Lenore’s eyelids fluttered as the impressions left her and her mind cleared. She glanced down at the trunk and knew with sudden certainty that she must see what was inside. A heavier tool had to be found to pry free the locked flap, and she determined to fetch one soon after removing the landscape from the parlor wall and placing her father’s portrait in its stead.

Taking the painting with her, she made her way carefully down the narrow stairs and entered the lower front room. Once again she dragged a straight chair to the fireplace, took down the wooded scene, and hung the painting of the square-jawed man. She tucked the landscape out of sight and sat down in a wing-backed chair to wait for the one who called himself her sire. It was barely half an hour later when he strolled in with his nose in a book.

“It’s a hot one today,” he observed, loosening his cravat and moping his brow. “Why, the fish are fairly jumping from that big boiling pot out there.”

He chortled at his own humor, but his laughter faded in swift degrees when he looked up and found himself beneath the weight of Lenore’s stoical stare. He cleared his throat as he moved away and, pouring himself a libation, settled on the settee. Raising an arm above his head, he leaned backward, stretching himself, and then froze. His mouth slowly descended to convey his surprise, leaving him gaping at the portrait.

“Good heavens!” he gasped. Sitting forward in a rush, he shot a glance toward her, finding her expression unchanged. His features clouded as a deeply troubled frown creased his brow, and hurriedly he gulped down another unhealthy portion of whiskey before wiping a hand across his mouth.

“Can you tell me one thing?” she asked in a quiet voice.

He took another quick swallow before he asked, “What is it that you want to know, girl?”

“Who are you?”

He bounced in agitation on the seat. “What do you mean, daughter?”

“I…don’t think I am…”

“Am what?” He appeared perplexed.

“Your daughter,” Lenore stated simply.

He stared at her agog. “Why, of course you are!”

She replied with a slow, negative shake of her head. “No, I really don’t think so.”

“What is this? Another lapse of memory?” he questioned almost angrily and gave a short, scornful laugh. “We’ve been through this before, I believe.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “but I am beginning to see things clearly now.” She lifted her hand, bringing his attention back to the portrait, but he quickly ducked his head, as if he felt some shame viewing it. “This is my father, isn’t it?”

“Good lord, girl! You’ve lost your mind,” he charged, blustering.

A lovely eyebrow arched queryingly. “Have I? Or am I just beginning to get it back?”

“I don’t know what you mean!” He sprang to his feet and paced the floor restlessly. “What has taken hold of you? That damned Wingate fellow comes into this house and suddenly you cast away all who love you….”

“The name in your book of plays…it’s your name, isn’t it? Edward Gaitling…Shakespearean actor.”

The white-haired man moaned and twisted his hands in deep distress. “Why are you tormenting me like this, girl? Don’t you know that I care for you?”

“Do you?” Her tone was doubting.

“Of course!” He flung a hand about in a wild, frenzied gesture. “I am your father! And I care for my daughter!”

Lenore sprang from the chair with an angry command. “Stop it! You are not my father! You are Edward Gaitling! There is no further reason for your pretense.” She raised a hand to indicate the portrait once again. “This is my father. This…is…Robert Somerton! And I want to know who I am! If I am Lenore Sinclair, why was there need for all this chicanery?”

Edward Gaitling opened his eyes wide in surprise. “Oh, but you are Lenore…and Malcolm is really your husband.”

She shook her head in painful confusion. She had desperately hoped that he would make a different announcement. “Then why all this pretense? Why have you played the part of my father?”

“Don’t you see, girl?” He came toward her holding out a hand in pleading supplication. “With you being in Wingate’s house and believing you were Lierin and his wife…and him strongly declaring it was so, you needed something more than Malcolm’s word to sway the balance.”

“But why couldn’t my real father do that?”

“Because he is in England, girl, and Malcolm was afraid of what would happen between you and Wingate. By the time your father could have been summoned and traveled here…good heavens!…you could have almost borne the man a child!”

His exaggeration made her cringe inwardly, and she was the one now who twisted her hands in dismay. “So Malcolm hired you to perform for me.”

Edward Gaitling seemed unable to manage more than a brief, hesitant glance in her direction. “I guess…that’s the way it happened.”

“You seem particularly loyal to Malcolm,” she observed distantly. “How long have you known him?”

Edward tossed down another swallow, and as he lowered his glass, he gripped it between both hands. “I’ve known him for a long time, I guess.”

“Before we were married?”

“I…ah…I’ve been away…for a long time,” he answered lamely.

“Then you weren’t informed of the wedding?”

“No…I wasn’t…I can’t tell you anything about that.”

“I remember…part of it,” she said.

Edward’s head snapped up. “Oh? But I thought you couldn’t…remember very well.”

A wry smile touched her lips. “I told you…it’s beginning to come back.”

A worried frown flitted across his brow before he hurriedly dropped his gaze. “Malcolm will be happy to hear that.”

“I really don’t see why.”

“Eh?” He peered at her in confusion.

“Even if I were to regain all my memory, it would not change things between us. I don’t know exactly why I married him…but whatever was there between us is there no longer.”

Edward’s shoulders sagged, and he heaved a laborious sigh. “Poor Malcolm. He does love you, you know.”

“I’m not at all sure about that, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve made up my mind.”

“Will you be going back to Natchez with that Wingate fellow?”

“I don’t see why you need to know my plans.” Lenore released her breath haltingly. “I’d like you to leave the house as soon as you can. There’s no further reason for you to stay.”

Edward Gaitling looked at her in surprise, then his wonder ebbed into a disconcerted frown. Giving a reluctant nod, he set down his glass and moved to the door. He paused another long space to gaze back at her, then slowly made his way from the room. Lenore could hear his footsteps on the stairs, ascending at the same lagging pace, and in the still house, she heard the closing of his door a few, short moments later.

The house grew quiet and still, and in the loneliness of the parlor Lenore lifted her gaze to the portrait, wondering about the man who was really her father. If she could correctly discern anything from the glimpses she had of him in her memory, he was a man who really loved his daughters. Ashton would be like that, she thought with a wistful smile. He would be a good father. He loved so well. Indeed, she wondered why her sister had not somehow fought to live and claim the happiness he could have given her.

Lenore shook her head, trying to reject the thoughts that came to plague her, but they persisted, and she had to yield her mind to their presence. Had she a right to take her sister’s place? To seize upon Ashton’s devotion for another and selfishly claim it for herself? He had assured her that he would love her whether she was Lierin or Lenore, but was it true? With his dream swept away by tragedy, had he been too eager to grasp at whatever facsimile became available? And was she taking advantage of his love for her sister to fill an emptiness within herself?

She groaned inwardly as a weighty guilt came down upon her. Edward Gaitling had put a name to her. A kept woman! The mistress of her sister’s husband! Adulteress!

A depressing coldness clamped its clammy hands upon her as the heavy lump in the pit of her stomach grew weightier. She had begun to sense that the white-haired man was not her father, and with the suspicion, a hope that she might not be Lenore had begun to form. Still, if she had recognized the facts as being what they were, she would have accepted the fleeting memories of her marriage to Malcolm as truth. The blue gown…the wedding guests…the trunk…

Lenore lifted her head, feeling a burning need to see what the chest contained. She set herself to finding a chisel and hammer and, accomplishing that feat, retrieved the landscape and climbed once more to the attic room. Now in the late afternoon the heat in the closed space was nearly unbearable, but she worked at the lock with a fierce purposefulness, disregarding the mugginess and the gown that began to cling cloyingly close to her dampened skin. Finally, the flap broke free, and she quickly lifted the top. An empty tray met her gaze, and a quick flash of a memory filled it with neatly arranged possessions. In her mind she could visualize her gowns packed beneath the wooden compartment. Almost eagerly she lifted the tray and set it aside. There the images halted…abruptly. Nothing but large stones filled the bottom. She stared down at them, suddenly unsure of herself and more than slightly puzzled. She bent to move one aside, then a strange, sickly sweet odor touched her nostrils, reminding her of something spoiled. Warily she turned her head, and her eyes slowly widened as they settled on the dark reddish brown stains smeared across the inner lining.

With a gasp Lenore stumbled back, hitting her head sharply on a low rafter, and was brought up short by the confining timbers. Her stomach heaved, and she covered her mouth with a shaking hand. Averting her face to deny any chance glimpse of what she had just seen, she pressed her brow against the slanting wooden brace. A strange creepiness made her skin crawl, and while her heart quivered, a frosty chill shivered up her spine. Her mind began to tumble in a dizzying gyre, and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut to forbid any intrusion of the nightmare that threatened.

“No, no,” she moaned miserably as once more the poker was lifted and brought down with murderous intent. She cowered, wanting to see nothing more of it, but the horror was relentless and seeped into her brain until all she saw was…blood! Her mind screamed at the terror she had witnessed, and then the tall, broad-shouldered form came slowly around with a dark cloak swirling about it. The face was enraged, the eyes flaring, the mouth snarling, and the visage was one she knew!

“Malcolm!” she gasped, flinging her eyes wide.

“You bitch!” his voice barked from the stairwell, and though she whirled to flee, he was there immediately behind her, grabbing her arm in a cruel, unrelenting vise and ensnaring the heavy chignon at her nape. He shook her head until her vision blurred, and then he twisted her head around until she thought her neck would snap. A sharp pain shot through her head at his abuse, but she stiffened her jaw, refusing to whine or mewl for mercy.

“You killed him!” she accused through gritted teeth. “You murdered him! And you stuffed his body in my trunk so you could get rid of it.”

“You shouldn’t have left here with him,” he snarled close to her ear. “You should never have listened to him! I was waiting for you downstairs…and I waited…and waited. It was time for us to go aboard the ship. We were to sail to Europe and abroad, but still you didn’t come down. Then the coachman came running in and said the carriage had been stolen by someone who had hit him over the head, and when I ran upstairs, I couldn’t find you.”

“But how did you know where I had gone?”

Malcolm laughed without humor. “The note the bastard wrote to you…you left it on your dressing table. Then I knew who had been here and where he had taken you…to Natchez to see his sister…to provide you proof of what he said…and to secure her release with your testimony.” His short, snorting chuckle came in derision. “Sarah! Another bitch! She didn’t trust me either…but she loved me. You lust after that devil, Wingate.”

“Bigamist!” The tendons in her throat tensed into tight cords as she tried to pull her hair free from his grasp, but he yanked her head back upon his shoulder and, slipping an arm about her throat, applied pressure until she was forced to cease her struggles or be choked to death. Her outrage was not so easily subdued. “Murderer!”

Forcing her face around with his wrist, Malcolm stared down into the blazing emerald eyes and smirked. “You needn’t be jealous, my pet. I took care of her. She’s naught but ashes now.”

“You set fire to the madhouse?!” Lenore questioned, horrified at the extent he would go to achieve his own ends.