asked me to look into the fact that a few children might have gone missing. They might not be at all, and we are worried for nothing. But you must not say a word about it. I do not wish to raise an alarm until we know for certain what has happened.”
Grace’s brow puckered, but she looked sympathetic rather than upset. “That would explain Mrs. Shaw’s worry. If she is to look after children there, and something happened to them . . . Mr. McAdam was right to ask you about it, Mum. You’ll find them.”
At that moment—while I did not share her confidence in my skills—I knew that I had made the correct choice to keep Grace with me after she’d been born. My daughter could now sit across from me, daintily chewing bread, never realizing how close she’d come to being one of those children in the gray uniforms she now felt pity for.
It had never occurred to her that I’d have given her up, that she’d be anything but cared for, sitting in a tiny tea shop on a blustery day with the mother who loved her.
I reached across the table and clasped her hand. “You are a sweet girl, my Grace.”
Grace smiled in surprised delight. “I love you too, Mum. Now, let us talk of something more pleasant to cheer you up. How is Lady Cynthia? And Lady Bobby? Do they wear trousers every day?”
I relaxed and fell into the gossipy chatter I shared with Grace on my day out. I described Cynthia’s beautiful gown at her aunt’s supper ball and Miss Townsend coming down to the kitchen to sketch us.
“How funny that she wants to paint cooks and maids,” Grace said, as amazed as Tess and I had been at the notion. “But you’ll be beautiful in the picture, Mum.”
“You are very flattering, my darling. She won’t be painting me, exactly, but domestics in general. I admit I do not understand it myself.”
“She should paint Lady Cynthia then. She is so very pretty.”
Grace spoke in all seriousness, and my heart warmed again. I did not know if all mothers were as proud and boastful of their own children, but I certainly was of mine and ever would be.
* * *
* * *
Grace and I returned to the Millburns’, full of tea and bread, but not too full to partake of Joanna’s treat of cakes and scones, and more tea, hot and laced with cream.
I thoroughly enjoyed the rest of my afternoon, visiting with Joanna and Grace and the children, gossiping, playing games, absorbing the warmth of the stove in the sitting room.
This was a home, I thought. Outside the day was gray, the wind giving way to a steady rain; inside all was bright and cheerful. The Millburns hadn’t much in the way of money, but they had resourcefulness, and goodness in their hearts.
I wanted this with all my might. A place to call my own, with a fire and a cup of tea, my daughter within reach. When I’d been a girl, my mother and I hadn’t had much more than a few sticks of furniture in our tiny lodgings and little to eat, but we’d had each other. We’d also had friends who’d drop by for a chat and incidentally bring us a loaf of bread, or the end of a joint from their previous night’s supper. The whole street had made sure Mum and I were all right, especially after my dad had dropped off his perch.
So much generosity among those who had little to share. I compared this with Mrs. Bywater’s parsimony and her insistence that Cynthia marry so she’d be out from underfoot.
A large and comfortable mansion was all very well, I decided with some smugness, but I preferred a house like this, warm and filled with friends and my daughter.
When Mr. Millburn returned home as we finished tea, my mind substituted Daniel breezing in after a hard day chasing criminals, his laughter lighting the room. He’d buss me on the cheek and swing Grace into his arms, asking me what riches I’d cooked them all for supper. James would be there too, the tall young man with a smile like sunshine.
The vision unnerved me so much it shattered into fragments, leaving Mr. Millburn puzzled that I stared so hard at him.
Time for me to go. I departed with the greatest reluctance, leaving my daughter and this insular warmth for the cold darkness of everyday life.
* * *
* * *
I