Page 120 of The Heir
“Ma’am, you will forgive me—”
“I will not,” said the princess. “It is only out of consideration for your daughters that I am here now, rather than informing my mother and your husband and the many, many others who would turn this matter into public business.”
“If you go to Sir John and tell him this fantastical story that I”—Mother laid her hand on her breast—“poisoned poor, drunken little Dr. Maton, he will never believe you. Either of you. And if Sir John does not believe you, the duchess will not believe you, and there’s an end to it.”
“I’m afraid not,” said the princess. “Because there are those who will believe this story.” She paused. “Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say there are those who will find this story useful because they do not like Sir John. They do not like his influence over my mother, and they do not like his hold over me. These men will go to my uncle king and to the queen, who, as I am sure you know, lately indicated a wish to remove me from Sir John’s influence. The utter ruin of his family reputation would be a very good excuse to do just that.”
Mother laughed, a glittering sound like a breaking bell. “And this will happen on the word of two little girls!”
“But by then it will not be just two little girls,” said Jane. “You can take Ned with you. He’s getting himself in trouble here, and it really would be best if he was out of the country for a while.”
This was not how it should be. Jane should not be turning on her mother like this. It should not be her responsibility to say what was the right punishment for her crime. This was a question for courts, for magistrates, for the whole mechanism of public justice.
And yet Mother was right. She had pointed out what had been the sticking point all along. They were just girls, and all that vast, churning machinery of justice would not hear them. Not even when one of them stood poised to become the queen.
So this was what they could do.
“And who will run this house?” demanded Mother. “Who will see to the properties and care for your father and for you and your brother . . . ?”
“I will,” said Liza.
Mother twisted herself around, surprised to find Liza there at all. Jane certainly was. She had not even heard her sister enter. But, of course, Liza knew what was happening. They all knew exactly where to stand to hear what was being said in any room of the house.
Mother sighed and blinked at the ceiling for a long moment. Jane felt the seconds crawling across her skin. She had no notion what her mother would do. Or how the princess would respond.
Mother sighed once more.
“Oh, very well,” she said. “I suppose it’s for the best.”
“Excellent.” The princess’s declaration was firm and cold as ice. She stood. “I trust I will hear of your having sailed quite soon. Jane? We should be going.” She started for the door.
Jane followed, but then she hesitated. “Ma’am, I think . . . May I stay for a moment? I have some things . . .”
The princess touched her arm. “We’ll wait for you in the carriage.”
Jane nodded.
“I’ll show you out, ma’am,” said Liza promptly.
When the door closed, Jane turned. Mother had fallen back on the sofa. She stared up at the ceiling.
Jane wanted to scream. She wanted to throw something. But all she could do was stand there, her hands hanging limp at her sides.
Mother closed her eyes. “Go away, Jane. I’m tired of this.”
Jane stared. Her jaw was open, and she could not seem to close it. She could not move any part of her. She just stared at her mother, stretched back on her sofa. A perfect picture of elegant ennui.
“I just want to know how keeping this . . . story about you being a royal bastard could possibly be worth a man’s life?”
“Oh, Jane, you must understand, your father is exposed to so many temptations. If I wanted to keep him with me, to keep his material support, it was necessary that I give him something no one else could. This was the simplest way to do that.”
All her life Jane had believed her mother to be a frail creature. That all she did or failed to do came from her bone-deep indolence. But now she saw there was so much more beneath her mother’s flawless skin than that pretty sloth. She wanted things easy, yes. She wanted things smooth and pleasant.
And she would move mountains or destroy lives to keep them so.
And when whole worlds collapsed, no one would know quite how it happened. Because it could not possibly be the doing of shallow, fainting Lady Conroy.
You sent him away to die.
