Page 8 of How to Love a Duke in Ten Days
“The odds of that happening seem quite impossible, unless…” As Cecelia let the thread trail away with a wince, she and Alexandra shared a speculative glance.
Francesca’s next words validated what they’d feared. “Unless everyone inside was already dead.” She plucked at a loose seam in the lining of her robe as she vacantly stared ahead. “Not dead,” she amended. “Butchered.Men on horses came during tea. At eight years old, I thought it seemed like an army, but I’m convinced now it couldn’t have been more than a dozen or so. They slaughtered everyone. The earl and countess, the housekeeper, butler, the groundskeepers, maids, the children… my parents.”
She took a breathless moment to compose herself. “I ran with Francesca, but they caught her. Wrenched her right from my grasp. I watched as they… they… She didn’t even have time to scream.” She put a hand to her throat, and it was easy to guess how Francesca had died.
Alexandra hated that she took solace in the telling. It didn’t speak very well of her, that she found comfort in their secrets. In their pain.
Because it meant she wasn’t so alone. That she wasn’t the only girl in this room who would live with a clandestine shame.
“Oh, Frank.” Cecelia added her other warm, soft hand to the pile. “How did you ever survive?”
For a moment, Francesca’s features softened. “DeclanChandler, he found me, and hid us in a crevasse up a chimney. We thought we were safe until the fire started. We waited as long as we could, until we believed the men had ridden away, until the smoke became too thick and wehadto escape it. Declan spirited me out of the house and we were running for the woods, for safety, when we were spotted by a man who’d stayed behind to make certain all traces of foul play were erased in the fire. That only ashes remained of the dead. Of the grand and happy house that had stood there since the white rose of York hung over the throne of England.”
Francesca accepted the handkerchief Cecelia fetched for her, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose in a way that was anything but delicate. “The man followed us into the woods and Declan, always the hero, created a diversion.”
“Did he… survive?”
Francesca shook her head for a long time, her chin wobbling with grief-stricken sobs she seemed determined to hold back. “I’ve looked for him everywhere, but there’s no sign of Declan Chandler ever having been born. He was an orphan, after all, and if his mother never recorded his birth, then… he wouldn’t be missed. What if his poor little body was left there in the woods somewhere, or possibly a bog or a lake? I have this nightmare that I’m the only one left alive who even remembers he existed.” A few sobs broke through her slender throat, hoarse little sounds raw enough to mirror the pain in Alexandra’s heart.
“You loved him,” Alexandra realized.
“Pippa loved him,” she sniffed. “And he loved Francesca. And Fernand loved Pippa. When it wasn’t a bevy of little heartbreaks, it was the most wonderful childhood one could imagine.”
They remained silent for a tear-fraught moment, trying to digest the scope of the tragedy before Alexandra finallyasked the inevitable. “When did you become Francesca? Or, I suppose I’m asking,whydid you become her?”
“The Mont Claire title was not entailed to primogeniture. Which meant if anyoneof the Cavendish children survived, male or female,theywould be the heir to the entire estate. And so, the gypsies who were allowed to live on the estate took me in, dyed my hair red with henna, and the moment all the paperwork was in order, the trustees and clerks bribed, and my ‘godparents’ established by paper trail, I became Francesca Cavendish. After I was presented to the courts, it was decided I’d be sent to a boarding school out of the country.”
“Why did the gypsies go through all that trouble?” Cecelia wondered. “For the Mont Claire money?”
“No,” Francesca insisted. “No, money means nothing to gypsies. They did it for the same reason I remain in this farce of a life to this day…”
She turned her head toward Alexandra again, and the fire reignited behind her irises.
Alexandra nodded, her throat clogged with emotion. “Revenge.”
“Exactly.” Francesca kissed Alexandra on the cheek, her gaze a mix of ferocity and an aching kindness. “Alexander. I will always keep the secret of this murder in our past, if you will keep the secret of the murder in my future. For when I find out who is responsible for the death of my family…” She didn’t finish the thought. She didn’t have to.
Alexandra returned the kiss, tasting the mingled salt of their tears.
Francesca looked to where Cecelia dashed moisture from her cheeks. “I’m so sorry for you both.” She hiccupped around a delicate sob.
Alexandra’s shoulders came off the bed and she clungto them both. “You twoaremy family,” she swore. “I will have no husband or children. No man would have me and… and I want none. Never. I never want to be touched again.”
“Nor I,” Francesca nearly snarled. “Men are vile, demanding, violent cretins. We are best off without them.”
“I agree,” Cecelia whispered. “I’ve never known marriage to be a happy institution. Our lives will take us so many places, but we’ll always have each other to return to. To holiday with. To rely upon. We are bound by blood now, as tightly as any family.”
Alexandra lay back down, spreading her hand on her chest, just above her heart. She placed Francesca’s palm over hers, and Cecelia followed suit. “We are eternally bound,” she repeated. “By secrets, blood, and pain.”
“And by trust, passion, and revenge,” Francesca added darkly.
“And by friendship, love, and…” Cecelia sniffed, pressing on the hands beneath her, as if she could touch the heart below it. “And hope. For without that, what reason do we have to endure?”
The enormity of the night crashed through Alexandra with all the strength of a rogue wave, threatening to drown her in despair. When her friends would have pulled away, she clung to them. Without another word, they curled around her, creating a nest with their bodies and the darkness.
In that moment, they were the only ones in the whole world.
But they weren’t. Morning would come, and everyone would know. Or they wouldn’t. The headmaster would be discovered missing. The intensifying burn between her legs might be unimaginably worse. And she was already feeling dirty again. Aching for another bath.
