His foresight would be rewarded this very day, at two o’clock in the Hendryk Courthouse. When Roxelana, a.k.a. Araxie Avakian, was pronounced legally dead, no claim to Hawkscliffe would have more force than mine.
None of my concern, Thorn Ramsay?
I’d soon learn it he was as honorable a man as my Uncle Vartan had judged him.
I consulted my lapel watch: ten o’clock. There was no time to consult a lawyer, of course. I would just have to do the best I could on my own. I added the journals and letters to the personal belongings I had not yet unpacked and left them together with the portfolio next to the wardrobe filled to overflowing and hardly able to accommodate a capacious carpet bag.
I told Mary Rose and Agnes I would be returning later in the day and would appreciate the suite being left undisturbed, but I decided not to inform Cora of my change in plans. Prudence persuaded me to let this particular sleeping dog lie.
When Harry pulled up in front of the house promptly at eleven, he didn’t inquire about my bags. I’m sure he couldn’t have cared less about what was to become of them—or of me, for that matter.
The clouds had spread into a seamless gray sheet, the sun a puddle of white glowing through it. The wind had dropped and the temperature with it.
“Going to snow, missy. I can smell it. Those pretty shoes of yours’ll be ruint.” He seemed pleased at the prospect.
I had changed into the Thanksgiving costume I had brought, which included the bronze kid shoes I was wearing, but I wasn’t sure why. To give me courage? To, as Thorn Ramsay had once said, put the starch back in my spine? Lord knows I needed it. I wasn’t happy about the prospect of facing down the three Ramsay men, but one thing I did not lack courage about were my convictions.
If I had learned nothing else during the course of the events at Hawkscliffe it was that no one, not even the least selfish of us, can escape entirely the claims of self-interest: the Ramsays—all of them, from Charles Quintus to Lance—Cora, certainly Roxelana. Even my father.
Poor Papa. His world was so dominated by a dread of sin it became his sole mission in life to deliver others from his self-defined view of it. Once I realized this, the crippling burden of sin he had laid upon my frail shoulders slipped away, and freed at last to decide for myself the kind of life I wanted, I discovered to my bemused surprise that my choice had already largely been made. The shop granted me more independence than most women ever dreamed of, and the rugs I traded in meant much more to me than mere articles of commerce.
Always seek the advantage, Uncle Vartan used to say. In my case, at this stage of my career, the Hawkscliffe collection was my precious advantage: I wanted to publish the catalog under my name; I wanted the disposition of the collection to be my decision. As for the rest of the estate…well, that remained to be seen.
I saw Thorn before he saw me. He stood facing away from me, hands clasped loosely behind his back, his tall figure silhouetted against pale sunlight shining ever more weakly, as if through frosted glass. He turned.
“Kate!” he cried. The smile on his face as he strode forward to meet me delighted my heart. “How lovely you are.”
I was pleased I had taken the time to change; I was even more pleased when I realized my pretty dress was concealed by my long, fur-edged caped coat. How very nice—how heavenly—to be thought lovely by the only man whose opinion mattered to me.
He grasped my arms in his strong hands and pulled me to him. I tipped my face up to meet his. A sigh parted my expectant lips as my eyelids drifted down in silent acquiescence to the demand I saw in the glittering green depths of his eyes.
“Kate! I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Philo’s exclamation wrenched me out of the clouds and back to the grimy Hendryk railroad platform, upon which the second of the Ramsay men had just stepped out from the station house. Thorn’s urgent embrace softened to a comradely hug, one of his arms relaxing into a friendly slide around my shoulders before releasing me altogether.
“Were you able to complete the catalog?”
I raised my eyebrows. First things first, eh, Philo?
“Oh, yes,” I answered coolly. “It’s at Hawkscliffe. Along with Cora’s eight watercolor illustrations. ‘
“Eight, you say? Why that’s splendid! Absolutely splendid.”
“And the little carpetbag you ordered for your friend? It’s not quite finished, but will be shortly. By Christmas, surely. Where would you like it delivered?”
“How good of you! Let’s see ... to the Metropolitan, I think.” He smiled. “Aunt Louise’s girlhood chum left the board, you see, and after due consideration, they offered me the curatorship I asked for—“
“As well they should, given your stellar CV,” Thorn broke in.
“--but my living arrangements are still. . . undecided.”
Oh dear, I thought. They may remain undecided for longer than you expect, Philo.
“Hullo, Kate.”
His greeting perfunctory, a wary Lance made three.
I nodded and opened my mouth to speak, but the shriek of the whistle announcing the imminent arrival of the train to New York made me clap my hands over my ears. We stood, shrugging helplessly, as the locomotive roared up to the platform in a great whuff of steam. Considering the unwelcome tidings I was about to deliver to the three men surrounding me, I was grateful for a few moments of enforced speechlessness in which to gather my forces.
“Missy! Your train!” It was Harry, looming up out of the steam like an evil jinni loosed from a lamp. “You’ll miss your train.”
“It’s all right, Harry,” I shouted back at him. “I intended to.”
Harry stared at me. Then, as the train lurched forward and chuffed its way south to New York, he hunched his shoulders and threw out his arms. “Women!” he growled.
As he roughly pushed back through the Ramsay men to resume his lounging posture against the station freight wagon, I saw Philo surreptitiously consult his watch and look questioningly at his cousin.
“Will you be our guest at lunch, Kate?” Thorn asked. “As you know, we have an appointment at the courthouse at two, but your company would allow us to pass the intervening time much more enjoyably, and then we can all return together to Hawkscliffe.
“You do not expect anyone else, then?”
“Who else would we ...” Sardonic appreciation rapidly succeeded his earnest, inquiring gaze. “No, we do not expect anyone else,” he drawled. “According to the locals Harry canvassed, no one in the least out of the ordinary has arrived recently by boat, train, or carriage.”
“Or shanks’ mare?” I inquired dryly.
Thorn turned to his cousin, who had been listening to our conversation with growing agitation. “What do you think, Philo? Might Roxelana have arrived on foot?” He threw back his shaggy head and gave a shout of laughter.
Judging from Philo’s pained expression, he failed to share Thorn’s amusement. In truth. Thorn’s high spirits puzzled me as well. Did he know something the others of us did not? Something that convinced him the chance of his uncle’s last mistress arriving to claim her inheritance was not only remote, but impossible? Or was it simply the joyous imminence of being relieved of seven years’ sole responsibility for an estate that had proved a costly burden?
“It’s twenty minutes to one. Thorn,” Philo complained, “and it’s growing colder. Can’t we continue this indoors?”
“Yes, let’s do!” Lance agreed, rubbing his hands and stamping his feet.
I hung back. How could I be their guest at lunch, knowing what I did? Since meeting the Ramsays, there had been too many disquieting scenes at table; I had no wish to become the catalyst for yet another. Just the thought of it roiled my insides.
Thorn crooked his arm to me and smiled invitingly. “Avanti, Kate!”
I hesitated. If only there were some way to preserve that smile, that caressing look in his eyes. If only ...
“Please,” I said. “Stay a moment longer. There is something
you ... something I must tell you.”
My words were not sufficiently arresting in themselves;
there must have been something else, in my voice or posture, that caused all three to stop, to look, to attentively listen. Even Harry roused himself to cock an ear in our direction.
“It is something I began to learn about only in the last few days, but didn’t fully understand—understand all the implications, that is—until a few hours ago at Hawkscliffe.”
Thorn’s warm smile faded. He drew his dark brows down. “Why do I have the feeling,” he muttered, “that I am about to learn you are not simply a person from Porlock after all?” His question was not addressed to me so much as the thin cold air above and beyond me. In effect, he had already turned his back on me.
Stung, I drew myself up as tall as I could, and clasped my gloved hands tightly. “I have just learned that I….”
The story was so long, so complicated, and even to me so unlikely that I faltered, unable to decide where to begin, how to soften the blow and yet secure what was legally mine.
Oh, get on with it, Kate. His neck is strong enough to bear another albatross! Say it and get it over with. I took a deep breath. “Roxelana is ... was ... my sister.”
Philo blanched. “Her sister? What is she saying, Thorn? What does it mean?”
“What it means, dear coz, if true, is that our Miss Mackenzie may have just snatched Hawkscliffe right out from under your and Lance’s eager noses. If true,” he repeated ominously.
“Mother was right about her,” Lance said in a flat tone.
So it was Louise who had sown the seeds of his distrust of me, seeds nourished by grief and guilt.
Harry let loose a hoot of raucous laughter that made all of us start. “Prissy missy is Roxy’s sister? Who would’ve believed it!”
Thorn wheeled to face him. “Harry, be so kind as to inform the hotel dining room we’ll be a little late, and while you’re at it, arrange for the delivery of the new furnace. Now, if you please!” he added commandingly as Harry shuffled back and forth, obviously reluctant to absent himself from such an interesting scene.
“No need to air the family linen in public,” he added in low-pitched warning, as Harry took his slouching leave. “He has a point, though, has our Harry. Who indeed would believe it?”
His question was blandly rhetorical; his green eyes, oddly lusterless now, held no expression at all. Was he angry? Disappointed? I could not tell. I sensed the guarded, alert focus of a big cat waiting to pounce.
“I have proof.”
“I have no doubt of it. Miss Mackenzie.” His voice was a deep, smooth purr of unconcern.
Unsettled, I plunged into the story despite my better judgment. What I had to say was more suited to a judge’s chambers than the hostile audience assembled on this gritty stage.
“It seems that my uncle Vartan had a daughter, Araxie. She was a wild girl. She caused her parents much pain, and in the end she deserted her dying mother while my uncle was in New York establishing the business for which Charles Quintus Ramsay provided the financial backing.”
Thorn and Philo exchanged astonished glances. Had they not known this? “His generous advances have long since been paid back,” I blurted defensively, “with interest. I have—”
“Proof,” Thorn supplied with a grin that unsettled me further. “I have no doubt of that either. Miss Mackenzie. But do continue,” he added. “We are, I can assure you, all ears.” Philo and Lance, tight-lipped and grim, nodded their agreement.
I dropped my eyes. I knew this would not be easy, but….
I took a deep breath. “Uncle Vartan never heard from Araxie, never spoke of her, never saw her again until C.Q. insisted he help him abduct a princess from the sultan’s palace. Uncle Vartan was appalled when he discovered that C.Q.’s Roxelana was his daughter! He wanted nothing to do with her or her deception, but what choice did he have? She had earned the murderous enmity of the sultan’s chief wife—how could he abandon his own flesh and blood when C.Q. offered sanctuary, even marriage?”
“But he adopted you!” Philo broke in. “Why would he do that when he had his own daughter back?”
“Because he broke with Araxie a second and final time. She became pregnant—”
“How could you know this?” Thorn, visibly shaken, asked in a hoarse whisper.
“Because she wrote her father demanding money to pay for ridding herself of the unwanted child. She refused the obvious alternatives, and my uncle was sure C.Q. would turn her out if he had so much as a hint of her betrayal. He knew what had happened to ... to another of C.Q.’s women in similar circumstances.” I amended my sentence just in time. I did not intend to acquaint Lance with the rumors about his paternity. “So he supplied the necessary funds—blood money, he termed it. Later, after taking me under his roof and into his heart, he wrote her he would tell Charles Quintus everything if such a thing ever happened again.
I laughed bitterly. “And his threat worked. Apparently it had never occurred to Araxie that her father would sacrifice C.Q.’s patronage to salvage his honor.
“First, he manufactured a quarrel with C.Q. to remove himself from Araxie’s orbit. Then, when she disappeared, he adopted me, not as a way of laying claim to C.Q.’s estate—he had no idea Araxie was C.Q.’s heir—but to protect his estate for me should she reappear after his death.”
My concluding words floated away on the frosty air. Philo and Lance seemed numbed—more, I reckoned, by my narrative than the cold.
“A fascinating tale, eh, chaps?” Thorn had regained his earlier nonchalance; the momentary tremor of alarm evoked by my mention of Roxelana’s pregnancy might never have occurred. “But I fear you lack one essential item, Kate.” My given name was pronounced not with affection, but condescension.
“I have detailed journals,” I protested. “Letters—”
“As I said before, I have no doubt of it. But have you a death certificate for Araxie Avakian, a.k.a. Roxelana?”
I was astounded. “Of course not! Isn’t that what today’s hearing is supposed to accomplish?”
“Oh yes, but you see, Roxelana disappeared before C.Q. died, so today’s hearing will establish her death as of that date, in lieu of evidence to the contrary. That done, C.Q. will be found to have died intestate, in accord with the will I drew up for him, and which, by the way, has long since been accepted by the surrogate court. Then, as I explained to these worthy, long-suffering gentlemen on our way up, it will require another court proceeding to determine who of C.Q.’s kin is entitled to what.”
He smiled at me. I could sense his mental muscles tensing, preparing for his spring. “Any questions? Is it all quite clear to you so far?”
I shook my head, unable to speak, undone by his exaggerated teasing considerateness.
“Good! Then you will understand—perhaps you already have, clever girl that you are—that unless you can prove Roxelana died after C.Q., your claim is entirely without merit.”
The snow Harry had predicted began to fall. One large lazy flake, then two, settled upon my lowered lashes. I felt the touch of Thorn’s finger as he reached out to gently dislodge them. Flinching, I looked up to meet an earnestly regretful green gaze denied by a satisfied grin. He had had reservations about me from the beginning: how gratifying to prove oneself such a shrewd judge of character.
“Ah! Here’s Harry back from his errands. He’ll take you up to fetch your bags in time for the four o’clock train, but mind you leave the Hawkscliffe rug collection portfolio,” he added with a cruelly playful wag of his finger. “I should hate to be forced to bring charges of theft against you. Goodbye, Miss Mackenzie. May you have a safe journey home.”
The three men walked away from me without a backward glance, Thorn pausing only long enough to discuss with Harry the installation of the new furnace, which would be carted up that afternoon before the snow made the delivery of such freight too difficult.
How ironic, I thought, that the only leavenin
g element at this dreadful moment was the realization that Cora had had a legitimate reason for rationing the use of Hawkscliffe’s heating system.
We rode in silence, Harry and I, the wheels of our carriage tracing narrow gray ribbons in the snow that had only just begun to cling to the graveled surface of the turnpike.
Shortly after we passed through the looming stands of rhododendron flanking the entrance to Hawkscliffe, he spoke to me over his shoulder.
“So you’re Roxy’s sister. Except for the eyes, there’s not a smidgen of likeness.”
“The eyes. Imagine Harry spotting it. That explained my unnerving sense of deja vu whenever I glanced at her portrait: they were Avakian eyes: brother, sister, daughters, and cousins. “Adopted sister,” I corrected tersely. “We were only cousins by blood.”
“She fancied me, missy,” he blurted unexpectedly. “Oh, she fancied a lot of fellows, that I know, but those last two years, it was me she smiled on ... and more,” he added, lest his insinuation had escaped me.
Charles Quintus must have found about them, I guessed. She hadn’t run to her lover, but away from him, away from the unlikely man whose embraces had cost her the cozy nest she had so carefully feathered. But if that were the case, how had Harry escaped his employer’s wrath?
“C.Q. never guessed about us,” Harry said, as if he had read my thoughts. “He couldn’t imagine his fancy woman taking up with a rough sort like me. The old fool! It was her getting in the family way what did it... that and Cora.”
“I would’ve married her,” he said, turning to glare at me, daring me to express disbelief. “But she’d have none of it. Happy enough to share my bed, but not my name.” he muttered. “Thought herself too fine for that.”
Poor Harry. No wonder my disdainful attitude had riled him. Apparently Roxelana had never told him she was C.Q.’s heir, an enviable prospect that marriage to anyone, much less Harry, would have destroyed. She had shrewdly let him think her objections were based on sensibility rather than future gain: she didn’t want to risk his blackmailing her into a permanent liaison.
The Lost Heiress of Hawkscliffe Page 21