Heiress (12 page)

"Babs, why do I have the feeling she is going to hound us until we agree to do something?" Dean caught hold of Abbie's hands and forced her to stand still in front of his chair.

One look at her father's tolerantly amused smile and Abbie knew she had him. "Ben says it's because I'm just like my grandpa. I won't quit no matter what."

"Ben just may be right," Dean conceded, aware that at times, his daughter's persistence bordered on sheer bullheadedness—a trait tempered by a naturally warm and outgoing nature. Not at all like the shy and sensitive Rachel, Dean thought, recalling the way she watched him with those haunting blue eyes of hers. Rarely did they sparkle and dance the way Abbie's did now.

"Ben's always right," she announced pertly.

"Most of the time, anyway." Affectionately he tweaked her nose, then glanced over at Babs, still clad in her Italian palazzo pajamas, and propped up with a cushion of pillows on the sitting-room sofa. "Let's take the child for a walk, Babs. The fresh air and sunshine will do us good."

"I doubt it, honey." She groped for the cup of coffee sitting on the end table, the last that remained from the late morning breakfast they'd had served in their hotel suite. "This is worse than the mornings after one of the MacDonnells' barbecues. My eyes feel like a pair of peeled grapes full of pits. And I know I must weigh two hundred pounds, as heavy as I feel."

"If she's gained that much weight, then she really does need to exercise, doesn't she, Daddy?" Abbie grinned slyly.

"She certainly does."

"I have a better idea," Babs said, pausing to take a slow sip of her coffee. "You and Abbie go for a walk and let me stay here and rest."

"No." Abbie pulled free from Dean's hands and walked over to the sofa to take the coffee cup out of her mother's hands. "You have to come with us. This is our vacation and we're supposed to have fun."

After a considerable amount of joint prodding and coaxing, an hour later the three of them were strolling down the London streets. At least, Dean and Babs were strolling. Abbie was skipping ahead, eager to experience the sights and sounds of this city that was so new to her.

Abruptly she turned and started walking backward, a perplexed look on her face. "Why isn't there any fog today? Isn't there supposed to be fog in London?"

"Not every day," Babs said. "It's like at home in Texas. Sometimes it will roll in at night, or early mornings. And sometimes it will just hover on the river, like it does on the Brazos, sneaking around the trees on the banks and spooking into the pastures."

"It gets scary then." But Abbie's eyes were bright with excitement at the thought.

"Turn around and watch where you're going before you run into somebody," Babs admonished.

"And don't get too far ahead of us," Dean added when Abbie started to take off at a run. "You'll get lost."

"Yes, Daddy." Unwillingly she slowed down.

If that was Rachel, Dean knew she'd be right at his side holding on to his hand, especially when they were at some public place with a lot of people around. She said it was because she didn't want to get separated from him, but Dean suspected that Rachel was a little too timid and insecure to venture off by herself. Abbie, on the other hand, didn't even know what a stranger was. Night and day, his daughters were, regardless of how much they looked alike.

"I forgot to tell you, Babs, before you were up this morning, I made arrangements with the concierge for a guide to take you and Abbie around London tomorrow and show you the sights. I'll probably be tied up the rest of the week handling things with the company office here."

“Abbie isn't going to be too happy about that." Neither was Babs, but she wasn't about to admit it.

"She'll have too much to see and do to notice I'm not around. Look at her." Dean smiled. "Her head's swinging from side to side like one of those dogs on the dashboard of a car."

During the next three days, Babs and Abbie took in all the must-see sights, accompanied by the unobtrusive Justine and their guide, Arthur Bigsby. They watched the ceremonial Changing of the Guard in the forecourt of Buckingham Palace, but Abbie was disappointed that she didn't get to see the queen—and she didn't think the palace was as nice as their home at River Bend, although she did concede it was bigger. She was impressed by the glittering array of Crown Jewels and royal regalia at the Tower of London. She argued with Arthur when he tried to tell her Big Ben was the large bell in the Clock Tower of the Houses of Parliament in Westminster. Everyone in Texas knew Big Ben was the clock.

Westminster Abbey was all right. She couldn't imagine why anybody would want to be buried in a church, especially kings. That's what cemeteries were for. She fed the pigeons in Trafalgar Square and laughed when one sat on her head.

When they met Dean for lunch, her array of observations and the questions they raised was endless. Why wasn't there a circus at Piccadilly Circus? Why did they call cookies biscuits? Why did they call supper high tea? If there was high tea, what was low tea?

Dean finally pointed at her plate and said, "Eat."

"Poor Arthur should have tried that," Babs said. "She absolutely wore the man out. And me, too."

"Well, tomorrow will be different. I thought we might drive down to Crabbet Park and look at their Arabians."

"Really, Daddy? Are we honest and truly gonna go there tomorrow?" Abbie asked excitedly.

"Yes. I thought we'd leave bright and early in the morning so we can spend as much time there as we want."

"You and Abbie go. When it comes to horses, I can't tell a gelding from a stallion."

"Momma, that's easy. Ben says all you have to do is—"

"Abbie, it's not polite to interrupt.” Dean tried to look stern and not laugh.

"I'm telling you, Dean, some of the things she knows would make Justine blush," Babs declared, then went on with what she had been about to say before Abbie interrupted her. "Anyway, I want to go to this boutique in Chelsea called Bazaar. Some new designer named Mary Quant has it. Her clothes are supposed to be all the rage now. I haven't had a chance to do any shopping yet."

"I'd like to go shopping," Abbie said wistfully, then quickly added, "But I'd rather go to Crabbet Park with you, Daddy."

"Is there any reason why we can't go shopping after we finish our lunch? I haven't had a chance to do any shopping either." And he wanted to send something to Rachel from England—something nice.

"I have an appointment to have my hair done," Babs said. "I can't very well cancel it if you expect me to look presentable tonight when we have dinner with your London manager and his wife."

"In that case Abbie and I will go, and meet you back at the hotel later."

A taxi dropped them off at the main entrance to Selfridge's Department Store. Usually Dean had trouble choosing something for Rachel, especially when it came to clothes; he was never sure she'd like it or whether it would fit. With Abbie along, he hoped to solve at least part of the problem.

As they entered the children's wear department, Dean spied a girl's dress in lavender-checked gingham trimmed with white lace. "Abbie, do you like that one?"

"It's okay." She wrinkled up her nose. "But I don't like lavender. Look at this blue dress, Daddy. Isn't it pretty? I'll bet it just matches my eyes."

"It sure does. Why don't you try it on? And the lavender one, too."

"Daddy," she protested at his first choice.

"For me. I want to see what you look like in it."

"Okay," she declared with an exaggerated sigh of agreement.

A few minutes later Abbie emerged from the fitting room, wearing the gingham dress. "See, Daddy." She did a slow pirouette in front of the mirror. "It doesn't do a thing for me."

Dean was forced to agree that it didn't suit her at all, yet looking at her, he could see the quiet and reserved Rachel wearing it, her dark hair tied up in a ponytail with a matching lavender ribbon. "Take that one off and try the blue one on." As Abbie disappeared into the fitting room again, he turned to the sales clerk. "I want that lavender dress, but I'd like to have it shipped, please."

"But your daughter—"

"I'm not buying it for Abbie."

"Very good, sir. We'll be happy to ship it wherever you like."

After the blue dress, Abbie tried on a half-dozen other outfits ranging from sport clothes to party dresses. Finally she chose three that she just couldn't live without. As Dean was paying for the purchases, Abbie noticed another sales clerk wrapping the lavender gingham dress in tissue. She pulled Dean aside.

"Daddy, I told you I didn't like that dress."

"You mean the lavender one?" He pretended not to know. "I think some other little girl is getting it."

"Oh, good." She rolled her eyes ceilingward in a dramatic expression of relief. "I was afraid you were buying it for me." As the clerk handed Dean the packages and receipt, Abbie hovered at his side. "Where to next?"

"Wherever you want. Although it is getting late. Maybe we should head back to the hotel."

"But I thought you wanted to do some shopping." Her eyebrows arched together in a bewildered frown.

"I already have." He held up the packages as evidence.

"Oh, Daddy." She broke into a wide smile. "I love you."

Back at their hotel suite, Justine took charge of the packages and Abbie, and informed Dean that Mrs. Lawson hadn't returned from her beauty appointment yet. Checking his watch and mentally calculating the time difference, he walked into the master bedroom and closed the door. The telephone sat on the nightstand between the twin beds. Dean picked up the receiver and dialed the operator.

A very British voice came on the line. "May I help you?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'd like to place an overseas call to California." After supplying the needed information, Dean waited through the innumerable clicks and cracklings before finally hearing the dull ring on the other end of the line. Then, above the faint hum of static, he heard Caroline's voice. As always, it brought that same soaring lift of his spirits.

"Hello, darling." He tightened his grip on the receiver as if that could somehow bring her closer.

"Dean." Her voice was filled with surprise and delight—with just a trace of confusion. "But. . . I thought you were—"

"I'm calling from London. I'm missing you so much I just had to hear your voice. How are you? You sound wonderful." Swinging his legs onto the bed, he reclined against the pillowed headboard and gazed at the room's high ceiling, but saw her face in front of him.

"I'm fine. So is Rachel. As a matter of fact, she's standing right here, tugging at my arm. I think she wants to say hello."

"Put her on."

There was a moment of muted voices in the background, then Rachel came on the line. "Dean, is it really you? You are calling from England?" Amid the excited rush of her questions, there was a touchingly tentative quality to her young voice.

But that didn't cause the quick twinge of pain Dean felt. It was the use of his given name. Rachel never called him Father or Papa or Daddy—always Dean. Caroline had insisted on that from the start, just as she had insisted on Rachel knowing about her illegitimacy from an early age. Caroline didn't believe in hiding from Rachel the truth that her parents were neither married nor divorced like those of other children. Her classmates and friends were bound to ask questions and make remarks that would ultimately hurt, but not as much if they prepared her for them. In Caroline's opinion, the use of his given name gave Rachel a degree of protection from unwanted questions about her father and allowed her to decide what she wanted to tell about him. Although Dean was forced to agree with Caroline, he didn't like it. He hated the fact that Rachel knew about his other family, his other daughter. He hated the questions she asked about them—and the guilt he felt.

"Yes, it's me, calling from England." But it was a struggle for him to keep the light, happy tone in his voice. "I bought you something today. It's being sent, so you probably won't get it for a few weeks."

"What is it?"

"I can't tell you. It's a surprise. But I think it's something you'll like very much. By the way, guess where I'm going tomorrow?"

"Where?"

"To Crabbet Park. Remember the book I sent you for Christmas about Lady Anne Blunt? We sat and read parts of it when I was there in January."

"Oh, yes!" she cried excitedly, animation taking over her voice. "About how she traveled with her husband, riding on horseback to Persia and India, and all through Arabia and Mesopotamia and Egypt, and crossing flooded rivers and deserts way back in the eighteen hundreds. She lived with the Bedouins and learned to read and speak their language. And she learned all about the Arabian horse and bought the best she could find so they wouldn't become extinct. The Bedouins called her 'the noble lady of the horses.' And even though she had a home in England, she loved the desert and horses so much that she went back to Egypt to live. And that's where she died. But her daughter in England loved Arabians, too, and she kept them all and bred them and raised the finest horses in the world." Rachel finally paused and released a dreamily heavy sigh. "It was a wonderful story. I've read it over and over."

"I can tell." Dean smiled, feeling a sense of pride that she was developing love for Arabians, too.

"Mommy has to help me with the words sometimes."

"I'm sure she does." There were some Arabic ones even he couldn't pronounce. "Anyway, tomorrow I'm going to the stud farm that was owned by her daughter, Lady Wentworth."

"Are you? Oh, I wish I was going, too."

"So do I, honey," he said tightly. "So do I. But maybe someday." Yet try as he might, he couldn't imagine the day ever coming when he could openly take Rachel with him on trips like this.

"Yes." She didn't sound too hopeful either, but she quickly tried to hide it. "I forgot to tell you, Dean: I convinced Mom to let me take riding lessons this summer. I had my first one yesterday. My riding instructor says I have a natural seat and good hands. Of course, I told him that you've taken me riding before and shown me some things."