‘No, Grace.’ Reuben’s mouth set in a firm line. ‘You were not.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘Olive delivered her child, but the cord was wrapped tight around its neck,’ Reuben said. ‘The baby never drew breath.’
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Sydney, 31 August 1922
Reuben tried to comfort Rae, to assure her that just because a terrible tragedy had struck poor Alfred and Olive, it didn’t mean their baby would suffer the same fate.
‘There, there, darling,’ he murmured as he lay in bed with her that night, smoothing her curls back from her damp forehead. ‘Get some rest. You’ll be glad of it once our child is born.’
‘I don’t know how I’ll sleep after hearing something like that,’ she said. ‘Poor Olive, and Alfred too — it’s heartbreaking news.’
Exhausted by worry, she swiftly slipped into a deep slumber. Reuben also slept, until Rae woke him just before midnight. The sheets were wet.
‘Dearest,’ she said, ‘it’s time.’
‘Time?’ Reuben was still half asleep.
‘The baby’s coming.’
He scrambled out of bed. ‘Cripes! Where’s your bag?’
Rae pointed to a small leather case sitting in the corner of the room.
‘Righto, I’ll just get dressed.’ Reuben pulled on his clothes while Rae changed into a fresh nightdress, slippers and a dressing gown.
‘Here we go,’ he said, picking up his wife’s bag in one big hand and putting the other around her delicate shoulders. ‘Easy does it, darling.’
‘I wasn’t expecting it to be like this,’ she said, grimacing. ‘The pains have come on so quickly.’
‘Ah, that’s because our baby’s keen to meet us,’ Reuben said with a comforting smile. ‘And, just think, it will be on the first day of spring.’
Charincourt, February 1950
Grace watched Reuben closely. Despite the ache in her own heart, she couldn’t help feeling for the enormous man who was in such obvious distress. He’d tried to restart his story twice, but had been so overcome by emotion that he’d not been able to continue.
Reuben had the look of a man who was struggling in a perilous sea. ‘Princess,’ he said, breathing heavily, ‘even though this all happened so long ago, it’s damned hard to talk about.’
Grace neither encouraged nor discouraged him. She didn’t know what to think.
‘Rae’s labour wasn’t long, not like poor Olive’s. I’d gone back home, thought playing the piano for a bit would distract me. Sure, I’d told Rae not to be concerned, but the fact is, I was in a hell of a state. All I could think of was, what if something happens to our baby?’
‘And was the child all right?’
‘I’m not ashamed to say I broke down and cried like a baby myself when I saw the wee thing, I was that relieved,’ said Reuben. ‘Such a bonny babe, with pink cheeks and whisps of soft dark hair. A beauty, even then. Princess, that baby . . .’ He touched Grace’s hand. ‘It was you.’
Once more, like an upended jigsaw, Grace felt the pieces of her life fly into wild disarray. ‘You mean,’ she said slowly, ‘all the time I thought that Olive was my mother, it was really Rae?’
‘If by mother you mean the woman who gave birth to you — yes,’ Reuben said.
‘I can’t follow any of this,’ Grace wailed. ‘Are you saying Rae abandoned me?’
Reuben shook his head. ‘She would never have done that, not willingly. I knew something was very wrong as soon as I walked into her room. Rae was so pale . . . The midwife called for the doctor, but even when he arrived, there was nothing that could be done. You see, they couldn’t stop the bleeding.’
Reuben continued, his voice trembling. ‘At the end, poor Rae was very weak. Her breath was so shallow she could hardly say a word. She motioned for me to come close. I stroked her hair as she whispered, “Do what is best for our precious child.” Then your mother died.’
Reuben covered his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking. After several minutes, he mopped his eyes with a handkerchief and said huskily, ‘You need to hear the rest. I decided to call you Grace. That was your mother’s real name. When she was a little girl she called herself “Rae” — I guess it was easier — and soon everyone else did the same. She was the love of my life, the dearest thing, and still only twenty-two on the day she left me. I was broken-hearted, but at least I had you, my little Grace.’
‘Then why not keep me with you?’ Grace burst out, although even as she uttered the words she knew condemnation was unwarranted. Her own bitter experience had taught her that sometimes the fates conspired to tear apart parent and child.
‘I took you with me from the hospital, only I couldn’t face going home again. Everywhere I looked, I knew I’d see reminders of your mother: her apron hanging on the hook next to the stove, her empty shopping basket on the kitchen table. I would’ve waited to hear her lovely voice singing away over the ironing, her footsteps pattering down the hall. So I checked into a small boarding house, just near Central Station. I don’t know what I was thinking, but I soon found out I had no idea how to take care of a baby. There wasn’t a crib so I put you in a drawer that I lined with a clean horse blanket. I had a go at feeding you with a little milk and boiled water; I even tried a bit of juice from some meat with an eye dropper, but you, poor wee thing, screamed and screamed. The people in the next room complained. The landlord said we had to leave. You were weak and growing weaker. I was at my wits’ end and half mad with grief. But I knew I had to do something quickly or my darling baby girl would die too.
‘Then it came to me. There was one person who, despite everything, might be able to help. I wrapped you up in a pink shawl — it was Rae’s favourite — and took you to the Hotel Australia.’
CHAPTER FIFTY
Sydney, 2 September 1922
Reuben Wood strode across the shining granite foyer, acutely aware of the disapproving eyes of guests and staff alike. It was only too apparent that the sight of a big, rough-hewn man cradling an inconsolable baby in his arms appalled them.
Mortified, Reuben wondered why he had ever thought it a good idea to bring his baby to this place. And he felt as if each person that he passed — the woman in a green dress and hat who abruptly ceased her conversation with a friend, the frowning concierge, the bellboy with his brass-buttoned livery and embarrassed stare — wondered too. Wishing only for invisibility, he chose not to take the hotel’s great central staircase. Instead, he hurried over to the bank of elevators more discreetly located at the rear of the foyer.
Once there, however, Reuben hesitated. He watched, mesmerised, as the translucent skin on the crown of his baby’s head quivered with each fluttering beat of her pulse. Perhaps there was still time. Then the sharp clang of the lift doors brought a return to harsh reality. There was no other way.
‘My God, who could have imagined such tragedies would befall the two of us?’ Alfred groaned with despair as he stood with Reuben at his wife’s bedside.
Olive lay still in the darkened room. Her eyes were open, yet it appeared she saw nothing, not the heavy swagged curtains, not the velvet-covered chairs or the tasteful watercolours on the wall — not even her own husband.
‘After the baby died, Olive refused point blank to stay in the hospital, but it’s been two days now and just look at her,’ he said, distraught. ‘The doctors say it’s the shock, but they don’t seem to have any idea what to do about it. She doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep. I’m terrified that I’ll lose her too.’ Alfred rubbed his temples. ‘I don’t know, perhaps your idea might work. Maybe if she sees little Grace, it will bring her back to us.’
Reuben’s baby daughter lay limp in his muscled arms. He bent down and placed her carefully on the quilt next to Olive, then waited. The woman’s eyes remained vacant. It was as if Grace didn’t exist.
‘I’m sorry,’ Reuben said. ‘I suppose it was worth a try, but Olive seems to be in another world. I’d better ta
ke my little one and leave. Somehow, I have to find a way to stop Gracie following her mother to the grave — though Christ only knows how I’ll do it.’
As an ashen-faced Reuben picked her up, the baby whimpered.
Very slowly, as if emerging from a trance, Olive turned towards the faint cry. She reached out her arms and took Grace from Reuben. Then, ever so gently, she held the starving baby to her breast and smiled.
It was obvious to Reuben how best to save Grace — and Olive. Yet once more he wavered.
How could I give up my child? Foolish man, he thought. The question should be, how could you not? At least this way, he would know she was being cared for by two fine people.
Grace lay peacefully in Olive’s arms, her tiny face content. ‘Please, Reuben. Leave her with me, I implore you,’ she said. ‘At least while she’s so young. I promise I will treat Grace as my own, devote myself to her. Then, perhaps one day . . . well, you might be able to look after her yourself.’
Shocked and grief-stricken, aching for his wife, Reuben tried desperately to reconcile himself to the action he knew he must take.
Finally, he nodded. ‘Only, promise me something,’ he said.
‘Yes?’
‘When Grace is old enough, let her return to me. Let me tell her the truth.’
Charincourt, February 1950
‘I gave Alfred and Olive the form for your birth certificate. I’d already written your name in, but nothing else. Then I left.’
Grace tried to picture the scene in that hotel room: the traumatised woman; the ailing baby; two men making a decision that would affect the course of each of their lives forever.
‘I can understand why you handed me over to Olive, I really can. I think it was a brave, selfless thing to do,’ she said. ‘But why did you never disclose your true identity? It meant I grew up without knowing who I really was. Did you decide you didn’t want to be a father to me after all?’ Grace’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Rae only died because of my birth.’
Reuben pushed his hair back from his forehead. It was still thick, although now streaked with grey. ‘I didn’t blame you, not for a minute. All I wanted was to fulfil Rae’s last request: to do what was best for our precious child.
‘But I never stopped wishing you could be with me. Once, when you were all staying in Sydney, I even confronted Olive at the hotel.’
‘I remember that day.’
‘You do? How’s that?’
‘I overheard you arguing. But I was still a child — I didn’t know what it meant.’
Reuben sighed. ‘I pleaded with her to give you up, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She said I should remember our agreement. You were a twelve-year-old girl — how could a rough type like me take care of you properly? How would I be able to give you the sort of care that only a woman could? I knew she was right. Then, each time I saw you, well, you were blooming. Olive and Alfred loved you dearly and had the means to provide you with every advantage in life. Compared to them, what could I give you? Very little.’
He swallowed. ‘I saw you whenever I was able to, but Olive insisted I wasn’t to visit Brookfield. She was good about writing me letters, though, letting me know about your progress. I was always so proud of my beautiful daughter, my only child. In the end, I got to thinking, what would she want with a poor specimen like me? It didn’t stop me from loving you, Princess. You’re an honour to your dear mother’s memory.’
Two sets of parents, both friends, both with the same name — save for a single letter. One baby dies at birth, one mother perishes while giving birth. The motherless babe is given to the childless woman. An unknown hand adds an ‘s’ to the child’s name and she is born anew, with another mother, another father and a different life.
It was impossible. This was surely a myth, a fable, a fairy tale. Yet, in her heart, Grace knew that every word Reuben had spoken was true.
‘My poor mother, to die in such a way.’ She shuddered. ‘And Olive, who only ever cared for me with love — oh, the things I accused her of!’
Grace gripped the arms of her chair. She could not succumb to her anguish — not now. Nothing could be done to alter the past, but it was just possible that she had a chance to change the future.
‘Reuben.’ Her voice had a new urgency. ‘I have to ask you something of the utmost importance. You just said I was your only child. That doesn’t make sense. Philippe told me you were his father.’
‘But not his real father.’
‘What? What do you mean?’ She tried to resist the feeling of hope coursing through her, barely breathed as she waited for the answer.
‘Exactly what I said. I’m not his real father. It’s a long story, goes right back to the beginning of this last war —’
‘I’m sorry, Siddy,’ Grace said, jumping up. ‘I have to leave right away.’
She grabbed a coat from a hook on the wall and ran to the door. ‘Fetch Philippe,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘I’ll explain when I get back.’
‘Princess, wait. What’s going on?’
‘I’ve made a terrible mistake!’
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Grace flew down the driveway and across the meadow to the Abbaye de Sainte Jeanne. Frantically ringing the bell, she shouted, ‘Let me in, please, let me in!’
One of the novices opened the door with a bewildered expression. ‘Whatever has happened?’ she asked.
Grace burst into the courtyard. ‘Please, I implore you. I must see the abbess.’
The novice looked uncertain. ‘I don’t know —’
‘Don’t worry, there she is!’ Beneath the cloisters, Mother Francis Xavier was shepherding a group of little girls in the direction of the chapel.
‘Mother, oh Mother!’ Grace sprinted towards her.
The abbess turned around. ‘You had best come with me and explain the reason for this disturbance.’ Waving to the novice, she said, ‘Josephine, could you take charge here? These young ladies are preparing for their first communion.’
Grace spoke in a rush. ‘Thank you so much. I’m terribly sorry to cause such a scene, but I need to talk to you urgently. It’s about Serena — everything has changed.’
The abbess sat behind her oak desk, looking searchingly at Grace. ‘So, after all these years, at last you know who your real parents are. I am sure that is a very great shock. It will take time to adjust. And you tell me that Reuben is not Philippe’s father, although as yet you have not received an explanation as to why this is the case.’
Grace heard the click of Mother Xavier’s rosary.
‘You must leave Serena in our care until the truth is established.’
‘But —’
The abbess let her rosary slide through her fingers. ‘My dear, I can imagine how painful this is for you, but as you know, my greatest concern is Serena’s welfare. I am also mindful that there are two kind-hearted souls who will arrive at the abbey today at five o’clock and be expecting to leave with their new baby daughter.’ She clasped her hands together. ‘If you are unable to persuade me that Serena is not the product of an incestuous union before that time, then I am deeply sorry, but for the good of all parties, the adoption must proceed.’
Panting and out of breath, Grace found Reuben and Philippe waiting by her door when she returned to the château.
‘Good, you’re both here,’ Grace said, hurrying them inside.
Minutes later, she set down steaming mugs of hot chocolate on her round table. As the three of them took their places, Reuben remarked, ‘They’re warm-hearted people, the Devreauxs. It was kind of them to put us up for the night.’
‘Siddy,’ Grace said, leaning forward. ‘I’m afraid there’s no time to chat. I have to know why you call yourself Gaston, and what exactly your connection to Philippe is.’
Reuben picked up his mug. ‘Like I said, it all started at the beginning of the war, during the Germans’ advance across the Ardennes. Our battalion was completely overrun by Panzer tanks. I ran through a forest until
I’d almost reached open ground. That was when I found an identity card. It was lying on a bed of fallen leaves as if it had been left there for me.’
Grace began tapping her foot.
‘I snatched up the card,’ Reuben continued, ‘raced like a hare until I found cover, then took a chance on approaching one of the villagers. Luckily for me, he turned out to be a Good Samaritan. He said the card’s owner had been shot by the Gestapo. He gave me some old clothes and promised to burn my uniform.’
Reuben drained his hot chocolate. ‘I took a closer look at the picture on the card and realised the bloke was around my age and, fortunately for me, he had a mop of black hair. It didn’t take me more than a minute to decide my best chance of survival would be to pass myself off as him — Gaston Villeneuve. I smeared his picture with dirt so the features were blurred. I stole his identity.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ Grace broke in. ‘What has this got to do with Philippe?’
‘Sorry, Princess,’ Reuben said. ‘I’m getting to that.’
Grace’s foot was tapping again; she felt as if the walls of the sitting room were closing in. ‘Okay,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘But I’m going crazy in here. Let’s walk as you talk and please, Siddy — hurry!’
‘Have you been to Burgundy?’ Reuben asked.
Frowning, Grace shook her head.
They were walking side by side through a grove of birch trees, with Philippe — he’d yet to say anything more than a greeting — following close behind. It was so quiet she could hear the sound of her pulse, thudding in her ears like a drum.
‘I was travelling through the region, heading south,’ Reuben said. ‘When I came across a deserted farmhouse — or at least, I thought it was. There was a half-starved woman inside.’
Behind her, Grace heard a sharp intake of breath.
‘Annette was her name,’ he continued. ‘After I’d convinced her I could be trusted, she told me she and her son had worked for the Resistance in Paris. One day, she’d walked into a trap. Annette ran for her life and, well, with the help of the Resistance along the way, that farmhouse was where she ended up. I’d seen your mother die; here was my chance to save a life. Annette’s husband had been shot early on. With a Jewish mother, he didn’t stand a chance. Seeing as Annette was so well known to the Nazis, I thought that if I married her, and gave her my name, she’d be safe.’
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