On Sparrow Hill

by Maureen Lang

  “Have you, Miss Hamilton, engaged in improper behavior even before a resident?” Mr. Truebody asked.

  He waited and she knew she must say something.

  Mr. Truebody’s stare lingered. “As you know, the population in a facility like yours is highly impressionable. Such behavior, particularly from an unmarried woman such as yourself, is not to be tolerated.”

  The scrutiny of each man bore down on her and Berrie felt the collective weight until it threatened to overcome her. To swoon just now might prove a blessed delay, but a delay just the same, not an escape. She gulped a breath of air, straightened her shoulders, and met no one’s stare. “There has been a misunderstanding.”

  “Then you were not engaging in improper behavior?” Mr. Truebody asked.

  “There was . . . a kiss,” she admitted. “Nothing more improper than that.” She could hardly tell them it came with a proposal of marriage, not when her refusal would be the equivalent of public humiliation for Simon.

  “Need we remind you, Miss Hamilton,” said Mr. Truebody, “such behavior is not tolerated in polite society and less so in a hospital where you are responsible for the most vulnerable of children.”

  “It wasn’t a public demonstration,” Berrie said, her voice wavering. “It was a misunderstanding on Katie’s part. She believes any sign of affection between a man and woman to be a sign of marriage.”

  “I am a reasonable man, Miss Hamilton, and certainly willing to take into consideration that this quote comes from an inmate,” Mr. Truebody stated. “I’ve taken it upon myself to contact Mr. MacFarland. He is under no obligation to return here, of course, as there is no legal recourse against his actions with you unless you tell the constable here and now that Mr. MacFarland forced his attentions upon you?”

  Diverting her gaze to the floor, she shook her head.

  Mr. Truebody sighed, straightening the papers on the desk before him. He looked at them instead of Berrie. “Given the fact that Mr. Habgood has been arrested, whatever happened between you and Mr. MacFarland is the lesser of the two concerns. Yet the Commission must believe you possess the purest virtue. Not only must the Commission believe it but the families of your students must believe it as well. Once lost, a good reputation is hard to regain.”

  “Surely there is a way to make this right.” Her voice was hoarse with the lump still there. “Not only for myself, but surely for Mr. Habgood. Perhaps the victim isn’t a victim at all, only under a false impression of having received some sort of improper attention from him. To some of our more sensitive students, even a glance can be an affront.”

  “The victim was not one of your residents,” claimed Mr. Flegge. “She is fully capable of stating irrefutable facts.”

  If Berrie thought, even for a moment, Tessie had issued the extraordinary claim and that was why her family had come for her, she abandoned it now. “Am I to know the name of this victim?”

  Mr. Truebody held up a hand in Mr. Flegge’s direction, effectively silencing the other man. “It is known only to those involved in the case, in deference to the dignity of the victim. We have it on the highest authority this woman is of sound mind and will testify to being accosted by one Mr. Duff Habgood. Under the roof of Escott Manor, a so-called haven for the innocent.”

  “Forgive me for saying so, but will justice protect only the dignity of the victim and not that of Escott Manor, which is also blameless?”

  “Blameless, Miss Hamilton? Even were you proven innocent of the personal transgressions alleged in the news report, you’ve shown yourself to be a poor judge of character in having hired someone capable of such a heinous act. As I warned when you petitioned, scandal must be avoided at all cost.”

  Mr. Truebody stood now, staring down hard at Berrie. His skin fairly glistened, mesmerizing in its wet pallor. “Which is why I demand that you leave Escott Manor Hospital for the Mentally Infirm until the truth can be ferreted out, both about your misconduct and Mr. Habgood’s. Obviously further funding will be pending developments at Mr. Habgood’s trial.”

  “Leave?” The word was barely more than a whisper. Through her haze of misery, another word stood out among the rest. “Pending? If Mr. Habgood is found innocent of such charges, there is still a chance for the school to survive?”

  Mr. Truebody removed his spectacles, his long, narrow face smug in his regard of her. “I answer to benefactors, Miss Hamilton, as well as the Lunacy Commission. It will be up to them. Rest assured if Mr. Habgood is found guilty, as everything indicates today, then Escott Manor will indeed be closing its doors.”

  47

  * * *

  Rebecca watched the taxi pull away from the Hall, taking Aidan and the single bag he’d brought. Padgett waved and cried, but her mother’s hug soon dispelled the tears. “We’ll be together again in a while, sweetie.” Her words, meant as a balm to Padgett, were slow to sink in.

  Or maybe it was something else, something even Padgett was somehow sharp enough to discern. Rebecca noted the imprecise promise, wondering how long it would be before Dana was ready to resume the life she’d arrived with in the United Kingdom. For the past two days while Aidan was here, he’d been discreet in his persuasion, mindful that Padgett heard every word. It was clear to Rebecca. He wanted Dana with him.

  And it was just as clear Dana wanted the same thing, but she hadn’t talked to Rebecca about why she wasn’t letting that happen.

  As far as Rebecca knew, they hadn’t yet told Padgett about the coming addition to their family. There was time, of course. Dana had said she calculated herself to be a couple of months along. Dana did agree to see a physician, and she made an appointment they would keep the next afternoon.

  Once the taxi was out of sight, they went back into the Hall. Helen came for Padgett, having promised to let her help bake scones for the afternoon Victorian tea that had been set up weeks ago. One last practice run with the new wardrobe, with the Featherby judges arriving later that week.

  “Would you like anything?” Rebecca asked. “Tea? A snack?”

  Dana shook her head. She’d been eating better and rarely sick during Aidan’s visit, but Rebecca had observed the nausea was never far from an empty stomach.

  “I want to talk,” Dana said, leading the way into the small front parlor. The weather was fine today, so the tea and the women hosting it would be served on the veranda instead. “And for once I don’t want to talk about myself.”

  Rebecca took a seat. “I’ll talk if you do,” she warned. “A fair exchange.”

  Dana shrugged. “You haven’t said a word about where Quentin’s been hiding these past few days while Aidan was here. Where is he?”

  “I expect he’s in London.”

  Dana frowned. “With Lady Caroline?”

  Rebecca tried a casual shrug but the movement was tense, spastic. “I don’t really know. I won’t say he’s ‘with’ her—that’s rather unfair to the faith he’s shown, isn’t it? But yes, with her . . .” She stopped herself, tightness closing her throat; knowing the next word would quiver, she chose to end the sentence instead.

  “Did he tell you he’d chosen her? Is that why he left?”

  “Not exactly. I’m the one who suggested he should go, decide whether or not that relationship is really over.” She lifted a steady gaze to meet Dana’s, putting words to what she wanted to feel. “I don’t regret it.”

  “Of course not. You have to know.”

  Rebecca nodded.

  “He’ll be back,” Dana whispered, the exact words Rebecca wanted to tell herself and refused to do.

  She shook away sudden tears and laughed. “Of course he will. This is his home.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Maybe.” Rebecca pulled in a steadying breath. “In any case, I’ve been thinking about what’s next for me. I have to stay through the Featherby visit, of course. After that, I think I will be contacting my father. He’s been wanting me to work for him since I graduated, and I think it’s time I took him up on
that offer.”

  “What? You—you’ll leave the Hall? You can’t!”

  Rebecca laughed again, more a reflex than genuine amusement. “Of course I can; the Dark Ages are over. I can leave the fiefdom any time I wish.”

  Dana shook her head. “But one Seabrooke or another has been under this roof for hundreds of years.”

  Those tears she’d tried shaking away showed up again, stinging. “What else can I do, Dana? Watch him raise a family here?”

  Dana looked about to protest, perhaps an assurance that such a thing wouldn’t happen, but said nothing instead. Maybe she’d learned by Rebecca’s aversion to false promises that she didn’t want to hear any either.

  “Now,” Rebecca said, her voice a little too loud, a little firmer than intended. She successfully warded off the lump. “What about you, Dana? Why didn’t you go back to Ireland with your husband?”

  “I wanted to,” she said softly. “I did. I just couldn’t. Not yet. It wasn’t him; I told him that. What would I do there except obsess about all this alone? His hours are horrendous. The only way I’ve been able to hide any of my worries from Padgett is because I’ve had your help. If it were just her and me all day, every day . . . I won’t do that to her. I can’t, not until I’m adjusted to this whole idea.”

  Dana closed her eyes, but tears slipped out anyway, glistening two paths down her smooth cheeks. “I know there’s hope, but I don’t feel it.” She opened her eyes. “He deserves a healthy child, what any other woman except me would have been able to give him.”

  Rebecca slid from her seat, taking a spot next to Dana and pulling her into a hug. “He has you and he has Padgett, and from what I can see, that’s already made him happy. Whatever’s ahead will be a further blessing.”

  “A blessing? I think Cosima called it a curse, and at the moment I agree with her.”

  She cried then, and Rebecca offered no words, just her shoulder. Tears stung her own eyes for Dana and for herself. This was hope again, proving itself an enemy. Dana for a healthy child, Rebecca for a husband.

  Even the Bible acknowledged what Rebecca felt. Hope deferred makes the heart sick.

  48

  * * *

  Cosima, I cannot express what panic I felt, coupled with shame. How could this be happening? Duff under arrest and my own reputation tainted? No matter to me, but the school must be saved!

  I left Mr. Truebody’s office desperate to find Duff and learn the truth. His exoneration is the key. Jobbin, bless his heart, took me at once to Dublin. There are three jails in the city and more poverty than I imagined. God was with me, though, as I tried to remind myself throughout this day. At the second public detention hall, I was assured Duff was in its unfortunate residence. I asked to see him and was told visiting hours had passed, and so I must return tomorrow morning.

  Tomorrow. Ah, yes, tomorrow I must also end my residence at the school. I plan to take a room at the Quail’s Stop Inn until this horrid mix-up is straightened out.

  Never have I prayed for guidance so hard. I looked into the faces of our little ones to say good night, really meaning good-bye. I looked into Katie’s guileless eyes; if she had only kept her words to herself at least part of our trouble could have been abated. I cannot blame her; she meant no harm. I can scarcely bear it. Am I failing in the one task our Lord God has assigned to me?

  Simon will soon know the school is in danger of collapse, yet I cannot ask him—

  I began writing this last night and fell asleep at my desk. The splatter of ink is mixed with my tears. I left early this morning. There was no word from Simon, and so I will not continue to hope in that regard. I wanted to be first in the line of visitors at the Dublin jail. Duff was relieved to see me. . . .

  “I feared you’d believe the charges, Miss Berrie,” Duff said in the form of a greeting. There was something new in him that Berrie wouldn’t have believed could form in so short a time of incarceration. Half his face was covered in days’ worth of stubble, but that was not nearly as disconcerting as seeing him in chains. Wrists and ankles both shackled. Berrie drew her gaze from the unsettling sight, finding less comfort in the depths of pain in his eyes.

  “I don’t believe a word, Duff, only you must tell me what this is about. Mr. Truebody gave me very little information, and the newspaper only says a woman reports you’ve accosted her. They give no name. Who is it, Duff, claiming something so outrageous?”

  His dark eyes, already nearly absent of life, went dimmer still. “Finola.”

  She drew in a quick breath. “Finola O’Shea? Why, Duff?”

  He shook his head desperately. “I did nothing! I wanted to care for her and her little one, too, but never once did I touch her or say an untoward word.”

  With a wide table between them, Berrie knew she couldn’t touch him even in comfort, especially with his hands tethered. “I believe you, Duff. Only we must clear this up, or the school’s future is at risk. Why should Finola do this?”

  “I have no guess!” His face, his voice, the droop of his shoulders all spoke the anguish behind his words. “I–I wanted to love her, but I never touched her. I vow ’tis the truth.”

  Berrie nodded. “We’ll prove it, then, Duff. Somehow. Even now, I’ve sent a note to my brother and sister-in-law, asking their help.”

  He was shaking his head. “They want a speedy trial because of my position at the school. ’Twill be over by the time anyone from London can help.”

  He was undoubtedly right. Berrie stood. “The truth will be heard, Duff. I’ll do my best to make sure Finola is the one to tell it. She must be made to explain why she’s conjured this lie.”

  Nothing made sense. If Duff was innocent, as Berrie believed to the depth of her soul, why should Finola bring such a charge? Surely she wouldn’t want the school to be endangered; it was her future! Once Conall was old enough, didn’t Finola plan to return? There was nothing for her to gain, only a future to lose, in such false accusations.

  Berrie must find her. If she’d mentioned the town where she’d once lived, where her brother still resided, Berrie couldn’t recall. Even Duff knew only that Finola had come from County Dublin, somewhere north of the city. Cosima might know how to find her cousin, but Berrie had no time to wait for letters to go back and forth between Dublin and London. So she asked Duff the name of the barrister who would be representing him, and the bailiff told her where she could find the lawyer. To Berrie’s relief, Jobbin was able to take her there without delay. Unfortunately the lawyer was not found in his office, though a clerk told her he would return in a few hours’ time. She asked the clerk, a round-faced, friendly apprentice to the law, if she could learn the whereabouts of someone named in a suit against one of their clients.

  Instantly the clerk lost the image of youthful innocence she’d imagined him to possess. He aged before her eyes and grew cold as well, stating even if their lawyer was in his office this moment, he could not divulge such information. He then showed her the way outside, though she could easily have found the door on her own.

  This was not to be easy, but Berrie refused to believe the task impossible. The clerk’s behavior told her it would be futile to seek the lawyer who’d once represented Finola on her brother’s behalf, the one demanding half the estate. Undoubtedly that office would prove as protective of its client as this one had been.

  Finola had a friend right here in Dublin. Berrie remembered the name—Nessa O’Brien O’Donnell—and how Finola had fairly sung the rhythm of it. Nessa would surely know how to find Finola, and with a bit of luck, Finola might even still be there, staying with this friend.

  But in such a large city, how could someone with as common a name as O’Donnell be found? She told Jobbin the challenge. All she knew of the woman was that she must possess some means, for she and Finola had met during Finola’s more prosperous childhood at a girls’ school on the north side of the city. Jobbin tipped his hat and directed Berrie back to the wagon with the smile of a man who knew what next to do. A Ne
ssa O’Brien O’Donnell of little means would be hard to find in a city like Dublin. But a Nessa O’Brien O’Donnell with anything higher than the most modest of respectable homes and from a certain girls’ school? He knew the pubs in both rich and poor neighborhoods, and both were frequented by those who knew their neighbors. The rich ones would be a much narrower search at that. He estimated they would find Mrs. O’Donnell within two hours’ time.

  The search might have been quick for Jobbin, but for Berrie, waiting in the wagon while he visited one pub after another proved nearly intolerable. Her mind hopped from worry to worry, especially when she smelled the scent of whiskey on the older man’s breath.

  “I have to raise a glass, don’t you know,” he told her, “otherwise who would trust me with a bit of information, harmless or otherwise?”

  She received the pronouncement tacitly, adding a new prayer to her long list of others: for Jobbin’s safe sobriety. Still, she looked for a wobble in his step or a slip of the reins when he was driving the wagon.

  Her prayers were answered before she detected any compromise on Jobbin’s behavior. After a half dozen pubs in the northern neighborhoods, he had narrowed down the girls’ schools, then the O’Donnell and O’Brien families. Before long, Jobbin pulled up before a three-story home in a respectable neighborhood. Berrie let him help her alight, grateful he appeared at the ready. The humble Escott Manor wagon wasn’t a Hamilton carriage, but Berrie knew how to hold herself as if it were.

  A maid answered the door, and Berrie would have handed her an announcement card had she not left such habits and possessions on the other side of the Irish Sea. Instead, Berrie told the servant her name, asking if Mrs. O’Donnell was at home and could receive a brief visit. Berrie was told to wait.

  Standing inside the front door, Berrie couldn’t hear much of what went on beyond the entry alcove. If Finola was indeed here with little Conall at her side, they were either napping or perhaps out of doors in a yard if one was to be found with such a city house as this. Humbler than the London town house Berrie had known all her life, this was still a comfortable place. Dark woodwork graced the hall and stairway to the left, and to the right she saw a parlor furnished with well-upholstered chairs, a settee, and a piano. Every furniture leg in the room, as far as Berrie could see, was draped in a familiarly modest and up-to-date fashion.