A Daughter's Inheritance (38 page)

Supper had been preceded by a prayer, offered by Mrs. Morrison at her husband’s request. An odd occurrence as far as Fanny was concerned. She was accustomed to the men in the family performing the ritual. Apparently Mr. Morrison had detected Fanny’s surprise, for he had quietly remarked his wife’s prayers were more likely to reach the ears of the Almighty than his own unworthy utterances. Fanny didn’t comment because until then she’d never given thought to God having a preference of whom He heard from. Perhaps He did. If so, she thought Mr. Morrison’s assessment was incorrect. The world considered women’s thoughts of little value. Wouldn’t God then prefer to hear from men? She would write that question in her diary tonight so she could ask . . . Whom would she ask? Mrs. Atwell! Michael’s mother frequently spoke of her faith in God. She could pen Mrs. Atwell a letter this evening and ask. Moreover, she wanted to advise the older woman of her change in address.

Fanny insisted upon clearing the table and drying the dishes. It seemed strange to work in the kitchen yet not uncomfortable. Mrs. Morrison chatted while she washed the dishes and asked Fanny simple questions about her childhood. “Did Harold drive you past the house where we lived before moving here?”

“He didn’t mention it if he did. Is it on the way from the train station?”

She dipped a saucer into a pan of rinse water and handed it to Fanny. “It would depend on the route he took. Our old house had belonged to Harold’s parents. Originally it was constructed by his grandparents after they became wealthy. The lumberyard was a thriving business for many years.”

“I heard it mentioned that he had planned to expand his business to Rochester and Buffalo.”

Mrs. Morrison arched her perfectly shaped brows. “Truly? Harold never mentioned expanding the business in my presence.”

“Then perhaps I misunderstood.” Fanny couldn’t remember who had spoken of the expansion. It may have been her uncle Jonas; then again, it could have been Beatrice’s gossip. She wished she hadn’t remembered the information or at least had kept it to herself. Mrs. Morrison appeared alarmed.

“When did you hear talk of this proposed expansion, Fanny?”

Mrs. Morrison stared into the soapy pot and continued to scrub.

“I don’t recall. In all likelihood I overheard some of my uncle’s business associates and completely misunderstood.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Who knows? They may have been discussing the Bancroft Lumberyard.”

Mrs. Morrison frowned. “But that closed two years ago.”

Fanny wanted to kick herself. She should have remembered it had closed! Lydia Bancroft’s father had died unexpectedly, and when Lydia’s brother refused to return to Rochester and take over the business, Mrs. Bancroft had sold off the existing stock and closed the doors. Mrs. Bancroft later sold the building, and against Lydia’s protests, the two of them had moved to New York City.

“Then perhaps it wasn’t even a lumberyard they were speaking of, Mrs. Morrison. I can’t be certain.” Fanny nodded toward the backyard. “I see you enjoy gardening. I’m fond of flowers myself.”

Thankfully Mrs. Morrison was more interested in discussing her annuals and perennials, so no further mention was made of her husband’s business plans. When the conversation lulled, Fanny spoke of her childhood and the lilac bush she’d planted after her father’s death. She hesitated and looked at Mrs. Morrison from beneath hooded eyelids. “I know what that letter says, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to think of another man as my father.”

Mrs. Morrison wiped her wet hands on the corner of her apron. “I don’t believe either of us would ever expect you to do so, Fanny. From what you’ve told me, Mr. Broadmoor was a fine father, and you must revere his memory.”

Fanny hung the dish towel to dry. “How long have you known about me?”

“Not long. My husband told me only a few days before we went to the Thousand Islands.” She stared into the distance. “Those islands are the most beautiful place I’ve ever visited. I should like to return there one day—under more pleasant circumstances.” Her comment seemed to jar her back to the present. “Not that anything about you is unpleasant . . . I didn’t mean to imply . . .”

“I know, Mrs. Morrison. You need not apologize. I know this must be very difficult for you, also.”

The older woman sank onto one of the wooden chairs. “Yes. It was such a surprise, you know, after all these years.” She reached for Fanny’s hand. “I always wanted a child, but we were never able . . .” She inhaled a ragged breath. “Knowing that you are Harold’s child is a good thing. I am not saddened by the news, merely surprised that he never told me. I thought I knew everything about Harold.” At the sound of Mr. Morrison’s footsteps, she released Fanny’s hand. “We should join my husband before he thinks we’ve deserted him.”

While they sat on the front porch making small talk, Fanny wondered how the Morrisons would explain her to their friends and neighbors. “Am I to be introduced as a visiting relative or friend of the family? I don’t want to say or do anything that would cause either of you embarrassment.”

Mr. Morrison gestured for his wife to answer.

“What is your preference, Fanny? We are happy to concede to your wishes.”

“If we say I’m a relative visiting from Rochester, they will expect further explanation and wonder why they’ve never before seen me in your home, don’t you agree?”

“Why don’t we say you are a relative who has come to visit for the very first time? We need not say anything further unless questioned.” Mrs. Morrison offered a kind smile. “Our friends don’t delve into our private affairs, and acquaintances have no right to do so. If the need arises, I believe I can discourage further questions.” Mrs. Morrison’s response reflected a quiet conviction that dispelled Fanny’s concerns. Should questions arise, she would direct them to the older woman.

Mr. Morrison knocked the bowl of his pipe against the porch rail. “How were you received in Rochester after your return from Broadmoor Island?”

Fanny watched the charred tobacco flutter to the ground below. “It was more difficult than I anticipated.”

He tamped fresh tobacco into the pipe. “The social set was ready to discard you like last year’s fashions, I suppose?”

“They continued to invite me to the parties, but I was not treated in the same manner. In fact, I doubt they would have invited me at all had I not been residing under my uncle Jonas’s roof. Until the matter is settled in court, they’ll simply continue to twitter and gossip. If the judge declares I’m not a Broadmoor, I doubt I’ll see any of them again—except for Sophie and Amanda.” She glanced at Mrs. Morrison. “They’re two of my cousins, and we’re as close as sisters. They would never abandon me.”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t. And they are always welcome in our home.” Mrs. Morrison reached for her mending basket and then decided against the idea. “I believe it’s soon going to be too dark to accomplish any sewing out here on the porch.”

A red glow shone from the bowl of Mr. Morrison’s pipe, and Fanny studied his profile as a curl of smoke wafted above his head. He was a fine-looking man, but she could see no resemblance. Blood or not, she much more closely resembled the Broadmoors.

29

Tuesday, September 14, 1897
Rochester, New York

Jonas stared heavenward. Why must he listen to yet another of Victoria’s verbal onslaughts? His wife questioned the validity of Mr. Morrison’s claim of fatherhood as well as Jonas’s decision to send the girl for a lengthy visit. And since Fanny’s departure, there’d been no escaping her scolding arguments.

“Are you listening to me, Jonas? You cannot hide behind a newspaper.” Victoria flicked the paper with her fingers. “In addition, I might point out that your behavior is beyond rude. I am attempting to have a discussion with you, and you’re behaving like a child.”

Jonas sighed and refolded the paper. A man couldn’t even enjoy an evening of quiet in his own home. There was no escape. His wife wanted to have yet another
discussion
. Either he’d participate or Victoria would continue to carp at him for the remainder of the night.

“We’ve already gone over all of this, Victoria. Must we do this every evening? I grow weary of rehashing the same thing over and over.”

“How can we be rehashing something we’ve never discussed? I talk, you ignore me, and we go to bed. There has been no discussion, only avoidance. I don’t believe Mr. Morrison is Fanny’s father, and I want to bring her back home.”

“On the other hand, I believe Mr. Morrison
is
her father, and I agreed she could remain in their home.” He reached for his newspaper, but Victoria slapped her hand atop his.

“Not so quick, Jonas. I want to know why you, a man who constantly questions everything, would so easily accept a letter supposedly written by Winifred years ago as substantial proof. We can’t be certain that letter is authentic. I fear you are doing Fanny a grave injustice.” She sat down in the chair opposite and clung to his hand, as though he might attempt an escape. “Even if Mr. Morrison is Fanny’s father, I believe Langley would have known before he married Winifred. Langley and Winifred were devoted to each other, and he remained devoted to Fanny after Winifred’s death. I simply cannot accept this.”

“Have you considered that the question of Fanny’s parentage is what drove him to take his own life?”

“Jonas!” Victoria withdrew her hand. “What an awful thing to say—and it makes no sense. If he was burdened by the child’s lineage, he would have refused her at birth—immediately after Winifred’s death.”

“Since he didn’t do that, I can only assume Winifred didn’t tell him. Let us remember the child was born when they had been married only eight months.”

“She was premature, Jonas. She was so tiny that she nearly died. Many babies are born early—do you not remember Amanda’s birth?”

Jonas shook his head. “But she wasn’t our first child. If she
had
been . . .”

“You would have accused
me
of impropriety?” Anger flared in his wife’s eyes.

“This conversation has nothing to do with us, Victoria. Let’s get back to the topic at hand. Winifred’s letter is substantiation enough for any court, and it’s enough for me.”

“How do you know what the court will require? And who can truly verify that Winifred wrote that letter? Even if she did write it, who can attest that Langley and your parents didn’t know?”

Jonas massaged his temples. “My father would have told me.”

“
Pshaw!
Your father adored Langley. If asked, he would have protected Langley’s secret. His will was drawn with specificity, and I believe he wanted Fanny to have Langley’s share of his inheritance. Even if all of this is true, Langley and your parents considered Fanny a member of this family.”

“With all due respect, my dear, you’re forgetting that Mr. Morrison is the one who stepped forward to claim Fanny as his child. We’ll let the court decide.”

Victoria folded her hands. “The court can decide whatever it wants, but Fanny is still a member of this family. Mr. and Mrs. Morrison should let Fanny decide where she wants to live, and no matter what any judge rules, you and Quincy should see that Fanny receives her inheritance.”

Jonas gulped and choked until Victoria finally clapped him on the back. Give the inheritance to Fanny? Had Victoria taken leave of her senses? He attempted to clear his throat as tears rolled down his cheeks.

His wife offered a fleeting look of concern. “Are you all right?”

He nodded. “Yes,” he croaked. “I totally disagree with your thinking. For all concerned, it’s best we follow the dictates of the court. We both know that there are members of the family who would strenuously object to your plan, particularly in regard to the inheritance.”

“And you are one of those family members, aren’t you, Jonas? You said as much at the reading of the will, before any of this business with Mr. Morrison came to light. Do the right thing, Jonas. If you’ll pray about your decision, I believe you’ll change your mind.”

Jonas squirmed under his wife’s watchful scrutiny. She’d changed her tactics. She had departed from her earlier theory of a bogus letter and was now attempting to sway him with religious conviction. It seemed there was no end to what she would attempt in order to win her argument. However, there was too much at stake for him to relent now.

“I’ll consider what you’ve said, but don’t expect me to change my mind.”

“At a minimum, I want Fanny back under our roof. I’ll not see this family abandon her.”

“We have not abandoned her. She is no more a Broadmoor than a stranger walking down the street. She is likely quite happy with her new family.”

“Father! I cannot believe what you said.” Amanda stared wide-eyed at her father as she walked into the room. “Fanny is my dear cousin and best friend. How can you cast her aside and speak of her as a stranger? Are you so heartless? Is it because you want her money?” Amanda curled her lip in disgust.

“Her money? It is not hers, Amanda. She is not a Broadmoor. This is a private conversation between your mother and me. And you’d do well to remember that you enjoy the pleasure of new gowns and jewelry—all the fine things money can buy.”

“I’ll give up my jewelry and fine gowns if you’ll permit Fanny to return home to live with us.” Amanda sat down beside her mother. “Please say you’ll agree, Father.”

Jonas shook his head. “It isn’t my decision. Mr. Morrison has the final say in where Fanny will live. For the present, he has chosen to have her in his home.” Jonas rose from his chair. “I’m not going to discuss this any further.”

He’d not satisfied the wishes of his wife or daughter, of that he was certain. However, he had to escape or he’d soon be ensnared by the two of them. Handling Victoria’s questions was difficult enough, but when she worked in tandem with Amanda, he knew flight was the only answer. A visit to his men’s club would provide a needed respite.

With his mind set upon peace and quiet for the remainder of the evening, Jonas stepped down from his carriage and approached the front steps of the men’s club—a place where he could enjoy a good cigar, read his paper, and visit with fellow businessmen about the latest fluctuations in the business world, or at least in Rochester.