Free Rebel Heiress by Jane Aiken Hodge

growl from the far end of the room.
    It was twilight in here, for heavy blue velvet curtains were drawn across the high windows, and only an occasional glint suggested the morning sunlight outside. Henrietta advanced slowly, threading her way among chairs and tables. ‘I amsorry,’ she said, ‘to break in on you so unceremoniously, but my errand is urgent, and your servants, for some reason, were reluctant to admit me.’ She could see him now, sitting hunched up in a big armchair, by the embers of a fire, an older man than she had expected, with grizzled hair, strong bones, and dark-shadowed eyes in the half light. ‘I am sorry if I do not find you well, sir.’
    â€˜I’m well enough, only blue-devilled. But who in God’s name are you? I’ll dismiss the whole pack of them for this.’
    â€˜Pray do not, sir. They could hardly help themselves. You see, I am your daughter, come from America.’
    â€˜
My what
?’ He was on his feet now. ‘What lunacy is this? I have no daughter, nor any son either, as those who sent you doubtless know. You’ll have time to regret this conspiracy in the Bridewell.’
    In the half-light, she saw his hand go out towards a bellpull and put her own on it to stop him. Strangely enough, she found herself not in the least afraid of him. ‘Stay a moment,’ she said, ‘before you do something you will regret. Have you no picture of my mother?’
    â€˜Of whom: Of my dead wife, you would say? What’s that to the purpose?’
    â€˜Only that they say I am much like her.’ She withdrew her hand from his and moved over to the window where she pulled the heavy curtain cord so that light flooded into the room. ‘Look at me, sir, and listen to me, and if you still say I am not your daughter, send me to the Bridewell, or where you will.’ She turned to face him, her hand still among the soft blue velvet, the sunshine glancing across her strong, fine features and bringing out red lights in her dark hair.
    His hand dropped to his side as he gazed at her. ‘Who in the devil’s name are you: Your voice — the accent — I remember it so well… And those eyes, blue with dark hair. But I have no daughter; she died when she was born.’
    â€˜No, sir.’ Henrietta knew the battle was as good as won. ‘My Aunt Abigail told you I had died. I only learned this spring when she herself died, what she had done. She told me you had disowned me, but among her papers I found your letter about my death, and also, I must tell you, your letters to my mother. She never had them. Any of them. From the time you left. It was only then that I knew I had a father. I have come a long way to find you, sir.’
    â€˜A dangerous one, if what you say is true. But why should I believe you? And yet …’ He was gazing at her now as if he almost wanted to be convinced. ‘It’s true, you have something of her. The voice … the eyes … the smile. Mercy … my beautiful Mercy. Can you really be her child?’
    â€˜Here is your letter, sir. About our deaths, my mother’s and mine.’ She had got it out ready for him as she waited in the glum little reception room.
    He took it with a hand that shook. ‘Yes.’ He moved over to the window to read the faded handwriting. ‘God, that was a black day. When I got Abigail’s letter. Both dead. Mercy and the child.’ He put out his left hand to tilt her chin gently and gaze long and deeply at her. ‘It was you?’
    â€˜Well’ — now she could afford to smile at him — ‘yes and no. Because I’m very much alive, as you can see, sir.’
    â€˜And feel.’ He put down the letter and took her hands in both of his cold ones. ‘By God, perhaps my life is not such a wasted business after all. I never needed a happy surprise more, nor ever had a better one. But, come sit down and tell me all