by Susan Wiggs
“I made every effort to find the baby’s family,” she said. “We posted bills at every camp, published the photograph in the papers, registered with churches and orphanages, tracked down people who had fled from Sterling House. But there was no response.”
All the while, Rand thought, he’d lain senseless and half-dead in the hospital. Later, he’d hired a private insurance investigator just to be certain, but that had only confirmed his worst fears—there were no survivors.
Now here was this miracle of a woman, telling him Christine was alive and well. Again, his gaze sought out the child on the beach. She raced at a flock of gulls, scattering the white birds into flight.
A pair of hands cradled his cheeks, startling him. With her usual forthright lack of manners, Lucy turned his face to her. “Mr. Higgins,” she commanded. “I want your full attention.”
She was touching his scars.
She was touching his scars, and she didn’t even seem disgusted.
There were things he hadn’t experienced since the night of the fire—joy, elation, hope. They were coming back to him now, rushing through him like fast liquor. “All right,” he said. Carefully, self-consciously, he took her hands and set them away from him.
Her small, pointed face softened. “I knew this would be a shock, but I also knew you would have the sense not to rush off half-cocked and upset Maggie.” She inhaled deeply and began to speak in a way that made him suspect she’d been rehearsing the words. “It is a physical certainty that you and your wife—ex-wife—are her parents. But it is equally certain that I am the only mother Maggie knows. I am the one who nursed her through fevers and comforted her after nightmares. I’m the one who laughed with her and tickled her. I taught her to whistle and swim and ride a bicycle. She’s beginning to read and write. All that she knows, all that she is, comes from having me as a mother for the past five years.”
Each word thudded into him, reminding him of all he had missed. He started to speak, but she shushed him again.
“I’m not saying this to aggrandize myself or to exaggerate my own importance. To tell you the truth, I spent the first six months with Maggie trying to give her away.” She caught the look on his face and said, “I was searching high and low for her family, not trying to abandon her like an unwanted kitten. Though Lord knows, I was the last woman on earth who needed a child. I had no husband, my father had died and my mother had gone bankrupt. The three of us had no means of getting on in the world. But something unexpected, almost magical, occurred. Maggie saved me. She forced me to be stronger, better than I ever thought I could be.” Her face glowed when she spoke, and she was beautiful in the way all mothers were when speaking of their children. “Her needs gave me the power to move mountains. Because she needed me, I started the bookstore, invested all I had in it. I’m convinced I wouldn’t have done it if Maggie hadn’t been depending on me.”
She reached into the voluminous satchel and drew out a packet of papers tied with string. “That is what being a mother is. That, and being as protective as a she-dog. Maggie looks quite sturdy, but I know her. There is a part of her that is a fragile, glass thread. I won’t allow her to be hurt.”
“I never thought I would find myself agreeing with you, Miss Hathaway, but I do.” For the first time since grasping the news, he felt more like himself. Competent. Decisive. Firm in his convictions. “Christine must be protected.”
He was grateful she’d held him back from seizing his daughter straightaway. With his scarred face and large size, with such a fierce joy and amazement spurring him on, he might have frightened the life out of the poor child. He nodded at the papers in Lucy’s hand. “What have you there?”
“I thought you might like to get a glimpse of Maggie’s life.”
The part he had missed.
“Of course,” he said, forgetting to breathe as she untied the string and produced several photographs mounted on card stock.
“I dated each picture on the back. Since I never knew Maggie’s true date of birth, I could only guess at her age, but now we’ll know how old she really is in each photograph.”
She handed him a picture of herself holding Christine as a toddler, and standing beside a handsome older women. The three of them posed in front of an elegant house that looked vaguely familiar to him. “This is the house in which I grew up. My mother was forced to sell it after the death of my father. She used the proceeds to pay off his debts, and there was nothing left for us. She sold it at a fraction of its actual value.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Because she was cheated.”
“Why did she allow it?”
“It wasn’t a matter of her allowing it so much as her being entirely unaware that she was grossly undervaluing the property. I will be frank with you, Mr. Higgins. My mother is a very traditional woman. She never challenged the assumption that a woman is incapable of managing property and finance. My father believed in keeping her in happy ignorance. Upon his death, she was as innocent as a child in the ways of the world. When a speculator came along with an offer, she was only too happy to put her trust in him. By the time I realized what was going on, he’d taken possession of all she had.” She handed him another photograph. “We were left virtually destitute.”
He studied the picture of the three of them on a boardwalk in front of a building he didn’t recognize. “What did you do?”
“We took refuge in this temporary shanty village by the river.” She touched his sleeve. “Now, don’t look like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you pity us for suffering the fires of hell.”
“But look at you—”
“Dressed in old clothes, living in a shack— Yes, yes, I’ve heard it all before. Some of my dearest friends discovered our circumstances and insisted on helping, but do you know, in all the years of tutors and governesses and finishing school, I never had so fine an education as I had in that shanty-town right there.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Nor did I, so long as I was some idealistic debutante with no knowledge of the real world. Here, among the lowliest poor, I discovered the true evils of injustice. And the true strength of a determined woman. I saw women abandoned to raise seven children on their own, and they managed, sometimes through sheer faith alone. I discovered that at the heart of their deprivation was a desperate ignorance. They had a need I believed I could fill. I would create a place where women could read and learn. One evening a week, I hold a reading class for those who never learned, and women of all ages come. So I don’t regret the months we spent there, Mr. Higgins, and Lord knows neither does Maggie. She was always warm and had plenty to eat, and more than enough children to play with. When a child feels loved and secure, she has no notion that she is deprived.”
Looking at the picture, he had to admit that Christine appeared perfectly content, plump and clear-eyed in Lucy’s arms.
The next picture showed them in yet another unfamiliar place, this one a wild, rocky shoreline with a backdrop of towering pine trees.
“That is Isle Royale, in northern Lake Superior. Our friends, Deborah and Tom Silver, kindly provided hospitality over the summer of 1872.” Her dark eyes grew dreamy with memories Rand could not share. “How Maggie loved it there, running free and barefoot, eating fish roasted on an outdoor fire and sleeping under handmade quilts.”
Rand couldn’t even imagine it. His daughter. Barefoot and free as a savage.
The next picture showed a much older Christine in a little cloth coat, standing on a sidewalk and holding Lucy’s hand. Behind them was a shop window and overhead hung a carefully lettered tradesman’s shingle: The Firebrand—L. Hathaway, Bookseller.
Both Lucy and the child were grinning broadly, as if being dignified for the camera was too much of an effort.
“I’m afraid we hadn’t the time or the means for frequent photographs,” Lucy confessed. “Honestly, the years just flew by.” She pointed to a spot in the cor
ner of the picture. “Our apartment is here, on the second floor. That’s our cat Silky in the window. And beyond that low wall is the garden.”
Rand couldn’t sit still anymore. He handed back the photographs and stood to pace, agitated, trying to take everything in. His gaze kept wandering to the green belt across the esplanade. His grandmother sat with her hands folded around the head of her cane; she had a habit of nodding off and was probably napping. In contrast, Christine’s tireless energy matched that of the dog. She’d found a stick and kept flinging it out into the water. Ivan obligingly fetched it each time, making her collapse with laughter as he shook off water in all directions. Rand ached with the need to go to her, to grab her and hold her against his heart.
“So,” he said, suppressing the urge, “you have raised my daughter over a shop with a calico cat and a concrete garden.”
“Indeed I have.”
“She’s had no nurse, nanny nor governess. No formal education.”
“She is five years old,” Lucy pointed out.
“Nearly six,” he said. “Five years, ten months and four days.” As soon as he saw the pity in her eyes, he regretted revealing so much of himself. She’d raised his daughter, yes, but she was a stranger. She didn’t need to know that he measured the days and weeks and years of his life by the age Christine would be, had she lived.
“You disapprove,” she said, sounding defensive.
“Do you blame me?” he asked. “Christine is my child. When she was born, I had such dreams for her. I had great aspirations as to how she would be raised, and you’ll excuse me for saying so, but I never did imagine her as a shopkeeper’s child.”
She laughed again, that incredulous burst of sound she employed when she wanted to make him seem ridiculous. “Are you saying Maggie would have fared better here?” She encompassed the property with a sweep of her arm. “Imagine my happy, active daughter living in this chilly mausoleum.”
The way she spoke made him wonder about her own childhood in her father’s palatial house.
“Mama, look, Mama, Mama!” The little girl came crashing toward her with heedless abandon. Grinning from ear to ear, she held a twig in her grubby hand. “Look very hard, Mama, and you’ll see it.”
Lucy went down on one knee, as lacking in dignity as a washerwoman to inspect the stick. “What am I supposed to see?”
Christine pursed her lips. “Look harder.” Losing patience, she thrust the twig at Rand, startling him. “You look. Do you see what I’ve got?”
Rand was completely taken in by the appeal in those wide eyes. He squatted down close to her. “A praying mantis.”
She frowned adorably, and his heart melted. She said, “A what?”
“It’s an insect.” He pointed without touching. “There’s its head, and its hind legs are all bent. The forelegs seem like they’re clasped together, praying.”
She beamed at Lucy. “I found a praying mantis, Mama!”
Lucy cut a suspicious glance at Rand. “So you have. The female bites the head off the male after mating.”
“Eeuw.” Christine held the twig at arm’s length. “Mating is revolting.”
Rand felt himself redden, but he didn’t want to lose this moment of connection with his daughter. His Christine. “More revolting than biting a head off?”
She thought for a moment, then nodded. “I think it probably is.”
She looked so grave and earnest that he had to swallow a laugh. At that moment, Ivan came trotting over. He raked at the ground with his giant paws like a bull gearing up to charge.
“I think he wants you to throw that stick,” Rand said.
“Not with the praying mantel on it!” She handed it to Lucy.
Stretching his mouth into the unfamiliar expression of a smile, he found a larger stick. “Let’s see how far he can go.”
Christine laughed and clapped her hands. “Throw it far! Throw it as far as ever you can!”
Rand drew back his arm and flung the stick. It rotated high in the bright sky, and the foolish dog took off after it with no notion as to where it would land. Rand’s arm ached with the motion. He hadn’t had occasion to throw anything since cricket matches at university. But at a single command from his daughter, he would move mountains if bidden.
Christine scurried off after the dog. Lucy regarded Rand with a wary expression.
“What?” he asked.
“She likes you.”
An aching warmth flooded his chest. “Do you think so?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
He watched her putting the photographs away, and surprised both her and himself by saying, “As long as you are here, Miss Hathaway, I should tell you that you’ll have the loan extension you requested for your shop. I’ll see to it personally.”
She froze, and her expressive face drained to white. Then, despite her size, she seemed to swell and grow. “Mr. Higgins.” His name exploded from her like an oath. “My child is not for sale.”
Her emphasis on the word my ignited his temper. “No,” he informed her, “I have a legal right to keep my daughter, and to tell you the truth, I’m not obliged to offer you so much as a by-your-leave.”
She made a choking sound, then managed a voiceless “What?”
“I will concede that you have raised a healthy child, and for that you have my gratitude. The fact that you came forward with Christine once you solved the puzzle proves you do have the integrity to be trusted with the loan.”
“You’re making me sorry I came forward,” she said in a low, threatening voice.
He forced himself to calm down. She was right, of course. He needed to be measured in response to this. “Look, Diana and I never could have imagined our baby was dropped into a stranger’s arms. Our worst fears were confirmed by the Board of Fire and a private investigator. They assured us Christine and her nurse could not have survived. We never saw the announcements you claim you sent out. Even months later, when I was well enough to read, I never could abide all those melodramatic tales of survival that were so popular in the press at the time. Damn it, I was too busy grieving for Christine and struggling with—” He almost said losing Diana. He remembered lying in bed, staring at the pockmarked ceiling of St. Elspeth’s Hospital, pondering his idea of what a family should be and wondering why such a simple thing had eluded him. He had built this house in his mind long before he’d built it in fact; he’d actually believed if it was big enough, beautiful enough, Diana would come back to him.
“I never paused to consider that a miracle had occurred,” he concluded.
“Well, now we must decide how best to proceed.”
“I’ll send a wire to Diana straightaway.” As he spoke, he tracked the little girl with his gaze. Christine. He could scarcely believe it was her.
“Agreed,” she said.
The strain in her voice caught his attention. “I’m sorry. This must be difficult for you.”
“I confess my first instinct was to keep Maggie for myself.”
“So why did you come forward?”
“Because…it would be morally wrong to hide the truth from Maggie. It would make me no better than the unenlightened patriarchs who keep women in ignorance and deny them their rights. I will still be Maggie’s mother and fiercest protector, but I won’t hide the identity of her natural parents from her. Therefore, my coming forward to you has certain conditions attached.”
Amazing. She managed to be high-minded and annoying in the same breath.
“My first condition is that we must keep Maggie and her needs in mind. We must do what is best for her, first and foremost.”
“I agree.”
“Good. I was hoping you would.”
He prepared to get up. “So shall we go and tell her?”
She grabbed his sleeve and yanked at it. “Tell her what?”
“That she is my daughter and henceforth will be living here with me.”
She kept a stranglehold on his sleeve. “Wait.”
“I see n
o reason to delay.” He stood up.
“Here is your reason, Mr. Higgins.” She slapped a parchment document into his hand.
He unfolded the paper and his blood chilled. “This is—”
“Yes,” she said, “it is. A legal adoption. Maggie is my daughter in the eyes of the law.”
Eleven
Lucy held her breath until her chest hurt and a pulse hammered in her ears. Then slowly, half afraid she would deflate like a spent balloon, she let out the air and stepped away so he could read every word of the adoption papers.
Almighty heaven, what had she been thinking?
She should have listened to her mother, whose occasional bursts of wisdom were too often ignored. Lucy had always been one for opening doors and poking her nose into places she shouldn’t. When most would leave well enough alone, she tended to dig and pick at things until she exposed them. This was no great virtue, her mother had pointed out, particularly in the current situation. Her campaign for justice was about to cost her the one thing she could not give up—her daughter.
And all because she could not keep her mouth shut.
It had always been that way with her. From the time she was small, she’d always spoken up when she perceived an injustice. And that, of course, was what had befallen Randolph and Diana Higgins. A tragic injustice of the cruelest sort. And she, in her usual crusading manner, had felt compelled to rectify it.
But Lord, why? Why couldn’t she, for once in her life, have kept her own counsel and maintained the status quo?
She was still not even certain he was the sort of person she would want in Maggie’s life.
He stood like an oak tree on the lawn, solid and quietly powerful-looking as he perused the long legal document she’d handed him. He was tall indeed, but she knew his strength was a deceptive thing. In certain places in his heart, he was as fragile as spun glass. He’d nearly been killed in the fire and had awakened to find that his baby was gone, his wife divorcing him. He lived alone in this large house with a sour old woman. His strength was the strength of endurance, of forbearance.