, you throw me out! You put me on that pile. My father hate me, my mother chase me to dogs — now you! Now you to kill me, too. Put me where they chain me, starve me, beat me.”

Flavian stepped forward and tried to catch Abella’s arm. “This asylum will be different.”

“Is no different!” Abella screamed. She picked up a water ewer and hurled it against the wall. Blue and white china shattered. Claire threw her arm over her eyes and backed toward the door. Around the room, Abella raged as Flavian tried to get hold of her. She threw the new bedspread at his feet, hurled furniture to the floor, and finally slammed a brass lamp into the window. The pane exploded into glistening shards, and the lamp snapped in two. The base clattered on the floor while the top teetered on the sill, then fell back into the room. Whale oil pooled around it, but the wick seemed to have been snuffed out on impact. Angry now, Flavian caught the girl and gripped her tight around the arms.

“You kill me!” Abella shrieked, twisting and squirming in his grasp. “You throw me out so you marry that woman. She hate me!”

“I’m not throwing you out,” Flavian said, his voice calm but taut.

“Liar! Liar!” Tears streamed down Abella’s face; saliva dripped from her mouth, while she gasped for breath between choking sobs.

“I will never abandon you,” Flavian said, not relinquishing his grip. “You are my daughter.” Softly now, he murmured to her. “You are my blood.”