True Heart by Arnette Lamb

the story?”
    Their eyes met. Virginia smiled encouragingly. “It’s best all the way ’round.”
    â€œI’ve no talent for the dramatic. What if I bungle it?”
    â€œYou’ll do fine. It’s better they think Moreland died.”
    On a sob, Mrs. Parker-Jones hugged Virginia. “So will you, Virginia MacKenzie.”
    Just as she moved to step away from the window, Virginia saw the woman in the yellow dress stumble.
    *  *  *
    Cameron steadied Agnes before she could fall, but almost dropped the cask, so discomfited did he feel. If asked why he’d brought the hogshead, he wasn’t sure he could give a reasonable answer. His mind saw it as proof. His heart told a different tale. Since finding it, he’d taken odd comfort in keeping the thing near.
    Agnes held onto him. “My stomach’s all aflutter, and my wits have gone praying.”
    â€œShe was only a lass, and it’s been ten years,” MacAdoo said.
    Climbing the steps, Cameron counted off just how long it had been.
    MacAdoo adjusted his waistcoat. “She probably won’t know us.”
    â€œI hadn’t considered that.” Agnes looked up at Cameron. “What will we do?”
    Think the worst. But Agnes wouldn’t follow that advice. Thanks to her constant discussions about Virginia, neither would MacAdoo.
    Shoring up his courage, Cameron took the last step. “What will we do? Beyond wondering why there are no poplar trees in the yard at Poplar Knoll, I haven’t a notion.”
    â€œCameron!” She elbowed him in the ribs.
    He winced and rapped the doorknocker, a fine casting of doves in bronze. Seriously, he said, “We’ll keep our horses before our cart.”
    â€œShe’s here. I can feel it in my soul.”
    A white-haired, very poised butler opened the door. “Welcome to Poplar Knoll. My name is Merriweather. May I be of service?”
    Cameron shifted the cask. “I’m Cameron Cunningham. We’ve come seeking information about this design if the master of the house will see us.”
    Agnes said, “We haven’t an appointment, but our mission is of the utmost importance. We’ve come from Glasgow.”
    Blinking at her boldness, the butler nodded and stepped back. He spoke to Cameron as he waved them inside. “Mr. Parker-Jones is away in Richmond, but the mistress is here. Come in please. May I take your hats?”
    Cameron removed his. MacAddo shuffled his feet and murmured, “Forgot mine.”
    Agnes said, “I’m certain Merriweather will not hold it against you.”
    â€œWe are not so formal in America,” the butler said, smiling.
    In the entryway, a footed silver bowl, engraved with the dove motif, graced a table fashioned in the style made popular during the reign of Queen Anne. Straight ahead, a long hall led to the back of house. Without carpet, the oaken floorboards gleamed from a recent polishing. A potted palm and a standing screen with thin lace panels cast shadows in the narrow corridor and blocked the view of what lay behind it.
    They were led into the first room on the left, a formal parlor. On the inside wall, a gilded mirror faced the front windows, bringing more light into the room. Unlike most such rooms, Cameron found this one inviting and the chairs arranged for easy conversation. Had Virginia sat in this room?
    â€œExcuse me,” said the butler. “I’ll tell Mrs. Parker-Jones that you are here.”
    Cameron put the cask on the floor at his feet. Agnes sat but not for long. Nervously, she walked around the room and examined the three paintings on the wall.
    â€œThis is clever.” She indicated a small picture beside the window. On canvas, the artist had reproduced the exact view of the front lawn and the river as seen from this spot. Instead of a frame, a small windowsill surrounded the view. Only in this rendition, towering poplar trees in full bloom flanked