Fanny clenched her jaw. “You equate happiness with money, yet you don’t appear particularly happy or content. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve promised this dance.” She turned and walked toward Mr. Morrison.
He proved to be an excellent dancer as he led her around the floor. “You don’t need to remain much longer. You’ve made an appearance. Uncle Jonas can assert he’s a generous and proper gentleman who has deigned to entertain us in his home.”
Mr. Morrison took a backward step and pivoted to the left. “You deserve so much more than I can ever give you, Fanny. I can no longer pretend—”
He gasped and clutched at his chest. His color turned sallow, and he stared at her with surprise in his eyes. Slowly he dropped to the dance floor, still clinging to her by one hand. Fanny quickly kneeled down beside him, her gown spread around them like a protective shield. The couples ceased their dancing and gathered around as the strains of music faded in uneven increments. Mrs. Morrison hurriedly broke through the crowd and called for a doctor.
“It’s too late, my dear,” he said. Ignoring his whispered protests, Mrs. Morrison pillowed his head on her lap.
“Fanny.” Mr. Morrison grasped Fanny’s hand, and she scooted closer. “I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused. I have deceived you. That letter wasn’t genuine, and I am not your father. I never met your mother. I’m sure . . .” He gasped for a breath of air.
“Someone get a doctor!” Mrs. Morrison called out.
Murmurs filled the room, and Jonas stepped closer. “This is preposterous. He must be delirious.”
A number of the guests collectively shushed Jonas while others glared in his direction. Mr. Snodgrass thumped his cane. “When a man’s dying, he speaks the truth, Jonas!”
Mr. Morrison’s eyes rolled back in his head for a moment; then he regained strength. “I’m certain your mother was a fine woman. Your parents are Winifred and Langley Broadmoor. I wasn’t even in the United States during that time. That fact can be verified.” He glanced up at his wife. “In my lockbox there’s information to prove what I say.”
Fanny stroked his face. “Mr. Morrison, please.”
His eyelids fluttered. “You are a lovely girl . . . I wish you could have been my daughter. I didn’t do this to hurt you. Please believe my sorrow when I tell you it was simply about the money. I couldn’t . . .” His voice faded and Fanny bent low, but his final mutterings remained unintelligible.
With one final breath, he was gone. Mrs. Morrison was softly whispering, but Fanny didn’t know if she was praying or attempting to talk to her husband. She glanced upward and saw Paul Medford approach.
He bent down. “Let me help you to your feet.”
Fanny grasped his hand and attempted to rise to her feet, but the room swirled around her like a whirlpool sucking her into a dark abyss. Somewhere in the distance she heard her uncle Jonas’s voice. She detected urgency in his question, but her lips wouldn’t move. She was unable to tell him she hadn’t heard Mr. Morrison’s final utterance.
32
A cool breeze whispered through the bedroom window, and Fanny heard the murmur of voices. Using what strength she could muster, she opened her eyes.
“You’re awake! Finally.” Sophie lifted the cool towel from her head. “Aunt Victoria wanted to using smelling salts, but I objected.” She grinned. “You can thank me later. I know how you detest the burning sensation.”
“Where is . . .”
Amanda moved to the edge of her bed. “There’s no one here but Sophie and me. We told Mother we were quite capable of looking after you. With all the commotion, it didn’t take long to convince her. She wanted to be certain her party wasn’t completely ruined.”
“Can’t you imagine what the society page is going to say come Monday morning? I can hardly wait to read it: Man drops dead after dining at the home of Jonas and Victoria Broadmoor. It’s just too delightful.” Sophie clasped a hand to her mouth. “Oh, I don’t mean it’s delightful that Mr. Morrison died, of course. That was horrid. But what kind of man was he, to pretend he was your father?”
Amanda grasped Fanny’s hand. “Enough, Sophie! Fanny’s had a severe trauma this evening, and you’re jabbering like a magpie.”
Fanny’s eyelids fluttered. “Mrs. Morrison? Is she here?”
“Oh no. She left when they took the body—I mean her husband to the . . . well, you know . . . the mortuary. At least I assume that’s where they took him. I did hear her say he’s to be buried in Syracuse.” Sophie hesitated for a moment. “Maybe he’s already on the train . . . well, not riding as a passenger, of course, but in the baggage car or something.”
“Do stop, Sophie. You’re making matters worse by the minute,” Amanda scolded.
“How can it be any worse? The man is dead. And deservedly so, I might add. He took advantage of our dear Fanny. I can’t imagine what would come over someone to do such a thing.” Sophie cupped her chin in one hand. “Do you suppose his wife forged that letter for him? And I thought she was such a nice lady.” She wagged a finger back and forth. “So did you, Fanny, and I thought you were an excellent judge of character.”
Using her elbows for leverage, Fanny scooted up and propped herself against the pillows. “Mrs. Morrison is a wonderful lady, and I think she believed the story, too. Didn’t you hear Mr. Morrison tell her there was proof? If she was a part of the hoax, he wouldn’t have explained it to her. Like me, I believe she was completely surprised by his confession, and I do want to see her again.”
Ever the voice of reason, Amanda recommended Fanny rest now and make her decision regarding Mrs. Morrison in the morning.
“I’m not ill, Amanda. I merely fainted. Come morning, Mrs. Morrison may be gone. I’m certain she’ll attempt to leave on the earliest possible train.” Fanny glanced at the clock. “You don’t think she had time to catch the final train tonight, do you?”
Sophie shook her head. “No. By the time she returned to the hotel for her belongings, the train would have already departed. She’ll be required to remain in Rochester tonight.”
“Then I shall go and see her this very moment.” Before Amanda could protest, Fanny sat up and slid her feet into her shoes. “Please don’t be angry, Amanda. If you’re overly concerned, one of you can go with me while the other stays here to keep watch. We don’t want anyone to discover I’ve left the house.”
“I want to go with you,” Sophie squealed.
“Do keep your voice down or someone will hear.” Amanda frowned. “I don’t like this plan in the least, but if you’re determined, I’ll remain and keep watch. You can go down the back stairway and through the kitchen. The servants won’t question you. I’ll do my best to keep your secret, but if Mother comes upstairs to check on you while you’re gone . . .” With a beseeching look, she turned her palms upward.
“If your mother comes looking, I don’t expect you to lie,” Fanny said.
“Tell her I forced Fanny outside for fresh air. That won’t be a lie. Just watch as I push her out of here.” The three of them giggled while Sophie propelled Fanny out the door and down the hallway.
Once they exited the house, Sophie took charge. Fanny had to admit that her cousin’s experience with such escapades was now proving invaluable. Rather than asking one of the Broadmoor drivers to bring a carriage around, they strolled down the driveway, where Sophie hailed a passing cab. “Much less chance of word traveling back to Uncle Jonas as to where we’ve been,” she said.
As long as she had an opportunity to speak with Mrs. Morrison before her departure, Fanny cared little what her uncle might think. However, she appreciated her cousin’s concern. They rode in silence until the driver brought the carriage to a stop in front of the hotel.
“Do you want me to wait in the foyer or go up with you?” Sophie asked after instructing the driver to wait for them.
“Sitting in the hotel foyer without benefit of an escort is highly improper,” Fanny replied.
Sophie giggled. “You’re beginning to
sound like Amanda. Let’s ask for her room number.”
The clerk appeared doubtful he should give them the desired information. Sophie furrowed her brow and leaned forward until they were nearly nose to nose. “If you have ever heard the name Broadmoor, my good sir, I suggest you tell me the room number posthaste.”
Strangely, the man didn’t ask if they were related to the Broadmoors or if they could produce any form of identification before directing them to room 342. Sophie’s knack for achieving success astounded Fanny.
“I believe the Broadmoor name frightened him out of his wits. I wonder if he’s had a confrontation with Uncle Jonas in the past,” Sophie said with a grin.
With her fingers trembling, Fanny formed her hand into a tight fist, knocked on the door, and waited. “Maybe she’s asleep.”
Sophie shook her head. “I doubt she’ll sleep a wink after all that’s happened tonight. Knock again.”
She lifted her hand again but stopped midair when she heard footsteps. The door opened, and Mrs. Morrison stood in the doorway, pale as a ghost. Fanny opened her mouth to speak, but the words stuck in her throat like a wad of cotton.
Mrs. Morrison grasped her by the hand. “Do come in. I’m very pleased to see you, Fanny.”
The night’s events appeared to have shriveled Mrs. Morri-son’s already thin body. She peered at them with eyes that had shrunken into their sockets, and her head bobbled as though she hadn’t the strength to hold it upright. Fanny held on to the woman for fear she might collapse before reaching the chairs across the room. Thankfully Sophie remained at a distance and allowed them a modicum of privacy.
“You didn’t know, either, did you?” she asked the older woman once they were seated.
“No. I should have questioned him more, but my husband had changed in the final years of our marriage. He remained kind to me, but I knew the financial losses had been extremely painful to bear. He hid many things from me. Men place their value on being able to provide,” she said with a faint smile. “I am very sorry for what you’ve endured. I have spent the last hour attempting to make sense of why my husband would do such a thing, but I have no answer for you.
“If your relatives desire the proof he spoke of, I will make it available to them. I know my husband was genuinely fond of you, Fanny, as am I. Any woman would be proud to claim you as her daughter.” A tear rolled down her cheek and dropped onto the gown. She stared at the dark splotch. “I’ll send the dress back to you.”
“I’ve no need for the dress, but I would like you to write to me in the future. I will always consider you a dear friend.”
The guests had finally departed, and now only the family remained. But the evening had been insufferable. Jonas had expected their guests to immediately leave after Harold’s death, but he should have known better. With their curiosity piqued, they had stayed, eager to discuss every detail of the night’s ghastly event. Jonas slammed the door to his library and fell into his leather chair. All of his plotting had been for naught. He slammed his fist on his desk and cursed Harold Morrison.
Although most in attendance at tonight’s ball had heard of Harold Morrison’s initial claim of paternity, Jonas had planned to make an announcement during the evening—unbeknownst to his wife, of course. Victoria would never have approved of such a thing, especially during a party. However, Jonas had viewed the ball as the perfect setting. All of the elite would be in attendance for the formal announcement that Fanny was not a Broadmoor. The men would immediately realize what a financial boon this would be for Jonas, and his status would rise among his peers. Now all of that had been ruined by Harold Morrison’s untimely death, and Jonas was once again faced with the dilemma of Fanny’s inheritance.
“Here you are!” Quincy strode into the room.
“Have you heard of knocking before entering a room?” Jonas barked.
“My, but you’re in a foul mood. I realize the evening was marred by Morrison’s death, but I didn’t expect to find you in such bad humor.” Quincy sat down opposite his brother. “That scoundrel Morrison certainly had you fooled. I daresay I’m surprised, Jonas. You’re usually the first one to question the credentials of every one of your business associates, yet this man and his spurious claim slipped by you with surprising ease. How so?”
“What do you mean, how so? If you’ve something on your mind, speak up, Quincy. I’ll not play silly games with you. It’s been a long evening.”
Quincy rested his forearms on his thighs and stared across the desk at his brother. “We all trusted that you’d checked into this man and his claims. None of us inquired—at least I didn’t. For that I blame myself. It never occurred to me that you would be careless.”
Jonas jumped to his feet and rested his palms atop the desk. “Careless? Are you implying that I intentionally accepted this man’s claims without proper investigation?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. If you’d properly checked in to the matter, we would have known his claim was false and Fanny would have been saved from this horrid experience.” Quincy waved his brother toward his chair. “Sit down, Jonas. I don’t believe you meant harm to the girl. I know you’re a busy man with many obligations to handle. I blame myself as much as you. In the future, however, we’re going to both need to keep a close watch on the girl’s affairs and on those who seek to befriend her.”
Jonas exhaled a long breath. He needed to remain calm. “I appreciate your concern, Quincy. You’re correct. In the future I’ll be keeping a close watch. But there’s no reason for you to concern yourself with Fanny. I am her legal guardian, and I know you have a myriad of duties requiring your attention at the poorhouse.”
“Home for the Friendless, Jonas. It’s not the poorhouse.”
Jonas snorted. “Same thing, different name. Except your Home for the Friendless has the advantage of Broadmoor money paying the expenses.”
“My portion of the Broadmoor money. I ask nothing of you, Jonas, and we are digressing from the topic at hand. I believe we must remain vigilant where Fanny is concerned.”
“You may rest assured that I will see to doing exactly what is best,” Jonas said as he ushered his brother to the door.
Jonas returned to the solitude of his library. He couldn’t permit defeat to take hold of him. There must be resolution to this latest dilemma. How could one young girl pose such a problem in his life? He sat in the chair and rested his forehead in his palm, massaging his temples with his fingers and thumb.
Somehow, returning to his earlier plan seemed a form of defeat. But if he was going to succeed in controlling Fanny’s inheritance, he must do so. Like it or not he would resume his original plan to find a husband for the girl—a man who could be easily manipulated. In the meantime he must remain vigilant. The girl had likely become even more independent during her stay with the Morrisons.
33
Monday, October 4, 1897
Jonas had planned to depart for work much earlier in the day. His headache of Saturday night had plagued him throughout the day on Sunday. When the persistent pain continued on Monday morning, he downed his headache powders with a glass of water and returned to bed. Though not completely gone, the pain had subsided, and he’d tired of Victoria popping in and out of the room to check on him every fifteen minutes.
After descending the broad staircase, he picked up the mail that had been stacked on the hallway table and then called for his carriage to be brought around. Jonas riffled through the unusually thick stack but stopped when his fingers came to rest on a letter addressed to Fanny. He tossed the remaining mail onto the table and hurried into his library. His head pounded with a blinding ferocity as he shoved the door closed behind him.
He hurried to his chair and slit open the envelope. He shuffled through the pages until he reached the end, where Michael had neatly written his address. He was in a place called Dyea, Alaska. He returned to the first page of the letter and shook his head as he continued to read the details of Michael’s journey in search of go
ld. Between the paragraphs that spoke of his undying love for Fanny was an optimism that frightened Jonas. There was, of course, no way to know if the young man’s accounts were puffery or fact. If what he wrote was true, Michael was doing well and held high expectations for his gold mining. He spoke of teaming up with a man who already had a successful claim near Dawson City. The man assured Michael he could make thousands of dollars by the end of next summer.
“Next summer!” How could it be possible? That young man just seemed to be lucky no matter where he went. The thought only furthered Jonas’s frustration. Given Michael Atwell’s seeming good fortune, he’d probably find some incredible supply of ore and make hundreds of thousands of dollars.
“I need to remain calm. After all, I must see Fanny married to a man of my choosing before March, when she turns eighteen. After that it will be too late. The property laws in this state will negate any control I might desire to exert,” he muttered.
He looked at the letter again. Obviously he couldn’t allow Fanny to see it. The last few lines of the letter gave him an idea.
I will soon be bound for Dawson and doubt I will have an opportunity to write again until spring. The mail is difficult to deliver during the winter and questionable at best. So please do not despair if you hear nothing from me until summer.
He smiled. Summer would be too late. Fanny would hear nothing from Michael and believe he had stopped caring about her.
Jonas quickly tucked the letter into his desk drawer and stood. His head throbbed with intensity, but he couldn’t yield to the pain. This letter from Michael strengthened his resolve to move quickly. He simply had to force Fanny into a marriage before the young man’s return.
He shouldn’t have come to the office. He’d accomplished nothing, and the throbbing in his head had grown worse by the minute. Like a possessed man, he paced back and forth in an attempt to find some solution—anything that would gain him access to Fanny’s inheritance. Well, not truly Fanny’s, he told himself. The money rightfully belonged to him. And to Quincy, he begrudgingly admitted. Of course his brother would squander the additional funds on that homeless charity. It would be truly grand if he could come up with an idea to exclude both Fanny and Quincy, but that seemed impossible.
A Daughter's Inheritance Page 31
