The Shadow That Swallowed Everything
September 1896. The year Carlyle de Rocheret turned nine, Douglas Lancaster came home from France one last time.
Desperate to lift Ethel from the despair that had swallowed her whole after the miscarriage, he had brought along a lively, lively young maid. Her name was Ada Wilkins, though everyone called her Kansas because of her wild spirit and the way she carried herself like a proper Broadway showgirl.
Her golden curls bounced with every step, and her face was all soft cheeks and bright eyes, the kind of pretty that made people stop and smile without meaning to. But she spoke no French at all. Still, when she looked at the small boy who had just been born, she called him “my young master” and played with him as if he were the only toy in the world.
After the birth, Ethel had given birth to two more children, both of whom died before they could even draw breath. The endless miscarriages had left her body barren. She could never bear another child.
“The moment I learned I could never have more babies, your father came running to me like a man who had been waiting for the news,” Ethel whispered, her voice trembling. “He said soon there would be a bastard child. Maybe… maybe you’ll have a living brother, Carlyle. Please, just not a boy. Please.”
She clutched him so tightly Carlyle could barely breathe, and tears kept sliding down her cheeks.
The next year, when Carlyle was ten, disaster struck New York like a thunderbolt.
Lancaster Shipping and Trade had gone under. Douglas Lancaster had shot himself with a pistol.
A fortune vanished overnight. A proud, vital man had chosen to end his own life.
No one wanted to believe it.
Ethel cried until she fainted, then cried again the moment she came to. She could not accept the truth.
Carlyle wandered the rooms outside the room where Ethel lay, listening as the servants whispered among themselves.
“Finally, they’re getting a divorce!”
“A second son? Well, the boy’s not Lancaster blood, so who cares about the title?”
They spoke loudly, as if he could not hear them, as if the heir to the family name was nothing more than a joke.
A few days later, Ethel called for him in a voice so thin he almost did not recognize it.
“Carlyle, take me home. To New York…”
It made no sense. His home was the Château de Villières in Châtillon-sur-Marne, and the villa at Eze. New York was only the city where his grandfather lived. To him it was a foreign place.
“But this is home, Mother.”
Ethel cried out sharply.
“No! This place is hell. My home is the Lancaster mansion in New York. Nothing here has ever been my home.”
“But…”
“Carlyle, you must come with me. Your father will do anything to leave his title and his money to the child of that maid. If I am left behind…”
She could not finish. She grabbed his hand so hard her nails bit into his skin.
“The story that my grandfather is dead is a lie. I don’t believe a word your father says. I’m going myself to find out the truth.”
She clenched her teeth until they ached.
“As a penniless nobody with no one to call my own. I worked my way into my father’s fortune, gave birth to the maid’s son, and now I’m the one who’s become a burden. Remember that, Carlyle. The title, the estates, the money—all of it belongs to you. Your grandfather paid a fortune for it. I will never, ever divorce him. Not for anyone.”
On Saturday, 9 April 1904, Ethel and Carlyle boarded the passenger ship La Savoie. It was a secret escape while Etienne was away.
Ethel had taken every jewel and every banknote from her Paris apartment. She had selected only the trustworthy servants Douglas had brought with him from New York and left in a hurry.
She did not look back even once as the ship pulled away from the dock.
She kept pacing the deck until the port disappeared behind them, then, when the coastline was only a faint line on the horizon, she spat the words like poison.
“I will never set foot in that cursed country again. I swear it.”
Friday, 15 April 1904. La Savoie docked at Pier 57 in Manhattan.
Ethel’s party numbered six, including the servants. They stood on the windy quay searching for the Lancaster carriage with the ridiculous flair that only old money could afford.
Everyone from first and second class had already disembarked. Even when the third-class passengers filed off the gangplank, no one came to meet them.
“Strange… I sent a telegram with the arrival time.”
The footman Fred scratched his head, looking confused.
“Madam, perhaps there was a mistake. Shall I call for a Hansom cab and a growler right now?”
“…Yes.”
Within minutes two carriages rolled up. While Carlyle and Ethel waited in the Hansom, the coachman and servants loaded every trunk onto the growler’s roof.
The drive toward Fifth Avenue and Fifty-second Street was long. Carlyle could not close his mouth.
New York was nothing like any city he had ever seen. The towering buildings, the mix of carriages and motor cars, the clamor of the streets left a boy of ten stunned and wide-eyed.
It was only when they finally reached Fifty-second Street that he noticed Ethel beside him was trembling, her eyes unfocused, her hands shaking as if the cold wind could snap her in half.
The carriage stopped. Fred pressed the doorbell of the grand French-château-style mansion.
A butler opened the heavy doors and stared at the unexpected visitors with wide eyes. He had no idea why they had come.
Fred pointed politely at Ethel and Carlyle and told the butler, “The Countess de Villières and Baron de Rocheret have arrived from France. Please inform Mr. Lancaster, and send two footmen to help with the luggage.”
The servants understood that Ethel believed her husband was still alive. They would play their part for the time being.
The butler inclined his head slightly. “Please wait a moment.”
But the heavy door remained closed. The trunks on the growler’s roof took forever to unload.
“Fred, ring the bell again,” Ethel ordered, her eyes burning with fury.
Her hand hurt where she had gripped Carlyle’s. He stayed silent. The sight of his mother, pale and trembling as if one gust of wind might knock her over, was more than he could bear.
Ethel suddenly wrenched her hand free and staggered to the door. She hammered the knocker with all her strength, then pounded the wood with her fists.
“Open the door! Ethel Lancaster, daughter of Douglas Lancaster, has returned home!”
Her voice cracked like a whip.
Carlyle stood frozen, eyes wide.
Her wild, vulgar tone—nothing like the gentle mother he remembered—shocked him. Something inside his chest twisted painfully.
Passersby stopped to stare. The servants began to murmur and shift uneasily.
After a long moment the door creaked open a crack. An elderly butler stepped out, face stern, head bowed.
“I’m sorry, Madam. The former owner, Mr. Lancaster, passed away last month. The new master of this house is Mr. Glending.”
Fred caught Ethel just in time as she swayed. The butler continued, voice steady.
“Mr. Glending offered a place for you until he could arrange accommodations, but because your arrival was so sudden, he was unable to provide anything suitable.”
“Glending? That poor man who used to live off us? The valet? He’s the new owner of Lancaster House?”
Ethel’s voice was disbelieving. She shook her head.
“Impossible. He was your father’s valet. Where did he suddenly get all that money to take our home?”
At that moment the grand front doors swung wide. A middle-aged man in fine clothes stepped out. His smile looked pleasant, but his eyes were cold and glittering with something unnatural.
“Well, well. The Countess de Rocheret. It has been a long time—almost twelve years. You are still as beautiful as ever.”
“Morris, what is all this nonsense? Is it true my father is dead? Why are you the new owner of this house? What money did you use—?”
Morris flicked something in his hand toward Ethel. A moment of silence fell.
Her gaze dropped to the heavy package at her feet.
“What…?”