Читать книгу The Legacy - Kate Hoffmann - Страница 11

“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?”

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 he’d been privy to.

There was only one thing Edward truly didn’t understand and that’s why he continued to listen. Something was not right with his mother, but no one would say what it was. She’d had to go away after Charlotte had died and though he wasn’t sure exactly how long she’d been gone, it had been a long time. If she was going to be sent away again, this time he wanted to know why.

“What was I to do?” she asked. “Let them both die? That poor child needed my help. At least there was something I could do.”

“They’re Irish. They have their damn free state now. Let them take care of their people the way they always wanted to.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Geneva said. “She was close to death. How was she supposed to care for that little girl?”

“Do you have any idea what’s going on outside this house, Geneva? Have you any conception what this family has had to face in the past ten years? With the uprising and the civil war, we have been teetering on the edge of ruin. It’s been all around you and you’ve been completely oblivious.”

“I read the papers, Henry. I’m aware of the political climate in Ireland.”

“Well, let me give you a better account of it, just to be certain. We used to have a good life here. A prosperous life, a life that my father blessed us with when we married. I was happy to take over the enterprises in Ireland. But now, we live here in—in exile.”

“That’s not true, Henry.”

“Oh, no? When the troubles started, my brother and father didn’t hesitate to sell anything that might fetch a good price. They left me with the mills and the mines they couldn’t get rid of. Let Henry have them,” he muttered. “He’ll be grateful for that much.”

Edward’s father stood and walked over to the whiskey decanter, then poured himself a drink. He took a long swallow, then turned back to his mother. “Now that this country belongs to the Irish again, our property is worth only what an idiot Irishman might pay for it. We’re trapped here, Geneva, with no way out.”

“The uprising was put down. The civil war is over,” Geneva said. “You employ hundreds of Irish workers who want to work. I can’t see how we’re headed for ruin, Henry.”

“I served in parliament, I helped run this country. And now, suddenly I have no say in how this government treats my interests. That’s decided by the Irish now and their damned Diál Eireann. And with them in charge, this country is doomed to fail.”

“Irish, British, free state, republic, Catholic, Protestant, what does it all matter? We have a home and you have a livelihood. You make a comfortable living. You’re a smart man, you can make what you have a success. The terrible times are ended. We have two sons and we must make the best of it.”

Edward peeked into the library and watched as his father stared into his glass. “The terrible times have only just begun, Geneva,” he muttered. “As long as Ulster is under control of the British, the people in this country will never rest. Another civil war is just around the corner.”

“Then perhaps we should stop thinking of ourselves as English and consider ourselves Irish. We’ve lived here through all the troubles, for nearly fifteen years. Our future is here. This is our home and we are not visitors in this country.”

“You are mad,” Henry muttered.

Geneva shook her head, her voice quivering. “I—I am not mad. You live in your world of comfort and wealth, you employ these people in your mills and mines and take advantage of them every day. But you never look at them, you never see them. They’re good people. They survive on nothing, trying to support their families on pay that isn’t enough for one, much less seven or eight.”

“And you live in the same world with me,” he said, his voice angry and accusing. “My money buys those beautiful gowns you wear and pays for your trips to London and for your spiritualists and fortune tellers.” Edward’s mother gasped. “What? You didn’t think I knew about them? Those charlatans preying on your grief.” He cursed, then sat down behind his desk.

Everyone in the family had changed since Charlotte’s death, Edward thought. Malcolm had become mean and nasty, deliberately inflicting pain on his younger brother whenever he could. His father stayed away from home as much as he could and when he was home he was cold and unapproachable and often drunk. And his mother… Edward drew a ragged breath. Some days she was just like she used to be, happy and lighthearted, laughing at the silly stories he told. And other days, she wouldn’t come out of her room, caught up in the midst of one of her black moods.

“We cannot keep her or her daughter in this house,” he said. “I won’t have it.”

“She’s worked as a domestic before and she claims to be an excellent seamstress.”

“Let’s be candid with each other, shall we, Geneva? You don’t need a seamstress. You want that child.”

Edward watched as his mother’s face grew pale. She slowly rose, her hands clutched in front of her. “Why can’t you do this one thing for me?” she asked in a strangled voice. “Just let me have what I need. I will make my way through this, I promise. But I have to deal with this in my own way.”

“This child is not yours,” he warned. “And if I see you becoming too attached, I will force them out of this house. And if I see any strange behavior from you, then you will return to the hospital until you are able to comport yourself in a proper manner. Is that understood, Geneva?”

His mother nodded. “Yes, Henry.”

“This will not become an obsession, or I will call an end to it.”

“I understand,” she replied.

He picked up a ledger from his desk and opened it, focusing his attention on the columns and rows of numbers. “That is all.”

Geneva circled his desk, then placed a dutiful kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Henry.” With that, she swept out of the room, her head held high, her eyes watery with tears. She didn’t even notice Edward standing outside the door, brushing right by him, her skirts rustling.

A few moments later, Edward walked into the library, his footsteps silent on the thick Oriental carpet. He stood in front of his father’s desk, his heart slamming in his chest. When his father finally looked up, there was an expression of impatience etched across his face. “What is it?”

“Are you going to send Mummy away again?”

“That is none of your concern,” he said.

“Please don’t send her away,” Edward begged. “I promise, I’ll watch over her.”

Henry Porter stared at his son for a long moment. “And will you tell me if she begins to confuse this Irish urchin with your sister Charlotte?”

Edward nodded, crossing his fingers behind his back to lessen the lie. “I will, Father,” he said.

His father nodded slowly. “You’re a good boy. And I think you understand how important it is that your mother keep her wits about her. She has been very emotional lately and that’s not good for anyone. You must try to distract her from her worries.”

“I will. I’m good at that.”

“Very well,” his father said. “I’m glad you see things my way. Run along now, Edward, I have work to do.”

Edward hurried out of the library and when he reached the safety of the hallway, he uncrossed his fingers and asked God to forgive him for the lie. It wasn’t really a sin to lie when he was just doing it to make his mother happy, was it? She’d suffered so much over the past few years. And if Rose and little Grace were the key to her happiness, then Edward would do everything in his power to make them both stay, his father’s wishes be damned.

“What are you doing out here?” Malcolm strode down the hall and gave Edward a hard shove, sending him back against the wall. “I thought you’d be in the nursery playing with that little brat Mother brought home.”

“She’s not a brat,” he said.

Malcolm sent Edward a look of utter disdain. “That brat is going to steal every minute of Mother’s time. She won’t pay attention to you anymore. She won’t even see you, just like she doesn’t see me. Get used to it, Edward. It’s only a matter of time before she loves you less than she loves me.”

“Maybe if you’d be nicer to her she’d love you again,” Edward accused.

“I don’t need her,” he replied. “Neither does Father. You’re the only one in this family who still cares for her and that’s because you’re still a baby.”

“I am not!” Edward shouted, lashing out at Malcolm. He shoved against his chest, but Malcolm had three years on him and considerable strength.

Malcolm grabbed Edward’s arm and twisted it behind his back, then pushed him up against the wall. “Don’t ever touch me again,” he muttered, his breath hot against Edward’s ear. “If you do, I’ll just find a way to take it out on that little Irish girl you’re so fond of.”

He gave Edward’s arm a final twist, then pasted a smile onto his face and walked into the library. As Edward stood outside, he listened as his older brother spoke with his father, the conversation relaxed and friendly.

The lines of loyalty in the Porter house had been clearly drawn since Charlotte had died. His older sister had held them together as a family, but they were on different sides now—Malcolm and Henry against Edward and his mother. Even though Edward was younger, he wasn’t afraid of his brother. Malcolm may be stronger and taller, but Edward was far more clever. He would do what it took to protect his mother, even if that meant destroying Malcolm in the process.