A Most Unsuitable Match by Stephanie Whitson Page B

envelope, she took the cabinet portrait out and laid it between them on the desktop. “At first I thought this was Mother. But then—” she turned it over—“then I read the name on the back.”
    Vandekamp unlaced his fingers and leaned forward. He glanced down at the photograph. Two spots of color appeared on his cheeks.
    Fannie held up a letter. “This last letter mentions a Hubert, and I wondered if that might be you. Would you like to read it?”
    Mr. Vandekamp took the letter, unfolded it, and read. The edges of his mouth curved downward. “What is it that you want from me, Miss Rousseau?” He laid the letter next to the photograph. “None of this changes anything about your current situation.”
    Fannie frowned. She swallowed. “It changes everything . I’m not alone in the world. You haven’t read all the letters yet, Mr. Vandekamp, but she speaks fondly of me. In every single one.” She paused. “The last one was posted from Fort Benton, Montana, just last spring. I’d like your help finding her. Don’t you think she would want to know about Mother?”
    Taking a deep breath, Vandekamp poured two glasses of water. Setting one before Fannie, he took a sip from the other before saying, “Letters, however poetic, can be misleading, Miss Rousseau.” He peered at her from beneath two bushy gray eyebrows. “I daresay that, had he only to write letters to win your heart, Percy Harvey would have succeeded in making you his betrothed long ago. But, as it turns out, Mr. Harvey’s letters and Mr. Harvey’s person are very unlike each another. Wouldn’t you agree?” He pointed at the most recent letter. “That is dated a year ago. Whatever it says, you can be sure that Edie is no longer in Fort Benton.”
    Edie. “You knew her,” Fannie said, doing her best not to sound accusatory. “You are the Hubert she mentions in this letter.”
    Pink spread from the two bright spots on Mr. Vandekamp’s cheekbones across his entire face. Curling his fingers toward his palms, he pulled both hands into his lap. “I did know her, and nothing good ever came of it.” He looked away. “The only thing about Edith LeClerc that you need to know is that she never stays in one place long enough to take responsibility for anything.” He met Fannie’s gaze. “Even if she did hear from you and respond, there would be an ulterior motive behind it. Which is why I asked if someone had contacted you about your father’s estate. That would be very like her.”
    “What possible motive could she have?” Fannie stared down at the elegant woman in the photograph.
    “ Money , Miss Rousseau. At one time, your father had quite a lot of it.” He paused. “Unfortunately, that is no longer the case, and the last thing you need is someone like her wheedling their way into your affections in order to take advantage of your ignor—” He broke off and cleared his throat. “Hoping to take advantage of your inexperience .”
    “But you meant to say that she might take advantage of my ignorance.” Fannie took a sip of water. “Is she evil, then? Is that why Mother never spoke of her?” She grasped the stack of letters. “Did Miss LeClerc lie for twenty years?”
    Mr. Vandekamp rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and tented his hands, matching fingertip to fingertip. “I’m sure I have no idea.”
    Fannie tucked the letters and the photo back into the brown envelope. “I’m going to write in care of general delivery in Fort Benton. She deserves to know about Mother.”
    Mr. Vandekamp leaned forward. “Has it occurred to you, Miss Rousseau, that if Edith LeClerc were truly interested in her family, you wouldn’t just now be learning of her existence?”
    Of course it had occurred to her. But then, that question had been surrounded by all the others that had been circling through Fannie’s mind for most of her adult life. So many questions, and the only answer was the one Hannah had offered in the cemetery Sunday