The boy crawled into the front seat of the touring car while Farrell helped Geneva and the woman into the rear. Geneva nestled the child in her lap, wrapping the girl in her cloak and trying to warm her little limbs with her body. But there wasn’t much she could do for the young woman. She looked as if she were half dead of starvation. And who knows what fever she might be carrying?
Geneva had been sorely tempted to leave her there, to take the girl to safety first and then come back and look after her mother. But it would not have been the Christian thing to do and Geneva prided herself in her adherence to a strict standard of moral behavior.
Farrell pulled the car out onto the street and headed west out of Dublin. “Drive quickly,” Geneva said, “but not too quickly, for the wind can be bitter cold back here.” She adjusted her hat pin, then wrapped the trailing ends of her veil around her neck. It was at least a thirty-minute drive back to Porter Hall. “Hand me that lap robe, Edward,” she shouted.
Then little boy crawled up onto his knees and shoved the heavy fur robe over the back of the seat. Geneva clumsily covered the young woman. “What is your name?” she asked, shaking her awake.
The woman moaned, then looked at Geneva through glazed eyes. “Where am I?”
“What is your name?” Geneva repeated.
“Rose,” she said. “Rose Byrne.
“And the child?”
“Her name is—” A fit of coughing interrupted her and she pulled the lap robe up to her mouth. When she’d finally regained her voice, she sighed softly and closed her eyes again. “Her name is Mary Grace.”
Geneva looked down at the child. Mary was such a common name among the Irish. Every other girl in the countryside was named Mary. But Grace was a fitting name for a child found outside a church. “Grace,” Geneva murmured. She tickled the girl’s cheek. “You are Grace.”
The rest of the drive passed relatively quickly. Rose slept the entire route while Edward rested his chin on the back of the front seat and watched the scene before him. “What are we going to do with that girl?” he asked.
“Her name is Grace. Her mother is Rose. And I suspect we will take care of them until they are both well and then we’ll send them on their way. It is an act of charity to help those less fortunate, Edward, and this is a lesson you would do well to remember. We were sent to that church for a reason today. It was God’s will.”
When they reached Porter Hall, Geneva ordered the car taken around to the kitchen entrance. Farrell carried Rose inside with Geneva and Edward trailing along behind, the little girl toddling between them. The two kitchen maids and Cook were left speechless by their unexpected entrance, but Geneva wasn’t about to make any long-winded explanations to the help.
“Warm some soup,” she ordered. “Farrell, take Rose upstairs and put her in the yellow room, across the hall from my chambers. Betsy, heat some water so that we might wash the grime off of her and the child. I want blankets and a clean nightgown brought up. And we must feed them both, perhaps some warm milk and porridge to start.” The servants stared at her, unsure of what to do, and Geneva cursed softly. “Don’t stand there with your mouths agape, do as I say. Now!”
With that, she picked up the little girl, resting her on her hip, then she walked out of the kitchen and up the rear stairway to the bed chambers on the second floor. Farrell had already settled Rose in the yellow room and Geneva set the little girl at the foot of the bed.
“Shall I fetch Lord Porter?” Farrell asked. “He’s at the mill today.”
“What could he possibly do to help?” Geneva asked. “You will go for the doctor and I will inform Lord Porter of this myself when he returns home.”
Geneva bit back an oath. Ever since Charlotte’s death three years ago and Geneva’s subsequent breakdown, the servants had been particularly watchful. She suspected they’d been ordered to report any unseemly activity or behavior to her husband, for though they were deferential to her, Lord Porter paid their wages.
Surely this latest incident would call her sanity into question, but Geneva had already begun to formulate a plan to keep Rose and her daughter at Porter Hall. Once the young woman had recovered, they would offer her a job. There were always scullery maids coming and going. She could start there and work her way up. And then, her child could take on some simple duties once she was old enough.
Geneva looked down at the little girl’s face, wondering at how a child of such common birth could be so pretty. Perhaps Geneva would take Grace under her wing, as she had her own daughter. Charlotte had just begun to appreciate fine music and art when the angels had come for her.
The spiritualist Geneva had visited in London just last month had assured her that Charlotte would return, that she would make her spirit known to Geneva before the third anniversary of her death. And now she had come again, reborn in this beautiful little girl. Geneva dared not believe it was true, but it had to be. All the signs were there, just as the spiritualist had told her.
She examined the child closely. The girl wore nothing more than a rough linen shift with ragged underclothes beneath. She stripped them off, carefully examining her before counting her toes and fingers. “Well, Grace, you don’t seem to be in such bad health for such a horrid beginning in life.” The girl watched her silently. Though she was small, her arms and legs were still plump. “You’re quite a lovely little thing now, aren’t you?” She wrapped her in a blanket, then picked her up and carried her over to the fire that burned in the grate.
“What is that?”
Geneva glanced over her shoulder to see her eldest son, ten-year old Malcolm, standing near the door. “It’s a child,” she cooed.
“Not that,” he muttered in cold voice. He pointed to the bed and Rose. “That. Father will be furious when he sees what you’ve brought home. That filthy wretch should go back to the gutter where she belongs with the rats and the lice and the other Irish rubbish. And she can take her ugly Irish child with her.”
Geneva found it difficult to believe that she’d given birth to both Malcolm and Edward. Edward was sweet and caring and Malcolm was the exact opposite, spiteful and foul-tempered. Edward had inherited Geneva’s compassionate streak and Malcolm had taken after his cold and ruthless father, a man who never passed up a chance to give voice to his prejudices. “The Bible tells us to be charitable to those less fortunate,” Geneva murmured as she pressed a kiss to the girl’s forehead.
Malcolm scoffed. “Is that what you call this, Mother? Charity? Or are you just trying to replace Charlotte again? It didn’t work last time and it won’t work this time.”
“No one could ever replace your sister,” Geneva said.
It was obvious Malcolm was fully aware of the incident that had sent her to the hospital just six months after Charlotte’s death. She hadn’t meant to just walk off with the little girl in the park, but she’d looked so much like Charlotte and Geneva had become confused. When they’d arrived home, the authorities had been called and money paid to silence the parents of the little girl.
“She’s dead,” Malcolm screamed, “and she’ll never come back and it’s all your fault. Papa told you not to take her with you to London. He said there was sickness there. But you never listen to him. You’re the one who took her away.” He rushed over to Geneva and grabbed the girl’s foot, giving it a vicious yank.
“Ow,” Grace cried. “Bad boy!”
“Charlotte was the only one in this family who loved me and you took her away.”
Geneva felt the emotions well up inside her and she turned on her son, slapping him across the face. She had said the same words to herself over and over, every hour of every day for the past three years. It had been her fault. They would have been safe in Ireland, but there had been a new exhibit at the National Gallery that she’d been certain Charlotte