by Susan Wiggs
Lucy got up from the garden bench and paced, waiting for him to finish inspecting the document. Her gaze automatically turned to Maggie, and an unbidden smile softened her mouth. She never tired of watching her daughter. The child possessed an uncanny ability to become completely absorbed in her world, whether she was telling stories to Silky, building cities in the sand or simply staring out the window. At the moment, she was making some sort of game only she understood, which involved overturning certain rocks on the pathway and arranging them in a crooked line. Lucy found the mind of her daughter endlessly fascinating, and she never questioned Maggie or expected her to justify her imaginative forays.
When Lucy was small, the Colonel had subscribed to the traditional notion that a child not visibly occupied in a productive pursuit—study, prayer or domestic arts—was a sinner waiting for opportunity. He’d scheduled her day to the last minute, so much so that from the moment she awakened until the moment she fell asleep—with her hair twisted into ringlet rags, her hands tied on top of the covers so she wouldn’t interfere with herself—her hours were filled with lessons deemed important to the development of a proper young lady.
Lucy had rebelled every chance she got, and she’d sworn that if she ever became a mother, she would not put her children through such a regimen, restricting them and binding them up as if they were espaliered vines. She’d never forgotten that vow, and Maggie was free to play however she pleased.
The breeze blew through the birches and chestnuts, and the leaves shimmered, making a chiming sound. She pictured the childhood a little girl might experience in this elegant, shaded house, with a stern great-grandmama and unsmiling servants moving through the halls.
She could never let Maggie live here, only come for visits.
Mr. Higgins finished reading and approached Lucy. He walked with a slight limp, and she guessed that it was another injury from the fire.
But the deepest wounds were hidden inside him.
What was it like, she wondered, to be divorced? To have pledged love and devotion for a lifetime, only to have his wife recant her vows? Lucy was all in favor of divorce, naturally. Too many women were shackled to horrible men through the institution called marriage, and they deserved a way to extricate themselves. But in the case of Mr. Higgins, she hardly thought he was a drunk or a bully. He was just…too sad and too scarred to bring his wife joy.
He held out the papers to her, and she took them and put them away.
“I suppose,” he said, “you think this means you have the same rights as Christine’s mother.”
Her hackles rose at his choice of words. “Christine’s natural mother has suffered a great loss, but that doesn’t give her more rights than I have. My child’s name is Maggie now, and I am her mother. In the eyes of the State of Illinois, and most particularly, in the eyes of Maggie herself.”
“This adoption is based on the assumption that she was orphaned in the fire. That assumption is erroneous. Therefore, the adoption is invalid.”
Lucy forced herself to remain very still and calm. Her solicitor had declared that her situation was unique. It would take a skilled and sensitive judge to sort it all out, and Mr. Lynch’s advice had echoed her mother’s: Let sleeping dogs lie.
Too late, she thought, eyeing Mr. Higgins.
“I will dispute that,” she said, “to my dying breath.”
“There’s no need for histrionics, Miss Hathaway. The situation is simple. My lost daughter has been found. She will come and live with me as nature intended. I’ll see to it you’re adequately compensated for your—”
“Oh, stop it,” she said, covering her rising panic with bravado. “Who’s being melodramatic now? From my point of view, the situation is equally simple. When Maggie thinks of her mother, she thinks of me.”
The lake breeze lifted his thick dark hair. The untended locks curled at the nape of his neck in a way Lucy recognized. Maggie’s hair curled in that precise fashion. Lucy knew then that she would never look at her daughter in the same way again.
“Miss Hathaway, if you’re so set on fighting me,” Mr. Higgins said, “what were you thinking by bringing her here, telling me your story?”
“How ironic to hear you ask that.” She stood and followed him in his pacing, taking two steps to each one of his. “I was wondering the same thing myself. I certainly didn’t intend for you to steal my child,” she said fiercely. “I only thought it my moral duty to come forward with the truth. Once I saw the photograph in your office, I felt obligated to do the right thing. But that does not mean you can rip Maggie from my arms.”
“Nor does it mean you can keep a child who wasn’t yours in the first place,” he snapped.
“She’d be dead if not for me.” She could feel the air crackle between them. “Standing here and arguing about it won’t accomplish a thing.”
“Then what do you propose we do?”
“We have to come to an arrangement we can all accept. One that keeps Maggie’s needs and her happiness in mind. Will you at least agree to that?”
“It is precisely her needs that I am thinking of.”
Lucy willed herself to be patient and calm. For Maggie’s sake, she had to be civil to this man. “It’s time to take my daughter home now,” she stated. “You’ll want to send for your—for Diana. Then we will determine the best way to proceed.” She could not resist adding, “And make no mistake, I never shared breath or blood with Maggie, or nourished her with the milk of my breast. But I am her mother in every sense that matters.”
“Your love for Christine is genuine and admirable,” he said with obvious reluctance. “But we do have much to discuss.”
“Indeed we do. We mustn’t tell her yet. She’ll be too frightened and confused. Promise me.”
“All right. For now.” He seemed calm and resolute as he offered her his arm. To seal their truce, she put her hand into the crook of his elbow and they strolled along the walkway. She found that she enjoyed the connection, which was strange, since this man posed such a threat to her. Yet his solidity and warmth appealed to her in a deeply physical way.
She gave a little wordless laugh.
“If you’ve found something amusing,” he said, “I wish you’d share it.”
“I was just thinking—last time I walked arm in arm with a man, I was in handcuffs.” She remembered hiding her terror behind a mask of bravado.
“The voting incident,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And where was my daughter while you were being thrown in jail?”
Lucy yanked her hand away from him. “She was perfectly safe, I assure you. What are you trying to say, Mr. Higgins?”
He gestured at Maggie with his free hand. “She’s very young yet, and unschooled. Before long, it will be time for her to get on in the world, and she’ll need—” He paused.
“You can say it, Mr. Higgins. It won’t be the first time I’ve borne criticism. She will need more than I can give her.” Saying the words herself somehow numbed the sting. “I used to lie awake at night wondering if I was doing right by Maggie, raising her in the only manner I am able. But I don’t worry anymore, and do you know why?”
“Why?”
“Because Maggie herself gives me the answer every day. She is a bright, joyful child with a heart full of love, an adventurous spirit and a great curiosity about the world. So I must be doing something right.”
“Of course you are,” he conceded readily as he escorted her across the esplanade. “But as she gets older, her needs will grow more complex. Think about it, Miss Hathaway. You want a good education for her. You no doubt want safety and stability and complete freedom from deprivation.”
“Of course. Every mother wants that for her child.”
“Look around you.” With a gentle pressure, he turned her to face the staid elegance of the lakefront neighborhood. Well-dressed gentlemen drove buggies toward the bridge, and nannies in crisp white aprons pushed prams along the neatly laid out sidewalks. Unifor
med maids swept porches and women sat watching the boats and barges on the lake. “All that is here,” said Mr. Higgins. “Just waiting for her.”
Lucy couldn’t answer as she pictured the cramped flat over the shop, the noise and dust of Gantry Street and her worries about making the food budget stretch to the end of the month. She moved away from him and walked toward her daughter.
Maggie stood by the line of stones she’d laid out near the bench where the old lady sat. Waving her arms in circles, she screeched like a seagull. Mrs. Higgins awakened with a snort and a scowl. “Child, what in the world are you doing?”
“I’m a bird!” Maggie cried, angling her arms and racing toward the old woman. “I can fly!”
“Nonsense, you are a girl, and girls don’t fly.”
“We do, too,” Maggie insisted. “Well, I do, at leas—Yikes!” She clapped her hand over her mouth.
Lucy and Mr. Higgins hurried over, but Grace Templeton Higgins was more spry than she looked. Using her cane for leverage, she sprang up and went to the child. “What is it? Are you hurt?”
“Mmm-mmm.” Maggie kept her hand in place and spoke in a muffled voice. “My tooth ith very looth.”
“Let me see.” Putting aside Maggie’s hands, Grace tilted up her chin and said, “Open.”
“Grandmother—” Mr. Higgins began.
Lucy touched his sleeve, holding him back. As her fingers brushed his bare arm, that peculiar sensation rolled through her again. “It’s all right,” she said, amazed to see the severe old lady getting along so well with Maggie.
“Wider,” Grace said, and untucked a dainty handkerchief from her sash. “Let me see which tooth it is. Could it be…this one?”
She held the handkerchief flat on her palm.
“It’s out!” Maggie cried, dancing a little jig. “It’s out out out!” She paused to spit upon the ground.
Grace looked aghast, but when Maggie grabbed her hand and said thank you, she quickly recovered from her disgust.
“Mama, Mr. Higgins, look at this!” Maggie said, wrenching a finger into the side of her mouth to give them a wide view. “My tooth came out.”
“Congratulations,” said Mr. Higgins, looking suitably impressed.
Lucy realized that it was a milestone he’d not yet witnessed. What a wonder this must be to him, seeing his baby suddenly transformed into a little girl.
Maggie wadded up the handkerchief with the tooth and handed it to Mrs. Higgins. “You can keep it if you like.”
The old lady blinked behind her steel-rimmed spectacles. “Thank you,” she said, tucking the handkerchief in her sash. “I think perhaps I shall.”
“Honestly, I have no idea why you sell such drivel.” Mrs. Mackey held a dime novel between thumb and forefinger, letting it dangle there like a dormouse. “Waste of shelf space, if you ask me.”
Lucy was in no mood to spar with one of her least pleasant customers, but it was hard to let the remark pass. She took the slim booklet, printed on foolscap, from Mrs. Mackey. “Actually there are several reasons,” she said. “I am a bookseller, ma’am. These are books, and so I sell them. Dime novels sell briskly and in great numbers. I would be a poor businesswoman indeed if I ignored them.”
Mrs. Mackey, splendidly dressed as always in a mustard-colored morning dress and matching bonnet, sucked her tongue in disapproval. “But they are such…such awful little stories. Sentimental and simplistic. Don’t you see it as your mission to uplift and enlighten the hearts and minds of readers?”
“Of course,” Lucy said. “And that’s why I would never presume to determine what a woman should or shouldn’t read.” Some booksellers considered themselves too high-minded to stock such popular offerings; they saw themselves as gatekeepers of literary taste and roundly censored books of which they did not approve. But not Lucy. She understood all too well the dangers of censorship, banning books or sitting in judgment of someone’s reading choices.
Smiling in her most professional manner, she took one of the small books from the shelf and held it out to Mrs. Mackey. This one was called The Hostage, or Isle Royale Paradise by a lady author no one had ever heard of. “Have you ever read one?”
The bird feathers on her bonnet trembled indignantly. “Certainly not. Nor have I read anything remotely like it.”
“Then,” Lucy said with a wry smile, “you are well-qualified to criticize them.”
“Well, I—it’s just that they are just so…so preposterous,” Mrs. Mackey insisted. “Why would I waste my time reading something so preposterous?”
Lucy pressed the book into her hand. “There’s a reason these books are so popular. People like them. They like the drama and the sentiment. Take this book, Mrs. Mackey. If you don’t like it, bring it back.”
She hesitated, then accepted the garishly illustrated paperbound volume. “Very well. I suppose there’s no harm in taking a peek.”
Lucy caught Willa Jean’s eye and gave her a wink. Perhaps Mrs. Mackey would turn into a loyal devotee of the genre, which meant more frequent visits to the bookstore.
Though she enthusiastically sold the cheap, popular novels, Lucy didn’t understand them herself. Who on earth could believe such an outlandish plot as a bride taken hostage to an island paradise, and who could admire a woman who spent a whole book pining away for a man? But she had to admit, no matter what trials and perils the perfect blond beauty went through, she always reached a moment of blissful triumph in the end. Perhaps that was the appeal, the notion that out of the ashes of despair could come a grand passion and a shining new hope.
Lucy spent the rest of the day tending shop as usual, trying to convince herself that all would be well. She normally joined in the weekly reading circle, particularly when the theme was as compelling as this week’s topic of the upcoming Centennial march, to be led by Victoria Woodhull herself. Mrs. McNelis came in to purchase her monthly copy of The Voting Woman, but when she wanted to discuss the July Fourth event, Lucy was too preoccupied to give it her full energies. Today, it was all she could do to remember how to add a column of sums. After lunch, she simply gave up, letting Willa Jean handle the trade while she tried not to go absolutely mad with worry and apprehension.
Maggie was still oblivious to the turmoil surrounding her. Lucy’s mother had promised to go on as if everything was normal, helping the little girl through her morning lessons and taking her to play in the park after lunch. Soon, however, Lucy would have to break the news to Maggie.
Standing behind the tradesman’s counter, Lucy pretended to organize a stack of papers. In reality, she brooded upon her most recent meeting with Barry Lynch. On her behalf, he’d consulted a judge, and the news hadn’t been good. The law preferred the rights of the natural parents over the adoptive ones, and of course it favored the rights of a man over a woman. That was no surprise. The fact that Lucy had saved a helpless child and provided a safe and happy home for Maggie would arouse the court’s sympathy and admiration, but a ruling in Lucy’s favor was a longshot. Her best hope was to negotiate privately with the parents.
The notion daunted Lucy. She couldn’t even negotiate a bank loan with Randolph Higgins.
Near closing time, Patience Washington bustled in, her robes billowing with the summer wind and her face sober and fierce with concern. She greeted her sister, then turned her attention to Lucy. “I just got your message, child, and came right over,” she said.
Lucy motioned her into the tiny office cubicle behind the desk. Publishers’ broadsheets and book review journals lay scattered in untidy but well-organized heaps. On the wall was a newfangled bell system for calling up to the apartment. There was just enough room for Lucy and Patience to sit together.
“I went to see him,” she said without preamble. “I told Mr. Higgins about his daughter.”
“Oh, blessed day.” Patience beamed. “I knew you would.”
Lucy told her about Mr. Higgins’s stunned reaction, the furious suspicion followed by such wonder and gratitude that even reco
unting the tale, she felt an uncomfortable prickle in her throat. She described the rolling lawns of the neighborhood, the lake beach, the sad stone angel monument to Christine, the stern grandmama who had kept Maggie’s tooth, and most of all her concern about the absent wife, the former Mrs. Higgins.
“She divorced him,” Lucy said in a scandalized voice. “Left him when he could barely rise from his bed.”
“I thought you believed a woman is entitled to divorce her husband at will.”
“Of course I do, but not when it involves my child’s parents.” She stopped, wondering at the irony of her own child having other parents.
“Do you think he treated her bad, maybe beat her?”
Lucy considered the tall, brooding man who was master of the cold, tree-shaded mansion. “I cannot imagine him mistreating anyone. He is so…careful and controlled. So very gentle with Maggie. He was gardening when we arrived. I showed him the photographs of her growing up and he—” She remembered the reverent way he’d held the blanket to his face and handled the pictures. Even in his frustration over missing his daughter’s life, he had never given way to rage.
“Mr. Higgins thinks Maggie’s life is unsettled and strange. She lacks a proper nurse or governess, she lives over a shop…” His words haunted Lucy and undermined her confidence. She pulled in a long, apprehensive breath of air. “Patience, it is just as I feared. Simply knowing Maggie is alive and well is not enough for Mr. Higgins. He wants her back.”
Patience folded her hands and stared down at the desk. “We didn’t expect anything else, honey.”
“It’s more than that.” Lucy felt a fresh wave of panic. Every instinct a mother could have leaped up in denial inside her. “He wants more than the occasional visit. He intends to take her away.”