Death at Balfefield Abbey

Chapter 31, Cashelroe, 1904

Miranda was momentarily struck dumb by Clara's question.

She was about to say, "No, of course not. How dare you ask when I nearly swung from the gallows because of that accusation." It would have been an automatic, passionate response, fueled by the lingering pain of speaking about her lost baby for the first time in years. But she didn't speak, not right away.

Instead, she walked to a cabinet, pulled off the dustcover, and retrieved a bottle of gin and two glasses. She poured two large drinks, placing one in front of Clara. Her movements slow and deliberate, but her mind raced with possibilities.

She was leaving Cashelroe today, and she already knew she'd never return. The thought didn't unsettle her. Instead, she savored the anticipation, imagining the moment when Balfefield Abbey—the woods, the artificial lake—would disappear from view, fading through the rear window of the coach as the horses trotted down the long drive.

Would leaving behind some of the truth feel just as gratifying? The thought intrigued her. Confession had a strange allure. For some, it was cleansing—merely speak the words, and the deed would vanish, forgotten in the ears of a confessor. Surely, this was why Catholics were so obsessed with it.

But contrition was for fools, for those fastened to the yokes of religious stricture, craving absolution and penance. She was no penitent. For her, confession offered something different—the prospect of simply discarding a truth she no longer had any use for.

She need not tell everything. Some things should always be kept secret.

Miranda took a sip of gin. She was not a frequent drinker and much preferred its sweet, fresh taste to the harshness of brandy or whiskey. Finally, she was ready to talk and experienced a trill of expectancy, a pleasing sensation similar to that of flirtation. She would begin slowly. Only reveal something that amounted to little more than a confirmation of events already speculated upon during the trial.

"In the beginning, Matthew had no love for Arabella," said Miranda. "He thought her a flighty, silly thing, who just happened to be born extremely wealthy and became the most eligible maiden in England once she reached the age of majority.

"The money he'd brought back from Africa wasn't much, but it was enough to make him seem, at least for a while, like a man of means and substance. In truth, he was always the foxhound, hunting for an elusive quarry—a wealthy widow or a naive heiress—it hardly mattered which.

"We would lie in bed, in our rented house in London, discussing the runners and riders, as he called them, strategizing the best tactics for each prospect. When it came to Arabella, I told him the key was to appear handsome, heroic, and utterly indifferent to her.

"I wasn't jealous of her—at least, not at first. I didn't expect him to succeed. There were too many suitors buzzing around her, and he had the obvious disadvantage of being much older. But, to my surprise, as it transpired, that was a large part of his appeal. She subsequently told me he reminded her of her late father."

"When did your feelings toward her change?" Sullivan asked, his voice low and measured.

Miranda noticed Clara's restraint, her attempts to keep the question from feeling intrusive. No doubt a journalist's trick—to let the silence coax more from the speaker.

"Not for a long time," said Miranda. "Even when Sir Trevor offered Matthew money to end the engagement, I begged him to refuse it. He was tempted, but I argued, why settle for a paltry payout when we could bide our time and have it all?

"It was only after the marriage that things began to change.

"On the day of the ceremony, I sat in the church and watched Matthew exchange vows with another, vows that would be forever denied to me. My tears were mistakenly taken as evidence of my joy for their pairing.