shook her head, unsure of how to respond. It wasn’t the choice of sugar or milk, but the fact that her mistress was waiting on her. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, of course.” Geneva poured herself a cup, then grabbed a chair from the table and set it in front of Rose. As she sat down, she smoothed her hands over the skirt of her elegant frock, then crossed her ankles. “There is something I’ve come here to discuss with you. It’s about Grace.”
“Has she caused some trouble? I try to keep a close eye on her, but sometimes she does wander off.”
“She’s six years old and I know that you plan to send her to the parish school in the village when the term begins next month. I’m sure you’re aware that she’s a very bright child.” Geneva cleared her throat. “You’re also aware that I’ve grown quite fond of her since you’ve both come to live here.”
“Yes,” Rose replied. “And I thank you for everything you’ve given her. You don’t know how much it means to me to know that she’s safe and healthy.”
“But that isn’t always enough,” Geneva said. “There will come a time when Grace will have to make her own way in the world and to do that, she must be educated. I would like to take responsibility for this.”
“But I’m certain she’ll learn everything she needs to know in school,” Rose said. “And I’d prefer her to have a religious education.”
“I don’t think sending her off to a parish school will really serve her well,” Geneva said. “I’d like to provide her with a tutor. That way, she can get the very best education. And, when she’s older, if she wants to have a profession, then she’ll be prepared.”
“But the parish school would—”
“The parish school will teach her just enough so she can keep house and cook meals and raise children,” Geneva said. “I’m talking about more. French and art history and literature.”
“Why would she ever have need of that?”
“Maybe she won’t,” Geneva said. “But it will expand her mind. It will make her want more for herself than what most Irish girls do.”
“It will make her yearn for things she can never have,” Rose countered stubbornly. It was the wrong thing to do. Every ounce of sense told her that the more Mary Grace came to depend on Geneva, the more she’d be hurt when she realized this fine life was far beyond her reach. Perhaps this was the price? Her daughter’s broken heart?
And if she turned Mary Grace over to Geneva’s care, then what part would she play in her daughter’s life? Mary Grace had already become accustomed to the luxuries of life at Porter Hall. Rose wanted to believe that the time they spent together as mother and daughter would form the woman she’d become. “It is too generous,” she said. “I’m sure Lord Porter would not approve.”
Geneva’s eyebrow shot up and she gave Rose a cool look. “My husband would have you both out on the street again. It is only my generosity and affection for Grace that keeps you here.”
In that single sentence, Rose knew the decision wasn’t hers to make. She could either chose to fight and lose, or surrender immediately. “I see. And what say will I have in my daughter’s life?”
“You know you are ill,” Geneva said, her voice suddenly conciliatory. “You grow weaker by the day. Consumption is not a disease that one recovers from, my dear.”
Just the word sent a shiver down Rose’s spine. She suspected that her bouts with lung fever were more than just a passing illness, but hadn’t wanted to admit there was something more serious affecting her health. And if she admitted it now, then surely she would be put out. “It’s not consumption,” she said. “My lungs were weakened by fever while Grace and I were living on the streets. It hasn’t affected my work. And I will recover.”
Geneva stared at her for a long moment, then smiled. “Of course you will. But the more time she spends at the house with me and her tutors, the more time you have to rest and recover.”
“I—I suppose you’re right,” Rose said.
“Of course I am. We are agreed then.” Geneva stood and smoothed her hands over the waist of her frock. “I’m so glad we had this little talk. I’ll see to hiring a tutor for Grace. And she’ll begin her studies next month.”
Rose got to her feet and gave her a curtsey. “Thank you, Lady Porter. For your generosity. I’m sure that my Mary Grace will do her best to please you.”
Geneva nodded, then walked out of the room, closing the door softly behind her. Rose immediately went to the wardrobe and grabbed an armful of clothing, tossing it on the bed. They couldn’t stay. They would leave tonight, sneak off while the family slept. She’d be able to find another position, perhaps not one as comfortable as this, but certainly with her experience and— A fit of coughing overtook her and Rose bent forward, her hands braced on her knees, gasping for breath.
When she regained her composure, she sat down on the window seat and pressed her palm to her chest. There would be no references. And without references, there would probably be no job. Who would hire her? Geneva was right. She was sick. And she had a daughter who wasn’t yet old enough to take care of herself. Her choices were no better than they had been that day when Geneva found them on the front steps of the church.
The money she’d saved would last them three or four months at the most and after that, they’d be right back to where they began. There would have to be another way to hold on to her daughter. Rose took the clothes back to the wardrobe and carefully hung them up, then noticed the diary sitting on the top shelf.
She closed her eyes and hugged it to her chest. This would be the way. Since she’d arrived at Porter Hall, she rarely opened it. But now, she’d begin reading it to her daughter. And if the day came when she was no longer in this world, then her daughter would know where she came from. And she would remember.
She opened the leather-bound book and began to read a passage, the words coming back to her, renewing her strength. She would go on one more day, and after that, another. And no matter what disaster or tragedy befell her, she would carry on for as long as God let her live on this earth.
13 September 1845
I know not where to begin. Michael is gone a month already and I imagine him standing onboard a wonderful sailing ship, on his way to America and a new life for us both. But life back here in Ireland has grown troubled. We’ve begun to dig the crop and a terrible thing has happened. After but a day or two out of the earth, the potatoes begin to putrefy. None are fit to eat and I am forced to take what is left from the rest of our garden patch. Without the cow to provide milk, my belly is hungry most of the time. I pray that Michael will send for me as soon as he arrives in America, for our life—the baby’s and mine— becomes more fragile with each day that passes.
“IT’S BEAUTIFUL. LOOK AT ITS little ears. Oh, Edward, it looks so real.”
Edward held a tiny carved rabbit up on his palm and Grace studied it more closely. “I like it better than the turtle I made for you,” he offered.
“I think all your animals are wonderful,” Grace said.
“What would you like me to make now?” He spread the carving tools in front of him and picked up a small piece of
