Startled awake, Elizabeth sat bolt upright in bed as the
forbidden book hit the floor with an incriminating thud. The familiar gnawing
grew in her belly. This time Mrs. Radcliffe’s deliciously horrid Gothic novel
was not to blame. The heavy boots paused outside her door. Her eyes flew to the
brass knob gilded by orange firelight as she waited breathlessly for it to
turn. She watched the slight twist of the knob and heard the protective click.

It was locked
. She released her captive breath.

As danger moved past her door with an unsteady gait, singing
an old army ditty hopelessly out of tune, Elizabeth slipped from her bed to
retrieve her treasure. She caressed the raised leather spine of the book,
wishing she could disappear inside it. With fourteen years to her credit and
quite sensible in all other matters, Elizabeth had lost her heart to her dark
hero, a fantasy figure she created and nourished by devouring the Gothic tales
her mother forbade.

Oh, her gothic hero might be off-putting at first. Once the
heroine understood him, she realized he was not such a bad sort after all,
despite his tormented past and dark secrets. Hidden beneath that sinister
exterior was a kind and lonely man, desperate for love and the right woman to
understand him. More to the point, her dark hero could be depended upon to step
in when his beloved was in a difficult patch. He always appeared just when the
heroine needed . . .

A cry of pain came from mama’s room, the cruel reality
shattering her beloved daydream.

The captain was home. He was drunk and in a nasty mood. That
was about all that was dependable about her stepfather, Elizabeth thought, with
no little resentment.

Stuffing
The Mysteries of Udolpho
beneath her
mattress, Elizabeth listened to the noise beyond her refuge. Papa always came
home late, in his cups and belligerent toward any who dared cross his path. He
bellowed threats at Mama, usually from the outside of her locked bedroom door. Tonight,
something was different. Tonight, Mama was yelling back.

Elizabeth tiptoed to the door, unlocked it and opened it a
crack. “--I won’t allow it!” Her elegant mother, who never raised her voice for
it was unladylike to do so, screamed at her stepfather. “Sheila stays—she’s
Elizabeth’s grandmother, her only O’Flaherty kin.”

“—and no kin of mine.” The captain interrupted. “We can’t
waste money on servants we don’t need.” Something went crashing in Mama’s room
to punctuate the captain’s words. “And the tutors go, Angela. We can’t afford
them.” He insisted.

“It is an investment, William.” Mother spoke in a calmer
tone, attempting to appease the beast. “Elizabeth has every expectation of
marrying well, bringing us affluent connections. Her father was a Viscount—“

“Aye, an Irishman.” Her stepfather spat. “Hanged for
treason.”

A floorboard squeaked beneath her bare foot. Elizabeth
paused, offering a silent prayer that the noise didn’t give her away as she
lingered outside her mother’s open door.

“No one knows, unless you intend to advertise it. When she
makes her come out in society, she’ll be known as the grand-daughter of the
Earl of Greystowe.”

“And a grand good piece of shit that gets us, woman. Your
high and mighty father hasn’t darkened our door for well over a year.”

“He still provides our support. The future of the Wentworth
line rests in his grandchildren.”

“On Michael, my son, not that Irishman’s leavings you
saddled me with.”

It shouldn’t hurt anymore, but it did hurt, dreadfully. As
the only father she knew, Elizabeth craved a few crumbs of affection from the
captain. She was the flaw in their perfect English family, the Irish taint in
the bloodlines. The captain never let her forget it.

“Papa set up the trust to support my children, not your
gambling habits!” Mother rallied in rare defiance to the tyrant who ruled their
home. “Sheila O’Flaherty stays. I will not toss her to the streets like
unwanted baggage.”

“Damn it, woman, this is my house!”

“No, it is mine! Papa bought it for me, not you. I could
petition the courts for a divorce. With Papa’s connections it shouldn’t be any
trouble. He’d still send the quarterly support to me while you would be out on
the streets, begging like the other soldiers--umphh!”

There was the terrible sound of fist against flesh that
never failed to make Elizabeth cringe. Heeding her grandmother’s warning about
not interfering when Captain and Mrs. Fletcher fought, Elizabeth took cover
behind the heavy curtains framing the open hall windows.

“Divorce me? We’ll see about that.” Her stepfather marched
past the curtains, pulling her mother along with his fist wrapped in her long,
dark hair. Mama had no choice but to follow him as his grip on her hair was
solid. And Mama’s rare show of bravado had wilted.

Elizabeth cautiously peered out from the thick hangings.
Fletcher stood behind her mother at the top of the stairs. “Useless bitch, you
can’t divorce me if you’re dead.” In a quick action, he shoved her down the
stairs.

“Mama!” Elizabeth ran down the hallway that didn’t seem
half as long before.

It was too late. Mama was lying still at the bottom of the
stairs.

Before she could go to her mother, large hands seized her
and slammed her hard against the wall. Elizabeth stiffened and clenched her
jaw, determined to put on a bold face and not betray her fear before her enemy,
as her grandmother O’Flaherty had taught her. Granny Sheila was right, if you
cried and whimpered before him, it gave him pleasure. If you held your ground and
refused to show your pain, he lost interest and sought weaker prey. Elizabeth
eyed him with defiance even as her eyes stung and her throat tightened from
terror.

“Spying on me again, eh?”

“You pushed her—I saw it.” Elizabeth accused, determined not
to succumb to tears.

“You saw nothing.” A flurry of slaps assaulted her face.
“You hear me—nothing!”

Captain Fletcher held her by the throat as he talked in that
quiet, calculated voice. “Your Mother tripped and fell down the stairs.” His
hot, sour breath assaulted her nose as he leaned close. “She gets woozy
sometimes, what with all the Laudanum she indulges in.

“Mama doesn’t take Laudanum.”

“But that’s what you’re going to tell the constable. Tell
him you awoke to a noise and found your Mama at the bottom of the stairs. Wait
twenty minutes after I leave, then summon the constable. Ask him to send the
runners to my club to notify me that there was an accident--”

“I’ll tell them I saw you push her.”

His grip tightened, squeezing slowly about Elizabeth’s neck,
cutting off her air. “Who would believe the daughter of a traitor over a loyal
servant of his majesties regiment? No one, I tell you, no one! Talk and they’ll
hang you at Tyburn; both you and your crazy old granny. I’ll tell them she’s a
witch. I’ll tell them she made you murder your mother.”

Elizabeth crumpled at his words. She was growing
lightheaded. She nodded.

At last, he released his grip about her throat. “Go ahead.
Tell them girl. We’ll just see who ends up hanging at the end of a rope.”

Time dissolved. Elizabeth was sitting at the foot of the
stairs, hugging herself in an effort to recover her wits. Her mother’s body was
lying before her. The captain left her to clean up his mess. Her limbs were
quaking so she feared they would never be still. Mama was dead. Murdered by her
husband. And now Elizabeth must lie to the authorities, lest she and her dear
grandmother pay the price for Captain Fletcher’s sins.

“Mama--I’m sorry.” She choked out the words as she sat
staring at the crumpled body of her mother, a raven haired china doll with
empty blue eyes that gazed up, seeing nothing. Blood pooled from behind Mama’s
head. As she studied her mother’s corpse, the air was suddenly sucked out of
Elizabeth’s lungs. She whimpered. Her body would not be satisfied with that
weak noise. The sound transformed into a deep, guttural cry that cut through
her soul like shards of glass. As Elizabeth sat alone on the stairs harsh sobs
rocked her wilted frame.

A hand gripping her shoulder sent screams through her as she
released the pent up horror.

“My poor lass.” It was Granny Sheila’s gnarled hand. Granny
Sheila was Elizabeth’s paternal grandmother. The thin, frail form surrounded
her and drew her close.

“He killed her. I saw it. He pushed her.” Elizabeth sobbed
against the sagging bosom and hunched shoulders that had given her comfort
throughout her life. She told her grandmother O’Flaherty what had taken place,
and of her stepfather’s looming threat.

“Best do as he says for now, child.” The old woman
cautioned. “He’ll not go unpunished, I promise. For now, we must bide our time
while we’re in the enemy’s camp.”

“I’ll send Lucy out to the constable.”

“Lucy left this evening.” Granny Sheila informed her. “Susan
went with her.”

Elizabeth clung to her grandmother and silently absorbed the
knowledge. She knew why the newest maids resigned their post, like so many
others before them. Papa frightened them with his drunken tirades and unlike
the family they served, the hired help had the option to leave this house.
Aside from Granny Sheila, only Cook, a stout woman in her fifties, had remained
over the years. Cook slept in the cellar off the kitchen and kept a cleaver
ever at the ready in case thieves broke in during the night, or so she told the
children. Elizabeth knew better.

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