A Most Unsuitable Match (7 page)

Finally, she took up her mother’s locket. Opening it and expecting to see Papa’s image again, she blinked back unexpected tears as she stared down at the image of herself, dressed in the elaborate christening gown she knew to be stored away in the attic along with her dolls and the china tea set Papa had brought from Paris. Knowing Mother kept a photo of her as a baby somehow eased the hurt over Papa’s being the only one visible in the room.

She closed the locket, but the latch didn’t quite catch. As she fiddled with it, a second compartment opened and a small key fell out. She wondered at the wisdom of keeping the jewelry box key inside the jewelry box. As she reached over to try the key in the lock, the amethyst ring slid from her finger. It hit the carpet with barely a sound but must have bounced, for Fannie heard the clatter of metal on wood as the ring encountered the floorboards along the wall. With a sigh, she got down on her knees to duck beneath the dressing table. Retrieving the ring, she slipped it back on her finger, grimacing when she bumped her head against a bottom corner of the dressing table.

Frustrated, she stood up and reached for both ring and jewelry boxes, intending to take them to her own room, where she could return the stolen amethysts to their compartment. She paused. If Mother kept a valuable ring stowed away in an odd place, she’d better be thorough.

Sitting back down, Fannie opened another drawer. This one held an assortment of elegant handkerchiefs . . . and a dark brown, almost black envelope made of some kind of leather. A small lock held the flap firmly closed. Glancing toward the hall, Fannie hesitated. Silly as she knew it was, she felt guilty. As if Mother would appear in the doorway at any moment. With a little frown, she retrieved the key from the locket. Her hands trembled as she inserted it into the lock. It didn’t work. She tried again. Finally, with a faint
scritch-scratch
, the lock gave way.

Had the intruder’s heart beat like this as he opened these very drawers? Had his forehead grown damp when he heard footsteps in the hall? Surely he’d heard Hannah coming down from the attic. Why else would he have left without the rest of Mother’s jewelry? The idea that a stranger had lingered in this very spot while she went past on her way downstairs made Fannie tremble with new terror.

With a last glance toward the hall, she opened the envelope and pulled out a stack of papers wrapped in a yellow ribbon. Atop the papers lay a cabinet portrait of Mother, dressed in a stunning evening gown. Fannie recognized the amethyst necklace, but nothing else about the portrait made any sense at all. The form-fitting sweep of the gown, the dangerously low décolletage, the bare arms, the tiara-studded coiffure. And the pose. She was flirting with that painted fan.
Flirting
. This was not the woman Fannie knew. She turned the portrait over. Someone had written a name on the back.
Edie
. When had Mother ever been called Edie?

Setting the portrait aside, Fannie untied the ribbon.
Letters
—each one addressed to Mrs. Eleanor Rousseau. With another glance around the room, Fannie opened the envelope, removed the letter, and read.

Dearest Eleanor,

I know you long ago stopped hoping to hear news from me in which you could honestly rejoice, and I do understand how that would be. I understand, as well, how it is that you haven’t seen fit to answer my correspondence these past years. And yet, while you do your best to forget me, I remain stubborn as always. Be angry if you must, but know that I cannot let any of you go. As far as I have traveled, part of my heart has always remained in St. Charles. With you all.

There is news. Good news. Can you imagine? I, who have bowed before kings and known the favor of princes, am about to embark upon a journey into the Montana wilderness aboard the Bertrand. I believe you know it. I am told that the captain, Otto Busch, has quite the reputation. I have also been warned that he will try to refuse passage to a lady traveling alone. Of course the Otto Busches of this world have never stopped me from getting my way, and that will never change.

If God smiles on me, dear Eleanor, I will soon be in a position to show my devotion to you all. Do not fear. I know that any chance I had to repay you in person is gone forever. With all there is to regret, it is good to know at least one man in St. Charles upon whom a lady can rely. Hubert will inform you when the promise of gold has been fulfilled. While I am far from his favorite person, I still trust him to act in your best interest. He will be the conduit through whom I prove my devotion. Until then, I send greetings to Louis and Fannie.

Likely, you won’t forward those greetings. And yet . . . I hope.

Ever your sister, Edith

Dumbfounded, Fannie sat immobile, staring down at the signature. Mother had a sister. A
twin
sister who knew Papa . . . who knew she had a niece named Fannie . . . and who also seemed to know that Fannie had never heard of her. Aunt Edith had journeyed on the very steamboat whose sinking was mentioned in that pile of papers downstairs on Papa’s desk. Papa had been heavily invested in the
Bertrand
’s cargo when it sank back in ’65. Had Otto Busch been the captain when the
Bertrand
sank? Had he met Aunt Edith? With a little frown, Fannie looked toward the doorway. What did Hannah know about any of this? She glanced down at the letter in her hand. And was the
Hubert
Aunt Edith wrote about Hubert Vandekamp? She couldn’t think of another Hubert among their acquaintances here in St. Charles.

Taking up the bundle of letters, Fannie went to the window seat facing the river. Her hands shaking, she slipped another of Aunt Edith’s letters from beneath the yellow silk ribbon.

It is required in stewards, that a man be found faithful.

1 
C
ORINTHIANS 4:2

“
Land sakes
, child, didn’t you hear me calling?” Hannah hesitated at the door to Mother’s room.

Fannie looked up from the letter she’d been reading. “I found . . . these.” She pointed to the pile of letters next to her. She held her hand up to show Hannah the amethyst ring. “And this.” Why did Hannah’s silence make her feel like a naughty child caught misbehaving? “I wasn’t snooping. I had to check all the drawers to make sure I had everything.”

Hannah crossed the room and, sitting down next to her, took Fannie’s hand and peered down at the ring. “I never saw her wear this.”

“It matches her necklace and earrings. I found it in a separate box tucked toward the back of the middle drawer.”

Hannah pointed at the jewelry box sitting atop the dressing table across the room. “Was everything else still there?”

“As far as I can tell.” Fannie picked up the leather envelope. “This was beneath Mother’s handkerchiefs. Filled with letters. And this.”

Hannah took the cabinet portrait Fannie held out. “My, my,” she murmured. “Your mother was a stunning woman.” She shook her head. “I never knew her to dress so . . . stylish.”

“Turn it over,” Fannie said. “See the name? It isn’t Mother.” She grabbed the stack of letters. “These are all from the woman in the photograph. She’s my aunt.” She couldn’t keep the accusatory tone out of her voice. “I can’t imagine Mother keeping something like a twin sister from you for the better part of twenty years.”

Hannah stiffened. “Well, imagine it, little miss, because I’m just as surprised as you.” She handed the photo back and stood up. “I’d never stand by while you were burying your own mother and let you think you didn’t have another living soul in this world to turn to.” Her chin trembled. She waved a hand at the letters. “I’ve never seen those in all the years I’ve worked in this house and I never heard a word breathed about anyone named Edith. Not a word.”

Fannie reached for her hand. “Please, Hannah. Don’t be angry with me.” Her voice wavered. “Of course I believe you. It’s just—I don’t understand. She sounds wonderful
.
” Hannah sat back down. “In every letter—in every single one—she mentions something breathtaking. A ball given by the queen of Spain. A gondola outing in Venice.”

Fannie touched the ring. “Do you think I could keep this? I mean, wear it?”

“I don’t know why not,” Hannah said. “It belongs to you, now. Of course it’ll have to wait until you’re out of mourning.” She gestured toward the jewelry box. “Best to put it in there with the rest and let Mr. Vandekamp watch over it for now.”

Mr. Vandekamp. Hubert.
Fannie reached for the letter and read it aloud. “Do you think Aunt Edith’s
Hubert
could be Hubert Vandekamp?”

Hannah shrugged. “I suppose that would be a question for Mr. Vandekamp. And out of respect for your mother, I’d suggest that be a
private
conversation. She clearly had her reasons for not wanting anyone to know about any of this.”

As Fannie gazed down at the woman named Edith
,
her stomach growled.

Hannah rose again and headed for the door. “Unless you want cold stew for supper, you need to lay aside all of that business and follow me downstairs.”

After supper, Fannie spent the better part of the night alternating between reading Aunt Edith’s letters and gazing at her photograph. As the night wore on, confusion transformed into dismay. By the time the indigo sky began to blush with pink, dismay had blossomed into full-blown resentment against the parents who’d robbed her of a chance to know such a fascinating woman. If Mr. Vandekamp was, indeed, the Hubert mentioned in Aunt Edith’s last letter, he would have answers to Fannie’s questions. And she intended to ask them. Today.

As soon as she heard Hannah stirring below, Fannie summoned her help with petticoats and buttonhooks, corset lacing and hairdressing. When she vented her resentment over the secrets her parents had kept, Hannah chastised, “Don’t be so quick to judge, little miss. Letters only reveal what the person writing them wants us to know. I’m not speaking ill of this Edith woman. I’m just saying that your parents must have had their reasons. All you really know is that there’s a lot you don’t know.”

Fannie finished buttoning her black silk mourning dress as she said, “I’ve lost count of the number of times Mr. Vandekamp has told me I’m all alone in the world and dangled his list of ‘eligible bachelors’ as a cure for my ‘difficult circumstances.’ ” She pinned a mourning brooch in place over a button. “If he’s known about Edith LeClerc all along, I want to know why he didn’t tell me about her. Especially since
she
seems to regret all the secrecy.” She reached for the black gloves she’d torn pulling weeds. Only a practiced eye would ever see they’d been torn at all. She could always trust Hannah to take care of things like that.

Trust.
She’d always trusted that Mother and Papa were doing their best, both for each other and for her. She’d assumed she could trust Mr. Vandekamp because they did. But for all her trust, her world was falling apart, one broken shutter at a time, one niggling doubt at a time, one business ledger at a time, and now . . . one revelation at a time.