The Secret Heiress. Bethany Campbell

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СКАЧАТЬ moist from tears or from the fine rain.

      “Are you okay?” he demanded, leaning nearer.

      “Y-y-you’ve been very kind, b-b-but—” She couldn’t seem to get any more words out. He slipped one arm around her, afraid her knees were about to buckle.

      “Miss, I’m going to tell your manager about this incident. And if that fool harasses you again, call the police. I mean it.”

      She tried to disengage herself, but when she took a step backward, she swayed, as if she couldn’t quite support herself. Instead, she sagged forward, clutching the lapels of his rain jacket. She buried her face against his chest. Her back heaved as if she were sobbing silently.

      But only for the briefest of moments. Then, as if by sheer willpower, she righted herself again, drew back and looked him in the eye. “I’m terribly sorry. It’s not him.” She nodded in the direction the busboy had fled. “I’m absolutely okay. Just some—an illness in the family. I’m terribly embarrassed. I apologize. And thank you again. But I’m fine.”

      Before he knew it, she’d slipped from his grasp, opened the passenger door, and was sliding into the car beside her friend. She smiled at him, and there was something in that smile that nearly broke his heart.

      The car drove off, and he stood in the mist, looking after the disappearing taillights.

      Chapter Two

      The rain started to drizzle harder as Marie and Izzy left the parking lot. It was just after midnight. Izzy stopped at a light and said, “What was that all about?”

      “Butch groped me again,” Marie said in a flat, no-nonsense voice. “I stomped on his foot. That’s why he came after me in the parking lot. Mick and that other man saw it happen. They must have realized Butch wanted to get even.”

      “So that handsome guy comes to your rescue?” Izzy asked. “God, I wish Butch’d pinch me so I could stomp on him.”

      Marie said nothing, just sat lower in the seat.

      Izzy cast her a sideways glance. “That handsome guy? He was watching you tonight.”

      “I didn’t notice,” Marie said. And she hadn’t.

      “Not notice? How could you not notice? He’s been in the papers, on the telly.”

      “I don’t have time for the papers or telly,” Marie murmured, gazing out at the darkness.

      “He’s a high muckety-muck in horse racing. American. He’s going to run for some horse-thingy president. Against Jacko Bullock.”

      “Uck.” Marie shuddered. Bullock turned up several times a year at the Scepter during the racing season. She thought he looked like and acted like a pig. “Bullock’s nasty. He’s worse than Butch any day. He propositioned me right at the table one night, in front of three other men. I almost poured his drink on his head. I’d have loved to.”

      “Well, he’s powerful,” Izzy said. “He’ll gobble that poor Yank up and spit out his bones.”

      “Sad but true. The Yank seemed like a nice fellow.” He had, she thought vaguely. An extremely nice fellow.

      “I guess,” Izzy rejoined with heavy irony. “And that’s why you ended up in his arms? I thought he was going to plant a big smoochie on you.”

      Marie shrugged irritably. “Look, I went wobbly. I had a bad day.”

      “Oh, chook,” Izzy said. “I’m sorry. Is it your mom?”

      “Yes,” Marie said, her throat tight. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”

      And Izzy, who had a kind and sensitive heart, asked no more.

      But at home, Marie had to think about her mother. She could think of nothing else. She took Colette’s envelope, sat on the edge of the bed and forced her hands to stay steady as she opened the flap.

      She unfolded a sheet of paper, a letter. It was dated just over two years ago and signed “Willadene Gates.” It began:

      My Dear Miss Colette Lafayette,

      Thank you for writing me, for I think I can answer your questions, as years ago when I was not yet 17 yrs. of age I become an attendant at a home for unwed mothers.

      A high-priced place, it promised total discretion, if you get my meaning. I do remember your birth, for your birthday is the very same day as my own, March 9!

      “Your mother’s name was Louisa Fairchild. She was 16 yrs. old, unwed & pregnant, & come from quite the posh family.

      And I remember you, even after all these years. I said to myself, how could anyone give up such a darling infant? But that girl refused to even speak of you. Cold as ice, she was.

      In a few days, her parents come and took her home. Louisa F. walked out of the ward with never a backward look. She never even spoke to her own parents!

      Now she’s grown up and grown old. I see her name in the news. She’s rich as Midas and lives on a horse station near Hunter Valley—very hoity-toity! She never married and don’t get along with any relatives, I hear tell.

      Should you find her, and she recognizes you as her own, I hope you will not forget your friend, Willadene, what give you this info, as I am now elderly and living in reduced circumstances (although as you see the memory is still sharp!)

      Your friend, the first to ever hold & kiss you,

       Willadene Gates

      At the bottom, Colette had weakly scribbled a note.

      I wrote Willadene Gates two months later. The letter came back marked “deceased.” I didn’t know what to do next. My feelings are still mixed about whether I should try to find out more or let the matter go.

      Marie, I put some of my nail clippings in a little plastic bag. I pricked my finger and let some blood fall on a piece of cloth. I put them in an envelope in my jewelry box. If we’re related to Louisa Fairchild, your DNA and mine should match hers, if I understand what they say on the telly.

      It would be good to know the truth, at long last, but I was never brave enough to search further. I should have done it for your sake and apologize that I did not. I leave it in your capable hands.

      Your proud and loving mother.

      Marie read the letter again, disbelief mingling with suspicion.

      How had Colette found this Gates person? Could the woman be trusted? Her words had a slippery coyness that oozed with hunger for reward.

      Marie rose and went to her mother’s bedroom and opened the shabby velvet jewelry box on the dresser. An envelope lay in the box’s bottom drawer.

      Almost fearfully, she opened it. Inside was exactly what Colette had said, a little bag of nail parings and a square of white cotton with three drops of blood.

      She also found a second, smaller paper envelope. Opening it, she saw СКАЧАТЬ