Heiress

by Janet Dailey

  "Nothing."

  The door latched tightly shut, muffling the rest of their argument. Abbie slowly turned away from the door and moped over to one of the chairs. Fighting tears, she slumped onto the cushions and stared at the blue skirt of her dress. She didn't like it anymore.

  The telephone in the sitting room rang once, then twice. On the third ring, the tall, slender Justine came out of the adjoining bedroom to answer it. Abbie didn't even look up. More than ever she wanted to go home to River Bend.

  "Lawson suite, Justine speaking. . . A call from America? Yes, I'll stay on the line."

  Abbie looked up. "If that's Grandpa, I want to talk to him."

  But Justine waved a shushing hand at her, then pressed her fingers over her other ear, shutting out any sound but that from the telephone. "Hello? This is Justine. . . Yes, Miz Anderson, he's here. He and Miz Lawson are getting dressed for dinner." Discovering that it was only her father's secretary, Abbie slumped back in the chair. "Why, yes, Miz Anderson, I'll get him right away." Justine hurriedly laid the receiver down next to the phone and almost ran to the master bedroom door, her, dark eyes wide with a look of concern. "Mr. Lawson?" she called his name as she knocked loudly.

  "What is it, Justine?" Despite the muffling door, the impatient snap in his voice came through. Abbie sank a little lower in the chair.

  "It's your secretary on the phone. She has to talk to you right away. There's. . . been an accident."

  "I'll take it in here.

  "What kind of an accident?" Abbie wanted to know.

  But Justine just looked at her without answering and walked back to the telephone. After making sure the bedroom phone had been picked up, she placed the black receiver back on its cradle, then stood with her head bowed in an attitude of prayer.

  Abbie frowned. "What happened, Justine?"

  At that instant, she heard a wailing cry come from the bedroom, dissolving into terrible sobs. She scrambled out of the chair and dashed to the connecting door, hesitating only a second before pushing it open and running into the room. Abbie paused when she saw her father holding her crying mother tightly in his arms. He looked stunned, and close to tears himself.

  Haltingly, she moved toward them. "Daddy. . . what's wrong?"

  "Abbie." His look of pain intensified as he loosened his hold on her mother. Together they turned toward her, Babs making a valiant effort to check her crying.

  Their hands reached out to her, but Abbie was almost afraid to go to them. She wanted to turn and run before this terrible thing claimed her, but her legs carried her forward within reach of her mother's clutching hand.

  "Darlin', it's. . . your grandpa," her mother said, then, quickly covered her mouth, as more tears rolled down her cheeks, smearing the makeup she'd so carefully applied.

  Abbie didn't want to ask, but she couldn't stop herself. "What about Grandpa?"

  "There's been an accident, honey," her father said, briefly closing his eyes before looking at her again. "He was crossing the street and. . . stepped in front of a car."

  Frightened, she looked from one to the other. "He's going to be all right, isn't he?"

  Her father simply shook his head. "I'm sorry, honey. I'm truly sorry." He tightened his grip on her hand, making her fingers hurt. "I know how much you loved him."

  "No." Abbie shook her head, not wanting to believe they were trying to tell her he had died. "He'll be all right. You'll see. When we get home, you'll see."

  Her mother turned and hid her face against her father's shoulder, crying softly, brokenly, as he pulled Abbie closer and put his arm around her, too. But Abbie wouldn't cry, afraid if she did, it might really be true.

  "I want go home, Daddy."

  "We are, honey. We are."

  The funeral was big, even by Texas standards. Everybody came, including the governor. But Abbie didn't cry, not at the funeral. The tears didn't come until later, after they had returned to River Bend and she'd run off by herself. Ben had found her in River Wind's stall, crying herself sick. It had taken a long time for him to convince her that she wasn't somehow to blame for her grandfather's death.

  His death changed many things. Within a year, Dean had sold the drilling fluids company R.D. had founded and made a return trip to Egypt to purchase the Arabian colt of his dreams. In addition, he bought three fillies. With all the paperwork involved, the lengthy sea voyage, and the sixty days of quarantine in the U.S., it took nearly a year before the new horses finally arrived at River Bend.

  In the meantime, the old barn was torn down and a new stable was under construction—the first step in an expansion program that created many more new facilities at River Bend during the next ten years. The practice established by R.D. Lawson of using "River" as a prefix in the names of all the Arabians foaled at River Bend was altered somewhat by Dean. He registered his newly imported Egyptian-bred Arabians with the prefix "Nahr" attached to their names—the Arabic word for "river." El Kedar Ibn Sudan thus became Nahr El Kedar.

  Buying trips to Egypt became annual events. Abbie didn't go with him again until she was in her teens, but she was never able to share his enthusiasm for the lean, narrow Arabians bred in Egypt, nor his fascination with the barren desert. Nor did she agree with his decision, when the stallion Nahr El Kedar turned five, to sell all the Arabians at River Bend bred by her grandfather, regardless of their worth or championship potential, and breed solely Arabians with newer Egyptian bloodlines. It was as if he were rejecting everything her grandfather had built—first the company and now the horses. Loving him as she did, Abbie tried to understand and not regard his actions as being even remotely disloyal.

  Truthfully, she didn't have a lot of time to dwell on his possible reasons. Too many things were happening in her own young life to claim her attention. In addition to the Arabian horse shows that she continued to participate in, and the preparations for them, there were school, friends, and dates. Without any false sense of modesty, Abbie recognized that she was becoming a strikingly beautiful girl, extremely popular with her male classmates. Of course, she also recognized that having wealthy and prominent parents didn't hurt her popularity either.

  With the advent of her senior year in high school, Abbie's life truly became hectic. Following in her mother's tradition, this was the year she would be one of the debutantes presented during the Houston season, which meant she would require a lavish haute couture wardrobe in addition to the formal presentation gown in the requisite debutante-white. Babs insisted that nothing less would do.

  The selecting of some fifteen ballgowns, the fittings, the shopping for accessories, the planning for parties—it all seemed so endless to Abbie. She'd lost five pounds and the season hadn't even started yet. It had sounded like a lot of fun, but it had turned out to be a lot more work than she thought.

  "That was good." Babs nodded approvingly as Abbie gracefully straightened from the full court bow, her taffeta underskirts rustling beneath her ankle-length skirt. "Now do it again. A little lower this time."

  Abbie groaned. "Lower? Now I know why they call this the Dallas Dive."

  The traditional forehead-to-the-floor curtsy performed by all Texas debutantes went by many names: the Dallas Dive, the Texas Dip, and naturally the Yellow Rose curtsy. When done correctly, with grace and dignity, the deep court bow was a thing of regal beauty. But a misstep, a slight imbalance, and it could be the ultimate in ignominious disasters.

  "If you practice it enough now, it will become second nature to you. It will be all one fluid motion, sweeping and grand—and easy."

  "It will never be that," Abbie muttered into her skirt as she dipped her upper body as low as it would go, practically sitting on the floor in the process, the muscles in her legs and ankles screaming with the repeated strain on them.

  "Now, turn around and practice it in front of the full-length mirror. And remember, one long, flowing motion." Babs proceeded to demonstrate what she meant.

  "You're cheating, Momma. You have on pants," Abbie re
taliated, a little envious of the smooth, effortless bow executed by her mother.

  "Most girls make the mistake of practicing in pants or shorts or regular skirts. Then they're thrown by all the yards of long material in the skirts of their ballgowns." A laugh broke from her. "I remember at one ball, Cissy Conklin caught her heel in the hem of her gown and went sprawling headfirst on the floor. It was so hilarious seeing her spraddled there on the floor like a dressed-up duck on a platter, I laughed 'til I cried. She was such a know-it-all little snob that I was glad it happened to her. Of course, when she saw me laughing, she had a hissy-fit right there on the spot."

  "Momma, I'm surprised at you," Abbie teased. "That wasn't nice."

  "Neither was she. Not that it mattered." Babs shrugged. "Her daddy gave a new meaning to the word well-oiled. He had more pumpjacks on his land than ticks on a cow's back."

  "I'll have to remember to tell Christopher that one. He thinks you come up with some of the funniest phrases." Abbie stepped in front of the full-length mirror and smiled a shade triumphantly. "All the girls turned positively emerald green when I told them that Christopher is going to be my escort at the Confederate Ball."

  "Which is just three days away," Babs reminded her. "So practice."

  "Oui, Mama." Mockingly obedient; Abbie swooped low to the floor and held the pose to glance at her reflection.

  Behind her stood the scrolled iron bed, enameled in shiny white with brass and alabaster finials topping the end posts, and covered by a floral bedspread of blue cornflowers, a match to the blue walls in her turret bedroom. To the right of the bed was a doorway to the second-floor hall. A gray-haired Jackson, the black houseman hired years ago by R.D., appeared in the opening, as always very reserved and proper. Delicately he cleared his throat, letting his presence be known.

  "Yes, Jackson." Abbie straightened, turning with little flourish.

  "Miss Lawson, Mrs. Lawson," he said, acknowledging both of them with a nod. "Mr. Lawson asked me to let you know he was home. He's in the library."

  "Thank you, Jackson," Babs replied.

  He retreated, as soft-footedly as he'd appeared. Abbie stared after him for a minute. "Do you know. . . in all these years he's never slipped—not once—and called me Abbie."

  "And he never will either. Jackson takes a lot of pride in what he considers to be his role in this household. Part of that is keeping his distance. I admit, I've always felt he's the authority here. He runs the house, and us, very well."

  "That's true." But Abbie's interest in Jackson faded, replaced by the information he'd relayed to them. "I'm going downstairs and show Daddy my progress in the Texas Dip. Maybe I can talk him into brushing up on his waltz steps."

  Quickly she was out the door before her mother could insist that she practice more. At the stairs, she gathered up her long skirt and the voluminous taffeta slip and ran lightly down the steps. Halfway down she heard the phone ring, but it was quickly silenced. Since there was no summoning call to the telephone for her, Abbie swung around the carved newel post at the base of the staircase and headed for the library.

  The pocket doors stood closed. Gripping the fingerholds, she slid them open wide and stepped into the room. Her father was behind the desk, the telephone in his hand. She had that one glimpse of him as she went into her full court bow, briefly feeling like a princess paying homage to her king and wanting to laugh.

  But as she straightened to walk to his desk, he held up his hand as if to stave off her advance, turning his face away and hunching over the telephone. She sensed something was wrong—very wrong.

  "Daddy, what is it?" She watched as he hung up the phone, gripping the receiver tightly—so tightly Abbie expected it to snap in two. "Daddy?"

  When he stood up, he seemed to be in a state of shock. He walked blindly toward the door without even looking at her. His face, his eyes, everything about him looked haunted. Worried, Abbie went after him.

  "Daddy, are you all right?" She caught his arm as he entered the foyer.

  He looked at her, but she didn't think he could really see her. "I. . ." His mouth moved wordlessly for several seconds. "I have to. . . go. I. . . I'm sorry."

  As he pulled away from her and headed toward the front door, Abbie saw her mother coming down the stairs. "Momma, something's wrong with Daddy. He got a phone call and. . ."

  Babs ran the rest of the way down the steps and hurried to his side. "Dean." She had never seen him look so lost and broken before—not even when R.D. had died so suddenly. "What's happened? Tell me."

  He gripped her arms, his fingers digging into her flesh, but she was afraid to tell him he was hurting her, afraid he'd let go. "Oh, God, Babs." The words came from some deep, dark well, wrenched from his soul. "I can't believe it. I can't. Please, God, she just can't be dead."

  Babs stiffened, something inside her hardening in the face of his shock and grief.

  "Momma, what is it?" Abbie questioned, not standing close enough to have heard.

  "There's been a death. An old. . . friend of your father's in California." She looked at Dean, tears stinging her own eyes. "I'm afraid he'll have to go out there. Would you. . . leave us alone, Abbie? Please."

  Vaguely Babs was aware of Abbie slowly climbing the stairs, but all her attention was on Dean. It tortured her to see him this way.

  "You do understand, Babs. I have to go," he said brokenly. "I have to be there."

  "Yes. I know you do," she stated flatly.

  When he released her arms, her flesh tingled painfully. She walked with him to the front door and watched as he hurried down the steps to the car parked by the front gate. Slowly she closed the door and leaned against it, sobbing softly. Caroline's name hadn't passed between them, but she knew he'd lost the woman he so deeply loved.

  "I'm glad," she whispered, and buried a fist against her mouth. "God forgive me, but I'm glad she's dead."

  Chapter 8

  Abbie remembered how hurt and upset she'd been when she learned her father wouldn't be returning in time to present her at the Confederate Ball. She hadn't understood why he couldn't come back for it. Why he had to remain in California just because someone he'd known for a long time had died.

  The Confederate Ball was the most important event in her life. It was her launch as a debutante. He was supposed to present her and dance the first waltz with her. She couldn't walk out there alone: it wasn't done. Of all the hundreds of parties and balls that would follow, why did he have to miss this one?

  Her mother had tried to console her by assuring Abbie that any number of their friends would be happy to stand in for her father. Lane Canfield was out of the country, but Kyle MacDonnell or Homer—but Abbie had stormed out of the house, insisting that if her father wouldn't be there, neither would she.

  She had saddled up one of the Arabians and gone tearing down the lane, galloping across the hay fields and drained rice fields of the neighboring Hix farm, making a long, wide circle that brought her to the banks of the Brazos, and following it back to River Bend. Ben was waiting for her when she returned to the barns. She remembered the silent disapproval in his expression as he inspected the sweat-lathered mare.

  "I'm sorry. I'll cool her out."

  "Yes you will." Ben had replied. "We both will, and you will tell me what this is all about."

  Most of her anger had been spent in the ride, but not her hurt and bitter disappointment. As always it had been so easy to pour out all of her troubles to Ben.

  "I told Momma I wasn't going to the Confederate Ball and she could just cancel everything. It's all a lot of nonsense anyway. This is nineteen seventy-one, for heaven's sake. Who cares about being a debutante in this day and age?"

  "You do, I think."

  She had desperately wanted to tell Ben that that wasn't true, to insist that she was a liberated young woman and all this parading before Houston society like a slave on an auction block was sexist. Maybe all the pomp and pageantry was silly, but it was her moment in the spotlight, when all the
eyes of Houston would be on her.

  "I'm not going to be presented by some friend of Momma and Daddy's," she had stated forcefully, again close to tears. "If Grandpa were alive. . . but he isn't. Can you understand, Ben? I don't want just anybody presenting me. It's got to be somebody—" She had started to say "like my father" just as she had turned to look at Ben. "—somebody like you." Someone who knew and loved her; someone who had always been there when she needed him; someone she cared about. "Ben, do you know how to waltz?"

  "Me?" He had been so startled Abbie had laughed.

  "Yes, you. Would you present me?"

  "Me? But I am only. . ." He had started to gesture at the stables, but she had caught his hand.

  "You're the only man I'd walk out there with other than my father." She had caught a brief glimpse of tears in his eyes as he bowed his head and stared at the hand clutching his.

  "You honor me." His voice had been husky with emotion, one of the rare times she ever remembered Ben showing any. Then he had shook his head, as if to refuse.

  "There's nothing to it, Ben. All you have to do is walk out with me when I'm introduced and the announcer talks about my Confederate ancestors. Then we'll dance the first waltz until my escort cuts in. We'll have to rent you a black tux and white tie. . . and gloves. You'll look so handsome. And I'll tell everyone you're our dearest, dearest friend from Europe. With your accent, they'll go crazy over you." When he wavered, Abbie had pressed her advantage. "Please, Ben. At least come to the rehearsal with me. They'll walk you through everything."

  "I have not waltzed since I was a young boy."

  "Let's see how rusty you are." Still holding the mare's reins, Abbie had placed his hand on her waist and raised the other one. "Ready? One, two, three. One, two, three." While she hummed a waltz tune, they had started to dance, haltingly at first, then with increasing ease. "You see, Ben, it's just like riding a horse. You never really forget how." They had waltzed across the stable yard, leading a tired and bewildered mare.

  The night of the Confederate Ball, Abbie, arrayed in an off-the-shoulder antebellum gown of white satin designed by St. Laurent, her hair piled atop her head in dark ringlets, arrived at the country club in a horse-drawn carriage that was met by a member of the Albert Sidney Johnston Camp of the Sons of Confederate Veterans, the sponsor of the Confederate Ball, dressed in full Confederate regalia. To strains of "Lorena," an erect, square-shouldered Ben, completely transformed by the white gloves, white tie, and black tuxedo he wore, walked proudly at her side as she was presented and made her full court bow to an applauding, cheering throng of guests. After all the debutantes were presented, Abbie danced the "Tennessee Waltz" with him until her escort for the evening, Christopher Atwell, cut in and fastened a corsage on her wrist, an act that traditionally symbolized her assumption of responsibility for her social destiny.