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Authors: Carolyn G. Hart
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secretary was open. A fine quill pen rested beside a filled cut-glass inkstand, as if waiting for a country squire to take his place to write in his plantation records. Cut-glass decanters sat on a Chippendale sideboard. A cut-glass bowl on Smithson’s desk held jelly beans.
“All right.” His voice was crisp now, decisive. “I’ll tell you what I know with the understanding”—he paused, his eyes still probing theirs—“with the understanding that findingCourtney takes precedence over everything else. Is that a deal?”
“That’s a deal,” Max said quickly.
Smithson smoothed his beard and leaned back in his chair. “Very well. I have to go back some years. Twenty-two years. At that time, I represented the Kimball family, as had my father and my grandfather before me. Carleton Kimball and I were at the university together. We were boyhood friends before that. Carleton married my cousin Delia. A happy marriage. But there were no children. Both Delia and Carleton were only children. Not even nephews and nieces to love. They wanted children desperately, but finally, they didn’t talk anymore about when children would come, and the years were slipping away.
“That was the situation in 1970. In December of that year, Carleton and Delia left town rather abruptly in mid-month. I saw them the evening before they departed. And I will tell you, as the father of five children, that the possibility my cousin, then in her early forties, might have been nearly full-term pregnant never occurred to me. I was astonished when Carleton and Delia arrived back in Beaufort just before Christmas with Courtney.”
His face softened in remembrance. “They were enormously proud of their new daughter. Through the years, I tried several times to talk to Carleton about Courtney, but he always cut me off. He was a genial man, but this was one topic he would not discuss. The last time I brought it up, a few years before his death, I told him that if any question ever arose about Courtney’s parentage, it would be important to have adoption papers to prove she was indeed his daughter at law. He answered simply, ‘Courtney is our daughter.’ Their wills specifically provided for Courtney to inherit the bulk of the Kimball estate, which was considerable. And, finally, after time, I didn’t think about it anymore. Carleton died when Courtney was seventeen; Delia died this March. Courtney came into her inheritance. There were no other surviving relatives.”
Max went straight to the point. “You don’t believe she is the Kimballs’ natural daughter.”
“No.” A glint of humor. “Germaine, my wife, was pregnant too many times. It’s there, the way a woman carries herself, the look in her eyes. But, more than that, Carleton and Delia were both big people. He was well over six feet, Delia must have been at least five seven. Tall and big. And dark. He had swarthy skin and Delia was olive skinned. They both had coal-black hair and dark-brown eyes.”
“Oh, I see.” Max turned to Annie. “Courtney’s slim and small boned and very fair skinned with blond hair and blue eyes. Like Laurel.”
Annie shrugged. “Brown-eyed people can have blue-eyed children. It’s rare, but the gene for blue eyes is recessive and it does happen. And lots of children and parents don’t look at all alike.”
The lawyer was quick to agree. “Oh, I know. We have a redheaded son and there hasn’t—officially—been a redhead in the Smithson family in two hundred years. Germaine gets a bit touchy about the usual kind of jokes people make. So yes, it could be. But that isn’t all. That isn’t even most of it.” Smithson absently straightened his perfectly aligned desk blotter. “There’s a matter of personality. Do you have children?”
“Not yet.” Max flashed an ebullient glance at Annie.
Her eyes narrowed. Not yet. She wasn’t ready yet.
“Hmm. Well, let me say simply that heredity can’t be denied.” Smithson glanced at the row of
“All right.” His voice was crisp now, decisive. “I’ll tell you what I know with the understanding”—he paused, his eyes still probing theirs—“with the understanding that findingCourtney takes precedence over everything else. Is that a deal?”
“That’s a deal,” Max said quickly.
Smithson smoothed his beard and leaned back in his chair. “Very well. I have to go back some years. Twenty-two years. At that time, I represented the Kimball family, as had my father and my grandfather before me. Carleton Kimball and I were at the university together. We were boyhood friends before that. Carleton married my cousin Delia. A happy marriage. But there were no children. Both Delia and Carleton were only children. Not even nephews and nieces to love. They wanted children desperately, but finally, they didn’t talk anymore about when children would come, and the years were slipping away.
“That was the situation in 1970. In December of that year, Carleton and Delia left town rather abruptly in mid-month. I saw them the evening before they departed. And I will tell you, as the father of five children, that the possibility my cousin, then in her early forties, might have been nearly full-term pregnant never occurred to me. I was astonished when Carleton and Delia arrived back in Beaufort just before Christmas with Courtney.”
His face softened in remembrance. “They were enormously proud of their new daughter. Through the years, I tried several times to talk to Carleton about Courtney, but he always cut me off. He was a genial man, but this was one topic he would not discuss. The last time I brought it up, a few years before his death, I told him that if any question ever arose about Courtney’s parentage, it would be important to have adoption papers to prove she was indeed his daughter at law. He answered simply, ‘Courtney is our daughter.’ Their wills specifically provided for Courtney to inherit the bulk of the Kimball estate, which was considerable. And, finally, after time, I didn’t think about it anymore. Carleton died when Courtney was seventeen; Delia died this March. Courtney came into her inheritance. There were no other surviving relatives.”
Max went straight to the point. “You don’t believe she is the Kimballs’ natural daughter.”
“No.” A glint of humor. “Germaine, my wife, was pregnant too many times. It’s there, the way a woman carries herself, the look in her eyes. But, more than that, Carleton and Delia were both big people. He was well over six feet, Delia must have been at least five seven. Tall and big. And dark. He had swarthy skin and Delia was olive skinned. They both had coal-black hair and dark-brown eyes.”
“Oh, I see.” Max turned to Annie. “Courtney’s slim and small boned and very fair skinned with blond hair and blue eyes. Like Laurel.”
Annie shrugged. “Brown-eyed people can have blue-eyed children. It’s rare, but the gene for blue eyes is recessive and it does happen. And lots of children and parents don’t look at all alike.”
The lawyer was quick to agree. “Oh, I know. We have a redheaded son and there hasn’t—officially—been a redhead in the Smithson family in two hundred years. Germaine gets a bit touchy about the usual kind of jokes people make. So yes, it could be. But that isn’t all. That isn’t even most of it.” Smithson absently straightened his perfectly aligned desk blotter. “There’s a matter of personality. Do you have children?”
“Not yet.” Max flashed an ebullient glance at Annie.
Her eyes narrowed. Not yet. She wasn’t ready yet.
“Hmm. Well, let me say simply that heredity can’t be denied.” Smithson glanced at the row of
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