by Rhys Bowen
She nodded. “I was so naïve at that time. I didn’t even know what a man and a woman are supposed to do together, so it didn’t worry me to start with.”
“But then?”
“Cedric wanted a son,” she said. “His family name was very important to him. He wanted an heir to carry on the line.”
I said nothing, but waited for her to continue. I could tell how hard she was finding it. She was staring down at her hands. Not meeting my gaze.
“So he asked his best friend to take his place?” I said for her.
She nodded. “He asked Henry to provide the heir. Henry didn’t want to. Of course he didn’t. He was a decent man. But Cedric begged him and I wasn’t against it. I had little affection from my husband. I wanted a child. I did not want to spend my days alone in a completely loveless home.”
“So you made love with Henry?”
She nodded. “It was wonderful. I had no idea what I’d been missing. He was so gentle. So tender … And I did get pregnant, but I had a girl. Cedric was furious. He refused to allow a second time, because I think he could tell that Henry and I were falling in love. Henry was warm and funny and we joked together. He was everything that Cedric wasn’t. He came often to see his daughter. Cedric couldn’t really stop him, but he became horribly jealous. Then he started to resent Charlotte. She had some unexplained falls and I began to think that her life might be in danger.” She paused again, staring at the pattern on the carpet as if she was speaking to herself. “Henry and I had talked for some time about running away together, taking Charlotte to safety. We set up the perfect plan. The servants’ Christmas party. Charlotte’s nursemaid would be there with all the other servants. I’d slip out of the ballroom, get her dressed, and send her out to Henry, who would be waiting at the creek. I’d tell her it was a special Christmas game. He’d take her into town on snowshoes down the frozen creek. Then later that evening I’d complain of a headache, put on my own coat, and follow him.”
“You were going to walk into town?”
She shook her head. “I’d been practicing on skis. It’s all downhill. It wouldn’t take long at all. Then we were going to take the train to Canada and start a new life there.”
“So what happened?” I asked.
“When I went upstairs to change, Cedric appeared behind me and locked the bedroom door. He had been spying, reading my letters, and he knew all along what we’d been planning. He kept me a prisoner in that room, never letting me out of his sight for a second. He told me he’d name Henry as the kidnapper if I tried to contact him, and I knew what happened to kidnappers. It was the hangman’s noose.”
“So you never found out what happened to your child?”
“Never. We had a backup plan of a place to meet if by any chance I couldn’t get away that evening. But I knew he couldn’t wait there indefinitely, not after the newspapers had reported her missing. I thought he must have taken her to Canada and would be waiting for me to join them. Of course we had to alert people and have the grounds searched, knowing she wouldn’t be found. And all the time I expected him to find a way to contact me. When he didn’t, I had to face the truth: He thought I had changed my mind and didn’t want to join him. I had elected to stay with my husband. All this time I pictured him having a lovely life with our daughter, missing me, but still happy. How wrong can you be?”
“It seems clear now that somebody intercepted them quite near here,” I said. “Someone took the little girl and killed Henry.”
“Yes,” she said. “That is what I think now.”
“Do you suspect your husband?” I asked.
“I’m not sure I would believe him capable of such an atrocity,” she said. “But he was here, with me. He never left me alone for a minute for several days after Charlotte disappeared.”
Cedric was clever, I thought. He could have paid someone else. And I thought of Harris the gardener, whose body wound up in a snowdrift. Had he been hired to kill Henry, to take Charlotte, and deliver her to someone? In which case, had Cedric known who Ada Smith was all this time?
“At least I have my daughter back now,” she said. “That is something to be grateful for.”
“It seems to me that your husband is not overjoyed to see Charlotte back here.”
“Why would he be? He never wanted a girl and her presence will remind him, every single day, of what happened.”
“Perhaps you should take her away,” I suggested.
“Where could I go? I have nowhere, no money.” Her expression was bleak.
“I understood that your family was rich.”
“Yes, we are rich, and my father has been more than generous to us since my marriage. But not one penny is in my name. It is in Cedric’s bank account.”
“Could you not talk to your father? If you told him the truth about Cedric and Charlotte’s birth, would he not want to help you?”
She gave a derisive snort. “I rather suspect that my father knew quite well about Cedric’s impediment when we married. He was still furious that his older daughter had disgraced him and desperate to make a good match for me. He might even have been told about Henry. No, I don’t think you’d find that my father was on my side.”
I wanted desperately to do something for her. I had felt uneasy since I entered this house. More than uneasy, actually. A growing feeling of danger. Now I was sure of it. There was danger lurking in this house. I wondered if I should tell her that we suspected her great-aunt had been suffocated. Was it Cedric, or her father? I suspected the former, but I realized we could never prove it. I would have to enlist Daniel’s help. We were still sitting together as I pondered these things when we heard the sound of young voices, and Charlotte, Bridie, and Ivy burst into the room. Bridie was carrying Liam on her hip. He wriggled to get down as soon as he saw the horse.
“Horsey,” he said. “Ride horsey.”
“Just a minute, girls,” I said, scrambling to my feet.
They reacted as I had done at finding someone in what they had taken for an empty room, backing away, clearly embarrassed.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mama,” Charlotte said. “We didn’t think anyone would be here and Bridie and Ivy wanted to explore my old nursery with me.”
“Of course, my darling.” Winnie stood up, stiffly. “Do you remember it? You used to love your dolls and your horse.” She went over to it and ran her hand through its mane as if it was alive. “You used to say it was a flying horse and Uncle Henry called it Pegasus. But you couldn’t say the word and you called it Pegadus.”
Bridie looked first at Ivy, then at me. “That’s what Ivy called it,” she said. “I teased her about it and Molly said it wasn’t nice because Ivy had been raised in an orphanage and she hadn’t read many books.”
I was staring at Ivy as if seeing her for the first time. So many things that we had taken as clumsy or odd now began to make sense to me. She had walked into a wall where there had once been a door. She had mistaken where the Van Aikens’ bedroom was, because it used to be where we were now sleeping. She had known the last words of the Dutch carol. And she had remembered touching the Christmas tree through the bars of the stair rail, not over it, because that was how a three-year-old would have reached out to the tree. So many strange little incidents. Too many to be purely coincidental.
“Ivy,” I said. “Were you in the orphanage your whole life?”
“No, ma’am,” she said. “The nuns told me my father dropped me off there when I was little because my mother had died and he couldn’t take care of me anymore.”
“Do you remember your father?”
She shook her head. “I don’t remember anything, except the bird. I do remember the bird.”
“Which bird is that?” Winnie asked, staring at her intently.
“The one in the golden cage that you gave Charlotte,” she said. “I remember that my mother used to have one just like it and I’d sit on her lap and she’d wind it up for me. And we’d sing a song about ‘little bird, little bird, wh
at a merry song you sing…’” She started to sing. Her voice was high and clear and beautiful. Then she realized we were watching her and froze into embarrassed silence.
“‘Soaring high, through the sky, on your tiny wing,’” Winnie finished for her.
The silence in the room was so thick it was overpowering.
“Was Ivy always your name?” Winnie asked her.
“No, that was what the nuns named me. I told you we were all named after flowers of some sort.”
“Do you remember your name before you went to the orphanage?”
“Not my real name. Only a baby name. I remember I was called Tottie.”
Winnie gave a gasp. “Charlotte used to get her letters mixed up. We called her Lottie, but she called herself Tottie. But how can it be? Is it possible that you are my daughter?”
“Your daughter?” Ivy stared at her. She shook her head. “No. No. It’s not possible. But the moment I came into this house I felt I’d been here before, and you look like the lady in my dreams. But that can’t be right, because Charlotte is your daughter.”
We turned to stare at Charlotte, who was looking terrified.
“Is that right?” Winnie asked her. “If Ivy is my real daughter, then who are you?”
Charlotte put her hand up to her mouth and fled from the room.
Twenty-six
Winnie and Ivy continued to stare at each other.
“I think I knew it right away,” Winnie said. She turned to Ivy and put out a tentative hand to stroke her hair. “The moment I saw you I remember thinking that if my daughter had grown up, she’d look just like you. And I never had that feeling with Charlotte—or whoever she is. Oh God. Cedric was right this time. She is an impostor.” She held out her hands. “But you—look at you. My little girl. My own precious Tottie.”
“Mama?” Ivy said in a quivering voice. “Is it really true?” And she flung herself into Winnie’s embrace. They stood, locked together while tears streamed down both their cheeks.
Then Winnie seemed to come to her senses. “You must find your husband, Molly. The girl must be arrested. Clearly she’s part of some criminal gang, sent to steal our money. We’d better find her before she escapes.”
She took Ivy by the hand and led her out of the room.
I followed. I was curious to know who the girl was, but I couldn’t picture her as a budding criminal. She was awfully young, for one thing. And she seemed so vulnerable. Had she, as Cedric suspected, been schooled and placed here by a gang? In which case, was it the same gang that originally kidnapped little Charlotte and killed Henry Wheaton? There was so much still to be found out.…
We went downstairs and found a surprising scene. The girl we had called Charlotte was now in the gallery beside the fire, sitting on the sofa beside Aunt Florence, who held her in an embrace while her body shook with sobs.
Aunt Florence looked up at us. “What is this all about, Winnie? You’ve suddenly rejected this poor girl and decided she isn’t your daughter after all? How could you do that?”
“Because I’ve found my real daughter. She was here, under our noses, all the time.” She took Ivy by the hand.
“Ivy?” Mrs. Sullivan exclaimed. “Ivy is your daughter? What makes you come to that conclusion?”
“I think I was the one who came to the conclusion,” I confessed. “I’ve wondered about Ivy for some time. Remember when she ran into the wall and was so embarrassed? She was never clumsy at your house. And do you know why? There used to be a door there. And she knew the ending to the Dutch carol.”
“And she called the horse Pegadus, which was what my little girl used to call it. And she said her baby name used to be Tottie. My daughter always called herself that, because she couldn’t say Lottie,” Winnie said. “What more proof do you need?”
“Well, I never,” Mrs. Sullivan said. “Then who is this child?”
The girl they had called Charlotte was still sobbing in Aunt Florence’s arms. “They’ll send me away and I’ll have nowhere to go,” she gasped between sobs. “Please don’t let them send me away.”
“What is this, Aunt?” Winnie demanded. “You were party to this deception? You knew all along that this wasn’t my long-lost daughter? How could you?”
Aunt Florence looked up. “I only did it for the best, Winnie. I wanted to make everything right.”
“Make everything right, by sending an impostor into my home? How could that possibly make everything right? Who is this girl?”
The girl forced herself to turn around and face Winnie. She took a deep breath, swallowing back tears. “Aunt Florence suggested that I come here and say I was your daughter because you were so sad, and because my mother was dying and I’d have nobody to take care of me.”
“Your mother? You mean Ada Smith?”
She shook her head. “That was just a name she used. Her real name was Lizzie Carmichael.”
Winnie stared at her. “You’re Lizzie’s daughter? My sister’s child?”
The girl nodded. “My name really is Amy.”
“And my sister really is dying?”
Amy nodded again. “The doctor said she only had a few weeks at the most. She has a tumor on her brain.”
It was Winnie’s turn to put her hand up to her mouth. “My poor Lizzie, dying. I’ve wondered about her all these years. I’ve hoped she’s been happy.”
“Not very happy,” Aunt Florence said. “She’s had a difficult life. It’s almost impossible to raise an illegitimate child alone.”
“But she ran off with a young man,” Winnie said. “We assumed she had married him.”
“That’s what you were told by your father to save his face, to save the family reputation,” Aunt Florence said. “In reality she went to him and told him she was with child. He told her it was up to the man who had done this to her to take care of her from now on. She was no longer his daughter. Then he showed her the door.”
“But the man did not do the right thing and marry her?” Winnie asked in a trembling voice.
“The man could not do the right thing. He was already married, with a family.”
“Oh. The older uncle who used to visit you,” Winnie said. “Now I see.” The girl nodded.
“Did you know he was your father?”
The girl nodded again. “I guessed it. My mother never actually admitted it, but he was always so nice to me. And the way he looked at me—as if he really cared. I think he loved us both.”
“He paid Lizzie’s rent and supported them while he was alive,” Aunt Florence said. “Then he died of a heart attack two years ago and there was no more support coming. I did what I could, but my own funds are limited. And then this diagnosis for dear Lizzie. I saw this as the only hope for Amy. I realized how much she bore the family resemblance and I prayed you’d accept her as your daughter. It would have worked perfectly if Mrs. Sullivan had not rescued Ivy from the orphanage.”
Ivy tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Do we have to throw out Amy because of me? I could go back to working for Mrs. Sullivan if you like. She’s really nice.”
Winnie looked at her in amazement. “What a sweet child you are. You always were, of course. You had the kindest nature. You’d rescue a butterfly with a broken wing. Even an ant.” She smiled. “Of course we can’t throw your cousin out. There is plenty of room for her here, and she’ll be a companion for you in your lessons. We’ll hire a good governess.…”
“What about Mr. Van Aiken?” Amy asked. “He won’t want me here. He’ll be furious that I tried to trick him. He may not even believe that Ivy is his daughter.”
Winnie took a deep breath. “Nothing is going to separate me from my daughter a second time. I will remind him that the money to run this establishment comes from my family. And I wish to have my family around me. Which includes my sister’s child.” She stopped, looking at Aunt Florence. “And my poor sister. Is there anything that can be done for her at this late stage?”
“I don’t think there is much anyone
can do,” Aunt Florence said.
“We’ll go and find her immediately,” Winnie said, sticking her chin out resolutely. “At least we can bring her here to die in comfort and peace. It’s the very least we can do. Does she live in Boston?”
Amy shook her head. “No, we have been living in New York all this time. In Brooklyn, actually. Aunt Florence suggested I claim I was from Boston because she didn’t want anyone searching for us in New York.”
“I’m afraid you failed that test,” I said. “My friends were convinced you had never been to Boston.”
“I know. It was horrible,” Amy said. “I was so embarrassed.”
“But that makes it easier. We can send the carriage down to Brooklyn for her,” Winnie said.
“Your father will probably not allow her into the house,” Aunt Florence pointed out.
Winnie tossed her head defiantly. “It’s my house, not his. He has caused enough grief.”
I almost applauded. Winnie’s recovery of her daughter had given her the backbone she had lacked all these years. I realized that she had lived in fear of Henry Wheaton being arrested and hanged for kidnapping. Now she had nothing more to fear.
“Will you go and tell Cedric?” Aunt Florence asked.
“No. Let’s bring everyone together in this room. I’d rather have you here for support, just in case.” She rang for a servant. “Go and find Mr. Van Aiken and Mr. Carmichael and Captain Sullivan and tell them they are all wanted in the gallery immediately,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.” The maid looked at her in wonder, hearing the new authority in her voice. We didn’t have to wait long. Daniel entered first, then Winnie’s father.
“What’s this about, Winnie?” he asked.
“Please take a seat. All will be made clear,” she said.
“Is this a parlor game?” he asked.
“No game. Deadly serious,” she said, then held up her hand as he went to ask more questions.
A silence fell over the group. Then we heard the brisk tap-tap of Cedric’s shoes. He entered the room, giving us a questioning look.
