Page 28 of A Stolen Heart

“Of course not. They burned the whole place down,” Lady Ursula said with brutal frankness. “There weren’t any remains. But several witnesses saw them killed. Bertram Chesterfield testified to it in court. Don’t you remember?”

“Of course I remember. I’m not senile yet,” her mother snapped. “But I also know that Bertie Chesterfield is a fool.”

“He may be a fool, but he’s a gentleman. He wouldn’t lie about such a thing.”

“Perhaps not, but he could exaggerate. Or be mistaken. Or make a false assumption.”

“Wait,” Alexandra interjected. “I couldn’t be your granddaughter, my lady. I don’t see how it’s possible. I am Hiram and Rhea Ward’s daughter, their only child.”

“That’s right,” Thorpe agreed. “How could Chilton’s baby have wound up in America, the daughter of some other couple?”

“I don’t know. But how could a young woman named Alexandra, like my grandchild, bear such an uncanny resemblance to my grandchild’s mother and have been in the same place at the same time and it be mere coincidence?” the older woman countered. “I’m not in my dotage, Sebastian. I realize that it is exceptionally strange, and I do not understand it. But look at her!”

“I never saw Lady Chilton. I was only ten when it happened.”

“Then come here.” The Countess rose lithely to her feet. “You, too, Miss Ward. I want you to see this.”

“Mother, don’t excite yourself,” Ursula pleaded.

Her mother ignored her and strode out of the room with a wave for them to follow her. Thorpe glanced at Alexandra with a shrug, and the two of them went after the Countess, with Ursula and her daughter and Miss Everhart trailing after them. The Countess led them up the stairs and down the hall, then opened the door to one of the bedrooms and stepped inside.

“There is a portrait of Chilton and his wife. It was done not long after their wedding. Look at her.”

Obediently, Thorpe and Alexandra moved closer to the portrait and looked at it. A strong-jawed young man wearing an old-fashioned white wig gazed solemnly at them. He was much taller than his wife, a petite woman who looked as if she knew an amusing secret. Her large dark eyes fairly sparkled, and her rosy mouth was curved up deliciously. Her hair was upswept into an intricate hairdo, all liberally powdered. Except for the powdered hair, she bore an uncanny resemblance to Alexandra.

“Good Lord!” Thorpe exclaimed.

A shiver ran down Alexandra’s spine. It was unnerving to stare into a face that looked so much like her own reflection in the mirror. There were differences, of course. This woman was obviously shorter, and her cheeks were fuller, her mouth not quite the same shape, but the differences were slight and the likeness remarkable.

“You see?” the Countess said triumphantly. “And the hair beneath the powder is both black and curling.”

“Yes, she looks like her,” Lady Ursula snapped. “I saw it immediately myself. But such things happen.”

“Do they?” the Countess asked quietly. “I have never seen such a likeness except within family.” On that note, she turned and walked from the room, leaving the others to look at each other, then follow her.

Alexandra took one last long look at the portrait, then tore her eyes away and went after the others. By the time she and Thorpe, who had waited for her, caught up with the others, they were in the drawing room and Lady Ursula was arguing furiously with her mother, who was serenely ignoring her.

“Tell her, Thorpe,” Lady Ursula commanded, swinging around when he entered the room. “Tell her that it’s ridiculous.”

“It is not ridiculous,” the Countess replied coolly. “Alexandra could have gotten away. She was a mere toddler. She could have run away without anyone ever noticing. Or perhaps one of the rioters took pity on such a little girl and let her go, even took her with them. Bertie Chesterfield never said he saw the children killed.”

“I suppose it is possible,” Thorpe agreed, watching the Countess’s flushed face with some concern. “But don’t you think that you would have heard something by now if that had happened?”

“Not if she just ran away—who would have known who she was or where she belonged?”

“But how did she get to America?” Lady Ursula asked triumphantly.

“I don’t know. It isn’t as if I have all the answers,” her mother answered somewhat testily. She turned toward Alexandra eagerly. “Perhaps your mother knows.”

Alexandra shifted uneasily. She couldn’t tell these people that she had trouble getting straight answers about anything from her mother. “I can ask. But, my lady, it doesn’t seem possible. I mean, I know who my parents are, and they aren’t your son and daughter-in-law.”

“Sometimes,” the Countess began carefully, “families keep secrets.”

“I think I know an easy way to clear this up,” Thorpe suggested. “Alexandra, when is your birthday? How old were you when the revolution took place?”

“I was born January twentieth, 1787. So I must have been about a year and a half old during that summer.”

“There! You see?” Lady Ursula exclaimed triumphantly. “Very clever, Thorpe. Chilton’s daughter would have been two years old at the time. She was born in the summer of eighty-six.”