The Highest of Hopes

by Susan Anne Mason

  “Is it anything to do with Jonathan’s leaving?”

  The soft question tore a strip off Emma’s flayed heart. She missed him every hour of every day. She couldn’t even go out to the garden or sit on the porch swing anymore because it hurt too much. “That’s a large part of it.” She scrubbed a stubborn mark on the faded wallpaper, trying to ignore the weight of Mrs. C.’s regard.

  “Well, don’t tucker yourself out, dear. You’ll want to save some energy for the big rally tonight.” She flicked her dustcloth over the dining room chairs.

  Emma sat back on her heels. Another sore topic. “Are you going?” she asked cautiously.

  “I wouldn’t miss it. Reverend Burke is coming by to pick me up.”

  Emma bit her lip. “Do you think a lot of people will show up?”

  “I expect so. They’re holding it at Convocation Hall, which seats over a thousand people.” She frowned. “You are going, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not sure.” How could she tell Mrs. C. that her father had basically banished her from the event?

  “You’re welcome to join Geoffrey and me if you don’t want to go alone.”

  Emma swallowed an unexpected rise of emotion. “That’s kind of you. But I don’t think I’ll be attending.”

  Mrs. C.’s hand stilled on the back of the chair she was cleaning. “Did you and your father have a falling-out?”

  “Not exactly. But after the fundraiser disaster, he doesn’t want me there.” Emma got off her knees and stretched out her back.

  “Surely he can’t blame you for that. You had no control over the actions of those two men.”

  “I’m afraid he believes otherwise. He fears my presence could cause some other disaster to ensue.” Emma moved the bucket to a spot farther down the wall.

  “That’s hardly fair.” Mrs. C. frowned. “Besides, the event is open to the public. He can’t bar you from going.”

  Emma paused as the truth of Mrs. C.’s statement sank in. Her landlady made an excellent point. After all, she didn’t have to bow to her father’s wishes. The choice was hers to make.

  She threw the rag into the bucket with enough force to cause the water to slosh out. “You’re absolutely right, Mrs. C. After all, this is a free country.” And she planned to take advantage of that freedom. She was tired of hiding, tired of pretending, tired of letting Randall dictate every aspect of their relationship.

  This debate was the buzz of the city—a very big deal, or so the press made it seem. As an honorary Torontonian, Emma had every right to attend. She would do as Jonathan had suggested when they’d initially planned to go together.

  She’d stay in the background. Remain anonymous.

  No one would even know she was there.

  That evening, Emma ignored the ripple of nerves in her belly as she moved along the outer edges of the enormous auditorium, skirting the mass of people who spilled from the rows of seated spectators. She’d waited until the debate was in full swing before slipping unnoticed into the back of the hall. Now, she took a moment to catch her breath and survey her surroundings.

  Convocation Hall was indeed impressive. The seats surrounded the stage in tiers. From Emma’s vantage point, all she could make out was a sea of colored hats below. Above her, in the balcony, people leaned over the rail for a better view of the speakers. Directly in front of the stage, about a dozen reporters jotted notes on pads of paper, while others held cameras at the ready. Emma recognized one man in particular from his profile. The one man she needed to avoid at all cost.

  From the expensive-looking camera draped around his neck, Emma surmised that Giles Wainwright had replaced the equipment broken in the scuffle at the hospital. Just seeing him point his lens made Emma’s blood boil.

  She ran a hand over her tight chignon, mostly hidden under the floppy brown hat she’d borrowed from one of Mrs. C.’s boarders. Tonight, it was imperative to not draw any undue attention to herself. Even in the simple outfit she’d donned—a coffee-colored skirt and plain ivory blouse—Emma didn’t care to test Mr. Wainwright’s powers of observation.

  She kept to the back wall, shifting every now and then to an aisle that afforded her a better view of the platform below. From what Emma could ascertain, Mayor Church was giving a rebuttal to Randall’s challenge about the deplorable state of the Ward, an area of the city where many immigrants lived in squalor. In true political fashion, the mayor was avoiding saying anything concrete, merely explaining how it wasn’t the city’s fault that the people ended up living in these conditions.

  A light flashed and popped. Of all the reporters, it appeared Wainwright was the only one snapping pictures during the speeches, and he seemed to time his flashes to the moments Randall stepped up to the microphone. Was he purposely trying to unnerve her father and distract him from what he wanted to say?

  At the far right of the podium, Mr. Fenton, Vera, Corinne, and Marianne sat with their hands folded on their laps. Mayor Church, on the other hand, had a handful of his employees seated on his side. As a bachelor, he had no wife or children to offer the picture of the perfect family.

  Applause broke out over the auditorium. Emma hadn’t been listening, so she wasn’t sure whom they were applauding. At the lectern, Mayor Church frowned, his cheeks a mottled shade of red, while Randall wore a satisfied expression. Obviously, those in attendance supported his view on the subject of immigrant poverty.

  With all the doors shut, the air in the room had become increasingly stuffy. Perspiration snaked down Emma’s back. The starched collar of her blouse bit into her neck, making it difficult to breathe. She wished she could undo the top buttons and rid herself of this suffocating sensation.

  The back door of the auditorium opened, and a welcome rush of fresh air entered the room. A stir of movement disrupted the spectators standing along the back as a man squeezed by them.

  Will!

  Never had Emma been so happy to see a familiar face. She felt a certain kinship with Will, for in some respects, he was in the same untenable position as she—yearning to belong to the Moore family but always seeming to be relegated to the sidelines.

  Will carried a stack of flyers, which he stuffed into his satchel as he walked. He must have been manning the information table outside. When he moved by without greeting her, she tapped his shoulder. He turned, a confused frown on his face. “Emma? Why are you way back here?”

  She raised her brows. Did he really need an answer to that?

  “Oh.” Understanding dawned. “Trying to avoid a certain reporter?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Is Corinne here?” He strained to look at the stage below.

  “She’s seated with the rest of the family. Doesn’t she look lovely?”

  He released a breath. “Beautiful.” The longing in his voice was unmistakable.

  “When are you going to speak to Randall about her?” Emma kept her voice low, so as not to disturb the other spectators.

  “I already have.”

  “Will, that’s wonderful! Corinne must be thrilled.”

  “Not quite.” He scowled. “Her father refused my request. Said I have nothing to offer her.” His eyes fixated on Corinne. “Trouble is he’s right.”

  “No, he’s not.” A hot flush rose in Emma’s cheeks, indignation on Will’s behalf renewing her annoyance. What gave Randall the right to try to control everyone’s lives? “You have the most important thing of all—love. Anything else you can build together.”

  The irony of her words struck like a fist to the midsection. Why couldn’t she have taken this advice before she’d ruined everything with Jonathan? Why had she put her father first, believing him to be noble and loving, the hero she’d always imagined?

  A wave of unease rose through the audience, pulling Emma’s attention back to the stage. It seemed the question-and-answer portion of the evening had started, and some of the topics were inciting heated discussions.

  Will leaned toward her. “Come on. Let’s get a little clos
er. We can still avoid Wainwright if we keep to the far right-hand side.”

  Emma stiffened. “I don’t want to risk it.”

  “Don’t worry. You can stay behind me. No one will see you.” He took her hand and tugged her into motion.

  Against her better judgment, Emma followed him along the curved wall and down the tiered stairs. Her unease grew as he kept going until they were almost at ground level. She did her best to stay behind Will’s shoulders, hoping to remain obscured.

  The moderator of the debate rose to announce they were nearing the last questions of the evening. A ripple of movement ran through the spectators as a certain reporter plowed his way to the front, hand in the air. “I have a question for Professor Moore.”

  The moderator barely suppressed an eye roll. “Go ahead, Mr. Wainwright.”

  “One of your chief platforms, sir, is your relatability to the immigrants of Toronto since you yourself were once one. You also flaunt your family status, priding yourself on being a morally upstanding husband and father.”

  Randall moved to the microphone. “That’s right. I believe a strong family support system is a definite asset.”

  “Does that include the love child you left behind in Britain?”

  A loud gasp rose from the crowd. All the color seemed to drain from Randall’s face.

  Emma shrank back against the wall, her lungs seizing, trapping the air within.

  Dear Lord, surely he doesn’t mean me?

  Randall cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you’re trying to insinuate, but you’re very much mistaken.”

  “I think not. I’ve done my research.”

  The air in the auditorium fairly crackled with suspense.

  Panic clawed at Emma. Wainwright was not going to give up until he’d created another scene, possibly worse than the one at the hospital.

  A sense of urgency rose within her, and Emma tugged on Will’s sleeve. “Get me out of here,” she whispered.

  His lips pressed in a grim line, he nodded and took her hand, starting toward the side door. But before they could make their escape, Wainwright turned and looked right at Emma. “There she is now.” He pointed an accusing finger at her. “Do you deny this woman is your daughter?”

  As much as Emma wanted to flee, her feet froze to the floor. Against her will, her gaze flew to Randall. He looked trapped, his hands glued to the podium.

  Even still, an unbidden bubble of hope rose in Emma’s chest. This was the perfect opportunity to tell the world that she was his daughter. Surely now he would defend her honor and set the record straight.

  “Of course I deny it.” Randall’s voice boomed over the room. “Just as I would deny any unfounded accusation.”

  “Unfounded? Really?” Wainwright flung a hand in her direction. “Even though the resemblance is undeniable? The same hair color, facial structure, and identical blue eyes?”

  Heat flooded Emma’s cheeks, the curious gaze of the audience piercing her like a thousand needles.

  This was it. Randall would have to realize there was nothing left to say. It was time to tell the truth. Time to show the world that he had another daughter, one he was proud to acknowledge at long last. With her heart thudding in her chest, Emma waited in silent anticipation for the signal to join her father on stage.

  Randall pulled himself up tall, his jaw taut. A vein pulsed in his neck. “Emmaline is not my daughter,” he said firmly. “She is my niece.”

  The lie reverberated through the room, echoing loudly over the sound system against an unnatural quiet.

  Not my daughter. Emma struggled to breathe. The weight of betrayal sat like an anvil on her chest, threatening to collapse her lungs. Not only had he failed to defend her, he’d outright denied her existence.

  “Your niece, you say?” Mr. Wainwright narrowed his eyes at Randall. “Tell me, how does someone with no siblings come to have a niece?” The reporter’s smug expression matched his arrogant tone. “Admit it, Professor. This woman is the illegitimate love child you abandoned twenty-two years ago before you fled the country.”

  Mr. Fenton dashed forward and smashed a fist onto the wooden dais. “You, sir, are a liar and an agitator. You’ll do anything to discredit the mayor’s chief opponent, especially since he’s favored to win. Did Mr. Church pay you to say this?”

  “I refuse to answer such a ludicrous question,” Wainwright sputtered.

  The murmurs in the audience became increasingly loud. Chairs squeaked as people began to rise, pushing their way into the aisles. Some raised their fists and shouted at the stage.

  Emma could make out nothing that was being said over the roar in her ears. Another reporter’s flash went off near her face, momentarily blinding her. She brought up a hand to shield her face, a strangled cry dying in her throat. When her vision cleared, her focus remained locked on her father, silently begging him to rectify the situation. He, however, made a point of intentionally ignoring her, while Mr. Fenton continued to shout.

  At that moment, something shifted within her. All-consuming anger broke loose and rushed into her throat, swamping her senses in a sea of red.

  “Enough.” The word erupted with such intensity that it overcame the cacophony of noise.

  Another hush descended over the gathering as though everyone held their breath.

  “Emma. Don’t.” Will’s panicked whisper barely registered.

  She pushed away from him toward the raised platform where the Moore family stood, mouths agape. “It’s time to stop the lies.” Emma pulled the annoying hat from her head as she climbed the stairs to the stage, her focus zeroed in on the stricken man before her. Neither the whispers of the spectators nor their scandalized stares mattered. Weeks and weeks of suppressing her feelings, burying her hurt, and doing her best to give this man the benefit of the doubt had all been for nothing. Her father didn’t love her, didn’t want her to be part of his life. She was a dirty secret he wanted to keep hidden away.

  Ignored. Buried.

  That stopped now. She would no longer be party to his deception.

  When Mr. Fenton made a move toward her, she halted him with one withering glare.

  Then she circled the podium to face her father. “Do you have any idea what I sacrificed to come here? I gave up everything for you. Everything.” The word came out as a near screech from her raw throat. “I sold my grandad’s shop, left my home, and crossed an ocean in order to meet you—all in the naïve hope that my father might actually want to know me. Yet all you’ve done from the moment we met is deny my very existence.”

  Her eyes grew hot. Her limbs shook. But she couldn’t stop the tide of words spewing forth.

  “Do you know what it was like to grow up without a mother or father? To believe that I was an orphan?” She pointed to Vera, Corinne, and Marianne huddled together. “Why did they get to have you? Why did they merit sharing your life and your love, and not me?” A sob strangled her. All the pent-up resentment she’d repressed for weeks spilled out in a flood of tears.

  Someone touched her arm. She shook it off.

  Randall came closer. “Let’s go somewhere private to discuss this,” he said in a tense whisper.

  “Ah, at last the truth comes out.” Wainwright’s voice, smacking of disgust, rang over the stage. “At the very least you owe the girl an explanation.”

  Randall faced the reporter. “For once, you’re right, Wainwright. I owe her the truth. But I owe you nothing.” He took Emma by the arm and guided her off the stage.

  After purging her outrage, she was left numb. Hollow. She allowed herself to be led down a back corridor to a small room. Randall brought her inside and closed the door, then remained still, not moving.

  Emma stumbled against the wall, the reporter’s words repeating in her brain. Illegitimate love child. A dark cloud of suspicion surfaced.

  “What did Wainwright mean by illegitimate? He was making that up, wasn’t he?” Her voice shook, her mind scrambling to remember the story her grandparents
had told her. Her parents had eloped, they’d said.

  His back to her, Randall’s shoulders went rigid. Slowly he turned and raised haggard eyes to hers. He appeared to have aged ten years in the last few minutes. “Technically, he’s correct. I never married your mother.”

  Emma blinked, certain she hadn’t heard right. All the air seemed to leave the room, and mustiness surrounded her. She clawed at the neck of her blouse. There were no windows in the tiny space, just a stack of boxes and a mop and bucket.

  “That’s why your grandparents hated me,” Randall said. “That’s why they told you I was dead. I’m sure they wished it was so.”

  Her muscles seized as coldness invaded her core. She’d been born out of wedlock, an illegitimate and unwanted burden.

  All her romantic illusions about her father’s grand love for her mother shattered in one ugly moment. Theirs hadn’t been a fairy-tale love.

  It had been . . . sinful.

  “Why didn’t you marry? Didn’t you love her?”

  He came forward, the blueness of his eyes more intense. “I may have lied before, but please believe this. I loved Loretta and wanted to marry her. But we couldn’t agree on either a Catholic or a Protestant church, and she refused to go to a justice of the peace. Then the pregnancy got difficult, and she was forced to stay in bed. We planned to get married as soon as you were born, but then . . . well, you know the rest.” He squeezed the bridge of his nose.

  “So that’s why you left.” Emma struggled to process this different version of her history.

  “What I told you was true. I had no way to look after an infant. Your grandparents stepped in immediately and took you to their home.”

  Her brain buzzed. “Why am I a Moore then? Why didn’t my grandparents name me Emmaline Bartlett?”

  “It was the one demand I insisted upon in order to relinquish my parental rights.”

  That made no sense at all. Why insist on her having his name when he never intended to see her again? She raised her disbelieving gaze to his. “How could I ever have thought you were so noble and self-sacrificing?” A harsh laugh that sounded slightly hysterical escaped her dry throat. “I couldn’t have been more wrong.”