On Sparrow Hill

by Maureen Lang

  “Great! I have an appointment with a woman whose family worked at a place called Sparrow Hill during the right time period. Do Berrie’s letters mention that it was called that?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “I haven’t read all the letters, but I don’t recall that name.”

  “I’d love to see them.”

  “We’ll pull them out after tea,” Rebecca said. “You’ll like the box they were stored in; it’s really beautiful.”

  During the garden tour, Dana was disappointed the gazebo was no longer there, although Quentin had a rough idea where it probably had stood. They finished at the cuddle farm, where Padgett fed the goats, held the rabbits, and petted the lambs.

  By the time they shared tea on the veranda, Rebecca felt as though she’d known the Walker family far longer than just a couple of hours.

  “Cosima’s journal is a prized possession in our family,” Dana said as Rebecca pulled out Berrie’s letter box. “If you ever come to the States, you’ll have to visit us and we’ll show you the original.”

  “Perhaps we will.” Quentin looked up from his tea to send a smile Rebecca’s way, a smile that seemed to make everyone except the two of them disappear.

  Dana looked at the box with the same sort of awe Rebecca had felt when it was first discovered. “I wonder if these letters will prove the same thing Cosima’s journal did—that eras may change, but people don’t. Not really. When I read the journal, I thought I would have been every bit as afraid of marriage as she was.”

  Aidan laughed. “You were.” He caught Rebecca’s eye. “We were dating at the time, and she tried to send me packing when she learned she was a carrier for fragile X.”

  “And yet here you are, happily married,” Quentin said. “Hmm . . . Sounds like obstacles can be overcome if you set your mind straight.”

  He was looking at Rebecca steadily, and for the second time since his American relatives had arrived, Rebecca felt herself blush.

  “And speaking of things like journals and letters,” Quentin continued, “the Seabrooke name mentioned in Cosima’s journal—the valet who used to make sure the secret room in the London town house was kept up—was none other than Rebecca’s great-great-great-grandfather.”

  Dana’s eyes sparkled. “You’re kidding!”

  Rebecca shook her head.

  “And now here you are, marrying one of the Hamilton descendants. A valet’s granddaughter.” She sighed, adding, “How romantic.”

  “Dating, at any rate,” Rebecca said, another rush of awkwardness descending upon her.

  Quentin let go of her hand to slip his arm around her shoulders. “One of us is afraid of marriage too, Dana.” He smiled her way. “I’ll let you guess which.”

  Rebecca glanced at Quentin even as both Dana and Aidan laughed with him. A few weeks ago she had been nothing more than his commercial manager. Even joking about marriage seemed more than a bit premature in Rebecca’s opinion.

  Definitely premature.

  18

  * * *

  Simon MacFarland’s opinion of Escott Manor Hospital for the Mentally Infirm was in no way altered by his sister’s near-constant praise of the place. I could see that in the set of his jaw, the grim line of his dark brows.

  I was convinced, Cosima, that he would take Katie away. As little as I wished to spend another moment in her brother’s company, I found the notion of her leaving surprisingly regrettable. Yes, she was a student for whom, to date, we received no financial support. And her burdens do outweigh the help she brings. I do not deny it. Yet there is something about her that reminds me of myself. Perhaps it is her unflinching belief that she is where she ought to be, despite all of the challenges.

  I wanted to change her brother’s mind, but I knew the idea was doomed from the start. Bedlam—that was all he saw.

  “So you see, Simon,” said Katie, “if I don’t stay here, there will be an empty bed. A bed has no purpose if there isn’t someone to sleep in it at night. And what would Tessie and Annabel do without me? They would look to see my empty bed each night, and it would keep them awake. Someone needs to sleep in that bed, and since it has been mine all of this time, it should be me. So I cannot leave.”

  “Where is your satchel, Katie?”

  “Under my bed. I have two. It was hard to pack everything I wanted to bring inside only two satchels, but Miss MacFarland did it. I think if she were ever to work, she could be a fine maid. She folded my dresses with hardly a wrinkle. I wouldn’t want her to be my maid. I miss Sophy. Is she well? Do you suppose she might come here to live and help me? She’s always been my maid, not Miss MacFarland’s. I’ve wondered what Sophy has been doing all these weeks since I’ve been gone. Whom is she taking care of?”

  “She’ll be happy to see you when you come home,” Simon said, bending on his knee to retrieve the two satchels.

  “But won’t you bring her here? We’ll need another bed, then. Do you think we can find another bed, Miss Berrie? There was another bed here the first time I saw this room. Can we bring it back? Sophy slept close by at home so if I thought of anything I needed in the night she would help me. Now we’ll be in the same room along with Daisy and Annabel and Tessie. Perhaps we might bring Sophy’s bed from home. That would solve everything.”

  As Katie chattered, Berrie watched Simon open drawers in the dresser nearby, doors on the chiffonier. He turned to Berrie, having put nothing in either satchel.

  “I don’t know which garments are hers. You’ll have to pack her things or find someone else to do it. Now.”

  Before Berrie could say a word, Katie moved to stand before her brother. “After I rise in the morning, I set my bedclothes all by myself. That’s one thing Sophy won’t have to help me with anymore, because I’ve learned how to do it. Then, after we dress, we go outside for drills. I’ll show you where.”

  She turned, obviously expecting him to follow. Berrie watched, making no attempt to either pack Katie’s bag or go along.

  “Aren’t you coming, Simon? We have a grassy lawn, and that’s where we march in straight lines. Miss Berrie says my line is always best. I like to walk; it’s good for me. Outside I can see all kinds of trees down the hill and some cottages in the distance and a lake. I think the lake is like the water near our house, isn’t it? I cannot go in or I might not be able to breathe. Are you coming now, Simon?”

  Instead of answering, Simon stared at Berrie. “Are you going to gather her things, or will I be taking Katie without them? She tends to be fond of certain items, so it would be best if we had your cooperation, but I’ll take her without them.”

  Berrie knew she had to capitulate; even she knew that the law was on his side, and she wasn’t an MP. “I’ll send Daisy to gather Katie’s things.”

  Simon nodded once. To his credit he didn’t gloat over the obvious victory. He followed Katie back downstairs.

  “The classrooms are this way, Katie,” Berrie reminded her on the middle floor.

  “But we don’t go to the classrooms until after breakfast and chapel time, Miss Berrie. I want to show Simon exactly how my day is, so when he’s at home and I’m here, he’ll know what I’ll be doing.”

  Berrie eyed Simon, who remained silent. Would he let his sister think she was staying? Berrie wouldn’t have it. If she knew anything about Katie, it was that she valued truth above all things.

  “But, Katie,” she said gently, “you’ll be at home with your brother, so he’ll know what you’re doing there. You won’t be living here anymore.”

  “Not live here?” Katie looked toward her brother. “I’m staying here, aren’t I, Simon? So I can work? I have a job, just like you.”

  “I’d miss you too much if you didn’t come home, Katie-sis. You belong at home.”

  “If you would miss me, you can live here. There is a room for families; I’ve seen it. You can live in that room.”

  “No, Katie, I cannot live here. I have work to do at home. You must come with me.”

  Katie shook
her head. “I have a job.” She turned around as if to go somewhere but turned again, obviously uncertain. “I live here now, because I have a job.”

  Then, on the bottom stair and at her brother’s feet, she plopped down in a pile of yellow gingham and white petticoats. She stared straight ahead, unmoving.

  Berrie hadn’t seen Katie sit so unexpectedly, although she imagined by the exasperation on his face that Simon must have. “Katie, I know you don’t like to be touched, but I’ll pick you up if you don’t walk on your own.”

  “I want to stay here. I have a job.” She folded her arms, determination in her stare.

  Berrie’s attention was drawn to one of the classrooms nearby. The door was open, and a squeal of delight sounded from inside the room. Berrie recognized that laugh. Jens O’Banyon laughed almost as often as he hugged—at times inappropriately—but she preferred that to the ready shouts and tears of some of the others.

  Berrie considered Simon MacFarland again. How could he claim to be his sister’s protector when he wouldn’t consider allowing her at least one other option besides living under his roof?

  “Mr. MacFarland,” she said, pleased when her tone matched her intention to placate, “it’s clear you want what’s best for your sister. All the families who entrust their loved one to us feel as you do. They have an advantage over you, of course, because they’ve visited us and know what we hope to accomplish.”

  He eyed her, appearing weary and only vaguely interested. “And what is that, Miss Hamilton? Do you really hope to teach those who come here? From what I saw, the best you might do is keep them fed and perhaps safe. But teach them?” He shook his head.

  “Will you come with me?” Berrie asked. “Please?”

  Simon stared so long she thought he would say no. Then, just as she was about to give up and walk past Katie to find Daisy, he nodded.

  Pulse quickening, she hurried toward the classroom, afraid he might change his mind if she didn’t move swiftly.

  Unlike the dining hall, the arts room was nearly silent. Jens worked on a basket with Ned’s help. Another boy was nearby, separating willow branch sallows from reeds they would need to form the baskets. Jens weaved by hand, although Berrie knew he could be trusted with one of the duller knives they used for tighter baskets. Only those made by Katie could be called symmetrical, as she was the only one who could achieve such a skill.

  Two boys at another table had paper and chalk, immersed in drawing. Mrs. Cotgrave sat at the other end of that table, going through pictures with Tessie, Annabel, and Reece, a boy whose features were different from everyone’s except Theo’s, who sat off to himself with paper and ink. They were gentle in spirit, and she was surprised they didn’t come from the same family as they looked so much alike with their slanted eyes, thick tongue and lower lip, and flat, wide nose.

  Berrie went to a chest in the corner, where they locked the supplies from too-eager students. From it she pulled one basket, one picture, one perfectly folded serviette.

  “This is what I wanted to show you, Mr. MacFarland.” She held up the round basket, its tight, symmetrical weave the unimaginable goal of nearly every student and some of the staff, including Berrie herself. She lacked the time to master the art, but Katie had taken to it almost immediately. “Katie made this, and it’s our best example. We have another downstairs, and we use it for collecting flowers from the garden.”

  He stared at it, though he didn’t accept it when she held it his way. She turned back to the trunk. “And this—” she held up the serviette—“is another example. Katie sits on one side of the table, two students on the other. She teaches them to fold, and no one does it as neatly.”

  She placed the cloth inside the basket and set it aside. She’d saved the best for last. A chalk drawing of the garden outside, complete with a weathered stone bench overlooking an imaginary site of light and color in the distant sky. Heaven, or so Katie said. Though she’d chosen only her favorite colors—blue, green, and yellow—the grass was appropriately colored, the flowers detailed if not varied. Heaven was a mix of all three, blended gently.

  “Katie’s?”

  She nodded.

  Simon looked to his sister, who had followed them into the room and had taken a seat next to the basket weaver. The boy was letting her work on it with him. Surely Simon could tell which row of the basket Katie had assisted with; it was finer and tighter than all the rest.

  “I knew she liked to draw,” he said quietly.

  “We planned to hang this above her bed,” Berrie said. “It’s her favorite, but we must have a frame for it first. Some of the other children have asked her to draw something for them, too.”

  He continued to eye his sister, who spoke quietly to the boy next to her. Her fingers slipped nimbly through the stiff reeds, making something usable out of his less accomplished effort.

  “For two weeks I had no idea where she was.” Simon’s voice was hoarse, unexpectedly soft. “I didn’t know if she’d been abducted or hurt . . . or . . .” He stopped as abruptly as he’d begun, clearing his throat, standing straighter than he had a moment ago.

  “I’m sorry,” Berrie whispered. She could defend herself, tell him the lengths she’d gone to trying to find Katie’s home, but she didn’t think it would make a difference. It wouldn’t erase the worry he’d carried all those days.

  He shifted his gaze from his sister to Berrie, studying her as if seeing her for the first time. Or perhaps believing her for the first time. “I can’t simply leave her. She’s my sister.”

  Berrie watched Katie, knowing without a doubt what his sister would choose if only he would allow her to. And there was only one way to bring that about. She might regret it, but Berrie knew the option she must offer.

  “Mr. MacFarland, we have a family room, where the relatives of our students are welcome to stay for a day or two. If you truly want to listen to Katie, you might consider staying. Judge us for yourself. See how we are, how she is here.”

  He issued a half smile that was almost appealing. “You would put up with me for a few days?”

  She nodded. “For Katie.”

  He watched his sister again, finally letting out a breath. “For Katie then.”

  19

  * * *

  A light tap at her bedroom door forced Rebecca to open one eye and see the time on the clock next to her bed. Six in the morning.

  She sat bolt upright. No. Surely he wouldn’t come here at such an hour? She needed at least a half hour to calm her curls so she didn’t look like some sort of American Barbie doll left in the toy box too long.

  Popping out of bed, grabbing her robe from a nearby chair, she called through the door panels. “Yes?”

  “It’s Helen, miss.”

  Relief poured through her, followed quickly by worry. Was something wrong that she would come to her door at such an odd hour? Rebecca pulled open the door. There Helen stood, apron in place as if she’d been taken straight from the kitchen and transplanted at Rebecca’s door.

  Rebecca didn’t have to look far to see the cause of the anxiety on the older woman’s face. Behind Helen stood a taller, slimmer shadow, dressed in white from the top of her white-blonde head to the tip of her pristine Italian shoes.

  “Lady Elise?”

  She swept past Helen, who looked uncertain what to do, fretfulness stuck on her face. Rebecca wanted to comfort her, assure her nothing was amiss, but couldn’t summon such false words. Instead, she turned to Elise, who was scrutinizing her room.

  “Can I . . . help you with something?”

  “You certainly can. You can stop this nonsense with my son. Today.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Her gaze stopped roaming and aimed at Rebecca like two arrows. “You’re denying that you’re seeing my son? When the newspapers are full of headlines about the two of you?”

  “You’ve spoken to Quentin, then?”

  “I came straight from the airport, where I saw one report after another about
Quentin being involved with his commercial manager. I assumed he would be here.”

  Rebecca lifted her chin. “He moved back to your cottage over three weeks ago.”

  Elise’s eyes narrowed. “I can assume, then, that the newspaper has presumed and presented something that isn’t true?”

  “Not . . . exactly.”

  “What does that mean? Are you involved with my son, or not?”

  Rebecca gripped the belt on her robe. “I’m not sure your definition of involved is the same as mine if you expected him to be in my room without the benefit of marriage.”

  “Marriage! You won’t connive your way into marriage. I’ll make sure of that.”

  Rebecca took a step closer, willing herself to pray something she didn’t want to utter, even silently. Help me to be kind, right now, right here.

  “Lady Elise—” her tone was gentler than she thought possible—“I fail to see why you’re here. It seems you would have been upset to find Quentin here, and yet now you’re upset that he isn’t. I hardly know what to say.”

  “Say that you won’t see my son again, now or ever.”

  “I cannot promise that, either personally or professionally, since I work here.”

  “Not anymore.”

  With that, she swept out of the room, a faintly stale scent of what must have been last night’s perfume the only evidence of her visit.

  20

  * * *

  One of the things I miss most about my home in England, aside from family of course, is my maid. I am in complete agreement with Katie on this. Women’s clothes simply are not made for dressing oneself. I cannot tell you, Cosima, how many times I have gone into Mrs. Cotgrave’s room in the morning to ask her to button one thing or tie another, and every day to check the back of my hair. Somehow she manages to dress completely on her own, never needing the reciprocation that would make me feel blessedly equal.

  This morning I hardly had time to worry about my appearance. I fully expect each morning to bring one crisis or another, either real or imagined. However I did not expect the imagined kind to be coming from the family bedroom. . . .