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In the Secret Place

One of the few to survive an Atlantic shipwreck, Charlotte Fontaneau spins a lie, hoping to escape the abusive con artist who forced her into a life of crime. She assumes the identity of a fellow passenger, the niece of a kind, ailing Irishman in upstate New York, and the plan works quite well until his lawyer friend, Stewart Lyons, shows an interest in her. 

Certain that Stewart will soon learn of her treachery, Charlotte lives each day in fear of being discovered. When old secrets are unexpectedly brought to light, will the shock cause Stewart's love for her to crumble? Can Charlotte ever find the peace she so desperately seeks?

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Prologue

(April 14, 1912)

Charlotte braced trembling hands on the carpet. Pain shot through her
wrist as she slowly pushed herself to a standing position and drew her
wrapper tight. This was the worst Eric had ever treated her. Had no one
heard what happened? Why hadn't a steward come to investigate the crash
when Eric had swiped all her contents off the dresser or thrown a chair
against the wall?
She looked at her pale, battered face in the mirror. Her lip was swollen
and bleeding, her eye blackened, and a trickle of blood dripped from her
nose. She dipped a cloth in the pitcher of lukewarm water beside the bed.
Wincing, she dabbed at the damaged skin. How could her body throb with
such pain, yet feel so empty and dead at the same time?
She scanned the mess on the floor with eyes that saw nothing. The glow
from the gaslight sparked off a cylindrical object that had partially
rolled underneath the dresser, gaining her attention: the bottle with the
drug Eric had forced her to use on Edward Mooreland.
She dropped to her knees and grabbed it up, bringing it to her chest, as
though it were something dearly cherished. There was enough left to
provide a lethal dose, she was certain. She'd only put a pinch into
Edward's drink to make him forgetful, and the vial was still full.
Hand shaking, Charlotte poured water from the pitcher into a tumbler and
added the entire contents of the small bottle, turning it upside down and
clinking it against the lip of the glass until not one bit of the white
powder remained.
Nobody wanted her. Eric didn't love her. And his shocking revelation as
he'd sneered down at her before slamming out of her stateroom sent shards
of incredible pain stabbing through her heart. A heart she hadn't thought
could feel any more pain after her three-year association with Eric.
She was wrong.
God couldn't care for a person like her, no matter what Annabelle and
Myra said to the contrary. Charlotte was alone. Desperately alone. And it
would always remain that way. She would always have to live under the
threat of Eric's wrath, always have to endure the abuse that came more
often than it used to, always bear the sorrow of her mother's sin . . .
unless she put a stop to it right now.
Holding the glass between her hands, she looked down, several tears
running into the murky liquid. "God," she said in a wobbly voice. "If
only what Annabelle had said was true. If only You could have loved
me--in spite of what I am, of what I've become. Maybe . . .just maybe, my
life would have been different then."
Closing her eyes, Charlotte gave a strangled sob and raised the glass to
her throbbing lips.
The ship gave a sudden jolt. Crystal teardrops hanging from the gaslight
jarred together with a discordant clink. Already shaky, Charlotte lost
her balance and fell forward, losing her grip on the tumbler. The liquid
splashed onto the cream-colored carpet. Staring at the darkened spot in
angry frustration, she curled up into a ball and began to cry. ***
The sound of frantic knocking penetrated her mind.
Charlotte sat up and wiped her eyes. Again the rapid knock came--louder
this time. She thought about ignoring it, then changed her mind and
shuffled to the door. The sight of fellow passenger Annabelle Mooreland
shocked Charlotte almost as much as her appearance shocked Annabelle.
The brunette stared, wide-eyed. "What happened to you, Charlotte? Who did
this to you?"
"It-it's nothing. I ran into a door. A foolish mistake." Even as she said
the words, Charlotte knew the explanation sounded ridiculous. However,
she couldn't tell the truth.
Annabelle assessed her with disbelief, yet didn't pursue the matter. "The
captain has asked everyone to bring their life belt and go to the boat
deck. The steward says it's nothing to be concerned about---merely a
precaution. I--I just wanted you to know."
"Thank you, Miss Mooreland. It was kind of you to tell me." Charlotte
swallowed hard. She desperately wanted to tell Annabelle how sorry she
was and confess her part in Annabelle's loss. It was partly because of
her that Annabelle no longer had a home to go to upon reaching America
and had lost her mother's diamond jewelry, though she probably hadn't yet
discovered it. Eric had been quite clever. But Charlotte could never say
anything to the young woman.
Suddenly Charlotte felt infinitely old, though she'd only turned twenty a
month ago. "Thank you," she murmured a second time and closed the door
with a soft click.
She dressed, her bruised body complaining with every motion. Noticing the
life belt on the high shelf in the closet, she gave it one wry glance
before turning away.
On the boat deck, Charlotte saw Myra Flannigan, a young lady she'd met on
the second-class promenade when she'd sought escape from Eric's black
moods. Myra was traveling to America to live with an uncle she'd never
seen--her mother having recently died. Charlotte had struck up a
tentative acquaintance with the young woman, but now hastened back to the
companionway before Myra could see her, embarrassed by her ravaged
appearance.
A steward saw her, his eyes widening, and asked if she was all right.
Charlotte gave him the same explanation she'd given Annabelle and hurried
away.
A flicker of hope lit within her, a half-formed idea begging for release.
What if all were not lost? What if she could redeem herself in some way?
Make up for a small portion of the evil in which she'd played a part
these past three years?
The flame of hope fanned into a blaze of excitement, giving her renewed
energy, and she returned to her deck, passed her room, and went to Eric's
adjoining cabin. Remembering the fury she'd endured at his hands, she
hesitated, bit her lip, and then knocked softly. When no one answered,
she pushed the door open.
The room was empty.
She clutched the doorframe, almost passing out from relief, then hurried
to his trunk. Shoulders and back protesting the strain, she lifted the
heavy lid, wincing as the familiar twinge shot through her wrist. She
rifled through the interior until she found what she wanted. Smiling
through her pain, she stuffed the items into her deep coat pocket and
hurried out the door, hoping she wouldn't run into Eric.
As the night progressed it became obvious the Titanic was sinking due to
the iceberg it had previously struck. With incredible calm, Charlotte
moved past frantic throngs of people, looking for one person, but was
unable to locate her. There weren't many lifeboats left. Had Annabelle
already departed?
Charlotte furrowed her brow. She'd intended to give Annabelle the things
that were rightfully hers--the deed to her house, which Eric had unfairly
won in a card game with Annabelle's father, and the diamond jewelry he'd
stolen. Charlotte wanted nothing more than to return to her room and let
blissful death overtake her. She had nothing to live for. Yet she so
wanted to do this one good deed before she died.
"Excuse me, Miss. You must get into the lifeboat!"
Charlotte snapped out of her musings and realized she stood at the edge
of the crowd, in front of one of the wooden boats.
"Oh, but I don't--"
Her denial was interrupted as she was accidentally pushed from behind,
the crowd growing more frantic. In a single move, the steward grabbed her
before she fell headlong into the boat hovering a great distance over the
water. Despite her protests, he handed her down to another crewman, who
grabbed her arm and practically swung her to a seat. Her bruised body
protested the rough treatment. She tried to rise, to give someone else
her place, but her legs stubbornly refused to cooperate. Charlotte
crumpled, her sobs blending in with those around her. Only she was sure
her reason for crying wasn't the same as the others'. These women cried
for those who'd been left behind. Charlotte cried because she wasn't one
of them.
***
The time in the lifeboat was tedious, bone-chilling. Charlotte was lost
in another world as she watched the mighty Titanic live its last and sink
foot by dreadful foot below the dark ocean water until it disappeared
forever. Another woman passenger held her while tears flowed silently
down Charlotte's battered face for all those who had died.
As she looked at the life-jacketed bodies bobbing in the freezing water,
Charlotte recognized the still form of her friend Myra Flannigan. Her
bright copper hair streamed around an alabaster white face. Her eyes,
wide and staring, looked toward the star-speckled sky. Her head lay at an
unusual angle, her neck obviously broken when she'd fallen or jumped into
the ocean.
Closing her eyes, Charlotte felt a terrible pang of grief to lose her
sweet friend, who, like Annabelle, had tried to talk to her about God's
love. Why had someone as good as Myra been taken and Charlotte spared?
Amid the many cries piercing the chill night air, Charlotte heard a soft
cry for help not far from their lifeboat.
"Someone help her," she pleaded.
The crewman on the seat in front turned to look at her over his shoulder.
"There's no room."
"Then push me over and give her my seat."
The man studied her as if she were crazy, and the woman holding Charlotte
stroked her tangled hair. "There, there dear," she murmured. She spoke
again, addressing the crewman this time. "Poor thing is out of her head.
You can't very well blame her, considering all that's happened."
He gave Charlotte one more look, then turned face forward. Frustrated,
she closed her eyes, resigned that for some reason she was meant to live.
Tears slipped down her cheeks, unheeded.
When dawn came, they finally reached a ship called the Carpathia. The
woman next to Charlotte helped position her in a sling used to pull up
some of the passengers. Her mind in a fog, Charlotte could barely
understand the crewman's words to her as he helped her out of the sling.
Once her foot touched deck, she only took a few steps before a terrible
pain racked her middle.
She sank to the wooden planks, everything going black.

***

Charlotte woke in a dimly lit room, feeling empty and hurting terribly. A
doctor, judging from the stethoscope around his neck, came to her side,
his brown eyes gentle.
"Shhh--lay back now," he said, putting a smooth hand to her shoulder when
she tried to sit up. He sat on the edge of the cot. "Was your husband
aboard the Titanic, also?"
Swallowing hard, she nodded.
"I'm terribly sorry. Of course, there's a chance he might have made it."
The words did little to reassure Charlotte, having entirely the opposite
effect. Was Eric searching for her? What would he do if he found her? Had
he discovered her last-minute visit to his cabin?
The doctor looked ill at ease. "I'm afraid you lost the baby, though."
Baby? Charlotte closed her eyes and thankfully sank into deep oblivion.
The next time she woke, the room was brighter, the sun streaming through
a porthole. "Thirsty," she croaked to a blond stewardess sitting nearby.
The woman immediately poured a glass of water and held it to Charlotte's
parched lips. "There, there. Don't drink it so fast now--you'll make
yourself sick." She pulled the glass away and looked sympathetically down
at Charlotte. "We'll likely be reaching America, tomorrow. I need your
name, luv, so I can give it to the officer to record on the list of
survivors."
Charlotte took a deep breath and, praying God would not strike her dead,
clutched the bedcovers at her side.
"Myra Flannigan," she rasped.

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