Anne Barbour Read Online Free Page A

“It is, of course, possible that Mrs. Finch is the genuine article, sir, but we must proceed cautiously.”
    “Bah! How could she not be Felicity. Look at the locket!” He waved the bit of silver in the air. “I recognized it immediately. I gave it to the little darling on her fifth birthday. Do you not—? No, I don’t suppose you would remember, but—
    “Sir, the woman could have picked up the locket almost anywhere.”
    “Good God, boy!” the marquess exclaimed impatiently. “Why are you always so pessimistic?” He halted abruptly, his shoulders sagging. “All right. Bran. I know I have leaped to unwarranted conclusions in the past. If it were not for you, we would have some scheming adventuress installed here as my granddaughter. But,” he continued pleadingly, “this does not mean that the Finch woman is not Felicity. It seems to me, despite your arguments to the contrary, the locket is quite conclusive. And what about the shawl?”
    “I think, sir, that we may safely conclude that the shawl is a convenient fabrication—no pun intended.”
    “Possibly,” responded the marquess with a sigh. “But, still—Jennifer frequently embroidered monograms on the children’s clothing. And Mrs. Finch is left-handed! In addition,” continued the old man hastily as Bran opened his mouth, “Wister told us she is the right age. Tell me more about her. What does she look like? Is she pretty? Does she have brown eyes the color of a pansy’s heart? Felicity’s hair was the most beautiful gold—like that of an angel, I always told her. Does—?”
    “No. Mrs. Finch has light brown hair. And no— Branford frowned. “She is not pretty. I would call her attractive, rather—or at least she would be if she were not so—scrawny—and did not pull that brown hair back in a ridiculously tight bun. Her eyes are a sort of coffee brown—though sometimes they seem more amber—like brandy.” Branford halted abruptly, reddening. “She is tall and thin,” he concluded colorlessly.
    “Well, of course she would be tall, would she not? Ben was well above average height—and Jennifer was willow-slim. And Stewart was tall as well.” The old man’s eyes glistened suddenly. “When he went off to war, he topped—oh, God, Branford, if only he had listened to me. I begged him not to go a-soldiering. ‘Leave it to others.’ I said. ‘There are plenty of young men who have no responsibilities at home.’ But he was army mad, and he didn’t listen. He never listened, did he? And he never returned.” He extended a shaking hand to Branford, who grasped it convulsively.
    “I, too, tried to dissuade him, sir,” he whispered. “But Stew never followed aught but his own drumbeat.”
    The marquess straightened and cleared his throat. “So, she has brown hair. I think that’s a good sign, don’t you?”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Well, Felicity’s hair color as an infant is well known. If Mrs. Finch were a fraud with brown hair, surely she would have dyed it.”
    “With all respect, sir,” Branford responded austerely. “It is difficult to dye one’s hair convincingly, and it requires constant attention once one has done so. I’m sure Mrs. Finch has considered that Felicity’s golden curls might well have faded to a sort of light, wheaten brown.”
    The marquess nodded reluctantly. “You are right, of course, I should have learned my lesson by now, after all the disappointments. I don’t understand,” he mused softly, “how anyone can be so cruel as to engage in such a pretense. To embark deliberately on such a fraud, knowing the heartache that will result when the hoax is penetrated.”
    Branford sighed once more.
    “I can only say, my dear sir, that I wish you had not bruited it about so publicly that once having Felicity restored to you, you would make her your heiress. You are an extraordinarily wealthy man, after all, and only a small portion of that wealth is entailed. In fact, your heir will be left