Andrew dropped his hand from her arm and hooked his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans. She sensed too much self-consciousness between them, too much mutual awareness. She tossed her head, smiled cheerfully and mentally commanded her nerves to behave.
Tyler took the box and glared at its contents. He gave her a quizzical look. “Is this a joke? She covets my cook’s meringues. She’s green with envy and has been for years. What’s she up to?”
Marie had been pondering what to say about that. “I think it’s her whim, sir.”
“She must have sent some barbed remark,” Tyler said. “What’d she say to tell me?”
Marie tried to be honest but softened the message as much as she could. “She said these were a neighborly offering. After your recent troubles.” She did not repeat Louisa’s “Ha!”
“Really?” Tyler commented with an amused expression. “And there must be more—I know Louisa. What else did she say?”
Marie kept her composure and gave him a sympathetic smile. “That you shouldn’t share them with your cousin.” She gave a nod in Andrew’s direction and tingled because his eyes were on her.
Tyler laughed outright. “Because he’s a foreigner and he advocates change?”
“She implied something to that effect, sir.”
“So I’m left out?” asked Andrew, with mock disappointment.
“That’s Miss Fairchild’s wish, but it’s Mr. Tyler’s decision,” Marie responded. “A gift belongs to the recipient, not the giver.”
“Do you always choose your words so carefully?” Andrew commented.
“I am an employee,” she answered, with just enough pertness to make him cock his head in surprise.
“And who, Miss Lafayette,” Tyler asked, “made these meringues? Was it you?”
“Yes,” she said. “Desserts were my mother’s specialty. I’m afraid mine aren’t nearly as good as hers. She had a genius for all things sweet.”
“So it would seem,” Andrew said with an unexpectedly roguish glint in his eye.
She backed toward the Fairchild truck. “Now I need to get back. Oh—and Miss Fairchild said she’d like more eggs sent over.”
Tyler bowed slightly. “Tell her that Reynard will bring them. And thank her for her gift. Tell her I won’t let Andrew have even a taste. No matter how much he begs and whines.”
“I don’t beg or whine,” Andrew said, with a lazy smile. “I’ll just steal.”
She managed to stay poised when Andrew took her arm again to help her back into the truck. “So you’ve met the old girl,” he said to her. “What did you think?”
“She’s quite the grande dame.”
He leaned his arms on the rolled-down window. She tried not to notice the muscles that played beneath his tanned skin. “I hear she’s the grandest of grandes dames,” he said. “She makes hard demands on her staff. Don’t let her wear you down.”
Marie, inside the truck again, felt safer. She lifted her chin. “I’m not easily worn down.”
He smiled, almost diffidently. “Yes. I get that feeling.”
“Good day, gentlemen,” she said, and putting the truck in Reverse, she backed up. Then she changed gears and sped away as fast as was polite.
A glance in the rearview mirror showed that both men stood watching her, Tyler smiling, Andrew looking more contemplative, almost puzzled.
She thought of his expression all the way back to Fairchild Acres.
By the time Louisa and her niece and nephew were served that evening, and the workers fed in the staff dining room, Marie was exhausted. But everyone on the staff seemed pleased by her contributions to the menu.
Afterward, Marie helped Bindy with the dishes, even though it wasn’t part of her job.
“That was a delicious spread,” Bindy said, scrubbing the casserole dish. “We always have the same thing every week. Cook doesn’t have much imagination when it comes to us.”
“Thanks. Does Cook have a name? Or is Miss Fairchild so old-fashioned she just prefers to call the woman ‘Cook’?”
Bindy grimaced. “From what I hear, there’s been so many cooks, it’s easier to call them all ‘Cook’ than keep learning new names.”
Marie stared at her, a horrible suspicion creeping into her mind. “And Cook left because she had to have a knee operation? In Sydney? Why’d she go clear to Sydney?”
“That’s where she’s from. She likes the hospital better. And she’s got family there to help her convalesce.” Bindy squinted skeptically. “Or so she says. I think she also has an old boyfriend there who just got divorced. She’s been in touch with him, too.”
“But she will be back?”
“So she says,” Bindy repeated. “If she doesn’t have complications. Or get a proposal.”
Marie’s suspicion grew larger. What if Cook was making her escape from Fairchild Acres? Would Marie be responsible for all the cooking? It would be the equivalent of doing two people’s work.
As soon as she got to the privacy of her room, she took out her cell phone and rang her uncle. “Rennie, I need to talk to you. Could we go somewhere? I could meet you at the gate if you can pick me up and get me home by midnight.”
“Of course, my girl,” he said cheerily. “I’ll take you to a pub in Pepper Flats. It’s got a ladies’ lounge. It’s all as proper as a prioress.”
A pub wouldn’t be Marie’s first choice, but she knew Reynard liked his drop. “Fine. How soon can you be here?”
He told her, and he arrived at the gate exactly when he said he would. He drove her to the nearby township of Pepper Flats, where there were two pubs with brightly lit signs. One was garish, one rather demure with pale pink neon letters spelling out The Secret Heiress.
The name made her clench her teeth. “A bit too appropriate, perhaps?” Reynard teased. “Don’t mind. The woman who runs it named it after a racehorse. One of Louisa’s first champions, in fact, very famous filly hereabouts. The proprietress is a Mrs. Tidwell. A widow woman, but she can still bat her eyelashes like Bambi.”
Once the two of them were seated in the decorous ladies’ lounge, Marie found that Mrs. Tidwell could indeed bat her eyelashes, especially at Reynard. She looked suspiciously at Marie until Reynard explained she was his niece.
“Oh, lucky you to have such a jolly uncle,” Mrs. Tidwell gushed. “Such a joker!”
Marie assured her that Reynard was simply heaps of fun and ordered a white wine spritzer, while Reynard asked for a schooner of ale. Mrs. Tidwell fluttered off happily.
“Another of your conquests?” Marie asked.
“She’s lonely. I try to give her a smile when I can,” Reynard returned. “Now tell me, duck, what’s on your mind?”
Marie leaned closer, moving a pink, scented candle out of the way. “Louisa’s already suspicious of me, I can tell. And she said she didn’t trust you.”
“Poor old dear. Her mind must be going. That would explain a lot, wouldn’t it?”
“She also made it clear that her great-niece and -nephew were more than enough family for her.”
“Ah, the niece and nephew. Seen ’em yet? Nothing extraordinary about him. But the first time you see her, you may get a jolt.”
“I haven’t had so much as a glimpse of them. My point is why would she say such a thing to nearly a total stranger?” Marie asked with feeling.
“Don’t be so sensitive. What she said’s not so bad. I’ll tell anybody I’ve got only one niece, and she fills up my world. What more family could I want?”
“I’m serious, Reynard. She thinks it’s odd that I work for her, and you work for Tyler. Especially with Andrew Preston there. As if he’s some evil puppeteer or something.”
“Piffle. More paranoia. And Andrew’s no evil boll weevil. Truth is, he’s trying to be Mr. Goody Two-shoes. Doesn’t want Bullock getting any ammo stockpiled against him. Won’t even look at a woman—not so’s people’d notice—until after the election. Heard him say so myself. Said it to his cousin.”
; For some reason Marie’s heart sank. “So he’s Mr. Clean?”
“Mostly. I’ve only seen him look with lust at one Sheila.”
“And she was—?”
Reynard leaned closer. He smiled his most beguiling smile. “Why, you, love. And you know it as well as I. For you gave him that look right back. But don’t fall for him. He sees you as a little nobody who might be fun on the side once or twice. Keep your distance, duck.”
His words shocked her, and she stared at him with a challenging spark in her eye.
“Rennie, I’m not interested in being anybody’s ‘fun on the side.’ And stick to the subject. I don’t like Louisa Fairchild. She has a mean streak in her. I don’t want to go through with this—this impersonation. It’s not worth it.”
“Really, love,” he purred, “you’ve known her half a day. Give her a decent chance. Mrs. Lipton’s a good sort, and she’s stayed with her for years. Her best trainers and stable men have stood by her. She can’t be all bad if she inspires such loyalty.”
He smiled wisely and sipped his beer.
“She may have good in her somewhere,” Marie argued. “But she was beastly to me. And I feel like I’m just here after her money or favors. It makes me feel dirty. We’ve seen that one highly questionable letter from Willadene Gates—that’s all.”
“Ah, but there’s talk,” Reynard observed. “Small community like this? Oh, the gossip’s everlasting. And I’ve heard the same rumor a dozen times.”
Marie shot him a dubious glance. “What rumor?”
Reynard smiled, and gave her his heavy-lidded look. “Louisa left home for six months when she was sixteen. Her family said she was going to New Zealand to study. But others say she had a bastard child. She came home changed. Cold and bitter.”
Marie’s spine straightened in surprise. “But you say it’s only a rumor.”
“It’s also a question of math. I was told that she left here in the last part of 1945. Colette was born in March of 1946. It fits. Look at old pictures of Louisa. You’ll see the resemblance between her and Colette. Can’t miss it.”
“How’d you see pictures?” Marie challenged.
“Mrs. Lipton showed me. At the end of the hall on the second floor. Look for yourself.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner? About the rumors? And her going away?”
“I thought I’d save it until you started going wobbly. Didn’t expect it would be this soon. Don’t you want to learn more? You owe it to Colette to find out. You know you do.”
Marie was struck speechless.
“Stay a bit longer?” he asked in his most beguiling voice.
“Only a bit,” she said, once again feeling cornered. “Only a bit.”
Chapter Six
The next morning Marie helped make a simple breakfast for the staff and a complicated one for Louisa and her great-niece and -nephew.
Reynard showed up with the eggs just in time to eat breakfast. “Luscious, love,” he told Marie as he took another cup of tea. “You’re truly your mother’s daughter.”
She smiled, but wondered if her mother was truly Louisa’s daughter. No two women could be so different in spirit, the gentle Colette, and the crotchety Louisa.
“And by the by,” Reynard said, “the cook over at Lochlain wants to know if you’ve got any stoneware onion soup bowls she could borrow. Andrew Preston’s campaign manager, the fabulous Miss Darci Parnell, comes for lunch day after tomorrow. Loves onion soup. Nobody in the history of Lochlain’s ever wanted onion soup before. A loan would be appreciated.”
Marie was taken aback by the words “the fabulous Miss Darci Parnell.” Of course, Andrew Preston would know fabulous women. And she was his campaign manager? They must be very close.
She stiffened her back and said, “You’ll have to ask Mrs. Lipton. I don’t know yet what this kitchen does or doesn’t have.”
He got up, leaned over the table and kissed her on the cheek. “Then I’ll ask Mrs. Lipton—and take a few of her brandy snaps with me. And thanks, love, for a bonzer brekkie.”
A moment later, Reynard practically had his lips buried in Mrs. Lipton’s ear, and she couldn’t have looked happier. He blew Marie a kiss and was out the door, whistling.
Mrs. Lipton came to Marie. “Onion soup bowls? Yes, we have extras. I know you’re already worked to bits, but if I find them, could you run them over to Lochlain later in the day? Perhaps you’d welcome a little break—you haven’t had a chance to see much of our valley.”
Marie nodded, but was curious. “Miss Fairchild has a grudge against Lochlain. Why would she want to loan them anything?”
“Miss may bear a grudge against whomever she likes, whenever she likes. But people on the two staffs have been friends, neighbors—and some of them relatives—for years. She may go on the warpath, but we keep our separate peace. And by the way,” Mrs. Lipton added, “Miss would like to see you at nine sharp. You’ll be able to oblige?”
Marie nodded again. And wondered what the old woman wanted this time.
At five to nine, Marie climbed the stairs to Louisa’s second-story suite. Just as Reynard had said, there were many gold-framed photographs arranged on the wall at the end of the hallway. All were of Louisa, from babyhood to the present.
As a young teenager, Louisa was lovely. In one photo she stood by a horse, giving it an adoring look. The sight shook Marie, who saw a clear resemblance not only to Colette, but to herself at that age. My God, she thought, this can’t just be coincidence.
She studied the pictures with growing perplexity, until her watch said nine. Then she rapped at Louisa’s door.
The suite included a sitting room, a private dining room, bathroom and an office that was being remodeled. When Marie entered, she saw Louisa sitting on a couch in riding clothes. She was amazed that the old woman still rode.
Louisa seemed to read her thoughts. “Once I could sit a horse like nobody’s business. Now? The groom has to help me into the saddle. Such, such are the joys of aging. You see your lovely pleasures slipping away, one by one.”
Marie thought, My mother didn’t live to be truly old and had few pleasures. Would her life have been better if you hadn’t turned your back and left her life to chance?
She said nothing, simply stood with her head held high.
“On occasion,” said Louisa, “one of my pleasures is complaining. You’ve deprived me, for my breakfast was disappointingly without flaw. Still, I went out on the balcony and sniffed the aroma of the staff’s breakfast. It smelled better. How could that be?”
“I’m just trying to make their meals more flavorful. Mrs. Lipton said that your breakfast was what you’d requested.”
“In making meals more flavorful, won’t you also make them more expensive? I don’t intend to spend money on truffles for men who scoop manure.”
“It’ll cost only a bit more and be worth it. Well-fed people will work harder for you and want to keep you happy.”
“And what are you feeding these people for lunch?” Louisa demanded. “Oysters on the half shell?”
“I believe that’s your lunch, Miss,” Marie said with just a touch of tartness. “They’ll have German tuna salad, rye bread and a medley of vegetables, also a German recipe.”
“Then bring me the same. I haven’t had simple food in years. Perhaps you can make it tolerable. That’s all I have to say. Except tell your uncle I wish to speak to him tomorrow when he brings the eggs. And tonight I want a strawberry Pavlova.”
“Certainly,” Marie said and managed an imitation of an obedient smile.
“Now I have bloodlines to study for my breeding program,” Louisa said with an irritable flutter of her fingers. “Blood will tell, you know. I can spot an excellent Thoroughbred the instant I see one. I have an unerring instinct. Blood will tell, it’s true.”
Marie nodded. “If you say so, Miss.”
She left, her heart beating hard and high in her chest. Louisa’s words kept echoing in her mind: “Blood wil
l tell.”
Early that afternoon, Andrew was restless. Ever since he’d met Marie Lafayette, he couldn’t get her out of his head. Or out of his dreams, which were disturbingly erotic until some inner censor switched them off and hurled him into semiconsciousness.
He had too much pent-up energy, he told himself. He was a physical man, not used to an endless agenda of giving speeches, taking meetings, doing interviews and touring the countryside talking to an endless series of owners, trainers and breeders.
He wanted to go for a gallop over the hills or hike ten miles or chop wood. Then he’d be back to normal and not become tongue-tied in the presence of a cute cook. Because that’s all she was. A really cute cook.
Tyler was busy with a vanload of tourists from Sydney, led by a guide who’d cooked them a barbecue in a shady grove next to a pasture of grazing Thoroughbreds. Afterward, some visitors would go horseback riding, some would take a trip in a horse-drawn carriage, and the rest would stay in the shade sipping Hunter Valley wine.
Tyler made some sorely needed spare cash from this, but Andrew would as soon stay off the riding trails while the tourists were there. He opted to chop wood, which in Australia was not just a chore, but a national sport. One of the stable men, Winkler, had taught him to underhand block chop and said Andrew showed a talent for it.
A woodsman had to stand atop a log, chop halfway through one side, turn it over and chop through the other side as fast as possible. There was a danger of chopping a foot, but only a sissy wore steel-toed boots.
So Andrew chopped in a special area beside the yearling barn until he’d worked up a fine sweat and all he could think of was his aching muscles. He’d pulled his T-shirt off after a few minutes and thrown it onto the grass. The charm Raddy had given him nestled against the hairs of his chest.
A few tourists drifted by, wineglasses in hand, and paused to watch him.
“Why’s he doing that?” a woman in a big hat asked. “That’s a funny way to chop a log.”
“Probably a little sideshow for you ladies,” a potbellied man said snidely. “Let’s go look where the fire was and they found the body.”
The Secret Heiress Page 7