A Daughter's Inheritance Read online

  A DAUGHTER’S

  INHERITANCE

  Books by

  Tracie Peterson & Judith Miller

  BELLS OF LOWELL

  Daughter of the Loom A Fragile Design

  These Tangled Threads

  LIGHTS OF LOWELL

  A Tapestry of Hope A Love Woven True

  The Pattern of Her Heart

  THE BROADMOOR LEGACY

  A Daughter’s Inheritance

  An Unexpected Love

  A Surrendered Heart

  www.traciepeterson.com

  www.judithmccoymiller.com

  A DAUGHTER’S

  INHERITANCE

  TRACIE PETERSON

  AND

  JUDITH MILLER

  A Daughter’s Inheritance

  Copyright © 2008

  Tracie Peterson and Judith Miller

  Cover design by John Hamilton Design

  Cover photography of 1000 Islands: Reprinted with permission from Ian Coristine’s book 1000 Islands, his fourth book of photography of the region.

  www.1000islandsphotoart.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Pubishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Peterson, Tracie.

  A daughter’s inheritance / Tracie Peterson and Judith Miller.

  p. cm. — (The Broadmoor legacy ; bk. 1)

  ISBN 978–0–7642–0471–5 (alk. paper) — ISBN 978–0–7642–0364–0 (pbk.) — ISBN 978–0–7642–0487–6 (large-print pbk.) 1. Inheritance and succession—Fiction. 2. Cousins—Fiction. 3. Thousand Islands (N.Y. and Ont.)—Fiction. 4. United States—History—1865–1898—Fiction. I. Miller, Judith, 1944 – II. Title.

  PS3566.E7717D384 2008

  813’.54—dc22

  2007034145

  Dedication

  In memory of

  Edward and Louise Hughes,

  the aunt and uncle who

  made my summer vacations

  a special time and created

  fond memories.

  —Judith Miller

  TRACIE PETERSON is the author of over seventy novels, both historical and contemporary. Her avid research resonates in her stories, as seen in her bestselling HEIRS OF MONTANA and ALASKAN QUEST series. Tracie and her family make their home in Montana.

  JUDITH MILLER is an award-winning author whose avid research and love for history are reflected in her novels, many of which have appeared on the CBA bestseller lists. Judy and her husband make their home in Topeka, Kansas.

  Contents

  Broadmoor Family Tree

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  Acknowledgments

  Broadmoor

  Family Tree

  1

  Sunday, August 2, 1891

  Broadmoor Island, Thousand Islands

  The warm summer air rang with laughter as eleven-year-old Fanny Broadmoor made her way up from the river’s edge. The day had been perfect, and she couldn’t help but be pleased.

  Her companion gave a tug on her pigtail. “What are you giggling about now?” fifteen-year-old Michael Atwell asked. Michael lived year-round on the island with his parents, the primary caretakers for the Broadmoor family castle and island estate.

  “Do I have to have a reason?” Fanny questioned. “I’m just happy. We caught a great many fish. Your mother will be pleased.”

  “I think your grandmother will be less excited to see you’ve spent a day in the sun. You’ve got at least a hundred more freckles.”

  Fanny touched her hand to her face and shrugged. “Papa says it goes with my red hair, and he thinks they are quite delightful.”

  Michael shifted the string of fish and waved them in the air. “I think these are far more delightful. When my mother gets through frying them up, you’ll think so, too.”

  Fanny gave him an adoring smile. She practically worshiped the ground he walked on. He was dashing and adventurous and never failed to treat her kindly. Other servants passed her over as nothing more than a child, but not Michael. He was always good to listen to her and never too busy to stop and see to her needs.

  “You’re lagging,” Michael said as they reached the back of the house. “It’s probably due to all that giggling.”

  Fanny caught up and put aside the fishing poles she’d been carrying. “Grand-mère says that being of good cheer is the secret to a long life.”

  Michael opened the back door and grinned. “Then you ought to live to be a hundred.”

  “There you are,” Mrs. Atwell said as they stepped into the kitchen. “I thought I’d have to send your father out to find you.” She spied the string of fish. “I see ’twas a very productive day.”

  “The very best,” Fanny agreed. “I caught the first fish, and then Michael caught the next two. After that I lost track.”

  Mrs. Atwell laughed. “Well, I can see I’ll have my work cut out for me. Just put them over there in the sink.” She motioned to her son. “I suppose you’re both ready for a bit of refreshment.”

  “We are. We ate everything you sent in the basket, but now we’re famished.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Mrs. Atwell affectionately tousled her son’s wavy brown hair. “I’ll bring you refreshments on the porch, but first I need to fetch Fanny’s father. I was just on my way when you arrived. Your grandmother wants to speak with him.”

  “I can get him,” Fanny told her. “Where has he gone?”

  “To your special place,” Mrs. Atwell said with a sympathetic smile. “The place he always took your mother—and now you.”

  Fanny nodded with great enthusiasm. “I’ll go. It’s not so very far.”

  “I’ll go with her,” Michael said. “It’s farther than a young lady should go by herself.”

  “The island is hardly that big,” Fanny declared, “and I am eleven years old.”

  Michael laughed. “And very opinionated.”

  “All right, you two. Get on with you now. Miss Fanny, it would be the better part of wisdom to allow Michael to join you. Besides that, if I remember right, your father took a picnic basket with him. Michael can fetch that back for me.”

  Fanny didn’t really mind Michael’s company. She simply didn’t want him to think of her as a helpless child who needed to be watched over.

  They made their way across the well-kept lawn and headed for the northerly side of the island, where the trees thinned out and gave way to rocky outcroppings. Fanny knew where she would find her father. Langley Broadmoor had often regaled her with stories of how he’d courted her mother on this island—how they would love to steal qu
iet moments in a very secluded place during their whirlwind romance. Fanny loved coming here each year. The island caused her to feel a sense of her mother’s presence just in knowing how much she had cherished this place.

  The family always tried to spend some time on the island during the warm summer months. The Thousand Islands of the St. Lawrence River were popular gathering retreats for the very wealthy, and this popularity had only increased in the years since Grandfather had purchased the island. The opulent way of life had increased, as well. What had once been a modest summer retreat was now a palatial estate with a six-story castle that held over fifty rooms.

  “I found some fossils over this way,” Michael told her. “Maybe we can go hunt for more tomorrow.”

  “That would be grand,” Fanny replied and then frowned. “Oh, but I cannot. Your father is taking us to some birthday party on one of the other islands. Amanda and Sophie insist I come.”

  “Your cousins can be rather bossy, but I’m sure a party will be far more fun than scouting about in the dirt with me.”

  Fanny thought to deny that idea but spied her father down the path a ways. He was leaning up against a tree, the basket beside him. Apparently he’d fallen asleep while watching the river.

  “Papa!” Fanny hurried down the path, barely righting herself as she tripped on the loose rocks.

  “Slow down, you goose!” Michael called from behind her. “You don’t want to fall and tear your dress.”

  Fanny checked her step and slowed only marginally. “Papa, wake up. Grand-mère wishes to see you.” She reached her father’s side and knelt beside him. Reaching out, she gave him a shake, but he didn’t open his eyes.

  “Papa?”

  She shook him again, and this time his body slumped away from her. His hand fell to the side, revealing a small framed photograph of her mother.

  “Michael, something’s wrong.” She looked to where Michael had come to stop. “He’s . . . he’s sick. He’s not waking up.” Fanny shook him harder, but he only slumped closer to the ground. “Papa!”

  In less than a second, Michael was at her side. “Mr. Broadmoor. Wake up, sir.” He gently reached out to touch the man, then pulled away. “Fanny, I think you should go get my father. Maybe get your uncle Jonas, too.”

  “But why? What’s wrong?”

  “Just go now. Hurry.”

  Fanny straightened and, seeing the grave expression on Michael’s face, did exactly as he told her. She fairly flew up the path, and despite knowing how much her grandmother would disapprove, she ran as fast as she could to get help.

  The men were easy to find. Fanny let them know the situation in breathless gasps that left little doubt to the serious nature of the moment. The men headed out, demanding she stay behind, but Fanny wasn’t about to be left out of the matter. She allowed them to leave without her then followed behind, ignoring her cousins as they bade her to come and play.

  Something inside Fanny’s chest felt tight. She couldn’t help the sense of dread that washed over her. Papa was very sick, otherwise he would have awakened. What would happen now? Would they remain on the island while he recovered, or would they head back to Rochester early? Deep inside, a most terrible thought tried to force its way through the maze of fearful considerations. What if he wasn’t sick? What if he had. . .

  She couldn’t even breathe the word. Fanny couldn’t imagine life without her beloved father. She’d already endured the horrible loneliness of being without a mother. Her mother had died giving birth to Fanny, and all she had of her were a few trinkets.

  Edging up quietly to where she’d left Michael with her father, Fanny watched the men as they dealt with the situation at hand.

  “This is just great,” her Uncle Jonas declared. “Langley always did have a flair for the dramatic.”

  “Jonas, that’s uncalled for,” Uncle Quincy countered. “You know he’s been lost in grief ever since Winifred died.”

  “He was a weakling. He couldn’t even end his life like a man. What reasonable man would take poison?”

  Fanny shook her head and flew at them. “No! My papa isn’t dead!” She pushed past Uncle Quincy and reached for her father. It was Michael, however, who stopped her. He pulled her away quickly.

  “Get her out of here,” Uncle Jonas growled. “Take her away at once, Michael.”

  Michael pulled Fanny along, but she fought him. “No! I want to be with my papa. He needs me.”

  “He’s beyond need now, Fanny.” Michael’s soft, gentle words caused her to halt her fighting.

  “But . . . he . . . he . . . cannot be . . .” She looked back to where her uncles and Michael’s father stood and then braved a glance down to her father’s silent form. Tears poured and blinded her eyes as she looked up to Michael.

  “Come on.”

  Fanny gripped Michael’s hand tightly and closed her eyes as he led her up the path. Her father was dead. It seemed impossible— horribly wrong. How could it have happened? Uncle Jonas said it was poison. Her father had taken something to end his life.

  “Why did he . . . do this?” Fanny barely whispered the words. “Was it my fault?”

  Michael dropped to his knees and pulled Fanny against his shoulder. She sobbed quietly for several minutes, just standing there against him.

  “This wasn’t your fault,” Michael finally said as she calmed. “Your father was just too sad. He couldn’t bear the pain of being without your mother.”

  “But he had me,” Fanny said, pulling away. “He had me, and now I have no one.”

  Michael reached up and gently brushed back her tears. He offered a hint of a smile. “You have me, Fanny. You’ll always have me.

  2

  Tuesday, June 1, 1897

  Rochester, New York

  “Fiddlesticks. Where are they?”

  The heels of Frances Jane Broadmoor’s shoes tapped a rhythmic click on the Italian marble tile as she paced the length of the entrance hall. Thus far, the technique had failed to control her impatience. At seventeen Fanny was usually not given to such displays, but this occasion merited her frustration.

  “Amanda is never late. Sophie would be late to her own funeral, but not Amanda.” She went to the window and pulled back the sheer fabric. One glance told her the same thing she’d known for over fifteen minutes. Her cousins had not yet arrived.

  They hadn’t seen each other since last Christmas, when Fanny was home from finishing school. Amanda had gone away shortly after that to take a grand tour of Europe, while Sophie remained at home. The separation had been absolute misery for the girls. They were closer than most sisters.

  “Why must they torture me like this?” She dropped the sheer and began to pace again. Passing by her grandfather’s study, she peered inside at the ornamental frame that held her grandmother’s likeness. Grand-mère. Fanny smiled at the French word. Her grand-mère’s aristocratic French ancestors would be appalled at the English use of Grandmother.

  There were those who thought Fanny resembled her grand-mère, but the young woman couldn’t see it for herself. Fanny had a ghastly collection of dark auburn curls, while Daphine Broadmoor had hair the color of ripe wheat. At least when she’d been younger. Even as an older woman with a snow white crown, her grandmother’s beauty surpassed all rivals.

  Fanny heard a noise from outside and rushed back to the window. Frowning, she let out a rather unladylike sigh. It was only Mr. Pritchard, the gardener. He offered a smile and waved. Earlier in the day they had worked the garden together, one of Fanny’s greatest pleasures. She waved but then quickly walked away from the window.

  Had she known both of her cousins would be late, she could have allowed herself additional time in the garden. Mr. Pritchard would have been pleased for another half hour of her help. Though the gardener could be cranky, Fanny had convinced herself years ago that the man enjoyed her assistance. Hamilton Broadmoor hadn’t been quite so certain, but her grandfather’s assessment hadn’t quelled Fanny’s desire to learn from Mr. Pr
itchard.

  With no more than the fleeting thought of her grandfather, Fanny glanced up the mammoth stairway. Sunlight spilled from the circular skylight and cast dancing prisms across the palatial landing above the first flight of stairs. She should go upstairs and see if he was awake, but she’d ascended no more than a few steps when the front door burst open.

  Amanda rushed inside, holding her straw hat with one hand while lifting her skirts with the other. “I am terribly sorry, Fanny. As usual, Sophie has made us late. Goodness, but what happened to your hair?”

  Instinctively Fanny pressed a palm to her unruly curls. No matter how she brushed and pinned the tresses, they popped loose and circled her face like unfettered coils. “I’m afraid my pacing has undone my grooming.” She tried to force the pins back into place while scanning the entryway for some sign of Sophie. Giving up on her hair, Fanny descended the steps and hurried to embrace Amanda.

  “And where is Sophie? Still in the carriage?”

  “Absolutely not! I finally departed without her. Next time she’ll believe me when I say I’m not waiting any longer.” Amanda pulled away, removed her hat, and twisted a blond tress around her finger to ensure proper placement.

  Fanny smiled at the gesture. Amanda’s hair was just like Grand-mère’s—the same golden shade and never disheveled in the least. “Exactly where did you leave poor Sophie?”

  “Poor Sophie? Don’t you dare feel sorry for her. I arrived with the carriage at exactly one-thirty. The time we had both agreed upon, by the way. When she still hadn’t gotten into the carriage by two o’clock, I warned her and then departed.” Amanda frowned and shook her head. “Some fellow I’ve never seen before was sitting in the parlor visiting with her when I arrived. Even though he clearly knew of our plans, he made no move to leave. Certainly no gentleman, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Well, I . . .”

  “When I issued my ultimatum, he grinned and the two of them continued their private conversation. I decided I’d wait no longer. I knew you would be worried about us.” Amanda’s high cheekbones bore a distinct flush; her usually gentle brown eyes flashed with anger.