It seemed that Blythe could barely contain her snort. “That’s what you’re supposed to tell us.”
“You’re pregnant,” Signa added at Eliza’s apparent confusion. This time when she said it, Eliza was coherent enough to look her in the eye. Signa had to try to block Life’s memories out a little longer, instead gathering the scattered puzzle pieces of this mystery and speaking her thoughts aloud as she pieced them together.
“The night your uncle died, Everett told me that the duke was trying to marry you off—”
“To a man with one foot in the grave.” Blythe, it seemed, was creeping toward the same conclusion as Signa.
“And one who wouldn’t ask questions,” Signa noted, her teeth still chattering every few words. “The late duke knew about the pregnancy, didn’t he?”
There was no escaping the truth of the situation now, and Eliza seemed to realize as much. Her mouth opened and shut several times before defeat claimed her and she released the tension in her shoulders. “All Sir Bennet ever discussed was how much he needed an heir. Perhaps he was a good fit on paper, but can you imagine letting someone old enough to be your grandfather put his hands all over you?” She shuddered. All three of the women did.
One look at the discarded vial of herbs told Signa all she needed to know about the next piece of the puzzle, and so she pressed, “You didn’t want to marry him. So you went to the apothecary for a solution.” Signa remembered her own visit there months prior, when the shopkeeper had suspected Percy was up to something and had offered Signa the means to take care of him. Perhaps that, too, had been cyanide.
Eliza’s answer came in words so sharp that each one was spoken like its own sentence. “I never, ever meant to cause my uncle any harm.” She made a fist in her skirts, taking a moment to still the quiver of her bottom lip. “I read about cyanide in the papers. There were cases of poisonings where the men did not die but briefly took ill. I only needed to make my uncle believe that Sir Bennet was no longer a viable option. I wanted him to find someone else, so I slipped some cyanide into a drink that a servant was meant to bring to Sir Bennet. But Mr. Hawthorne stopped him on his way and grabbed the laced drink.” For as long as she’d held in her secrets, they now flowed from Eliza’s lips like a rushing river.
“I must have checked the dose a hundred times. No one should have died that night, I swear it.” Eliza brought her knees to her chest, hugging them tight. “I never—God, I never meant for my uncle to die. I loved him.”
Blythe crumpled into herself at the confession. Signa, too, wished they could sew Eliza’s mouth shut and drag her to the constable to free Elijah before she said another word. Yet both she and Blythe held their tongues because, despite everything, there was a truth that hung between them—in Eliza’s place, either of them might have been just as desperate.
It was no wonder Eliza had gone to Fate’s ball only a week after Lord Wakefield’s death; she’d been desperate to find a husband. If Eliza had known of her pregnancy before the duke’s death, that meant she was at least several months pregnant. Signa peered down at Eliza’s stomach; she was doing a remarkable job concealing it. She wouldn’t be able to for much longer, though.
Signa picked up the vial of herbs and examined it closer. “Who gave this to you?”
Eliza stiffened at Signa’s brevity. “My lady’s maid, Sorcha. I’ve been ill since the start of my pregnancy, and it’s impossible to conceal it from the one who helps dress you. Once she found out, she started to bring me herbs to ease the pain and cramping.”
It was probably an innocent mistake, but still Signa couldn’t rule out foul play without saying, “In low amounts, these herbs are safe. But they have another use, Eliza. Were you aware that these are popular among women with unwanted pregnancies?” They were potent and dangerous, and could bring as much harm to the mother as the baby. Still, that rarely stopped a desperate woman from using them.
Too often the world did not consider women as people but as stepping stones for men. A woman was ostracized the moment she strayed from the prescribed path, left to fend for herself in a world with too few opportunities. Signa wished there was a safer option than these herbs, but she couldn’t fault Eliza for her choice.
“I only ever took the herbs to ease the pain.” So great was Eliza’s conviction that Blythe stirred. “I knew what they could do, though, and I wanted the option. I never meant for my uncle to die, but I couldn’t marry the man he chose for me. God, I never meant for it to happen like this.”
“What did you do with the cyanide after?” Signa pressed. “Did anyone see you with it?”
“No one,” Eliza swore. “I panicked and threw it out.”
While Blythe had kept quiet, sorrow knit itself into fine lines of her forehead as she asked in a whisper, “Where does my uncle play into this? Is Byron the father?”
This earned a blush so fierce that, at any other time, Signa might have teased the woman. “Byron knows of my condition, but the father isn’t involved. He doesn’t even know I’m pregnant.”
“Don’t you think it might be a good idea to tell him?” Blythe pressed. “Perhaps he’ll be willing to help.”
“What a genius idea,” Eliza all but spat. “Do you not think I would have told him if I could? I thought he and I would be married by now, yet I’ve not been able to contact him. Byron has been helping me search, and he offered to marry me himself, should I need the option. He’s a good man.”
With lead in her belly, Signa thought of the papers in Byron’s study; of the maps with crossed-out towns and scrawled notes. Months ago, Eliza had fawned over Percy, and he’d been more than receptive to her interest.
Five months ago… That timing checked out, and as Signa turned to steal a look at Blythe, it was clear from the glossing of her eyes that she’d realized it, too.
“Percy is the father,” she whispered. “That’s why Byron offered his hand.”
It was those words that caused Eliza’s resolve to shatter as she bent at the waist and clutched Blythe’s hand, sobs racking her body. “Why doesn’t anyone know where he is? Why would he run off unless he wanted no part of me or this child?”
Signa stared down at the vial between them. She thought of Percy’s pride and propriety, and wondered what he would have thought of the situation, had he known. Would it have reminded him too much of Marjorie to bear? Or would he have married Eliza, and been awaiting the birth of his child?
Whatever the answer, she’d never learn it. Eliza would never find Percy, and he would never be this child’s father. All because of her.
“Signa.” She turned from Death as his shadows slipped behind her. “You are not the guilty party. Do not think of Percy or the life you took,” Death urged. “Look instead at the one you gave life to. Had you done nothing, he would have killed Blythe.”
There was barely a second in which Signa could have sworn that Blythe’s attention whipped toward Death. She thought she saw the girl’s eyes widen, but soon enough Blythe was bent toward Eliza, squeezing her hand.
Signa’s chest felt as though it had been struck by a hot iron. They’d been seconds away from having an alibi to save her uncle. But they couldn’t turn Eliza in; not when she was the mother of Percy’s child and the last part of him that still existed in this world. Signa couldn’t take that from the Hawthornes, too.