by Maureen Lang
“Miss Hamilton,” he cut in, “I have neither the time nor the desire to listen to excuses. My carriage will be here shortly, and I’d like my sister to be ready. I assume Innis thought to send necessities—clothes and such. Why don’t you see they’re ready for transport?”
Berrie stood still, staring at the man in front of her. Granted, he was handsome, but that was the only gift God had given him. “Do you know, Mr. MacFarland, you are the most impolite person I’ve ever met? I have been slapped, kicked, even spat upon by various students in this past week, but not one of those offenses compares to your rudeness.”
He appeared unfazed by the insult, although he did meet her gaze again. “Best to pack her bag now, then, so our paths will separate all the quicker.”
“Are you arguing, Simon?” Katie asked. She turned to Berrie. “Do you not like him, Miss Berrie? He’s my brother. He’s a good man. I don’t know why he doesn’t sound nice right now, but he’s always nice to me, even after I’ve got into trouble. Do you think you might learn to like him somehow, so we can all be friends?”
“I don’t think we’ll have that opportunity, Katie.” Berrie’s gaze still rested on Simon. He stared back, as if in a contest as to who might look away first.
He did, and when he turned to his sister, his gaze measurably softened. Berrie wondered at this man who could in one instant be so ill-mannered and in the next, the affectionate brother.
“Will you show me where you’ve lived these past weeks, Katie-sis?”
Katie nodded, heading toward the door. She looked so hopeful perhaps the girl believed he only wanted a tour and that she would be staying. But Berrie was certain he would pack Katie’s bags himself if he thought it was the only way to have her ready by the time their carriage arrived.
Berrie followed. “You should know something about us before you decide Katie’s future,” she said as she kept pace beside him. It was two flights up to the girls’ dormitory, and Berrie intended to use every step to plead Katie’s cause. “Escott Manor is a private asylum, a place where children are safe and challenged to learn. We answer to the Lunacy Commission, of course; they have classified us as a hospital because of the residential nature, and so we are. We have one nurse who lives among us and a visiting physician who sees the children every day. We’re an open and transparent community. Nothing is hidden. I can assure you Katie has been treated well here and is welcome to stay.”
“I’ve no reason to doubt you, yet you must understand my position too. I am the eldest in my family, responsible for both of my sisters’ well-being. The Almighty gives us into the families we have. Who are we to redraw such a thing? Not Innis, not Katie herself—nor your asylum, Miss Hamilton.”
Berrie bristled again. “If this is a responsibility you do not take lightly, Mr. MacFarland, how is it that you lost your sister for nearly a full month?” The jab was well aimed; from his profile she saw the immediate draw of his brows. Guilt filled her. It was not her role to chastise him for what a devious sister had done. “Perhaps,” she added, “Katie’s being here is God’s way of helping you with your responsibilities. It seems your work takes you from home often, which might be why Katie didn’t mind leaving.”
“Simon is an MP,” Katie said without looking back from two steps ahead.
Berrie’s gaze flew back to Simon’s. “You’re a member of Parliament?”
“Elected to the House of Commons.” He said it without pride, rather matter-of-factly.
Berrie recalled the foolish notions she’d had of him fighting the English as Katie once indicated. Had she really worried he was a member of one secret Irish society or another, waiting to ambush anyone with the blood of the suppressive English running through their veins?
With some consternation, she realized if Katie had only told her sooner that her brother was an MP, Berrie could have written to her own brother at the House of Lords to see if there might be an Irish chair holder in the adjacent house by the name of Simon MacFarland.
“As Katie said, she helps many of the students who stay here. Their language skills aren’t nearly as developed as Katie’s, and she has extraordinary patience with them. She has also exhibited a wonderful skill in drawing. If you’d like to see some of the classrooms, they’re on this floor.”
But Katie was already heading up to her dormitory. “I sleep upstairs, Simon.” She glanced toward Berrie. “My brother said he wants to see where I’ve been living, so I can start there, can’t I? To show him how I start my day? Then we can go outside, where we do our drills, and then to the dining room, and then the classrooms.”
“I don’t think your brother—”
Simon stopped short without warning and Berrie nearly bumped into him. “Drills?”
She could see he disapproved without the slightest knowledge of their version of such a military term, or why they did them. “Yes, drills: walking, exercise, letting fresh air fill the lungs. A healthy body helps the mind, Mr. MacFarland.”
“Does it, indeed? Or perhaps physical exhaustion quiets the mouth.”
“Interesting that you should jump to such a conclusion. Do you presume everyone to be as mean-spirited as yourself?”
“Hardly. I know human nature, Miss Hamilton, and judge others according to that.”
Katie stopped, perhaps because they were no longer following. She looked down at them from several steps above. “You’re arguing again? Arguing is for people who don’t like one another. How could I like two people who don’t like each other? It doesn’t make sense, because I only like a certain kind of person. I would understand, Miss Berrie, if you didn’t like my sister. I don’t like her either. But this is my brother. You should like him.”
She started to ascend again, then stopped. “Did you call my brother a spirit? I know God is a spirit, so we can’t see Him. And did you call him mean? He’s not; he’s a good man. Not a spirit, not mean.”
Berrie momentarily pursed her lips. “Yes, Katie, I’m sure you’re right.”
It was a good thing Katie didn’t look for lies, or she certainly would have spotted that one.
17
* * *
Helen must have summoned Quentin before telling Rebecca of the approaching black taxi down the long lane. Quentin was already standing at the base of the stairs. His gaze engulfed her, and she felt a rush of blood rise and fall. For a moment she imagined this was how it would be if this were their home, not as business partner and owner but as husband and wife.
“Helen will have tea on the veranda, so we’ll finish there, all right?” Quentin asked, taking her hand in his as she stepped off the bottom stair. “Let’s go outside and greet them.”
Rebecca followed, wondering if he was as eager as he appeared. Or maybe he was just happy for the same reason she woke these days with a smile so readily available. From the portico, Rebecca saw that the visiting man was already out of the taxi, coming around to the other side to assist his wife, who was helping a little girl from the backseat.
The man was tall, nearly as tall as Quentin. And handsome, not in the distinguished way Quentin sported his own good looks but rather American-looking, with thick, dark hair meeting a wide forehead and accompanied by a perfect smile. The woman just emerging was tall and slender as well, with hair the color of autumn hay. Before either of them looked her way, Rebecca saw the man and woman exchange a glance. Maybe it was the excitement of travel or of being at Hollinworth Hall. There was a mirror of emotion there, a connection. Marriage hadn’t dulled this relationship.
“Lovely to meet you at last, Dana.” Rebecca stepped forward, feeling as though they’d done more than exchange a few e-mails. It must be their shared link to the Hamilton family; Rebecca felt they were already friends.
“Rebecca?”
She nodded, stiffening when Dana Walker gave her an impulsive hug. Americans were so demonstrative. Still, Rebecca found she didn’t mind the brief embrace.
Dana introduced her husband as Aidan Walker and their daughter as Pa
dgett. Rebecca guessed the child to be four or five at most. She was starkly blonde, unlike either of her parents.
“Padgett.” Quentin repeated the name after introducing himself, bending low to shake a hand that disappeared into his large palm. “Now that is a name one doesn’t hear every day, at least here in the UK.”
She nodded. “My birth mother gave it to me. Mommy said she was going to name me Emma instead, but when she and Daddy brought me home they didn’t want to confuse me. So I’m still Padgett.”
Dana put a hand on her daughter’s blonde head. “She loves to tell that story, even though she was too young to remember. We adopted Padgett when she was nine months old.”
Adopted. That made sense. Thus . . . no genetic “curse”?
“Welcome to Hollinworth Hall,” Quentin said, standing to his full height again. He turned back to the front door, preparing to lead the way inside.
A mild cry from Dana stopped them all. “I’ve left my purse in the cab!” She flagged down the driver, who’d just taken off. The black cab skidded to a halt. A moment later Dana disappeared into the backseat and came out with a rather large leather bag and a folded newspaper. “We saw this paper at the train depot with both of you on the society page.” Laughing, she added, “Aidan and I have been wondering all the way here if we’re dressed well enough to be in the company of such celebrities.”
Rebecca’s blood stopped altogether, even though her heart still pumped. She watched Quentin reach for the paper, an amused smile on his face. He unfolded it, and immediately she saw two color pictures: one of him laughing with the group of tourists visiting just the day before and another of her standing in the background. Thankfully there was no miraculously recreated shot of them in each other’s arms, and she was grateful once again that Quentin had confiscated the reporter’s photo card. Perhaps the reporter had paid for pictures taken by legitimate tourists.
Quentin held the paper at an angle for both of them to read. To her dismay, the headline and adjoining paragraph made the more intimate photo unnecessary.
Who’s Joining Whose Ranks?
Quentin Hollinworth, heir to the Hollinworth fortune, son of Lady Elise Hollinworth, nephew to Lord Edward, Earl of Eastwater, and great-grandson to the deceased viscount Hamilton, was ranked among the top ten most eligible bachelors in last year’s lineup after his breakup from longtime love interest Lady Caroline Norleigh. However, his name on that list may well be in jeopardy again. Quentin Hollinworth is purported to be joining ranks with his commercial manager. . . .
Now the blood raced through her veins. No wonder the telephone had been ringing nearly nonstop until she quit answering this morning, people wishing to book more tours than were available. She’d finally let the auto-response pick up for her.
Now it was all too clear. Tourists wanted to see not only Quentin but her—fawning upon him!
“I was so excited to see that,” Dana said. “Made me feel . . .”
Rebecca barely heard her. There must have been something in Rebecca’s expression, because the enthusiasm behind Dana’s words gradually faded to a finish.
“. . . famous, too. Is something . . . wrong?”
Rebecca knew she should answer, assure this visitor everything was perfectly fine. That was the polite thing to do, what she expected herself to do. But as she stared at the newspaper, she didn’t seem to have an assuring word to call upon.
“No, no, nothing’s wrong,” Quentin said. His voice sounded so calm and friendly Rebecca knew he thought the report trivial. Perhaps it was, to him. He was accustomed to being in the news. “Let’s go inside, shall we? You came for a tour, and we’ve been looking forward to giving you one.” He stepped over the threshold of the wide-open doors, and the familiar echo of footsteps along the multistoried foyer was enough to remind Rebecca she not only had a job to do but had been anticipating this visit for weeks.
“Reporters don’t usually bother with us here at the Hall,” she said by way of explanation. Leaving it at that, she commanded her friendliest tour-guide smile and waved an invitation to look around the impressive foyer. “As your cousin Quentin said, welcome to Hollinworth Hall. Although after reading Cosima’s journal, you might wish it were still called Hamilton Hall.”
Dana, holding her husband’s arm, nodded as she looked around with clear excitement in her eyes. “It’s so incredible to me that Cosima actually lived here. I’ve pictured it nearly correctly, at least from the outside. And here—with the staircase in the center and the tall ceilings.”
“Then let’s put off all the usual polite talk about how your travel went and so forth and just start the tour,” Quentin invited. “You’ll want to see the ballroom and upstairs. I’m not sure which bedrooms belonged to whom, although Rebecca’s the family-history expert, aren’t you, darling?”
Rebecca nodded, smiling past his endearment. She wanted to enjoy the term as she did when they were alone, but on the heels of learning his celebrity status was already threatening to take hold of her life, she wasn’t sure she should welcome it as her heart was so obviously willing to do. “I know which room was Berrie’s, another where Cosima gave birth to her children, and of course the room Peter and Cosima would have shared. It’s in the wing that’s been closed off for years except for Quentin’s suite.”
They started in the gallery, where Quentin’s American cousin could see the same portraits that brought alive so many of Quentin’s forebears for Rebecca. The gallery was full of masters from the seventeenth to the twentieth century, but Rebecca barely touched on that history. Instead, she introduced each of the Hamiltons, stopping in front of Cosima.
Padgett pointed. “That’s your grandmother, Mommy?”
“Uh-huh. What do you think?”
“She’s pretty, like you.” Padgett turned to Rebecca. “You’re pretty too. I like your curly hair. Mommy makes mine curly sometimes, but I don’t like to sit still for her to do it. How do you sit still so long to make all those curls?”
“That’s the way God made it,” Rebecca admitted. When Padgett’s eyes widened, Rebecca resisted adding the truth about how hard her curls were to tame sometimes.
Dana wandered to the portrait of Beryl Hamilton. “You know, I think you favor Berrie,” Dana said to Quentin. “I think you have her eyes.”
“I’ve thought so too,” Rebecca said, smiling when Quentin shot her a surprised glance. She let her smile linger, wishing there weren’t tabloid photographers or mothers entrenched in their own significance to get in their way. He did have the most appealing eyes—eyes she could look into for the rest of her life.
“Amazing how genetics work, isn’t it?” said Aidan. “That some things have survived all these years. Like blue eyes and fragile X.”
“Fragile X,” Quentin echoed. “Is that the name for the curse mentioned in Cosima’s journal?”
“My cousin has fragile X,” said Padgett. “That’s why Mommy and Daddy ’dopted me. Right, Mommy?”
Dana frowned. “Where did you hear that, Padge? Daddy and I adopted you because we wanted to love you.”
“I heard you talking to Daddy. You said it’s a good thing you ’dopted me or you’d have someone just like Ben.” She turned her own wide blue eyes to Rebecca.
Rebecca saw Dana’s cheeks go pink, no doubt the way Rebecca’s had when she’d first seen the newspaper. “That’s what you meant by something from Cosima’s journal having ramifications today. What’s fragile X?”
“It’s a genetic disorder that often causes mental retardation,” Aidan explained. “It was passed on through Cosima’s family. Both Dana and her sister, Talie, are unaffected carriers. One of Talie’s children—Padgett’s cousin Ben—is pretty severely affected.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Rebecca said. “How did you find out what it was?”
Dana spoke up. “Through a blood test. Like Aidan said, both my sister and I learned that we’re carriers.”
“Goodness,” Quentin whispered. He reached for Rebecca’s hand.
“Any reason I should have myself tested as a possible carrier?”
“I doubt it. Unless there have been others in your line with intellectual challenges?”
“Not to my knowledge, though I’ve been accused of being somewhat dull witted on more than one occasion. Mainly by my mother, actually.”
Rebecca laughed with the others, silently thinking he was probably only half joking.
“The full syndrome did show up at least once between Cosima’s son Kipp, who must have been a carrier, and my father, another carrier,” Dana explained. “You might have a blood test just to eliminate any worries, but I think it would have been evident somewhere along the way in so many generations.”
Quentin slipped his arm around Rebecca. “I don’t mind a blood test. Might be a good idea anyway.”
“They used to require blood tests in America before anyone got married, but most states don’t any more,” Aidan said. “Do they do that here?”
Rebecca shook her head, brushing away a hint of unease not only over the topic but over Quentin’s easy way of revealing their personal relationship. Since this morning’s headlines, no doubt all of England saw her and Quentin as an item; no use trying to hide it now. Did she really want to, anyway?
“You mentioned that Quentin has Berrie’s eyes,” Rebecca said to Dana. “We have some letters from Berrie to Cosima that we thought might interest you. A series of them, actually, from when she ran a school in Ireland.”
“Oooh!” Dana sighed and grabbed her husband’s hand as she faced Rebecca. “Aidan will tell you I’ve been running all over Ireland since we arrived, trying to find such a place. We thought from Cosima’s journal Berrie may have found a way to follow through with her plans to start a school for handicapped kids. Do you have some information on that?”
“Berrie did open a school,” Quentin said, “along with a woman named Mrs. Cotgrave or some such name; isn’t that right, Rebecca?”
She nodded. “I’d be happy to e-mail you the letters as I transcribe them.”