The Secret Heiress

by Bethany Campbell

  Now it was Bindy, sobbing uncontrollably against Mrs. Lipton’s ample bosom. “What’s this?” Marie asked, bewildered.

  Bindy turned her face so that Marie couldn’t see it.

  “Be still, dear,” Mrs. Lipton said to the girl. “You didn’t know. How could you?”

  Marie looked at Reynard, and he shook his head unhappily.

  “She was seeing Sandy Sanford,” he said in his rasping voice. “The bugger that burned the barn. He’d come around here, and sometimes she’d get called out of the kitchen. He must have poked about and taken the gun. She met him the night before he left. He told her he had to go see his mother, that she was sick, and he needed money. He took all she had.”

  “Miss will never forgive me,” Bindy wept. “She’ll sack me for certain.”

  And Marie looked at her sadly, knowing it was true. Bindy had been a fool for love.

  At last Bindy could cry no more. Reynard awkwardly patted the girl on the back and wished her luck. He had to get back to Lochlain.

  Mrs. Lipton sat Bindy down at the table and poured her tea. “Bindy,” she said, “I’m sure the police will want to talk to you. Don’t be frightened. Just tell them the truth.”

  “Will they tell Miss Fairchild?” Bindy asked, sniffling.

  “No,” Mrs. Lipton said gently. “I’ll tell her. I’m the one who hired you, and it’s my responsibility. I’ll go now and let her know. I don’t want you to be in the house. Why don’t you go to the bungalow? I’ll call you afterward.”

  “But she will fire me, won’t she?” Bindy asked, her voice shaking. “What you’re saying is go pack, isn’t it?”

  “I just want you out of range of her temper,” Mrs. Lipton said. “And I suggest you think about calling the police yourself. I believe they’ll treat you more kindly if you do. Now be off with you, dear.”

  Mrs. Lipton left the kitchen, looking grim. Bindy hid her face in her hands. “How could he do this to me? I loved him.”

  “I’m sorry,” Marie said softly. “But she’s right, Bindy. Let’s get you out of here. I’ll walk you to the bungalow.”

  “I’ll go by myself. I know I’m through here. I know it, and I’m going to need to be alone.”

  “Are you sure?” Marie asked, putting her hand on the girl’s arm.

  Bindy wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I’m sure.” She rose and faced Marie, her expressions uncertain.

  “Marie, I want to tell you something. I saw the niece, Miss Stafford, take a box of Miss’s private papers to her room while Miss was in the hospital. She brought them from a barn where they were stored—because of the office being done over, you know? I—I was curious.”

  Bindy wiped her eyes again. “I never trusted Miss Stafford. She was fooling around with Dylan Hastings, and everybody knew. I thought maybe she was trying to get something against Miss for him, why else go through her private papers? So I…decided to play detective.”

  The young woman took a deep breath. “Miss Stafford’s gone this morning. I looked in her room. The box was there. It was full of letters. I read some. I was gobsmacked….

  “The letters were old, the 1940s. No stamps. Not sealed. But addressed. Miss Louisa was writing to somebody named Kent Oxford. She was in a home for unwed mothers. She hated it. She wanted him to come take her away. But she must never have sent it. And later she wrote him a long, sad letter about how her baby girl lived only a day, and the doctor said she could never have another child.”

  Shaking her head, she murmured. “I hope Miss Stafford hasn’t got them for blackmail or something. Do you think so? Should Miss Louisa know? It does make Miss Louisa easier to understand, everything she went through and all. And I’m so sorry for what I done to her, about Sandy and…all…”

  She drew away from Marie, hiding her quivering mouth with her hand. “I loved working with you, Marie. Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.”

  She rose, took off her apron, set it on the counter, and then pushed the back door open.

  She turned to face Marie. She took a deep breath. “At least, I’m not pregnant. I know that for certain. At least he didn’t do that to me, as well.”

  “I’m glad, Bindy. I’m relieved for you.”

  Bindy just shook her head, looked out toward the paddocks, and walked out the door.

  Marie, numbed, sat down at the table, not wanting to watch her go. Poor, naive Bindy, always so excited about her “beau,” her “boyfriend,” her “sweetheart.”

  But she was stunned by what Bindy had said.

  Louisa had given birth to a daughter out of wedlock. In the 1940s. And she believed the child had died.

  And Kent Oxford was the man Louisa’s sister had married. He was Megan and Patrick Stafford’s grandfather. And if he was the father of Louisa’s baby, then he was most likely Marie’s grandfather, as well.

  That baby hadn’t died, Marie thought, stunned. The home must have lied to Louisa. Perhaps her parents had arranged for such a lie, thinking she’d put the experience behind her, never have to wonder if she had a child somewhere.

  Marie felt faint, as if she couldn’t stand up if she tried.

  How would Louisa feel if she learned that her daughter had lived? And how her daughter had lived, without money or privilege or security—and how she’d died?

  “This is impossible,” Marie whispered to herself. Perhaps Louisa should never know the truth. Ever.

  Louisa, of course, fired Bindy as soon as she heard of the affair with Sandy Sanford. Mrs. Lipton came downstairs blinking back tears. She said that Louisa wanted Bindy off the property as soon as possible. She’d written the girl’s last paycheck and sealed it in an envelope for Mrs. Lipton to deliver.

  “So deliver it I must,” said Mrs. Lipton, straightening her spine. “And now, Miss wishes to see you.”

  Marie nodded. She climbed the stairs to Louisa’s suite, her pulse drumming with anxiety, for Louisa might be even more overwrought now. And for the first time, Marie would face her knowing that Louisa very well might be her grandmother.

  She tried to calm herself as she rapped at the door. “Come in,” Louisa answered, her order as swift and sharp as a rifle shot.

  Marie pushed open the door. This time Louisa was standing, her fists on her hips. “Well,” she said. “Doesn’t that bugger all? Silly little Bindy let a murderer in my house. The lout stole my gun and framed me and nearly killed me. Because of her. I hope a snake bites her.”

  “I—I’m sure she had no intention of mischief,” Marie said. “She had no idea that he—”

  “Don’t defend her,” Louisa snapped. “She wasn’t malicious, I’m certain. But she’s a fool, and that’s just as bad. It led to the same end—death, destruction, arrest, illness. She’s not just an idiot, she’s the tritest sort of idiot, a silly girl letting a man turn her head. Bah! The oldest trap in the world.”

  “Many a smarter woman’s fallen into the same trap,” Marie retorted, and then thought What have I said? Louisa herself made that mistake.

  Louisa looked at her coldly. “On any other day I’d give you a tongue-lashing. But I have more important things to think of. I’ve phoned my lawyer to make sure all action is dropped against Dylan Hastings. I want his slate wiped clean.”

  Marie could say nothing. She stood with her mouth open in surprise.

  “I am not a forgiving person,” Louisa said. “I haven’t been for decades. But lying in a hospital bed, listening to my very old heart go ‘beep’ on a machine was sobering. Very sobering. So I may as well make up with Hastings. I know that he and my great-niece are attracted to each other. They didn’t do a very good job of hiding it.”

  Marie made herself close her mouth. She’d had no idea that Louisa knew about Megan and Dylan. She, too, had been aware of their attraction and wondered why Megan, an attorney herself, so blithely ignored the advice of Robert D’Angelo to avoid police and other suspects.

  Louisa must have noticed her expression. “Of course, I kne
w about them. I have eyes in my head. He’ll probably be part of the family, so we’d better bury the hatchet. I’ll be having dinner with Mr. D’Angelo tonight. He likes steak. See if you can do something clever with it. We’ll dine at eight—privately. Feed Megan and Patrick separately.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Marie said, trying to hide her agitation at all she’d learned this morning.

  “I wish to renew my ties to Lochlain Racing,” Louisa said, gazing out the window at the paddocks and the burned land beyond. “For starters, I’ll send a check to each man who came to help and an extra-large one for your uncle. I heard he hurt himself again. Is he better?”

  “That would be a lovely gesture, Miss. And yes, he’s better. He’s a survivor.”

  “But as for Andrew Preston, I’m not sure. He’s behaved very decently toward me lately. I heard that he fought right beside your uncle.”

  He behaved more than decently, Marie thought, He behaved like a hero. They all did.

  “But I can’t support two candidates,” Louisa muttered. “Still, I don’t wish to seem ungrateful to the man.” She paused. “So I’ll probably send him a check, as well, but make it clear it’s not a campaign donation. If he doesn’t want it, he can donate it to one of his everlasting causes.”

  Marie fought back a sigh. On the hospital stairs, Andrew had put his political reputation at stake; he’d faced a raging fire for her, and she would send him a check that would be nothing compared to all she’d done for Bullock.

  “Hmm,” Louisa said, studying her. “I can see by your face, you don’t approve. I often see that look on your face. It makes you seem so virtuous. But I’m old and opinionated—and I’ve seen much of the world. Someday you may be the same and then you’ll better understand me.”

  Louisa laid her finger against her cheek thoughtfully. The pose gave her an almost girlish air. “You’re bright, my girl. You’ve risen to the occasion better than I could have imagined. You’ve been doing the work of two cooks and doing it well. I have good news for you. Mrs. Lipton found a French chef. He’ll be joining the staff soon. Your workload will be easier.”

  “I appreciate that, Miss.”

  “We’ll have to replace Bindy, too, of course. That’ll be a bother. But that’s Mrs. Lipton’s problem.”

  She moved to the chaise lounge and sat down. “I want to reward my staff, too, for helping keep Fairchild Acres safe. So, perhaps a barbecue for them. How does that strike you?”

  “Very thoughtful, Miss. It’s a terrifying thing, facing a fire.”

  “There are many terrifying things in life to face,” Louisa said, her expression unreadable. “I heard you worked beside the men from Lochlain. Not many women would have such guts. You’re full of surprises, you are. I wonder about you. Oh, yes. But I’ll do that in private. You may go.”

  Marie went back to the kitchen, shaken. She couldn’t let Reynard know of Bindy’s story about the letters—not yet. It would only fire his zeal to have her reveal herself to Louisa, and she couldn’t face that.

  In her room that night, she was stripping down to put on her pajamas when the phone rang. Wearing only her shorts and bra, she grabbed the receiver and said, “Hello?”

  It was Andrew calling from Melbourne. “How are things? I heard about Bindy. I’m sorry.”

  “So am I,” she said. “She took it hard. But she shouldn’t have let that man inside the house. She knew it was wrong.”

  “It must have been upsetting for everybody. Are you okay?”

  No, I’m not, she wanted to say. Today I found out Louisa may well be my mother’s mother. But I can’t bring myself to face her. I feel like an interloper, a sneak.

  Instead, she said. “Well, it’s been quite a day.”

  “How’s Louisa doing?”

  “She’s wildly relieved that she’s been cleared of murder. And I’m afraid to say this,” she admitted, “but she seems a little mellower since she left the hospital. You know what? Mrs. Lipton said she not only gave Bindy her pay, but two weeks severance pay, as well. Plus fifty dollars to help tide her over—along with a terse note warning her about smooth-talking men.”

  Andrew laughed, a low chuckle that made her stomach feel quivery. “Maybe it took a near-death experience to shake up her outlook. Let’s hope it lasts.”

  Her heart beat harder. “And how about you?” she asked.

  “I get back on the plane tomorrow,” he said, regret in his voice. “Another trip to the Western Territory. And I haven’t seen you since the night of the fire. It was only a short while ago, but it seems like a thousand years.”

  “I know,” she whispered.

  “Do you think since Louisa’s cleared, I could take you out? That Robert D’Angelo can stop playing Gestapo?”

  She closed her eyes, wishing. “I think so. And Louisa even said nice things about you. She admired you for fighting the fire.”

  “Then I’ll keep calling you until I get back. And I’ll think about you all the time…wonder about you. What kind of little kid you were…”

  “Willful,” she said, “but friendly. And too curious. I’d stick forks into electrical outlets, fall out of windows, eat bugs. Once I ate a stinkbug. That was a real mistake. What were you like as a boy?”

  “McPerfect, of course,” he laughed. “A straight arrow. My mother said I was ‘intense.’ That I really concentrated on things—a book, a toy, a story on TV.”

  “Good grades,” she teased.

  “All A’s,” he said. “Start to finish.”

  “A Boy Scout?” she asked with a smile.

  “Of course. Eagle Scout.”

  “Campus politics?” she prodded.

  “President of my senior class. And the student council.”

  “Oh, you’re designed to make everybody in the world feel inferior,” she joked. “No wonder some people think you’re a robot.”

  “You know I’m not,” he said, his voice seductive.

  “Yes. I know.” Too well she knew.

  They talked until nearly midnight. They spoke of ordinary things, but beneath the surface of their conversation thrummed a strong current of sexual attraction, of growing desire.

  When they had to hang up, Marie closed the phone reluctantly, smiling to herself. She felt warm and tingling all over, almost as if she glowed with a kind of happiness she’d never before known.

  She told herself she was not another Bindy, blinded by love, no longer able to see reality.

  And she hoped it was true. But as much as she loved talking to Andrew, she wanted to see him again.

  Not only to see him, but to drink him in with all her senses, to hear his deep voice, to smell the scent of his aftershave, to feel his long, strong body against her small one, to press her lips to his again, to explore his tongue with her own, to taste the salt on his skin, to…

  The images were becoming too vivid, too sensual. Instead of putting on her pajamas, she shed her clothes and took a long, icy shower.

  She was all too conscious that she still had a virgin’s body. And she wanted that to change. For Andrew to change it—and her.

  Marie awoke early. The cold shower had cooled her body last night, but not her imagination. Her dreams had wakened her because they embarrassed her. She had dreamed of being naked with Andrew, and of them doing things to each other she’d only read about in books.

  I’m twenty-five years old, she thought with chagrin, and I just reached puberty.

  Physical activity was what she needed, and lots of it. Though the sun had barely risen, she quickly dressed and took her bike for a ride over the estate’s dirt roads.

  She enjoyed the coolness of the morning, even though the tang of smoke still touched the breeze. Birds were awakening, chirping, whistling, cawing. She turned to go toward the eastern pastureland, when she saw a figure in the distance. With a shock, she realized it was Megan Stafford, carrying a cardboard box.

  Marie stopped and watched. Megan’s back was to her, and she entered one of the outbuildings, a ba
rn, and disappeared. Marie turned around and sped back to where the road forked. She stopped, dismounted, and acted as if she was inspecting her rear tire.

  She saw Megan leave the barn and begin to walk back. Marie toyed with her bicycle wheel until she could see Megan more clearly. The box was gone. She’d left it in the building.

  Marie remounted her bike, waved amiably at Megan, and Megan raised a hand, returning the greeting. Then Marie took off, legs working madly, mind working just as fast, wondering about the significance of what she’d seen.

  She’d known she could never search Megan’s room for Louisa’s letters; it seemed too much like burglary. But now the letters might be sitting in an unlocked barn.

  Did that change matters? She didn’t have to tell Reynard about them. She could simply go see for herself.

  If she looked at them, was that another morally compromising act? Or would the letters change her mind about leaving the valley without telling Louisa about Colette?

  To read them? Or not?

  It was, Marie decided, too big a decision to make on impulse. She must think and think hard.

  The idea of the letters haunted Marie all morning, but she did nothing about them. Then, after morning tea, Mrs. Lipton said Louisa wanted to see Marie. She did not say why.

  Marie went to the suite in apprehension. When she entered, Louisa was in her riding costume, sitting in the chaise lounge, looking displeased.

  “You wanted to see me, Miss?” Marie asked.

  Louisa nodded, “I went riding this morning. It wasn’t as easy for me as it was before my spell. The doctor told me not to, but I did, anyway. I intend to inspect my property to the end—even if I’m reduced to the indignity of riding in a golf cart.”

  Marie said nothing. Louisa raised an eyebrow and said, “This morning I found one of my outbuilding’s unlocked. The barn in the eastern pasture. I was appalled. I’m keeping some private papers in there until the office is remodeled. What dunderhead left it unlocked? Here. Take this padlock and lock that door tight. I don’t want anyone snooping in my personal correspondence.”