Page 7 of The Heiress

Do you know, to this day, I cannot stand the smell of gin? It was her favorite, and any time I get a whiff of that herby, medicinal scent, I think of Mama, swaying in her bedroom door, her face puffy, eyes red.

The last time Grace’s eye had gotten stuck like that, Daddy had fixed it with a paper clip, and the only place I could thinkto find one was his office, so I’d crept in there, the air stifling, smelling like cigar smoke, furniture polish, and the faint hint of my father’s cologne.

We weren’t forbidden from entering, exactly. It’s just that Daddy was out of town for business (well, “business.” Later we’d learn he was driving to Charleston to stay with his mistress and our future stepmother, Loretta), and I’d never been in there without him.

I can still remember how hard my heart was beating as I crept across that thick green carpet, the same carpet that is under my feet now as I write this. How the brass knob of the drawer felt hot in my hand, my fingers sweaty.

I didn’t mean to snoop, but when I opened the drawer, the very first thing I saw was my name. It was emblazoned across the top of a newspaper, the letters inches high, bold and black:

BABY RUBY HOME AT LAST!

I remember wrinkling my nose at the “baby” part, already sophisticated enough at ten to reject anything that smacked of babyishness, but then I started to read.

And kept reading.

I’d known about the kidnapping. This is not that moment where a child learns some dark family secret by accident. Our town was too small, our family too well known for that kind of thing to stay hidden. But I only knew about it in the vaguest sense. A bad man had lost his child and saw me, taking me home to his wife so she wouldn’t be so sad anymore, but that wasn’t right, you could not take someone else’s child, and Daddy had spent so much of our money to find me, to bring me home where I belonged.

But here, in this newspaper, I learned the name of the man who had taken me.

Jimmy Darnell.

His wife was Helen. They had called me Dora. They had another baby, too, born just after I was returned to my family. Her name was Claire, a pretty name that I immediately resolved to give to the next doll I got.

And then I’d seen another name.

Grace.

There in black and white, a sentence:The child’s former nanny, Grace Bennett, left North Carolina after questioning, and her current whereabouts are unknown.

Paper clip and doll forgotten, I’d sat in Daddy’s big leather chair and pulled out all the papers in that drawer.

It took me awhile to find it, but eventually there had been a picture splashed across the front page ofThe Atlanta Constitution. I recognized Mama and Daddy, their expressions serious, Mama’s hat tilted so that the brim covered most of her face. And behind her, another woman, younger, her hair dark, her face a rictus of anguish, tears streaming, one gloved hand clapped over her mouth.

The parents of Baby Ruby leave the Tavistock, North Carolina, police station accompanied by the child’s nanny—and the last person to see Baby Ruby—Grace Bennett.

I looked at that face for what felt like hours.

The grief on it. The pain. The horror. How she must have loved me. How tormented she must have felt, letting me slip away on her watch.

Guilt crept into me, too, a sick, slippery feeling.

How could I not remember someone who loved me this much? How was the only thing left of this person the faint memory of a name, a name I gave to adoll?

But mixed in with the guilt was that strange sort of elation you feel when reading about yourself. Pages and pages ofnewsprint, all about something scandalous that had happened tome.

What child can resist that?

So, naturally, I wasn’t listening as closely as I should have been, which is why, when Nelle pushed her way in and pointed at me, I actually jumped in my seat.

“You’re in Daddy’s office!” she cried, triumphant. “I’m gonna tell him!”

“I’ll say you’re lying,” I fired back. “You’re just a baby. He won’t believe you.”

Her narrow face creased into a frown. Christ, I’ve just realized it’s the same expression she wears ninety percent of the time now. How tragic for her.

“He will, too!” she replied, her voice shrill. “He’ll believe me overyou. You’re not even my real sister.”

Every argument with Nelle reached this point eventually. It was her favorite weapon, even though the one time Mama heard her say it, Nelle had gotten a whooping with a belt, a punishment neither of us had ever received before or since.

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