Counterfeit Lady (James River Trilogy 1)

“Gerard,” Nicole said. “Did something happen today to upset Mother?”

He turned toward her slowly. “I haven’t seen her. Is she having one of her fits again?”

“As if you’d care!” Janie said, passing Nicole on the stairs and going to the fireplace. “Considering that she’s your wife, you’d think you’d have some feeling for her.”

“I would certainly never share my feelings with such as you,” Gerard retorted.

“Stop it, both of you!” Nicole commanded. “Neither of you is helping my mother.”

Gerard waved his hand. “It’s just one of her fits. You should be used to them by now.”

Nicole moved to the table. “Somehow, this one was different. It was almost as if she were trying to tell me something.”

Gerard looked at her from under lowered lashes. “What could she say that she hasn’t said a hundred times? All she ever talks about is murder and death.”

“True,” Nicole said thoughtfully. “Only this time she mentioned Clay.”

“Clay!” Janie said. “She’s never met Clay before, has she?”

“Not to my knowledge. And she kept talking about a fat woman.”

“There’s no guessing who that is,” Janie snorted.

“Of course,” Gerard inserted with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. “She must have seen Clay and Bianca together, and since they are strangers, she was frightened. You know how strangers terrify her.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Nicole said. “But somehow it seemed more than that. She kept saying someone was trying to kill Clay.”

“She’s always saying someone is trying to murder someone else,” Gerard said angrily.

“Maybe, but she’s never confused the past and the present quite like this before.”

Before Gerard could say a word, Janie stepped forward. “There’s no use worrying about it now. In the morning, you can try to talk to your mother. Maybe after a good night’s sleep, she’ll be able to explain herself more clearly. Now, sit down and eat your supper.”

The little house was dark and silent. Outside, the river flowed slowly, gently, now that it had come closer to straightening its course. It was especially warm for September, and the four people in the attic bedroom slept without covers.

Adele was restless. Even under the heavy dose of the sleeping drug, she still tossed and turned, her dreams puzzled and confused. She knew she had something to tell, but she had no idea how to go about it. The king and

queen of France seemed to mingle with a farmer named Clayton, a man whose face she could not see. But she could see death, his death, everyone’s death.

Gerard stubbed out the thin cigar he’d been smoking and silently stepped out of the bed. He stood and looked down at his wife. It had been many months since he’d taken her in his arms. In France, he’d felt honored to be married to one of the Courtalains, even one as old as Adele. But when he’d seen Nicole, his feeling for his wife had died. Nicole was a younger, more beautiful version of her mother.

Quietly, without so much as a creak of a floorboard, he went to Adele’s side, then sat on the edge of the bed. He leaned across her for his pillow.

She opened her eyes for just a moment before the pillow came down over her face. She started to fight but then knew it was no use. This was what she’d waited for. All those years spent in prison, she’d waited each second for death. Finally, it was coming, and she was ready for it.

Gerard removed the pillow from Adele’s face. In death, she was quite pretty, younger than he’d ever seen her look before. He stood, then walked across the room to the blanket partition that concealed Janie and Nicole’s room.

He stared for a long time at Nicole, her body barely hidden under her thin nightgown. His hand ached to caress the curve of her hip.

“Soon,” he whispered. “Soon.”

He returned to his bed, stretched out beside the woman he’d just murdered, and slept. His only thought was that her tossings would no longer disturb him.

When Nicole discovered her mother’s lifeless form the next morning, the house was empty. The twins and Janie had gone to pick apples, and Gerard, as usual, was off by himself.

She sat quietly on the edge of the bed, held her mother’s cold hand in her own, and caressed the cheek so like her own. She turned and very slowly left the house.

She walked up to the ridge overlooking the mill and the house. She suddenly felt so alone, so isolated. For years, she’d thought her family was dead. Then the reappearance of her mother had given her some solidarity again. All she had left now was Clay.