Page 19 of The Heiress's Daughter
“That must have been a terrible time for her,” Clarissa said sympathetically. “So young, and all her family lost. However did she manage? Did she have other relatives in England?”
Zoë shook her head. “No relatives. And the other émigrés were…” She gave a dismissive shrug. “But Maman could draw. She started out drawing pictures on the footpath in chalk.”
Clarissa recalled the clever caricature on the orphanage wall. “And you inherited her talent.”
Again Zoë shrugged. After a pause she added with an edge of defensiveness, “Later she became an artist’s model. She was beautiful, you see, and it paid better.”
“I’m sure,” Clarissa said gently, skating over that very thin ice. “How did she die? I presume that’s when you went into the orphan asylum.”
“I was twelve. She got sick. Cholera, they said.”
“I’m so sorry to hear it. So, you’re now what, fifteen? Sixteen?”
“Almost sixteen.”
Clarissa nodded. “And your father?”
Zoë hunched one shoulder indifferently. “I never met him. I’m abastard.” She flung the word down like a challenge.
Clarissa didn’t react. “Did your mother ever tell you his name?”
“What does it matter? He never wanted me.”
“Humor me.”
Zoë wrinkled her nose, and for a moment Clarissa thought she wasn’t going to respond, but then she said, “He was a toff, I know that.”
“Nothing else?”
She snorted. “A couple of times I heard her call him ‘Black Bart, the man with no heart.’ He gave her nothing—just a slip on the shoulder.” When she saw that Clarissa didn’t understand the term, she said, “A baby. Me.”
A toff she calledBlack Bart.Clarissa glanced at Lady Scattergood in barely suppressed triumph. From Sir Bartleby to Bart was no big leap, and Papa’s hair had been thick and black. Two stableboys in her former home had been called Harry, and, because of the color of their hair, they were referred to by the other servants as Red Harry and Black Harry.
And if Papa had a heart, Clarissa had never seen any evidence of it. No doubt he’d seduced and abandoned Zoë’s mother just as he’d done to Izzy’s. He probably would have done the same to her own mother, too, only Mama had the security of Grandfather Iverley’s fortune held in trust for her, and Papa had married her for it.
Those few scant facts, combined with Zoë’s amazing resemblance to her sister Izzy—and the feeling she got looking at Zoë—were proof enough for Clarissa.
Lady Scattergood nodded thoughtfully and sat back in her peacock chair. “Well, well, well, so we have another one. Well done, Clarissa.”
“It was Betty who found her,” Clarissa said, beaming at Betty, who blushed and smoothed her skirt proudly.
Zoë shifted uncomfortably. “What’s all this about? Anotherwhat?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I’ll explain.” Clarissa took a sip of tea, which was by then lukewarm. “My father was Sir Bartleby Studley. Does that name sound familiar?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Well, I think he was the man your mother called ‘Black Bart.’ ”
Zoë wrinkled her nose. “Your pa was Black Bart?”
“Yes, at least I think so. I think you and I—and my sister Izzy—had the same father. I believe you’re our sister—our half sister, that is.”
Zoë’s face screwed up incredulously.“Sister?”She glanced at Betty. “Is she cracked in the head or summat?”
