as the night sky, cascading past lean shoulders. Long strands covered her face as she grimaced in pain. Brilliant white teeth clenched, her eyes shut tight, her hands tearing at the bed sheets. That night, fear rose in Darcy and she remembered how she inched back after covering her ears to block out her mother’s cries. And there was another woman who stood by, holding Eliza’s hand, with a white mobcap over her hair.
A mist filled Darcy’s eyes, and when she blinked them back she saw an infant, wet and coated, squirming in the gentle arms of the cloaked woman. Her name was Sarah—the woman who bent down to her, her face like an angel’s. Darcy stepped down the hallway toward the staircase. Moonlight streamed through a side window and spread over the floor. Darcy called to Sarah and waited.
“Little miss. You should be abed,” Sarah scolded. “Is it the wind? Has it frightened you?”
“I’m not scared.”
She gazed up at the bundle in Sarah’s arms. “Can I see?”
Sarah moved the blanket aside. Damp soft curls clung to the baby’s head and a mew passed through the bow mouth. “She’s pretty, isn’t she? Skin the color of cream and cheeks rosy as dawn.”
She remembered how bewildered the event had made her feel, how in her innocent way she had asked, “Is this Mama’s baby?”
How she could have forgotten the sad look in Sarah’s face she did not know, nor the reply to her question. “This is my babe,” Sarah had told her. “Her name is Ilene. You understand?”
The answer had confused Darcy. “Then where is Mama’s baby?”
Red spirals tumbled over Sarah’s shoulders. “You ask your mother when you are older. But she’ll tell you, she has no babe except you.”
In all these years, Darcy had not forgotten the little girl with the bubbly giggle and shining eyes. She had not understood why Ilene had left the world so young—why she had left her. She remembered Fiona and her motherly ways and Sarah’s kindness as well as the wistful gaze in her eyes. Her mother’s face she could not recall, only the flowing hair and a voice that soothed her when she was afraid.
Fully awake, her heart ached with the visions. She clutched the front of her nightdress and yearned for Ethan—longed for home where her memories were born. Unable to sleep, she rose and dressed. Second best, the olive-green linen flowed past her waist. She slipped on her stockings and shoes. Then she brushed her hair back so it flowed down to her waist. He’ll come today—Ethan.
She crossed the floor to her window and gazed out at the moon hanging behind drifting clouds. A few hours and the sun would rise. Then a frantic voice called to her out in the hallway and Mrs. Burke opened the door. “Dear me,” she huffed and puffed her cheeks in and out. “Come quick. ’Tis your grandmother.”
When Darcy hurried into Madeline’s room, it lay in darkness save for a little light from the vermillion coals in the grate. Darcy groped her way to her, her bare feet not making a sound along the old rug. Maxwell sat by the hearth and looked up. Madeline opened her eyes and a soft cry poured from her lips.
“Hayward. Oh, my son, Hayward.”
Darcy leaned over. “Grandmother. I am here. What is it?”
Madeline searched for Darcy’s hand. Once she found it she gripped it with what Darcy knew was all the strength she could muster. “I have seen him. I have seen Hayward.”
Troubled, Darcy touched Madeline’s cheek. “A dream, Grandmother. Papa is far away in America.”
“No. No. I saw him, I tell you. I saw him as real as I see you. He spoke to me, told me he was sorry for hurting me. He asked if I would forgive him.”
A chill passed through Darcy and she glanced at Mrs. Burke as she stood near the bed wringing her hands in her robe. “Please bring a glass of port, Mrs. Burke.” And off the serving woman went.
“Darcy, please. You must believe me,” Madeline said.
“Tell me what happened. I am listening.”
“I was asleep, and the wind woke me. I looked over and saw the curtains at the terrace doors flutter, and then he stepped into the room. I did not know him at first and was so frightened I could not call out. He then said to me ‘Mother, it is I, Hayward.’ When he drew closer, I saw his face. It was Hayward. How could I forget my child’s