by Susan Wiggs
“Mr. Lynch consulted Judge Roth on my behalf to see if I have any legal recourse whatsoever.”
“And do you?”
“Not likely.” Lucy nearly choked on the words. “He thought perhaps I might be entitled to some manner of compensation for my troubles, but that is all.” She let loose with a sharp, humorless laugh. “How much is a mother to be paid for loving a child? A thousand dollars? Ten thousand? Six million? How can you put a price on such a thing?”
“What does your heart tell you to do?” asked Patience.
“Run,” Lucy answered instantly. “As fast and as far as I can, to a place where he will never find us.”
“Girl, that’s not your heart speaking. That’s instinct. You got to ask yourself what your life would be like, always running, always looking over your shoulder. You’d never feel safe. Is that any sort of a life for a child?”
“I know you’re right, Patience. I can’t flee. My whole world is here. The Firebrand, my mother, our customers.” She gave the preacher’s hands a squeeze before letting them go. “My friends and my church. Without that, life would not be worth a copper penny.”
“So…?”
“So I suppose I must fight Randolph Higgins on any grounds possible.” She shut her burning eyes; she hadn’t slept a wink the night before. “I would fight to the death to keep Maggie.”
Patience was silent for so long that Lucy dragged her eyes open. Patience had a tender, thoughtful expression on her handsome face; she waited with an abiding forbearance that made her name so fitting.
“What?” Lucy demanded.
“You better think about what Maggie’s going to go through during this here fight of yours.” She stood slowly, her lumbering movements a distant echo of the toil and abuse she’d endured growing up poorer than poor until the Hathaways had taken her and her sister in.
“Is that all you have to say?” Lucy asked.
“Good Book’s got something to say. First Book of Kings, chapter three, girl. See if the Lord will show you the way.”
The moment she was gone, Lucy raced to the bookcase in the shop containing religious and spiritual titles and took out a heavy King James. Ignoring Willa Jean’s probing stare, Lucy opened the book to the chapter and verse Patience had cited.
She was painfully familiar with the story. Two women laid claim to the same infant. To figure out the identity of the true mother, King Solomon commanded that the baby be cut in half and distributed in equal parts to the two mothers. One woman instantly shrieked out a protest and begged the king to give the child to her rival. In that moment, the king knew the protesting woman was the infant’s mother because no true mother would sacrifice her child for the sake of her own selfish needs.
Lucy replaced the Bible on the shelf. The message was clear. If she chose to put up a fight, the casualty would be Maggie.
She walked to the shop window, her footsteps clicking on the scrubbed plank floor. Standing at the window, she viewed the park across the way, where her mother sat with her knitting in her lap and Maggie played a disorganized round of baseball with a group of neighborhood boys. A powerful wave of love nearly sent Lucy to her knees, but she stood firm.
She knew what she had to do.
TWELVE
Based on the scandalous reputation of The Firebrand, Rand half expected to encounter chanting, wild-eyed Amazons on the sidewalk outside the establishment. Instead the little shop appeared to be a rather ordinary, even pleasant-looking place. Situated amid a row of merchants’ shops on the west side of Gantry Street, it faced a stand of sycamores on the opposite verge, which bordered a small city park. The brick front facade framed a picture window he knew had been wildly expensive. But in her loan papers, Lucy Hathaway had written that the outward appearance of her establishment was a critical factor in its success, and in building its false front she’d spared no expense.
Typical woman, he thought. More concerned with appearance than substance. And clearly, judging by the cryptic message he’d received from her, enamored of high drama.
She had summoned him by telegraph messenger. Everyone, even the janitor at the bank, knew Randolph Higgins did not enjoy correspondence by telegraph, yet apparently Miss Hathaway was a dedicated user of the newfangled system, sending young men dressed like organ grinders’ monkeys out to deliver her messages.
Miss Hathaway desires that you call at her shop at ten o’clock in the morning….
It had the tone of a royal summons. From anyone else in the world, Rand would ignore it as the self-important imperative of a bank client, but this was different. This was Lucy. This was the person Christine called “Mama.”
He forced himself to sit still while his driver fitted the brake blocks in front of the wheels of the coach, though he did crane his neck around, looking for his daughter.
His daughter. Alive and well. To a man who had never before dared to believe in miracles, this had made a believer of him.
The hard part was the waiting, the holding back. Only minutes after Lucy and Christine had left his house, he’d summoned a team of solicitors from the best law firm in the city. Since it was a Sunday, he’d gathered them from their family dinners and rounds of golf. After recovering from their initial amazement, the lawyers had advised him to progress methodically through the steps of reclaiming his child. One legal misstep, and he could lose her again. They did assure him, however, that he would get her back. What judge in the city would dare to question the rights of a natural parent, particularly a man of Randolph Higgins’s status?
What about the fact that his wife had divorced him? He’d been forced to ask it.
The lawyers were not worried about that. Besides, they pointed out, when she learned of Christine’s survival, Diana would surely come rushing back to him.
And surely, thought Rand morosely, the moon would fall out of the sky.
Still, miracles did happen, and Christine was proof of that. The task ahead was to find the best and fairest way to bring her back into his life. That imperative, more than any lawyer’s advice, governed his impulses now. The child was about to undergo a big change in her way of life, and he wanted to make the transition as smooth as possible.
But as he thought of Lucy Hathaway, he could not imagine anything going smoothly. The woman was a human cyclone, ripping through his life and leaving chaos in her wake. But she’d saved Christine. She’d raised a happy, healthy child. For that, he owed her a debt beyond counting.
Holding a black leather case stuffed with hastily prepared legal briefs, he took out his pocket watch, thumbing open the gold dome of the cover. He was five minutes early. He flipped the watch shut and put it into the shallow pocket of his waistcoat, remembering the day he’d received it. His father, Bradwell Higgins, had given it to him on the occasion of his engagement to Diana Layton, the most sought-after debutante in Philadelphia. Rand remembered his father’s approval and his own feeling that for once he’d done something right.
His father was notoriously difficult to please. Grandmother Higgins had always said it was because of Rand’s mother. Her name hadn’t been spoken aloud by any Higgins since Rand was ten years old.
His memories of her were few and vague. He remembered Pamela Byrd Higgins as a gentle, soft-eyed woman who rarely spoke or smiled. He recalled the soothing tenderness of a woman’s hand upon his brow when he was sick. Sometimes, if he closed his eyes, he could still summon the faint, haunting fragrance of lily of the valley, with which she scented her handkerchiefs. Rand kept his memories of her secreted away, like things kept in a trunk he never looked in but could not bear to part with.
His father had destroyed all traces of Pamela when she had left, offering no explanation and disappearing like a melting snowflake, never to return.
Only the intervention of Grandmother Higgins had soothed Bradwell’s savage temper. She’d pointed out that Pamela had always been unstable and unpredictable. Hadn’t she slid into a deep depression after Rand’s birth, refusing to speak for nearly a year? Didn’t she
spend hours hunched over her writing desk, churning out Lord knew what?
Rand paced back and forth on the sidewalk, trying unsuccessfully to shake off the memories. He knew why they had been haunting him. He was a man who had met with success in every area of his life except the only one that truly mattered, and that was family. His mother had left his father, Diana had left him and his daughter had been raised by a stranger.
He wondered if he’d done a terrible thing in a past life, to be so cursed. And truly, the only thing he wanted was a happiness most men acquired without a great deal of trouble. Was it so much to ask for a contented wife and family?
At precisely ten o’clock, Rand opened the door of the shop, setting off a high-pitched brass bell as he stepped inside. A small Negro woman looked up from her post behind a plank counter.
“You must be Mr. Higgins,” she said.
Her unsmiling scrutiny made him conscious of his scars, yet she seemed to be taking his measure, not wondering about his wounds. This woman probably knew more than his name. Lucy Hathaway had likely told her associates that he meant to steal “her” daughter. He inclined his head in slightly formal fashion. “I’m here to see Miss Hathaway,” he said needlessly.
“I’ll let her know you’re here.” The woman kept her eyes on him as she left the counter and stepped through a glass-paned door behind her.
His nerves alive with anticipation, Rand turned his attention to the small shop. He was curious about the establishment, so adamantly opposed by the men associated with his bank. Near the front window was a comfortable rocker, and the walls and aisles were lined and sectioned by shelves. A brass ladder on rollers was positioned at the end of one aisle, and several customers browsed through books of varying quality. The shoppers wore dresses with prominent bustles; they hardly resembled the suffrage-minded viragos depicted by the satirists in the Chicago Tribune. They appeared as ordinary and proper as the wives of his banking clients. These ladies did not seem the sort to beat their breasts or breathe fire with passion for their cause. Yet somehow, their very ordinariness made them all the more powerful. They sent sideways glances his way, no doubt wondering what a man was doing in their midst. He nodded briefly to acknowledge the ladies and turned away.
Contrary to the picture he’d formed in his mind of an unkempt and lawless environment, he found the shop to be surprisingly orderly. The books were organized by subjects indicated by hand-lettered signs. A long table surrounded by battered yellow maple chairs dominated the room. Stacks of books and pamphlets covered the table. He picked one up, glanced at the title: “The Science of Preventing Conception.” He dropped the pamphlet as if it had stung him.
Propped at the end of the shelves was a slate board with a message in chalk: “No state shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States. —Fourteenth Amendment of the United States Constitution. Patrons are kindly reminded to vote…” He recognized Lucy Hathaway’s handwriting and her egalitarian spirit. Below that, in a scrawl of block letters, was a sketch of a cat and the word “Silky.”
Christine’s work, no doubt. A sense of wonder touched him. When he’d lost her, she’d barely been able to talk. Now she was writing words on a chalkboard. Clearly Miss Hathaway had done her best, but Christine needed a complete education, not just the haphazard schooling of a political radical.
He strolled over to a window that framed a view of the tiny concrete garden at the rear of the shop. There was Christine, playing with a cat while an older lady sat nearby, knitting.
His daughter was alive and well. More than well, she seemed filled with a special energy as she dangled a ball of yarn in front of the cat, which tracked the loose end with intense, predatory purpose. The older lady, a softer, more mellow version of Lucy, smiled indulgently and didn’t seem to mind that a cat was attacking her yarn.
When Christine jammed her foot into the crotch of the old apple tree and hoisted herself up, his instincts told him to rush outside and stop her. But Mrs. Hathaway simply tilted up her head, spoke briefly and then returned to her knitting. Christine climbed like a monkey through the branches, paying out the yarn as she went. The cat shot after the dangling end, and the child laughed as the inept hunter kept missing its mark.
Despite being raised in unorthodox circumstances, Christine appeared happy. Of course, he assured himself, she’d never known a conventional way of life. Once she made the transition, she would find an even deeper, safer happiness, he was certain of it.
“Don’t worry about the tree climbing,” Lucy said, suddenly standing behind him. “She is an expert.”
He swung around, startled even though he was expecting her. “I have a natural apprehension about children behaving in risky ways.”
Lucy studied the little girl out the window. A peculiar softness suffused her face, making her look almost pretty. “All of life is a risk, Mr. Higgins.”
She led the way into a cluttered office little bigger than a closet. “Here you have it,” she said, seating herself behind a desk littered with correspondence and invoices. “The heart of my enterprise.”
Pulling the door shut, he sat on a narrow bench and set down his case with a thud. They had an uncomfortable discussion to get through. Lucy Hathaway was no fool, and had probably made certain preparations of her own. He braced himself to do battle for his child. How far would he have to go? His lawyers had warned him that he might have to discredit her, even if it meant attacking her character. Her lovers from France, her precarious finances, her activism in the suffrage movement—all were fair game in the fight to keep Christine.
“Thank you for coming so promptly,” she began, folding her small hands upon the desk. They were rather nice hands, he observed, unassuming and prone to nervous flutters if she didn’t keep them clasped and in view.
“I am as eager to get this settled as you are,” he assured her.
“Yes, well, yes. Settled. Let me begin by saying that I see this situation from one point of view only—the point of view of someone who cares about Maggie above all else. My decision has been made with her well-being in mind, even when that is at odds with my own desires.”
So far, she sounded bloody reasonable. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with a reasonable woman.
“Naturally, that is my paramount concern as well. Christine’s future is the most important work I have ever undertaken.”
Her breath caught with a barely audible hitch. “I see,” she said. “Then I must ask you to consider letting Maggie stay with me. You will be welcome to visit anytime you wish, but she belongs here.”
He gritted his teeth. “Out of the question. My child will not be raised over a shop. By a woman who boasts of her sexual exploits with French lovers.”
Her cheeks burned scarlet. “Sir, you seem preoccupied with my private life. Don’t tell me you have been celibate all these years.”
Her comment darted into him, unexpected as a sneak attack. “Very well, I won’t tell you that.”
She narrowed her eyes. “That tells me nothing.”
Exactly as he’d intended. He pressed his hands on the edge of the desk. “I know where my bitterness comes from, Miss Hathaway. What is the source of yours?”
She glared at him. “Perhaps your accusations make me edgy—”
He raised a hand to silence her before she continued. “We should cease this arguing. For Christine’s sake, we must be rational in our approach to this dilemma. My position is clear. My daughter will live with me.”
She swallowed hard. “I feared you’d say that. But you understand, I had to try. Now, since you refuse to yield to my judgment, I’ve devised an alternative arrangement.” She pushed a long document across the desk to him. “Here are my terms.”
His instinct was to crush the papers into a ball. Who the devil did she think she was, dictating the terms of his reunification with his own flesh-and-blood daughter? Still, he reminded himself, this was Christine’s foster mother, and he woul
d grant her the courtesy of reading her agreement.
“May I have a moment?” he asked.
“Of course.” Her skin was very white, her lips taut. “Take as long as you need.”
But he didn’t need much time at all. By the time he finished the first page, he understood the gist of it. His heart thumped wildly and a chill passed over his skin.
“You are surrendering her to my custody.”
“Yes.” Her face was a mask he could not read.
He swallowed past the dryness in his throat. “Forgive me for sitting here like an idiot, but I didn’t expect this.”
“You expected me to fight like a wet cat in a corner.”
The accuracy of her prediction amused him a little. “Well, actually—”
“Believe me, Mr. Higgins, I considered it.” She clasped and unclasped her hands. “I considered many possibilities, including disappearing to a place where you would never find us. But I discounted that. I will not live in exile.”
He was amazed she was giving the child up so easily. Perhaps, like many radical suffragists, she’d felt shackled by the responsibility of raising a child. Perhaps she felt liberated by the notion of giving Christine up.
As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he dismissed it. Lucy Hathaway was a stranger in many ways, but one thing had been clear from the start. She adored the little girl and was devoted to her. “I have to ask why,” he said.
“Of course. You probably think I feel oppressed by the burden of motherhood and wish to be rid of it as soon as possible.”
A rueful smile tightened his lips. “You see right through me, Miss Hathaway. I confess, the notion did cross my mind. But I rejected the thought. I may disagree with your politics, but I’ll not deny your love for my daughter.”
She was quiet for a moment, and he sensed her struggling with something. It was strange, this affinity he had for her, this way of knowing she was in pain.
Then she nodded. “I kept coming back to one matter—what is best for Maggie. I don’t want to force her to endure the life of a fugitive just because of my own selfishness. Nor do I want her to feel like a piece of disputed property. She would be hurt by a protracted battle, so I’ve chosen not to fight.”