CHAPTER 2 — The Woman Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
CHAPTER 2 — The Woman Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
Vanessa laughed.
It was too quick and too sharp.
“That is ridiculous.”
Alexander did not look at her.
His eyes remained fixed on Clara.
“Who hired you?”
“The household agency,” Clara replied.
“Which agency?”
“I don’t know the owner. I answered an advertisement.”
Vanessa stepped between them.
“This interrogation is absurd. She is an employee, Alexander. Nothing more.”
Alexander’s gaze hardened.
“Then why are you nervous?”
“I’m not nervous.”
“You’re crushing your bracelet.”
Vanessa looked down.
Her fingers were gripping the diamond bracelet around her wrist so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.
She released it.
Clara slowly stood, but the twins refused to let go of her hands.
Alexander looked at the children.
“Boys, go with Mrs. Turner.”
“No,” Nicholas said immediately.
Mrs. Turner, the elderly housekeeper, appeared in the doorway.
Noah shook his head.
“We want Clara.”
Vanessa’s expression twisted.
“She has been here for eleven days, and already they ignore their own mother.”
Clara flinched.
“I never encouraged them to reject you.”
“You didn’t need to,” Vanessa replied. “You walked in here pretending to be gentle and helpless.”
“Enough,” Alexander said.
His voice was calm, but the room obeyed him instantly.
He knelt in front of the twins.
“Go with Mrs. Turner for a few minutes. I promise Clara will still be here.”
Noah studied his father carefully.
“You won’t send her away?”
Alexander glanced at Vanessa.
“No.”
The boys finally followed Mrs. Turner.
When they were gone, Alexander closed the nursery door.
He turned to Clara.
“Tell me everything about your mother.”
Clara reached beneath the collar of her uniform and pulled out a small silver pendant.
Inside was a faded photograph.
A younger Eleanor Bennett stood beside a lake, smiling into the camera.
Alexander staggered backward.
There was no mistaking her.
It was Eleanor.
Alive.
Older than he remembered, but unmistakably the same woman.
“When was this taken?” he asked.
“Three months before she died.”
Alexander looked up sharply.
“What year?”
“Last year.”
Vanessa dropped her wineglass.
It shattered across the floor.
Clara turned toward her.
Alexander did not.
He stared only at the photograph.
For seven years, he had believed Eleanor was dead.
Now he was looking at proof that she had survived until only twelve months ago.
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Someone had lied to him.
And judging by Vanessa’s terrified silence, she knew exactly who.
