"But . . . " She pushed to her feet. "How could they hide that kind of deception? You're not talking about some legal adoption. "
"No, I'm not. Just run with me on this a minute. What if Reginald hired a young woman, likely one of some breeding, some intelligence, who'd found herself in trouble. He pays the bills, gives her a safe haven, takes the child off her hands if it's a boy. "
"And if it's a girl, he's wasted his time and money?"
"A gamble. Another angle might be he impregnated her himself. "
"And his wife just accepted his bastard as her own, as the heir?"
"He held the purse strings, didn't he?"
She stood very still, rubbing her arms. "That's a very cold theory. "
"It is. Maybe he was in love with Amelia, planned to divorce his wife, marry her. She might have died in childbirth. Or it could've been a straight business deal - or something else. But if that child, if Reginald Harper Jr. was Amelia's son, it explains some things. "
"Such as?"
"She's never hurt you or anyone of your blood. Couldn't that be because you're her blood? Her descendant? Her great-grandchild?"
She paced away from the little grave. "Then why is she in the house, on the property? Are you theorizing she birthed that baby here? In Harper House?"
"Possibly. Or that she visited here, spent time here. Maybe as the child's nurse, that's not unprecedented, either. That she died here, one way or the other. "
"One way or - "
The grave was not small, and it had no marker. It gaped open dark and deep.
She stood over it, stood over that wide mouth in the earth. She looked down at death. The body in the tattered and filthy gown, the flesh that was melting away from bone. The smell of decay swarmed over her like fat, humming bees, stinging her eyes, her throat, her belly.
The ground was damp and slippery where she stood. Over it a thin, fetid fog crawled, smearing the black dirt, the wet grass with dirty tongues of gray.
She plunged the shovel through that fog, into the earth and grass, filled the blade. Then threw the earth into the grave.
The eyes of the dead opened, gleaming with madness and malice. Lifting a hand, bones piercing horribly through rotted flesh, it began to climb out of the earth.
Roz jolted, and slapped at the hands holding her.
"Easy, easy. Just breathe. Nice and slow. "
"What happened?" She pushed at Mitch's hand again when she realized she was on the ground, cradled in his lap.
"You fainted.
"
"I certainly did not. I've never fainted in my life. "
"Consider this your first. You went sheet white, your eyes rolled straight back in your head. I grabbed you when you started to go down. You were only out about a minute. " Trembling a bit himself, he lowered his brow to hers. "Longest minute of my life, so far. "
He took a long breath, then another. "If you're okay, would you mind if I just sat here a minute until I settle down?"
"Well, that's the damnedest thing. "
"I didn't mean to upset you. We'll just table the theories. Let's get you inside. "
"You don't think I passed out because you had me thinking my grandfather might've been born on the wrong side of the blanket? Christ. What do you take me for? I'm not some silly, spineless woman who questions her own identity because of the actions of her ancestors. I know who the hell I am. "
Her color was back now, and those long-lidded eyes were ripe with irritation.