Page 115 of The Vanished

Honor slipped into the drawing room just before midnight, glad no one seemed to have noticed her absence. The record had come to an end, and the servants passed around fresh glasses of champagne. The guests instinctively moved towards their loved ones so that they could kiss them at midnight, but at a few minutes to twelve, Douglas struggled to his feet, shuffled to the center of the room, and raised his hand.

“If I may have your attention.”

Everyone stopped talking and turned to face him. They probably suspected what was coming, but they were still eager to hear the news from the horse’s mouth. As Honor surveyed their faces, she thought few guests felt sympathy for any of the Bellamys. To Douglas’s so-called friends, this was as entertaining as a stage production, a tragedy that had befallen someone else for their enjoyment. By tomorrow, everyone would know that Douglas was dying and that his daughter would marry a virtual stranger in order to save the family, or what was left of it, anyway. They would spend the coming days gossiping about Geneva, Jesse, and Honor, and debate ad nauseum all the ways in which Douglas had failed his children. It made her sick, and, just as her father began to speak, she backed out of the room and ran up the stairs. She would ring in the new year with Rose, her only real ally in this house. And then, after everyone left, she would slip out and go to Rory. She didn’t care that he was leaving tomorrow. It was for the best, since she only needed him tonight.

Honor pushed open the door to Rose’s bedroom. She thought Rose would be in bed, reading or sulking, but she was on her knees, dressed in the blouse and skirt she’d worn earlier in the day. Her head whipped about at the sound of the door opening, and her shoulders sagged in relief when she saw it was Honor.

“What are you doing?” Honor asked as she approached.

Rose was rifling through the contents of a suitcase, but she hastily shut the lid before Honor could see what was inside and sat back on her haunches. The case was plain brown cardboard, not at all the sort of luggage Aunt Clarissa was accustomed to. Her cases were leather and embossed with her initials.

“Whose case is that?”

“Why aren’t you at the party?” Rose countered.

Honor shrugged as a lump formed in her throat, and she felt the prickling of tears. She couldn’t bring herself to explain all the things she was thinking, and all the resentment she felt towards her father, her sister, and Jesse, but mostly towards a world that had robbed her of her mother and two brothers and was about to take away the remaining two people she loved. Starring tonight, she was on her own. She knew Rose would understand, but she didn’t want to start the new year on a sour note, and instead waved a dismissive hand, unwilling to articulate her thoughts.

“I wanted to ring in the new year with you,” she said. “You’re the only one in this house who cares how I feel.”

Rose nodded. “I do.”

Her cousin looked conflicted, as if she had a secret but wasn’t sure she could trust Honor.

“Rose, what is it? What’s on your mind?”

“I think Geneva is about to make a terrible mistake,” Rose blurted out. She flipped open the lid of the case to show her what was inside.

Honor peered at the navy-blue coat with brass buttons and the cap with a black patent visor and an emblem at the center. “Is that a military uniform?”

Rose looked at her as if she were an idiot. “It’s a steward’s uniform, from the White Star Line.” She took out the coat, trousers, and several pairs of white gloves. “And look at this.”

Her cousin handed her an envelope, and Honor took out the pages inside and unfolded them with shaking fingers. There were several letters from Mr. Lefferts, all addressed to Jesseph Bellamy, and two photographs. One photograph showed a dark-haired woman dressed in a high-necked gown with leg-of-mutton sleeves and a bodice fitted neatly to the waist. A boy of about ten stood before her. He was dark-haired and dark-eyed as well, his narrow, thin-lipped face rather homely, and his expression pinched. Honor turned the photograph over. The inscription read: Constance and Jesseph, June 1901.

The second photograph depicted the same woman with a dark-haired man and appeared to be their wedding portrait: Alan and Constance Bellamy, October 1882.

Honor looked up from the portrait and was startled by Rose’s expression. She looked almost exhilarated, and, when she smiled, the grin had a malicious edge to it.

“I don’t understand,” Honor said, even though she was beginning to get a fairly good idea of what Rose had discovered.

“Don’t you see?” Rose exclaimed. “Jesse is an imposter. That’s the real Jesseph, and he looks nothing like the man accepting heartfelt congratulations right about now. He was a steward on the RMS Olympic. He murdered the real Jesseph Bellamy and took his place.”

“But the man who died was William Heller. It said so in the paper.”

“Maybe he was traveling under an assumed name,” Rose insisted.

“Surely he would have needed a valid passport to board the ship.”

Rose sprang to her feet and snatched the newspaper she had shown them earlier. Honor stared at the photo of William Heller. He was about twenty years older, but there was little doubt he was the boy in the photograph with Constance Bellamy.

“This is proof,” Rose announced. “William Heller is Jesseph Bellamy.”

“Maybe there’s a reasonable explanation,” Honor tried again.

“Such as? That our handsome, successful cousin from America has a secret fantasy of becoming a ship’s steward?”

“Rose, please,” Honor moaned. “Don’t you see what this revelation will do? If the man who died aboard the Olympic was truly our cousin, then there’s no one left to inherit. We will lose everything.”

“No, you won’t,” Rose protested. “The court will have to lift the entail, and Geneva will get it all.”