The Amish Heiress (The Paradise Chronicles Book 1)

by Patrick E. Craig

  Duvigney was old, but somehow the lines of age had not marked themselves too deeply on his features. His white hair and crow’s feet around his eyes were the only giveaways. Augusta sat stiffly while Duvigney went over the paperwork in front of him. Finally, he lifted the whole pile in his hands, tapped the bottom twice on the desk to even the documents up, and set it aside.

  Looking at Augusta he spoke in a quiet, sibilant voice. “I’m sorry, Ms. St. Clair, but there is no other decision that can be made. The directives for the succession of the St. Clair inheritance are quite explicit. First of all, only the direct descendants of an eldest son can inherit. It can be male or female as long as it can be proved that the eldest son was either father or grandfather to the heir.”

  Duvigney smiled but there was no warmth in it. “May I call you Augusta?”

  Augusta nodded. Duvigney took a folder from a tray on his desk and opened it.

  He scanned it for a moment and then closed it again. “I see from this file that you are the widow of Jerod St. Clair, the younger son of Maximillian St. Clair. Jerod was killed in World War II in a mission over France. You had one son with Jerod...”

  Duvigney glanced down. “...Ah, yes, Francis, who is also deceased, as well as his wife.”

  “They died in a skiing accident in Switzerland,” Augusta said with a frown. “An avalanche...”

  “Yes, I have the details here. So, Augusta, even though you are the sole beneficiary of your late husband’s will, which entitles you to the proceeds from his portion of the St. Clair trust, the house you are now living in, the property in Connecticut, and the townhouse in London, you persist in pressing your claim to the bulk of the estate which is in trust for the true heir, a claim that is without merit and will never be considered.”

  Augusta twisted in her chair. It was an overstuffed club chair covered in leather that somehow put Augusta’s eyes on a plane lower than Duvigney’s.

  “Well, if I’m not able to inherit, what about my grandson, Gerald? Shouldn’t he be considered?”

  Duvigney’s voice took on a tone that sounded like a snake hissing. “Augusta, you don’t seem to be following me. The St. Clair family is over eight hundred years old and can trace their lineage back to the household knights of William the Conqueror. The precedents for preserving the lineage and the inheritance were established hundreds of years ago in Europe. I’m afraid that you, as a relative newcomer to the family, cannot seem to grasp the significance of the St. Clair traditions.”

  Augusta stiffened. “Excuse me, Michel, but my family has a very old and proud name. Why, my family is descended from the royal families of Russia. We have traditions as well.”

  Duvigney smiled again. “Augusta, you must think me simple. Your family is not descended from the Romanovs. Your grandfather was a Yugoslavian immigrant named AlexzanderBošnjaković who was a cheese maker on the lower east side. Your father was a used car salesman who changed his last name to Bosnan so his customers could pronounce it. Your real name is Francine Bosnan, and you were born to a lower middle class family in The Bronx. Compared to the St. Clairs, your family doesn’t have traditions, it has habits.”

  Duvigney’s face cracked for a moment at his attempt at humor. The effect was not pleasant.

  He glanced down at the dossier in front of him. “Now, as to how you moved up so far in your life. It seems that you met Jerod at a USO dance in Manhattan in August of 1944 and began seeing him on a regular basis. You cleverly arranged to become pregnant before he was sent to England with his bomber squadron in February 1945. An honorable man, Jerod married you three weeks before he left and, voilà, suddenly you were the wealthy Augusta St. Clair, possessor of a proud name and a mysterious background, a background invented by you to make your way through the labyrinth of New York society. Which you did handily, I must say.”

  Duvigney glanced up and smiled a patronizing sort of smile that infuriated Augusta, but she held her tongue.

  He glanced back down. “Sadly, Jerod was killed a week after he arrived in England on a bombing run over Germany. Your son, Francis, was born three months later in June 1945.”

  Michel picked up a pencil and tapped it a few times on his desk. Then he smiled. “You see, Augusta, we do our homework. Now let’s go over this once more. Your husband’s older brother, Robert, was the true heir to the St. Clair fortune. It has come to our attention that he was also married and had a child, but the wife and child disappeared.”

  Augusta stared at the old man. “How did you find out about Robert’s wife and child?”

  Duvigney showed the first signs of exasperation. “Ms. St. Clair! For years we believed that Robert died without an heir, and so Robert’s trust was a closed account waiting until we could take action to declare a new heir. When you came forward to press your claims, the case was re-opened, and during that new investigation, certain facts came to light concerning Robert St. Clair. Our investigation turned up a copy of a marriage license listing Robert St. Clair and Rachel Borntraeger dated September 15, 1946. We also found a birth certificate for their daughter, Jennifer Constance St. Clair, dated January of 1947. We know that Robert St. Clair was killed in a car accident, but at this time, the whereabouts of the wife and daughter remains unknown. Our representatives are conducting a search for them. If we find her or the child and they can prove definitive relationship to Robert through DNA testing, or if the daughter has the Key, then they will be invested with the bulk of the trust estate which totals at this time...”

  Duvigney reached over and rustled through some papers in a tray on the corner of his desk and pulled out a spreadsheet. “...around forty billion dollars in investments and properties.”

  Augusta clamped her jaw shut to keep from gasping. She gathered her emotions and then spoke again, trying to be pleasant. “May I ask you a question, Michel?”

  “Yes, of course, Augusta.”

  “What is the Key?”

  Duvigney’s face took on a serious mien. “The Key is the St. Clair Key. It is, in fact, a birthmark that was found on the first St. Clair in 1123. It is a red, key-shaped mark that is located above the heart on the chest. This birthmark has been a factor in determining the heir for centuries. It sometimes skips generations but it has always followed the line. Your brother-in-law had this birthmark, but your husband did not. If we find an heir that carries the Key, there will be absolutely no question as to the validity of their claim. They will be immediately granted title to everything.”

  “Even if they are female?”

  “The trust documents permit a woman inheriting if she has the Key. That only holds true to the second generation from the direct heir. If no heir is found, then fifty years after the heir’s death, the board of trustees will follow the other lines of descent and name the closest St. Clair male the new heir. The long wait prevents internecine strife.”

  “Internecine strife?”

  “Yes, strife of or relating to conflict within a group, a family, or an organization. In this case, family members killing each other for the money. It seems that in the fourteenth century, certain of the St. Clair brothers attempted to murder each other over the inheritance, so strict guidelines were set in place by their father.”

  “So you are saying that Robert’s daughter could inherit, if she has the Key, or his granddaughter or grandson. But if they could not be found, then the fortune would go to the next St. Clair male which would be my grandson, Gerald?”

  “Not exactly, Augusta. Robert died forty-four years ago. Gerald would become the next in line six years from now, but only his heirs could inherit. So he would have to have a child who reaches the age of twenty-one. Then the estate would be invested in that heir. And so the line would continue.”

  Duvigney glanced at his Rolex. “Now, I’m sorry, Augusta, but that is all the time I have. It has been very pleasant talking with you, but I’m afraid there is no further use in your pursuit of this claim. You need to learn to be content with the bounty that has been, might I say, genero
usly provided to you by the St. Clair family. Now, if you will excuse me—”

  A door behind Augusta opened and a large man in a butler’s uniform stepped into the room. The signal was clear. The meeting was over.

  *****

  As the limousine cruised up Park Avenue, Augusta sat in the back, fuming. “Why that pompous, overblown secretary! Who does he think he is?” she said to no one in particular. Augusta knew she had to make a plan. She picked up the car phone from the armrest next to her and dialed a number. After a few rings a man’s voice answered.

  “Gordon Randall Security.”

  “Randall, this is Augusta St. Clair. I need you to do some work for me.”

  “Certainly, Mrs. St. Clair. What do you need?”

  “I need you to find a little girl; well, she would be grown up now. Her mother was married to Robert St. Clair. She was from Lancaster, Pennsylvania and she was Amish. Her name was Rachel Borntraeger. That’s about all I have. I’ll leave the rest up to you.”

  “Fine, Mrs. St. Clair. Any other instructions?”

  “Yes, Randall. Some other people are looking for this girl also. It is imperative that you find her first, absolutely imperative. There can be no mistaking my meaning.”

  “Fine, Mrs. St. Clair. Consider it handled.”

  Chapter Four

  Painful Days

  The grey-green sea rolled in long, choppy swells beneath the boat. The waves were endless, moving toward him out of the mist and disappearing away toward the unseen horizon. It was dark, so dark, and the strange smell of the salt water was overpowering and somehow terrifying. A stiff breeze drove the icy spray off the tops of the waves into Jonathan’s eyes. He raised his hand to wipe his face, but the mist and spray were continuous, blinding him. The chill of winter not yet dead...the gulls circling behind the boat...the plaintive cries whirling away on the wind. The sea, ominous and dead...

  He stood in the gloom and the cold and the spray and the waves, the endless waves, rolling, rolling, rolling by, and where were they going? Suddenly, a great longing to see Jenny and Rachel swept over him like one of the swells rolling ceaselessly and vanishing away, beyond his sight. He was lost, gone, alone on the bridge of a ghost ship that cut through the waves like a sword. He looked through the window into the wheelhouse, but there was no one to pilot the boat. Where was the captain? Then he felt a hand touch him. He turned to see his dad standing there with him, but Dad was dead, dead as the grey-green waves. Or was he?

  Jonathan felt his dad’s hand squeeze his shoulder and then Dad smiled. “Thank you, son.” And then Dad was gone, gone like a cool breeze that touches the face on a blistering day in the desert and then slips away leaving only regret behind.

  But I’m not in the desert. I’m on this boat on the ocean and I’m alone and lost in the shadows and I’m freezing. Dad! Dad! Help me, please.

  Then the boat lurched to the right as he heard the muffled explosion. The huge craft twisted like a snake, and the abrupt distortion of the boat’s course threw Jonathan to the deck. As he lay there, stunned, he saw his mother come out of her stateroom and try to make her way forward.

  Mom! But she’s dead too! What’s happening?

  Then there was fire. Fire and smoke blowing through the middle of the boat. And then he was deep in the water, and above him he saw the churning waves. It was cold, so cold, and he couldn’t breathe. And then he was swimming, swimming upward toward the light and the fire, the fire on the water. His head broke the surface and he gasped for air. Burning diesel fuel covered the waves. He was in the flames and he felt the fire burning his face, burning, melting, reaching for his eyes...

  And then he saw his father again and his mother was with his father, not twenty feet away on the boat, and they were smiling. “Dad, Mom!”

  Dad looked straight into Jonathan’s eyes. He reached his hand toward Jonathan but he wasn’t afraid. Jonathan couldn’t hear him over the wind, but he saw his father’s mouth forming words.

  “Son, I believe!”

  At that instant, the flames from the burning diesel fuel below deck ignited the propane tank in the galley, and the Mistral exploded with a roar. Jonathan struggled in the water. He was in the fire and the water, burning and drowning. He looked up as debris from the boat came flying toward him. He watched in terror as the grey-green waves rolled over the deck and Mistral sank. Within seconds, there was nothing left except some floating pieces of wreckage driving west before the howling wind.

  Jenny! Jenny!

  “JENNY!”

  “Jonathan! Jonathan! Wake up!”

  Jonathan groaned and rolled over. He opened his eyes and stared into the face of the lovely woman beside him in the bed. “What? Where am I? Who are you?”

  “Jonathan, it’s me, it’s your Jenny. I’m here, beloved, right here. You were dreaming.”

  Jonathan clutched at the woman’s arm. “I’ve got to find Jenny and Rachel. I’m lost and I can’t find them. Can you help me?”

  The woman placed her hand over Jonathan’s eyes. Her skin was warm and alive, not dead like the horrible, killing sea. He heard her voice from a long way off.

  “Close your eyes, Jonathan.”

  Jonathan closed his eyes beneath her hand.

  “Now see your Jenny in your mind’s eye. See her face, her red hair, the love for you in her eyes.”

  A face drifted into his mind. It was beautiful, framed by unruly golden-red curls... A white kappe, the eyes filled with love and compassion.

  Jenny, it’s you, my Jenny.

  “Do you see her?”

  “Yes, I see her. She’s coming to find me. She’s here to take me away from this darkness.”

  “Now open your eyes, Jonathan.”

  He opened his eyes. They were still covered by the woman’s hand. Slowly, she lifted it away, pausing to lightly caress his face. He looked at her. The beautiful face with some age lines showing but still her face, the curls with a little touch of white among them, but still Jenny’s curls...

  It’s Jenny, my Jenny.

  “Jenny, Jenny...”

  “Yes, beloved, it’s me. I’m here with you. I’ll always be here.”

  Peace flooded Jonathan’s soul. He was home. Home with his wife and daughter, safe in his house in Paradise. He reached for Jenny and pulled her tight against him. He breathed the fragrance of her against his cheek. There was life here; life and safety and home. He felt relief wash over him, then joy. They lay quietly together.

  “Was it the dream, Jonathan?”

  “Yes, the dream. I was back on the boat. My dad was there, and my mother. I watched them die but they were smiling. They weren’t afraid.”

  “Yes, dearest, they were not afraid because you gave them Christ, and they went to be with Him. That was your gift to them, Jonathan. That was why God took you to see them one last time.”

  “But it took me so long to get home, and now I get confused. Some days I wake up and I don’t even know you. I think I’m late for work and I look for my guitar and...oh, Jenny! Will I ever get well?”

  “You were gone for eight years, Jonathan. I don’t know why God did that, but I know he worked everything for good while we were apart.”

  “But what about your folks? They died while I was gone. I never got to see them again. I loved your daed and your mama.”

  “I know, and you must know that they loved you also. My papa was so proud of you. He saw how du leiber Gott worked in your life, how much you loved me and cared for me, and how precious Rachel was to you. He never, ever regretted suggesting that you become Amish. You belonged to us. Never forget that.”

  Jonathan released his wife and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He sat for a while slumped over, his head in his hands, quiet. Jenny reached out and softly began to rub his back.

  Jonathan gave a deep sigh and straightened up. “I am sorry that Rachel and I are having so much trouble. I don’t want to be hard with her. It’s just that when she starts talking about going out in the worl
d, I get frightened. I know what’s out there, and I fear for her.”

  Jenny came and sat beside Jonathan on the edge of the bed. She slipped under his arm and laid her head on his chest. She was quiet for a few minutes. Then she spoke.

  “When I was a little girl, I came to live with my mama and papa in Apple Creek. I did not know who I was or remember anything but a little bit about my real mama. But you know that because you helped me find out about my parents.”

  “Yes, but what—?’

  Jenny put her fingers on his lips. “Don’t you see, Jonathan? Gott sent me to Apple Creek to fill a terrible, empty place in my mama’s heart.”

  “... After your sister, Jenna, died.”

  “Yes, and that was a wonderful thing. But if I never came there, I wouldn’t have been walking across the street when you almost hit me. We never would have met, there would be no home in Paradise, there would be no Rachel.”

  “I understand that, Jenny. But that doesn’t answer my questions about me, why I act this way, why I am so harsh when I want to be loving.”

  “My papa struggled with the same things for many years. During World War II, he rejected his faith, left the church, and joined the Marines. He ended up in a terrible place in the Pacific called Guadalcanal. He had to kill Japanese soldiers, often in hand-to-hand combat. It did something to his heart and his mind. My mama told me that when he came home he was different. He rejoined the church, but he didn’t really know the Lord. He felt as though he had committed a terrible sin during the war, and he believed that if he just kept the rules of the church, somehow he would be allowed to go to heaven. It was because he was so strict that my sister, Jenna, died. It was a terrible thing, but Gott griff nach seinem Herzen. Gott was reaching for his heart.”