Lord Deverill's Heir by Catherine Coulter (best books to read all time .TXT) 📗

EVESHAM ABBEY, NEAR BURY ST. EDMUNDS

ENGLAND 1790

Magdalaine lay within herself again, waiting, waiting for the opium to shroud the ravaging pain in her body. She could scarce make out the high vaulted ceiling and the dark oak-paneled walls in the dim winter-afternoon light.

At last the pain is lessening, soon I will be freed from the terrible gnawing that comes from my very soul. Please, let the opium last until the end. God, why did he wait so long to give me the opium? He wanted me to fight, that’s why, but finally he realized I didn’t want to fight, I didn’t want to live.

Was he still beside her? She didn’t know. She really didn’t care. He had been with her for so very long. He had spoken softly to her, tried to help her, but he hadn’t given her the opium until she had screamed at him to let her go, bowing in on herself, ravaged both within and without.

Now, she was free from the pain, at last.

My little Elsbeth, my poor baby. But yesterday you toddled to my outstretched arms. Oh, my child, so soon, so very soon you will forget your mama. If only I could hold you to me one more time. Dear God, you will forget me, strangers will take your love, and he will be there, not I. God, if only I could have killed him. But he will live and I will rot in the damned Deverill family cemetery alone and forgotten.

Silent tears slid from the corners of Magdalaine’s dark almond eyes and coursed unchecked down her cheeks, for there were no wrinkles or aged hollows to impede their downward flow. They rested briefly against the raised fullness of her lips before she licked away their salty wetness.

She felt the soft touch of material against her lips. Who held it there?

It was he, she knew that. But she didn’t acknowledge him. It was too late for that. She turned inward again. There seemed so much to regret, so very little to give meaning to her short life.

Come, Magdalaine, savor the small triumphs, the fleeting moments of pleasure. Remember the victories. Why can I not? It is ridiculous to be so helpless, so alone. A cry. It is Elsbeth. Please, Josette, take her from the crib, hold her close. Flow my love into her small body. Comfort her, protect her, for I cannot.

The piercing, angry child’s cries stopped. Magdalaine calmed. She tilted her head back onto the lacy pillow and focused her gaze at the darkened oak beams overhead. Elsbeth and Josette were just above her in the nursery. They were so very close to her, just minutes away. Such a short time ago she could have raced up the stairs, her step light and sure, at the sound of her baby’s cries.

No, not a short time ago . . . centuries ago. You will only know my tomb, my little one. Only a carved plaque with your mother’s name. I will be but cold gray stone and a simple name to you. Aged, lifeless stone pressing down upon me, shrouding me forever.

Magdalaine shifted her weakened eyes to the large gilt-framed painting of Evesham Abbey, hung above the mantelpiece so proudly by the last Earl of Strafford. As if in a trance, her eyes unwavering, Magdalaine stared at the painting. It was as if she was standing in the green undulating park that surrounded the red brick house. The magnificent lime trees that lined the graveled drive shaded the bright sun from her eyes and the hedges of yew and holly were so vividly alive that she felt she could reach out and touch them and feel the very texture of their leaves. She remembered seeing them for the first time so clearly, so very clearly.

Now she wished she had never seen them, had never come to this cursed house, had never married this man, this man who was supposed to have saved her, but of course, that was impossible. But she had married him and come to this house and now she would pay for it.

She couldn’t seem to look away from the painting. How very English were the gables and chimney stacks that rose up the walls and towered beyond the slate roof. Forty gables; she had counted them. And just beyond the house were the old abbey ruins, crumbling with eloquent dignity for nearly four hundred years. Time had etched inexorably into the mortared walls, tumbling countless stone hulks into characterless heaps. But still huge walls stood upright, reaching high into the sky. But one day they would crumble and fall, too. And all because a king had wanted to divorce his queen and marry his leman. But she loved the ruins. Each stone was filled with a past so dark and mysterious that she had at first been afraid to draw near to them. One of those stones would be hauled to the Strafford cemetery to mark the earth where she would lie.

Magdalaine’s opium-clouded mind drew her eyes away, to the wall opposite the bed, to seek out the bizarre carved oak panel—The Dance of Death, it was called. A grotesque skeleton, a blunted sword held high in its bony grip, held dominion over an eerie host of demonic figures, the gaping hollow of its mouth chanting soundless words.

I am so very cold. Why does not someone build up the fire? If only I could burrow down into the covers. I’ll be colder soon but I won’t realize it for I’ll be dead.

Once again Magdalaine’s eyes swept the room, more slowly now, for an uncontrollable lassitude was dragging her down deeper and deeper. Soon there would be no return journey upward. A slow smile spread its way over her face, creasing her smooth cheeks. It was a precise smile, even a triumphant smile.

I have won a final victory over you, my lord husband. I will defeat you with my death.

The smile froze on her lips forming a