Elizabeth Collins Stoddard stared at her fireplace, eyes stinging from the flames. Her eyes were glued there, unblinking and wide. She held a glass of brandy securely in her clasped hands, but so dull and deep was her shock that the glass stayed still and full in her grasp.
She had killed her husband.
She had killed Paul.
She had killed her husband.
No. No. The words still did not fully penetrate, did not make sense. For the first time in over an hour, after Jason McGuire had left her sitting by the fireplace speaking honeyed, strychnine-laced words of comfort till the moment he left the house, Elizabeth's expression finally shifted from its pale, blank mask of stoicism. Her brow furrowed as her eyes narrowed in on the flames, as if she were trying to decode a message hidden in the embers. Her mouth parted in rhythmic, up-and-down motion, and it would take keener ears than human to hear what she whispered: "How…how…how?"
How could this have happened? How? How…she…she didn't mean to kill him! Only stop him…yes…stop him from hurting her…no, no...she wasn't important anymore, really, really, it wasn't about her…she had to stop him from hurting Carolyn.
Oh, God, Carolyn!
Jerking away from the fire, Elizabeth groaned, squeezing the glass of brandy so tightly her fingernails left marks. Yes, her poor sweet Carolyn! That…that was the only reason why…he was taking the jewels, the money, everything, everything! Everything that never mattered to her but mattered so much for Carolyn's future! When she realized he was going to walk off with it, all of Carolyn's inheritance, with that damn, cocky smirk on his blasted face, and lead a life of luxury he was denying their girl, well…well, the poker was in her hand and it came down…down…no, no, she didn't mean it, she didn't…!
She was sobbing now. She, Elizabeth Collins Stoddard, the proud beauty with brains and strength to match her famed loveliness, was reduced to this doddering shell of a woman, sobbing over her murder victim; too weak even to down the brandy in her hands. She, Elizabeth, so defiant of her parents as to marry that dashing renegade Paul Stoddard, was now at the mercy of that Irish yokel, that Jason McGuire! She grimaced with self-loathing. Oh, yes, Jason had taken care of everything so beautifully, removed Paul's body to the basement with nary a sound to upset Carolyn in her crib or any of the servants, and had been solicitous and considerate to the very end, while letting her know in no uncertain terms that her life was now his, her money and house his for the taking.
The same house, she promised herself steadfastly even in her torrent of tears, that she would never, ever leave again. Not while she lived to see her Carolyn's sweet face go white with horror discovering the terrible secret buried in the basement, if Elizabeth should ever be foolish enough to let her guard down and abandon Collinwood for even a moment.
Elizabeth shuddered convulsively, not only contemplating that horrible possibility, but the thought of Paul's body…buried there. That awful image had until then mercifully not rose before her weary mind. But now it came upon her in full force. Her husband…her Paul…no, not her Paul really, never was, never was…Paul was dead and buried in this cursed house.
Because of her. Because of her.
Elizabeth knew she was no perfect saint, and had done and said many things she regretted bitterly, bitterly. But she abhorred murder, even when it came down upon someone as loathsome as Paul.
And yet, she had killed him.
She…she hadn't had any right to do that.
After all, maybe…maybe while he was alive…maybe there was a chance he could change, a chance he could redeem himself. Who knows, maybe as the years went by, and Paul learned that all the money and jewels he pilfered could never substitute family, maybe then he could have learned to love, if not her, Carolyn.
Then her baby would have had a real father, instead of the corpse her mother had just now damned. And Paul…she had denied him any chance to make up his mistakes to his daughter, if he would ever have wished to.
Elizabeth was keening now, practically rocking back and forth on the sofa. "Oh, God, Paul!" She choked out through her sobs. "Forgive me! I'll do anything! Anything to make this up to you! Oh, God, I'm sorry…." She gave herself over to her tears, collapsing on her side against the cushions, the brandy falling to the floor.
She started suddenly, bolting up ramrod straight at the edge of the couch.
There was a sharp, heavy, and persistent rap on the door.
Her heart pounded mercilessly.
She glanced hazily at the clock. Who…who on earth could be calling at this time of night?
Whoever it was knocked again.
Elizabeth swallowed and stood unsteadily. With trembling hands she wiped the tears off her face, regretting she could do nothing about her red eyes and smeared mascara.
She took a deep breath, shaking all the while, hugging her elegant dressing gown closer to her as she made her way to the door. She thought how it was a sad state of affairs indeed when she started hoping that it was Jason McGuire at the door, returning with simply another snaky favor to ask–no, demand of her.
As she opened the door, she couldn't keep herself from the morbid thought whisking through her: Dear God don't let it be a ghost!
A beautiful woman stared at her from the archway.
She stepped out of the moonlight and into the house, moving airily, silently, and with authority, sweeping inscrutable eyes over Collinwood's entryway. Her ratty coat was torn in areas, but this pathetic attire was totally incongruous to the rest of her. This was no sad waif, but a majestic, proud figure, her bright eyes staring at Elizabeth archly with head held high. Wisps of fine dark hair spilled out of the hood that she pulled down as she began to speak.
"Is Paul here?"
Elizabeth inhaled sharply. "What…who are you? What are you doing in my house at this time of night?"
The woman stepped nearer her, and there was something unearthly about this woman's mild gaze. "I'm asking, is Paul here?"
Indignation like red-hot iron seared through Elizabeth's core, and releasing the tension she had been brewing, she spat out, "What are you, another one of his whores? Come to flaunt yourself in front of me, trying to shame me, to get back at him? Ha! As if you could. Go on, get out! My esteemed husband is gone…is not here! Left! Get out, you slut!" She flung open the door, fuming. "Out, I say!"
The tense silence was punctuated only by Elizabeth's exasperated heavy breathing, coming out in huffs from flared nostrils, her lips compressed too tightly for any air to escape them.
But then she frowned. She watched mystified as the beautiful woman's proud lip suddenly started to tremble, the girl turning her head away slowly. So quiet was she that it took Elizabeth a moment to realize that the woman's jerking shoulders signified that she was crying.
And Elizabeth was, at her core, a very kind woman.
She unwillingly stepped forward, close to the exquisite weeping creature. "I…I'm sorry…are you ill?"
"Yes," came the soft reply.
Elizabeth bowed her head. "I'm sorry I spoke to you that way…but I'm not myself this evening…here, come into the sitting room, I don't want you waking anyone."
Taking one slender arm, Elizabeth helped the stranger into the drawing room, seating her on the sofa. "You see," Elizabeth continued, closing the drawing room doors, "Paul did leave. This very night." She turned her head away so the girl couldn't see Elizabeth's face twist, having just told her very first lie concerning Paul's whereabouts.
She turned back quickly as a strangled cry escaped the woman. "No!…No!…oh, then there is no hope! None!" The woman buried her face in her hands.
Elizabeth rushed forward. "No hope? No hope for what? Who are you, miss?"
The woman's dignified eyes were now desperate and appealing. "Oh, Mrs. Stoddard, I am everything you accused me of! I'm…I'm a despicable tramp…you see, Mrs. Stoddard…I…I made the dreadful mistake of falling in love with your husband. My name is Betty Handscombe. I used to model for Sam Evans, and that's where I met Paul. We used to meet secretly, until…until…." She was overtaken by a fresh burst of tears, and covered her face again.
Elizabeth only rolled her eyes. "Well, I'm not surprised. Paul did–does have his ways." She sighed. "What is it you want from me, Ms. Handscombe? Money? I really don't have time for this right now." She put a hand to her forehead, closing her eyes as she massaged a growing headache. The woman's sniffing was becoming monotonous.
"None…no money for me, you see…oh, Mrs. Stoddard, how can I tell you? I…I didn't expect Paul to be gone! Believe me, the scales had long ago fallen from my eyes concerning him; I know he's no good. But still…I thought…for his child…."
Elizabeth's eyes snapped open, and there was fire in them. "Don't you dare mention Carolyn to me, do you hear?"
Betty shook her head quickly. "Oh no, oh no! I didn't mean her! I –oh!" She covered her mouth and stared at Elizabeth wide-eyed. "Oh dear, oh dear…." She said to herself in a far away voice. She stood, looking away abashedly as Elizabeth scrutinized her. "I should go."
She lurched forward, head down, but Elizabeth caught her arm and stopped her. In a low voice Elizabeth asked, "What do you mean, you weren't talking about Carolyn?"
Betty turned around to face her, biting her lip. She trembled as she stared at Collinwood's matriarch. After several moments she answered. "You see, Mrs. Stoddard…I…I had his child, too."
Elizabeth felt faint, the room spinning, its empty luxury mocking her. Betty busied herself sitting Elizabeth down, and replaced the spilled glass of brandy into pale hands. Betty knelt at Elizabeth's feet. "Oh dear, Mrs. Stoddard! Believe me, I didn't want to trouble you with this! Oh, I'm so clumsy. But…but you're a mother! You understand, don't you?" She gave Elizabeth a small, sad, broken smile. In a terribly soft voice, she said, "My baby is a little girl, too, you know. My little Victoria." Her eyes went misty. "My sweet…little…oh, Victoria!" She broke down sobbing again. She threw her face into Elizabeth's lap, clutching the lady's skirts. Through the thick fog swimming around her, Elizabeth only vaguely felt the the pressure of Betty's bawling head.
"What do you want from me?" Elizabeth asked again, in a voice devoid of any feeling.
She strained to hear the girl's words, muffled as they were in the folds of Elizabeth's gown. "Nothing for me, ma'am, never anything for me. I don't deserve it. I wanted to talk to Paul. You see, I had to give her up. My girl. My Victoria. Had to drop her off at the Hammond Foundling Home in New York City. My parents wouldn't take us in. Called me worse names than you did. And I've no way to support her! None!" She lifted her head, her pretty eyes glazed over with tears and sorrow. "Oh, ma'am, if you only knew of the pain and shame I feel! I used to be good, I swear it! But I was so ashamed I couldn't even leave Victoria my name, or where to find me! I don't want her to! Don't want her to know her mother's a…a…." Her lips quivered and Elizabeth instinctively said, "Shh…shh…don't worry, don't think of yourself that way."
Betty graced her with another crooked, appealing smile. "Oh, you are kind, Mrs. Stoddard. Kinder than someone like me deserves, that's for sure." She humbly accepted the handkerchief Elizabeth offered her, and gracefully blew her nose. "So you see, ma'am, I've got nothing to give my little girl. Nothing. Now that Paul is gone…I thought maybe he could have done something for her, sent her money, anything! Who knows what sort of life the poor little babe will lead there! Who knows! And now not only will she never know me, she'll never know her father, either!"
As she broke down anew, the last words she spoke rang a bell in Elizabeth's memory.
What…what had she been thinking of before Betty came in? Carolyn. Carolyn would never know her father, either.
She…Elizabeth…she had denied two girls their father this evening.
And she had wanted so desperately to make things up to Paul somehow, dead as he is now.
Elizabeth took a deep breath.
With slow resolve, she lifted Betty's chin so that their eyes could meet. Elizabeth's voice, while detached and firm, held a note of defiant, motherly warmth. "Betty, listen to me. You needn't worry for your daughter. I…I can't do anything right now because they might be able to trace the money back to me and I don't want a scandal right after Paul–leaving. I have to think of my daughter too, you know. But…in a couple of years, say…I will start providing for your daughter."
Betty's eyes widened with wonder. "Provide for her? How?" She breathed.
Elizabeth thought a moment. "I can't send her money directly, because they'd still be able to trace it back to me. I'll talk to a lawyer in Bangor, and we can wire her money from there. Her name's Victoria, do you say? And what was the name of that foundling home?"
She wrote down the name as Betty numbly repeated it. Betty then shook her head in awe. "You…you'd really do all this just for me?"
"No," Elizabeth said bluntly. "Not for you. For your child. And I'm going to run a background check and make sure this place does in fact exist, and that your child really is there. Is that clear?"
Betty nodded her head quickly. Then her eyes became dewy once more as she clutched Elizabeth's hands. "Oh, Mrs. Stoddard, you are an angel. An angel."
Elizabeth shook her head, throwing off Betty's grasping hands. "No. I'm not. I'm just a mother, like you."
"Yes, like me," Betty beamed, hero worship evident in her face as she gazed at the woman before her. Then to Elizabeth's chagrin Betty clutched her hands again. "And because you're a mother, Mrs. Stoddard, promise me one thing more!"
"What is it?"
"I meant it when I said I didn't want Victoria knowing where she came from…won't you please promise that she'll never learn? Never?"
Elizabeth's face softened, relenting. "Yes, I promise. She'll never learn the truth from me. And…and I'll do my best to keep an eye on her. Who knows, someday I may need a companion, and then…."
Betty's eyes lit up ecstatically. "Oh, Mrs. Stoddard! That would be wonderful! I'd like my Victoria to see such a great house. I'm sure where she's living now, she'll appreciate seeing something so grand and fine when she gets older." With eyes full of gratitude and admiration she impulsively grabbed Elizabeth by the shoulders and planted a hasty kiss on her cheek. Then she sped away to the door, but halted and turned around at the archway. In a remarkably clear and steady voice, echoing her strong attitude when she first came in, she announced, "Elizabeth Stoddard, you shall never lay eyes on Betty Handscombe again."
She fled into the night. Behind her she left a woman destined to a reclusive existence for the next twenty-three years, with only the memory of this the most tumultuous night of her life.
Elizabeth glanced down at the slip of paper in her hand, at the notes she had scribbled as Betty talked.
Hammond Foundling Home, New York City.
The girl's name is Victoria.
Vulnavia pulled her hood up as she walked away from Collinwood toward the cliff at Widow's Hill. She didn't want the drunken Evans or any of the townsfolk to see her, though the risk of recognition was low this time of night.
All that mattered now was that she had made Victoria's life more secure for the time being.
Perhaps this deed would make up in some small way for the fact that Vulnavia felt she was betraying Anton.
For shortly after she had left Victoria on Hammond's steps, the full force of a prophecy had called her back:
Victoria Phibes shall bathe in the River of Life and be resurrected, and will one day win the heart of Barnabas Collins, replacing Josette DuPres Collins in his affections.
Such were the strange machinations of time, which the gods and sorcerers played with so thoughtlessly, that Vulnavia only had the prophecy after Victoria's rebirth, and Nicholas subsequently had to sift through the years to awaken Angelique and notify her of what the prophecy foretold.
Of course, Nicholas had neglected to tell Angelique the prophecy's message in full: that because of Barnabas's great love of Victoria, the young mortal would be the turning point of a great decision Barnabas would have to make. A decision that would result either in chaos and destruction on the side of Diablos, or else a decision that benefited the gods of Vulnavia's clan, who–despite their sometimes violent and sadistic nature–were crucial in keeping the balance to mortal life.
Thus, Vulnavia knew she must see this prophecy through, and ensure that the correct outcome was reached.
But that did not mean the wife of her esteemed nephew should live in squalor.
Therefore, Vulnavia had insinuated herself into Collinsport life, adopting the identity Betty Handscombe, wooing Paul and leading the life of a commoner. Thankfully, Elizabeth would never deign to inquire of anyone just how long "Betty" had really been in town, and therefore the mistress of Collinwood would never discover that Betty had not been around nearly long enough to give birth to Victoria in the time she indicated.
Vulnavia, though usually above such petty human emotions, felt a stab of guilt in taking advantage of the bamboozled Elizabeth Stoddard. Vulnavia's insight revealed that the goddess was the third person to fool the poor woman tonight, and that Paul Stoddard did indeed still walk the earth.
But this same insight revealed that in this vulnerable state Elizabeth was perfect to provide and care for Victoria, and draw her near when the time came for Barnabas to awaken.
Therefore, Vulnavia's sympathy for Elizabeth was but a fleeting whim. After all, she was not to blame for a human woman not knowing enough to avoid entrapment from two scheming men and from her. The Stoddard woman should be stronger, wiser.
Vulnavia reached the cliff at Widow's Hill. The wind blew out from the sea and whipped her face as she stepped off the cliff and let the wind cascade around her, making her transparent as she faded into the Other World.