The Heiress Strikes Back novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: The Son

Peter sees what his mother has made of Miranda, and Miranda chooses to go to the Brightwell house as Lorna's maid, because that is where the truth is.

"Mother," Peter said. "Did you hit her?"

"Don't be dramatic. Miranda had a nervous turn at lunch."

"Her face is red."

"She fell against the shelf."

Peter looked at me.

I could have said it.

I did not know yet what he was, or what he would do with it, so I said, "I'm fine."

He took off his jacket and hung it on the hook by the pantry door.

"Funny," he said. "I thought you'd say that."

He turned to his mother.

"Dad's been dead four weeks. I came a day early to see you. And I find the cook's girl locked in a cupboard."

"Miranda is not the cook's girl," Mrs. Thornley said. "She is a charge on this estate."

"A what?"

"A debt," I said.

I picked up the ledger and held it out to him.

He took it.

He read the last page, and his mouth went flat.

"Two hundred and fourteen thousand dollars," he said. "For a kid."

"For twenty-four years of care."

"She worked in your kitchen from the time she could stand on a stool."

"She was repaying it."

"Is that what you call it." He shut the ledger and set it down on the flour barrel very gently. "I'm going to walk her out to the barn, and she's going to tell me what happened. Please don't follow us."

"Peter."

"Please don't."

I walked out through the kitchen beside him.

I had never walked out of that kitchen beside anyone.

The October air hit me like cold water.

The old barn at the bottom of the lawn smelled of hay and rust.

He pulled the big door shut and leaned against it with his arms crossed, looking at his shoes.

"I should have come back sooner," he said.

"Yes."

"You're not going to tell me it's fine."

"No."

"Good." He looked up. He had put on his glasses, and his eyes behind them were tired and grey. "You were eighteen, last time. You stood at the sink with your sleeves rolled up. I told you to eat, and you said you'd eat when the dishes were done."

"They were never done."

"I know. I knew." He rubbed his face. "I told myself you had a room, and Dot, and that it wasn't my house to fix. I left. That's what I did, Miranda. I left."

I had expected pity.

I had not expected him to be as angry at himself as I was.

"What did she say about the Brightwells?" he said. "I heard a name in the hall."

"She is passing Lorna off as their daughter."

He didn't laugh.

I watched it go across his face: the confusion, then something quicker than confusion.

"Lorna's my sister," he said slowly. "Born in Geneva. Mother was on a long trip that winter."

"Lorna was born in December."

"Yes."

"The Brightwell baby was born in March."

He stopped.

"I'm the one who was born in March," I said. "I found the bracelet in your mother's safe. It says 03/14."

I took the clipping out of my smock and held it up between two fingers.

The baby's eyes looked out of the newsprint, with their gold ring.

He looked at them.

Then he looked at mine.

The barn was very quiet.

"Miranda," he said.

"I know how it sounds."

"I'm not saying it doesn't sound crazy." He took the clipping and held it by the edges, as if it might break. "I'm saying I don't think you're lying. I'd like to know why my mother has kept this in a safe for twenty-four years."

"She keeps it for the days she needs to feel clever."

His laugh was short and cracked.

I liked it more than I meant to.

"She'll send me to Westport," I said. "As Lorna's maid."

"Over my dead body."

"No," I said. "I'm going."

He stared.

"The Brightwells' house is where the truth is. She wants me there so she can watch me. Fine. I'll be in the nursery, in the kitchen and at their table. I'll stand next to Mrs. Brightwell every day with these eyes, and I will not stop."

"They'll think you're a thief."

"They already do."

"They'll think you're after the money."

"They think everything about me already. It costs me nothing to be in the room."

He was quiet for a while.

He looked at me.

"You don't have a phone number I can call," he said.

"I have a prepaid."

"Give it to me."

I gave it to him. He put it in his own phone, and his thumb was careful.

"I'll drive you to Westport myself," he said. "Monday morning. I'll carry your bag in through the front door where they can see me do it."

"Your mother will hate that."

"I know." A small, odd, crooked smile. "It's the best part."

The barn door scraped.

Mrs. Thornley stood in the opening, with the light behind her and the ledger back under her arm.

She had heard enough.

I watched her look at the clipping in her son's hand, then at the two of us, standing close.

She smiled.

It was the smile of a woman who has just been handed a second weapon.

"How lovely," she said. "Peter is going to drive you himself."

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