“On how to find my baby?” Sophie sat up, hope welling in her chest. At this stage, even a gravesite to visit would be better than the black hole of emptiness and uncertainty she’d been left with in the wake of her son’s death.
“No, on how to stop the milk from coming,” Agnes replied apologetically. “She said the flow should taper off in a few days if you keep your breasts tightly bound. And there will be bleeding, for a week at least. Just use the rags, like you do while you have your courses. You should be right as rain in a fortnight or so.”
“Agnes, did you see my baby?” Sophie pleaded. “Was it alive at birth?”
“I know nothing, miss. I wasn’t permitted in the room.”
“Where were you, then?” Sophie demanded.
“I was in the kitchen, minding my own business, as I was told to do.”
“Did you hear my baby cry?” Sophie asked, pinning Agnes with her gaze. The kitchen was just below Sophie’s room. Surely, she’d have heard something. “Please, Agnes.”
Agnes shook her head, but not before Sophie saw the furtive look in her eyes. Sophie reached for the nightstand and extracted a coin. She held it up, allowing the sunlight to glint off the silver surface. Agnes would have to work nearly six months to earn the bribe Sophie was offering.
“Did you hear my baby cry?” she asked slowly, enunciating every word.
Agnes nodded but wouldn’t meet Sophie’s gaze.
“Are you sure?” Sophie demanded.
All the fight seemed to go out of Agnes, and she let out her breath with a whoosh. “It was alive when Mrs. Meeks left. I saw its face. Screwed up with displeasure it was, its mouth opening and closing, like it was rooting for a nipple. I couldn’t believe she was taking a newborn out into a raging storm, but she had it swaddled good and proper against the cold.”
“Where did she take him?”
“I don’t know. Honest, I don’t,” Agnes replied, her face anxious.
“Did my father give her money?” Sophie asked. There was a crushing tightness in her chest, not from the binding that prevented her from taking a deep breath, but from the sense of betrayal seeping into her soul. Her father must have engineered the whole thing, making sure her child was taken from her before she woke.
Agnes looked as if she were about to cry. She felt loyal to Sophie, but it was Horace Brewster who paid her wages and would sack her without a second thought if she betrayed his trust. She finally nodded, unable to lie in the face of Sophie’s grief.
“He gave her a fat purse and told her to make sure the child was well looked after.” Sophie held out the coin, but Agnes shook her head. “I don’t want your money, mistress. I’m just sorry I could do nothing to help.”
“You’ve helped me by telling me the truth.”
“Let him go, mistress,” Agnes said, her work-reddened hands kneading her apron. “It’s as the master said; it’s for the best. Now, is there anything I can get you? Some broth? Or maybe tea and buttered bread?” she asked, fussing as if Sophie were ill rather than recovering from childbirth.
Sophie shook her head, wishing Agnes would just leave. She wouldn’t have expected her to prevent Mrs. Meeks from leaving with her baby or lay her livelihood on the line by challenging her employer, but Sophie didn’t feel kindly disposed toward Agnes at the moment and wanted only to be left alone with her own thoughts, her introspection edging toward an inevitable conclusion that left her feeling even more deeply wounded than Teddy’s vanishing act. Her father had brought in a midwife no one knew, who had drugged Sophie in the final stages of birth, taken her child, and disappeared. Mrs. Meeks had seemed respectable enough, but that didn’t mean she’d care for the child or place him with someone who’d give him a loving home. She could have smothered him, or drowned him as soon as she left Boston, keeping the money Horace Brewster had given her for the child’s upkeep. Perhaps her father had paid her to do just that, to rid himself of any evidence of his daughter’s shame.
The agony of childbirth suddenly seemed minor compared to the visceral pain her own father had inflicted on her. Sophie could understand his reasons, but she would never forgive him for the callous way he’d separated her from her newborn son. Teddy was gone. Her baby was lost to her, and her only choice was to pledge herself to a virtual stranger who’d be her lord and master for the rest of her days. Either that or leave her father’s house as soon as she was able and try to fend for herself.
She had no illusions; she wouldn’t get very far. She didn’t have the skills to hire herself out as a maid, and the only places that would have her would be taverns or farms that were looking for cheap labor. Neither option appealed, and she refused to consider the third, one that took young women and spit out used-up, diseased, broken hags who rarely lived to see middle age. She was eighteen years old. She wasn’t ready to commit herself to such a life. Truth be told, she was too frightened of a life in which she’d be adrift on a sea of hardship and loneliness without a home port to return to. With Teddy gone, her father was the only family she had left, and no matter how angry she was with him, she couldn’t see severing ties with him forever.
Chapter 19
Lauren
Lauren spent most of the week indoors, partly due to the rain that refused to leave until Friday afternoon, and partly because she was committed to completing the first draft of Ashley Mann’s autobiography. Having finally finished, she saved the document and leaned back in her chair with a sigh of relief. She’d go into town tomorrow morning and email it to Ashley, then wait for her comments and revisions. If she knew anything about Ashley, who made a career of being a total flake, she’d approve the first draft and send it to her agent. She was too preoccupied with promoting her brand to take the time to read this version of her own story and make revisions. Lauren hoped she’d finally receive the balance of her fee and be officially done with the project. She was ready to move on.
On Saturday morning, after taking Billy for a walk, Lauren grabbed her laptop and headed to Best Beans in Orleans, intent on killing two birds with one stone. She’d get a latte and a breakfast sandwich and take advantage of the free Wi-Fi the café offered. She got her breakfast and settled at a table near the window, ready to email Ashley and plow through several dozen emails she’d received since her visit to the library. The cellular signal at the house wasn’t great, so she put off doing anything that wasn’t necessary until she had a strong connection. Having taken care of her emails, Lauren checked her Facebook page, caught up on the latest news, and purchased several new books. She’d worked her way through most of the books on her Kindle and was ready for some new reading material. She also downloaded several audiobooks. Putting the books on speaker would fill the house with the sound of someone else’s voice, a comfort she craved in her solitude.
The café was filling up, but she was reluctant to pack up and leave, so she decided to do some more research on the Hollands. She’d spoken to Brooke last night, and although Brooke had gotten significantly further than Lauren had, there was still too little information to go on.
“Have you been able to find anything?” Lauren had asked, eager to learn anything she could about the elusive Hollands.
“Yes, I have,” Brooke had replied proudly. “Lionel Holland married Elizabeth Lowell in 1698. They had three children: Lionel, who died in infancy, George, and Amelia. Amelia married Jeremy Dawson in 1726 and had three children. Their son James was born in Boston, but their two daughters were born in Somerset, England. George Holland married Sophie Brewster in 1727. They also had three children, two boys and a girl.”
“Is that it?”
“What were you expecting? That’s what genealogy sites give you—names and dates. Did you want to know when they died?”
“No, that’s not necessary. Thank you. At least now I have some more information to work with.”
“No problem. Happy to help,” Brooke had replied before ending the call. She had a date and she sounded very mysterious about it, so Lauren didn’t g
rill her.
She opened a new browser and began a fresh search, but the results were disappointing. There were numerous mentions of the Hollands in later years, and several references to Edward Holland, who’d been active during the War of Independence, but nothing at all pertaining to his ancestors. Lauren did discover that Jeremy Dawson became a baronet upon the death of his father, passing on the title to his son, James.
Lauren gave up and leaned back in her chair. She wasn’t sure why, but she was convinced that the woman she’d seen was Sophie Holland. Lauren plugged Sophie’s maiden name into the search bar, but unsurprisingly nothing came up. If Sophie had led an uneventful life, there’d be no reason for her name to have survived the centuries. Lauren typed in George Holland’s name.
“Good morning,” a familiar voice addressed her. Lauren glanced up to see Ryan approaching her table, cup of coffee in hand.
“Hello,” Lauren replied, feeling awkward. Having lived in a big city all her life, she wasn’t used to small-town life, where people ran into each other as a matter of course. This was the second time she’d come face to face with Ryan Kelly in the space of a week.
“Are you still researching the Hollands?” Ryan asked, clearly surprised.
“Yes, but I haven’t found anything of interest,” Lauren complained.
“Could be you’re not asking the right questions,” Ryan replied unhelpfully.
“And you know the right questions to ask?” she snapped. He was making her feel like a fool.
“I might.”
“Care to enlighten me?”
“No.”
Lauren stared at him in disbelief, but immediately realized he was teasing her. His eyes sparkled with mischief.
“Come to dinner tonight and I’ll help you look.”
“Is this another false promise?” Lauren asked, smiling despite her annoyance.
“Not at all. I happen to be a decent cook, and I will help you look.”
“What about Tyler?” Lauren asked, hoping Ryan would take the hint and allude to the whereabouts of his son’s mother. He had to be divorced if he was inviting her to his house.
“Tyler usually spends Saturday nights with his grandparents. They love having him, and it gives me a night off.”
So, he was a single dad, Lauren concluded. Some stubborn part of her wanted to refuse the invitation, but a need for human contact won out. What was the harm in having dinner with him, especially if he was able to help her with her research?
“All right.”
“Do you like Italian food?” he asked.
“Who doesn’t? What can I bring?”
“Just yourself,” Ryan replied. “Seven?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll text you the address. Sorry, gotta run. I have office hours this morning. See you later.” He smiled beatifically and was gone, the subtle scent of his aftershave lingering for just a moment before dissipating into the coffee-scented air of the café.
Lauren gave up on her search and shut down the computer. She’d pick up a bottle of wine on her way home so she wouldn’t come to Ryan’s house empty handed, she decided.
**
After changing her outfit three times, putting up her hair, then taking it down, Lauren finally left the house, ready for what she was now sure was a date. She arrived at Ryan’s house bearing a bottle of Pinot Noir and hoping she’d make it through the night without having a meltdown. When Ryan opened the door, a wonderful smell assailed her.
“Wow, something smells amazing.”
“That’s just a tease,” Ryan said, grinning. He kissed her cheek and invited her in. He lived in a charming cape-style house with green shutters and a matching front door. The living room was painted a dusky blue, and several table lamps cast a warm glow onto the charcoal gray sofa and chairs and the abstract rug in shades of gray, blue, and beige. A flat-screen TV hung above the fireplace, and several family photographs dotted the mantel. It was a lovely room, trendy but comfortable.
“Where’s your dog?” Lauren asked, looking around.
“Tyler won’t be parted from him, so Jack gets a sleepover as well,” Ryan replied with a smile. He opened the bottle she’d brought but stopped short of pouring her a glass. “I have a bottle of Prosecco in the fridge,” he said. “I know you like it…”
Lauren smiled, touched that he’d remembered what she drank. “That’s all right. I’ll have a glass of red.”
He poured them each a glass of wine before disappearing into the kitchen to check on dinner. Taking a sip, Lauren walked toward the mantel to examine the pictures up close. There was a wedding photo of Ryan and an attractive auburn-haired woman. They look so young and happy, Lauren thought as she recalled a similar photo of her and Zack from their own wedding. It was a blessing no one knew what awaited them down the line, or they wouldn’t bother to get married, she mused bitterly, because here they were, two people who’d found their soulmates and made a lifelong commitment only to find themselves single again before long. Or perhaps Ryan’s wife had never been his soulmate and the marriage had ended in disappointment and divorce. He still displayed their wedding picture, so perhaps the decision to leave had been hers, and Ryan was still coming to terms with the breakup.
Tearing her gaze away from the wedding photo, Lauren examined the rest of the portraits. There was a picture of Ryan’s parents—she couldn’t help noticing that he looked just like his dad—one of Merielle’s graduation, and a studio portrait of Ryan, his wife, and Tyler, aged only a few months. At first glance, they looked like any young family, but upon closer inspection, Lauren noticed Ryan’s anxious gaze and the dark shadows beneath his wife’s lashless eyes. Lauren thought she was wearing a wig.
“Alicia died when Ty was six months old,” Ryan said, coming up behind her. “Breast cancer. She might have had a chance had she started chemo and radiation sooner, but she was already pregnant with Ty and refused to terminate the pregnancy in order to start treatment. By the time Ty was born, the tumor had grown, and the cancer had spread to her lungs. She hung on for as long as she could, desperate to be there for Ty, but eventually she lost the battle.”
“I’m so sorry,” Lauren said, her eyes brimming with tears. What a horrible tragedy for them all. Had Alicia’s cancer been caught before her pregnancy, she might have beaten it and lived a long and healthy life with Ryan and their children. She’d given her life to save Tyler’s, and now Ryan was a widower and Tyler had no mom.
“She wouldn’t have had it any other way. She got to be with Tyler for six months. She considered it a gift.”
Lauren wanted to tell him about Zack, but the words died in her throat. Ryan and Alicia had had no choice in what happened to them, but Zack had had choices and he’d made all the wrong ones, leaving her to pick up the pieces of their shattered life.
“You’ve lost someone too, haven’t you?” Ryan asked softly, sensing her grief.
She nodded miserably. “A year ago. Afghanistan.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “At first, it feels like life can’t possibly go on and you will never recover from the loss, but then, day by day, you learn to live again and even to smile. You learn to go on.”
“I’m trying,” Lauren whispered. “I’m trying so hard, but it’s as if I have to learn everything all over again. I have to rediscover joy and love and the art of getting through the day without wanting to burst into tears. I’m getting there, but it’s taking every bit of strength I have,” she confessed. “I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for you.”
“Alicia left me Ty,” Ryan said. “Loving him made it easier. He gave me a reason to go on.”
“Have you been able to get out there?” Lauren asked, referring to dating.
“Not yet,” he replied, smiling into her eyes. “Maybe we can do it together.”
“Maybe,” Lauren echoed, returning his warm gaze.
“Come on. Dinner is ready,” he said, his smile artificially bright.
Lauren wondered if
any date either of them went on would ever be just about them and the other person or whether Zack and Alicia would always be in the room, looking over their shoulders, judging their potential partners, and unintentionally holding them back from moving on.
She followed Ryan into the dining room, where a table was set for two. “Can I help?”
“No. You are my guest. Sit down, relax, and hopefully, enjoy.”
Ryan brought out a bowl of Caesar salad and a platter of chicken parmesan over penne pasta. There was also homemade garlic bread, the loaf singlehandedly responsible for the appetizing smell.
“Mangia,” Ryan invited as he took a seat across from her and passed her the bowl of salad.
“Is it okay if we don’t talk about them?” Lauren asked. “I won’t be able to get through the meal if we do.”
“Let’s talk about all the things people talk about when they first meet,” Ryan suggested. “I know virtually nothing about you except that you are Lauren Masters, bestselling romance author. I had no idea, by the way; Merielle enlightened me. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize the name.”
“No reason you should, unless you like chick-lit. What kind of books do you enjoy?”
“I love history, so anything historical, even romance,” he joked.
“Is Treasure Island a favorite?” Lauren asked, smiling at him.
“Oh yes. I have a tattered copy upstairs. I must have read it a dozen times when I was a kid. I also love thrillers, mysteries, historical and otherwise, and science fiction. What about you?”
“Same, except for science fiction. I love a good romance too, but I haven’t been reading too many of those recently. Just not in the mood. I’m thinking of writing a ghost story,” Lauren said, smiling shyly.
“Is that why you’re so interested in the history of the house?”
“Yes. It’s always more authentic when you incorporate real details into the narrative rather than making everything up. And that house has a story to tell.”
“I’m sure it does. It’s been trying to tell it for years. People have claimed to have seen a woman, but she doesn’t appear to just anyone. They say she appears only to widows.” Ryan’s eyes opened wide as he realized what he’d just said. “Have you seen her?”
The House on the Hill: A Ghost Story Page 11