Cheryl St. John

by The Mistaken Widow

  He remained where he stood. Her heavy floral perfume assailed his nostrils.

  “You seem the type of man who would appreciate a bit of diversion during the day.” She ran a finger across his lapel and pressed her breasts against his chest. “We don’t have to eat.”

  Nicholas stepped back, and she had to catch her balance. High color rose in her cheeks.

  “If this is about the money you claim Mrs. Halliday owes you,” he said, “why don’t you just let me pay the debt?”

  Her chin notched up. Taking obvious offense at his constant refusals, she narrowed her eyes. “You are dense, do you know that?”

  He raked his gaze over her straining cleavage and back to her irritated expression. “Not as dense as you believe. I caught on two visits ago that you had set your cap for me. But short of bluntly spelling out that I have no interest in pursuing a relationship, I have no idea of how to handle you delicately, except to refuse your offers.”

  Her neck and cheeks blotched with embarrassment—or was it humiliation? Anger, he realized, as she drew a breath that threatened to spill her from the dress and stood. “You arrogant son of a bitch. I suppose you think you’re too good for somebody like me? You think I’m theater trash!”

  An unattractive vein appeared in her temple. “Well, guess what, Stephen’s wife was theater trash, too. She wouldn’t have cleaned up any better than I do.”

  Her rush of words struck him as odd. “Wouldn’t have?”

  “Look at you. Pompous is written all over you. You hold me in contempt.”

  “Not because of your upbringing or your occupation.”

  She shot forward and raised a hand to slap him, but he caught her wrist.

  “And what about your precious ‘Claire’ you were so proud to take to the theater and to dinner and show off?” she asked, placing contempt in the name. “Do you think she’s a better person than I am? Do you think she has any more class than the real Claire had?”

  He held her wrist firmly. “Wait a minute. The ‘real’ Claire? What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Your dainty little blonde was a phony.” She laughed, jerking her wrist from his grasp. “I knew Claire Patrick back in New York. And your sweet little number wasn’t her.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Claire had brassy red hair and freckles, long legs and a tight little fanny. That soft little thing wasn’t Claire. And that, Mr. High-and-Mighty Halliday, is how dense you are.” She poked him in the chest for emphasis and turned to leave.

  He caught her arm and jerked her around to face him. “Oh, no, you don’t. You’re not going to say something like that, and then just walk off.”

  “Okay, I’ll spell it out for you so. That little number you were so hot over is not Claire Patrick. I don’t know who she was, but I’d never seen her before that night at the restaurant. And I knew Claire. I knew Stephen, too. He wasn’t the stuffed shirt you are.” With deliberate control she softened her voice. “He knew how to appreciate the finer things in life.”

  He stared at her, noting the lines around her eyes and mouth that she’d artfully tried to disguise with makeup. “Why should I believe you?”

  “You don’t have to believe me. Doesn’t matter to me.” She pulled out of his grasp and walked only a few steps before stopping. “On the other hand, how much would proof be worth to you?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “What kind of proof?”

  “Proof positive.”

  Obviously she wasn’t going to tell him what the proof was. “I’ll pay you whatever Claire owed you.”

  She turned back. “A thousand dollars.”

  He turned and flipped open the ledger on his desk, dipped his pen and wrote out a bank draft.

  She reached for the slip of paper, but he pulled it out of her range. Her eyes narrowed into an unbecoming hateful scowl.

  He blew on the ink and stood slowly, enjoying taunting her. With his other hand he beckoned. “The proof first. Then the money.”

  Judith opened her bag, withdrew an envelope and sailed it across the room. It hit the wall and fell to the floor.

  “What is it?”

  “A farewell note.”

  He walked to where the envelope lay and picked it up. His name, along with his mother’s, had been written neatly across the front. The flap had already been torn open. Nicholas pulled the sheet of parchment out and unfolded it.

  Nicholas and Leda,

  I know what I have done is unforgivable, so I don’t ask for your forgiveness. All I ask is that you do not hate me. I planned to tell you the truth from the very minute I awoke in that hospital.

  His heart dipped. He extended the bank note, glad to be rid of her. With a derisive smile, Judith snatched it from his fingers.

  His legs suddenly unable to bear his weight, Nicholas carried the letter to his desk and sat. He read on.

  But when I saw your grief, Nicholas, and when you offered protection and shelter for my son, I could not bring myself to speak the words. I thought perhaps they’d be more easily spoken to your mother.

  Anyone could have written this, Nicholas thought angrily, denying the emotion the words drew from his soul. Judith could have written it herself as a means to hurt him or get a thousand dollars from him.

  And then, dear Leda, when I saw your tears, and your expression as you looked at my son, I could not bear to say the words then, either. I am still too much of a coward to speak them to your face, so I am leaving this letter.

  I am not Claire Halliday. I was never married to your Stephen. I only met him that night of the train wreck. He took me in out of the rain and he and Claire gave me food and dry clothing and shared their berth with me.

  If they had been in that compartment that night, they might still be alive. So you see, I am responsible for their deaths. That is something I will live with for the rest of my life.

  That didn’t sound like something Judith would think to make up. Did it? Those words sounded like—“she” was blaming herself for Stephen—and Claire’s death. But if the woman he’d brought home hadn’t been Claire, who was she?

  A sick feeling permeated his chest. He looked up to see Judith’s gloating smirk. “Where did you get this letter?” he asked.

  Her expression flattened. “It—it doesn’t matter where I got it.”

  Nicholas wondered if his feelings of confusion and betrayal were written all over his face. He couldn’t bear for this woman to watch him read this letter and see what it was doing to him.

  “Get away from me,” he said through his teeth.

  Her left eye developed a tic. She raised her chin, spun on her heel and fled his office.

  Without sparing her a second thought, he picked up where’d he’d left off. That and the lies, he read, imagining Claire’s soft voice as she would say the words.

  I lied to you and pretended to be Claire so that I could take advantage of you until my leg was healed and I was able to make it on my own.

  Enclosed you will find a list of all the items I have taken with me. As soon as I am settled and have a job, I will repay you for the clothing and food and the time spent in your home.

  Nicholas read over the list of clothing and articles for the baby. Inconsequential things, material things that didn’t add up to a hundred dollars. Exactly the things Mrs. Trent had said were missing. No one else could have known that.

  But what of the jewelry she’d taken?

  His fingers trembled on the parchment.

  I can never repay you for your kindness, nor for the sin of lying to you and for the loss of your son and brother. I can only tell you how very ashamed and sorry I am.

  I don’t know if you can find it in your hearts to not hate me. For the things I have done, I hate myself.

  You have no reason to believe me, but now you must see I have nothing left to lose, so I want you to believe this: Stephen was a good man. He knew how to love. He was a son and brother to be proud of.

  Tears burned benea
th Nicholas’s eyelids.

  I was but a stranger, and he and Claire showed me kindness. You would have liked Claire, I know. Cherish their memories.

  Sincerely, Sarah Thornton.

  Sarah Thornton.

  Perspiration trickled down his back beneath the shirt and jacket. He swiped an impatient hand across his eyes. Who in the hell was Sarah Thornton?

  Actually, much of this explanation made sense. When he thought back over her avoidance of speaking of Stephen, when he remembered her desperation to see the Pinkerton’s report, it made sense.

  Yet so much didn’t.

  How could he know for sure?

  Immediately, the answer came to him.

  “I’ll be out the rest of the afternoon,” he called on his way through the outer office.

  He rented a horse at the livery and rode like hell toward home.

  Celia and his mother were sitting in the shade on the verandah when he rode up.

  “Nicholas!” his mother called. “You never come home early.”

  “Pardon my appearance, Mother,” he said politely, referring to his windblown hair and the dust on his clothing, then turned abruptly to Celia.

  “What do you know about this?” He shoved the letter under her nose.

  “What is it?”

  “A letter. From Sarah Thornton.”

  She blanched and reached for her glass, only to realize it was lemonade and push it away.

  “You know, and you’re going to tell me,” Nicholas insisted.

  “Oh, my,” She waved a napkin to stir the air around her.

  “Nicholas, what is this all about?”

  He handed his mother the letter. “I’m not sure, but I’m going to find out. Do you recognize the handwriting?”

  She studied the piece of paper. “It’s Claire’s.”

  He turned back to Celia. “Start talking.”

  “I—I don’t know—”

  “Yes, you do. When did you find out your daughter wasn’t here?”

  “After—after that night I tripped on the stairs. She came to my room and she told me.”

  “Who came to your room?”

  “Sarah.”

  Sarah. “And what did she tell you?”

  “That Claire had been killed in the train accident, and that everyone believed she was Claire.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “Why, I cried of course.”

  “And after that?”

  “And after that she said she’d see that I was taken care of as long as I stayed to myself and didn’t let on.”

  Nicholas backed up to a marble bench and sat. He ran a hand though his hair in frustration and disbelief. “How did she think she could get away with it? How long did she think she could pull it off?”

  Leda had read the letter in sections while listening to their exchange. “She was not Claire?”

  Celia shook her head.

  His mother looked as stunned as Nicholas felt. “Then—then the baby…?” she voiced tentatively.

  “Is not your grandson,” he finished for her. “She was never married to Stephen, never met him until that night on the train.”

  “Then who fathered her baby?” Leda asked incredulously.

  Celia shook her head. “Some young fellow who ran off on her. She waited as long as she could to tell her father and he kicked her out. She was making her way west when she met Claire and Stephen.”

  “This is too preposterous,” Leda declared. “I can’t believe she lied to us all that time.”

  “And you,” Nicholas said to Claire’s mother. “What did you have to gain by lying? You are Claire’s mother. We would have provided for you regardless.”

  She shook her head. “She begged me. She seemed—I don’t know. I just went along with her.”

  Nicholas knew precisely how impossible it had been to resist her. He’d been enamored with her from the first, and she’d used that advantage to steal from them and denigrate him.

  Leda wept softly into her handkerchief. The sound angered Nicholas.

  It was true. She wasn’t Claire. That was why she’d never fit into the expected role. She’d managed the servants, planned dinners and entertained guests, and handled it all with practiced ease. He’d known all along that her skills hadn’t reflected the upbringing of the woman he’d had investigated.

  “Do you think she’s gone back to her father?” Leda asked.

  Celia shook her head. “He disowned her. And he made it impossible for her to work in Boston.”

  That phony Boston accent hadn’t been phony at all. She’d been raised well, brought up in society. Her father couldn’t have been all that bad. No doubt she’d been spoiled, and this time he hadn’t given in to her demands. Maybe she’d planned to scare him into giving her her way, and had now run back home.

  “What kind of father turns out his own child?” Leda asked.

  Nicholas raised his head and gaped at his mother. “Are you sympathizing with her?”

  “What choices did she have? Especially after she’d been in the accident and her leg was broken. Where could she have gone? How could she have cared for—for…” Tears filled her gray eyes. “Do you think she’ll still call him William?”

  Her misery carved a hole in Nicholas’s chest. She’d been through enough, and now this! Anger quickly replaced the pain. “While you’re feeling sorry for her, don’t forget to mention how poor Sarah couldn’t have gotten by without your rings and necklace and my stickpin and watch.”

  Celia looked at him in shock. “What?”

  “Yes, the poor girl stole our jewelry before she left.”

  “Are you sure it was her?” Celia asked.

  “Was it you?”

  “Nicholas!” his mother admonished.

  Celia unconcernedly raised her hands. “Search my room if it makes you feel better.”

  “It will.”

  “I wouldn’t have believed it.” Leda said, folding the letter and replacing it in the envelope. “If anyone else had told me I wouldn’t have believed it. But this letter from her leads me to no other conclusion.”

  She stood slowly and looked at Nicholas with such pain in her eyes that he wanted to find the woman and strangle her. “Do you know?” she said. “If I had it to do all over again, even knowing what I know now, I wonder what I’d do differently.”

  Nicholas knew what he’d do differently. He wouldn’t spare his conscience a second thought.

  “I’m going to rest,” she said.

  Nicholas watched her enter the house with faltering steps. His eyes were so dry they burned.

  “I wouldn’ta thought she’d steal from you,” Celia said with a sad shake of her head.

  He sat, thinking back over each incident that should have tipped him off. He should have put it all together. She’d wanted the file on Claire because she hadn’t known anything about her and needed to play the part convincingly. She’d taken Stephen’s letters to learn something of him. She’d never volunteered any information about her life or her relationship with Stephen. Any time they’d inquired, she hedged or lied.

  She was everything he’d suspected her of being.

  Wasn’t she?

  She’d tricked him, and that had him angry. But she’d hurt his mother, and for that he wanted retribution. Leda needed closure on this. He would find William for her, so she’d know the child was safe.

  He would find Sarah Thornton.

  Nicholas started over. The following morning, he was waiting for Howard Gramb when he opened his store. He grilled the man about the young woman who’d sold the bracelet, but turned up nothing new.

  He checked the train station and found no record of either Sarah Thornton or Claire Halliday purchasing a ticket. The man at the counter vaguely recalled seeing a woman carrying a baby who fit Sarah’s description, but he claimed to have sold too many tickets to remember where one particular woman was going. West, he thought.

  Doggedly, Nicholas once again made the rounds of the jew
elry stores. This time, he encountered a woman at one of them whom he hadn’t spoken to before.

  “I’m Nicholas Halliday,” he introduced himself.

  “How do you do? How can I help you today?”

  “I haven’t seen you here before.”

  “I fill in when my husband has business to attend to.”

  “I see. I left my card with him, and asked to be notified if anyone came in with these pieces.” He showed her the list he’d compiled.

  “I didn’t know about your request, but those items came day before yesterday.”

  At last! Something more to go on. “Did you buy them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who sold them to you?”

  “A woman.”

  “Can you describe her, please?”

  “Well, she was dressed in mourning. I didn’t get a good look at her face because she wore a veil.”

  “Anything else?”

  “She had a perambulator. The baby was sleeping.”

  “I see.” His last hope had been doused. She had stolen the jewelry and now she was gone. “I’d like to purchase the jewelry, please.”

  “All of it?”

  “Unless you’d like to simply return it to me since it’s mine.”

  His words took her aback. “Uh—no. I’ll get the pieces from the safe.”

  Nicholas made the purchase. Everything was there except one ring. “Did you sell a ring already?”

  “No. This is everything.”

  He closed the satin-lined box containing the valuables and placed it in his coat pocket.

  His mother accepted the items without any show of emotion. Her lack of animation frightened Nicholas. She’d dealt with his father’s death and Stephen’s death, and now this seemed like the last thing she could bear. Her suffering tore at Nicholas.

  Sarah had sold the gems only two days ago. That meant she’d still been in Youngstown. He checked the hotels without success. Perhaps she’d gone back to her father. He couldn’t bring himself to locate and wire the man.

  He found it impossible to concentrate on his work. He had dressed and gone to the foundry, had gone through the motions of walking through the buildings, checking with each foreman, sitting at his desk…but his mind wasn’t on steel production and his heart wasn’t in the effort it took to be there.