The Howler of Horrid House
Monty, the twenty-five pound Maine Coon, started howling the second Lord Maligant Mahoun Horrid sat down for his first spoonful of Pigeons Comport.
Portnoy, the Lord’s man, had prepared Horrid’s usual Friday night repast of Lamb Ears, Sheep Rumps & Kidneys in Rice, Florentine of Rabbit, Beef Olives, and, of course the majestic Comport. There were four freshly open bottles of wine set before the Lord: Madeira for the pigeons, a Sauterne for the lamb and sheep, Claret for the rabbit and beef, and Port for the cigar and lemon ice.
But Monty, known to Lord Horrid’s recently departed Lady Penelope as Montgomery Purrfict Panther, yelled, screamed, and howled as if a demon banshee.
“Portnoy. Portnoy! PORTNOY!”
“Yes Milord, sorry, I was sorting out the next course.”
“I need you to sort out that wretched cat, man. Damned if he’s going to ruin my dinner again. DAMN, DAMN, DAMN!”
“Suggestions would be helpful, Milord.”
“Well, here’s one, Portnoy. Go to the gunroom, load the Robertson with shot, nail the infernal cat to the cellar door, and blast his guts to Timbuktu.”
“A practical idea, Your Lordship, but may I remind you. . .Lady Penelope’s will. . .”
“Yes. . .that. BATTY-FANGED AGAIN AND AGAIN I AM! You know Portnoy, last week, I loaded the Bettenhausen 20 gauge and stalked that miscreant, cornering him in the upstairs parlor. I had the shotgun inches away. Inches mind you. INCHES. He looks at me, looks at the Bettenhausen, lays a turd, and walks away.
“Your pigeons are getting cold, Milord.”
Just then, Monty jumped right onto the dinner table and put his paw on Horrid’s Pigeons. Horrid lunged for the cat, shaking the table and knocking the wines over into a liquid mess.
“I WILL KILL YOU CAT. HEAR ME. I WILL KILL YOU. WILL BE DAMNED. PENELOPE BE DAMNED. I SWEAR ON QUEEN VICTORIA’S CROWN. I. . .WILL. . .KILL. . .YOU.”
The cat turned by the dining room’s massive doors and howled at Horrid. The Lord stood and flung a Louis XIV wineglass at the animal, hitting a small Frith etching instead. Monty screamed all the way up the curved staircase to the third floor.
Lord Horrid collapsed in his chair, put his hand flat in a puddle of wine and licked it. “Portnoy, bring my laudanum, will you. And a soup spoon.”
A massive balloon in the shape of a Bengal tiger hovered over Horrid House. The rattan passenger basket was filled with giant Maine Coons shooting fire arrows, tipped with cat feces, into the windows of the building. One arrow crashed through Horrid’s bedroom and lodged dead center in the silver pate of Lord Wellington in Winterhalter’s The First of May, 1851. Poor Wellington’s hair went up in flames and the entire painting became engulfed in the pyre. Sizzling colors leaked down the work onto Horrid’s nightcap, which began to smolder.
The Lord awoke, sitting ramrod straight in bed, frantically ripping the nightcap off his balding head. He looked around the ornate room. The First of May, 1851 was remarkably intact, Lord Wellington’s hair restored.
Horrid grabbed the Laudanum and drank deeply from the bottle.
Something now itched him about the reading of Lady Penelope’s will. He had dozed then, being elbowed twice by his solicitor.
This one thought sent him scurrying. Horrid tore through stacks of documents piled haphazardly throughout the room.
“The will. . . .the will. . .where in damnation is that blasted thing? . . .Ah yes, the safe.”
He banged his head on the wall of the dressing room until the memory of the key presented itself. It was in the lock of the safe. Lady Penelope’s will was on the top of a small stack of property certificates.
“Will Will William William. Some will live but you will kill them. . .”
Horrid started to sing as he looked for his reading glasses, finally sitting down at his wife’s dressing table to view the will.
“Let’s see. . .let’s see. . .ah ha. . .here it is. ‘Section 4, Article 12: Montgomery Purrfict Panther — henceforth known as The Cat.’ Alright. . .yes. . .yes. . .YES. ‘It is the inviolate wish and demand of the Lady Penelope Rose Horrid that her dear feline companion The Cat — an eight year old 25 pound Maine Coon — remain in Horrid House under the daily care of her husband, Lord Maligant Mahoun Horrid. Under no circumstances may The Cat be removed, taken away, abandoned, given to another, or otherwise gotten rid of.’
“Removed. . .taken away. . .abandoned. . .given to another, or otherwise gotten rid of. There’s nothing here about accidental. . .murder. Nothing at all. I really should read these documents. I really should.”
Horrid smiled, revealing a collection of brown misshapen teeth. He started to sing and dance:
“Removed. . .taken away. . .abandoned. . .given to another.
Nothing about accidentally killing the son of the mother.
With a poison injected in Purrfict Panther,
I’ll eliminate forever that feline cancer.”
It was hours before dawn but Lord Horrid couldn’t sleep. He suddenly became famished and ran down to the kitchen to feast on the cold remains of Friday night’s dinner. Before long he had consumed a fine Bavarian Hock and greasy animal bones were strewn all over the kitchen floor.
Monty watched the whole affair from the dark hallway, borrowing a growl from a mastiff he had recently chased.
Fatigued by the Friday night battles, Lord Horrid was found napping in the conservatory Saturday morning, buried under sheets of The Times, The Daily Telegraph, and Putnam’s. Each thunderous snore forced the pages to rise and fall, like his recent emotions.
“Your Lordship. Ah. . .Your Lordship. . .Sir Cringen Bastoncherry is here at your request.”
“What?. . .what?. . .WHAT? Can’t a man have a bit of mercy rest? Say again, Portnoy.”
“Milord, Sir Cringen Bastoncherry waits in the front parlor.”
“Cringe? Here?”
“Yes Lord. Sir Cringen Bastoncherry. Your orders.”
Horrid stood wearily as the news of the day fell onto the Persian rug. He was adorned in a violet dressing gown, red smoking fez, and mink slippers.
“Tell Cringe. . .ah Sir Bastoncherry. . .that I will meet with him after I dress. Make sure he’s comfortable. And clean up this news.”
Horrid tramped over the papers enroute to his dressing salon on the second floor. Monty was already there and howling. Horrid picked up the huge cat and bowled him down the long polished ebony hallway. Halfway to the far wall, the cat did a back flip and landed on his claws, showing teeth and tongue.
“SOON!” Yelled the Lord. “SOOOOON!” and slammed the dressing room door.
Sir Cringen Bastoncherry had been Lord Horrid’s solicitor since Oxford; Bastoncherry at the top of his class, Horrid not listed. The Lord had been a dull lad with a thick mop of dirty hair during his college days, paying tutors richly for their crib sheets. Sir Cringen was a portly chap, evil and brilliant, befriending Horrid at a brothel in Whitechapel.
Sir Bastoncherry billed Horrid using two distinctly different accounting procedures — one standard, one illegal.
The rotund Sir Cringen stuffed his mouth with Aniseed Twists, Marshmallows, Candy Floss, and Fruit Pastilles from an oversized crystal bowl. He poured a thin glass of Madeira and farted three times, using a rolled up Parliamentary Gazette to swat away the odor.
Bastoncherry heard Horrid’s steps and forced a scholarly pose.
“Ah Cringe, thanks loads for stopping by. Much appreciated, my good man.”
“My duty and honor, Milord.”
“Well. Let’s get right to it, shall we. Two things. This meeting never happened, and your payment will be double and off-the-record.”
“What meeting are you referring to Milord?”
“Such a good chap Bastoncherry.”
“Something about a cat? Your note was cryptic at best.”
“Everything about a cat.”
Monty positioned himself in front of the heating grate in the adjoining room.
Horrid unzipped a leather packet and removed Lady Penelope’s will. “You remember the reading of the hag’s will, don’t you? ”
“Like it was yesterday, Milord.”
“Excellent. Excellent. I suppose I took a nap there.” The Lord handed Bastoncherry the papers. “I call your attention to page five — ‘Section 4, Article 12: Montgomery Purrfict Panther — henceforth referred to as The Cat.’ Would you do me the honor of reading those paragraphs.”
“Alright. Let’s see. . .let’s see. Here we go. ‘It is the inviolate wish and demand of the Lady Penelope Rose Horrid that her dear feline companion The Cat — an eight year old 25 pound Maine Coon — remain in Horrid House under the daily care of her husband, Lord Maligant Mahoun Horrid. Under no circumstances may The Cat be removed, taken away, abandoned, given to another, or otherwise gotten rid of.’”
“Cringe, what do you make of the ah. . .otherwise gotten rid of part. Would you say. . . that it does or does not allow such a thing as. . .accidental murder.”
There was a slight twist of face on Bastoncherry. “Hmmm. . . yes I see where this might be going.”
Horrid stood and paced.
“Cringe, I am beside myself these days. I cannot sleep well, eat well, even shit well. The infernal cat has risen from Hades to destroy me. He howls just before I sit for a meal. He howls the minute I lay my head down. He walks into the loo while I’m doing my business, sits on the hamper, and screams. Yesterday he actually put a filthy paw in Portnoy’s marvelous Pigeons Comport and spilled all the wine set before me. Am I destined to live out my remaining days subjected to this torture. I am Lord Maligant Mahoun Horrid. It should be illegal.”
“Interesting, unique, even provocative, but my dear Lord, nothing under the law is impossible.”
“Tell me, pray.”
“Question. Have you considered a feline sedative?”
“I have only considered a dual barrel shotgun.”
“Understand. Understand. But let me extend and thicken my argument. Laudanum we know can be salvation or destruction by the nature of the dose. Follow?”
“Directly, yes.”
“Taken at once, a dram of cinnamon is safe, but a hundredweight is deadly. What about your family apothecary, Samuel Kemp & Son? Are they discreet?”
“Samuel the father is dead. Tuberculosis or something. Samuel the son is sole proprietor and of unknown quality.”
“Does the business thrive?”
“Penelope did our business there so who knows . . .Ah. . .you dirty dog. The plan congeals.”
“Go to the chemist for a sedative and offer it to the cat as your shotgun. In the world of dosages, mistakes do happen, do they not. Mistakes, errors, accidents — nothing that would disrupt Penelope’s will in any court of law.
“Murder in the guise of a honest accident.”
“Precisely.”
“You have saved me Solicitor Bastoncherry.”
“In England, Milord, lawyers are more powerful then God.”
“Agreed. The Church of England cannot afford shysters like yourself.”
“You flatter me. . .So Mal, I’ve been itching to ask, any trysts since our dear Penny departed?”
“Not even in the mood to beat the bishop, Cringe old boy. I received a note from Madame Suveny. Her girls all miss me, she says. They pine for me. Pine for my money is what they do. Now that I no longer need to sneak around Penelope, I’m way too fagged to simply slip out of the house to get my end away. Believe me, once this cat business is done, bring on the Strawberry Creams.”
“Back to the good ole’ days of artificial marriage and real slumming.”
“Here, here, old chum.” Horrid refilled Bastoncherry’s glass and topped one of his own. “To life after matrimony.”
“To life amongst the jubblies.”
“Cheers.”
It was the first lovely morning in a fortnight.
Montgomery Purrfict Panther had kept Horrid up most of the night. The Lord had remembered where Penelope hid her novels, broke the lock, and plucked A Christmas Carol from the pile. There was a folded document slipped into page 323: a funds transfer to a sanitarium with the name ‘Agatha’ and doodles of hearts and flowers penciled in. While The Cat yelled and screamed, Horrid read from page 323 and was perfectly comfortable in his bedroom enjoying the tribulations of Ebenezer Scrooge.
“We’d be fast friends, I think,” pondered The Lord. “We enjoy the same misconduct.”
Though he slept little, he felt jaunty today. He donned an outfit for walking out: double-breasted short frock coat, matching undervest, a broad collar rolled down to show, diagonally striped trousers, modern boots, and a onyx and gold walking stick. All this topped off by a black wool derby.
“May I say, you look exceptionally fresh today, Milord.” Portnoy stood on a small box, brushing the dandruff from Horrid’s shoulders.
“I agree with you Portnoy. Better then usual hmmm?”
“What is the term nowadays, Lord? ‘A Maid Magnet.”
Horrid instantly imagined gangs of trollops prancing about the manor. “Hold that thought,” he told himself.
“Shall I prepare The Hansom, Lord”.
“No need Portnoy, I will walk our fair city this morning.”
“As you wish, sir. Do you require a bodyguard?”
“I’ll put one in my pocket.
Horrid skipped to the gunroom for his new Remington Derringer Rimfire — the latest design for a nobleman’s protection, tucking the weapon into the pocket of his vest.
Kemp & Sons was located on a tiny side street off Grosvenor Square, a three mile walk from Horrid House. The Lord felt himself a parade of one, sauntering through the neighborhoods; the only thing lacking was an orchestra playing Rule, Britannia!
The tiny store, painted gray-green, had a large window in front lettered with Kemp & Sons, Apothecaries. As Lord Horrid opened the door, a set of bells above started ringing. Sam Kemp walked quickly from the back wiping his hands on a white full-length apron.
“Sorry sir, working on a formulary for Queen’s Children’s Home. Delicate work. How may I be of service?”
Horrid laid his walking stick on the counter with a resounding knock.
“Samuel Kemp Jr.. How you have grown young man.”
“Sorry sir, you have me at a disadvantage.”
“My apologies. Lord Maligant Mahoun Horrid.”
“Lord Horrid! Of course. My sincere apologies for not recognizing you. And more importantly, my heartfelt condolences for the loss of your wife. A terrible tragedy.”
“Your thoughts are most comforting. Most comforting.”
“Milord may I ask: how are you getting on?”
“Master Kemp, as well as can be expected in these personal cataclysms. I make do.”
“If there is anything. . .anything at all, to bring comfort to your sadness, please do not hesitate — “
“ — Actually, that is why I am here. I desperately need your professional recommendation.”
“I am at your disposal, Milord.”
“May we speak privately?”
“Of course.” Sam walked to the door and replaced the OPEN sign with WILL RETURN SHORTLY.
The laboratory walls were lined with wood frames holding hundreds of small sliding boxes. Dark gray marble slabs curved around the room, holding Bunsen burners, test tube racks, scales, mortar and pestle, and large leather bound notebooks.
“Looks like you can certainly save the world in here.”
“Milord, sometimes I feel just a secret away from some miraculous cure for the terrible sicknesses humanity suffers. Your Penelope’s cancer for one.”
“Well, Master Kemp, I’m afraid I do require one of those miracles.”
“Please Milord, I am all ears.”
“Bless you, Sam. Here is my story: My dearest darling Penelope was mother to a cat I have inherited through her will. This, by any measure, is no sane animal. He is a howler. He howls night and day, louder then a banshee from Hell. And, to make matters worse, he is a vindictive creature. Just Friday night I had sat down for a well-earned dinner. The Howler ran onto my table, stuck his filthy paw in my food, then proceeded to knock down a number of fine wines: a sea of varietals all over the mahogany. Terrible mess. Terrible.”
“Sounds dreadful, Milord. I think you’re in need of a kitty-bye-bye.”
“My thinking, exactly. Is there such a thing?”
“Officially? No. Can it be formulated? By all means.”
“Oh my goodness. My heart is resting easier already. What’s our next step?”
“Your next step Milord, if I may be so bold, is to walk around the corner and have a meal at DeYoung’s Beefery. Avril DeYoung conjures up the most satisfying Beef Wellington in the empire. And, his ales are top drawer. After your meal, return here for your solution.”
“I will take your recommendation. I have not had a comforting meal in two days. God bless you, Master Kemp. Your services will be remembered.”
“I cannot ask for anything more Milord. An hour, give or take, will do it.”
“I shall return on wings of bliss.”
“I’ll await you here.”
“Good day for now, Master Kemp.”
“Good day, Lord Horrid.”
Sam Kemp was tapping his nails on the front counter when Horrid returned. There was a spot of beef blood on the Lord’s starched collar but Kemp let it pass.
“An ideal repast, Master Kemp. Thank you so very much for the recommendation. Avril DeYoung is an entertaining and highly opinionated proprietor.”
“He is that Milord.”
“Well, do you have our magic?”
“I do indeed.”
“And the instructions for application? These must, of course, be verbal only.”
“As you wish. Shall we sit in the laboratory?”
“Let’s.”
Lord and chemist walked to the now-familiar inner sanctum for Horrid’s lesson.
Kemp collected a deep blue box from a lower drawer and opened it at the table.
The box revealed a tiny contraption with a silver band in the middle and two narrow glass vials at each end.
“As you can see Milord, the poisonous serum is contained in the upper vial keeping it fresh and potent. To administer, simply unscrew the silver band counter-clockwise. This will release the mixture into the lower porous reservoir to be instantly consumed by The Cat.”
“Hmm. A bit complicated don’t you think?”
“Perhaps, but this is a very special formulary that needs such a mechanism to keep it effective during transport, storage, and operation.”
“I see. What’s in it?”
“Well. . .the more interesting question is ‘what’s not in it.”
“Not sure I follow. . .”
“A very complicated brew to be sure. The odor and efficacy of the serum are entwined as long as the poison stays fresh. When the medicinal is administered the smell disappears. Truly unique.”
Horrid inhaled deeply. “Will wonders never cease. Kemp, do I need gloves?”
“No. Simply let gravity do it’s work.”
“And The Cat. Is it a fast death?”
“You wouldn’t want that, Milord. Instant death usually causes a facial rictus that cannot be massaged away. No, in this case The Cat will feel sleepy and wander off somewhere. You will search for him in the morning and find the animal passively departed.”
“Here’s a giant question then: how can I both hold the cat and administer the cure?”
“Portnoy should be able to help.”
“Yes. . .yes of course. My silent partner. Very good. Capital.”
“A few points of advice Milord. To make sure your hands are steady, no liquor before the deed. Do not turn the band until you have The Cat firmly secured.”
“Counter-clockwise, correct?”
“Counter-clockwise, correct.”
Lord Horrid stood up to cracking knees and a small headache.
“When do you think this. . .ah. . .event may take place.” Kemp busied himself wrapping up the blue box.
Horrid quietly watched Kemp’s hands. “Tonight.”
The chemist held out the tied-up bag and the Lord took it.
“And your fee, Master Kemp?”
“My fee is that you will soon have your sleep and your meals restored. And a sincere thanks for the many years you and Lady Penelope had supported my father and his small shop.”
Horrid rested his arm on a cabinet. “You sir are a gentleman and a scholar. One small favor remains . .”
“Name it.”
“Would you kindly send a boy around to Horrid House. I will write a note for Portnoy to summon the Hansom.”
Sam Kemp was already halfway out the door.
Lord Horrid stepped on Monty’s tail immediately upon entering the house. The howl was overwhelming.
“Portnoy. Portnoy! PORTNOY!”
“Yes Milord, I was just checking in with the cook on your spotted dick and custard.”
“All well and good, but I have an infinitely more important job for you.”
“I am at your service, Lord.”
“Grab The Cat.”
“Lord?”
“God, Portnoy, are you betwattled? Get The Cat and bring it to the parlor.
As his man went in search of Monty, Horrid sat down in a parlor chair and removed the glass mechanism from the blue box. “My entire future is in this thing.”
He felt his hands shaking.
Within minutes, Portnoy returned, holding up The Cat by the scruff of his neck.
“Well done. Do you have the fucker firm?”
“Firm? Yes. Yes I do.”
“Alright. Here’s what we’re going to do. You are going to kneel with the cat tight between your legs, one hand on his scruff, and another pulling open his jaw. Follow?”
“. . .Yes. . .yes. . .I follow.”
“Good. I am going to position this little mechanism down his throat and loosen the silver band. Do not let go of the animal until I say. Understood?”
“But. . .the will, Lord Horrid!”
“GODDAMN IT! The continuation of your employment hangs in the balance here Portnoy. Clear enough?”
“Chrystal, Milord.”
“Alright, we proceed. Down you go. . .on your knees.”
Portnoy’s eyes watered up as he held Monty firm and opened the cat’s mouth.
Horrid removed his sport coat and rolled up his sleeves.
He angled the glass vial into Monty’s mouth. The cat started struggling, gagging. “Hold him tighter, Portnoy. TIGHTER!
Horrid felt a sudden energy course through his body. He quickly twisted the silver band to let the poison flow over to the lower vial.
But the top vial disengaged instead, releasing all the liquid into Horrid’s palm. Portnoy eased his grip, freeing Monty to take a bite of his thumb and scamper away.
“SHIT. . .SHIT. . .SHIT. Portnoy, a towel, hurry. . .hurry.” Horrid looked around then started rubbing his hand on his pants. Within seconds, the servant returned with a large dinner napkin which the Lord grabbed immediately. Portnoy looked over Horrid as he sat in a chair rubbing and rubbing.
“Is your hand alright, Lord?” Portnoy licked blood off his thumb..
Horrid smelled the napkin. There was no odor.
“Yes, Portnoy. Yes, the hand is fine. Clean this mess up. I’m going to change.”
Once Lord Horrid was gone, Portnoy grabbed a pair of chimney gloves and sopped up the rest of the serum with a thick cotton throw and carefully threw the vials in the furnace. He soaped and rinsed the wood then ran to his kitchen stash for three fingers of Bushmills, one for his bite, two for his head.
Monty sauntered into the kitchen for some dinner kibble.
Lord Horrid ran his own bath and soaked to his head, washing his hands over and over.
“Perhaps I turned wrong. It was counter-clockwise. I clearly remember. But did I actually do ‘counter-clockwise? My god, am I going mad? That bitch Penelope at that infernal cat show: ’I just have to have that cat, Mal. Such a rare beautiful boy Mal. Cat and I are made for each other Mal.’ Why did I allow such folly? NO. It was on the tip of my tongue. NO. Such a beautiful word: NO. NO. . .so small, so simple, yet the most powerful in the universe. NO. Why did I not say NO?”
Horrid let the heat of the bath soften his emotions. He dressed for bed, tossed on his gown and red fez. He was feeling sleepy but wanted to eat something so he wandered down to the kitchen.
“Have you see the cass?”
“No Milord. ” Portnoy poured a third glass of ’42 Montefiore Claret as Horrid spooned the second Spotted Dick and Custard into his mouth.
“This is wonfully powderful Claret, Portnoy.
“As you say, sir.”
“I thimm grow ridding tomorrow, mighty man.”
“Very good Lord. Charlatan or Destiny?”
“Wha’?”
“The steeds Milord. Should the stableman saddle Charlatan or Destiny?
“Yeth. I’m redly for bess now, Portfloy.”
With custard running down his chin, and splashes of claret staining his gown, a wobbly Lord Horrid took Portnoy’s shoulder and slowly limped up to bed. Monty ambled down past them and into the parlor.
Portnoy got his Lord all tucked in for the night and placed A Christmas Carol on his chest. After his man left, Horrid fingered the book upside-down and started to read, squinting at the print. Within ten ticks, he was unconscious.
At three in the morning he suddenly shot up rigid in bed, white as a ghost and bathed in sweat.
“AGATHA!!”
He then laid back and died.
It was another beautiful morning; not a single cloud in the fresh blue sky.
Portnoy donned an outfit for walking out: double-breasted frock coat (a bit big), matching undervest, a broad collar rolled down to show, diagonally striped trousers (a bit long), modern boots, and a onyx and gold walking stick. All this topped off by a black wool derby.
“Monty. . .Monty. . .come here young man.”
Montgomery Purrfict Panther, neatly brushed, came out from the kitchen and hopped into a travel cage the shape of Queen Victoria’s carriage.
“That’s a good lad.”
The former butler, cat in cage, strolled leisurely around Grosvenor Square and on to the Apothecary shop. He pulled the bell on the door to the left and waited patiently, humming to himself.
Sam Kemp walked down the staircase and opened the glass-panelled door.
“Good morning Mr. Portnoy. I see you have a friend there.”
“Indeed I do, Master Kemp.”
Sam took possession of Monty and passed a thick envelope to Portnoy.
“Want to say goodbye?”
“I think not, Master Kemp. Please do tell her I miss her. Miss her kindness, her wisdom, her bravery, her confidences. And I wish you both the very best of luck wherever life brings you.”
“Will you take another position?”
“My domestic servitude has passed it’s final chapter, sir. Some time ago I bought a small parcel on the coast at Brighton. Now I have the wherewithal to build on it.”
“Perhaps we’ll all share a glass of sherry there one day.”
“I would like that. I would like that very much.”
“Good day, Mr. Portnoy.”
“It’s a great day, Master Kemp.
Sam let Monty out of the cage and both skirted stacks of luggage as they ran upstairs to the apartment.
Montgomery Purrfict Panther ran directly into the open arms of Lady Penelope and both collapsed onto the rug, Monty licking Penny’s face.
Sam sat on the floor. “So it’s finally finally over. Our life can now officially begin.”
“Yes my love.” Penny laid on the rug and Sam gave her a luxurious kiss. “But Sam, we still have one extremely important task to take care of.”
“That, my love, is done. I received confirmation by post just this very morning that you are now the owner and savior of the Agatha Marlowe Sanitarium for Women. Your sister was a saint, you know.”
“My twin sister was a gift from God. She was sick her entire life, Sam. No children, never married. Could barely breath the country air. And then, cancer. How does a woman who suffered so much gain the strength and courage to swap her death for my life?
Sam cradled Penny in his arms, Monty snuggling at her side. “They will never know.”
Penelope kissed Sam sweetly.
“They will never know.”
