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 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
