by Judith Stacy
Mitch frowned. “What is it?”
“Your family.”
He stilled. His gaze darted to the envelope, then back to her.
“Your real family,” Rachel said. “I hired a private detective. He uncovered everything about your past.”
“And you read it?” he asked slowly.
“I didn’t want you to learn anything hurtful,” she explained. “I read it first so I could be prepared, just in case.”
Another long moment dragged by and Rachel wondered if he would want to read about his past. She understood his hesitancy. He’d probably fantasized about it most of his life. Wondered, speculated, fretted over who his relatives might be. And why they abandoned him.
“I don’t want to read it.” Mitch turned away, then looked back at her. “Just tell me what it says.”
Rachel smiled because she couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“Your family has been looking for you for years,” she explained. “You have grandparents, and aunts and uncles, and cousins. The detective talked to them and—”
“Then why didn’t they come for me?” he demanded. “Why did they leave me in that—that place?”
“Let me start at the beginning,” Rachel said. She didn’t need to consult the report. She’d read it over a dozen times, her heart breaking anew each time, until she’d committed it to memory.
“Your father died of a fever when you were a baby. Your mother worked as a maid in a wealthy home near Albany. She was quite beautiful, according to your grandmother, and the mistress of the house suspected her husband had designs on your mother. She was a jealous woman, by all accounts.”
“Were they—”
“No. According to everyone, your mother was an upstanding Christian woman. If she’d wanted to trade on her looks she wouldn’t have had to work as a maid,” Rachel said. “When she fell down the staircase, it was the mistress of the house who arranged for you to be shipped off.”
“But why? Why would she do that?”
“Because her husband did, apparently, care a great deal for your mother. He allowed her to keep you in the house, when no other servants could. He was fond of you,” Rachel said. “But that was exactly why the mistress sent you away. You were a reminder that her husband cared for someone else. And, I think, she wanted to punish her husband.”
“That still doesn’t explain why my family let her do that.”
“They didn’t know what happened to you. After they learned of your mother’s death, they went to the house but you were already gone. The mistress refused to tell anyone—even her husband—what she’d done with you. What could your family do? They were workers. Certainly no one in authority would come to their aid against a wealthy family. Shortly thereafter, the husband left and never returned. The mistress died a few years later, lonely and bitter, still refusing to tell anyone what she’d done with you.”
A long moment passed and finally Mitch gestured to the envelope. “Their names are in there? All of them? My…my family, too?”
“Yes. Everyone. The detective said they were all thrilled when he tracked them down.”
“How did he manage?”
“He started at the orphanage. Got a look at your records,” Rachel said. “It seemed that when you were first sent there, a hefty sum was paid to the people who ran the place to keep quiet about your past. Even if your family had somehow tracked you down all the way across the country, it’s doubtful they would have been told the truth about you.”
Mitch shook his head. He looked tired now. Weary. The weight of his past too much to bear at the moment.
“They—the family—they want to meet me?”
“Yes. But you don’t have to, if you don’t want to. They don’t know where you are or how to reach you. You can contact them only if you want to.”
“I need to think about this for a while,” he said.
Rachel put the envelope aside and snuggled closer. They lay down together and listened to the surf and calls of the circling seagulls. Mitch grew still, his even breathing and the steady rise and fall of his chest comforting. She thought he’d fallen asleep.
“You’re sure this is true?” he asked. “This private detective, he’s reliable?”
“Yes, it’s the same agency you hired to find Georgie,” she said. “I asked Uncle Stuart and he said I should speak with our neighbor, Nick Hastings. I talked with him at—”
“Claudia’s engagement party?” Mitch sat up. “That’s why you were talking to Hastings that night? I thought the two of you were…well, that maybe something was going on with you two.”
“Oh, Mitch, really…” Rachel rolled her eyes. “Nick is an old friend and he’s desperately in love with his wife. There’s a rumor among the ladies that she’s going to have a baby.”
“She’s pregnant, too?” Mitch shook his head. “Is every woman in our neighborhood pregnant?”
“Well, not all of us,” Rachel said, lowering her lashes.
A familiar, devilish smile touched his lips. “I can remedy that situation,” he offered.
“I’m sure you can. But let me get things started.” Rachel slid her leg across him and planted her palms on his chest. “Because, you know, I think I can become very good at this.”
ISBN: 978-1-4592-3173-3
THE HIRED HUSBAND
Copyright © 2005 by Dorothy Howell
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