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“You have to know, as beautiful of a story as that is, this is freaking me out, Jane,” I informed her.
“I know. And I’m afraid I’m not done.”
Great.
“Dorothy Clifton’s death was an accident.”
Oh my God!
It was breathless this time when I asked, “How do you know?”
“Because Virginia had no love for her husband, but she adored his son. And George adored his stepmother. Thus, he hated Dorothy and how she behaved, openly hurting the only mother he ever knew or would ever know. People were very taken with him playing his flute. All except Dorothy. She teased him about it. Told him it was unmanly. That night, in a child’s tantrum, he snuck from his bed, and while William was consoling his wife in a session in Jacaranda, and David was imploring Virginia to thaw to him in an argument on the moors, Dorothy, her playthings not available to her, was in a foul mood. Drinking alone, George found her and tormented her with his flute. Playing it, even as she told him to stop. She chased after him. They made it to the top floor, and she tried to wrest it from him. Somehow in the struggle, she fell over the balustrade to her death.”
And there it was.
“And George never played again,” I whispered.
She shook her head. “Never again. It was a loss. He was extremely talented. But he went on to do wonderful things regardless.”
“And you know this because he confessed it to Virginia,” I deduced.
“Yes.” She tipped her head to the books. “She protected him like any mother would and kept her silence. She even endured years of others thinking she was a possible murderess. But she wrote it down in these journals, like every countess has done. Our history is faithfully shared among each other, from Alice. Secret, but shared, to help the next, and warn others. At some point in modern times, the sheets of rolled parchment were painstakingly copied to the books. We all keep account of our time here at Duncroft.”
“But both William and David were having an affair with Dorothy?” I queried.
She nodded. “This would have no effect on Virginia, except relief. It gave her a reprieve from David’s desperate machinations to make her fall in love with him. The only lasting tragedy for her was George’s upset that he felt responsible for Dorothy’s death. For William’s part, it had the unusual result of making him see how deeply Rose hurt because of his love for Virginia, and his dalliance with Dorothy. It also made him realize he’d somewhere along the way fallen in love with his wife. He worked for it and earned it. She forgave him, and they eventually moved from here to a small home in town where his practice flourished, and they did too.”
Well, at least there was a happy ending for Rose.
“Did Dorothy die at three oh three?” I asked.
Her brows ticked together. “Why, no. It was around midnight.”
“Things are happening to me at three oh three, Jane. Is it the house?”
“I feel the house knows its mistress. But no, dear, outside of that, it doesn’t talk to us. It doesn’t involve itself in our lives. It’s just a house.”
“Then that’s one serious coincidence. Just tonight, it’s three oh three when I woke up.”
“That’s because you are you,” she said softly, “and I am me.”
“What does that mean?”
“You got a Wolf. You got an Augustus. A Walter. And I got a David.”
My heart broke for her, and you could hear it in my, “Jane.”
She waved a hand in front of her and said, “My lot. I love him regardless of his flaws. He’s given me two loving and handsome sons. We’ve managed to have happy times, once I learned to live with his penchants. He loves me, as David truly loved Virginia. He just thought he could do what he pleased. Just as David thought.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” I pointed out.
“Did you forgive Ian for his high-handedness this morning?”
I did.
Damn.
“Some of us have bigger things to forgive. Ian was out of order in how he spoke to you. Perhaps understandably, but out of order. Daniel was out of order in how he handled Portia. But if we care for them, we find a way to forgive. I’m not perfect either. Richard is social. I’m an introvert. He loves to travel. I prefer to stay home. He finds his way to happy with me, even if, in several important respects, we don’t share the same interests. It’s no excuse, but I do sometimes wonder if I spent more time with him doing the things he enjoyed, if he wouldn’t have strayed.” She gave me a small smile. “But then I remember it’s no excuse, and he knew who I was when he married me, so that’s simply his lot, as I have mine. He did try to change me, but I’m me. Unchangeable. And the same with him.”
