Perfect in My Sight (31 page)

“
Yes, sir,
”
he said, and Peter rose from the bed, retrieving the journal.

“
Stay here,
”
he directed, and went in search of his sister and the woman he loved.

Instinctively he knew that where he found one, he would find the other.

His sister needed help. He intended to give it to her.

He only hoped he wasn
’
t too late.

God, for Sarah
’
s sake, for his sake, for Christopher
’
s sake, he prayed it wasn
’
t too late! He didn
’
t want to live without Sarah—didn
’
t think he could bear losing her, too.

He heard their voices at the end of the corridor, and with his heart tripping in relief
and clutching the journal in his hand, he rushed to the parlor.

He thrust open th
e doors to find them seated co
zily before a small table set with tea for two. It was a picture-perfect image, tarnished
only by the knowledge of what he had read within the journal he held in his hand.

“
Peter!
”
Sarah exclaimed, and rose at once, dropping her cup on the saucer. The fine porcelain
shattered, spilling hot tea on the table. It soaked into the cloth and trickled to
the floor. She ran to his side, her face ashen.

His sister sat there, quite serenely, hardly fazed
by the sound of breaking glass...
except when he looked into her eyes. They were filled with something like defeat
in that instant. Her gaze centered upon the book he held in his hand, and he thought
she might faint where she sat. Her eyes rolled back and her head lolled backward a
bit, but she sat straight once more and faced him squarely.

He drew Sarah into his arms, clutching her to him, embracing her with a hand at her
back, relief and too many other emotions warring within him. He wanted to tell his
sister that he would help her. Wanted to see her rot in jail for taking Mary
’
s life. He didn
’
t know what the hell to do, what to say, what to feel—except relief that Sarah was
unharmed.

Ruth
’
s gaze never left them.

Her expression wavered between sadness and fright and anger and confusion.
“
I never had a chance, Peter,
”
she said calmly, and then reached out to lift up the full cup of tea that sat untouched
before her.

Peter watched her with a sense of numbness, as though he were standing in the middle
of a dream he did not quite comprehend. Somewhere deep within he understood what his
brain would not register. He held Sarah close as he watched his sister rise to her
feet.

Sarah turned as Ruth lifted the cup to her lips.
“
Oh God!
”
she cried out, and her knees buckled. Peter caught her, though still he did not quite
comprehend.

“
I never had a chance,
”
Ruth said once more, sadly, and drank down the entire cup of tea. She poured herself
another and drank it down as well, and it was in that instant as she guzzled the last
of it that Peter fully understood what she had done.

He watched in stunned disbelief as she wobbled
o
n her feet and then crumpled with a thump to the
f
loor. Sarah cried out at the sound and buried her
h
ead against his chest, clutching his shirt in horror.
She
began to sob a
nd he pressed her against him, d
ropping the journal at their feet and holding her
with
both arms.

His mind reeled as he stared at his sister
’
s body
l
ying so limp on the floor.

It was over—over before he had even begun to
c
omprehend what had happened—and he was, for in instant, too stunned even to blink.

CHAPTER
34

Ruth’s funeral had been as quiet an affair as was possible, considering that there
had beer three deaths at the Holland estate in the last six years, with two of them
occurring in the past week It was difficult to feel any sense of justice after reading
Ruth’s journals in their entirety. Ruth had been a desperate woman who had felt herself
a victim at the hands of men. Sarah and Mary both were representative of all that
Ruth had been denied in her life. And more, both of them had stood in the way—or so
Ruth had thought—of all that she had felt should have been hers. It was difficult
to blame Ruth entirely. Sarah blamed society in part for making women feel so helpless
that they should resort to such desperate measures.

And yet Sarah had known many women in similar situations as Ruth—Mel, for example.
Mel had found a way to survive and to do it with zest and pride and joy.

Some women were born victims, it seemed.

Sarah only thanked God Christopher was safe. She had accomplished what she had set
out to do—uncover Mary’s murderer and safeguard her son. Only she’d done something
more in the process... something she’d only realized without a doubt as she’d watched
them lower Ruth’s casket into the ground.

She’d fallen in love with Peter Holland.

She kept her silence even after they left the cemetery and were safely away from the
prying eyes of the press. She sat within the carriage, Christopher beside her, holding
his little hand. His father sat before them, staring out the window.

Sarah watched him, admiring his beautiful face, wanting nothing more than to take
that face in her hands and whisper I love you against his mouth.

She did love him, and her heart ached to hold him.

She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him.

Swallowing, she turned again to stare out the window, watching the streets pass by.

“Sarah,” he called softly, and his voice was like a whisper to her heart.

Sarah blinked, and turned to him as he drew something from his coat. Without another
word, he reached out to place the item on her lap.

It was a book.

Mary’s?

“Is it...”

“Mary’s journal,” he affirmed. “I thought you might like to read it.”

Sarah stared at the tiny book he’d presented to her, thinking how ironic it was that
she’d searched so diligently for it as evidence, only to find Ruth’s diary, instead.
She met Peter’s gaze.

He was watching her, frowning. “I’m sorry,” he offered with a sad shake of his head.
“I know she was dear to you.”

Sarah nodded, and reached out almost reverently to lift the book into her hands, inspecting
it.

It was small—deep red leather, embossed with Mary’s name at the bottom right corner
in delicate print. Sarah smoothed her finger over the gold lettering, trying to find
the courage to open it and read Mary’s last recorded words.

She turned the book and found it locked, and peered up at Peter in surprise. “You
never opened it?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t find it until some time after the investigation,” he told her.
“As I said ... I think I was afraid to know what she had to say.”

Sarah thought she understood. She was afraid as well, and yet for her, at least, it
was time to face her cousin.

“I never found the key,” he said.

Examining the delicate lock, she remembered the tiny charm she’d found in the first
room she’d slept in. She wondered if it had survived the fire, wondered, too, if it
might possibly be the key to Mary’s final journal. She hadn’t been in that room at
all since the night of the fire, hadn’t had any reason to go back, as she’d inspected
both that room and the nursery quite thoroughly and to no avail.

“Where did you find it?” she asked, still scrutinizing the fine gold lock.

“In the nursery,” he told her.

Sarah nodded. It made sense, then, that she would have kept the key in her room.

Her throat felt suddenly too tight to speak. Gratitude overwhelmed her. She knew it
couldn’t be easy for him to hand her a record of his past mistakes. “Thank you, Peter,”
she whispered, and looked up into his eyes.

She caught a glitter as he nodded and turned away.

Mary’s last entry was dated the eve of April 15, 1880.

Through the entire journal there was nothing revealed that might have shed light upon
her murder, and yet Mary had unknowingly left Sarah with so much insight into her
and Peter’s relationship.

It seemed quite clear to Sarah what had happened between them—at least from Mary’s
point of view.

She just didn’t know Peter’s.

It seemed to her that Mary had never been certain of Peter’s love—his affection, yes,
but never his love. In her own words she had tried so desperately to win him, but
Peter had never given his heart and then finally had withdrawn from her completely.

Toward the end of her life, however, the last few entries in particular, Mary had
begun to realize she’d handled her marriage terribly, that she had perhaps reacted
to his withdrawal from a point of pain and not logically at all. She had begun to
realize that her fears were simply that, her fears, and that if his eyes had wandered,
then it had been because she had abandoned him so completely. She’d seemed pretty
certain, however, that he had not, because she’d confronted his friend Cile directly
about their relationship, and Cile had answered honestly—that yes, she did love Peter,
but that Peter had never returned her feelings, that she’d respected his vows.

Apparently, however, Peter had confided in Cile, because Cile had also revealed to
Mary the depths of Peter’s disappointment over their failing marriage. It seemed Peter
blamed himself for Mary’s withdrawal—for not reassuring her when she’d needed it most.
And perhaps that was true, but Mary and Peter had been so young, and these things
were so much easier to see in hindsight.

And yet, according to the journal, Mary had begun to understand the mistakes they
had made, had nearly decided to move back into her own room—nearly, though not quite...

As it turned out, she never had.

Pride had kept her from it.

Pride was a thief of time.

The two of them might have been happy together, but pride had kept Mary from going
back to her husband, and pride had kept him from going to her.

Pride had kept Sarah and Mary apart, as well.

It wasn’t until she turned the final page that she found the lock of hair—hair the
color of Christopher’s, though it was much too thick a lock to belong to a six-month-old
child. It was secured to the back inside cover with a single phrase written beneath
it: I’m sorry, my dear Sarah.

Sarah’s heart jolted as she realized what it was.

Mary’s hair.

Emotions choked her as she stared at her cousin’s lock of hair, blinking away tears
as she remembered a time so very long ago when they’d made each other vows. How old
had they been? Sixteen? Seventeen? She had almost forgotten that day. But Mary hadn’t,
and the apology choked her breath away.

Swallowing the knot in her throat, she closed the journal and laid her head back against
the chair in Mary’s room, trying not to weep over so much regret.

She stared at the bed where Mellie had died and where Mary had once slept and wondered
why she had subconsciously chosen this room to read Mary’s last words.

Not to punish herself, perhaps, but as a reminder that all that had passed before
need not pass in vain.

It was possible to learn from past mistakes.

Though Mary had never written Sarah to say so, it was apparent that she had begun
to soften toward her, and at the point of Mary’s death it had become more a matter
of pride than anything else—pride alone had kept her from breaching the silence between
them. As Mary had pointed out in her journal, Sarah had been as capable of breaking
the silence as Mary had been, and Mary had felt Sarah responsible for making the first
attempt.

And perhaps rightly so.

It was true... Sarah could have... and probably should have been the one to raise
the white flag. It had been her own ultimatum that had damaged their relationship
to begin with. That she had not relented was something Sarah would have to live with
for the rest of her life.

And yet, must she punish herself forever simply because she had not had the insight
and fortitude to make the right decision all those years ago?

Was it right for Peter to continue to blame himself for his mistakes with Mary?

The answer was no.

And Mary hadn’t continued to blame her, either—nor Peter. She had long forgiven Sarah,
except for her stubbornness. It had saddened and angered Mary that Sarah had gone
so very long without apologizing. And it had hurt her immensely that she’d felt Sarah
hadn’t cared enough.

If Mary had only known.

If she’d only realized how often Sarah had berated herself for her own stubborn youthful
pride... Why couldn’t she have let it go long enough to right the wrongs between them?

Such foolishness.

But what was done was done, and Sarah could hardly undo the damage now.

The question now was...

Could she walk away from Peter?

Could she simply pack her bags and go?

And the answer was no.

She lifted a brow as she thought about Peter’s proposal, and then Christopher’s, and
smiled.

It was a bold thing to do, but she wasn’t the sort to wait about for things to happen.
Her uncle had always taught her that if she wanted something badly enough, she need
only pursue it.

Why should it be a man’s right to ask a woman to wed?

She had as much right as he, did she not?

She only prayed Christopher had been speaking for his father when he had asked her
to marry them, because she would die if Peter should say no now, if he should laugh
in her face.

And with that in mind, she rose determinedly from her chair, took a deep breath, and
marched toward Peter’s office.

She found him sitting at his desk, sifting through his papers, but it was obvious
to Sarah that his mind was not on his work. His sister’s death, no matter that they
were not close, had left him in a state of shock.

She wanted to hold him in that instant.

She wanted to make love to him... for the rest of her life.

“Peter,” she began. He peered up at her, his eyes full of sorrow. Now was not the
time to speak of Ruth; perhaps later when the wound was not so fresh. There was nothing
he might have done differently; he couldn’t have known. Looking back on it, the signs
were there, but there was nothing in Ruth’s demeanor that might have led them to such
a horrifying conclusion. Sarah was going to make him understand that—wouldn’t let
him blame himself.

He’d been blaming himself for far too much far too long.

“I have been thinking,” Sarah continued, and took a deep breath, trying not to smile
at what she was about to say.

“Forgive me for bringing this up at such a terrible time,” she said, marching into
his office and standing before his desk, “but I have been ignoring the matter of my
reputation far too long, you see... I cannot remain oblivious to it now that my task
here is done.”

He stared at her, unblinking, and she began to ramble.

“A reputation is such a delicate thing, you realize... and I must do what I can to
save it...”

Peter swallowed as he listened to the woman he loved.

She was going to leave him now, he sensed it.

The drama was over, and Christopher was safe.

No reason for her to stay.

He’d been sitting here, trying to work up the courage to ask her once more to stay,
to beg even if that was what it took. God, he loved her.

She was going to leave him.

He nodded, not quite able to face Sarah as she spoke. Staring at his papers, he tried
not to choke on his grief over what she was about to do.

He wouldn’t stop her.

He had no right to.

“I think it’s only right you should marry me,” she blurted, and Peter lifted his gaze
to her in stunned surprise.

Her chin lifted defiantly, and her expression was perfectly sober.

His brows twitched and he shook his head, not quite believing what had come from her
lips.

It was the most arrogant proposal any man had ever imposed, and to hear it from the
lips of a woman—not just any woman, but the woman he loved—made him grin.

“You think I should marry you?”

Her chin lifted higher. “I do!”