by Nora Roberts
took her hand, and because it still felt chilled, rubbed it between both of his. “That’s one thing that would’ve gotten passed down. A crazy woman attacking a Harper, or even a servant. It would’ve been reported, and she’d have been taken away, put in jail or an asylum.”
“Maybe. What about the sickle, and the rope? That says: I’m gonna tie somebody up and slice them to ribbons.”
“Nobody ever got sliced to ribbons in Harper House.” He rose to move over and close her terrace doors.
“That you know about.”
“Okay, that I know about.” He sat again. “We’ll pass this on to Mitch. He can look into police records maybe. It’s an avenue.”
“You’ve got this calm surface,” she said after a moment. “It’s deceptive, seeing as there are all these little hot pockets under it. Shows me I don’t know you as well as I thought I did.”
“Back at you.”
She sighed, looked down at her hands as they sat on the side of her bed together. “I can’t just sleep with you. I thought I could—at first. Then I thought, I can’t go jumping on that. I do and he’s going to get hurt. She’s going to hurt him.” She looked up. “You were right about that.”
He only smiled. “Duh.”
She gave his arm a swat. “Think you’re so clever and smart.”
“Only because I am. You can ask my mama, when she’s in a good mood.”
“You’re easy to be around, except when you’re not.” She studied him, trying to take in all the new things she was learning. “I like that, I guess, finding all those under-the-surface pockets. And God knows you’re nice to look at.”
“How big a fall are you building me up for?”
“It’s not—” She shook her head, rose to wander the room. “I’ve got all these feelings stored up, and all these needs. It’d be so easy to set them loose on you.”
“I don’t recall putting up a fight.”
“I didn’t know you looked at me, not that way. Knowing you did, you do, just adds to everything. I’ve never been kissed like that in my life, and I’ve been kissed pretty good now and then. If she hadn’t come in here when she did, it’s likely we’d be in bed right now, going where that kiss was leading.”
“That’s no way to make me feel fonder of my great-great-grandmother.”
“I’m not feeling so fond of her myself. But it gave me time to think instead of just want.” Ordering herself to be sensible, for both of them, she sat on the arm of a chair. “I’m not shy about sex, and I think if you and I were somewhere else, in some other sort of situation, we could be lovers without all these extra complications.”
“Why do people always think being lovers shouldn’t be complicated?”
She frowned, then shook her head. “Well, that’s a question. A good one. I don’t know.”
“Seems to me,” he began, crossing to her. “That there are flings, and that’s uncomplicated by design. Nothing wrong with it. But being lovers, going into it thinking about more than a night or two, that should have weight. You’ve got weight, you’ve got some complications.”
“You’re right, I can’t say you’re not. But there’s a lot to consider before we take a step like this. I think we need to be sure it’s the right thing for both of us before we take that step. There are things we don’t know about each other, and maybe we should.”
“How about dinner?”
She stared up at him. “You’re hungry?”
“Not now, Hayley. I’m asking you for a date. Have dinner with me. We’ll go into the city, have a meal, listen to some music.”
Her shoulders relaxed and the tight coil in her belly loosened. “That’d be good.”
“Tomorrow?” he said as he drew her to her feet.
“If your mama or Stella can mind Lily, tomorrow’s fine. Ah, we’ll need to tell them about what happened. About Amelia.”
“In the morning.”
“It’s a little awkward, explaining how you were in here, and what we were doing when—”
“No.” He took her face in his hands, laid his lips on hers. “It’s not. You going to be all right now?”
“Yeah.” She looked over his shoulder to the doors he’d shut. “Storm’s passing, you should go now, in case it decides to rain some more.”
“I’ll bunk in Stella’s old room.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“We’ll both sleep easier that way.”
SHE DID FEEL better, even though it didn’t exactly cajole sleep to imagine him just down the hall. Or to imagine how easy it would be to tiptoe down there, slide into bed beside him.
She had no doubt they’d both sleep a lot easier that way.
It was hell being responsible and mature.
Even a bigger hell to realize she cared about him more than she’d bargained for. But that was good, wasn’t it? she thought as she tossed and turned. She wasn’t a slut who hopped into bed with a guy just because he was good-looking and sexy.
Some people might think differently, because of Lily, but it hadn’t been that way. She’d cared for Lily’s father. She’d liked him. Maybe she’d been careless, but it hadn’t been cheap.
And she’d wanted the baby. Maybe not at first, she admitted. But after the panic and pity, the anger and denial, she’d wanted the baby. She’d never wanted anything in her life as much.
Her beautiful baby.
She’d taken nothing from the father, had she? The spineless, selfish bastard who’d used her grief to have his way. That hadn’t been stupid. She’d been smart not to tell him, to go away, keep her child to herself. Only hers. Always.
But she could have more, couldn’t she? She was thinking about this all the wrong way. Why should she work? Sweat and slave, settle for a room in the great house. She could have it all. Her child would have it all.
He wanted her. She could play this well. Oh yes, who knew better how to play a man. He would come begging before she was done, and she would bind him to her.
When it was done, Harper House would be hers, hers and her child’s.
At last.
eight
IN THE PROPAGATION house, Hayley watched Roz set a ceanothus cutting in a rockwood plug. “Are you sure you don’t mind watching Lily?”
“Why would I mind? Mitch and I will spend the evening spoiling her rotten while you aren’t around to run interference.”
“She loves being with you. Roz, I feel so weird about everything.”
“I don’t know why you’d feel weird about going out on a date with Harper. He’s a handsome, charming young man.”
“Your young man.”
“Yes.” Roz smiled as she dipped another cutting in rooting compound. “Aren’t I lucky? I also have two other handsome, charming young men, and wouldn’t be the least surprised if they had dates tonight.”
“It’s different with Harper. He’s your first, he’s your partner. I’m working for you.”
“We’ve been over this, Hayley.”
“I know.” Just as she knew that impatient tone. “I’m not able to wind myself through it as easy as you, I guess.”
“You might if you’d relax, go out, and have a good time.” Roz glanced up before sliding the cutting into the plug. “Wouldn’t hurt to try to catch a quick nap beforehand, either. See if you can deal with those circles under your eyes.”
“I didn’t sleep well.”
“Not surprising, considering.”
The music in the propagation house today was some sort of complicated piano, drenched in romance. Hayley had more skill identifying plants than classical composers, so she just let the music drift around her as she worked.
“I kept having weird dreams, at least I think I did. I can’t remember any of them clearly. Roz, are you afraid?”
“Concerned. Here, you do the next one.” She stepped back so Hayley could take over. “And angry, too. Nobody slaps at my boy—except me. And if I get the opportunity, I’ll tell her so, in no uncertain terms. That’
s good,” she said with a nod as Hayley worked. “This kind of hardwood cutting needs a dry rooting medium or you get rot.”
“She may have gotten that sickle and the rope out of the carriage house. I mean all those years ago. Maybe she tried to use them and someone stopped her.”
“There are a lot of maybes, Hayley. Since Beatrice didn’t mention Amelia again in any of her journals, we may never know all of it.”
“And if we don’t we may never get her out. Roz, there are people, paranormal experts, who you can hire to clean houses.” She glanced up, knitted her brows. “I don’t know why you smile at that. It’s not such a strange idea.”
“I just had an image of a bunch of people running around the house armed with buckets and brooms, and that ray gun sort of thing Bill Murray used in Ghostbusters.”
“Proton streams—and I have no idea why I know that. But really, Roz, it’s a fringe science and all that, but there are serious and legitimate studies. Maybe we need outside help.”
“If it comes to that, we’ll see about it.”
“I looked up some sites on the Internet.”
“Hayley.”
“I know, I know, just a contingency.”
They both looked over as the door opened. Mitch came in, and something about the look on his face had Hayley holding her breath.
“I think I found her. How soon can you wrap things up here and come home?”
“An hour,” Roz decided. “But for God’s sake, Mitchell, don’t leave it at that. Who was she?”
“Her name was Amelia Connor. Amelia Ellen Connor, born in Memphis, May 12, 1868. No death certificate on record.”
“How did you—”
“I’ll get into all that at home.” He flashed her a wide grin. “Rally your troops, Rosalind. See you there.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered when he walked out. “Isn’t that just like a man? I’ll finish up here, Hayley. You go tell Harper and Stella to finish up whatever they’re doing. Let me think,” she said as she pressed fingers to her temple. “Stella can get in touch with Logan if she wants him there, and she’ll need to leave Ruby in charge, see that she closes today. Looks like we’re taking off a couple hours early.”
AMELIA ELLEN CONNOR. Hayley closed her eyes and thought the name as she stood just inside the foyer of Harper House. Nothing happened, no ghostly revelations or appearances, no sweep of sudden knowledge. She felt a little foolish because she’d been sure something would happen if she concentrated on the name while standing inside the house.
She tried saying it out loud, quietly, but got the same results. She’d wanted to be found, Hayley thought. She’d wanted to be acknowledged. All right then.
“Amelia Ellen Connor,” she said aloud. “I’m acknowledging you as the mother of Reginald Edward Harper.”
But there was nothing but silence in answer, and the scent of David’s lemon oil and Roz’s summer roses.
Deciding she’d keep the failed experiment to herself, she headed to the library.
Roz and Mitch were already there, with Mitch hammering away at his laptop.
“Says he wants to get some things down while they’re fresh in his mind,” Roz told her with some exasperation whipping around the edges of her voice. “Stella’s in the kitchen with David. Her boys are with their grandparents today. Logan’ll be along when he’s along. I imagine the same goes for Harper.”
“He said he’d come. He just had to finish . . .” She lifted her shoulder. “Whatever.”
“Have a seat.” Roz waved a hand. “Dr. Carnegie seems determined to keep us in suspense.”
“Iced tea and lemon cookies,” David announced and he wheeled in a cart just ahead of Stella. “You cracked him yet?” He nodded toward Mitch.
“No, but it’s not going to take much more to push me to do just that. Mitch!”
“Five minutes.”
“It’s such a simple name, isn’t it?” Hayley shrugged when Roz looked at her. “Sorry, I was just thinking. Amelia, that’s sort of flowy and feminine. But the rest. Ellen Connor. It’s solid and simple. You sort of expect the rest to be flowy, too, or a little exotic. Then again, Amelia means industrious—I looked it up.”
“Of course you did,” Roz said fondly.
“It doesn’t sound like that’s what it should mean. I think Ellen’s a derivative of Helen, and makes me think Helen of Troy, so it’s actually more sort of feminine and exotic when you come down to it. And none of that’s important.”
“Interesting, as always though, to see how your mind works. And here’s the rest of our happy few.”
“Ran into Harper out front.” Logan walked over to kiss Stella. “Sweaty, sorry. Came straight from the job.” He picked up a glass of iced tea David had poured and drank every drop.
“So what’s the deal?” Harper zeroed in on the cookies, took three, then plopped into a chair. “We’ve got her name, so what, drum roll?”
“It’s pretty impressive Mitch could find her name with the little we had to go on,” Hayley shot back.
“Not saying otherwise, just wondering what we do with it.”
“First, I’d like to know how he came by it. Mitchell,” Roz said with growing impatience. “Don’t make me hurt you in front of the children.”
“So.” Mitch pushed back from the keyboard, took off his glasses to polish them on his shirt. “Reginald Harper owned several properties, including houses. Here in Shelby County, and outside it. Some were rented, of course, investment properties, income. I did find a few, through the old ledgers, that were listed as tenanted through certain periods, but generated no income.”
“Cooking the books?” Harper suggested.
“Possibly. Or these residences might have been where he installed mistresses.”
“Plural?” Logan took another glass of tea. “Busy boy.”
“Beatrice’s journal speaks of women, not woman, so it follows. It also follows, as we find him a shrewd, goal-oriented type that as he wanted a son, whatever the cost, he maintained more than one candidate until he got what he was after. But the journals also indicate Amelia was local, so I concentrated on the local properties.”
“I doubt he’d list a mistress as a tenant,” Roz said.
“No. Meanwhile, I’ve been scouring the census lists. A lot of names, a lot of years to cover. Then a little lightbulb goes off, and I narrowed it to the years Reginald held those local properties, and before 1892. Still a lot to cull through, but I hit in the 1890 census.”
His gaze scanned the room, landed on the cart. “Are those cookies?”
“Jesus, David, get the man some cookies before I have to kill him. What did you hit in 1890?”
“Amelia Ellen Connor, resident of one of Reginald’s Memphis houses. One that generated no income from the later half of that year, through March of 1893. One, in fact, he’d listed as untenanted during that period.”
“Almost certainly has to be her,” Stella said. “It’s too neat and tidy not to be.”
“She knows her neat and tidy,” Logan commented. “In spades.”
“If it’s not our Amelia, it’s one hell of a coincidence.” Mitch tossed his glasses onto the table. “Reginald’s very careful bookkeeper noted on Reginald’s books a number of expenses incurred during the period the property was supposedly empty, and Amelia Connor listed it as her residence on the census. In February of 1893, considerably more expenses were noted dealing with refurbishing in preparation for new tenants, paying tenants. The house was sold, if you’re interested, in 1899.”
“So we know she lived in Memphis,” Hayley began, “at least until a few months after the baby was born.”
“More than that. Amelia Ellen Connor.” He slipped his glasses back on and read his notes. “Born 1868 to Thomas Edward Connor and Mary Kathleen Connor née Bingham. Though Amelia listed both her parents as deceased, that was only true of her father, who died in 1886. Her mother was alive, and very possibly well, until her death in 1897. She was employed
by the Lucerne family as a housemaid at a home on the river, called—”
“The Willows,” Roz finished. “I know that house. It’s older than this one. It’s a bed-and-breakfast now, a very lovely one. It was bought and restored oh, twenty years ago at least.”
“Mary Connor worked there,” Mitch continued, “and though she listed no children for the census, a check of vital records shows she had a daughter—Amelia Ellen.”
“Estranged, I suppose,” Stella said.
“Enough that the daughter considered her mother dead, and the mother didn’t acknowledge the daughter. There’s another interesting bit. There’s no record of Amelia having a child, just as there’s no record of her death.”
“Money can grease wheels or muddy them up,” Hayley added.
“What’s next?” Logan wondered.
“I’m going to go back over old newspapers, again, keep looking for any mention of her death—unidentified female, that sort of thing. And we’ll keep trying to find information through the descendants of servants. I’ll see if the people who own The Willows now will let me have a look at any documents or papers from that time.”
“I’ll smooth the way,” Roz offered. “Old family names grease wheels, too.”
SHE WAS OUT on a date for the first time in . . . it was really too sad to think about how long. And she looked pretty good, if she did say so herself. The little red top showed off her arms and shoulders, which were nicely toned between hauling Lily, yoga, and digging in the dirt.
There was a great-looking guy sitting across from her in a noisy, energetic Beale Street restaurant. And she couldn’t keep her mind on the moment.
“We’ll talk about it,” Harper said, then picked up the glass of wine she’d ignored and handed it to her. “You’ll feel better getting it out than working so hard not to say anything.”
“I can’t stop thinking about it. Her. I mean she had his baby, Harper, and he just took it. It’s not so hard to see why she’d have this hard-on about men.”
“Devil’s advocate? She sold herself.”
“But, Harper—”
“Hold on. She came from a working-class family. Instead of opting to work, she opted to be kept. Her choice, and I got no problem with it. But she traded sex for a house and servants.”
“Which gives him the right to take her child?”
“Not saying that, by a long shot. I’m saying it’s unlikely she was a rosy-cheeked innocent. She lived in that house, as his mistress, for what, more than a year before she got pregnant.”
She wasn’t ready to have it all taken down to its lowest level. “Maybe she loved him.”
“Maybe she loved the life.” He jerked a shoulder.
“I didn’t know you were so cynical.”
He only smiled. “I didn’t know you were so romantic. More than likely, the truth of it hits somewhere in the middle of cynicism and romance, so we’ll split the difference.”
“Seems fair. I don’t always like being fair though.”
“Either way it falls, we know this is one screwed-up individual, Hayley. It’s pretty likely she was screwed up before this happened. That doesn’t mean she deserved it, but I’m betting on a hard edge. It takes one, doesn’t it, to list your own mother as dead when she’s living a few miles away?”
“Yeah. It doesn’t paint a nice picture. I guess part of me wants to see her as a victim, like the heroine, when it’s just not that cut and dried.”
Deliberately she sipped her wine. “Okay, that’s enough. That’s all she gets for tonight.”
