“You could have gone to the police—questioned his story.”
“Yes, of course.” She sighed and wished, truly, that she had. “But most of my girls have obscure backgrounds. They’re brought in from doorways and alleys and abandoned warehouses . . . and frankly, until today, no one has ever come around looking for one.”
“What’s done is done, James,” the older Mr. Rayborn said. “And I should have pressured the police not to give up searching. I’m just grateful the fisherman happened to be there. Surely there aren’t usually boats out at midnight.”
“Eel fishermen,” his brother told him. “That’s when they go.”
“I see.” Daniel Rayborn’s expression filled with both dread and the need to know the truth as he asked, “Does Sarah remember any of that night?”
“She doesn’t.” Olivia watched the relief cross his face and thought how, in spite of the stir this was sure to cause, it was good to know that Sarah had once had a home and at least a father who loved her. So many of her girls’ pasts were blank pages. And he did resemble Sarah, faintly, or at least he had the same straight nose and green eyes. He seemed just a bit older than forty, his close-cropped light brown hair sprinkled with some gray that had not yet crept down into the trim beard.
“She was fair, like her mother,” he said, as if reading her mind.
She gave him a sad smile. “What will you do?”
“James says this Mrs. Blake is very protective of her. I don’t want to disrupt her life. Yet I can’t not see her. And I can’t help but think she might wonder about from where she came.”
“She doesn’t,” Olivia said in a dry voice. It was time to confess all. The two men listened, Sarah’s father’s tall frame leaning forward on the short bench. Their faces betrayed misgivings concerning her character, and she longed to blurt out, But aside from this, I’ve actually striven to live my life with integrity!
When she was finished, the older Mr. Rayborn rubbed his eyes. His brother said with more question than statement in his voice, “Yet Mrs. Blake doesn’t want Sarah to know they’re not related.”
“She’s dying. And she draws great comfort from having Sarah think of her as a grandmother. In a way, I think she’s also trying to make amends for the actual granddaughter’s death.” She turned again to Sarah’s father. “You have suffered terribly, and I’ve no right to ask you this. But please . . . if you would wait just a little while longer—you’ll have the rest of your life to be Sarah’s father again. Mrs. Blake may not last the year.”
“You can’t be serious,” the brother said.
Sarah’s father blew out his cheeks. “I don’t know if I can do that. And even if I could, it would be grossly unethical, standing aside until my daughter inherits a fortune . . . then popping up into the landscape.”
Olivia explained that Mrs. Blake already intended to leave the bulk of her money to Sarah, in spite of their lack of family ties. She could not tell from his expression if that made any difference. An idea came to her. “Her solicitor is a Mr. Mitchell. He’s called here twice concerning a house Mrs. Blake is donating to the children and obviously has her best interests at heart.”
“I’ve actually met him,” said the younger Mr. Rayborn. To his brother, he said, “He struck me as a conscientious fellow.”
“He could settle your legal and ethical questions,” Olivia told him. “Please at least speak with him before you do anything else.”
She was relieved when Sarah’s father agreed to do so. Olivia walked with them through the entrance parlor, useless in winter for lack of heat, and watched them button overcoats. The elder Mr. Rayborn pulled gloves from his pocket but held them in one hand and turned to her. She offered her hand and said, “Will you ever be able to forgive me, Mr. Rayborn?”
“Yes, of course.” He took her hand and smiled. “My brother and I had God-fearing parents, and I’ve tried to live the same way. Yet I spent five years besotted with alcohol and self-pity, even cursing God. We all do things we regret.”
Barely able to look at the understanding in his green eyes, Olivia whispered, “Thank you.”
“It is I who must thank you, Mrs. Forsyth. For your compassion for my daughter, something even her own mother couldn’t give her.”
After the two bade her farewell and left, Olivia moved her hand from the knob and turned at the sound of the inner door opening.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Mrs. Forsyth, but the sink pipes are frozen again, and—” Lily Jacobs stopped and cocked her head. “Is something wrong?”
“No, not at all.” Olivia brushed fingertips across her eyes and started across the tiny frigid room. Smiling at the bemused face before her, she said, “Is there anything sweeter than forgiveness, Lily?”
* * *
“It’s about time yer got here!” was how the driver greeted Daniel and James at the hansom. “It’s cold as a carp, and I’ve had to fend off beggars the whole time!”
“We’ll throw in a crown for your trouble,” James assured him.
As the suddenly more agreeable driver snapped the reins, Daniel watched Saint Matthew’s dreary facade until it was no longer in his line of vision. “Hard to believe she lived here for so long,” he said, then turned to James on his right. “But, you know, perhaps it was better than with an insane mother. I wore such blinders back then, always so sure she would eventually warm up to her child.”
“You loved her.”
“Yes.” Daniel smiled. “And there were some happy times.”
“I remember.”
They rode in silence up the Strand, Daniel wrapped in memories. In the kitchen, where they sat over a fresh pot of tea and tin of Huntley & Palmer’s Lemon Biscuits, James asked, “Will you really speak with Mr. Mitchell?”
Daniel had to finish chewing the bite of biscuit he had popped into his mouth. He couldn’t believe how ravenous he was. Nerves, he thought. “As soon as possible.”
He owed this Mrs. Blake something for wanting to be family to his daughter, even while knowing the truth. How could he outright ignore her dying wish?
“I’ll go with you,” his brother said.
“You will?”
“I’ll even send a wire to his office on my way home and fetch you in the morning.” James smiled and shrugged. “You might as well do this properly.”
That night Daniel labored at his desk until past two in the morning. It would have been pointless to retire until exhaustion muffled all anxious, regretful, and even hopeful thought. He was only cognizant enough, as he lay on his pillow, to thank God again for not turning His back upon him during those days when he shook his fists at heaven, and for allowing James to find his daughter. Then he asked that God would bless those guardian angels who had been put into her life, such as Mrs. Forsyth and Mrs. Blake, and a gin-soaked eel fisherman.
****
The hammering was coming from somewhere in back of the house. Daniel followed it through the parlor and kitchen and out to his small garden. His father sat on his heels under the pear tree, attaching a leg to a squat three-legged stool. “For little Sarah,” he said, smiling up at him.
The hammering sounded again, the image vanished, and Daniel eased his head from his pillow. Another series of knocks came from downstairs. He got up and shrugged into his dressing gown, resentful of the intrusion into his dream, for faintly he could still feel his father’s presence.
“What a sight you are!” exclaimed his brother.
Daniel ran fingers through his close-cropped hair. “I worked late.”
“Well, some bacon and scotch eggs will wake you,” James said, holding a parcel away from his coat, for there were dark circles in the brown paper. “I’ll put the kettle on while you dress. Mr. Mitchell is expecting me at ten.”
“You?”
His brother grinned. “When you pay by the word, you don’t explain. He’ll simply assume it concerns the tutoring position.”
By quarter of ten they were seated on a leather sofa in a walnut-paneled ou
ter office, while a male secretary’s fingers snapped out a steady rhythm of the keys of a Remington typewriter just like Daniel’s. Five minutes later a door opened and a graying head stuck out. “Oh, Mr. Rayborn. I thought you might be early. Do come in.”
Daniel could see the question in the man’s face as he got up to follow. His brother introduced them at the door, and after shaking hands, they were settled onto yet another leather sofa in another walnut-paneled office, while Mr. Mitchell rolled his chair to the front of his desk. He held Daniel’s newsclippings and tintype and listened thoughtfully to James’s explanation of why they were there.
“Incredible!” he exclaimed when James fell silent. “I need a smoke, if you’ll bear with me.”
The solicitor handed back Daniel’s cigar box and rolled his chair to a small Oriental chest with brass pulls. He took a briar pipe from the holder on top and fished for matches and a tin of Pioneer Tobacco from the top drawer. After lighting it and taking three quick puffs, he sank back in his chair and let from his thin lips a stream of musty-sweet smoke. Then he did a curious thing, taking the stem from his mouth and setting the smoldering pipe back in its holder. “I promised Mrs. Mitchell I would quit. She says its a vulgar habit. But my nerves need a little soothing at the moment.”
Returning to the matter at hand, he said, “I can confirm that Mrs. Blake is dying. I sought out her doctor recently when I became concerned about the obvious deterioration of her health. Ordinarily I would not be sharing this information with anyone else, but . . .” He made a helpless gesture.
Daniel nodded. “Have you an opinion on what Mrs. Forsyth asked of me?”
“I join her in urging you to wait,” the solicitor said without hesitation. “Though I can appreciate your longing to be with your daughter, Mrs. Blake dotes upon the girl. I’ve never seen her more content, even through the physical pain.”
“This would be an easier decision if she weren’t so wealthy.”
“I understand. But if it will reassure you . . . after Mrs. Blake told me of Mrs. Forsyth’s confession, she drilled me again over the validity of her will. She has always feared that Sarah’s illegitimacy—”
Daniel winced. “She’s not—”
“Forgive me . . . presumed illegitimacy . . . would put a hitch in the inheritance. I assured her that under British law a person with no direct heirs may leave his money to the local street sweeper if so desirous. And, once Mrs. Blake is sadly taken from us, you’ll have Mrs. Forsyth and the two of us to assure Sarah that you aren’t stepping into the picture just because of the inheritance.”
“She wouldn’t think that of him anyway,” James said a little testily.
“I’ll be a stranger to her,” Daniel reminded him.
Mr. Mitchell smiled, tapping fingertips together. “But you would have opportunity to make her acquaintance now and again if young Mr. Rayborn here were to become her tutor. He could keep you informed as to how she’s faring. And when the time came to tell her the truth, you wouldn’t be strangers.”
The suggestion took some of the agony out of having to wait. “That would help,” Daniel said.
But James, wearing an enigmatic smile, shook his head. “I’ve a better idea.”
Daniel and the solicitor looked at him.
“You should be Sarah’s tutor.”
“Me?”
“Him?” Mr. Mitchell said.
Now it was Daniel who shook his head. “Impossible, James. Staying in the background is one thing. Concealing my identity is quite another.”
“Why would you have to conceal it?”
“Well, the newspaper—”
“How many local stories do you recall from seventeen years ago, Daniel? Anyone who happened to read the accounts won’t recall the names of the parties . . . in the unlikely event that they remember anything about it at all.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Mr. Mitchell said, reaching again for his pipe.
Daniel’s heart lightened just long enough for practicality to set in. To his brother he said, “I’m not a tutor. And you’re the one looking for a position.”
“I’ve other offers to consider, remember? And wealthy in-laws.” James’s smile did not diminish, nor did the eagerness in his gray-green eyes. “It’s straight out of the pages of Exodus, Daniel! Was it wrong for Moses’ mother to hire herself out as a nursemaid for her own child?”
“No, of course not.”
“You’ve lectured whole classrooms at King’s, so don’t say that you’re not a tutor.”
“King’s College?” Mr. Mitchell said between puffs.
James nodded. “And as to the textbook, you would have evenings and weekends free. And you did mention that typing consumes most of your time. Simply hire someone to do that part.”
“Hmm.” Mr. Mitchell cocked his head at a reflective angle. “I can’t say that you haven’t the right to apply to teach your own daughter. Not considering the sacrifice you’re making.”
Faintly Daniel could still hear the tattoo of typewriter keys. Someone with similar skill could accomplish in one hour what took him four. But at what price? “I’m not sure I could afford—”
Mr. Mitchell took a final puff and replaced his pipe. “You’re forgetting the extra income.”
“It wouldn’t be a matter of money,” Daniel insisted.
“You can’t very well offer to work for supposed strangers for nothing,” James persisted. “That would certainly raise eyebrows. And Mr. Garrett out there . . . with six children and another on the way, he may even be eager to take on the typing.”
The idea was beginning to feel more comfortable, even like a gift from God. But to be certain, Daniel asked for time to pray about it.
“But of course.” Mr. Mitchell glanced at the pipe but kept his place. “I’ll need a couple of days to investigate your background. No offense intended, Mr. Rayborn, but it’s standard procedure for everyone who works in that house.”
“I understand,” Daniel said, raising a hand to ward off his brother’s protest. Just because he was Sarah’s father and James’s brother didn’t mean he hadn’t just gotten out of prison.
“And, Mrs. Blake will want to interview you.” Hesitantly, he said, “She has some rather strong opinions. If she turns you down, you won’t reconsider your generous gesture . . . will you?”
“No,” Daniel responded after needing a moment to think about it—for he was human enough to admit to himself that being turned down would sting. “I’ll still consider myself in her debt.”
His brother clapped him on the back. “You’ll pass the interview just fine. Easy as cake.”
That would have reassured him were not some doubt lurking in Mr. Mitchell’s hooded face. Daniel had to tell himself that perhaps it was not from misgivings over his brother’s optimism, but from longing for the object of his desire . . . smoldering on the Oriental chest.
Chapter Thirty-One
On Saturday morning, the twentieth of February, Sarah played draughts in the sitting room with her grandmother while Avis cleared away breakfast dishes and Marie worked her needlepoint.
“Are you quite sure you want to move there?” Sarah asked.
“I have a plan,” Grandmother murmured, a bony finger pushing a red draughts piece onto an adjacent square. She trusted the leaps, which required picking up the pieces, to Sarah. “Hard to believe . . . before you arrived, I had played draughts only a handful of times in my life.”
Marie let out a good-natured snort from her chair by the window. “That is because Madame’s odieuse friends considered anything but Quadrille beneath their dignity.”
Grandmother sent her a severe look. “We’re not to speak ill of the dead, Marie.”
“I do beg Madame’s pardon,” the lady’s maid said a little more humbly but with no hint of fear. “I did not think about Mrs. Fowler.”
“Will you be wanting anything else, mum?” Avis said from the door, the trolley in front of her.
“No, thank you.”
> The door had barely time to settle behind Avis when it opened again, and Claire came through with the silver card tray. “You’ve visitors, mum. Vicar Sharp and that new curate.”
Sarah carefully put the draughts table to the side and straightened the bow beneath her grandmother’s high collar. Three minutes later the vicar and a tall young man he introduced as Ethan Knight occupied separate ends of the divan. Mr. Knight sat with hands spread upon the cushion on each side of him, as if poised to flee if necessary. Shy, Sarah thought, recalling a time when this room intimidated her as well. But he had offered a bow and “pleased to make your acquaintance” to Sarah and Grandmother, and even to Marie, who had grown quite protective of Grandmother and no longer slipped out when guests were present unless so ordered.
Sarah also thought him quite handsome. Chiseled into a sun-goldened face were a dignified Roman nose, full lips, and high cheekbones. Straight wheat-colored hair was combed back from a high forehead. These qualities she discovered in bits and pieces, for she found herself possessed of the same shyness. That was why she did not notice right away that the irises of his eyes were not the same color, but one was brown and the other blue.
“Mr. Knight’s grandfather was of the cloth, too, may God rest his soul,” Vicar Sharp was saying. “And Birmingham’s finest pulpiteer, from what I’ve heard.”
“Thank you, sir.” The curate had a rich, resonate voice that was perfect for a man who would one day deliver sermons from behind a pulpit.
“And your father?” Grandmother asked carefully.
“He’s an engineer, as are my two older brothers. Every Birmingham family is obligated to donate at least one member to the cause of railway construction.”
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