The Amish Heiress (The Paradise Chronicles Book 1)

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The Amish Heiress (The Paradise Chronicles Book 1) Page 9

by Patrick E. Craig


  “And what is that condition, Mr. Randall?” asked Jenny.

  Bobby glanced over and started to speak, but saw the determined look on Jenny’s face and held his peace.

  Randall smiled again, but this time it was a bit more relaxed. “The second condition is that the female inheritor with the Key shall find a suitable male St. Clair and marry him after it is determined she is the true heir. Otherwise, she cannot inherit. This ensures that the fortune stays within the St. Clair family. In the case of discovering an adult heir such as Mrs. Hershberger, the woman has one year to fulfill the condition.”

  Randall looked at Jenny. Jenny stared back at him. “And if the heiress is married, Mr. Randall?”

  “As I said, Mrs. Hershberger, the heiress must find a suitable male St. Clair and marry him within one year, if she wants to inherit.”

  Bobby broke in. “And if the heiress is a baby when it is found that she has the Key?”

  Randall answered, still looking at Jenny. “In that case, the estate would be held in trust until the girl is eighteen, at which time the same condition concerning marriage goes into effect.”

  Jenny pushed her chair back and got up. “Well, Mr. Randall, it seems you’ve made a trip for nothing. I do not hold the Key and even if I did, I would not divorce Jonathan for all the money in the world. So you can tell your Augusta St. Clair that she can sleep easy tonight. I’ll not be coming after her precious money. And why is all this coming up now?”

  Randall twisted in his seat.

  Bobby jumped in. “Well, Mr. Randall, can you answer that question please?”

  “I’m not really at liberty to discuss Mrs. St. Clair’s financial situation.”

  Bobby took a guess. “So, she’s in some trouble, financially, and she’s looking for a way to get out.”

  Randall didn’t answer, but Bobby could see that his random shot had struck home.

  “Well, if you won’t answer that, how about this? Augusta is a St. Clair. Why can’t she inherit the estate?”

  “Very simple, Bobby. She is a St. Clair by marriage only.”

  “What about her children?”

  “Augusta’s husband died in the war. Her one son and his wife were killed in a ski accident in Switzerland over fifteen years ago. Her only living relative is her grandson, Gerald, and he does not hold the Key.”

  “So, as I guessed, Augusta is in a bind and is casting about for some way to get out. I assume that this Gerald would be a suitable St. Clair heir if a daughter or granddaughter with the Key could be found?”

  Randall didn’t answer that one either. Instead, he took a different tack.

  “I understand that you have a daughter, Mrs. Hershberger.”

  Jenny’s face turned pale.

  “My daughter does not concern you, and she has no claim on the St. Clair fortune. As I said, you’ve made a trip for nothing. Bobby will show you out.”

  Randall stood and shook Jenny’s hand. She turned and left by the kitchen door. The two men shook hands, and then Randall went out the front and headed to the car. When he got there, he stopped and looked around for a minute.

  “Nice place you got here, Bobby.”

  “Yep. Thanks.”

  “If you have any other information, I’m sure Mrs. St. Clair would be more than happy to make it worth your while to share it.”

  Bobby nodded but did not answer. Randall got the message.

  “Well, thank you for your time.”

  Randall climbed in the car, started it, drove around the circular drive in front of the house, and headed back down the hill. Bobby watched him go. Then he walked back into the house. To his surprise Jenny was standing in the kitchen. She had come back in after Randall left. She was shaking and pale.

  “Jenny, what is it?”

  “The Key, Bobby. I lied to Randall. Rachel holds the Key.”

  Bobby’s chin dropped. “What?”

  “Yes, Bobby. Rachel has the St. Clair birthmark right above her heart.”

  Bobby sat down at the table and motioned Jenny to sit. “Does Rachel know about this?”

  “She knows she has a birthmark, but I never knew that there was any significance to it, so we have never talked about it.”

  Bobby tapped the tabletop with his fingers. “Are you going to say anything to her?”

  Jenny looked down at the table. “Do you trust these people, Bobby?”

  The question was almost a whisper.

  “No, Jenny, I do not trust them. From what we know about Augusta St. Clair, she is a cold, scheming woman who won’t hesitate to do what she thinks will best protect her interests. And this fellow, Randall, scares me. He’s a thug of the worst kind because he’s intelligent and highly trained. He’s Augusta’s tool and the extension of her wishes. I would not trust them with Rachel in any way.”

  Jenny sat down again and pulled her chair next to Bobby. Bobby put his arm around her.

  “That’s how I feel, too, Bobby. Rachel must never know.”

  *****

  Rachel trudged home from the King farm. The new colt was doing fine. The joy of working with Daniel’s horses had lifted her spirits for a while, but now she had settled back into a gloomy mood. The sun was just going down over the western hills, and the soft scent of lilacs filled the air. Spring had burst upon Paradise with all the colors and sounds of the earth awakening after cold months in the grave of winter, but Rachel did not notice. For her, everything in her life was gray and flat. The offer from Cornell weighed heavy on her heart. She wanted to go so badly, but she knew that she would have to leave her faith do it.

  I’m Amish and my papa will never say yes, and even if he did, the elders would never let me go in a million years. Oh, why was I born Amish? I can’t stay here!

  As she came to the lane leading home, she was surprised to see a black automobile come slowly down to the main road. The man behind the wheel saw Rachel and pulled to a stop. The electric window rolled down and Rachel looked into a pair of steel-gray eyes. For some reason, she shivered. The man smiled at her, but the smile made her feel creepy.

  “Are you Rachel?”

  Something about the man made Rachel’s gut twist.

  “Yes...”

  The man smiled again. “Don’t worry. I’m a friend of the other side of your family.”

  “The other side?”

  “Yes, you did know that your mother was born a St. Clair, right?”

  Without knowing why, Rachel was suddenly afraid. She stammered an answer. “I knew that Mama’s birth mother was named Rachel, but that’s all. She lost her mama when she was four, and then my grossmutter, Jerusha, found her in the storm and she went to live with Grossdaadi Reuben and Grossmutter Jerusha in Apple Creek. I was named after her.”

  Why am I telling him all this?

  The man reached in his pocket and pulled out a card. “My name is Gordon Randall and I work for your great-aunt, Augusta St. Clair. She’s trying to find out all she can about her relatives on both sides of her family. She lives in New York.”

  “Why is she so interested in her Amish relatives after all these years?”

  Randall nodded, and though the air was warm, Rachel shivered again.

  Randall’s eyes were boring into Rachel. “I can tell you’ve got some of the St. Clair attitude. Augusta is getting old. She has alienated many of her relatives by her, shall we say, rough ways. Now she wants to set things right before she dies.”

  That’s a lie!

  Randall leaned out the window and handed Rachel the card. “I’m sure she’d like to meet you. If you’re interested, give me a call and I’ll arrange it.”

  Randall rolled up the window, nodded, and drove off. Rachel felt sick. She knew that she had been in the presence of evil. The words he spoke had twisted in the air like snakes. Rachel waited until the car disappeared around the bend and then quickly turned back up the lane. She wrapped her arms around herself to keep from running.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Secret Revea
led

  Jenny Hershberger went up the stairs and walked down the hall to her writing room. She opened the door and stood for a moment, looking in. Against the outside wall under the large picture window stood a beautiful birch-wood desk with an old-fashioned Underwood typewriter sitting on it. Jenny walked to the desk and ran her fingers lightly over the smooth surface.

  Papa! How I wish I could feel your strong arms around me one more time.

  Jenny stood with her hand on the back of the chair, touching the wood. Memories of her days in Apple Creek tried to push their way into her heart, tumbling over each other in a rush, so that for a moment, she was almost overwhelmed. She took a deep breath and turned away.

  The walls of the room were lined with shelves, and the shelves were filled with folders, books, and stacks of paper and notebooks. But today they held no interest for her. She was looking for something else. In the corner, stood an old cedar chest. Jenny went over and knelt down in front of it. She closed her eyes and lifted the lid. The precious smell of cedar mixed with lavender rose softly from the box and caressed her senses—her mama’s scent. For just a moment it seemed that Jerusha was in the room with her. She knelt silently for a few moments and then opened her eyes and looked down into the trunk. On the top were several packages bound in brown paper and tied with string.

  My books! Lord, will you ever let me publish these?

  She lifted out the manuscripts, set them aside, and then dug down into the trunk. There were bits of material, scraps of batting, bolts of cloth, extra material for repairs and small samples of ideas for quilts that her mama had planned to make before she died. At the bottom was the bundle Jenny was looking for. It was large, wrapped in brown paper, and it, too, was tied with a string. Jenny took it out and opened it. There was a large, soft bundle inside, and she opened it and spread it out on the floor in front of her.

  The Rose of Sharon, her mama’s most beautiful quilt, lay before her. The deep red silk that comprised the magnificent rose centerpiece glowed softly in the afternoon light. The royal-blue silk behind it was set off perfectly by the cream-colored backing. Jenny held the quilt between her hands. She could feel the soft double batting that filled it, the batting that had kept her warm through long, freezing nights when her mama Jerusha was fighting to keep her alive in the heart of the worst storm in Ohio history. As she caressed the quilt softly, tears started in her eyes.

  “Mama, oh Mama. I miss you so. I wish that you were here so I could talk to you. You were always so wise, you loved me so. Oh, Mama, I need you now.”

  Jenny pulled the quilt up around her as she knelt. She remembered the last time she had looked at the quilt. She had been with Jerusha in Apple Creek, after Jonathan had disappeared and they all thought he was dead. Jerusha brought out the quilt to comfort Jenny—to show her how the Lord had told the Springer family’s story in the quilt’s design. There was the rose that was for Jenna, her sister who had died; and the torn edge and the repaired batting that spoke of the places in Jenny’s life that had been restored. Jenny remembered the conversation with her mama, as though Jerusha were there with her...

  “The story of your life does not stop with Jonathan’s death, my dochter,” her mama had said. “It goes on until it is your time to go. You do not know which pieces you will discover tomorrow, but they are there, already determined by die Vorkenntnisse des Gottes. He has already planned them. Now let me show you one more thing as a reminder.”

  Jerusha moved the quilt until the rose was under her hand. “Look! Do you see it?”

  Jenny looked, but couldn’t see what her mama was pointing at. And then she remembered and looked closer. There it was! Sewn into the center of the rose—a small, key-shaped piece of red silk so finely stitched that it was almost invisible.

  “Ja, Jenny, a key. The Lord had me add it to the quilt so that we would always remember—”

  “That He is the key to our lives and without Him we cannot hope to comprehend what is happening to us and why?”

  “Yes, Jenny, and if you put your life into His hands, He will guide your path and you will understand everything.”

  “I had forgotten all about the key.”

  Jenny looked more closely at it.

  “It is the strangest thing Mama. Did you know that Rachel has a key-shaped birthmark right above her heart? She has had it since the day she was born, and it is almost the same color as the rose. That makes me think that I was wrong in what I wrote to Jonathan. Maybe Gott is still speaking to us through the quilt. Perhaps the journey is not over after all. In fact, we may be coming to a new beginning. That is a hopeful thought.”

  Jerusha had smiled at her then, and it warmed Jenny to know her mama was proud of her.

  Now Jenny pulled the quilt closer, inhaling the fragrance of her mama. The Key—how had her mama known about the Key? But today the Key did not give her hope, only fear.

  *****

  Augusta St. Clair sat quietly in the sunroom of her Connecticut mansion. She loved the view that overlooked the formal garden and carried down onto a lower lawn where there was a pool, a guesthouse, and tennis courts. Out beyond that was the sea, green and rolling, the waves like glass. Augusta could hear the cries of the gulls and the surf breaking on the shore. It reminded her of Martha’s Vineyard—that summer with Jerod and...Robert...

  Then the private phone rang quietly and Augusta was jolted out of her reverie. She looked around, but no one was there to answer it for her, so she got up and walked to the small table by the door where the phone sat.

  “What?”

  “Good morning, Augusta. I’m sure it’s a nice day in Connecticut, no matter how you sound.”

  “Randall?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well?”

  “I have good news and bad news. The good news; I located Jenny St. Clair. Her name is Hershberger now and she’s married. She’s Amish, like her mother.”

  “What’s the bad news?”

  “Jenny Hershberger does not, I repeat, does not hold the Key.”

  Augusta swore softly under her breath.

  “Are there any other possibilities?”

  “The Hershbergers have a daughter, but Jenny assured me that the daughter has no bearing on this situation. So it looks like Gerald will have to find a bride and produce an heir in order for you to get your hands on the money.”

  “I’ll be dead by then, Randall.”

  “Well, as they say, Augusta, timing is everything.”

  The line went dead.

  *****

  Ten minutes later, the phone in Michel Duvigney’s office rang. Duvigney picked it up.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Michel, it’s Randall. Just wanted to tell you that you’re in luck. I found the daughter of Robert St. Clair and she does not hold the Key. Looks like you won’t be subject to an audit for at least twenty-one years—that is if Gerald produces an heir tomorrow. If he doesn’t, the audit will be sometime after that. In any case, you can rest easy tonight.”

  “Good job, Randall. Your check is in the mail.”

  “I hope you didn’t forget to add the bonus we spoke about.”

  “You’ll get your money, Randall. All of it.”

  “That’s wonderful, Michel. We certainly wouldn’t want to see the information I have about your inappropriate activities involving the principal of the St. Clair trust get into the hands of the wrong people, like, for instance, the board of trustees.”

  Duvigney gritted his teeth.

  “No, Randall, we wouldn’t. Like I said, you’ll get your money.”

  The line went dead. Michel Duvigney got up slowly, walked over to the wine bar and got out the de Delamain Cognac. He poured himself a glass and then went back to the desk. He picked up the phone and pressed a number. When someone answered, he spoke.

  “Order me another bottle of the Le Voyage de Delamain Cognac, please.”

  He set the phone back in its receiver and sat down behind the desk. Aside from Ra
ndall’s outrageous demands, he felt much better. Lifting the glass in the air in a toast, Duvigney smiled. Things were looking up.

  *****

  When Rachel came home, she stood in the hallway thinking about the man she had just met—and the woman he represented.

  Who is Augusta St. Clair and why is she looking for us?

  Rachel heard the soft sound of voices from the front room. It was her mama and papa, talking quietly. Rachel started to walk in when she heard something that made her stop and listen. Her mama was speaking.

  “... and he’s looking for someone who holds the Key.”

  Jonathan’s low voice answered Jenny. “What is ‘the Key,’ Jenny?”

  “It’s the St. Clair birthmark. It’s a key-shaped red stain right above the heart. It has been the main way that the trustees of the St. Clair estate have decided who inherits the fortune. My birth father, Robert St. Clair, was the heir to the St. Clair money. He had the St. Clair birthmark, the Key. When he died, all his money was put in trust until a new heir could be determined. Obviously, Augusta must be having trouble laying her hands on the money or she wouldn’t be sending out agents. There’s something going on and it does not bode well for us, husband.”

  “And this Key—is it the same one that Rachel has on her chest?”

  “It seems so, Jonathan. The man, Randall, showed me a picture of one of the St. Clairs from around AD 1200. He had exactly the same birthmark above his heart.”

  “And the holder of the Key is the heir to all the St. Clair’s money?”

  Rachel’s heart leaped. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her mama went on.

  “Yes, Jonathan, but there is a catch.”

  “What’s that, Jenny?”

  “Rachel would have to marry a suitable St. Clair male in order to inherit. That would keep the money in the family.”

 

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