Her mother-in-law left her pregnant and hanging over a cliff—but what her husband did when he arrived was even worse. / Chapter 15 / 20

Chapter 15 - Three GenerationsNo one moved.

The sea crashed below Northfield House. The wind pulled at Vivian’s veil. Rose stood behind Clara, one hand gripping her daughter’s sleeve, the other pressed over her heart as if to keep it from breaking again.

Clara held baby Rose close.

Agnes stepped in front of all three of them.

Vivian laughed. “Still playing guard dog?”

Agnes lifted her chin. “Still standing, my lady. It must annoy you terribly.”

Vivian’s men spread out.

Thomas reached for his pistol.

Vivian raised the revolver. “Do not.”

The matron vanished inside the house. Clara knew at once she had been paid.

Of course she had.

Vivian did not break locks when she could buy keys.

Rose Whitmore stared at her old enemy.

“You told me my child was dead.”

Vivian’s face did not change. “You became difficult.”

“You poisoned my father.”

“He became inconvenient.”

“You stole my life.”

Vivian’s voice sharpened. “I preserved mine.”

Clara stepped forward. “By killing everyone who trusted you?”

Vivian’s eyes moved to the baby. “Not everyone. Some of you are surprisingly hard to kill.”

Rose whispered, “Clara, give me the child.”

Clara understood.

Her mother’s hands shook, but her eyes were clear.

If Vivian fired, Rose intended to take the bullet.

“No,” Clara said.

Vivian smiled. “Such noble women. So eager to bleed. That was always your family’s weakness.”

“And yours,” Agnes said, “was thinking servants don’t listen.”

From behind the hedge came a click.

Then another.

The garden filled with men.

Not Vivian’s.

Constables.

The magistrate stepped forward, coat snapping in the wind.

Vivian’s smile died.

Thomas exhaled.

Agnes gave a small shrug. “I may have sent a message ahead. Old maids are terribly meddlesome.”

Vivian’s men dropped their weapons.

Vivian did not.

She aimed at Clara.

Daniel’s voice rang out from the gate.

“Mother, stop.”

Everyone turned.

Daniel stood pale and bandaged, supported by Father Matthew. He looked ruined. Smaller. Like the boy Vivian had carved into a weapon had finally cracked.

Vivian’s face twisted. “You should be in bed.”

“I should be in prison.”

Clara stared at him.

Daniel looked at her, then at the baby.

“I told myself I had no choice,” he said. “But I did. Every time.”

Vivian hissed, “Weak.”

Daniel stepped closer. “No. Weak was letting you teach me that love was something to inherit, own, or destroy.”

For the first time, Vivian looked afraid.

Not of the constables.

Of losing control.

Daniel reached for the revolver.

Vivian jerked away.