Page 1 of Alive (Shadows of a Forgotten Past #2)

CHAPTER 1

~ SHADOWS OF THE PAST ~

THE NEW FOREST, HAMPSHIRE, ENGLAND, 1939

Amid the complexities of life, one truth I knew without a doubt: the beginning is the end, the end is the beginning. Even when the tombs at the Breamore cemetery told a different story, one story—my own—attested to my conviction.

Florence Contini Sterling ? —

Forever My Lady

1894–1917

Standing before my grave, I wondered if anyone could ever understand how dreamlike this moment was. Twenty-two years ago, I had been laid to rest here. This burial ground witnessed Alexander Sterling’s grief. It also provided a mysterious ray of hope when it later proved to no longer hold my remains. The empty tomb revealed an unfathomable truth: I had been released from the bonds of death.

Soon after I awakened to my past identity, Alex married me once more. With little notice from the world, Father Thompson performed the ceremony at the monastery in Geneva, New York. Reading from an ancient manuscript, the priest taught, “The souls connected with perpetual love have no cessation. They live on forever.” If only he’d known how profound that statement was, his world would have turned topsy-turvy.

The setting sun deepened the twilight, and shadows spread across the graveyard. My gaze drifted to the headstone beside mine.

Sterlings’ beloved baby boy,

sleep in peace under the nurturing

love of your dear mother.

My baby didn’t have a name.

The knowledge of my past life was a blessing, yet it could not reconcile my grief for the departed nor ease my longing for what might have been. True, after my brother Lucca’s visit, I found comfort in knowing that the spirits of the dead indeed dwelled in another realm and that, someday, I would join them. Still, the ache of their absence lingered.

Then, in contrast to the memory of my loved ones, thoughts of Deborah White, the cold-blooded murderess who remained at large, set my nerves on edge. She had stolen my son at birth, robbing me of the opportunity to behold his face. Her obsession with Alex, her resolution to end my life, and her callous indifference to my baby’s fate haunted me. Had my baby died of natural causes, or had Mrs. White taken his life to sever the ties between Alex and me? That she was an iniquitous woman was beyond question, but would she go that far?

I didn’t know what transpired after she took the baby. On more than one occasion, I had almost mustered enough courage to ask Alex, but the fear of reopening old wounds stayed my tongue. After all, there was no reason to wander back through years that were gone or chase something not meant to be. Still, the memory of my son’s birth refused to fade, and I yearned to learn more about his death.

“I’m sorry, miss. I don’t mean to intrude,” a raspy voice broke the stillness.

Startled, I spun to face the cemetery keeper. Pale, dressed in black, and jingling a ring of keys on his belt, he looked as though he’d risen from one of the tombs he tended.

“The cemetery is now closed,” he said. “I should’ve locked the gate twenty minutes ago.” As if to underscore his words, the last rays of the sun slipped below the horizon, draping the graveyard in shadows. The closure of another day obscured the names, lives, and memories of those who lay asleep here.

“Do forgive me, Mr. . . .?”

“Morris, miss. Morris is the name.”

“I apologize. I’m afraid I lost track of time.”

“Indeed, you’ve been here for an awful long while.” He gestured to a copse of trees beyond the Elmores’ Victorian mausoleum. “See, I’ve been watching you from over there.”

“You have?” I felt uneasy.

“Goodness, yes,” he replied with a crooked smile. “I thought you were a haunt at first.”

I supposed he could have. The nudge to come here had been so compelling, I hadn’t bothered to change into riding clothes. My white dress, in the diffused light, likely made for a peculiar sight. And apparently, I wasn’t the first ghostly figure Mr. Morris had seen on these grounds.

“You aren’t from these parts, are you?” He gave me a measured look. “At least your accent is not.”

“I’m from America.”

“Hmm, a recent arrival, then?” he said with a hint of skepticism.

“That’s right.” A recent arrival to my previous life, I thought wryly. Had Mr. Morris known the Contini family? I didn’t remember him from the past. “Have you worked in the cemetery long?”

“Since I was a young lad. I know these grounds and everyone who lives here like the palm of my hand.”

Lives here . Interesting choice of words. To settle my curiosity and deflect suspicion, I turned toward my grave and asked, “Did you know her?”

“Florence Contini?”

“Yes.”

“Saw her once or twice from a distance. Very refined lady, she was.” He fidgeted with his keys. The sound drifted across the tombs as if summoning their inhabitants to rise. “Are you related?”

“Me?” I smiled nervously. “Well . . . no, not really.”

“Hmm.” His gaze bored into mine. “I’d have sworn you were family.”

His words held truth, mine deceit—but then again, what choice did I have? I couldn’t very well tell him I was the deceased.

“The way you looked at her and her child’s grave, you know,” he continued. “This place is acquainted with sorrow. I recognize it whenever I see it.”

“Ohh.” Relieved he wasn’t referring to a physical resemblance, I offered a half-truth. “You see, I married Alexander Sterling—her husband and the baby’s father.”

“Ahh.” He nodded slowly, as though my presence finally made sense. “It was but yesterday I heard talk of the general’s return to the forest. So, it’s true, after all these years. Who would have thought he would ever marry again?”

“Why do you say that? He is young. Besides, it’s never too late, is it?”

“Oh no, don’t misunderstand me. It’s just that their story is so tragic. For years, he came to see her rain or shine. He spent hours kneeling beside her, sometimes weeping, sometimes staring into space. It was heartrending to behold.”

If I weren’t his late wife, I might have worried that Alex would never love me as much as he had loved her. As it was, I marveled at the wonder of my current existence, of being with him again. My heart had belonged to him ever since I first saw him in the fields of Forti Radici. Despite my childish antics, insecurities, and grief, he stood by me with undying affection.

“He moved to America after he retired,” Mr. Morris concluded, breaking my reverie. “Of course, you knew that already.”

“That’s where we met.”

“He visited not too long ago, though.” Mr. Morris rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Even now, I’m not sure what took place that day.”

“What day? What took place?”

“It was early morning . . . winter it was. The ground was frozen.” He motioned to my headstone, shifting uneasily on his feet. “Scotland Yard ordered me and another chap to dig up her coffin.”

“You don’t say!” I feigned astonishment but remembered Alex’s sudden trip to the New Forest while I worked at Oak’s Place.

“Nasty business, I thought.”

Had he seen the empty coffin? “I’m sorry you had to see that,” I said, hoping for a little more information.

“No, miss. We didn’t see anything. Me and the other chap were dismissed after we unearthed the box. Scotland Yard, the local police, and the general himself were the only ones who saw inside. I don’t know what they were looking for. Some presumed it might have been valuables buried with her,” he said with a shrug.

“Do you believe that?”

“Not for a moment. He loved his wife too much to disturb her rest for something so trivial. And besides, the man does well enough regarding money.”

I clasped the bracelet around my wrist, the only thing that had been buried with me. Even that, they hadn’t found in my coffin.

“I must say,” Mr. Morris continued, “Scotland Yard’s secrecy flustered me. They came here in their well-pressed overcoats and polished badges, yet didn’t have the decency to explain why on earth we were digging up corpses. ‘It was a family matter,’ they said, and left it at that. In other words, they hushed it up.” He looked at me intently, as though he expected the general’s new wife to elaborate.

As the last hints of day dissolved into night, I seized the opportunity to end the discussion. “I’m sorry to have kept you this long, Mr. Morris. It was nice chatting with you.”

“I’ll walk you to the entrance, or exit, same difference. It can get spooky after nightfall.” Before I could object, he added, “I need to lock the gate anyway. Not that anyone with half a brain would wander in at night, but protocol is protocol.”

We started on the pebble path. In addition to the click-clack of our shoes and the clink of his keys, the evening was filled with unspoken things—about the graveyard, about me, and about my family.

When the iron gate materialized ahead, I lengthened my steps.

“Thank you. My horse is just by the trees.”

“Your horse?” His gaze flicked over my attire. “You didn’t drive here?”

“I prefer to ride.”

“A woman shouldn’t be riding alone through the woods at this hour.”

“I’ll be all right.” I stepped through the gate into the glow of a nearby lamppost.

“I’ll say!” His eyes widened as if struck by a revelation. “Most extraordinary.”

“What is?”

“You, miss. I could be mistaken, but your resemblance to the general’s late wife is . . . most remarkable.”

I pursed my lips. He remembered after all.

“Quite remarkable,” he reiterated.

“Good night, Mr. Morris.” With a polite smile, I hurried to Betsy, who munched on the foliage as if she had just arrived.

“Wait, miss, you haven’t told me your name,” he called from behind the iron bars, turning a large key in the lock. “How rude of me not to ask.”

“Florence, Mr. Morris. Florence Sterling.”

Shock rippled across his face.

Though I had tried to keep things quiet, the gossip was sure to spread like wildfire. Not only did I resemble Alex’s first wife, but I also shared her name. No doubt people would pity me, convinced he’d married me because I reminded him of the love of his life. If only they knew. But how could anyone ever believe such an extraordinary truth?