by Margaret Way
“Piers was born Piers Egerton,” she told them with unconcealed excitement as they sat around the coffee table. “Osbourne was his mother’s maiden name. Lady Mary Osbourne. His father was a member of the British peerage, the fourth Baron Wyndham, having inherited from his childless uncle, the third Baron Wyndham. That was some fourteen years back. His bride was a Miss Helen Stephens. They had two children, fraternal twins, Christopher and Anne.”
Cassie had laid the photographs she’d had printed off on the glass-topped table. Several were of Lord Wyndham, a substantial landowner. Several of the twins with their father. None of Lady Wyndham, who was said, however, to be a beauty. It could be concluded Lady Wyndham had red hair because her husband didn’t. The twins did.
“Lord and Lady Wyndham spend most of their time at the family estate in Scotland,” Cassie said, jabbing a blue nail at a photograph of a stately manor house. Wyndham Hall.
“Good grief !” Bruno sat back, momentarily at a loss for words.
“So we know where to find them?” Isabelle said, strongly resisting the urge to burst into tears.
“We do,” Cassie said, still amazed by what she had been able to unearth. “The Hartmanns’ Piers Osbourne was really Piers Egerton. It’s fairly certain he was the one who whisked Helena out of the country.”
“He was probably still in the country,” Isabelle said.
“He must have fallen in love with Helena but felt she was too young to do anything about it. His solution to his seeming dilemma was to take himself off.”
“But obviously they kept in touch,” Bruno said, taking Isabelle’s hand in his. “You have a real story there, Cass.”
“One I don’t intend to tell.” Cassie stood up with reluctance. She had wanted to stay on. “I have to get back. I’m doing a piece on Muriel Ballinger. Wonderful woman!” Muriel Ballinger had been a prominent Parliamentarian for the last fifteen years of her life and a great advocate for women’s rights. “If you’re both free Sunday, Ian and I would love to see you, not to mention Josh. You’ll be thrilled at his progress on the piano, Isabelle,” she said. “You too, Bruno, of course.”
“Thank you for everything, Cassie,” Bruno said. “You’re a national treasure!”
Isabelle reached out for Cassie’s hand, kissed her cheek. “Thank you from me, Cassie.”
“I think that makes you the Hon. Isabelle Egerton, doesn’t it?” Cassie said.
“You’re saying Piers is my father?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Really, Cassie, we have no proof.”
“Go to Scotland,” Cassie urged. “I know and pray you’ll find the truth there.”
* * *
They decided to confront Hilary not at home but at the hospital where she did nearly all her surgery. As it was, they had an anxious wait of several hours before their luck was in. A young intern told them where to find her. She was having coffee in the hospital canteen.
They stood for a moment watching a small queue line up for a meal before they decided to join Hilary. She was facing them, her striking face alive with interest in what her companion was saying. Opposite her sat a male colleague. Even from the back one guessed he was in his midforties, most probably good-looking and charming if Hilary’s smile was anything to go on.
“Could be her boyfriend,” Bruno said beneath his breath.
“Why are you whispering?” Isabelle asked.
“Bella, that’s a woman with big ears. She could easily jump up and run away.”
“She’s not running this time,” said Isabelle, surprised by the amount of adrenaline surging through her.
They were almost at Hilary’s table before she dragged her eyes away from her companion. Colour flooded into her face. Her eyes sparked. She looked livid.
Isabelle moved forward, unperturbed. “Sorry to interrupt, Hilary. An intern told us where to find you.”
Instantly, her male companion stood up, turning to them. “Isabelle, isn’t it?” he asked. “Of course it is. Who else is so beautiful?”
Isabelle gave the smiling man her hand. “How are you, Dr. Sommerville? It’s a long time.”
“Years,” he said. “You look wonderfully well.”
“I am. May I present my friend, Bruno McKendrick?”
Sommerville couldn’t keep the pleasure out of his voice. “That would be the McKendrick of the Fortuna Group?” The two men shook hands.
“It would.” Bruno smiled. He had come to the conclusion, based on nothing more than his gut instinct, which was almost always right, that this man had nothing to do with anything. He was merely having coffee with the predatory Hilary.
“If you could give us a moment, Richard,” Hilary said, having a struggle injecting normality into her voice. “I haven’t seen Isabelle in quite a while.”
“Of course.” Richard Sommerville was already pulling back his chair, preparatory to moving off. “Good to meet you, McKendrick. Still studying your cello, Isabelle?”
“I have my Master’s degree from the Royal College of Music in London,” she said.
“Wonderful, wonderful!”
* * *
By the time they sat down, Hilary had almost regained her equilibrium. “How dare you come here?” she asked in a furious undertone. “Confront me like this?”
“We thought you might like to read this,” Bruno said, withdrawing the laboratory letter from the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
“And what is that supposed to be?” Hilary asked haughtily, giving the letter a brief glance.
Isabelle found it difficult to remain quiet. “Proof positive you are not my biological mother,” she said. “You are, however, a pathological liar!”
Hilary didn’t even bother to pick up the letter. “So what?” She shrugged. “Feeling deeply sorry for yourself, are you? Poor little Isabelle who lost her mummy.”
“You deliberately falsified the records,” Bruno said, looking at Hilary with distaste. “We will make sure this all comes to light. You could be left with your reputation in tatters.”
“I doubt that.” Hilary was back to looking supremely self-confident.
“The truth will destroy you, Hilary,” Isabelle said. “DNA testing proves I’m a Hartmann. Stefan Hartmann supplied a DNA sample, as did I. It’s highly likely Helena Hartmann is my mother. We believe, Bruno and I, that you were in the same ward in the London maternity hospital where Helena gave birth to a child. A little girl. Just like you did.”
Hilary narrowed her dark eyes. “If you want to blame anyone, blame some idiot nurse at the hospital. My blood pressure was high. I was being sedated. I scarcely knew what was going on. It took time for me to realize you weren’t my baby. Helena’s baby had, sadly, died.”
“So you’re saying it was all a terrible accident? You were given the wrong babies by mistake?” Isabelle’s hand started to shake. She was no match for Hilary. Hilary was a woman without scruples.
“Try to prove otherwise,” Hilary said. “One stupid girl who shouldn’t have been a nurse at all screwed up? Mistakes happen. We all know that.”
“We don’t believe you,” Bruno said. “You were a doctor. The staff would have known that. You would have had access to areas where other new mothers might have been denied or supervised. We believe you realized your baby wasn’t going to make it, so you stole Helena’s baby.”
“Just like that!” Hilary threw one hand up.
“Just like that,” Isabelle said. “You weren’t going to go through another pregnancy. One was bad enough. You didn’t carry well. Helena was young. She could have more babies. She would be upset for a time, but she would get over it. That would be your thinking.”
Hilary sucked in her breath. “You’re mad.”
“No, I’m not mad. I’m right. I know you, Hilary. I’ve had a lifetime to study you. You don’t care about anyone but yourself. You don’t recognise another’s pain.”
Hilary didn’t bat an eyelid. “There’s no point in going over this. It is as I told you. A
tragic mistake. I’m prepared to swear that before God.”
“You don’t believe in Him either,” Isabelle said. “He may forgive you. I don’t. We’re going to find Helena. We know where to look.”
“She’s dead,” Hilary said flatly.
“You’ve been taken in for a change, Hilary,” Bruno said. “Helena is very much alive.”
Hilary’s face whitened. “It was an accident. The hospital would have covered it up.”
“Norville still thinks you’re my biological mother,” Isabelle said. “Set him straight or I will. You’ve destroyed a good man.”
“Whatever you say, Norville will stand by me,” Hilary declared as a given fact.
“You sound a bit uncertain,” Bruno said.
“Norville is witness to the fact I brought you home as my child. I did everything possible for you. You were well looked after all your life. You wanted for nothing. Now you’ve turned traitor. Go to any lengths you like; you will never prove I switched babies.”
“But you did, didn’t you?” Isabelle stared into the older woman’s eyes. “You didn’t care about the massive trauma Helena was about to have. You needed a live baby.”
Hilary sat bolt upright. “Go away before I call security,” she hissed. “I’ll have you arrested.”
“Nonsense!” Bruno said briskly. “We could hand over this letter you don’t want to read. You’ve known the contents for over twenty years, Dr. Martin. I don’t think your long-suffering husband will be too pleased if and when he hears the true story. You can’t forget he too knows you. Knows what you’re capable of.”
A security guard actually arrived at their table, apparently alerted by Hilary’s loud voice. “Everything okay here, Dr. Martin?” he asked with considerable deference.
Isabelle gave the guard a sad smile. “Some upsetting family news,” she explained.
Hilary was forced into nodding.
“Sorry to hear that, Doctor,” the guard said and quickly moved off.
Hilary leaned forward, making sure she spoke clearly. “If I were you, I’d think long and hard before opening up Pandora’s box. The hospital made a regrettable mistake. It took me a very long time before I realized what had happened.”
“And me with my red hair?” Isabelle shot back. “You knew I was Helena’s.”
“Sorting out these cases can prove a very harrowing business,” Hilary warned. “Some secrets are best kept just that. Secret.”
“It’s a bit more complicated than that, Doctor,” Bruno said. “It will be for Helena to decide.”
“Her baby is no less dead,” said the callous, unrepentant woman who was Hilary.
* * *
Days went by after the upsetting discussion with Hilary. Isabelle had to put it all behind her as an important audition was coming up—a chance for a place with the Symphony Orchestra.
On the suggestion of a violinist friend, she had made a tape and sent it off some weeks back. Apparently, whoever had heard it was impressed enough to grant her an audition. She thought she might cancel, only she knew that was a very bad idea. Her not turning up would be remembered. It was her long-established habit to practise for a couple of hours daily. She was out of practise, but within an hour or two the tension fell away. She thought her playing acceptable enough to be judged. She had chosen the Elgar because she knew it so well. She had won the award in Belgium playing the Elgar.
She had received a letter from James Kellerman, advising her she had lost her place with the quartet. It upset her for a moment. Then it was a relief. She actually thought he needed her more than she needed him. She had an idea to form a trio of her own.
* * *
The audition went well.
“An extraordinarily beautiful sound,” she overheard one of the judges, an eminent musician, say, and her face lit with pleasure. “A serious, concentrated musician.”
She had to tell Bruno. She almost set off there and then but remembered Bruno had come back to a lot of work and some necessary decision-making. She could wait until evening. She had bought a lovely new dress especially for him. Yellow. The colour of sunshine.
Around seven she set off. She could think of nothing but seeing him. He knew about her audition. She had fully expected him to ring her. She would beat him to it. A couple were coming out of his building. They smiled at her. She smiled back, slipping in past them, amazed it was so easy. Either they had caught sight of her with Bruno or they thought her no one to worry about.
She stood outside his door, knocking lightly on it. Bruno! She had given her heart into his hands. She felt they were in total harmony. It was the most wonderful feeling in the world. They surely were meant for each other. Why else had Fate brought them together?
A moment passed. The door opened.
She felt great, coursing humiliation flooding through her entire being.
It was Penelope, Super Sam’s daughter. She was wearing a sparkling short dress and a brilliant smile that didn’t falter. “Why, it’s Isabelle, isn’t it, the cellist?” she asked in pleased surprise. “Are you coming in? Bruno and I are off to a function in about five minutes. But no matter! Do you want me to get him for you? He’s taking an important overseas call.”
“No, actually I won’t bother him,” Isabelle said. “It will keep.”
“You sure?” Penelope asked kindly, looking doubtful about letting her go.
“Quite sure.” Isabelle turned away, doing a very good job of hiding her stunning shock. “Enjoy yourselves,” she called over her shoulder. She wouldn’t let the mask slip until she got home. From elation, eager to talk about her afternoon, she felt only wretchedness. It was her own fault. She had let herself believe what she wanted to believe. The same old story. She had even dressed for him. How stupid!
She was almost at the elevator before Bruno came charging out the door and down the hallway. “Bella,” he called with enough urgency to stop her.
“Sorry,” she said. Her every instinct was to run away.
Like a miracle the lift arrived, but before she could step in, Bruno grabbed her none too gently, sweeping her off her feet and pushing her back against the wall. “Where do you think you’re going?” His brilliant eyes blazed with sparks of light.
“Home,” she said, equally fiercely. “I came to tell you about my audition. I can’t think why.”
“I was trying to ring you.”
“I forgot my mobile.”
“What made you run off?” He eased his powerful hold on her.
“You’re going to a function with Penelope What’sher-name, aren’t you? She said you were off in five minutes. You don’t look dressed for a function to me.” He was wearing a stylish business shirt and suit trousers, but his tie had been removed.
“What bloody function?” he asked angrily.
“You marry Penelope and you’ll get your just deserts,” she warned. She was near spent. “Let me go, Bruno.”
“Marry her? Forget it. I’d never let you go.” He lifted her in a tight grip. “I love you.” He kissed her with a passion that left her breathless. “You don’t mind, do you? I love you, Bella. I’ve loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you.”
“You do?” She was flushed, confused, enraptured.
“I do.”
“Then what are you doing with Penelope Pfeiffer?”
He cupped her face, said, “Forget Penelope, Bella.” His deepening tone couldn’t have been more loverlike.
“I will if she never darkens your door again.” She broke off hastily as Penelope walked elegantly towards them.
“Good night, you two,” Penelope said playfully, as though they were the best of friends.
“Good night to you too, Pen,” Bruno said too smoothly.
“It was a nice try, but it didn’t work,” Penelope said.
“No hard feelings.” There was a sardonic curve to Bruno’s handsome mouth.
“So you’ve found the love of your life?” Penelope just managed not to sound crushed.
“The answer is yes. It’s bound to get out.”
“How will Marta feel?” she asked, as though Marta’s favour was important.
“Marta will assure me I’ve made the right choice,” Bruno said gently. And he laughed. He hugged Isabelle close. “And I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”
“Well, I’m happy for you both, then.” Penelope moved past them and stepped into the waiting lift.
Bruno put his arm around Isabelle’s waist leading her back to his apartment. “Ivan and Marta have been good to me.”
“They have. They’re your friends. They’ll be my friends too. In the end, all they want is to see you happily married, Bruno.”
He bent to kiss her, wrapping his arms around her. “I think we can manage that, don’t you?”
Isabelle looked up at him, her face reflecting her joy. “I’m sure of it,” she said.
“So that’s settled.” Bruno took her hand, raising it to his lips. “By the way,” his highly appreciative dark eyes ran over her, “I love your dress, Bella mia. I want to take you out.”
“Lovely!” said Isabelle. “I bought it especially for you.”
Epilogue
Four months later . . .
They spent several idyllic weeks of their honeymoon in Europe. Paris first, then Rome, on to Florence to take in as much of the Uffizi as they could, ending their whirlwind tour in Venice, Queen of the Adriatic. It was time to return to their base in London and from there make the trip to the Scottish Borders in the hope of finally meeting up with Helena.
Although they had agreed they wanted a smallish wedding with only close friends, it hadn’t turned out that way. There just had been too many people who would have been devastated not to be included in the celebrations. Stefan Hartmann had given Isabelle away. His very stylish wife, Robyn, had taken him in hand. Primped and polished, beautifully dressed in the updated formalwear the bridegroom had chosen for the wedding party: long black dress coat, double-breasted waistcoats in a colour of their choice, dark grey trousers, dress shirt and tie. Stefan had cut a fine figure.
