“That is wonderful,” I said. “I’m happy for you.”
“So am I,” she said. “Things finally seem to be going right for me. And now I remember that you were going to tell me what you discovered in Massachusetts.” She slipped her arm through mine. “I am all agog. You really found out the truth? Were they really missionaries? Am I really an heiress?”
“I can’t tell you anything until I have made one more visit,” I said. “I have to verify the facts first. But with any luck you should know the truth this week. Of course, I might be barking up the wrong tree, but I don’t think so.”
Her face was alight with hope and I felt guilty. If my news were true, then I’d hardly be making her happy, would I? Still, it’s always better to know the truth. I’ve found out that much in life.
Twenty-three
After Emily and I parted, I walked up and down the quiet, elegant street several times before I finally plucked up the courage to knock on the door of Mr. Horace Lynch. His butler reported that Mr. Lynch was indeed at home but was due to leave for a luncheon engagement in a few minutes.
“This will not take long,” I said. “It is a matter of great importance.”
I was shown into a morning room, where Mr. Lynch was just pouring himself a glass of whiskey from a decanter. He scowled as if trying to place me.
“Yes, what is it? Asking for a donation for the poor and destitute, are you? Then you go right back and tell them to get a job and earn an honest living for themselves, you hear me.”
I realized then that I was dressed all in black and that my hair was hidden under my black hat with its half veil. He hadn’t recognized or remembered me.
“Mr. Lynch. You may not remember me but I visited you a week ago, asking for details of your ward Emily’s parents.”
His scowl deepened as he recognized me. “You again? I thought I made it quite clear to you that I could be of no use to you at all regarding those missionaries.”
“Ah, but I’m sure you can be of use to me, Mr. Lynch,” I said. “May I take a seat? I won’t keep you long.”
I perched on the nearest chair without being asked. I saw his face flushing an angry red. “Are you dim-witted or something? I told you quite clearly that I had no knowledge of these people. They belonged to my wife’s family, not mine.”
“I think you do have knowledge, Mr. Lynch. You’re just not willing to share it. I went up to Williamstown, you see.”
The color now drained from his face. “What exactly is it that you want?” he demanded. “Blackmail? Is that it? Because if so you’re going to be sorry you came here.”
“Blackmail? Good heavens, no. I just want the truth, Mr. Lynch, and I want to hear it from your lips.”
“I’ve told you the truth—as much of it as I know.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I spoke with various people in Williamstown and I think I’ve discovered the truth. Shall I share my thoughts with you and you can correct me if I’m wrong?”
He was still scowling horribly. His face now looked even more like that of a bulldog. “Go on, damn you.”
“Such language, Mr. Lynch,” I said. “Very well. When I was in Williamstown I learned of a lovely, vivacious young girl called Lydia Johnson. I learned that she loved to dance and have fun but she was raised by strict Scottish Calvinists who did not allow her normal girlish pleasures. I learned that she was a very bright girl who loved to read and wanted to go to college—Vassar, to be exact. Are you with me so far?”
“Go on,” he growled.
“Her parents might have agreed to a college education but then a terrible tragedy struck. Her parents were both killed when their buggy went off the road. She was left with no one in the world, her only relatives being back in Scotland.” I glanced up at him again. He was sitting as still as a statue, his whiskey glass in one hand.
“That was when you came on the scene, wasn’t it, Mr. Lynch? You were an ambitious man and you summed up the situation correctly and seized the moment. You sensed that she needed to replace that domineering father figure, and you grabbed your chance to get your hands on her fortune and the mill. So you courted her and she agreed to marry you while she was still vulnerable and grieving for her parents. She didn’t love you but she needed someone to take care of her. Am I correct so far?”
“Get on with it,” he snapped.
“But Lydia was a romantic. She longed for balls and parties and you were as strict as her father had been. You had her money but you were a bit of a skinflint, weren’t you? And you were not the romantic husband she had dreamed of. She was ripe to fall in love when you hired a handsome Italian gardener—Antonio, was that his name? She fell madly in love with him. They had a passionate affair and she found herself in a difficult and embarrassing position. She was going to have a child. Am I right in my hunch so far, Mr. Lynch?”