Sons of Fortune (3 page)

When
his alarm went off at seven he was still awake. He knew exactly what his first
course of action must be, although he feared the repercussions could
reverberate for many years.

Dr.
Greenwood took considerably longer to drive back to St. Patrick’s for a second
time that morning, and it wasn’t just because of the increased traffic. He
dreaded having to tell Ruth Davenport that her child had died during the night,
and only hoped it could be done without any accompanying scandal. He knew he
would have to go straight to Ruth’s room and explain what had
happened,
otherwise he would never be able to go through
with it.

“Good
morning, Dr. Greenwood,” said the nurse on reception, but he didn’t respond.

When
he stepped out on the sixth floor and began walking toward Mrs. Davenport’s
room, he found his pace became slower and slower. He came to a halt in front of
her door, hoping she would still be asleep. He eased it open, to be greeted with
the sight of Robert Davenport sitting beside his wife.

Ruth
was holding a baby in her arms. Miss Nichol was nowhere to be seen.

Robert
jumped up from his side of the bed.

“Kenneth,”
he said shaking him by the hand, “we will be eternally in your debt.”

“You
owe me nothing,” the doctor replied quietly.

“Of
course we do,” said Robert, turning back to face his wife. “Shall we let him
know what we’ve decided, Ruth?”

“Why
not, then we’ll both have something to celebrate,” she said, kissing the boy’s
forehead.

“But
first I have to tell you...” began the doctor.

“No
buts,” said Robert, “because I want you to be the first to know that I’ve
decided to ask the board of Preston’s to finance the new maternity wing that
you have always hoped would be completed before you retire.”

“B...” repeated Dr. Greenwood.

“I
thought we agreed on no buts. After on, the plans have been drawn up for
years,” he said, looking down at his son, “so I can’t think of any reason why
we shouldn’t start on the building program right away.” He turned to face the
hospital’s senior obstetrician. “Unless of course you...?”

Dr.
Greenwood remained silent.

When
Miss Nichol saw Dr. Greenwood coming out of Mrs. Davenport’s private room, her
heart sank. He was carrying the little boy in his arms and walking back toward
the elevator that would take him to the special care nursery. As they passed
each other in the corridor their eyes met, and although he didn’t speak, she
was in no doubt that he was aware of what she must have done.

Miss
Nichol accepted that if she was going to make a run for it, it had to be now.
Once she had taken the child back to the nursery, she’d lain awake in the
corner of Mrs. Davenport’s room for the rest of the night, wondering if she
would be found out.

She
had tried not to stir when Dr. Greenwood had looked in. She had no idea what
time it was because she didn’t dare glance down at her watch.

She
had quite expected him to call her out of the room and tell her he knew the
truth, but he had left just as silently as he had come, so she was none the
wiser.

Heather
Nichol went on walking toward the private room, while her eyes remained firmly
fixed on the fire escape exit at the far end of the corridor. Once she had
passed Mrs. Davenport’s door she tried not to quicken her pace.

She
had only a couple of paces to go when she heard a voice she immediately
recognized say, “Miss Nichol?” She froze on the spot, still staring toward the
fire escape, as she considered her options. She swung around to face Mr.
Davenport. “I think we need to have a private word,” he said.

Mr.
Davenport stepped into an alcove on the other side of the corridor, assuming
she would follow. Miss Nichol thought her legs would give way long before she
collapsed into the chair opposite him. She couldn’t tell from the expression on
his face if he also realized she was the guilty party. But then with Mr.
Davenport you never could. It wasn’t in his nature to give anything away, and
that was something he found difficult to change, even when it came to his
private life.

Miss
Nichol couldn’t look him in the eye, so she stared over his left shoulder and
watched Dr.

Greenwood
as the elevator doors closed.

“I
suspect you know what I’m about to ask you,” he said.

“Yes,
I do,” Miss Nichol admitted, wondering if anyone would ever employ her again,
and even if she might end up in prison.

When
Dr. Greenwood reappeared ten minutes later, Miss Nichol knew exactly what was
going to happen to her and where she would end up.

“When
you’ve thought about it, Miss Nichol, perhaps you could give me a call at my
office, and if your answer is yes, then I’ll need to have a word with my
lawyers.”

“I’ve
already thought about it,” said Miss Nichol.

This
time she did look Mr. Davenport directly in the eye. “The answer is yes,” she
told him, “I’d be delighted to continue working for the family as nanny.”

Miss
Nichol studied the photograph when it was published in The Hartford Courant.

She
was relieved to find that although both boys had inherited their
fathers
square jaw, Andrew had curly fair hair, while Nat’s
was straight and already turning dark. But it was Josiah Preston who saved the
day, by frequently remarking that his grandson had inherited his nose and
pronounced forehead in the great tradition of the
Prestons
.
Miss Nichol constantly repeated these observations to fawning relatives and
sycophantic employees, prefaced with the words, “Mr. Preston often remarks...”

Within
two weeks of returning home, Ruth had been reappointed as Chairman of the
Hospital Trust, and immediately set about honoring her husband’s pledge to
build a new maternity wing for St. Patrick’s.

Miss
Nichol meanwhile took on any job, however menial, that allowed Ruth to resume
her outside activities while she took charge of Andrew. She became the boy’s
nanny, mentor, guardian and governess. But not a day went by without her
dreading that the truth might eventually come out.

Miss
Nichol’s first real anxiety arose when Mrs. Cartwright phoned to say that she
was holding a birthday party for her son, and as Andrew had been born on the
same day, would she like him to be included.

“How
kind of you to ask,” Miss Nichol replied, without missing a beat, “but Andrew
is having his own birthday party, and I’m only sorry that Nat won’t be able to
join us.”

“Well,
please pass on my best wishes to Mrs. Davenport, and tell her how much we
appreciate being invited to the opening of the new maternity wing next month.”
An invitation Miss Nichol could not cancel. When Susan put the phone down, her
only thought was how
did Miss Nichol know
her son’s
name.

Within
moments of Mrs. Davenport arriving home that evening, Miss Nichol suggested
that she should organize a party for Andrew’s first birthday. Ruth thought it
was a splendid idea, and was only too happy to leave all the arrangements,
including the guest list, in nanny’s hands. Organizing a birthday party where
you can control who should or should not be invited is one thing, but trying to
make sure that her employer and Mrs. Cartwright did not meet up at the opening
of the Preston Maternity Wing was quite another.

In
fact, it was Dr. Greenwood who introduced the two women while giving his guided
tour of the new facility. He couldn’t believe that no one would notice that the
two little boys looked so alike. Miss Nichol turned away when he glanced in her
direction. She quickly placed a bonnet over Andrew’s head, which made him look
more like a girl, and before Ruth could comment, said, “It’s turning quite cold
and I wouldn’t want Andrew to catch a chill.”

“Will
you be staying in Hartford once you’ve retired, Dr. Greenwood?” Mrs. Cartwright
asked.

“No,
my wife and I plan to retire to our family home in Ohio,” the doctor replied,
“but I’m sure we’ll return to Hartford from time to time.”

Miss
Nichol would have let out a sigh of relief had the doctor not stared pointedly
at her. However, with Dr. Greenwood out of the way, Miss Nichol felt a little
more confident that her secret would not be discovered.

Whenever
Andrew was invited to join in any activity, become a member of any group,
participate in any sport or just sign up for the summer pageant, Miss Nichol’s
first priority was to ensure that her charge didn’t come into contact with any
member of the Cartwright family.

This
she managed to achieve with considerable success throughout the child’s
formative years, without arousing the suspicions of either Mr. or Mrs.
Davenport.

It
was two letters that arrived in the morning mail that persuaded Miss Nichol
that she need no longer be apprehensive. The first was addressed to Andrew’s
father and confirmed that the boy had been admitted to Hotchkiss, Connecticut’s
oldest private school. The second, postmarked
Ohio,
was opened by Ruth.

“How
sad,” she remarked as she turned the hand-written page. “He was such a fine
man.”

“Who?”
asked Robert, looking up from his copy of The New England Journal of
Medicine.

“Dr.
Greenwood. His wife has written to say that he passed away last Friday, aged
seventy-four.”

“He
was a fine man,” Robert repeated, “perhaps you should attend the funeral.”

“Yes,
of course I will,” said Ruth, “and Heather might like to accompany me,” she
added. “After all, she used to work for him.”

“Of
course,” said Miss Nichol, hoping that she looked suitably distressed.

Susan
read the letter a second time, saddened by the news. She would always recall
how personally Dr.

Greenwood
had taken Peter’s death, almost as if he felt somehow responsible. She
remembered how tired she had grown, hearing friends and relations telling her to
thank God that one of them had survived.

Didn’t
they understand that Peter was dead, and she had lost a son? Dr. Greenwood had
understood.

Michael
had hoped that his wife would begin to recover from the loss once she’d left
the hospital and returned home. But it wasn’t to be. Susan still talked
endlessly of her other son, and kept a photograph of the two boys by her
bedside.

Perhaps
she should go to the doctor’s funeral. She was about to share the news of his
death with Michael, when her husband suddenly leaped in the air and shouted,
“Well done, Nat.”

“What
is it?” asked Susan, surprised by such uncharacteristic-exuberance.

“Nat’s
won a scholarship to Tail,” said her husband, waving his letter in the air.

Susan
didn’t share the same enthusiasm as her husband for Nat being sent away at such
an early age to board with children whose parents came from a different world.
How could a child of fourteen begin to understand that they couldn’t afford so
many of the things that his school friends would take for
granted.
She had long felt that Nathaniel should follow in Michael’s footsteps and go to
Jefferson High. If it was good enough for her to teach at, why wasn’t it good
enough for their child to be taught at?

Nat
had been sitting on his bed rereading his favorite book when he heard his
father’s outburst.

He’d
reached the chapter where the whale was about to escape yet again. He
reluctantly jumped off the bed and put his head around the door to find out
what was causing the commotion. His parents were furiously debating-they never
argued, despite the much-reported incident with the ice cream-which school he
should attend.

He
caught his father in mid-sentence...”chance of a lifetime,” he was saying. “Nat
will be able to mix with children who will end up as leaders in every field,
and therefore influence the rest of his life.”

“Rather
than go to Jefferson High and mix with children who he might end up leading and
influence for the rest of their lives?”

“But
he’s won a scholarship, so we wouldn’t have to pay a penny.”

“And
we wouldn’t have to pay a penny if he went to Jefferson.”

“But
we must think of Nat’s future. If he goes to Tail, he might well end up at
Harvard or Yale...”

“But
Jefferson has produced several pupils who have attended both Harvard and Yale.”

“If
I had to take out an insurance policy on which of the two schools would be more
likely...”

“It’s
a risk I’m willing to take.”

“Well,
I’m not,” said Michael, “and I spend every day of my life trying to eliminate
risks like that.” Nat listened intently as his mother and father continued
their debate, never once raising their voices or losing their tempers.

“I’d
rather my son graduate as an egalitarian than a patrician,” Susan retorted with
passion.

“Why
should they be incompatible?” asked Michael.