The Price of Love Read online

  The Price of Love

  Published by Holland Legacy Publishing 3

  ISBN: 978-0-9885738-1-9

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013915350

  Copyright 2013 by Vicki Hopkins

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the author, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  eBook Edition, License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Work of Fiction

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  The Legacy Series

  About the Author

  Dedication

  To my wonderful readers who found this series worth following. Thank you for allowing me to entertain you with a story of innocence, deception, and love. Everything carries a price.

  Prologue

  Confession is Good for the Soul

  Lillian Goddard stood at the foot of the bed watching the doctor as he listened to her sister’s labored breathing. He rose from his hovered position and shook his head.

  “I’m afraid she is no better. Her lungs are filled with fluid, and the fever has not broken.” He spoke compassionately. “Madame, you must prepare yourself for the inevitable. Your sister is at death’s door.”

  Lillian’s lower lip quivered as she watched Dorcas labor for each breath. “She’s been delirious, doctor, mumbling on and on about a baby.”

  “What baby?”

  “I’m not sure,” she answered, wringing her hands together. “It’s been very strange.”

  The doctor returned his medical instruments to his black leather case and snapped it shut. “A high fever will make the gravely ill delirious. Try to give her enough fluids to drink and make her comfortable. I’ll check back in the morning.”

  Lillian escorted the physician to the door, giving him a parting word of thanks before returning to her sister’s bedside. Each laborious breath broke her heart. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked lovingly into Dorcas’ pale and sweaty face. “Dorcas, I’m here,” she whispered.

  Her hand brushed a matted strand of wet hair from her sister’s brow. Then to her surprise, Dorcas reached up and clutched her wrist. Her eyelids fluttered, and she gasped.

  “I must tell him.”

  “Tell who, dear?” Lillian clutched her sister’s hand and squeezed it tight.

  “Monsieur Moreau.”

  “I don’t understand.” She leaned forward in order to hear her muffled voice. “Who is Monsieur Moreau?”

  “Write...write this down...before I die. I must confess,” she exclaimed in desperation.

  Her voice rose to near hysteria. A fitful attack of coughing silenced her sister’s voice. After it passed, she lifted her index finger and pointed to the other side of the room.

  “Over there...open the drawer,” she said, looking at the dresser.

  Lillian rose and stood before the furniture piece. “Which drawer, Dorcas?” she asked, looking at the four closed drawers.

  “The top...”

  Dorcas gasped for a breath again. Lillian halted, stunned to hear her sister’s lungs gurgling in her chest.

  “Please hurry,” Dorcas implored.

  She pulled open the drawer and rifled through its contents. At the bottom, a tattered, leather booklet lay hidden beneath her undergarments.

  “Is this what you’re talking about?” She pulled the book out and held it up.

  “Yes. Bring it here.”

  Lillian returned to the bedside and sat down. Dorcas placed her hand on the cover over the embossed word Diary. Tears filled her sister’s swollen eyelids.

  “Angelique...her name is Angelique Jolene von Lamberg.”

  Still confused, Lillian cocked her head as she listened. “Who is Angelique?”

  “The daughter of my mistress,” she began. “But...but she is not her daughter.”

  Even more confused, Lillian thought the fever that racked her sister’s body had taken over her senses. “I don’t understand what you mean, Dorcas. You are ill, and your mind is playing tricks on you.”

  “No, no tricks,” she began to weep. Dorcas’ face contorted into a mixture of sorrow and fear. “Kidnapped—she took the child from her rightful mother and father.”

  “Who took her?”

  “The duchess—I mean the countess.”

  “Duchess—countess—who are you talking about, Dorcas? You are making no sense whatsoever.” Lillian raised her voice in frustration exasperated about her sister’s babbling.

  “The Duchess of Surrey, Jacquelyn Holland.”

  “But wasn’t your last mistress Countess von Lamberg?”

  “No.” Dorcas’ voice choked. “She was the same lady I served for many years, the duchess.”

  A coughing spree silenced her sister again. Lillian set the diary on the nightstand and took Dorcas’ hand to give her strength. Distraught over the painful and violent heaving of the congestion that threatened to drown her life, she closed her eyes and prayed. Dearest Lord, have mercy upon her in this hour of suffering.

  Lillian took a damp washcloth and wiped her sister’s fevered brow one more time. None of her comments made sense. Surely, she had been confused over her former mistress.

  “Now, calm yourself, Dorcas. You are making yourself worse bringing up memories of the past. No more talk of kidnapping.”

  “I must ask forgiveness and tell Monsieur Moreau and...”

  “And who else?”

  “His wife...” A desperate look filled her eyes. “A priest...I need a priest, Lillian, please,” she begged. “I must confess my sins.”

  Lillian didn’t know whether to believe or scoff at her sister’s ranting. None of it made sense. “Why didn’t you say something before, Dorcas?”

  “Afraid...I was afraid of prison because I helped.” Her eyes fluttered. Dorcas opened her lips once more. “Read my diary. All is revealed within.” She heaved a gurgling sigh and closed her eyes exhausted.

  Lillian picked up the diary that she had set on the nightstand and looked closely at the tattered book. A fragile binding held a collection of wrinkled and torn pages. She flipped to the first and noted the date July 7, 1876 - Diary of Dorcas Kirby. The entry spoke of her new position as lady’s maid to Jacquelyn Spencer. Upon a quick glance of the
remaining contents, it appeared that Dorcas had recorded years of service.

  Her attention had been taken away from her sister for a few minutes until she realized she no longer heard raspy breaths. “Dorcas!”

  Lillian dropped the diary to the floor and embraced her sister. There had been no time to fetch a priest for confession. “Dear God have mercy on her soul,” she cried, weeping over her body.

  After a few minutes of intense tears, Lillian rose from the bed and lifted the sheet over her sister’s face unable to bear the sight. “Be at peace, Dorcas.” Her lip quivered. As she stared at the shroud, Lillian knew in her heart that no rest would come to her sister’s purgatorial soul until she discovered the secrets hidden in the tattered diary.

  Lillian picked up the book from the floor and traced the embossed, fading word Diary with her index finger. As she flipped through the pages, an envelope dropped to her feet. Lillian recognized her sister’s penmanship. She picked it up and saw that it had been addressed to Lady Angelique Jolene von Lamberg in Vienna. The unsealed envelope beckoned her to read its secrets. After unfolding the paper, she noted the date. It had been penned a week ago, about the time she fell ill. Unable to leave its contents a private matter between her and the addressee, she read the letter.

  Angelique,

  I doubt that you will remember me. You were only three years old when your mother passed away, and I left her employment. My conscience is burdened, and I am compelled to write this letter. You may not believe my words, but at least I will know that I have confessed my complicity in a grievous and sinful act.

  The woman you knew as Jacquelyn Bennett, your supposed mother, had not been whom she claimed to be. Her identity and marriage to your stepfather had been perpetrated in deceit and lies. You see, I served your mother as her lady’s maid for many years and had been well acquainted with her true identity—she was the Duchess of Surrey, Jacquelyn Spencer-Holland. In a moment of deep hurt, she kidnapped you from your father and mother and fled to Austria. I helped her to accomplish that awful deed. We boarded a train never to be heard from or found again. Her broken heart drove her to desperation.

  Years earlier, my mistress had wed Lord Robert Holland of Surrey, England. For years, she bore the shame and heartache of being barren. I shared her sorrow every month. During this time, unbeknownst to her, his lordship had a Parisian mistress. His lover was your mother, Suzette Rousseau.

  When she became pregnant with his son, she returned to Paris and married a man by the name of Philippe Moreau. Five years later, you were born of that union, and they named you Angelique. Jacquelyn gave you the name of Jolene.

  It is during this time that much happened between all involved. Another adulterous affair ensued between your mother and Robert Holland. My mistress had been terribly hurt when she discovered her husband’s unfaithfulness. An opportunity presented itself to ease her pain by bringing about her revenge upon all involved.

  At the age of three months, your father entrusted your care into her hands for a short period. Her promise was to keep you for a day, but instead she kidnapped you from your mother and father. To my disgrace, I helped her because of my loyalty to my mistress.

  I have no doubt, even though she committed a horrible wrong, that she loved you very much. She married your stepfather and finally experienced a happy marriage to replace the sorrows of the past.

  I tell you this now to clear my conscience because I fear death and judgment. Perhaps I should have spoken the truth after your mother died, but I was a coward running from lawful punishment for my participation. Now, I fear the judgment of God and beg for His mercy and your forgiveness.

  In closing, I encourage you to seek out those who grieve over your loss. They have every right to know of the outcome of that terrible act and that you are alive and well.

  Your humble servant, Dorcas Kirby

  When she had reached her closing lines, the tears upon Lillian’s face dropped onto the envelope. She brushed them off, careful not to smear the inked address. With a sorrowful face, she looked at her sister’s motionless body underneath the sheet. Loyalty had been a strong trait in Dorcas, which apparently held resilient regardless of her employer’s actions.

  Carefully, she folded the letter and inserted it back into the envelope. She would seal and post it after her sister’s funeral, in hopes that the person to whom it was addressed would read its contents. It would fulfill Dorcas’ last wishes. Her confession would be spoken. Whether the young woman would believe or forgive, Lillian had to leave in the hands of the Almighty.

  As far as the diary, it held too many secrets of Dorcas’ life to ignore. Lillian wanted to know them all, and she determined to read every word. When finished with its story, she would hide it away for safekeeping should it be needed in the future.

  Chapter 1

  Vienna 1905 - A Buried Past

  Angelique Jolene von Lamberg tightened the black, wool scarf about her neck. The interior of the coach on a late snowy March day chilled her to the bone. Only a few days ago the temperatures had risen above freezing, melting the remaining winter snow. As if teased by Mother Nature that spring had arrived, she brusquely plunged Vienna into another wintery blast.

  The carriage rolled slowly along the snow-covered streets while motorcars passed on their left. Jolene smiled in fascination at the new mode of transportation she had not had the opportunity to enjoy. Secretly, she wished her stepfather would have wanted the modern invention and purchased a new brass carriage, but he never felt inclined to do so.

  “It would snow today.” Her companion complained through chattering teeth. “Could the day be more miserable than this?”

  Her poor elderly aunt sat huddled in the corner, wrapped in a blanket about her legs for warmth. “I am as disappointed as you, Auntie,” Jolene replied. She tucked the woven cloth close to her aunt’s body.

  “We should have had the solicitor come to the estate, Jolene. I’ll catch my death from this cold.”

  “I’m so sorry for insisting that we go out. It’s so dreary and lonely in that huge house without father.” Her brow furrowed over the thought of his death. “I thought the fresh air would do us good.”

  “Good? We shall be frozen by the time we reach the solicitor’s office.” Geraldine continued to whine.

  “Now, now, Auntie, it’s not that bad,” Jolene said soothingly. She reached over and patted her aunt’s arm. “We’ll be there before we know it.”

  Her grumpy aunt peered out the window, and Jolene turned her head away to glance out the other. It had been a difficult few months. Lung cancer swiftly took her stepfather’s life. The strong man that she once knew withered into a weak frame of skin and bones. As a loving daughter, she attended to his needs, spoke of her love and devotion, and then finally buried him a week ago.

  To add to the stressful situation, a letter had arrived in the post only weeks before that had turned her life upside down. Anger and confusion over such a ludicrous message had morphed into confusion and speculation about her identity. It could not have come at a worse time in her life. Instead of taking regard to its contents, she had shoved the letter into a drawer and overlooked it until today. Frankly, she had neither time nor spirit to give it much thought.

  After arriving from Berlin for the funeral, her aunt had insisted on remaining until all matters regarding her brother’s estate had closed. Even though her aunt lived in Berlin with her husband, Geraldine had been the matriarch of the von Lamberg family. She cared for her brother’s welfare when he became a widower. When he adopted Jolene as his daughter, her aunt wholeheartedly received her as a von Lamberg. In fact, her aunt had been the only female influence in her life since the death of her mother. Jolene relied upon her for wisdom and guidance.

  As she grew into a young girl, she dispensed with the name of Angelique, complaining that it sounded too French. With a strong surname of von Lamberg, Jolene exuded the essence of her character. When she turned thirteen, her stepfather and aunt indulged he
r choice and ceased calling her Angelique. Though it remained her given legal name, no one spoke it for the past five years.

  “We are almost there, and the driver is slowing,” Jolene announced, pointing out the window at the beige building approaching in the distance.

  “Well, it’s about time,” her aunt sputtered with blue lips. “I’m frozen to the bone.”

  The driver opened the carriage door and helped her aunt out onto the snowy sidewalk. Jolene followed close behind. The icy pavement made it difficult for their shoes to grip the walkway underneath. Afraid that her frail aunt would tumble, she grabbed her sleeve.

  “Give me your arm, Auntie,” Jolene insisted. She glanced at the driver. “Please wait here, this shouldn’t take long.”

  He nodded at her request and then huddled underneath the overhang of the front entrance to escape the frozen wonderland of fluffy flakes.

  Jolene stomped her feet on the carpet inside the doorway of the solicitor’s office, and her aunt followed suit.

  “Horrible weather. Just dreadful,” her aunt grumbled, brushing the snowflakes off her coat.

  “Here, let me help you.” Jolene flicked off the residue from her red fox collar.

  “Komtesse, welcome. May I take your coats?” The clerk greeted them with a friendly but professional smile.

  “Not mine,” Geraldine barked.

  “No, that’s fine,” Jolene said. “I’ll keep mine on as well.”

  “Very well, then. Please come in and take a seat, and I will let Herr Wilhelm know that you have arrived.”

  “Thank you.” Jolene escorted her aunt over to a nearby seat. “Sit down, Auntie,” she instructed, helping her into a wingback chair. She stood by her side and thought about the strangeness of her new position.

  “It sounds so peculiar when I am addressed as komtesse,” she mused aloud.

  The eyes of her aunt twinkled. “You should get used to it, my dear, for you now hold the title passed onto you from the count. Until you are married, of course, you are komtesse. Once you wed, you shall be a countess and whatever married name you acquire. It is an honor that your father wished you would carry with pride.”

  Jolene pondered the responsibilities she had unexpectedly inherited, as well as the wealth and prestige that now belonged to her at the young age of eighteen. There were moments in which she felt well prepared due to her stepfather’s instruction. On the other hand, she also entertained periods of doubt when her confidence waned. She felt like an inadequate orphan entrusted with a task that had far exceeded her capabilities.