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?”
Rose shook her head. “No. But when I first came to Dublin, I worked for a well-to-do Irish family. The Dunleavys. Mr. Dunleavy owned a dry goods store.”
“And what did you do for them?”
“I was a laundress. But I also did sewing for Mrs. Dunleavy and her daughters. I made them gowns and I mended their clothes. I’m very good with a needle and thread and I can operate a sewing machine. My grandmother taught me well. I can make a dress from any fashion plate you might show me. And I do fine embroidery.” She pointed to Lady Porter’s gown. “Like that.”
“Then when you have recovered from your ordeal, you will work for me as a laundress and a seamstress. That way, you can watch your daughter while you work. We will find a room for you above the carriage house where you might be…out of the way.”
Rose stared at Lady Porter, unable to believe her good fortune. “Oh, ma’am, that is far too kind. You’ve already done enough.”
“Nonsense. It becomes more difficult daily to find good help and you’re motivated to work hard. You’ve had an education of sorts, which recommends you as well. And both of us know you would never last another week out on the streets. Now, your wages won’t be much, since we will also be supporting your daughter.”
“I don’t need wages, ma’am. I’ll work for food and a warm place to sleep.”
“We’ll discuss this when you’re well. Now, there is one other thing. And you must be truthful about this. The child. Was she born out of wedlock?”
“Oh, no,” Rose replied. “No, I was married. My husband was—” She paused. If they knew the truth of Jamie’s political activities, the Porters might not be so glad to have the wife of an IRA sympathizer working in their very English household. “He died. Three years ago. It was an accident. He fell while he was helping a friend to repair a roof.” She promised herself to say a rosary for the lie.
“How tragic,” Lady Porter said. “And how long were you on the street?”
“Three months,” Rose said.
“You must have been quite resourceful to have survived that long. That quality will serve you well in this household.” She held out her hand. “Lie back now and finish eating. You need a good night’s sleep. You can see Grace in the morning.”
“Mary Grace,” Rose corrected. “Her name is Mary Grace.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure she’ll be quite happy to see her mother in better health. But she’s sleeping now herself and it wouldn’t do to wake her.”
Lady Porter took Edward’s hand and led him to the door. “Come, let’s leave Rose to rest. We must see if we can convince Malcolm to take our side in this matter before your father returns.”
When Rose was alone, she tried again to stand, holding on to the bedpost for support. She took a few steps, then a few more, feeling her strength beginning to return. She grabbed a small blanket from the end of the bed, and wrapped it around her shoulders, then slipped out of the room.
The hallway was dimly lit and quiet. Her bare feet brushed against the soft wool carpets and she peered in each door, searching for her daughter. When she found what looked to be a nursery, she stepped inside, then realized she wasn’t alone. Lady Porter sat in a rocking chair near the window, Mary Grace in her arms.
“Aren’t you my pretty girl, Lottie,” she cooed. “You’ve come home to me at last. And this time, I’ll never let you go.”
Rose stepped inside the room, ready to correct her. Why was she having such a difficult time remembering Mary Grace’s name? And why did Lady Porter insist that Mary was napping when she wasn’t? But as she watched Lady Porter, Rose began to realize that all was not right with the woman. She continued to talk to the child as if she were much older.
In then end, Rose returned to the hallway, an uneasy feeling settling over her. For now, she’d accept the Porter’s hospitality and her hostess’s odd behavior. She didn’t have any choice. The dangers out on the streets of Dublin were far worse than any danger she and Mary Grace might face inside the walls of Porter Hall.
“GENEVA, THIS IS ABSURD. You cannot bring home an Irish peasant and her brat like they were stray animals. This behavior only proves you still haven’t recovered fully.”
Edward stood in the hallway outside his father’s library, hidden in the shadows as he listened to his parents’ conversation. Though he knew it was wrong, eavesdropping was the only way he ever really discovered what was happening inside Porter Hall. Most of the servants paid him little heed, for they assumed he didn’t comprehend most of what was being discussed by the adults. And Malcolm took great delight in keeping the secrets
