“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 would enjoy, so they’d traveled together.
“I am your mother and you will not speak to me in that manner again.”
Malcolm laughed. “No great loss, Mother. You’ve gone so far ’round the bend that you don’t understand half of what’s said in this house anyway.” He stalked out of the room, brushing by Edward, who had taken up a spot at the door.
Geneva sent her youngest son a wavering smile and he immediately returned it, then came rushing toward her. “Don’t listen to him, Mummy. I think you did a very fine thing bringing the poor lady and her little girl home with us. We’ll make them both better.”
“We will, won’t we,” Geneva said. “Now, you run and see if you can find Mummy’s maid. Ask her to go to the nursery and see if she can find one of Charlotte’s old nightgowns in the chest. I believe I saved a few just to have around for my grandchildren.”
“I’ll go look for them,” Edward offered.
Geneva had only one ally in the house and that was Edward. He’d always tried his best to make her happy, to take her mind off the dark thoughts that seemed to plague her daily. If it came down to it, Edward would stand up for her against her husband and her older son. Though he was only seven, he was wise beyond his years and knew exactly how to get what he wanted. And that was usually no more than the means to make his mother smile.
“You’re a good boy,” she whispered as she watched him run out of the room. “And I will always love you the best.”
CHAPTER TWO
“IT’S TIME FOR YOU TO WAKE up now.”
Rose drifted toward consciousness, following the voice of the child. Was it Mary Grace who was speaking to her? Mary Grace hadn’t learned to string many words together yet. And she didn’t speak with an English accent. Had she died and gone to heaven? Was it an angel’s voice she was hearing?
“Open your eyes,” the child whispered.
She felt fingers touch her face and Rose willed herself to do as she was told. Her eyes fluttered open and she found herself staring into the face of a young boy, his dark hazel eyes ringed with jet black lashes. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
“Would you like a drink of water?” the boy asked.
Rose nodded and he held a cut-crystal tumbler up to her lips. She sipped slowly at the cool liquid, letting it slide across her parched lips and tongue. And when she could drink no more, she fell back into the down-filled pillows. “My daughter,” she murmured. “Where is she? Is she all right?”
The little boy nodded. “Mummy has put her to bed in the nursery.”
“She’s alive?” Rose asked.
The boy frowned, then nodded. “Mummy was feeding her and then she fell asleep. She ate a little bowl of porridge and her belly got very fat.” He held out his hands in front of his stomach.
Rose closed her eyes and smiled. Mary Grace was alive and so was she. Somehow, she’d ended up in a beautiful room, in a comfortable bed, watched over by the young boy. And her daughter had been given a meal. God had finally answered her prayers.
“There’s food,” he said. “Would you like something to eat?”
“Yes,” Rose replied. As she tried to sit up, she realized how weak she was. Her head spun and her arms were barely strong enough to support her weight. The little boy helped her tuck a pillow behind her back, then set a tray beside her on the bed.
“The porridge is cold. So is the tea. But there is bread and butter and some of the ham we had for supper last night. I’ll fetch you something to drink. Would you like that?”
“Stay here for a bit,” Rose said. “Tell me who you are and where I am. How did I get here?”
The boy sat down on the edge of the bed. “My name is Edward Porter. I’m seven years old. My father is Lord Henry Porter and my mother is Geneva. And I have a brother named Malcolm.” He glanced around. “This is my house, Porter Hall. My sister, Charlotte, used to live here but she got a fever and died and now she’s gone to heaven.”
“I’m so sorry,” Rose said.
He shrugged. “Everyone says that.”
“Do you miss her?”
“Oh, yes. Terribly. But Mummy says she’s with the angels in heaven and she watches over me. Sometimes at night, she comes into my room and talks to me.”
Rose nibbled at the bread, taking small bites until she felt the food begin to fill her stomach. “How did I get here?”
“We found you at the church,” Edward explained. “And we put you in our motorcar and brought you home.”
“Have I been here long?”
He shook his head. “It was morning and now it’s evening. Papa will be home soon and he will be very cross with Mummy. Malcolm says he’ll send you to the poorhouse. But you mustn’t be scared.”
Rose pushed the tray aside, then slipped from beneath the bed covers and swung her legs to the floor. She stared down at herself, surprised to find that she’d been dressed in a lacy nightgown and her hands and feet were clean. “I have to leave then,” she said. “Will you help me find my clothes?”
“No,” Edward cried. “You must stay. Mummy will make it right, you’ll see.”
“What is going on in here?” A woman, wearing a beautifully detailed afternoon dress, bustled into the room. Her pale hair was pulled back into a tidy knot. Her lovely face was marked by delicate and refined features. Rose had a vague memory of her voice. This must be the little boy’s mother— and Rose’s savior.
“Get back into bed,” she ordered, her words spoken in aristocratic English. “You are far too weak to be walking about. Edward, I asked you to look after our guest.”
“This is my mummy,” Edward told Rose.
Rose tried to stand, but her legs were weak and her knees buckled. She sat on the edge of bed, a bit dizzy with the effort. “Thank you so much for your kindness, ma’am. But I wouldn’t think to impose on you and your family any longer.”
The woman frowned, her arms hitched on her waist. “You’re educated,” she said. “You don’t speak like a common Irish girl.”
“I know how to read and write,” Rose said. “My grandmother taught me when I was just six years old, so that I might—” Rose stopped and glanced around the room, a sudden panic gripping her. “Where are my things? The bundle that I had with me? I must find it.” She tried to rise again, but Edward skipped over and handed her the leather-bound diary.
“Is this what you want?” he asked. “I put it in my pocket to keep it safe.”
Rose took the diary and clutched it to her chest. “Yes,” she murmured. “Thank you. I couldn’t bear to lose this.” She sighed. “I’d like to see my daughter. Could you take me to her, ma’am?”
“You may call me Lady Porter,” the woman said. “And before we do that, you and I must speak. My husband will be home soon and we must prepare a good story for him. Have you ever worked in a house like this?”