The Impersonator (Leah Randall/Jessie Carr Novels)

by Miley, Mary

  The “brother” himself looked monstrously ill at ease. His full lips were pressed into a tight line, and he shifted his weight from foot to foot like a performer caught before a hostile audience. Clueless as I was, I felt a moment’s sympathy for his predicament.

  “What game are we playing now, Henry?” I sighed dramatically, my eyes locked on the stranger even as I spoke to my cousin.

  “Well, naturally I thought Jessie would enjoy seeing her half brother again—”

  Why was Aunt Victoria silent? Why did she not correct Henry? Could this man really be Jessie’s half brother? If so, why had Oliver not warned me? With no idea which way to go, I decided my only recourse was to throw a tantrum.

  “I have lost patience with you and your silly tricks!” I said forcefully. “I meant it when I said I could prove I was Jessie, and I can. I can tell you things only Jessie would know.” I warmed to my theme, turning to the family one by one as my voice grew more strident with each example. “I can tell you which room Uncle Charles used for his sickroom, I can tell you why Santa left lumps of coal in Ross’s stocking, I can tell you the name of Henry’s dog buried under the big tree out back, I can tell you how mad Ross was when I tore out the last pages of his Tom Swift books, I can tell you why I smashed the girls’ favorite dolls—” I skidded to a halt and addressed an aside to Valerie and Caroline: “I’m very sorry about that, by the way. I should have known you two didn’t break my china cat on purpose.” Ignoring Ross’s open mouth, I turned back to Henry and resumed my tirade. “Nobody but Jessie would know these things. Well, get your childish tricks in now because I won’t be here much longer. I am leaving as soon as the trustees submit the results of their investigation, which I hope will be soon because I am sick, sick, sick of this!”

  While I’d been raving, Uncle Oliver and Grandmother appeared at the top of the stairs, probably in time to overhear everything. Aunt Victoria found her composure at last and sidled up, draping one arm around my shoulder. “There, there, Jessie, we believe you.” She glared at Henry, who wasn’t looking the least bit penitent, and took a deep breath. “And may I have the pleasure of introducing you to David Murray. He is your father’s son. I’m afraid none of us knew of his existence until last March when Henry met him in Portland. Mr. Murray, may I present Jessie Carr?”

  “Pleased to meet you,” he mumbled without quite meeting my eye.

  So that was it. My, my. Lawrence Carr’s bastard boy. That explained Aunt Victoria’s shock at seeing him in her house and her mortification at having to introduce him socially. Well, there was a bastard in every family. I was proof of that.

  I examined him during the introductions. Perhaps it was as well that I hadn’t noticed the family resemblance at once because I might have made the wrong choice and fallen for Henry’s trick, pretending to know someone Jessie could not have known. I drew a deep breath to steady my nerves. It had been a close call. This David fellow did look remarkably like the Lawrence Carr I remembered from his wedding photo—handsome, fair-haired, with blue eyes, but this man was rugged where Lawrence Carr was soft, and tanned by the sun where Lawrence Carr was pale. David hadn’t had the easy life of a rich man. Bastards never do.

  “And my daughters, Caroline and Valerie,” Aunt Victoria was saying, “and Jessie’s uncle, Mr. Oliver Beckett, and his mother, Mrs. Beckett. And you have met Ross.”

  I glanced at Oliver. He looked as if his heart had stopped. And I knew why. Another heir to worry about.

  “How is it no one ever told us about Jessie’s half brother?” Caroline whined. “We never get to know anything!”

  “It wasn’t any of your concern.” The twins exchanged exasperated glances and Aunt Victoria was forced to continue. “He was born before your uncle Lawrence married your aunt Blanche. Before they had even met.”

  “So? He’s still our cousin, isn’t he?” continued Caroline, like a dog with a bone.

  “In a sense … distantly…”

  Valerie—smarter than her sister if not as bold—turned to David with a perplexed crease in her brow. “Then why isn’t your name Carr, like ours?”

  Aunt Victoria hastened to interrupt any reply the bastard might have made.

  “It was a different sort of marriage. Not entirely legal. Those children usually take their mother’s last name. Now, enough of this rudeness, prying into other people’s personal matters! Since we’re all present and accounted for, we may as well go into the dining room … Ross, would you please select a wine from the cellar? I’ll go tell Marie to put dinner ahead.” Poor Aunt—convention wouldn’t permit her to dine with a bastard and manners wouldn’t allow her to throw him out. “Jessie, darling, you sit on my left and Mr. Murray, you on my right, please.” And she marched toward the kitchen, sending me a look that promised to reveal all at a later time, if only I would cooperate for the present.

  As we filtered into the dining room to take our assigned seats, Henry made a show of gallantry, holding my chair.

  “Round two to you, Miss Fraud,” he said, bending close to my ear. “That was quite a performance in there. You may have bamboozled some people but not me. I know you’re not Jessie, and I’ll prove it, sooner or later.” I murmured something to Valerie on my left and pretended I hadn’t heard him.

  The only person at that table more uncomfortable than Aunt Victoria was the bastard himself, who must have realized he’d been set up as much as I. He sat quietly through the first course, eyeing the others to see which spoon to use and speaking only when spoken to. Henry carried on gaily as though nothing untoward had occurred. Oliver had regained his composure once he understood David was illegitimate and therefore no threat. Aunt Victoria valiantly led the conversation through several thoroughly dull but socially acceptable topics, but even she grew alarmed after we had exhausted the best sort of books for Dexter’s new lending library and the main course had not yet appeared.

  “What’s happening in Salem, Henry?” she asked, counting on Henry to step up to the political podium with the faintest encouragement.

  “Well, they’re appealing that new compulsory education act to the U.S. Supreme Court.”

  “I saw that in yesterday’s newspaper,” said Uncle Oliver, earning his keep in the time-honored manner of upper-class moochers by serving in the role of Chief Conversationalist and Social Asset. “What is the objection?”

  “It’s a good law,” Henry continued with what sounded like a rehearsal of his campaign speech. “Passed by referendum last year, thanks to strong support from Governor Pierce. It’s about time we closed down those foreign Papist schools with their anti-American values. All children deserve a decent, patriotic, American education, not some hocus-pocus religious indoctrination from the nuns and priests at the Academy of the Holy Toenail. With Governor Pierce leading the way, we should be able to make real improvements in the everyday lives of genuine Americans and shut down the flood of Bolsheviks and colored races into our land. We’re looking at the dawn of a great awakening of American pride and power!”

  Aunt Victoria beamed. I wondered how she could employ Chen if she were so intent on barring the door to foreigners. “Speaking of tutors,” she announced, “Mrs. Applewhite returns next week!” The twins groaned on cue. “Oh, fiddlesticks! You’ll be happier without so much time on your hands. You’ve worn out those poor horses with all that riding.”

  “I’ve worn out my riding habit,” complained Caroline. “Val too. We need new ones. And so does Jessie. She can’t ride at all until she gets some proper clothes. We should go shopping before Mrs. Applewhite returns.”

  Aunt thought it an inspired idea. “We must go into the city for a shopping trip. Jessie, you need suitable clothing for church too, and some nice daywear as well. Not that your wardrobe isn’t lovely, my dear, but it isn’t very extensive, is it?” she said delicately. “And nothing in your closet fit, of course. Never mind, even if it had fit, it would have been out of style. Let’s see now … we’ll go day after tomorrow and come back Saturday ev
ening. One night should be enough.”

  Overnight? Only then did I realize a shopping trip meant Portland. Dexter’s population supported a couple general stores but evidently nothing that passed for fashionable.

  “You’ll stay at the Benson Hotel?” asked Oliver.

  “We always do. Simon Benson was such a dear friend of Lawrence and Blanche. And it’s so close to the better stores. Why, it’s right around the corner from Meier and Frank.”

  Valerie clapped her hands. “We’ll be there for Friday Surprise!”

  I looked agreeable, as if I knew what a Friday Surprise was.

  “Perhaps Mother and I might accompany you,” said Oliver. “We’ve enjoyed our stay immensely but it’s high time we started the long trip back to San Francisco.”

  After much exclamation that surely dear Oliver and his mother were not thinking of leaving so soon, that everyone had hoped they would stay through Christmas, the protests faded away. I was a little rattled by Oliver’s proposal, although I’d been expecting his eventual departure. It would be hard to lose my only allies. I’d miss Grandmother far more than Oliver. Having her sharp eyes watching out for me was a comfort. But honestly, all I had to do was keep out of trouble’s path until the trustees’ report arrived, and I was home free.

  There was no chance of the private investigators finding anything amiss with my story. I had worked it out too carefully. I had told the trustees nothing but the truth about my past seven years. There was nothing they could find to hurt me. Four years with the Little Darlings, one with Jo & Joey Baker, and short stints with several others. I knew for a fact they would not run down Jo & Joey Baker—I was Jo and my “brother” Joey’s real name was something I’d long forgotten. I’d heard he’d quit the stage when his father inherited a dry-goods store somewhere in Texas. Even if they found him, he’d have as little to say about me as I would about him. I didn’t make a point of telling people my real age, and no one in vaudeville sat around blabbing about their civilian lives. The theater is a closemouthed business. If Pinkertons could trace people who changed their names and their acts at the drop of a hat and traveled the United States and Canada with no permanent address, they were genuine magicians.

  They could trace only the names I had given them, the stage names I had performed under for the past seven years. They would meet only the people I had performed with during those years, and none of them went back far enough to have known my mother or anything substantive about my past. And the investigators wouldn’t find all of those people anyway, for some had dropped out of vaudeville for God knows where, and the rest changed their acts and their names as often as their undergarments. Still, the slim chance that some old codger might walk up as the investigators were flashing my photograph and say, “Gee whillikers, that’s Chloë Randall’s girl, isn’t it?” kept me from sleeping soundly.

  I saw Uncle Oliver eyeing me thoughtfully during the meal, and I knew exactly what he was thinking. I would disabuse him of the idea when I had him alone. I was not another of Lawrence Carr’s bastards. My mother had never talked about the man who fathered me, but I had picked up enough to know he was a drifter. She well knew the dangers of dallying with rich dandies and would never have given Lawrence Carr the time of day. What she hadn’t known was that men were all the same, regardless of social class. They said what you wanted to hear, had their fun, and left. No doubt there were exceptions to the rule, but I hadn’t met any.

  Someone else was watching me closely during dinner. I looked up just as dessert was being served and caught Aunt Victoria staring at me with such hostility that I blinked in astonishment, thinking I’d imagined it. Sure enough, on second glance, her expression had resumed its usual vague affability, with the corners of her lips drawn up in a bland smile. She nodded genially in my direction before turning to speak to Oliver.

  I said nothing to David Murray during the entire meal, although I sat across from him, and he excused himself so quickly afterward that I didn’t realize he had left the house until Aunt Victoria motioned me to follow her.

  “My dear, what can I say? That was dreadful for all of us. No doubt Henry didn’t realize how awkward that would be.”

  “It makes no difference, Aunt. Don’t trouble yourself about it.”

  “I didn’t think there was any reason for you to know about him. I didn’t want your father’s image tarnished in his daughter’s eyes.”

  “How long have you known about him?”

  “When your father and mother died and Charles went to the trustees, he learned about his brother’s, ahem, indiscretion. Charles later told me. Lawrence had known this Murray woman before your mother, dear, so you mustn’t think there was any unfaithfulness during their marriage, and young men, well, they need to sow their wild oats, but you won’t know about such things.”

  Oh, I knew more than she thought about such things. I’d been the recipient of a few wild oats myself and had learned a proper wariness of handsome young men with glib tongues and smiles.

  “Lawrence had arranged for money to be sent every quarter to Mrs. Murray, as she called herself although she never married, so he did support the boy, which was quite decent of him, really. Dear Blanche knew nothing about it, of course, and for that, I’m most grateful. When that awful accident took them both from us, the trustees stopped the payments.”

  “Why?”

  “There was nothing in Lawrence’s will about Mrs. Murray, so they had no authority to continue. And Charles said they didn’t approve of the payments in any case.”

  I did the calculation. David would have been about sixteen when the money stopped. Tough life, but at least he’d had a father’s financial support during his early years. My own father had left Mother with me in her belly and ridden into the sunset. My opinion of Lawrence Carr—never very high—rose a notch. He may have been a worthless cad, but at least he took some financial responsibility for his offspring.

  “I’m glad to know the truth, Aunt, never worry about that.”

  She squeezed my arm. “Dearest Jessie, you are such a joy to me. I can’t tell you how proud I am to see the fine lady you’ve become … if only your mother could see you now. I blame myself for your unhappy years and wish I could have been a better substitute for dear Blanche but I was so preoccupied with Charles’s final illness that I failed you utterly and I’ve never ceased to regret that—”

  “No, no, no. You were not to blame for my running away. You were more than I deserved and I was too young to appreciate it. But I do now, and I am very grateful for your love and devotion after all these years.”

  She pulled a lacy handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at a tear at the corner of each eye. “Now, Ross has retired to his study and Henry took David Murray into Dexter for the train, so how about you and I and the girls play a few rounds of Give and Take?”

  Later that night I lay awake in bed at the very edge of sleep, unable to rid myself of the image of Aunt Victoria’s hard glare. What Ross had said at the cliff edge ran through my head, how a polite façade masked his mother’s true feelings. And I thought back to the day in Cleveland only a few weeks ago when I had asked Oliver who would inherit if Jessie never returned. The four cousins, he had replied. They had the most to lose by our scheme. But that no longer rang true. Who had the most to lose now that Jessie had returned? Not Henry—he could continue in crooked politics funding his way of life with bribes and favors. Not Ross—academia would pay enough to keep him in books, which was his chief concern. No, the one who had the most to lose was the one who did not stand to inherit, not directly anyway. It was Aunt Victoria, whose passion in life was her children. Would her daughters make brilliant marriages if they were not wealthy? Would her sons reach their highest potential without the Carr fortune behind them? Would she need to find another husband to support her? Was there anything she wouldn’t do for her children?

  After I heard the clock strike two, I got up and, in desperation, headed down to the kitchen for some hot milk. As I
passed the parlor, the decanter of sherry called my name, and I took a full glass upstairs. As I drank it, I thought about the Carrs and their ambitions, one by one, then looked long and hard at Chen’s bad-luck chrysanthemums and threw them in the wastebasket. Only then did I fall asleep, and I slept undisturbed by dreams for the first time since my arrival at Cliff House.

  24

  Learn something new every day, my mother used to say, so I decided I’d learn to drive a motorcar. In my current line of work, a skill like that could come in handy if a sudden change in script required a quick getaway.

  Aunt Victoria did not drive; she had Clyde at her daily beck and call. Clyde brought the Carr mail from the post office every afternoon, along with the groceries Marie telephoned in to the A&P. I had taken to watching for his Ford flivver, hoping for the Pinkerton report from Smith and Wade. I waylaid him that afternoon after he had deposited the grocery box inside the kitchen door.

  “Any mail, Clyde?”

  “None today, miss. Sorry.”

  Instead of screaming with frustration—what in heaven’s name was taking those wretched old men so long?—I took a deep breath and said dismissively, “Never mind. It’s nothing important. By the way, I know how busy you are, but I wonder if you would have the time to teach me to drive?”

  His expression said that old Clyde didn’t hold with women driving, but he was too much the gentleman to voice the opinion. “You want to learn now?” he asked doubtfully.

  “If you have time.”

  “I got time.” He opened the car door and motioned me behind the wheel. “That there round pedal’ll start ’er up,” he began, pointing to a button in the center of the floorboard close to the seat base. I pressed with my right heel and the engine coughed to life. “Now to go forward, push this brake lever all the way toward the front while you press the left pedal all the way in, engage low—that’s it—and advance the throttle here another few notches.” With the car moving forward in low, I released the left pedal, shifted into high, and we were off on our trip around the house.