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The old lawyer was looking at her with prune-faced disapproval, and she could hear the murmurs of the villagers standing behind her with their teacups and prejudices. She felt their hostility like piercing darts in her back, but she had to ask. She had to know.
“So am I the heir?” she asked. “If my father was the heir to Southwold, the title passes to me, doesn’t it?”
Her mother’s slap came as a sudden stinging shock. She reeled back with the force of the blow and stared at her mother’s red angry face.
She lifted her hand to shield herself from another attack. “What was that for?”
Her mother stood on tiptoe, her anger seeming to lift her from the ground and consume her.
“What was that for?” she screamed. “What do you think it’s for? I have never been so ashamed in all of my life. Bad enough that you behaved like a common little tart, throwing yourself at a good-for-nothing soldier, but you lied, Vera. You lied to me. You lied to everyone.”
Vera took a step backward and prepared to defend herself. “I didn’t lie for my own sake. I did it for Carol. It was the best solution we had. I was a good friend to her. She needed me. What do you think would have happened if she’d come home with that baby?”
Vera’s eyes scoured the onlookers. “What would you have done to Carol? The baby was half-Nazi; what would you have done about that?”
She stared at them until, one by one, they looked away; all except the lawyer and his mousy secretary. Even the American woman’s expression softened slightly, but the lawyer was not swayed, and neither was Vera’s mother.
“You made fraudulent statements to Mr. Harrigan,” the old man said.
Her mother parroted him. “Fraud, Vera. That’s a crime, and what about that little girl? All these years telling her you’re her mother, and then suddenly you hand her over to a stranger. You’re cold, Vera. Cold as ice.”
Vera straightened her shoulders. None of this mattered. The future was getting brighter by the minute.
“Weren’t you listening to what he said, Mum? Dad was the heir to the Southwold estate, and now I am. I’m going to be the Countess.”
“No, you’re not.”
The voice was quiet and sad. She looked for the speaker and discovered her brother swaying slightly on his feet but looking directly at her.
“You’re not the heir, Vera. I am.”
Her heart skipped a beat as her new world of possibilities tumbled from its axis.
“But you won’t have children ...”
Terry gave her a look of infinite sadness. “Is that what you want for me, Vera? Do you hope I never recover? Do you think I’ll never marry?”
Her mother’s second slap knocked her backward, and she stumbled against the tea table, setting the cups rattling in their saucers.
Her mother’s mouth was working, but she was, apparently, too angry to speak, and that, Vera thought, was a blessing in itself.
The old lawyer was creaking himself into an upright position. No doubt he was about to tell her how many crimes she had committed, but the one-armed detective was taking no notice of the lawyer. His head was cocked to one side, and he seemed to be listening for something.
Vera felt the floor tremble. The table that held the teacups gave up the ghost entirely and collapsed onto the floor. A window shattered and dust fell from the rafters.
The memory rushed at her; walls bulging, dust showering down on the cowering villagers. Not this time. She wasn’t going to be trapped this time, not by falling bricks, and not by the accusing villagers.
She ignored the turmoil that broke out around her. Well, she thought, that’s the end of Southwold Hall. Terry can have what’s left. I don’t want it.
She clasped her handbag, reassured by the amount of Harry Harrigan’s money that was still in her possession. She left without saying goodbye.