The Orphan of Cemetery Hill
Page 27
Mother installed me on a bench in the garden and I drew my knees up to my chest, willing myself to disappear. A tear welled up as I thought about the little body in the stable. Would they at least let me give her a proper burial before shipping me off to Australia? I hastily wiped the tear away and braced myself for my sentencing.
But it never came. Mother took my hand in her own, her soft brown eyes studying my face, the lines around her mouth tight with worry.
“So,” she said at last, “that answers that.”
I had no idea what the question was, or even what exactly had been resolved, but something in her tone told me I wasn’t going to be punished, and in my young mind that was all that really mattered.
She went on to tell me that I must never speak of what happened in the street again. If anyone were to ask about it, we would say only that it was a scuffle. Children get into scrapes all the time and sometimes they get out of hand.
“And Lydia,” she added before I could dart away back to the stable, “you must never show the world what it is that you have inside of you.”
So I carry it like a little locket, tucked deep down beneath my breast, never taking it out to open, but knowing that it will always be there should I choose to peep inside. We would never speak of it again after that day, but Mother made it clear that should it come bubbling out of me again, that we could find ourselves turned out of our home, or worse.
No, I never considered that we might be turned out for other reasons, and certainly not for the rumors that surround us now—which are just that: rumors.
Copyright © 2018 by Tess Fedore
ISBN-13: 9781488056383
The Orphan of Cemetery Hill
Copyright © 2020 by Tess Fedore
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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