Page 78 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
“Abducted!” Gilly exclaimed. His gaze traveled wonderingly to meet Phaedra’s. This was far different from Hester Searle’s version of the story.
“Why was Carleton never arrested?” Phaedra protested.
Glencoe’s eyes clouded. “No one ever had a chance, for James got to him first. That temper of his! Not that I fully blamed James for what he had done. But even at his own trial, when he might yet have saved himself, he ranted like a madman, saying there had been a conspiracy to murder his sister. James was accusing everyone, Carleton Grantham, the son Ewan, someother prominent man named Weylin. Poor James was clearly out of his head.”
Phaedra could not conceal a start at this mention of her grandfather, but the doctor was too overcome to notice her dismay. The old man sought surreptitiously to wipe his eyes.
“The rest of the tale you’ve likely heard. James was duly hanged. I brought his body back for burial in the churchyard here. Maida’s heart was quite broken. Between losing both her son and her daughter, I saw her health fail more each day. She became thinner and paler.”
“But what about Jason?” Phaedra asked, feeling that the younger brother was like a lost shadow in all of these tragic events.
Was it her imagination, or did Glencoe hesitate before saying, “I sent him away, to take his mother out of the country. A mistake on my part. I should have seen at the outset that Maida was not strong enough to survive the voyage, but she was not about to be separated from her son, and it seemed the best I could do for the boy. I feared for his reason. After James was hanged, he retreated so far into himself, that he terrified me. No grief, no emotion of any kind, it was as though his heart were encased in ice.”
The doctor’s words painted such an accurate picture of Armande that Phaedra had to look away to hide the tears that filled her eyes.
Glencoe’s voice thickened with self-reproach. “Mayhap if I had been there that night with James, I could have prevented …” He allowed the thought to trail away unspoken, shaking his head. “Well, it is of no avail raking over the past. I have done it often enough to know there is no profit in it.”
He reluctantly inched the figurines across the tea table toward Phaedra. “I am sorry I cannot be of more help to you,Miss Fitzhurst. I am sure Jason would have been delighted to have this work of his sister’s returned.”
“But you are.certain there is no way of tracing Jason,” Gilly persisted. “What if he had decided to leave Canada and return to England?”
“God forbid!” The doctor exclaimed. “I would hope not. There is nothing for the lad here but bitter memories. I have always prayed that he started his life anew and put the past behind him.”
Phaedra had not the heart to tell the old man her fear that his prayers had gone unanswered. She tensed as Gilly maneuvered himself toward the cabinet.
“I see you possess some fine examples of Julianna’s work yourself, Doctor. And bless me! Are those little portraits of the Lethingtons? Such a handsome family.”
“Aye, so they were,” Glencoe said.
Phaedra shot to her feet. “Gilly, we have taken enough of the doctor’s time.”
But the doctor had already risen from his seat and shuffled forward to open the cabinet. “Of course, Julianna is not amongst them, since it was her own hand that painted these.” Phaedra watched with dread as the old man handed up the ovals to Gilly one by one for his inspection.
Phaedra sank back upon the settee, digging her nails into the faded velvet. Her gaze never left Gilly’s face, and she knew immediately from the arrested expression in his eyes that he had found the evidence he sought.
Silently, he held out one of the miniatures to her. For a long moment she refused to take it. Then her fingers closed about the smooth oval of china. Slowly she lowered her gaze to the portrait, wondering at the sudden sharp ache that pierced through her. Had she still been foolish enough to hope it would be the face of a stranger she gazed upon?
But it was Armande looking exactly as he had a few days ago in the meadow, his blue eyes laughing. Except that the man in the portrait was somewhat younger, an Armande with no shadows brushing his face, caught in all the strength, the arrogance, the innocence of his youth by his sister’s loving artistry.
Not Armande, Phaedra reminded herself sadly, but— “Jason Lethington.”
She didn’t realize she had spoken the name aloud until Dr. Glencoe turned toward her with a look of mild astonishment.
“Oh, no, my dear. You’ve made a mistake.”
When she glanced up at the old man uncomprehendingly, he said, “That is not Jason’s portrait you are holding. That is our poor Jamey. James Lethington.”
Eighteen
Before the curricle Gilly had hired had even come to a stop, Phaedra gathered up her skirts, and leaped to the ground. She swayed slightly as her feet hit, but quickly regained her balance and rushed off into the darkness. With only the moon to light her way, she ran through the graveyard behind the small church. Behind her she heard Gilly utter an oath. He hissed her name while he strove to secure the horse’s lead reins to the cemetery’s iron gate.
But Phaedra was lost to everything except the sensations of shock and horror that rose up in her breast, threatening to suffocate her. With little thought for the sanctity of the dead, she stumbled across the mound of a new-laid grave and made wildly for that corner of the churchyard where Dr. Glencoe claimed he had seen James Lethington laid to rest.
She staggered to a halt and stood gasping several moments before she could focus on the weather-worn stones before her. In the moonlight she could just barely make out the simple carvings. A succession of unknown names passed before her eyes until she came to the last and smallest headstone.
JAMES LETHINGTON ... BELOVED SON OF MAIDA AND DANIEL LETHINGTON.
“There!” she cried. “It isn’t true. I knew it wasn’t.” Her voice broke as she relived again that chilling moment in the doctor’s cottage, hearing the old man identify the portrait of the man she loved as that of the murderer James Lethington. The doctor’s sight must be failing, his words must be false for here was James Lethington’s grave before her, the dust long settled over his tormented soul.
