Isabelle’s brow pinched as she stared at the final name in the birth register. The youngest Gallagher would be her same age— eighteen—and the child’s birth date was only a few weeks from her own. It gave her a small, unexplained sense of connection with the name on the page.
The discomfort grew.
Closing the Bible with a snap, she set the book on the marbletopped table beside the bed. Staring at it, she blew out a dainty breath. What a lot of effort Randolph had gone to in order to convince her she wasn’t his sister. He must have searched every used bookstore in Kansas City to find that Bible. What a cruel, heartless trick.
Cradling the teacup between her palms, she turned her attention to the amber liquid in the porcelain cup. Her heart ached. All her life she’d longed for a loving big brother, one like her schoolmates had, who would alternately protect and tease her. But instead, she’d had Randolph, who had tormented her, openly despised her, and broken the toys Papa brought home to her from his travels.
Why, she wondered again, had Randolph always been so spiteful? Her heart pounded. Was it because, as he’d said this evening, she wasn’t truly his sister? Her hands began to shake, and she feared she would spill the remaining tea. She set the teacup on the little tray on the bedside table and pulled the covers to her chin.
Ridiculous. Of course she was his sister. Hadn’t Mama and Papa always loved her? Hadn’t they called her their darling, their precious lamb, their sweet gift? Hadn’t they always said she looked just like her grandmother? Never, in all of her lifetime, had they given her reason to question her position in the family. She took a great breath, calming herself. Randolph’s nonsensical ranting was nothing more than jealousy.
She’d come along later in Mama and Papa’s life, and they had spoiled her. She acknowledged that truth without a hint of compunction. Their doting had simply caused Randolph to feel left out.
Propping herself on one elbow, she leaned toward the table and twisted the little key on the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. Rolling sideways, away from the table and the offending book, she closed her eyes. As Mr. Heaton had said, everything would look brighter in the morning. Randolph would receive his comeuppance.
She fell asleep with a smile on her face.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Alight tap roused Isabelle. She stretched and yawned and opened her eyes. For a moment she lay there bewildered, and then she remembered her escape to Glenn’s home last night. The tapping came again, and she offered a sleep-raspy invitation. “Come in.”
Leaving the door open behind him, Glenn strode across the Persian rug and stopped a few inches from the edge of the carved walnut bed.
Isabelle peered at him from beneath a rumple of covers, offering a flirtatious upturning of lips. “Good morning. I expected the maid, not the master of the house.”
Technically, Glenn was not the master of this house, but he would be one day. His father’s wealth matched that of the Standlers’. It was only one of the reasons she and Glenn were such a perfect match.
His muttonchop whiskers twitched, his eyes twinkling. “Ah, but why should a mere maid be given the privilege of the first glimpse of your morning loveliness?” He clasped his hands behind his back, assuming a formal air. “Did you sleep well?”
Isabelle offered a delicate yawn, covering her mouth with slender fingers, then nestled into the jumble of pillows. “Oh yes, wonderfully well. Thank you.” Lowering her eyelids to half-mast, she gave him a contented cat smile. “I’m so glad I came here last night. I love you, Glenn.”
“As I do you.” Glenn took a backward step. “I wanted to check on you before I left. I am, of course, visiting Randolph this morning.”
Sitting upright, Isabelle clutched the covers to her chest to hide her ruffled nightdress. “I wish to go with you.”
“Isabelle . . .”
Ignoring the warning in his tone, she said, “I have a right to be there. Randolph is trying to rob me of my inheritance. Why should I not be a part of seeing him brought to task?”
Glenn bit down on his upper lip, surveying her with heavy lids. Finally he released a sigh and nodded. “Very well. If you can be dressed and ready to leave in—” he consulted his pocket watch—“twenty-five minutes, I shall allow you to accompany me.”
She released a squawk. “Twenty-five minutes?” Then she looked into his unyielding face. With a huff, she said, “Very well. Twenty-five minutes. Now remove yourself from my bedroom and send in the maid!”
“See for yourself.” Randolph’s smug grin as he dropped the thick packet of papers onto Reginald Standler’s cherry desktop made Isabelle wish Glenn would put his fist through her brother’s nose. “I found all of that in Father’s safe, tucked in the back. Of course, I removed the Bible and gave it to Molly. It does belong to her.”
Glenn lifted the leather packet and opened the flap. Leaving the pages inside, he thumbed through them, glancing at the documents. “How do I know you didn’t manufacture all of this to cheat Isabelle”—he emphasized the name—“out of her share of your father’s estate?”
Randolph glared across the desk. “I have no need to manufacture anything. Take the papers with you. Show them to your father, to your lawyer, to whomever you please.” He swung his arm wide. “I don’t care. It will be proved Isabelle is the only forgery.” Striding to the window, he stared across the lawn and rose gardens. “For seventeen years I’ve tolerated the presence of that . . . intruder . . . in my home. Well, no more. The truth will come out now.”
How dare Randolph speak of her as if she didn’t sit in the room? His discourteous tone and attitude were reprehensible!
Isabelle looked at Glenn, begging him with her disbelieving expression to speak in her defense.
“The real truth, or your version of it?” Pushing himself from the brocade-upholstered chair, Glenn crossed his arms and stared at the back of Randolph’s head. “For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve resented Isabelle.” He slapped the packet onto the desktop. “This all seems to be a well-constructed scheme of revenge.”
Without turning from the window, Randolph chuckled. “Oh yes, a well-constructed scheme. Of course, I managed to pull all of this together in the week since Mother and Father’s deaths. Or I was wily enough to know they would be killed when a boiler exploded on the paddleboat so I had everything in place, waiting to spring it the moment they were in the grave.”
Isabelle’s heart pounded. As much as she hated to admit it, Randolph made a good point. She turned to Glenn. His pensive expression sent a chill down her spine. But she was cheered somewhat when he goaded, “I can see you putting something like this into place and biding your time, waiting for the moment you could get even with Isabelle for the affection your parents lavished on her instead of you.”
Randolph spun around, his eyes sparking with anger. “Yes, they lavished affection on that Irish spawn. Yes, I’ve resented her. I’ll never forget the day my parents returned from their lengthy ‘business trip.’ ” Storming back and forth in front of the wide window like a caged animal, Randolph spewed a hatred that made Isabelle shrink into her chair. “Eighteen months they’d been gone, leaving me in the care of an indifferent staff at an unbearable boarding school. Then they return and offer their surprise. Oh, how Mother beamed as she held out that redheaded brat. ‘Look, darling, you have a baby sister. Aren’t you pleased?’ ”
Randolph stopped beside the desk and slammed his fist onto the solid surface, his cold glare boring into Isabelle. “Pleased? Wasn’t I pleased?” A mirthless burst of laughter emphasized his words. “Certainly, I wasn’t pleased! I’d been without my parents for well over a year, and it was clear from the way they fawned over that mewling scrap of humanity that I would never have them again!”
He took up his pacing once more as Isabelle watched, silent, amazed by the amount of revulsion expressed in Randolph’s words and actions. She had never suspected his resentment went so deep. Certainly this kind of dark emotion could compel him to create a
wild tale of foundlings. Her hopes rose.
“Mother raved on and on about the baby’s similarity in appearance to her dead mother. Her praises made me feel ashamed of my own brown hair and eyes—as if I were second best. She had eyes only for the child, not for the son she’d borne. Did it matter to her that I’d been left motherless and unattended for such a length of time? Of course not—all that mattered was she now had her arms filled with a red-haired, squirming, squalling brat.”
Randolph stopped and pressed his palm to the window casing, the muscles in his back twitching with the force of his fury. “When Mother took the baby upstairs, I asked Father where he’d found the child. I knew she didn’t belong to Mother—that red hair didn’t fool me for one moment. If Mother had been expecting a child before they left, Father would never have taken her on an ocean journey. Mother was fragile—Father wouldn’t have risked the loss of a baby. So I knew they’d found or purchased the child . . . somewhere.”
Randolph pushed off from the casing, his focus still aimed outside. His voice dropped to a grating whisper. “Father nearly wrenched my arm from the socket as he told me I was to never ask such a question again. Isabelle was my sister. I would acknowledge her as my sister, or I would suffer the consequences.” Randolph rubbed his shoulder, seemingly lost in thought. “I did as he commanded. I kept silent. For seventeen years, I kept silent . . .”
Then he spun, facing Glenn. Not even a flicker of a glance found Isabelle. His voice rose. “But no longer. My parents are gone. I have no need to continue the charade. I won’t continue it. Isabelle is not my sister. And that is the untarnished truth.”
Isabelle remained in the chair, deliberately keeping her face clear of all expression while underneath her stomach churned at the bitterness she’d witnessed. Standing beside her chair, Glenn placed his hand under her elbow and drew her to her feet.
Glenn lifted the packet. “Very well.” Quirking one brow, he added, “Of course, you won’t mind if I have this all substantiated by legal authorities?”
Randolph offered an arrogant shrug. “As I told you earlier, feel free to share those documents with anyone you choose. I have nothing to lose . . . except a sister.” The last word hung in the air like a bad stench.
Glenn tucked the packet beneath his arm. He escorted Isabelle to the doorway of the den, but before leaving the room he paused and turned back. “You do realize one thing, Randolph . . .”
Isabelle held her breath, wondering what Glenn would say in parting. Randolph’s brows pulled down into a scowl, which Glenn seemed to find more amusing than threatening. With a smile, he said, “Even if Isabelle is not your biological sister, the law does recognize adoption as binding. You can disown her as your sister, but she can’t be disowned as your father’s heir.”
A sly smile crept up Randolph’s cheeks. “Oh, certainly I’m aware of the legalities of adoption. We’ll see how cocky you are when you’ve finished with the legal authorities. My parents never adopted her. They simply expected everyone to believe she was their own.”
Glenn’s fingers clamped around Isabelle’s elbow, and he propelled her from the house, hissing through clenched teeth, “I’m taking you back to the house. I’ll go see my family lawyer. We’ll get to the bottom of this!”
His ominous tone made her glad Glenn was on her side of this issue.
“Duped . . . We have been unequivocally duped!”
The rancor in Glenn’s tone caused Isabelle’s heart to beat at twice its normal rhythm. She had paced beside the parlor window for almost four hours, waiting for his return—and her vindication. When the Heaton carriage had pulled up, she’d rushed to meet Glenn at the door, but he’d pushed past her as if she didn’t exist and charged straight to his father’s den. Although he hadn’t invited her to join them, she had crept down the hallway and now stood outside the pocket doors, listening, her pounding heartbeat nearly covering the men’s voices.
“How could we have been so stupid?”
“For what reason would we have checked into Standler’s background?” Mr. Heaton sounded more perplexed than angry. “When the man approached me and suggested a union between you and Isabelle, he sounded like any other loving father, interested in pursuing the best position for a beloved daughter.”
“And I eagerly entered into the bargain, fully anticipating all I would gain from the dealing.” His words held an undertone of bitterness. “What if the Standlers hadn’t perished in that paddleboat accident? What if Isabelle and I had exchanged wedding vows prior to their demise? Reginald would have given Isabelle’s share of his estate to us as a wedding gift, foster child or not.”
His tone rose in volume as Isabelle shrank against the wall. Had his interest in her been a farce? Her breath came in little huffs, her chest heaving, as she battled to accept the words pouring from the man she thought she loved. The man who claimed to love her.
“I could be in possession of that wealth right now were it not for bad timing. But as it stands, I can’t possibly follow through on our plans.” His regret-laden sigh brought tears to Isabelle’s eyes. “Not even her beauty is enough to compensate for all I would have to give up.”
Suddenly Mrs. Heaton bustled around the corner, her mouth pursed. She spotted Isabelle and paused outside the den doors, touching Isabelle’s sleeve with her fingertips before speaking.
“Glenn, I could hear you in the kitchen, as could every servant in the house. What’s going on?”
Glenn stepped into the wide doorway. His gaze bounced from his mother to Isabelle, who cowered next to the doorjamb. He looked at Isabelle when he spoke, but she felt certain the words were meant for himself. “I can hardly bear to think of that arrogant Randolph having the victory, yet what else can I do?”
Mrs. Heaton shook her head. “What are you talking about?”
Glenn drew in a deep breath, disappointment appearing in his eyes before his expression became stony. “Legally, there is no Isabelle Standler. Therefore no agreement exists between Reginald Standler and Father. There can be no wedding.”
CHAPTER NINE
W-what do you mean there won’t be a wedding? Of course there will be a wedding!” Though Isabelle implored Glenn with her tone and fervent gaze, he did not look at her.
“Glenn . . . Garrett . . .” Mrs. Heaton looked from her son to her husband as Isabelle stared in horror. “Will someone please explain what is going on?”
“This.” Glenn snatched up a paper and held it out. The paper crinkled within his clenched fist. “It’s a statement of agreement— signed by Reginald Standler—transferring responsibility from the Good Shepherd Asylum for Orphans and Half Orphans of one-year-old Molly Gallagher to the Standlers.” His jaw muscles bulged. “Of course, we’ve been introduced to that child as Isabelle Standler.”
Isabelle stared at the paper. Although she recognized the boldly scribbled signature at the bottom as belonging to her father, she still raised her voice in argument. “This simply must be counterfeit. Why, Mama and Papa never intimated I was not born to them. Mama showed me pictures of her own mother. She said I looked just like my grandmother!”
Mr. Heaton lifted another page from those scattered across his desk and offered it to Isabelle. “As you can see from the copies of correspondence, Reginald went to a great deal of trouble to secure a child who would resemble Rebecca’s mother. That letter was sent to four different organizations that sent orphans west. You were selected specifically because of your physical appearance.”
Leaning back in his chair, Garrett Heaton fixed Isabelle with a hooded gaze. “Reginald Standler was wily. He carefully planned, well in advance, so he and Rebecca could be gone from the community an adequate length of time to fabricate the duration of a pregnancy and allow for your age when you were received. No one had reason to suspect you were anything but their biological daughter.”
Isabelle shook her head. This couldn’t be true. Her parents wouldn’t have kept this a secret from her. “I refuse to believe it.” “You have n
o choice,” Glenn said harshly. “There is no birth certificate for Isabelle Standler. There is no adoption form that proves you are Isabelle Standler. On the contrary, all of the evidence points to the fact that you are, indeed, Molly Gallagher.”
Isabelle blinked rapidly, holding back tears. Was it possible Glenn’s statement was true? And what if it were? Would it change that she had been raised by Reginald and Rebecca Standler? No. Did it mean she hadn’t been loved by her mama and papa? Certainly not! Did it erase the opportunities she’d been given to be educated, groomed, and taught to be a lady? Of course not. It was merely a name. A name that, in a few months, would change again when she became Mrs. Glenn Heaton.
Her racing pulse calmed. She raised her chin and forced a quavering smile to her lips. “All right, then. Fine. I was born Molly Gallagher.” Flipping her wrists outward, she said, “However, I prefer to use the name with which my parents gifted me— Isabelle Standler.” She placed her hand on Glenn’s arm, giving him a smile. “At least until April.”
Glenn jerked away from her. The abrupt motion sent a chill down Isabelle’s spine. “As I’ve already stated,” Glenn said, “there will not be a wedding.”
The chill was chased away by a burning heat that rose from Isabelle’s middle.
“Isa—Molly . . .” Mrs. Heaton twined her fingers together, placing both hands against her own heart. “Surely you understand that the wedding must be cancelled. Why, this entire agreement was based on a foundation oflies. We have a certain standing in this community. Glenn must marry a woman of wealth, of breeding. Nothing else is acceptable.”
Isabelle looked again at Glenn’s stiff profile. His stern expression, lowered brows, and tense muscles did not invite communication, yet she set aside her own pride and said timorously, “Glenn, none of this changes how I feel about you. I . . . I love you. Do you not love me?”
My Heart Remembers Page 7
