A Deadly Affection (45 page)

I started down the platform as I searched for Olivia's face among the assembly, holding my ground with difficulty as a constant stream of porters and valets and florists flowed past me toward cars further up the track. I spotted Charles at one end of the refreshment table, conversing with my parents, and Lucille at the other, surrounded by a coterie of her peers. Olivia, however, was nowhere to be seen.

A train whistle shrieked from the engine end of the platform, startling the company, drawing laughter and light applause. Charles and Lucille glanced at each other across the table. Lucille turned and motioned to the musicians as Charles put down his glass and started toward the car.

One of the violinists rubbed loudly on his strings as Olivia and the Earl emerged from the rear of the car onto the observation deck. The couple smiled and waved from the rail while their well-wishers raised their glasses and cried “here, here,” and “bon voyage.” A moment later, Charles appeared behind them, laying a hand on each of their shoulders and smiling, close-lipped, at the crowd.

I couldn't imagine a worse time to approach Olivia. But I would have no other opportunity. As the violin launched into a merry jig, I started toward the front end of the car, hoping to slip in undetected and make my way inside to the rear. At just that moment, however, Lucille glanced down the platform and saw me. She put down her champagne glass and hurried over, intercepting me before I was halfway across the platform.

“Miss Summerford,” she said, clamping her hand on my arm. “What a surprise to see you here.” Her back was to the party, concealing both of our faces from view.

“I've come to see Olivia,” I said. “I have to speak to her before she goes.”

Her fingers dug into my arm. “Why?” she asked in a rasping whisper. “Why are you doing this?”

“I have to tell her,” I said, trying to pull my arm away. “She deserves to know.”

“We had an understanding,” she hissed. “I've held up my end of the bargain. What more do you want?”

Yanking in earnest, I pulled my arm free and struck out again across the platform.

“Billings!” Lucille shouted toward two footmen carrying a crate of champagne into the front compartment. “Don't let that woman onto the train!”

One of the footmen turned and, dropping his end of the crate in astonishment, started after me. I changed course and ran down the edge of the platform toward the observation deck, but I was no match for the footman's long legs. I was vaguely aware of the violins breaking off their jig as he grabbed the back of my coat and pulled me away from the car. As if it were happening to someone else, I heard the gasps of the guests and saw Olivia and the Earl drawing back from the rail. It flashed across my mind that this moment would forever define me; that the little place I'd occupied in society—that place I'd so often disparaged but that now seemed so achingly simple and familiar—would no longer exist for me after today. I felt a sharp pang of regret, followed by a grim determination that my actions would not be in vain.

The footman stopped in the middle of the platform to get a better grip on my coat. The minute I felt him plant his feet, I stepped back and butted the back of my head against his face. He grunted in pain but didn't let go. I stomped my heel on the top of his foot, but still his grip didn't loosen.

“Take your hands off of her!” my father shouted.

Twisting sideways, I saw two figures in motion among the otherwise paralyzed onlookers—my father, who had launched himself from the refreshment table and was rapidly covering the distance between us; and Simon, who had apparently shed both Cleo and his pursuers and was now running full tilt from the gate down the platform.

“You, sir,” barked my father, reaching me first, “release my daughter this instant!”

The footman looked helplessly toward Lucille, awaiting further instructions. Before she could respond, Simon flew across the platform and hurled himself at the footman's back. “Let her go,” he growled, lifting him off the floor in a bear hug that made my own teeth rattle.

“Behind you!” Father called.

Managing to pull partially free, I looked over my shoulder in time to see the second footman run up behind Simon, brandishing a champagne bottle. Simon swiveled around, yanking his captive with him, who was forced to release his hold on me. The man with the bottle swerved to stay behind him. Before he could get close enough to crack the bottle over Simon's head, my father stepped into his path and delivered a solid punch to his nose, then caught him as he slumped to his knees with his nose cupped in his hand.

My father looked up, chest heaving, and met my gaze. He scanned my face, as if recording every detail. “Well, go on,” he said finally, tipping his head toward the train car. “We can take care of these two for a while longer.”

“That won't be necessary,” said Mr. Fiske, striding up beside him. He pointed to the broken champagne crate sitting in a puddle of bubbles near the front end of the car. “Jeffers, Billings, clean up that mess. Put whatever's left in the kitchen.”

Simon let go of Billings as my father lifted Jeffers to his feet. The footmen scuttled off to do as they'd been told.

Charles turned his frown on me. “Now, Dr. Summerford, perhaps you could tell me what's going on.”

Drawing a deep breath, I said loudly enough for Olivia to hear, “I have something extremely important to discuss with your daughter before she leaves.”

Charles looked quizzically at Lucille, then back at me. “In that case, I'd suggest we all go on board where we can have some privacy.”

“But, Charles, there's no time!” Lucille protested.

“We'll make time,” he said. My mother had crossed the platform sometime during the melee and was standing beside my father. Charles turned to them both. “Evelyn? Hugh? Would you care to join us?”

“But the train's about to leave!” Lucille cried, clutching his arm.

He turned to her, searching her face. “Then we'll tell the conductor to wait,” he said firmly.

She flushed and dropped her hand. Charles gestured us all toward the train.

I followed my parents up the steps, across the observation deck, and into the lounge, where Olivia and the Earl were waiting. We all stood in strained silence as Charles strode to the porters' box to call up ahead and ask that the train be delayed. This struck me as an impossible request; the daily race to Chicago between the
20th Century Limited
and the
Pennsylvania Special
was legendary, and I couldn't imagine any New York Central conductor worth his salt allowing his train to depart a second off schedule. But when Charles returned, he said, “All right, we've got ten minutes. Why don't we all sit down?”

This feat—even more than the stained glass and sumptuous velvets and inlaid woods that appointed the luxurious car—drove home to me what a powerful family I'd chosen to meddle with. But I couldn't turn back now. “I'd prefer to speak with Olivia alone,” I said.

Everyone turned toward Olivia. She shook her head, looking beseechingly at her father.

“It seems that Olivia would like you to share what you have to say with all of us,” Charles said. “So please, everyone, take a seat. We don't have much time.”

Olivia and the Earl sank stiffly onto a blue velvet settee in front of the fireplace. Charles guided Lucille toward the two tufted seats across from them, while my parents claimed two carved chairs on either side. I pulled a low stool from beside the fireplace and positioned it in front of Olivia, not so close as to crowd her, but near enough to create at least an illusion of privacy.

I sat down and gazed into her wide eyes, trying to shut everything else out of awareness. “I'm sorry, Olivia. I never meant to cause such a stir. But there's something you need to know before you make any plans for your future.”

“Why are you doing this?” Lucille demanded from behind me, her voice vibrating with frustration. “What on earth do you hope to gain?”

“I'm telling you this, Olivia,” I continued without turning, “because I would want someone to tell me if I were in your shoes.”

Olivia looked from her mother to me uncertainly. “What is it you want me to know?”

Lucille jumped to her feet before I could answer. “I'm sorry,” she said, stepping around me, “but I simply cannot allow this to continue. Miss Summerford, I must insist that you leave immediately.”

“I'd like to hear what she has to say, if you don't mind,” Charles interrupted.

“She doesn't have anything to say! It's all lies; she's been trying to blackmail me! I've gone along with it to keep her from causing us trouble while the Earl is here, but now she's gone too far.”

I gaped at her in astonishment.

“Is this true?” Charles asked me.

“No! Mrs. Fiske, you know it isn't! All I'm trying to do is tell Olivia what Dr. Hauptfuhrer wanted you to tell her.”

“Hauptfuhrer?” Charles broke in. “What's he got to do with this?”

The question appeared to be entirely sincere. I could only conclude that Lucille had told him nothing about Hauptfuhrer's suspicions concerning Olivia's disease. As I'd suspected, she had taken matters entirely into her own hands.

“Lucille?” Charles prompted.

She didn't answer.

The train whistle shrieked again. “Olivia,” I continued, turning back to her, “you have a disorder called Huntington's chorea. That's what Dr. Hauptfuhrer told your mother. He believed that you and the Earl should know.”

“What? That's absurd!” said Lucille, managing to sound shocked.

“The disorder can affect speech and coordination,” I pressed on, hating to blurt it out this way but having no other choice. “That's why you've been having trouble with things like dancing and skating and holding on to things. The symptoms come on gradually and slowly progress.”

I thought I saw recognition flit through her eyes. She looked up at her mother. “Is it true?”

“Of course it's not. You mustn't listen to her. Charles, really…”

“Dr. Summerford,” Charles said, “if you have any basis for making these claims, I want to hear it now.”

“Olivia,” I said, “do you remember the gentleman at the skating party who asked if you'd lost your glove?”

Her doe eyes grew even wider in surprise. “Yes, I do.”

“That was Dr. George Huntington. The disorder is named after him. He knows more about it than anyone. And he's nearly certain that you have it.”

“
Nearly
certain,” Charles repeated.

“He'd like to administer some tests,” I went on, “to confirm its existence absolutely and determine the extent of its progression, but based on what he saw that night and his own considerable experience, he's confident of the diagnosis.”

“Don't you think you should have talked to us about arranging these tests,” Charles asked grimly, “instead of rushing in here and alarming my daughter prematurely?”

I hesitated, glancing at the Earl. “I couldn't.”

“Why not?”

From the corner of my eye I saw my father squirm in his chair. “Because if she does have it, there's a strong chance that she'll pass it on to her children.”

There was dead silence in the car as the meaning of my words sank in.

“This is preposterous!” Lucille cried. “There's nothing wrong with my daughter but a little fatigue.” She swept her arm toward Olivia. “Look at her. She's perfect!”

Olivia cringed back against the settee as we all turned to stare at her. With her cheeks faintly flushed and her dark hair framing the smooth oval of her face, she did indeed look very beautiful. I felt a rush of anger toward Lucille for putting her through this unnecessary charade.

“You don't help her by denying it,” I said. “What she needs now is your understanding and support.”

“Just a minute, Dr. Summerford,” Charles broke in, looking like a lawyer who'd just spied a loophole. “I believe you've missed one very important point. You've suggested that this disease is passed from parent to child. But I can assure you that neither Lucille nor I have suffered any of the symptoms that you describe.”

I was astonished to hear him say it. Though I'd been compelled to reveal the disease's hereditary nature, I doubted that either Olivia or anyone else in the room had grasped the full implications. I could think of no reason for Charles to highlight them now. I should have thought that he and Lucille would prefer to inform Olivia that she was adopted in private.

Perhaps he'd misunderstood, believing I'd meant that the disease was “passed” by a germ. “I meant that the illness is passed in the parents' genes,” I said, elaborating as delicately as possible. “Olivia didn't ‘catch' this disorder; she was born with it.”

“I understand. But it's not in our genes, so we couldn't have passed it to her,” Charles insisted.

It seemed he was going to force me to make blatantly clear what I had tried to leave implicit. “It's not in your genes,” I said slowly, glancing at Olivia, “but it was, apparently, in the genes of her natural father.”

“Her ‘natural father'?” he repeated with a frown. “What the devil are you talking about?”

The breath suddenly stopped in my throat, as understanding dawned. Charles didn't know. His wife had never told him that his daughter was adopted. He turned to Lucille in bewilderment.

Her eyes were huge in her chalk-white face. “I had to give you a child,” she whispered. “I couldn't have one of my own; they told me after the last miscarriage it would kill me if I got pregnant again. So I found another way.”

“What are you saying?” Charles demanded. “You did get pregnant again. You were pregnant with Olivia.”

Her gaze dropped to the floor. “I wasn't. I only pretended to be, until the baby was ready.”

He stared at her bowed head, clearly at a loss for words.

She looked up. “Dr. Hauptfuhrer found her for me,” she went on, her eyes clinging to him as though he might disappear at any moment. “I told him it had to be a little girl—a little dark-haired girl, just like you'd always wanted…”

“You adopted a child,” he said slowly, “and didn't tell me?”

“What difference does it make?” she asked, her voice growing shrill. “You're her father! You raised her! She's a Fiske, through and through.”

He closed his eyes, releasing a long breath.

“There was nothing wrong with the parents,” she insisted, glaring at me. “She's making it all up! You mustn't believe her!”

“There's no point in denying it,” I said. “I can prove that you went to see Dr. Hauptfuhrer four days before his death; your name was written in his appointment book. Why would he ask to see you, if it wasn't to warn you that your daughter might be afflicted?”

“
I
asked to see
him
, because the Earl's barristers were pestering me for a copy of Olivia's birth certificate!” she retorted, her eyes ablaze. “I had to be sure that the original records had been properly prepared. He never said anything about any disease!”

Her response was too quick and plausible to be a fabrication. I stared at her in stunned silence, as the puzzle pieces in my mind broke apart and reassembled into a brand-new picture. When Dr. Hauptfuhrer hadn't been able to get confirmation from Dr. Huntington that Eliza had chorea, he must have lost his nerve. He'd never told Lucille he suspected her daughter was afflicted. The secret that Lucille had been holding so close—a secret that, I realized now, would be even worse in her mind than a daughter's fatal illness—was that she'd been unable to bear Charles a child. No wonder she'd thought I was blackmailing her; when I'd found out that Olivia was adopted, I'd unwittingly uncovered her Achilles' heel.

The Earl was getting to his feet. “Are you saying you gave my agents a false certificate?” he demanded of Lucille.

She threw him a withering look. “What do you care? Our money is real enough. That's all that's ever mattered to you, isn't it?”

He thrust out his narrow chest. “I understand that you are distraught, madam, and apt to say things you don't mean. I cannot, however, overlook the significance of this disturbing information. The Branard line is a venerable one; each generation has a duty to ensure that those who follow are of sound body and mind. Under the circumstances—and despite the deep distress it causes me—I must regretfully decline to pursue a union with your daughter. I'm sure I need not remind you that, in light of the false documentation you submitted, any oral understanding to the contrary would never hold up in a court of law.”

He turned and bowed to Olivia. “My sincerest regrets, my dear. Please be assured that you may count on my complete discretion. If I can be of any assistance to you in the future, I hope you won't hesitate to let me know.” He glanced in my direction. For a ghastly moment, I thought he was going to thank me—but he only tipped his head and, donning his derby, started for the forward compartments.