Chapter 78
SEVENTY-EIGHT
Ravenglass
Honor slipped into the drawing room just before midnight, glad no one seemed to have noticed her absence.
The record had come to an end, and the servants passed around fresh glasses of champagne.
The guests instinctively moved towards their loved ones so that they could kiss them at midnight, but at a few minutes to twelve, Douglas struggled to his feet, shuffled to the center of the room, and raised his hand.
“If I may have your attention.”
Everyone stopped talking and turned to face him.
They probably suspected what was coming, but they were still eager to hear the news from the horse’s mouth.
As Honor surveyed their faces, she thought few guests felt sympathy for any of the Bellamys.
To Douglas’s so-called friends, this was as entertaining as a stage production, a tragedy that had befallen someone else for their enjoyment.
By tomorrow, everyone would know that Douglas was dying and that his daughter would marry a virtual stranger in order to save the family, or what was left of it, anyway.
They would spend the coming days gossiping about Geneva, Jesse, and Honor, and debate ad nauseum all the ways in which Douglas had failed his children.
It made her sick, and, just as her father began to speak, she backed out of the room and ran up the stairs.
She would ring in the new year with Rose, her only real ally in this house.
And then, after everyone left, she would slip out and go to Rory.
She didn’t care that he was leaving tomorrow.
It was for the best, since she only needed him tonight.
Honor pushed open the door to Rose’s bedroom.
She thought Rose would be in bed, reading or sulking, but she was on her knees, dressed in the blouse and skirt she’d worn earlier in the day.
Her head whipped about at the sound of the door opening, and her shoulders sagged in relief when she saw it was Honor.
“What are you doing?” Honor asked as she approached.
Rose was rifling through the contents of a suitcase, but she hastily shut the lid before Honor could see what was inside and sat back on her haunches.
The case was plain brown cardboard, not at all the sort of luggage Aunt Clarissa was accustomed to.
Her cases were leather and embossed with her initials.
“Whose case is that?”
“Why aren’t you at the party?” Rose countered.
Honor shrugged as a lump formed in her throat, and she felt the prickling of tears.
She couldn’t bring herself to explain all the things she was thinking, and all the resentment she felt towards her father, her sister, and Jesse, but mostly towards a world that had robbed her of her mother and two brothers and was about to take away the remaining two people she loved.
Starring tonight, she was on her own. She knew Rose would understand, but she didn’t want to start the new year on a sour note, and instead waved a dismissive hand, unwilling to articulate her thoughts.
“I wanted to ring in the new year with you,” she said. “You’re the only one in this house who cares how I feel.”
Rose nodded. “I do.”
Her cousin looked conflicted, as if she had a secret but wasn’t sure she could trust Honor.
“Rose, what is it? What’s on your mind?”
“I think Geneva is about to make a terrible mistake,” Rose blurted out. She flipped open the lid of the case to show her what was inside.
Honor peered at the navy-blue coat with brass buttons and the cap with a black patent visor and an emblem at the center. “Is that a military uniform?”
Rose looked at her as if she were an idiot. “It’s a steward’s uniform, from the White Star Line.” She took out the coat, trousers, and several pairs of white gloves. “And look at this.”
Her cousin handed her an envelope, and Honor took out the pages inside and unfolded them with shaking fingers.
There were several letters from Mr. Lefferts, all addressed to Jesseph Bellamy, and two photographs.
One photograph showed a dark-haired woman dressed in a high-necked gown with leg-of-mutton sleeves and a bodice fitted neatly to the waist. A boy of about ten stood before her.
He was dark-haired and dark-eyed as well, his narrow, thin-lipped face rather homely, and his expression pinched.
Honor turned the photograph over. The inscription read: Constance and Jesseph, June 1901.
The second photograph depicted the same woman with a dark-haired man and appeared to be their wedding portrait: Alan and Constance Bellamy, October 1882.
Honor looked up from the portrait and was startled by Rose’s expression. She looked almost exhilarated, and, when she smiled, the grin had a malicious edge to it.
“I don’t understand,” Honor said, even though she was beginning to get a fairly good idea of what Rose had discovered.
“Don’t you see?” Rose exclaimed. “Jesse is an imposter. That’s the real Jesseph, and he looks nothing like the man accepting heartfelt congratulations right about now. He was a steward on the RMS Olympic. He murdered the real Jesseph Bellamy and took his place.”
“But the man who died was William Heller. It said so in the paper.”
“Maybe he was traveling under an assumed name,” Rose insisted.
“Surely he would have needed a valid passport to board the ship.”
Rose sprang to her feet and snatched the newspaper she had shown them earlier. Honor stared at the photo of William Heller. He was about twenty years older, but there was little doubt he was the boy in the photograph with Constance Bellamy.
“This is proof,” Rose announced. “William Heller is Jesseph Bellamy.”
“Maybe there’s a reasonable explanation,” Honor tried again.
“Such as? That our handsome, successful cousin from America has a secret fantasy of becoming a ship’s steward?”
“Rose, please,” Honor moaned. “Don’t you see what this revelation will do? If the man who died aboard the Olympic was truly our cousin, then there’s no one left to inherit. We will lose everything.”
“No, you won’t,” Rose protested. “The court will have to lift the entail, and Geneva will get it all.”
“That’s not how it works. Mr. Lefferts said so.”
“So, you think your father should hand over everything, including his daughter, to some confidence trickster? I’m going to march down there right now and confront that man,” Rose said.
“In front of everyone.” Her eyes glowed with manic excitement.
“I will be written about in the papers, credited with solving a murder. I will be famous.”
“Wait,” Honor cried, and grabbed Rose by the arm as she turned towards the door. “Rose, you can’t.”
“Why not? The man pretending to be Jesse is a murderer.”
“You don’t know that,” Honor protested. “The police thought Heller died of natural causes. Anaphylactic shock.”
“They’re a bunch of stupid clodhoppers who don’t know their arse from their elbow.”
“And you do?” Honor exclaimed.
“The evidence is staring you in the face, you little fool,” Rose cried. “How much more proof do you need? That man down there gave the real Jesseph something he was deathly allergic to and waited for him to die. Then he stole his identity.”
“You can’t confront him in front of everyone.”
“So, what do you propose we do?” Rose demanded.
“I don’t know, but you can’t go down there. The scandal will kill Father, and Geneva will be humiliated in front of all our guests. We can speak to Jesse tomorrow. In private. It’s not as if he’s going anywhere. And maybe he had nothing to do with that man’s death. It could have been an accident.”
“You know, you always were a simpleton,” Rose snarled. “That’s why you will be forever overlooked. I have no intention of relying on some hick from America or begging my dried-up, bitter mother for every farthing. I mean to be independent.”
“By doing what?” Honor asked. She had never seen Rose so determined, and so obsessed.
“I’m going to be a writer, like Dorothy L. Sayers. I’m going to make a name for myself.”
“Rose, please, let’s talk about this,” Honor pleaded.
“There’s nothing to talk about. Now get out of my way.”
Rose was already marching towards the door, a look of cold, hard intent in her eyes.
“No,” Honor cried. She couldn’t allow Rose to do this. She would destroy everyone Honor loved, including Jesse, who, even if he wasn’t who he said he was, still seemed better than the man in the photo.
The evidence against him was concerning, but there was no proof that he’d murdered the real Jesseph Bellamy.
Neither the ship’s surgeon nor the police were confident that his death had been the result of foul play.
Perhaps Jesse, or whoever he was, had seen an opportunity and grabbed it.
And he could still save them. She needed to speak to her father and Geneva.
To tell them what Rose had discovered and decide on a course of action that would cause them the least amount of embarrassment and harm.
But Rose would not be deterred. Her hand was around the knob, and she yanked open the door with unnecessary force. Honor lurched towards her cousin and grabbed her arm.
“Rose, please,” she cried. “Think what this will do my father and Geneva. And your mother will be destitute.”
“I don’t care,” Rose snarled. “I despise her.”
“My father has always been good to you.”
“Yes, the awkward poor relation no one really likes but is forced to tolerate.”
“I won’t let you go down there,” Honor hissed.
“You don’t have a say in what happens.”
Rose tore free of Honor’s grasp with surprising strength.
Before Honor could recover, Rose planted both hands against her cousin’s chest and shoved her with all her might.
The force of it shocked Honor, and she stumbled back, arms flailing as she fought for balance, but Rose had pushed her far too hard.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the edges of the room blurring as her body pitched backward.
She hit the floor with brutal force, the side of her head striking the corner of the trunk at the foot of Rose’s bed.
A white-hot burst of pain exploded in her temple.
Her stomach lurched. The ceiling spun in dizzying circles above her.
Honor tried to draw breath, tried to speak, but the only sound that escaped was a strangled, rasping cough.
She lifted a trembling hand, reaching towards Rose—pleading, signaling for help—but her arm felt heavy and unresponsive, her hand curled into a claw.
Rose stood frozen, her wide eyes reflecting terror rather than satisfaction.
A warm metallic taste flooded Honor’s mouth.
The blood was thick on her tongue and then trickled down her chin and slid down her neck.
Her vision dimmed at the edges, as though a dark curtain were being slowly drawn across her sight.
Thoughts flickered and died before she could catch hold of them.
The room narrowed to a black tunnel, Rose’s face drifting in and out of focus.
And then everything slipped away into impenetrable darkness.