The Impersonator (Leah Randall/Jessie Carr Novels)

by Miley, Mary

  “I’m ready this evening, if you like.”

  Oliver stood. “Get dressed, then, and meet me in the study. I’ll tell the girl to bring the tray down there.”

  I had to poke about a while before I found the right room, one that was lined ceiling to floor with fine leather books. My host, magnifying glasses on his nose and thin hair combed across his bald spot, was busy at a large library table, shuffling papers like a croupier. The maid was busy at the tea table, dealing cups and plates of tiny sandwiches. I sank into a soft leather sofa and poured.

  “We’ll start with you, Jessie,” he said as soon as the maid had departed, and from that moment forward, I became Jessie. Jessamyn Beckett Carr, born on September 30, 1903, in London to American parents who spent more time out of their country than in it. He had a dozen pictures of myself to show me.

  “Look, here you are at four, with your nanny and your mother, Blanche,” he said, placing on the table several silver- and gilt-framed photographs he’d acquired for the occasion. “Dear Blanche.” He sighed. “I was very fond of my little sister. And here you are at ten, with both parents in Paris.”

  Oliver’s photographs brought that same tingle of electricity I had experienced the first time I saw his small image of Jessie at our dinner in Omaha. Like that one, these portrayed a serious girl, a girl who did not smile often, a girl whose eyes looked through the camera with an intensity far greater than her years, almost as if she were trying to reach into the future to people who would view her photograph and make them understand. Unconsciously, I touched the glass. I wanted to understand.

  I went up to my room and retrieved my collection of publicity photos from the bottom of my trunk. Oliver and I compared the kimono-clad ten-year-old who sang “Three Little Maids from School Are We” with Jessie’s Paris portrait, taken when she was about the same age. My eyes were larger than hers and my eyebrows straighter, she had more freckles. Naturally, I was thinner—I hadn’t had the benefit of three meals a day all my life. I peered hard at her later photos until Oliver grew worried. “What is wrong?”

  “I’m trying to see Jessie’s teeth.”

  “Teeth?”

  “Mine are pretty straight. Were Jessie’s crooked or gapped? Had she lost any?”

  We squinted at the various pictures until we decided that Jessie’s teeth, if not perfectly straight, were not remarkably crooked either. “And they might have straightened as you grew older,” he added lamely.

  “What about other mannerisms?”

  “You bit your fingernails, but you grew out of that disgusting habit.” He wrinkled his forehead in thought. “I can’t think of any others. Oh, you purposely annoyed your aunt by whistling. She thought it vulgar.” That made me smile. When I was younger, I too had annoyed people with my shrill whistle.

  “Any other identifying marks? Moles? Scars? Birthmarks?”

  “None that I know of. It’s always possible.”

  We pored over family photos while Oliver lectured me about my relatives, dead and alive, starting with my mother’s side. The Becketts were few—all I had left was Uncle Oliver, a confirmed bachelor, and his widowed mother, whom I called Grandmother. Grandfather had died of a heart attack years earlier. He and Grandmother had raised three children: Oliver, the eldest, was the only one still living. Oliver’s younger brother, Clarence, had succumbed to meningitis years ago while working in England; Oliver’s sister, Blanche, and her husband, Lawrence Carr, perished in the sailing accident that orphaned Jessie.

  The Carr family was only slightly more numerous. There was my widowed aunt Victoria, whose late husband, Charles Carr, had been disinherited by his parents long ago for riotous living. “I’ll wager there was no love lost between those two brothers,” I remarked.

  Oliver nodded grimly. “They despised each other. Not that Lawrence was any more virtuous than Charles. Both were…” He shook his head as words failed him. “But Lawrence was the older brother and more discreet where his behavior was concerned. Charles and Victoria’s four children, Henry, Ross, and the twins, Valerie and Caroline, grew up resenting their father’s exclusion for their own sake as well as his, since it deprived them all of their rightful share of Carr Industries.”

  Most of the pictures Oliver showed me had been mailed home by Blanche Beckett Carr to her mother from the Carr residences in London, Florence, Paris, and New York. Oliver had procured picture books of those cities for me to study so I could hold forth convincingly about climbing the tower of Notre Dame Cathedral or buying trinkets on the Ponte Vecchio. He knew little about the Carr family travels because, in spite of his fond recollections, he and Blanche had grown apart. No surprise there, considering his opinion of the man she married.

  “There was nothing wrong with Blanche that a good husband wouldn’t have cured. Unfortunately, she married a shallow prig with an intellect the size of a grape. Her idea of travel was shops and balls, his was casinos and racetracks. Neither would have been found within a hundred yards of the Uffizi Galleries or the Louvre; any cultural attractions you experienced were due solely to the efforts of your governesses.”

  “What if an investigation should dig up one of my governesses?”

  “Then we should be sunk faster than the Titanic, my dear, for I frankly know nothing of governesses or your life during those years. However, I calculate that the odds of finding one of them in Europe are slim. If they were all as young as this one”—he stabbed a pudgy finger at the nanny in the photo—“it is my fervent hope that they are married now and have changed their last names.”

  Swell. First day on the job and prison loomed large. I did not voice my concerns. I could always walk away from this if the odds started to tilt against me.

  We talked culture until dinner, Oliver frowning pointedly at my notebook to let me know I wasn’t writing down enough of what he was saying. I ignored him until he snapped, “Don’t you think you should take this a little more seriously, Jessie? We don’t have time to review again and again.” Twenty years of memorizing Shakespeare plays, Gilbert and Sullivan lyrics, Coleridge poetry, and Cohan songs had given me a memory like a sponge. I rattled off the last dozen things he had told me, repeating the same words he had used. He did not apologize, but he did back off.

  The butler announced dinner in the small, informal dining room, and I had my first real meal in many days. It was also the first of many lessons in posh table manners—how to distinguish between the bouillon spoon and the creamed-soup spoon, how to eat European style by holding the fork in the left hand with tines pointing down when bringing the bite to the mouth, how to break bread with the fingers and butter it properly, how to use a finger bowl, and how to participate when a toast is proposed. That night, I ate sparingly and skipped the alcohol, at least until Oliver treated me to a monologue on the medicinal value of red wine. After watching him finish both his and my apple brown Betty, we returned to the library to resume our lessons.

  The butler offered after-dinner drinks. Oliver ordered port and helped himself to one of Randy Stouffer’s cigars. Mindful of my health, I asked for hot milk. We discussed the various Carr houses in Europe. “No one should be able to trip you up with specific questions about a particular house because no one on either side of the family except Mother was welcome to visit, and her mind is wandering. Should the subject arise, it should be easy to convince her that the fault lies with her memory rather than with you. Otherwise, you’ll just have to say you were too young to recall.”

  I shook my head. “That won’t work. Any child over four remembers her home.”

  Ad-libbing sounds most convincing if one gives details that are plentiful but vague, specifics that could apply to virtually any circumstance and be modified if challenged. It isn’t as hard as it sounds. Time for a test.

  “That house in Paris, yes, of course, I remember it … although I wasn’t very old … let me see … we stayed there when I was quite little, and again when I was older. I remember the house, though. It was very elegant, tall, t
hree—or maybe four—stories with a sweeping staircase and lots of windows that gave out over a large area where there were many interesting goings-on to watch when my lessons got boring. And it had tall ceilings, a beautiful floor where I used to try not to step on the cracks, and lovely crystal chandeliers that needed a ladder for the maids to clean. And I had a doll with French clothes—”

  The expression on his face brought my routine to a screeching halt. “What is it? Am I overacting?”

  “No, no, my dear, you are perfect. I am speechless with admiration.” He began to chortle. “If anyone had been to the Carr house, your description would fit, I am sure. It fits every house in Paris I have ever seen. How on earth…?”

  I took a slight bow. A professional doesn’t give away all her secrets.

  7

  Catastrophe struck at breakfast. “Oh, dear,” blurted Oliver, troubled enough to pause his fork halfway to his mouth. “Do you ride?”

  “Horses? Gracious, no!”

  This was a serious deficiency. Evidently Jessie had been quite the equestrian. Nothing I could say would persuade Oliver that a person could forget how to ride after seven years.

  “Nonsense. It’s like swimming or riding a bicycle. You never forget. By the way, you do swim, do you not?”

  I told him yes. Well, it was almost true. I had thrashed about in swimming holes once or twice without drowning. And I’d learned to ride a bicycle from the boys in the Monkey Business act. But now I would have to learn to ride a horse. I had never been around horses, and the idea terrified me.

  There was no reprieve, not even a short delay to allow me to become accustomed to the idea. Later that same morning, Oliver and I drove west along Lake Road past a string of bloated mansions that peered out over the crystal waters of Lake Erie, until we reached a stable where a patient young groom with puppy-dog eyes introduced me to the largest, most ferocious beast this side of the Mississippi River.

  “Her name’s Candy,” said the boy. “Pat her nose. She’s gentle as a lamb. Candy, old girl, this is Jessie.”

  I reached out fearfully, as if I were putting my hand into a flame, and touched its nose with one finger. The animal shook its head angrily, eyes blazing, and snorted a warning. I gave a cry of alarm and stepped back so it couldn’t stomp me with those massive hoofs.

  “That nod of her head is a greeting. She likes you.”

  Sure. And couldn’t wait for me to climb aboard so it could buck me off and break my neck. I watched in horror as the groom picked up a mess of leather straps and metal drawer pulls, pried open the beast’s mouth, and shoved most of it between the biggest, meanest teeth I’d ever seen. One easy bite could take off my head.

  “This is the bridle that controls the horse,” he began patiently, pointing to each part and giving it a name. “This is the bit; these are the reins. You’ll be able to do this yourself in no time.”

  I not only had to learn to ride, I also had to touch the horse and learn how to rig it out with all the trappings? I nearly fainted.

  The groom kept talking, softly and gently so as not to frighten the animal, as he put a blanket on its back and a heavy saddle on top of that, and then he tightened the belt under its belly. I figured all that tight lacing must be making the horse really angry, and I was sure it would start to buck and snort any minute now, like I’d seen in the cowboy pictures. My knees turned to jelly.

  “Now up you go, little lady,” and before I could back off, the groom put my left boot in the stirrup and slung my right leg over the horse’s back. Trembling like a cornered rabbit, I clung for all I was worth to the handle on the saddle as the boy took the reins and walked us over to a ring. That’s all we did that day, walk around and around that damn ring, me clutching the handle, and the wild beast thinking up ways to buck me into the dirt as soon as the boy let go of the reins. After a century had passed, the boy helped me climb down. I was just easing away when he handed me half an apple.

  “Here, she’s been a good girl, give her this treat. Hold your hand flat like this, so she doesn’t accidentally nip your fingers.”

  Oh, my God. Those enormous teeth weren’t within six inches of my hand when I snatched it back, tumbling the apple to the ground. The horse just bent its neck and ate the apple, dirt and all. I knew it was laughing at me.

  Every day thereafter, we returned for another lesson, progressing from the ring to open fields and even low jumps. I learned to control my fear, but never conquered it. I hated riding. My sore thighs hated riding. My stiff shoulders hated riding. But I learned to ride.

  “Thank God Jessie didn’t play the piano!” I remarked one day, brushing off my jodhpurs after a particularly grueling session in the ring. “I couldn’t possibly learn that in a couple weeks.”

  “No,” mused Oliver. “But a broken finger would keep your hand in a cast for many weeks.” I’d wager he’d be willing to break it for me too. I wondered—and not for the first time—whether I had underestimated Oliver’s potential for causing me real harm.

  For three years, Jessie had lived with her Carr cousins and her aunt—or rather, they lived with Jessie in the mansion Jessie’s father, Lawrence Carr, had built on the cliffs high above the Pacific coast of Oregon. Oliver had visited them many times during those three years, and he could recall almost everything he had seen or heard. He possessed a remarkably observant eye as well as the ability to pull the smallest of details out of his mental file cabinet. I learned about pets, I learned about favorite colors, I learned about toys and games. I learned about the servants and the governess who was hired to tame the Carr cousins. I learned about Jessie’s uncle Charles Carr, who with his wife Victoria had been persuaded by the trustees to raise the orphaned Jessie along with their own four in exchange for a generous stipend and their use of the house in Oregon. But Charles’s poor health had made him a minor presence in all their lives. His weak heart had finally given out a year after Jessie disappeared—I can’t say I was sorry since it left one less relative for me to worry about.

  The cousins were my biggest concern. The twin girls were a few years younger than Jessie, not nearly the threat that the two boys would be. I imagined Henry was too much older to have much to do with a younger girl cousin, but his brother, Ross, was the same age as Jessie. There I smelled danger.

  “What about the Carr governess?”

  “Miss Lavinia did her best, difficult as you all were. She stayed on after you disappeared until the twins turned fifteen, then she moved to San Francisco, where she was tragically run down by an automobile while crossing the street.” Thank you, Fates! “But you don’t know that,” added Oliver, “so you will be very surprised and sad when you learn of her death.” My, yes.

  Oliver coached me in some rudimentary Italian and French so I could pronounce the basics that Jessie probably learned from her European governesses. Enchantée de faire votre connaissance, I said, and Che ora é? Uno, due, tre, quattro, cinque. He had even acquired some Italian and French money, curious bits of paper and light, thin coins that I studied so they would feel familiar in case someone passed francs or lira my way and asked what they were. One day we visited a studio in Lakewood to have my photograph taken. “You’ll send it along with your letter when you notify the family of your return,” Oliver directed. “That alone should go a long way toward convincing them.”

  “By the way, did Jessie keep a diary?”

  “If she did, we never found it.”

  “Did she have any hobbies?”

  “Hobbies?”

  “All girls collect things. Dolls, seashells, foreign stamps, coins?”

  Oliver scowled as he considered the question. “There is one thing. She used to spend a lot of time walking on the beach at low tide, looking for colored rocks. And two or three times, she found one of those green glass balls that wash ashore, do you know them?” When I shook my head, he explained. “Japanese fishermen use them as floats for their nets. Some get lost and ocean currents wash them east. I expect it takes them years
to travel all the way across the Pacific.”

  “How can they get that far without breaking?”

  “Doubtless some do break. Others don’t. Your aunt put them in a shallow planter in the parlor, here.” He pointed to a spot on his floor plan. “You showed them to me once. Each one has an indentation on the bottom.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Mouth-blown glass has a rough spot on the bottom where the piece connected to the glassblower’s pipe. You can smooth it away on fine pieces, but no one troubles with workaday fishnet floats.”

  It was a good detail. One I could use. Oliver was full of such tidbits.

  “There’s someone we are forgetting in all this rehearsal,” I said one day. “The most important person of all.”

  “And who is that?”

  “The one who is being deprived of the Carr fortune. Our greatest antagonist. Who would inherit if Jessie never returned?”

  “I haven’t forgotten. I take exquisite pleasure in the knowledge that they will be cut off. Next in line are your cousins, Henry and Ross Carr and the twins. Henry is a sanctimonious dilettante, sailing in regattas and hobnobbing with swells. Ross is a pompous ass. The girls are of no concern. Actually, they come into the inheritance indirectly, through your father’s brother, Charles.”

  “Sounds like the succession to the British throne. Why didn’t they inherit before now?”

  “Because you were missing, not dead. The law says missing persons can be declared legally dead seven years after their disappearance. That would be this month, August, which is why your arrival on the scene is so fortuitous. I have no doubt the trustees are busily preparing the paperwork that names the Carr children as your legal heirs. During the past seven years, the trustees have continued to manage Carr Industries in your name, as they would have done until you turned twenty-one in September. So it is the cousins who forfeit your father’s fortune at your return. A fortune they do not merit, I might add.”