The Heir - Catherine Coulter [0]
1: Magdalaine
2: Ann
3: Arabella
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Heir
A Signet Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1980, 1986 by Catherine Coulter
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
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The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
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ISBN: 978-1-1012-0961-5
A SIGNET BOOK®
Signet Books first published by The Signet Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
SIGNET and the “S” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
Electronic edition: February 2002
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com
To Anton,
the second time around
1
Magdalaine
EVESHAM ABBEY, NEAR BURY ST. EDMUNDS
ENGLAND 1790
Magdalaine lay within herself again, waiting, waiting for the opium to shroud the ravaging pain in her body. She could scarce make out the high vaulted ceiling and the dark oak-paneled walls in the dim winter-afternoon light.
At last the pain is lessening, soon I will be freed from the terrible gnawing that comes from my very soul. Please, let the opium last until the end. God, why did he wait so long to give me the opium? He wanted me to fight, that’s why, but finally he realized I didn’t want to fight, I didn’t want to live.
Was he still beside her? She didn’t know. She really didn’t care. He had been with her for so very long. He had spoken softly to her, tried to help her, but he hadn’t given her the opium until she had screamed at him to let her go, bowing in on herself, ravaged both within and without. Now, she was free from the pain, at last.
My little Elsbeth, my poor baby. But yesterday you toddled to my outstretched arms. Oh, my child, so soon, so very soon you will forget your mama. If only I could hold you to me one more time. Dear God, you will forget me, strangers will take your love, and he will be there, not I. God, if only I could have killed him. But he will live and I will rot in the damned Deverill family cemetery alone and forgotten.
Silent tears slid from the corners of Magdalaine’s dark almond eyes and coursed unchecked down her cheeks, for there were no wrinkles or aged hollows to impede their downward flow. They rested briefly against the raised fullness of her lips before she licked away their salty wetness. She felt the soft touch of material against her lips. Who held it there? It was he, she knew that. But she didn’t acknowledge him. It was too late for that. She turned inward again. There seemed so much to regret, so very little to give meaning to her short life.
Come, Magdalaine, savor the small triumphs, the fleeting moments of pleasure. Remember the victories. Why can I not? It is ridiculous to be so helpless, so alone. A cry. It is Elsbeth. Please, Josette, take her from the crib, hold her close. Flow my love into her small body. Comfort her, protect her, for I cannot.
The piercing, angry child’s cries stopped. Magdalaine calmed. She tilted her head back onto the lacy pillow