Tell Me Your Secrets...

“If he would just wait, we could keep the tradition intact.” She sighed. “But I couldn’t talk him out of it, either.”

I wondered if that’s what she’d been doing in his bedroom this morning before she came to fetch Sloan. As we walked along, I asked, “What can I do to help?”

She turned in surprise. “Why nothing. You’ve always allowed me to make those kinds of decisions, said you were too busy to run the house. Are you going to want to change that arrangement after your wedding?”

“No. No, of course not.”

Without further comment, Beatrice gestured toward the wall to our right. “The portraits of all the hacienda’s brides are on the walls. This first one is of the Countess Montega.”

What I saw was a small, dark-haired woman with very sad eyes. For some reason, my heart went out to her. “She looks so unhappy.”

“She was,” Beatrice said. “There are copies of her diaries in the library. It was an arranged marriage, and she was ill on the voyage over here. According to the story that’s been handed down, Don Roberto Montega was anxious to have an heir, and she was able to produce one within the first year, but she never recovered her health. His second wife lasted longer—five years.” She pointed to another portrait of a tall, more amply proportioned woman. “She gave him three more sons before she died of a fever.”

There were two other Montega brides, all in black, neither of them smiling. According to Beatrice, they’d both died young, too.

A chill moved through me as I studied the portrait of the woman Beatrice had pointed out as the last of the Montega brides. I’d read about them when I’d done my research on the hacienda, but it was different standing there and seeing how young they really were. “The mistresses of this house don’t seem to have very good luck.”

Beatrice gestured to the next portrait. “This one did.”

It was a picture of a laughing green-eyed woman with red hair. The emerald-green dress dipped low in the front and the skirt fell in overlapping ruffles to the floor. She was a bright relief after her more somberly dressed predecessors. “Who is this one?”

“That is my great-great-grandmother. The story goes that Silas McKenzie rescued her out of a brothel and made her his bride.”

I grinned, thoroughly intrigued. This was a piece of information that neither Pepper nor I had come across. “It sounds very romantic.”

“To some it might sound that way.”

I got the distinct impression that Beatrice wasn’t among them. I wondered how I might work it into a story line. “I understand that Silas was a bit of a rogue himself.”

For the first time, I saw just the hint of a smile curve Beatrice’s lips. “True. I suppose you might say that they were well suited. And she was a fine gardener.”

Ah, a saving grace, I thought.

“She produced three sons before she died. The hacienda brides usually have a knack for producing heirs.”

And for dying young.

“Except for your father’s brides,” Beatrice said as she led the way to the next picture. “Neither of them gave him a son.”

I glanced up to see a painting of a fragile-looking beauty with long blond hair and blue eyes. She wore a long-sleeved dress that matched the color of her eyes, and the cat on her lap was either Hannibal or one of his more recent ancestors.

“That’s Sarah McKenzie.”

Once again I marveled at how little in the way of feelings Beatrice allowed into her voice. This was the woman who’d deserted Beatrice’s brother for Sloan’s father. I stepped forward to study the portrait more closely. She was lovely with a kind of ethereal beauty that men might easily covet. “It must have been very hard for Dad when she ran away with Sloan’s father.”

Once again Beatrice’s gaze grew intent. “How did you know that, or are you beginning to remember?”

“Sloan told me the story,” I explained. Thank heaven he had. I was going to have to be careful to remember what I’d been told since my arrival and what I knew from Pepper’s report.

“It was a scandal at the time. A McKenzie running away with a stable manager.”

I heard just a hint of distaste in her voice.

“I imagine it must have been a blow to Dad both in a business and personal sense, losing both a stable manager and a wife.”

“The business never faltered. My husband took over as manager of the stables. And James is very resilient. He married again in less than two years.”

This time I was almost sure that I heard a note of disapproval in her voice. She led the way to the next portrait. “This is Elizabeth, your mother.”

I simply stared at the portrait. I couldn’t even put a word to what I was feeling. All I could think of was that the woman staring down at me could have been my sister. My heart had leaped to my throat and it beat there, fast and hard. Many of Elizabeth McKenzie’s features were ones I saw in the mirror every day—the nose, the pointed chin, even the shape of the eyes. Hers were a darker shade and more hazel than green. Her hair was different, too, a dark blond, and she wore it in a long braid that fell over her shoulder.

Questions flooded my mind. Could this be my biological mother? How else could Cameron and I look so much like her? But if that were true, how could Cameron and I have been put up for adoption? Pepper had found adoption records for both of us. And someone else knew about those papers—the someone who’d sent me that anonymous letter.

Questions—too many of them were swirling around in my mind. And as usual, I was jumping to too many conclusions. I struggled to rein my imagination in.

“Do you remember her?”

Beatrice’s calm voice helped me to get a grip. I couldn’t ask any of my questions right now. Not until I knew more. Not until I figured out what had happened to make Cameron run away.

I turned to her. “No. I can see the resemblance, and I know that she must be my mother. But I don’t remember her at all. How did she die? You never got to tell me last night.”

“Come,” Beatrice said. “I’ll show you.”

She led the way out of the ballroom and down the corridor to a wide oak door. “Your father keeps it locked,” she explained as she drew an iron key out of her pocket and inserted it into the lock. “No one is supposed to come up here, but I do every once in a while. I used to love this place as a girl.”

The door creaked on its hinges and Beatrice had to put her back into it to get it open. In front of us was a wooden staircase that curved upward hugging the stone wall and hanging next to us was a thick rope. With a sinking stomach, I realized that we were going to climb into the bell tower.

I didn’t like heights. Two or three storeys—like the balcony in Cameron’s room—was fine. But put me on a terrace or a balcony or, heaven forbid, a rooftop that was more than four or five stories above terra firma, and I froze. My parents took me to Europe when I was fourteen, and I couldn’t even kiss the Blarney Stone. I’d nearly had a panic attack when we went to the top of the Eiffel Tower.

I told myself that the bell tower was only five stories as we rounded the first curve and continued upward. The stairs were flanked by the stone wall on one side and a railing on the other. Following Beatrice, I stayed near the wall and kept my hand on it for support. My palms were slick with sweat. My breath was coming shorter now, and it didn’t have anything to do with the fact that I was climbing stairs.

We reached the tower room much too quickly for my liking. It was small, not more than eight feet square. The bell was overhead, and the walls on each side were only waist high. Beatrice crossed to the wall that overlooked the front of the hacienda. “Isn’t the view beautiful?”

“Yes.” I was sure it was, but my eyes were shut. I couldn’t bring myself to look yet. A cold sweat had formed on my forehead. Taking a deep breath, I placed my hand on the iron railing that ran along the top of the wall on all sides. Opening my eyes, I kept them downcast as I felt my way along. Then I raised my gaze to the bluffs that I’d stood on only yesterday. Of course, there I’d been careful to stay back from the edge. I’d be all right as long as I didn’t glance down, I told myself.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the riding ring where Sloan was working Saturn. Knowing that he was there steadied me a bit.

“I’ve missed the bells,” Beatrice said. “When I was a girl, they were rung for the Angelus at 6:00 a.m. and 6:00 p.m. every day.”

“Is the bell broken?” I asked. I wasn’t looking at the bluffs anymore, but at Sloan and the horse.

“No. But the tower has a bad history, I’m afraid. The first Countess Montega threw herself from this very spot.”

My vision blurred, and I blinked my eyes to clear it.

“After her son was born, she fell into a habit of walking in her sleep. The official story goes that she wandered up here one night and fell.”

I couldn’t keep myself from picturing it in my mind—that tiny woman I’d seen in the portrait, climbing the stairs in her sleep, walking out into the tower and falling…falling….

A wave of dizziness moved through me. I gripped the railing with both hands now, and my vision blurred again. I could imagine how easily someone could fall over it.