A-Splendid-Ruin(95)

“Miss Kimble?” he asked. “May Kimble?”

I’d been found. I’d been caught. Too late. My uncle had won after all. Still, I tried. “N-no. No, I’m afraid you—”

“I’m David Emerson.” The man reached into his pocket and took out a card, stepping inside to offer it to me. “I’ve been hired by—”

“I know,” I murmured.

“—Mr. Stephen Oelrichs, to find Miss May Kimble, of the New York Van Berckyls.”

The words did not register at first. I was too busy trying to find a way out, to wonder how fast I could run, if he would follow, if I could push past him, but then what he’d said landed hard in my panicked brain.

“Stephen Oelrichs?”

Mr. Emerson nodded. “He’s been looking for you, miss. He asked me to tell you that he personally guarantees your safety.”

I stared at him, speechless.

“You’re the daughter of Charles Van Berckyl, of the New York family, are you not? Friends of Mr. Oelrichs?”

“The daughter of Charles Van Berckyl.” I repeated the name woodenly. The name I’d been waiting my whole life to hear, and to hear it now, so unexpectedly, from such an unexpected source . . . I could not fathom that this was me. It had nothing to do with me.

“Yes. Might I take you to Mr. Oelrichs, Miss Kimble? He is most anxious to speak with you.”

“Stay here,” Dante had said. I did not know if I could trust Stephen Oelrichs. Except that he’d tried to warn me. He’d been arguing with my uncle. Why? Emerson said Oelrichs was a friend of my father’s family. The New York Van Berckyls. The daughter of Charles Van Berckyl. My father, who had left me an inheritance, but who had allowed me and my mother to live in poverty and hardship. The man with whom I’d been angry most of my life.

“Do you never suspect anyone of ulterior motives? That’s what got you into trouble, you know.”

The button in my pocket was again in my fingers, turning and turning. Mr. Emerson waited for my answer with a pleasant expectancy, the card still proffered.

I plucked it from him and perused it quickly. “Thank you, Mr. Emerson, but I expect Mr. Oelrichs can wait a bit longer for my visit.”

“But Miss Kimble—”

“Tell Mr. Oelrichs that I’ll call on him later this afternoon. I’ll bring a friend.”

“This is a private matter, I’m afraid.”

A private matter. My family had wanted nothing to do with me. My inheritance was predicated on accepting those terms. According to Shin, they wished only to know whether I was dead or alive. This did not involve the Sullivans, or the police.

“It is my private matter,” I told him with my haughtiest manner. “I am not Mr. Oelrichs’s chattel, nor his relation, and I am not obliged to answer his summons. Tell him I’ll visit him at his home this afternoon, with a friend. Thank you, Mr. Emerson. That is all.”

The man looked flustered, but, as inconsequential as I looked in my trousers and my shirt, dirty and sweating and not at all the lady I was supposed to be, I had learned such a manner well, and I knew how to use it.

Mr. Emerson sighed. “Very well, Miss Kimble. I will give Mr. Oelrichs your message.”

When he left, the courage and hauteur that had sustained me collapsed. I sank into a chair and tried to swallow a hysterical urge to laugh—or to cry. I did not know what to think. Van Berckyl. The name should have meant everything to me, and yet, I could not find my center; I did not know how to feel about it.

I heard Dante before I saw him, bounding up the short front stairs and through the still-open door. A paper—a telegram—fluttered in his hand, and excitement animated his every move. The moment he saw me, he burst out breathlessly, “It came, May. It’s here—the answer. Your father is Charles Van Berckyl.”

“I know,” I said.

He stopped short. His hand dropped to his side. His surprise was almost comical. “You know?”

I nodded.

“How in the hell do you know that?”

“He found me,” I said. “Mr. Emerson. The private detective. He found me.”

More surprise. “He came here?”

“After you left. The Sullivans didn’t hire him. Stephen Oelrichs did.”

Silence. I could almost hear his mind spinning. “What?”

“You’d best sit down.”

I waited until he had, and then I told him about Emerson’s visit.

He handed me the telegram. “This was waiting at the office.”

I looked down at the paper. Charles Van Berckyl fits dates STOP Died mining accident NV STOP Age 50 STOP.

Charles Van Berckyl. The name felt alien. “It doesn’t change anything. I’m still me.”

Dante said, “But you’re not. Do you know what being a Van Berckyl will mean to San Francisco society? A New York Van Berckyl?”

I didn’t like the way he said it with such wonder. “Of course I do. They’re one of the Four Hundred families, just as Mama always said.”

“A pedigree that goes back to the Dutch founders of New York City. You’ve just been put into the Hoffman/McKay set—do you realize that? No one can touch you.”

“My parents weren’t married—”

“It doesn’t matter. They’ll fall over themselves to accept you. You’re as good as royalty. A bastard Van Berckyl—I couldn’t write a better story if I came up with it myself. Still, I don’t understand why Oelrichs is involved, and I don’t trust anyone but myself when it comes to you. I’m going with you to see him.”