The Fate of Mercy Alban (37 page)

“By that time, Mrs. Charity had learned her lesson about black magic, and there was no talk of a repeat performance of what had happened ten years prior,” Jane went on. “I never heard her ever speak of witchcraft again. It was over. And finally, thankfully, everything returned to normal in this household. But as you know, that wasn’t the end of it.”

Jane swallowed hard and went on. “You can’t blame us for not seeing it. We wanted so to believe that the evil had gone, we wanted so to go back to the way things used to be.”

“What didn’t you see, Jane?” Matthew asked, giving me a look. “I’m not following.”

“You didn’t read the rest of the manuscript with me,” I jumped in. “I think I know. Coleville saw it, too, the first summer he was here. It wasn’t Mercy in that grave.” I turned to Jane. “Isn’t that right?”

Jane’s face went ashen. “I had a hunch. But when the doctor told us Mercy Alban had been in his facility for the past fifty years, I put two and two together,” she said, nodding. “But that’s the first time.”

“Coleville was writing about what really went on here at Alban House that summer, and he described how worried everyone was about ‘Prudence’s’ behavior,” I explained. Turning to Jane, I went on, “Coleville changed the names of the family, but his cast of characters was clearly my dad, Fate, my mother, himself, and my grandparents. He wrote about how Fate—Prudence, he calls her in the book—suddenly didn’t seem herself. Her actions were strange and unlike her.”

I paused to catch my breath a moment. “I think that’s because it wasn’t her. I think Mercy killed Fate and took her place because she was tired of being shuttered up on the third floor. She had been watching everyone for so long and wanted to join in. So she did. That’s the ‘something much, much worse’ you were talking about that night, Carter, isn’t it?”

Everyone stared at me. Nobody spoke. Finally, Carter said: “That’s exactly the conclusion I came to, my dear, when I learned it was Mercy who had come back to us and not her sister.” He sighed. “You must understand. Back then, we wanted to believe all was well. We took it on face value and didn’t question anything. But your writer was absolutely right about Fate’s behavior. It was off, strange, unlike her. All the staff remarked on it and whispered about it. But we came to the conclusion that it was the result of losing her sister, that was the reason she wasn’t quite herself.”

“In the manuscript, Coleville talks about losing four days after having an encounter with the girl in white on the lakeshore,” I prodded. “When he came out of it, that’s when he noticed ‘Prudence’s’ behavior as being different. Did that really happen? Was he down with a fever?”

Jane nodded. “That he was. But I noticed …” She looked at her husband, who reached over and patted her hand.

“It’s all right, dear,” he said. “It’s time the truth came out.”

“What did you notice, Jane?” I asked her.

“Down on the lakeshore,” she said, shaking her head and shuddering. “One night, the night before he went down with a fever, he was dancing and chanting around the fire ring with a girl who I presumed was Fate. Wild, they were. It seemed evil and wrong, what they were doing. I can’t explain why, but it made me afraid, watching them. I closed my window and pulled the drapes shut. But later on …”

My stomach tightened into a knot. “What happened then?”

“Later on, I looked again. I had a ghastly feeling that it was Mercy out there, not her sister. I wanted to make sure. The fire was out, there was no more dancing, but I could have sworn I saw someone in the garden. I was just a girl myself, so I didn’t say anything to anybody. And then when Mercy went missing the next day, I felt that was the end of it. We could rest easy.”

“And you didn’t check on Mercy that night?” I asked.

Jane shook her head. “That was not my place. It was Mrs. Charity who took care of Mercy.”

I shivered, deep inside, as I looked from Jane to Carter to Mr. Jameson. “Do you think that Mercy had Coleville under some sort of, I don’t know, spell or something, and together they killed Fate?”

Jane returned my gaze, and I saw her squeeze her husband’s hand. She nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Aye,” she whispered. “I think we finally know the truth. Considering all that has gone on within the past few weeks, I think that’s exactly what happened.”

After a moment, I continued. “And the next summer?” I asked, looking at Jane.

“Mr. Coleville was coming back to marry Adele, that was no secret,” Jane began. “As I’ve already told you, Adele and Charity were buzzing for months about it. Miss Fate, though, she didn’t really join in. She was not a part of this happiness. In fact, she was not a part of much of anything during that time. We on the staff suspected she might be in love with Mr. Coleville herself.”

“If the manuscript is any indication, she certainly was,” I said.

“He arrived shortly before the summer solstice party,” Jane said, “and apparently it all came to a head that night, although, as I have told you, I was up in the house helping my mother, so I did not see the turn of events. What I’m fairly sure of, however, is that his death was not a suicide.”

Carter cleared his throat. “It wasn’t. I saw the whole thing from the carriage house.”

I stared at him. “You witnessed what happened?”

“I did, indeed,” he said, dabbing at his brow. “I saw Mr. Coleville and your mother sitting on the bench in the garden. They were kissing and cooing, like any couple would be on the eve of their wedding, when she appeared. Miss Fate—although we all know that it wasn’t Fate at all. It was Mercy. She was shouting and yelling and shoved Adele away from Coleville, and that’s when I saw the gun in her hand. She aimed it at your mother and fired, as quickly as that, but Coleville had moved between them. He took the bullet for her and fell. It all happened in an instant. Your mother began screaming and dropped to the ground, and Mercy aimed again at her, and I opened my door and ran toward them both, but that’s when Johnny and Mr. Alban wrestled Mercy to the ground and got the gun out of her hand.

“Things happened very quickly after that,” he continued. “I saw Mr. Alban hurrying his daughter out of there, through the gardens, and into the tunnels that lead to the house. I never saw her again until she showed up the day of your mother’s funeral. Johnny and I led your mother into the carriage house—she was completely distraught—and he stayed with her there all night long. Never left her side. He loved her, even then.”

Jane nodded. “That was our Johnny,” she said, smiling at me. “About that time, I was instructed to usher everyone else out of the house. The party was over and it was time to go. Only when everyone was gone did your grandfather call the police and tell them about the suicide. That was the official line, and that’s what we were told to believe.

“And that night, straightaway, your grandfather left Alban House with his daughter,” she said.

And that was it. The mystery of David Coleville’s death solved. He died saving my mother and his unborn child. Now, perhaps, both of them could rest in peace.

We finished our dinner and lingered over dessert and coffee, and were talking of the past, when Harris Peters walked up onto the patio, carrying a bouquet of flowers.

“Hello, everyone,” he said, smiling shyly. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

I held my hands out for the flowers but he passed me by and instead handed them to Jane. “I do hope you’re feeling better, Mrs. Jameson.”

“That I am, lad.” She smiled up at him. “That I am.”

Matthew looked just as confused as I felt. Something was clearly going on between Jane and Harris, but I had no idea what it was.

She took a long sniff of the flowers. “The lad came to visit me in hospital.”

“We had quite a nice chat,” Harris said as he pulled out a chair and sank into it.

“Okay,” I said. “Now you’ve both lost me.”

“It has to do with what we were talking about the other night at the bar,” Harris began. “I gather from Jane that it’s all true.”

I scowled at her. “Can you shed some light on this?”

“You were wondering about why your mother and father would’ve gotten married so quickly after David Coleville’s death,” Jane began. “You suspected correctly. She was with child. She and your father had been thick as thieves all their lives, he in love with her all the while, so they married. But your mother—she wasn’t at all herself. She was in a deep depression and had been since the moment Coleville took his last breath. We have medications for that now, but back then there was nothing anyone could do. And when the baby was born, it became even worse. She didn’t get out of bed for weeks, she wouldn’t look at the baby, and, worse, she would not even acknowledge there was a baby. She insisted he didn’t exist.”

“Postpartum depression?” I offered.

“Aye, that, combined with losing the love of her life. She was not coping, not at all. The doctor had her sedated for much of the time.” She smiled sadly at Harris. “It wasn’t your fault, lad. She was out of her mind.”

He nodded and held my gaze. The expression on his face was heartbreaking—a wistfulness for what might have been and a sadness for what was.

“And that’s what led your father and his father to make the decision,” Jane went on. “We put the baby up for adoption. Your mother truly didn’t seem to realize a baby had been born and was now gone.”

“And the payments?” I asked.

“After some months of tender, loving care from your father and a team of doctors, she finally came back to herself. When she realized what had happened, she was frantic,” Jane went on, turning to Harris. “She was desperate to get you back. But the adoption was sealed. We had no way of knowing where you were or whether you were even still in the state. But, as I said, Mr. Alban had people, and by that time, Johnny had people, and he helped your mother look for you. It took six years, but we finally found you. Right here in the same town.”

Jane put a tissue to her eyes and turned to me. “She couldn’t imagine the cruelty of taking him away from the only home he had ever known. It’s not like he was a baby. He was a six-year-old who loved his parents more than anything. We were strangers to him. It well and truly broke her heart, but Adele couldn’t rip him from his adoptive mother’s arms. She loved him too much to do that to the child.”

She put a hand on Harris’s shoulder. “So a representative of the Alban family met with your parents, explained the situation, and let them know an envelope would be arriving in the mail once each month. They never told your parents who the benefactor was. And that was that.”

A tear trickled down Harris’s cheek. “And that was that.”

Jane turned to me. “Your mother grieved for years, for the man she had lost and the child she had lost. But time has a way of easing those burdens, as much as they can be. Several years passed, your mother and father grew closer and closer, and soon you came along. And then the twins. It ws a time of such happiness here at Alban House.”

“And, you told him all of this in the hospital, Jane?” I asked.

“Aye,” She nodded. “As soon as I took one look at him at the reception after the funeral, I knew who he was. He is the spitting image of his father.”

“But you didn’t say anything,” I said.

“I wasn’t sure what to do,” Jane admitted. “Things were happening so fast, and he was so angry at the reception.”

“When he called here to make an appointment to see my—our—mother, didn’t you know then?” I asked Jane.

She shook her head. “I never knew the lad’s name. Remember, I was just the housekeeper. I didn’t get all the details.” She turned to Harris. “But, of course, your mother knew your name when I told her you had been calling. She didn’t let on to me, but I think that’s why she agreed to meet with you. She felt the time had come.”

Harris’s lower lip was trembling, and I could tell he was holding back the floodgates. I moved to him and threw my arms around him, and we wept together, for the mother he never knew and the mother I’d never forget.

When we had both dried our eyes, I took him by the hand, nodding to Matthew to follow us. “Come on, Harris,” I said. “We’ve got something of your father’s for you.”

Six Months Later

Alban House

Lights twinkled on the ten-foot-tall Christmas tree that stood in the parlor, filled to the brim with my family’s ornaments, some from many generations before, others from my own childhood, and still others accumulated by Amity and me over the years. She, Matthew, and I had decorated the tree together, Christmas music softly playing, spiced eggnog in a tureen on the sideboard, a fire blazing in the fireplace. I couldn’t remember a time when I was so deliriously happy.

After Amity had gone to bed, Matthew and I sat together on the sofa in the darkened room, watching the fire.

“It came today.” He smiled at me. “I was waiting until now to show it to you.” He opened the drawer on the end table, pulled out a small hardcover book, and handed it to me.

Months earlier, Harris and I had held a press conference at Alban House to announce the creation of the David Coleville Retreat for Artists and Writers, which we planned to run together. We also announced the discovery of a lost manuscript by Coleville himself.