The Lost Heiress of Hawkscliffe

by Joyce C. Ware

  I nodded wordlessly. Philo deserved more than a kind word as a reward. I had some serious thinking to do.

  “I’ll send Mary Rose up later to draw you a hot bath,” Thorn said as he lifted the tray-away, “but first, you have another visitor waiting to see you.”

  “A visitor, now?” I yawned. A hot bath sounded much more appealing.

  “It’s Lance, Kate. He has something for you. See him, Kate; it’s important to him.”

  “Oh ... all right, then.”

  Lance sidled in, nodding as Thorn warned him not to overstay his welcome. He had a large covered basket slung over one arm.

  “Well, Lance. You look a bit like Little Red Riding Hood.”

  Lance’s anxious expression was succeeded by a grin. “Except that you’re a lot prettier than a grandmother would be.” He cleared his throat. “That day in your shop? What I said ... my behavior… I’m sorry, Kate. You were right about Mother, you know. The more I thought about what she said about you, and what you said about her—”

  I threw up my hands, cutting short his painful apology. “Grief does strange things to people. After my uncle died, I was suspicious of all his old friends in the trade, sure that their smallest kindnesses were done for some venal purpose. Time has proved us both wrong, and all I want is for us to be friends again. Now, tell me what you have in that mysterious basket.”

  “Given the time of year, there weren’t any flowers to be had in Hendryk, and I couldn’t see giving you any of what passes for gifts there--souvenir trinkets for the riverboat trade, cheap pillows stuffed with balsam, and crude, lumpish carvings of bears—you know the sort of thing. Then, as we were passing a butcher shop—”

  “A sausage, Lance? Have you brought me a spicy sausage or, let me guess, a jar of pickled pigs’ feet to keep me on my toes?”

  Lance laughed. “Oh, Kate! I’m glad we’re friends again. I just hope you won’t eat this little fellow for supper.”

  Lance folded back the basket’s lid, and out popped the orange and white head of the fluffiest kitten I had ever seen.

  Mee-eww, it cried, then plopped out upon the comforter, wobbled up the hills and valleys created by my body, and curled in a purring, furry crescent beneath my chin.

  “Oh, Lance,” I breathed.

  “D’you like him? ‘Cause if you don’t—”

  “Like him? I adore him! I’ll call him ... I know, I’ll call him Muhibbi—that means ‘beloved friend.’ “I gently stroked the tiny creature. “Hibby for short.”

  ‘“Beloved friend. That’s nice, Kate.”

  “And so are you.” I yawned again. “Thank you, Lance, but I’m afraid—”

  “Not another word. I’ll leave you two chums to get to know one another better. Any messages?”

  “Please ask Mary Rose to wake me for a bath at four, and if Philo could join me in the library at half past five, I would be most grateful.”

  “Downstairs? Are you sure that’s wise?”

  “Both wise and necessary. Don’t fret. Lance. A hot bath will soothe away what remains of my aches and pains. What I need most at this point is a nourishing meal. Tell Agnes I’ll be down for dinner.”

  My bath was sheer heaven. Mary Rose agreed that the swelling around my knee had subsided remarkably, and the balm she gently applied to my hands soothed the tenderness to an insignificant prickle.

  “Whatever shall I wear?” I cried. It amused me to find I was not exempt from my sex’s small vanities. “You know, Mary Rose, after Eve ate the apple, I expect that’s the first thing she said to Adam.”

  Mary Rose giggled. “I mended the pretty silk and cashmere dress you were wearing. Miss Kate. It won’t bear close inspection, but the men won’t notice.” She opened the nearest wardrobe. The few garments I’d brought with me swung freely in the ample space; beneath them stood my bag. “I put that big black book and your jewelry bag back inside, just as I found them,” Mary Rose said, correctly interpreting my anxious expression.

  She lifted out my Thanksgiving dress. “I stitched it here, where it tore under the arm, and I sponged the hem and back of the skirt. Your lovely coat is ruined, but this—”

  “It will do very well, Mary Rose, thank you,” I said distractedly, “but what has happened to Roxelana’s clothes?” The Paris dresses and tailor-made walking suits and riding habits that yesterday had left no room for my bag were gone. Their padded hangars, now hanging askew, were all that remained.

  “I found them in the dustbin this morning, miss. Miss Banks must have bundled them in, for I never would, not without a by-your-leave. I was thinking to take them home with me. The styles are out of fashion now, but my mum’s clever with a needle, and those fabrics would make up into something grand for me and my sisters.”

  “Take them with my blessing, Mary Rose,” I said, realizing that it was my permission she now required.

  I had counted on Cora’s profound sense of her elevated station to stay her hand from such menial chores as turning out a room. I should have known she could not resist the impulse to rid Hawkscliffe of Roxelana’s traces even before the Ramsays returned to pronounce her legally dead.

  She had emptied the wardrobe and found my bag beside it—which tipped her to my intended return—and Uncle Vartan’s journals inside. The scene played itself out in my mind’s eye: first, a curious look at an incomprehensible page or two, then the concluding section in English—how could she resist reading it?—and finally the brooding return to her cottage to bide her time. What an astonishing stroke of good fortune my unexpected arrival there must have seemed.

  And no wonder the suite, lukewarm when I arrived from New York, had been so frigid when I returned to change my shoes. Her sense of duty had not allowed her to waste the faulty furnace’s heat on a room she had no intention of my reoccupying that fateful day.

  Philo entered the library with the rug catalog portfolio under his arm. His braid-edged lounge suit, snowy shirt, and silk foulard Ascot tie indicated his desire to treat our interview seriously. The firelight flickering across the steadier glow from the table lamps made it difficult to read his expression. The brief, light clasp of his hand was noncommittal.

  “How lovely you look this evening, Kate. Those colors become you, and how nice to see the color back in your cheeks.”

  “Artificially aided, I confess. Roxelana’s dressing table is well supplied with intriguing powders and pastes. I couldn’t resist a bit of experimentation.”

  “Successful experimentation.”

  “Thank you, Philo. Please do sit down. I see you have brought the catalog with you; we can discuss that later.”

  Philo chose one of a pair of armchairs placed at an angle near the large fireplace. He crossed one blue-tweed-covered knee over the other and regarded me with wary expectancy.

  “Thorn tells me that when you found my open bag next to the furnace, the thought of hurling it into the flames, together with my uncle’s papers, never crossed your mind.”

  Philo looked away from me into the fire. “Thorn said that? Oh my.” He shifted uncomfortably and recrossed his legs. “Oh my,” he repeated in a faint voice.

  “It would have crossed my mind, Philo.”

  Philo’s face whipped back, his expression startled. My composure must have reassured him, for he allowed a sheepish grin to take shape.

  I reached over to tap his knee. “It’s more to your credit to have resisted temptation than not to have experienced it, you know.

  “But enough of that. I’m a fortunate woman, Philo. I enjoy rugs and the selling of them, and I’m told I have a head for business. But it takes time to establish a reputation in my trade, especially for a woman, and I have competitors eagerly awaiting my slightest misstep. In short, I haven’t the need for Charles Quintus Ramsay’s estate, nor sufficient time to devote to Hawkscliffe’s dire needs.”

  Philo’s polished shoe had ceased its nervous swinging. His attention was absolute. The only sound was our breathing and the crackle of the fire.

>   “It is my intention, Philo, to turn Hawkscliffe into a private museum and dedicate the funds from your uncle’s estate, as well as any the museum may generate, to its maintenance.

  “What I wished to see you about, what I am hoping, is that you and your friend Ralph—forgive me, I do not know his surname—”

  “Watkins. Ralph Watkins.” He sounded dazed.

  “That you and Ralph Watkins will agree to become the curators. I realize Mr. Watkins is not very strong now, but at least he could remain in residence to keep a watchful eye on things. Perhaps in time—”

  Philo got to his feet and leaned over my chair, his hands clenching the arms on either side of me. “You’re serious about this, Kate? This is not some ghastly joke?”

  I looked up into his eyes. “I never joke about business, Philo. This is not a one-way street, you know. I wish to preserve Hawkscliffe not only as a gallery for your uncle’s paintings, but to display the superb rugs my uncle chose for him. I can accomplish that only with the help of knowledgeable people, people I can trust.”

  I rose and whirled, my hands upraised. “This should have been yours, Philo, don’t you think I know that? You love Hawkscliffe; my only pleasure in it lies in securing Vartan Avakian’s fame, via the Hawkscliffe collection, as the peerless connoisseur I knew him to be.”

  We smiled at each other. “Well, what do you say, Philo?”

  Philo grasped my hand so warmly I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out. “Done and done, Kate!”

  He held me at arm’s length, his gray eyes dancing with delight and admiration. “This time I am going to kiss you—and Thorn can go to the devil!” He bussed my cheeks soundly in turn.

  “Speaking of your cousin, shall we join him and Lance? Tell them the news?” I linked my arm in his.

  “Let’s do!” he exclaimed. We turned to leave. I had asked Agnes to chill a couple of bottles of champagne; it would be a while before I could enjoy a glass of sherry.

  “Kate, we’re forgetting the catalog—what are your plans for that?”

  “The proceeds to Hawkscliffe, posthumous credit to Cora for her watercolors. . .” My voice faltered; Philo patted my arm reassuringly. “But my name,” I continued firmly, “and mine alone, on the cover.”

  Philo leaned close. “Think of the business it will bring,” he whispered.

  “Oh, I have, Philo, indeed I have.” I grinned up at him. “You have the makings of a rug dealer after all, my friend.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The dinner that followed the announcement of my plans for Hawkscliffe turned out to be something of an occasion, thanks to Mary Rose.

  A cover of heavy cream-colored lace had been placed on top of the usual damask cloth, and a luxuriant sprawl of evergreen sprays sparked with red-berried black alder stems graced the center of the table.

  “Rushing the season a bit, aren’t we, Mary Rose?” commented Philo, a hint of reproach in his voice.

  “Only three weeks, sir,” Mary Rose replied with quiet dignity. “I thought it might be nice to make things a bit festive, in honor of Miss Kate and Mr. Lance still being here.”

  Clearly, she meant more than our just being here at Hawkscliffe.

  “A capital idea!” Thorn exclaimed; then, as Mary Rose served us with no trace of her former harried air, he murmured, “What a difference a day makes, eh, Kate?”

  Indeed it did. As I told Philo later, while sipping our coffee in the sitting room, we had the nucleus of his staff already in residence.

  “Mary Rose as housekeeper?”

  “I think so, and she has a houseful of sisters in Hendryk any of whom might be taken on to fill her present position.”

  “You have no concerns about nepotism?” Thorn asked idly.

  “Elder sisters are notorious taskmasters,” I answered. The silence that followed charged my words with unintended irony. “Or so I have been told,” I added dryly

  “Do you think I might visit, Cousin Philo?” Lance asked. “Hawkscliffe is such a jolly place—even jollier now that I won’t have any responsibility for it.”

  Thorn and I exchanged amused glances.

  “I’d like that, Lance. I might even put your talents to good use. I have some ideas for announcements, posters for the steamers, that sort of thing.”

  Lance rolled his expressive eyes. “And here I thought I would be purely ornamental...”

  He allowed his words to trail off into a theatrical sigh, which caused Zulu to raise her massive head in vague alarm. Her continued presence in the house now assured, she preempted the space in front of every fireplace, depending on where the company assembled. I had considered taking the huge dog back to New York with me, but the thought of Mariam’s indignation dissuaded me. Even a kitten was sure to provoke complaint.

  I reached down to ruffle Zulu’s ears and was rewarded with a lazy, thundering thump of her feathered tail that caused us all to smile.

  How nice this was, I thought, feeling relaxed for the first time since crossing Hawkscliffe’s threshold those many weeks ago. How pervasive Cora’s pinched and bitter spirit had been! The chains of tension forged in the heat of Cora’s rage had crippled our sensibilities far more than any imagined sound of Roxelana’s ghostly laughter.

  My expression must have been as pensive as my thoughts, for Thorn reached out to clasp my hand warmly. The light in his eyes reflected the glow in my heart. I wished I could hold this moment forever, as if preserved in amber. Thorn’s gentle words, his fond embraces and his kisses….

  I dared not think them more than the natural, emotional response of a strong male to a female in distress. Before long, I would return to my world and he to his.

  “It’s snowing again,” Lance said from the window. “Anyone for backgammon?”

  “Don’t forget we promised to help Harry install the new furnace tomorrow,” Philo reminded his relatives. “I suggest we retire early and store up our strength.”

  I burst out laughing. “Good heavens, Philo! The lengths householding is driving you to. Are you sure you do not wish to change your mind?”

  “Not a bit of it, Kate. I’m just discovering what varied talents I possess. Who knows but that boiler tending will prove to be chief among them?”

  I was awakened in the night by a skritchity-scratching I could not at first identify. I lighted the lamp by my bed. Elfin footprints trailed palely out of the bathroom and across the green silk of the prayer rug. What on earth?

  Hibby scrambled up the counterpane, his tiny orange paws powdered with gray. Clever kitten! He had already discovered the ash-filled pan I had placed under the basin.

  Everyone was learning new tricks, I mused as I got out of bed and tossed my robe around me. The room was warm, I had slept most of the day. Perhaps I could put the hours until dawn to good use.

  I wondered if Cora had had time to empty the other wardrobe too, Please not, I prayed, surprised by my fervency. They were only gaudy costumes, after all. I swung open the doors.

  The silken garments billowed out, a kaleidoscope of color, the paste jewels studding the brassieres and veils and embroidered vests sparkling like the genuine article. Trickery, yes, but magic lay in it.

  I recalled the drawings on the wardrobe shelf above me, and Roxelana’s erotic playlets recorded in journals whose homely black-pebbled leather exterior was identical to Uncle Vartan’s, confirming the wisdom of not trying to tell a book by its cover.

  I lifted one down and took it with me back to the bed, where I perched and turned the pages slowly, ignoring Hibby’s stalking of my fingers.

  My breathing shallowed as I read the detailed stage directions and traced the tangled limbs of the roughly sketched figures that accompanied them. Was this possible? I wondered, staring at one particularly complicated pairing. Would one want to attempt it even if it were?

  I put the book aside. The room seemed stifling. I shed my wrap and crossed restlessly to Roxelana’s dressing table. I took out the carved box containing the zil and slipped t
hem on my fingers. Their clear, pure, brassy ring caused Hibby’s tiny ears to prick.

  This is me, Katherine Mackenzie, not Roxelana;. These are my tricks, not hers, and Charles Quintus Ramsay no longer sleeps in that bed at the end of the corridor.

  The kitten’s bright eyes followed the increasingly bold and sensuous movement of my hands and arms. Roxelana may have been C.Q.’s last lover, but tonight Thornton Ramsay would be my first.

  Thorn had left the doors to both suites ajar and the corridor dimly lighted, in case I awoke in pain or fright during the night. I stole barefoot down the long hall, each step a soft tinkle of silver as the azure silk chalvar I had first chosen weeks before whispered against the exquisitely worked anklets I had found in amongst the ostentatious glitter in Roxelana’s jewelry case.

  The heavy door slid open, then drifted closed with a protesting groan. I heard a sigh and the sound of bedcovers tossing. I slid my hand down the sleek curve of the rosewood bed, imagining it the muscular curve of Thorn’s long thigh against my longing palm.

  Coals glowed red behind the elaborately scrolled firescreen. A guttering flame flared up, throwing spears of hot light into the shadows. I slid the zil onto my fingers and began to dance.

  “Who ... what?”

  Thorn’s words, slurred with sleep, could hardly be heard under the rhythmic bell-like ching of the cymbals. I undulated provocatively before his astonished eyes. I had chosen not to wear a veil.

  “Kate?” His voice was incredulous. “Kate, is that you?”

  “Today I was Kate, and tomorrow I will be again, but tonight I am your slave, your concubine, your odalisque.” I whirled away from him, my hair billowing like a cloud, burnished by firelight.

  All at once I became aware of Thorn standing tall beside me. His hands reached out, and as he urged me gently toward his bed, my fingers stilled their provocative dance. Only the echo of the zil’s brassy chime accompanied my willing surrender. I sank down, as softly pliant as the ivory linen sheets that received me.

  “What is it you want of me, Kate?” he asked.

  “As much ... or as little ... as you wish to allow me. One night—”