“It’s not that. I can’t talk about it. Please don’t ask me to explain—I will one day, I promise.”
That would have to do for now. Adam was an Iverson, stubborn through and through. Pressing him would only lead to more bickering. “If I agree to this, how soon would we leave?”
He smiled his beautiful smile as if he’d already won the argument. “It would take us a few weeks to settle our affairs here and to find passage south, and I would have to find a solicitor for our legal needs. Probably by the end of May, I would think.”
“I haven’t said yes yet. Let me sleep on it so that I may keep at least a shred of dignity.” He hugged me, holding me close to him. I welcomed his embrace; it had been too long since we had been kind to one another. Suddenly, Adam kissed me tenderly on the neck and then released me. He walked out the door, and I watched him leave. He had never kissed me before, much less in such a personal way, and I hardly knew what to think of it. I still remember that night. How I tossed and turned, how I dwelt upon that kiss.
The next morning, I rose early to prepare his breakfast. I tried not to see the eager look on his face, but I could see he wasn’t going to allow me to avoid giving my answer. “Although I am loath to leave our family, I am willing to return to Mobile if you like, at least to settle our affairs there. I want you to promise me that if I choose to return, you will not stop me.”
“Why should you return here? Has anyone asked for your hand?”
“No, of course not.”
He smiled again and said, “Agreed. I shall tell Uncle Lars this morning after breakfast.”
“Adam, if I had said no, would you have left anyway?” What prompted me to ask such a question, I do not know, but I did want to know his answer.
He poured a cup of dark coffee and stared at me. “Does it matter now? To Mobile and to our future!” He raised his cup to me and drank from it cheerfully. He chattered about details that did not concern me. Soon he left to see our uncle. Usually I would dress and go downstairs to help in the store. Sometimes my aunt needed help moving things, and I had a knack for selling. None of her daughters came to the shop except Elsa, the oldest. Her swollen belly kept her from helping now—her new baby would arrive very soon. That morning, I dawdled amongst our things, mentally making a list of what I would keep, what I would give to my aunt and what I truly didn’t need.
Walking over to the rolltop desk, I rolled back the lid. My father had built the desk when he was a boy, and it still rolled smoothly. This I would take with me. I sat down on the cushioned chair and stared at the neatly stacked letters. Taking one in my hand, I ran my finger over the script, missing him more than I had in months. I didn’t cry, but my heart broke to read his letters even though they were all business transactions. I read them all, and when I was through, I opened other drawers and found other stacks of letters. Again, many of these were business-related, but finally I found one that was not.
It was a worn envelope addressed to me. I had never seen it, nor had anyone ever read it to me.
Dear Delilah,
I call you this because I hear that is what your family calls you. My name is Dr. Hoyt Page. I am a physician living in Mobile, Alabama, and I am writing to inform you that you are my daughter. Forgive me for my bluntness, but as I am ill and not likely to live through the night, I feel a sense of urgency to reach out to my only living child.
As I have stated, I am your father. Your mother was Christine Beaumont Cottonwood…”
I couldn’t believe what I was reading! Delilah was the baby! I immediately sent Ashland a text.
Big news in book! I’m going to keep reading, but I will come up and see you in about an hour. You still there??
A few seconds later he responded: Yes, Detra Ann is stable now but still unconscious. I will be here.
I scanned the waiting room. I could hardly believe this bombshell I was reading. Nobody paid me a bit of attention, which was great. I tucked in my headphones, tapped on an instrumental song on my phone and continued to read. I couldn’t stop now!
Your mother was Christine Beaumont Cottonwood, and she died the night you were born. There is no way, my dear, to pretty up the facts. Christine was a married woman, married to a horrible man, Jeremiah Cottonwood, whom I recently killed. It was quite easy to do, as I have hated him for such a long time. I set upon him as he was riding drunk on his way home again to Seven Sisters. I stepped out of the shadows and shot him dead. Now he had paid for his crimes against your dear mother. The man was a monster and deserved his fate. I have avenged your mother’s death, and soon I will join her. Please do not think too meanly of me to have done this deed—how could I allow him to go on living? In the case of your mother, justice moved too slowly for us all.
What else should I say to you except that I am sorry, truly sorry, for the misfortune that fate seems to have dealt you? You are the daughter of a Beaumont. That may not seem like much at the moment, but it is a special thing. You are also my daughter, the child of a prosperous doctor, and I have left everything I own to you. Won’t my sister be surprised to learn about you! Your aunt, Claudette, is not a woman to be crossed, so be kind to her. Perhaps you can give her one of the houses I have bequeathed to you.
I wish we had had a different life, Christine and I, but it wasn’t to be. We had our moment in the sun, and you are our proof that our love was real. You had a sister, Calpurnia, but she has been missing for nearly seventeen years. I cannot prove this, but I feel sure that Mr. Cottonwood killed her after your own dear mother died, knowing that Christine would have left your sister the heir to her fortune. I hope that somehow you will forgive me, forgive us, for not being the kind of people who could care for someone as special and lovely as you.
I imagine you often. I wonder if you like singing and playing music as Christine did, or maybe you prefer drawing, reading and writing as did your sister. I wish you were here so I could steal a look at you, as I did so many times when you were a child.
Please know that if I had believed the Iversons to be unsuitable people to serve as parents for my daughter, I would have taken you from them without a word or thought. But even I, a man who has never had a wife and family to call his own, could see that you were happy. I saw you many times, working in the shop and sometimes in attendance at church. I had hoped one day that you would return to Mobile to see me or that perhaps, once the war was over, I might go to see you, but such a visit is impossible now.
I love you more than I love my last breath. I love you more than I love even my own sister. I pray that you have a happy life. Think of me not as a vulgar man but as a fallible one who loved your mother and my children the best way I knew how.
Yours truly,
Your father,
Dr. Henry Hoyt Page
Can you imagine, Ernesto, what I felt as I read that letter? Knowing the truth forever changed me! I imagine some might feel betrayed to know that her parents were not her blood kin. Some women might feel angry at being pushed to the side so that her parents could continue their illicit affair undisturbed. Others might begrudge the inevitable title of “bastard,” but I felt no shame about it.
No! I was free, Ernesto! Free like the Great Wind that blew through Shakespeare’s plays. Free like a young colt that’s discovered there is life outside the prison of the corral! Everything made sense now! I clutched the letter to my heart and spun about the room. I did not know this man who claimed to be my father; indeed, I did not even know if his words were true. I did know that now, more than anything else, I wanted to go to Mobile. I had to go and see what my true father had left me. I wanted to know about him and my mother. I would always love my Iverson family, but I was old enough now to know the truth about who I was! I truly was the “dark bird!” A bird of another flock!
But what about Adam? What did this mean for him? Was it my property he was thinking of claiming for himself? I tucked the letter in my dress pocket and continued to search. In the hidden compartment under the desk I found three m
ore letters. One was from the Miss Page that Adam had spoken about. With shaking fingers I opened the letter and read it feverishly.
…wish to purchase the sundries store on Royal Street. Please let me know…
Thank God! How would I feel knowing that my own brother would be willing to steal from me, his sister? Wait! I was not his sister. We were raised as such, but there was not an ounce of Iverson blood in my body. And Adam, well, he was a Norwegian through and through. Suddenly, I heard him bounding up the stairs. He must have received a happy answer from our—his—uncle. He came into the room with a smile on his face, but it quickly faded as he saw the letter in my hand and the state of the desk.
“Adam,” I whispered, unsure of what I wanted to say. He didn’t ask any questions; he tossed his hat on the table and closed the door behind him. I walked toward him, Miss Page’s letter in my hands. All of a sudden I knew the truth, the mind-blowing truth: I loved him. I loved him like a woman loves a man. By the kiss he had given me earlier, I knew he felt the same way. He knew the truth and had probably known for some time but had kept it from me.
I didn’t know what I should say, so I said nothing at first. Then, with a trembling voice I said, “I know who I am now. I know that I am not your sister.”
He nodded, looking relieved, his fair complexion an embarrassed pink. At last, the weight of the truth lifted off of him, but he didn’t move. I knew that he would never care that some might call me bastard. He didn’t care what anyone thought, and neither did I. For the first time, I kissed him. Chastely at first and then passionately. It sounds strange, doesn’t it, Ernesto? That I could so freely kiss a man whom I had previously considered my brother. It sounds strange and unholy to me even now, but I think we always knew.
We did not kiss again after that, not for many weeks. We spent our time packing and preparing for our trip. I asked him one quiet evening while we sat in the nearly empty house how long he had known the truth. He confessed that he had always known, that he remembered the day I came to live with his family, a frail child who cried constantly. But it wasn’t until recently that he realized he loved me. He had promised our mother that he would never tell me, but my discovery of the letter had freed him from that constraint.
Adam advised me to refrain from telling the Iversons about our relationship, for they would not approve. In the Old World, adopted children are considered blood kin. So we kept our secret and left with their blessing. I genuinely felt heartsick about leaving my aunt and her grandchildren.
I won’t bore you, Ernesto, with the details of our trip. The days were long and tedious with too much riding and not enough walking. Adam treated me well, making sure that I was as comfortable as possible in whatever carriage, train or wagon we found ourselves in. However, he was still changeable. At times, he introduced me as his sister, at other times as his fiancée, although he had not actually proposed. It did not escape my notice that these “sister” introductions were typically made in the presence of other young women, women that Adam might have had an eye for.
Truth be told, I spent half the journey to the Gulf Coast not speaking to him. For two months we traveled and never did he kiss me again.
We arrived in Mobile on a Tuesday. The dirt streets in front of our shops were muddy, but from the wagon we could see that somehow the businesses had made it through the war without any missing walls or fallen roofs. “See! That’s a sign!” Adam said excitedly. We looked for lodgings for the next few nights, as our plan was to live again in the apartment above our sundries store. We would have to paint, make small repairs and then set about the task of becoming reacquainted with the community. A daunting task if ever there was one! I shall never forget how hopeful Adam was—how sure he was that everything would be okay.
For my part, I was as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs! Besides the change in scenery, I faced the prospect of navigating the social community knowing the truth about my own parentage. I had to find my own solicitor, present my letter and proceed with claiming my inheritance. I didn’t know Claudette Page, but what woman would want to hear the news that her brother had had a child out of wedlock—two, if you included my missing sister—who would be the heir to the fortune she thought she had inherited? As Adam tended to his legal affairs, I tended to mine. I found a lawyer named Mr. Peyton on Royal Street, not too far from our shop. With some surprise, he listened to my story and read the letter.
“How amazing! To think, I knew the man and never knew that he…well, I never knew he had a daughter.”
“Two daughters. He has two daughters, Mr. Peyton.”
“Well, technically, just one living heir. Calpurnia Cottonwood was declared dead years ago. Her inheritance from her mother was claimed by her father, or the man we believed was her father. How incredible!” He twisted his waxed mustache tips and stared with wide eyes. “I suppose you have something that would corroborate your story. A will, perhaps, or some other documentation.”
The question surprised me. I had not expected that I would need to prove my identity. I confessed as much to the attorney.
“Let me speak frankly to you, my dear. This is quite a thing to present to a judge. He may not believe that this letter is from Dr. Page or that it is a true document. I am almost certain that before we proceed, we need something else. At least something that we can use to authenticate the handwriting.”
“What? Who would make up such a thing? I would never…”
“I believe you. I am on your side, and I want you to have what belongs to you, but…well…have you met Claudette Page? Dr. Page’s sister?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“There is no way that lady is going to lie down for this. Not for one minute! I have never met such an independent-minded woman, and she is most disagreeable. To top it all off, you’ll be accusing her brother of a great lapse in virtue, a topic that is particularly important to the lady. She is one of our city’s strongest advocates for ‘greater Christian morality,’ as she calls it. I heard a rumor—it can’t be true, though—that even the local pastors consult her before they preach their sermons. Apparently, they were becoming too liberal here for her liking.”
“She must be very influential to hold such sway over the community.” I fiddled with my gloves, unsure what to do next. How could the man who claimed to be my father do this to me?
“Still, if Hoyt—I mean, Dr. Page—took the trouble to send you this letter, then chances are he made some record of it somewhere. I’ll check with the courthouse to see if there is anything useful there. My friend Mr. Schumacher is the director of our bank. I can inquire with him about any accounts or safety deposit boxes. If we cannot produce supporting documents, we will have no choice but to meet with Miss Page personally. I am sure she would want to avoid a scandal, so that should work in our favor.”
“I don’t wish to cause a scandal, and I’m not here to take anything that’s not mine, Mr. Peyton. I confess I am just as surprised about all this as anyone else is.” I paused and then asked the question I was dying to ask. “What do you know about my mother and sister?”
“Until today, I would have sworn that Christine Beaumont was a saint. Never had a bad word to say about anyone, and she lived with the devil himself! I don’t blame her too harshly for wanting to find some happiness in this world outside that cold fish of a husband. However, as your attorney, I advise you to keep that letter to yourself. No one, not even Miss Page, needs to read Hoyt’s confession.”
“I will keep it to myself.” He rose to see me out, but I had one more question. “What about Calpurnia? What can you tell me about her?”
“I didn’t know her personally, but I did attend her coming-out party. My son Gerald was quite taken with her, but unfortunately for him, she showed no interest. I do remember she was very shy, some might even say bookish, but still a lovely young woman. You look very much like her. Yes, if anyone saw you, they might look twice. That might help your case, Miss Iverson—I mean, Miss Page.”
“Oh yes! I’ll be in touch soon.”
I walked back to the store and set about cleaning the place. What would my parents think about all this? I tried not to think about it. Maybe it was best that I gave it up—left the name behind and spent the rest of my days as an Iverson. It was certainly something I needed to think about. As I swept up the dust, thinking and stewing over the fact that Adam was gone yet again, a shadow darkened my doorway. A woman dressed in black from head to toe blocked the sunlight, her tall, lace-lined bonnet adding height to her already imposing figure. I raised a hand to my eyes and asked, “May I help you, madam? Our store isn’t open yet, but if you’d like to place an order for something specific…”
She walked in and untied the bow under her chin. With an unimpressed expression, she looked around the store and then finally at me. “Delilah Iverson, I presume?”
“Yes. May I help you?” I smiled at the sunlit figure.
“I was just getting to know your brother at the carpentry shop. We haven’t been properly introduced. My name is Claudette—Claudette Page.” She didn’t offer me a hand of friendship or even a smile. She held her bonnet to her as if she were afraid that the dust might soil her hat beyond repair. As she stepped out of the light, I could see her features more clearly now. She had pale skin, carefully curled black hair and full lips. I imagined at one time she had been an attractive woman but never one prone to smiling.
“Miss Page, nice to meet you. May I help you?”
“Are you or are you not Delilah Iverson?” So the swords were sharpening, were they? Miss Page did not know me if she thought I would be cowed by her unfriendly attitude. I knew who she was but not why she was here.
“That depends on who you ask, Miss Page.”
“You have the look of your mother,” she said as she stared around the room at the crates and boxes.
The Ultimate Seven Sisters Collection Page 45
