Almost Heaven by Judith McNaught
Ian picked up his quill and a contract from the stack next to his elbow as Jordan finished, “The investigators failed to learn the jewels were missing because the staff at Havenhurst believed they were safely at your house, and your servants believed they were in London.”
“I can see how it would have happened,” Ian said without interest “However, the odds are it won’t carry any weight with the prosecution. They will insist I hired impostors to sell the jewels and travel together, and that argument will be believed. Now, do you want to proceed with that combined shipping venture we’ve been discussing, or would you rather forgo it?”
“Forgo it?” Jordan asked, completely unable to deal with Ian’s ruthless lack of emotion.
“At the moment, my reputation for honesty and integrity has been destroyed. If your friends would rather withdraw from the venture, I’ll understand.”
“They’ve already withdrawn,” Jordan admitted reluctantly. “I’m staying with you.”
“It’s just as well they have,” Ian replied, reaching for the contracts and beginning to scratch out the names of the other parties. “In the end, there’ll be greater profit for us both.”
“Ian,” Jordan said in a low, deliberate voice, “you are tempting me to take a swing at you, just to see if you’ll wince when I hit you. I’ve taken about all I can of your indifference to everything that’s happening.” Ian glanced up from his documents, and Jordan saw it then—the muscle clamping in Ian’s jaw, the merest automatic reaction to fury or torment, and he felt a mixture of relief and embarrassment. “I regret that remark more than I can say,” he apologized quietly. “And if it’s any consolation, I know firsthand how it feels to believe your wife has betrayed you.”
“I don’t need consolation,” Ian clipped. “I need time.”
“To get over it,” Jordan agreed.
“Time,” Ian drawled coolly, “to go over these documents.”
As Jordan walked down the hall toward the front door he wasn’t certain if he’d only imagined that minuscule sign of emotion.
* * *
Elizabeth stood near the same tree where she came to stand and look out at the sea every day. A ship was expected to arrive any time now—one that was bound for Jamaica, Robert said. He was eager to be away from Britain, nervously eager, and who could blame him, she thought, walking slowly over to the edge of the ledge. It fell off sharply, dropping several hundred feet to the rocks and sand below.
Robert had rented a room for them in a cottage belonging to a Mr. and Mrs. Hogan, and he was eating well now, gaining weight from Mrs. Hogan’s excellent cooking. Like nearly everyone else in Helmshead, the Hogans were kind, hardworking people, and their four-year-old twin boys were a miracle of activity and lopsided grins. Elizabeth liked all four Hogans immensely, and if it were left to her, she rather thought she would like to stay there, hidden away forever.
Unlike Robert, she was not eager to leave Britain nor afraid of being found. In a strange sort of way she was finding a numb kind of peace there—she was close enough to Ian to almost feel his presence, far enough away from him to know that nothing he said or did could hurt her.
“That’s a long way to fall, missus,” Mr. Hogan said, coming up beside her and catching Elizabeth’s arm in his calloused hand. “Come away from that ledge, y’hear?”
“I didn’t realize I was this close to the edge,” Elizabeth said, genuinely surprised to realize the toes of her slippers had been beyond solid ground.
“You come in and rest now. Yer husband explained ter us about the bad time ye’ve had and how ye need to be free o’ worry for the time.”
The revelation that Robert had confided something of their plight to anyone—especially the Hogans, who knew they were waiting for a ship bound for America or Jamaica or some other place he deemed suitable—pierced her pained daze enough to make her ask, “What did Rob—my husband—tell you about the bad time’ I’ve had?”
“He explained yer not to hear nor see nothin’ to worry you.”
“What I’d like to see,” Elizabeth said as she stepped over the threshold of their cottage and inhaled the smell of baking bread, “is a newspaper!”
“Especially no newspapers,” Mr. Hogan said.
“There’s not much chance of seeing one,” Elizabeth said wearily, with an absent smile at one of the twins, who ran up to put his arms around her legs. “Although I can’t conceive of anywhere in England that the newspapers don’t eventually reach.”
“Yer wouldn’t want ter read none o’ that stuff. It’s allays the same—murder and mayhem and polytics and dances.”
During the two years Elizabeth had remained in self-imposed isolation at Havenhurst she had rarely read the papers, because it only made her feel more isolated from London and life. Now, however, she wanted to see if there was any mention of her disappearance, and how much was being made of it. She supposed the Hogans couldn’t read, which wasn’t unusual, but she still thought it so very odd that Mr. Hogan couldn’t locate even an old newspaper anywhere among the villagers.
“I really do need to see a newspaper,” she said with more force than she intended, and the twin dropped his arms from her. “Would you like me to help you do something, Mrs. Hogan?” Elizabeth asked to take the sting out of her exclamation over the paper. Mrs. Hogan was in the seventh month of her pregnancy; she was constantly working and constantly cheerful.
“Not a thing, Miz Roberts. You just rest yerself right there at the table, and I’ll get you a nice cup of tea.”
“I need a newspaper,” Elizabeth said under her breath, “more than I need tea.”
“Timmy!” Mrs. Hogan hissed. “Put that away this minute, ye hear? Timmy,” she warned, but as usual the cheerful twin ignored her. Instead he tugged at Elizabeth’s skirt just as his father swooped down and snatched something large out of his hand.
“For lady!” he shouted, climbing onto Elizabeth’s lap. “I bring for lady!”
Elizabeth almost dumped the child on the floor in her surprise. “It’s a newspaper!” she cried, her accusing gaze shifting from Mr. Hogan to Mrs. Hogan, who both had the grace to flush beneath their tanned skin. “Mr. Hogan, please—let me see that.”
“Yer becomin’ overwrought, jes’ like yer husband said would happen if ye saw one.”
“I’m becoming overwrought,” Elizabeth said as patiently and politely as she could, “because you won’t let me see it”
“It’s old,” he countered. “Mor’n three weeks.”
Oddly, it was a quarrel over a stupid newspaper that made Elizabeth feel the first real emotion she’d felt in weeks. His refusal to hand it to her made her angry; his previous remarks about her needing to rest and becoming overwrought made her vaguely uneasy.
“I’m not the least overwrought,” she said with a deliberate smile at Mrs. Hogan, who made most of the decisions in the household. “I merely wanted to see frivolous things— like what the fashions are this season.”
“They’re wearin’ blue,” Mrs. Hogan said, smiling back at her and shaking her head at her husband, indicating he wasn’t to give Elizabeth the newspaper, “so now ye know. Ain’t that nice—blue?”
“You can read, then?” Elizabeth said, forcing her fingers not to snatch the paper out of Mr. Hogan’s hand, though she was fully prepared to do even that if necessary.
“Mama reads,” one of the twins provided, grinning at her.
“Mr. and Mrs. Hogan,” Elizabeth said in a calm, no-nonsense voice, “I am going to become extremely ’overwrought’ if you don’t let me see that paper. In fact, I will go from cottage to cottage if I have to in order to find someone else who has one or who has read one.”
It was the firm tone of a mother speaking to rowdy children who were close to getting on her nerves, and it seemed to register on Mrs. Hogan. “There’s naught to be gained if you go about the village searching for other papers,” Mrs. Hogan admitted. “There’s but one paper among us, far as I know, and it was my turn to read it. Mr.
“Then may I see it, please?” Elizabeth persisted, her hand positively itching to snatch it out of Mr. Hogan’s big fist while she had a hysterical vision of herself hopping about, reaching for it while he held it over her head.
“Feelin’ as strong as you do about fashions and suchlike, I for one can’t see that it will hurt, though yer husband was very firm you shouldn’t—”
“My husband,” Elizabeth said meaningfully, “does not dictate everything to me.”
“Sounds ter me,” said Mr. Hogan with a grin, “like she wears the trousers when she’s feelin’ up to snuff, jes’ like you, Rose.”
“Give her the paper, John,” Rose said with an exasperated smile.
“I believe I’ll take it into my room to read it,” Elizabeth said as her fingers at last closed around it. From the way they watched her walk into her room, she realized Robert must have inadvertently made them think she was almost a refugee from Bedlam. Sitting down on the narrow bed, Elizabeth opened up the paper.
MARQUESS OF KENSINGTON CHARGED WITH MURDERS OF WIFE AND BROTHER-IN-LAW.
HOUSE OF LORDS CONVENED TO HEAR TESTIMONY.
CONVICTIONS EXPECTED FOR BOTH MURDERS.
A scream of hysteria and denial rose in her throat; she leapt to her feet, her gaze glued to the paper clutched in her fists. “No,” she said, shaking her head in wild disbelief. “No,” she said to the room. “No!” She read words, thousands of words, macabre words, grotesque lies, vicious innuendos—they swung past her gaze and made her senses reel. Then she read them again, because she couldn’t comprehend them. It took three readings before Elizabeth could actually start to think, and even then she was panting like a cornered animal. In the next five minutes Elizabeth’s emotions veered from hysterical panic to shaking rationality. With nervous swiftness she was weighing alternatives and trying to begin making choices. No matter what Ian had done to Robert, he had not murdered him, and he had not murdered her. According to the newspaper, evidence had been presented that Robert had twice tried to kill Ian, but at that moment none of that was truly registering on Elizabeth. All she knew was that the paper said the trial was to begin on the eighteenth—three days ago, and that there was every chance Ian would hang, and that the fastest way to London was by boat for the first leg of the journey, not by land.
Elizabeth dropped the paper, ran from her room, and dashed into the little parlor. “Mr. and Mrs. Hogan,” she burst out, trying to remember they already thought she was a little unbalanced, “there is news in the paper—dire news that concerns me. I have to get back to London the quickest possible way.”
“Now calm down, missus,” Mr. Hogan said with gentle firmness. “You know you shouldn’t have read that paper. Just like yer husband said, it got ye all upset”
“My husband is on trial for murder,” Elizabeth argued desperately.
“Yer husband is down at the port, seein’ ’bout a ship to take ye off explorin’ the world.”
“No, that is my brother.”
“He were yer husband this afternoon,” Mr. Hogan reminded her.
“He was never my husband, he was always my brother,” Elizabeth insisted. “My husband—my real husband is on trial for murdering me.”
“Missus,” he said gently, “you ain’t dead.”
“Oh, my God!” Elizabeth said in a low, explosive voice as she raked her hair off her forehead, trying to think what to do, how to convince them to have Mr. Hogan take her down the coast. She turned to Mrs. Hogan, who was watching her intently while mending her little boy’s shirt. “Mrs. Hogan?” Crouching down, she took the woman’s busy hands in her own, making her look at her, and in a voice that was almost calm and very imploring, Elizabeth began to plead her own case. “Mrs. Hogan, I am not a madwoman, I‘am not demented, but I am in trouble, and I need to explain it to you. Have you not noticed that I haven’t been happy here?”
“Yes, we have noticed, my dear.”
“Have you read the papers about Lady Thornton?”
“Every word, though I’m a slow reader and I don’t understand any of that legal gobbledygook.”
“Mrs. Hogan, I am Lady Thornton. No—don’t look at your husband, look at me. Look at my face. I am worried and frightened, but do I really look demented to you?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“In all the time I’ve been here, have I ever done or said anything that would have made you think I was crazed? Or would you say I’ve merely seemed very unhappy and a little frightened?”
“I would not say you”—she hesitated, and in those moments there was an understanding, a communication that sometimes occurs when women reach out to one another for help—“I do not think you are crazed.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said feelingly, giving her hands a tight squeeze of gratitude as she continued speaking, half to herself. “Now that we’ve gotten this far, I need to find a way to prove to you who I am—who Robert and I are. In the paper,” Elizabeth began, groping her way through the mire of explanations, mentally searching for the quickest, the easiest proof, and then any proof. “In the paper,” she began hesitantly, “it said the Marquess of Kensington is believed to have killed his wife, Lady Elizabeth Thornton, and her brother, Robert Cameron, do you remember?”
Mrs. Hogan nodded. “But the names are commonplace,” she protested.
“No, don’t start thinking yet,” Elizabeth said a little wildly. “I’ll think of more proof in a minute. Wait, I have it. Come with me!” She nearly dragged the poor woman out of her chair and into the tiny bed chamber with the two narrow cots that she and Robert slept in. With Mr. Hogan standing in the doorway to watch, Elizabeth reached beneath her pillow and pulled out her reticule, jerking it open. “Look how much money I have with me. It’s a great deal more than ordinary people such as Robert and I—such as you think Robert and I are—would have, isn’t it?”
“I don’t rightly know.”
“No, of course you don’t,” Elizabeth said, realizing she was losing Mrs. Hogan’s confidence. “Wait, I have it!” Elizabeth ran to the bed and pointed to the paper. “Read what it says they believe I was wearing when I left”
“I don’t need to read it They said it was green—green trimmed in black. Or they thought maybe it could be a brown skirt with a cream jacket—”
“Or,” Elizabeth finished triumphantly as she opened the two valises that held what few articles of clothing she’d taken, “they thought it could be a gray traveling costume, didn’t they?”
Mrs. Hogan nodded, and Elizabeth dragged all the clothes out of the valises and dumped them on the bed in triumph. She knew from the woman’s face that she believed Elizabeth, and that she would be able to make her husband believe her as well.
Swinging around, Elizabeth began campaigning against a harassed Mr. Hogan. “I need to get back to London at once, and it would be much faster by boat.”
“There’s a ship due in next week what goes ter—”
“Mr. Hogan, I cannot wait. The trial began three days ago. For all I know, they’ve convicted my husband of murdering me, and they’re planning to hang him.”
“But,” he cried irritably, “you ain’t dead!”
“Exactly. Which is why I have to go there and prove it to them. And I can’t wait for ships to come into port. I will give you anything you ask if you’ll take me to Tilbery in your boat. From there the roads are good, and I can hire a coach for the rest of the journey.”
“I don’t know, missus. I’d like ter help, but the fishin’ has been good jes’now, an’ . . .” He saw her look of fierce alarm and glanced helplessly at his wife, lifting his hands in a shrug. Mrs. Hogan hesitated, then she nodded. “You will take her, John.”
Wrapping the woman in a tight hug, Elizabeth said, “Thank you—both of you. Mr. Hogan, how much would you earn for a week’s excellent catch?”
He told her, and Elizabeth reached into her reticule, extracted some bills, counted them, and thrust t
“I—I s’pose, but it ain’t wise to be out there at night”
“It has to be tonight I can’t spare a moment” Elizabeth shook off the unspeakable notion that she might already be too late.
“What’s going on in here?” Robert’s voice rose in surprise as he noticed Elizabeth’s clothing tumbled onto the bed. Then his gaze riveted on the newspaper, and his eyes narrowed in anger. “I told you—” he began, turning furiously on the Hogans.
“Robert, you and I need to talk,” Elizabeth interrupted. “Alone.”
“John,” said Mrs. Hogan, “I think we ought to go for a nice walk.”
It was at that moment that Elizabeth realized for the first time that Robert must have had the newspaper hidden from her because he already knew what was in it The idea that he knew and hadn’t told her was almost as unspeakable as discovering that Ian was being accused of their murder. “Why?” she began on a sudden burst of anger.
“Why what?” he snapped.
“Why haven’t you told me about the things in the paper?”
“I didn’t want to upset you.”
“You what?” she cried, then she realized she didn’t have time to debate the technicalities with him. “We have to go back.”
“Go back?” he jeered. “I’m not going back. He can hang for my murder. I hope he does, the bastard!”
“Well, he’s not going to hang for mine,” she said, shoving her clothes into her valise.
“I’m afraid he is, Elizabeth.”
It was the sudden softness of his tone, his complete indifference, that made her heart freeze and an awful, unformed suspicion begin to tear through her. “If I had left a note, as I wanted to do,” she began, “none of this would have been necessary. Ian could have showed the note to . . .” She broke off as a realization hit hen According to the testimony of witnesses published in the paper, Robert had twice tried to kill Ian, not the other way around. If he’d lied about that, then he could have—would have lied about the rest. The old, familiar pain of betrayal began to hammer in her mind, only this time it was Robert’s betrayal, not Ian’s. It had never been Ian’s.