“I don’t see why you mistrust Mrs. Heath, she’s almost like a mother to me,” Lucy said warmly. “Well, never mind that—I’m dying to know what my grandparents want! What are they like? Is my grandfather still awfully stern?”
“In some ways he is,” Vicki said. “But he’s not so formidable, and Mrs. Bryant is lovely. Both of them want to know their granddaughter and—well, make up for—” She realized she was saying too much too soon. “Lucy, first I must have more proof of who you are. Not that I question your word, but—”
Lucy nodded. “That’s all right. Though I can’t imagine why anyone would have any doubts at all about knowing I’m Lucy Rowe.”
Vicki kept silent about the other Lucy Rowe in New York, established in the Bryants’ house. She could discuss that difficult situation later. Lucy was digging into the pockets of her robe.
“Here, Vicki, I want you to see these.” She handed Vicki a few worn documents. “I’ll just turn on this little bedside lamp, and tilt the shade.” She did so. “The letter on top is—well, read it, Vicki.”
Vicki unfolded the letter, so old it was tearing at the creases. The ink had faded and the note paper was losing its tint. This letter was authentic, all right. It was addressed “Dearest Eleanor,” and was signed “Mother.” It proposed a family reconciliation and offered aid for small Lucy. Vicki glanced up inquiringly. Lucy said:
“Mother never accepted Grandmother’s offer. I guess she never even answered this letter. We all had such strained feelings about—about my father. He was a darling. Here’s a snapshot of him.”
Lucy handed Vicki a thin bundle of old snapshots and photographs. One was of her parents taken at a picnic. One was of Mr. and Mrs. Bryant, very formal, taken years before. One was a print of the same snapshot of Lucy as a little girl, seated on the porch steps, which Mrs. Bryant had shown Vicki earlier. These pictures, too, impressed Vicki as being authentic, not clever forgeries.
“I’d have more photographs and letters to show you,” Lucy said, “except that Mrs. Heath insisted on putting them away for safekeeping. She wanted me to give her all the letters and photographs for her to put away—she even urged me to let her put away this silver ring.”
“She did!” Vicki exclaimed, then remembered to lower her voice. “Where did she put your things?”