by Jo Goodman
"Is there nothing that can be done to help her?" asked Brooklyn.
"Dr. Freeman says no. We must exercise patience and be diligent with her care." He spared a fond glance for Sarah. "My cousin has been very helpful on that count, and I like to think that Grandmother is happy to have her here. Occasionally it is difficult." He pointed to the painting of Linda Brookes. "As you might imagine, Grandmother often confuses Sarah with Aunt Linda."
"Yes," said Ryland. "I could see how that might happen." He addressed Sarah. "Your grandmother was intent upon finding you and I'm certain she's pleased to have you here, but tell me, how did it come about? I think the last thing anyone expected was for you to find her."
"Actually I did not do it on my own. I was raised in a Catholic orphanage not far from here. It was a very closed existence, and I had almost no contact with anyone outside the orphanage." Sarah's voice lowered and her eyes dropped to her lap. "I was seriously considering taking my vows and committing my life to God's service when Mother Superior suggested that I should experience life outside the institution. She arranged for me to be employed as a seamstress in one of the better dress shops. I did not enjoy the work at all, but I felt I owed it to Mother Superior to fulfill my promise." She lifted her eyes. Her smile was serene. "I wanted to be with my children. Oh, they are not mine of course, but the younger ones, they were like me when I was young, and they were my family."
At this point Brooklyn reached into Ryland's pocket and took out his handkerchief. She dabbed at the tears in her eyes and ignored Ryland's skeptical glance. Once she looked at him she would burst into nervous laughter and give herself away. If Ryland was wondering at her show of emotion and finding it sincere, then surely Sarah and Chandler would be convinced.
"Oh, please, don't cry," Sarah said, leaning forward in her chair as if to comfort her guest. "You are so tender-hearted."
"I suppose I am." Brooklyn nearly choked on the words before she composed herself. Sarah's story was absolutely outrageous, yet the woman managed to imbue it with exactly the right touches of pathos and gentle dignity. She was an accomplished liar, and Brooklyn felt an absurd sense of kinship. Had the circumstances been different, Brook thought she might well have believed everything Sarah was saying. "Go on. You were saying that you wanted to be with the children."
Sarah nodded. "That's what I wanted, but it was impossible then. While I was working in the dress shop several people remarked on my resemblance to the portrait of Linda Brookes. They were merely comments in passing and I paid them no heed. I learned later that the women making these comments were friends of my grandmother's."
Chandler took up the story then, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully on Brooklyn's face. "My brother found Sarah. One of the women who saw Sarah mentioned the likeness to Preston and he went to the shop to see for himself. Naturally he was skeptical, but he thought it would be prudent to investigate. The records at the orphanage were in a poor state, but he managed to put together enough information to be certain in his own mind that Sarah is our cousin."
"That's quite a story," Ryland said pleasantly. "What sort of evidence did your brother uncover? Abby seemed so sure the trail for her granddaughter led to San Francisco."
"Grandmother was correct, but she didn't suspect that my aunt had returned to Louisiana shortly after Michael Pendleton died. None of us are clear on what happened then. It appears that Aunt Linda could not face her mother and gave her child to the orphanage. There was a note with the baby that explained that her name was Sarah and that her mother and father were both dead. We can only surmise that Linda killed herself afterward."
"The note?" Ryland asked. "I assume it is still part of the orphanage records?"
"No, my brother has it now. It was all that Preston needed to put the last piece of the puzzle together. He could not rely solely on the resemblance. Although it was obviously striking, it could have been merely a coincidence. What convinced my brother was Aunt Linda's note."
"It was signed?"
"Only with her first initial. But the fact that she had wanted her child named Sarah was important. Sarah, you see, was the name of our grandmother's mother."
How infinitely tidy, Ryland thought. "What about the letter Patrick Gordon received several years ago? The one from someone claiming to know your aunt as well as the whereabouts of your cousin."
Chandler sniffed, dismissing the matter with an impatient wave of his hand. "What of it? The man was obviously trying to extract money from our family. He may have known Aunt Linda when she was in San Francisco, but he never had Sarah in his care. Sarah's never traveled outside of Louisiana."
Sarah nodded, adding her agreement to Chandler's statement. "I'd like to think that Mama did not kill herself," Sarah said a shade wistfully, glancing at the portrait. "I believe that after leaving me in the care of the nuns she returned to San Francisco. Perhaps this is how the letter writer came to know her."
"Yes, that would fit with the things I was able to learn," Ryland lied.
Chandler's head lifted sharply and his posture was immediately alert. "What sort of things?"
"Nothing of any import now," he said dismissively. He stood, offering his hand to Chandler. "My congratulations. I did not hold much hope of finding Abby's granddaughter. It seems I misunderstood your intentions when you asked me to drop the investigation."
Sarah frowned and cast an accusing look at her cousin. "Chandler! Did you really ask this man not to look for me?"
"I did," he admitted. "I thought it was another goose chase that would have ended in heartbreak for Grandmother. I was thinking of her." He took his hand from Ryland's grip and placed it on Sarah's shoulder. "And I was right. Mr. North would not have been able to find you in San Francisco because you were here, under our noses, all the while."
Ryland nodded. "That's true, Miss Pendleton. Nothing that I learned would have led me to look for you here. You would still be working in that dress shop if your cousin hadn't taken it upon himself to discover the truth."
After a few more amenities were exchanged, Ryland and Brooklyn took their leave. Ryland helped Brook into the waiting carriage and gave the driver directions to their destination. When he joined Brooklyn she was sucking in her lower lip to keep from laughing.
"It's not amusing," he said as though he could quell her.
Brooklyn swept aside her skirt to make room for him. "You're wrong. I don't think I've witnessed anything so... so…" Words failed her, and she began to laugh, albeit a trifle hysterically.
Ryland folded his arms across his chest, propped his feet on the opposite seat, and let Brook's tension run its course. When she quieted, he said solemnly, "I don't think you understand the danger."
She shook her head, composing herself. "I do understand. I'm sorry, Ryland. But the charade was so preposterous and so horribly real that I couldn't help myself." She leaned into him, laying her head wearily against his shoulder. "What are we going to do?"
"We have to see Miss Abby. I want her to know that she's accepted an imposter."
"How do we prove that? My cousins have a document."
"If you mean that letter attributed to Linda giving her child to the orphanage, then I doubt it exists. If it does exist, then it's obviously a forgery. But I see your point. It would be difficult to prove. We have Phillip's letter, but Preston and Chandler don't have to accept it, and since Phillip is dead we have no one to support its statements. I never considered that your cousins would hedge their bets."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean they brought in Sarah to take your place in the event they couldn't kill you. The plan is very neat. Sarah is already well established in the house. Probably in the community as well."
"There's no reason my grandmother should believe us over them."
"No, there's not," he said slowly, thoughtfully. "But I still want to see her... I have a feeling..."
"I know." She shivered lightly. "I have that feeling, too."
Their suite at the Hotel Royale w
as spacious. After the close confines of the railroad car Brooklyn welcomed the opportunity to move around with some degree of freedom. She bent over the fresh flowers that had been placed in a pair of leaded crystal vases in the sitting room and happily breathed their scent. She studied the dark walnut woodwork, richly detailed and burnished to a reflective sheen, and ran her hand across the velvet-textured wallpaper, deciding that the deep gold offset the warm wood tones perfectly. French doors swung open onto a balcony overlooking the enclosed courtyard. The rain had stopped and a cool, fragrant breeze circled the room. Brooklyn stood on the threshold of the balcony and let the air tickle her face and hair. When she turned she found Ryland watching her, an amused, indulgent smile on his lips and a hint of something more passionate in his eyes.
"I take it the suite meets with your approval," he said, approaching her slowly.
"Mm. It's lovely."
His arms circled her waist lightly. "How is it that you deceived me so easily when we first met?"
"What are you talking about?"
"I thought then that you had ice water in your veins, yet you're an astonishingly sensual woman."
"I'm also an astonishingly good actress," she said, punctuating her words by tapping his chest with her forefinger.
"I know. Sometimes I still wonder..."
She heard the vulnerability in his statement and blinked in surprise. "I don't act around you. Not any more, not about anything. Certainly not when we make love. I thought you knew that."
"I wouldn't mind if you tried to convince me," he said hopefully.
Brooklyn grinned impishly and slipped out of his arms before he knew what she was going to do. "Perhaps I will," she teased over her shoulder as she went into the bedroom. "Later. Right now I'm thinking of a hot bath, scented oils, and a long soak."
Ryland grumbled good-naturedly, gathered their luggage, and carried it into the bedroom. He had everything unpacked, sorted, and placed in the armoire and dresser drawers by the time Brooklyn emerged from the bathroom. A large towel was draped around her middle and Ryland's eyes kept drifting to the knot above her swelling breasts.
"I'll do that for you," he said when Brooklyn picked up her hairbrush. He motioned her to sit in front of him on the bed.
She sat down cross-legged and gave him her back. "You're going to spoil me."
"I hope so." He untangled her damp hair and began to brush it, starting at the ends and working his way up slowly.
Brooklyn sighed sleepily as a pleasant lethargy stole over her. It was difficult to focus on important matters when Ryland was obviously thinking seduction, but she forced herself to do it. "I noticed you never introduced me as Brooklyn. Do you think Chandler suspected who I was?"
"Yes." He paused a beat and then began brushing again. "Do you really think he didn't?"
"I suppose not," she said, though her tone conveyed her doubts. "Except for a few lapses, he managed to keep himself tolerably well controlled."
"He had to. To do otherwise would have given away his game."
"What about Preston? Where does he fit in?"
"He and Chandler must be working together. After all, it was Preston who found Sarah. I don't think it's safe to assume that one of them is innocent."
"What if Preston hired Sarah and together they convinced Chandler that she was Abby's granddaughter? What if Chandler's concern all along was for Abby? Perhaps his motives for asking you not to take the investigation were sincere."
"It's a possibility," he agreed reluctantly. "But why do you raise it? How can it help us?"
"We may need an ally, Ryland. I think you should talk to Preston and find out if he goes along with the story about finding Sarah in the dress shop."
"That would only prove that he's involved," Ryland pointed out. "It doesn't mean that Chandler is innocent."
"But it means that Chandler could be innocent. He may have been duped by his brother. I think we should keep an open mind."
"Why is it so important to you?"
"I don't think Chandler is much of a poker player," she said after a thoughtful pause. "If he really knew who I was then he was calling our bluff earlier. I'm not sure he's capable of that. He was uneasy at times and he regarded me closely. But I think it was because some question began to form in his mind. Perhaps he has some doubts about Sarah. We may be dismissing an opportunity for help if we assume he's guilty. I can't explain it any better."
"Why would we need Chandler's help?" he asked, still unconvinced.
"To see Abby. We know that Sarah is definitely going to keep us from seeing her."
"Chandler wasn't very helpful today."
"That's because he was concerned about Abby's illness."
"Or because he was hiding something. That has occurred to you, hasn't it?"
"Yes," she admitted. "I don't suppose we'll know one way or the other until we play our hand."
Ryland chuckled softly and leaned forward to kiss her temple. "How would you ever express yourself if you didn't have poker metaphors?"
Brooklyn snorted, turned her head, and directed him to keep brushing. "How are we going to manage to see Abby?"
"Tomorrow when Chandler is at the bank you're going to invite Sarah out for a drive. I'll see Abby then."
"Sarah won't leave Abby alone."
"There are servants."
"Probably fewer than even she admitted. I doubt anyone cares for Abby but Sarah and Chandler. No, she won't go with me. She'll make some excuse." Brooklyn reached behind her, took the brush from Ryland's hands, and turned on him. The brush bobbed up and down as she used it to emphasize her point. "I think she would go with you."
Ryland's eyebrows fused as he frowned. "What?"
"I think she would go with you if you invited her," Brook repeated. "She liked you."
"What do you mean she liked me?"
"Sarah was interested in you. Didn't you notice?"
"No."
Brook was secretly flattered that he hadn't seen Sarah's sidelong glances. She smiled. "Well, she was. I could tell. If you were to go to the house tomorrow you could cajole her into going with you."
"I'm supposed to be newly married. What am I saying? I am newly married. Why would I be interested in driving with Sarah? She would be suspicious of my attentions."
"She would be elated by your attentions," she corrected him, quickly adding, "I'm not giving you permission to seduce her, you understand. Just show her a little of your charm. You'll think of something. While she's with you, I'll visit Abby."
"That's the part of your plan I like the least. Abby won't know you."
"Perhaps she will. You told me there was a resemblance between us."
"But it's nothing like the similarity between Sarah and your mother. I'm still amazed by that. I could almost admire Preston for his thoroughness." He cupped the side of her face. "No, Brooklyn, it's not what I want you to do. But you've given me an idea with all your talk of finding an ally. There's one person who might help us if we explained everything to him."
"Who?"
"Your uncle."
Brooklyn tried to think who he could possibly mean. "My uncle?"
"Your father's brother. David Pendleton. He's been deceived by Sarah and your cousins also. Let me think about it tonight. If he will assist us there may be a way we can see your grandmother together."
Brooklyn knew Ryland's mood well enough to realize the subject was closed. He would tell her more once he had considered everything. She scooted off the bed and began pinning her hair in front of the vanity mirror. When she glanced at Ryland's reflection she saw he was still deep in thought. "Can we go out to eat?" she asked.
"I'd rather we stayed here in the hotel. We can go to the dining room," he added as if making a concession.
Brooklyn had expected his answer so she didn't argue. She pointed him in the direction of the bathroom and told him she would put out fresh clothes.
"Scrub my back," he said, leering playfully, "and I'll pick out my own clothes."
"Done."
Two hours later they stood at the entrance to the vast dining room. Evening dress was required, and Brooklyn thought her husband was clearly too handsome to be allowed out on his own. She began to rethink her idea of having him invite Sarah for a drive. His black swallow-tailed coat outlined the breadth of his shoulders and the tapering of his waist and hips. For all his complaining about the formal attire he wore these clothes as comfortably as he wore his miner's flannel shirt and denims.
Brooklyn touched the black velvet ribbon at her throat, centering the cameo that hung from it so that it lay flat against her bare skin. The sweeping train of her ice blue gown brushed against Ryland's leg. She gathered some of the heavy silk in her hand to move it out of his way before she placed a proprietary hand on his forearm while she looked around the room.
Candlelight from the chandeliers fell softly on dozens of linen-covered tables. The towering arched windows reflected the light in prisms of color. In addition to the cut flowers on every table there were potted plants, veritable trees in some instances, situated throughout the room to give the diners the illusion of privacy.
"It's like eating in a hothouse," Ryland said.
Brooklyn barely heard him. She wondered if her mouth looked as swollen from Ryland's kisses as it felt. She could still taste him on her lips. When he cast her an amused, sidelong glance as if he knew what she was thinking, Brooklyn trod lightly on his instep.
"Behave yourself," he said as the headwaiter approached them.
"You have incredible nerve," she said tartly. "We would have eaten an hour ago if you had behaved yourself."
"I know, but I liked sharing the tub with you," he said serenely.
Brook held back her reply as the sallow-faced headwaiter inclined his head to one side in greeting. "Please," he said, "may I escort you to your table?"