Love, Alice

by Barbara Davis

  Mrs. Tate settled herself on a tufted velvet sofa and patted the cushion beside her. “Now, then,” she said, smiling as I eased down beside her. “Tell me all about yourself.”

  I blinked at her, still trying to grasp what was happening. She obviously knew why I had come, yet she didn’t seem the slightest bit put out by my presence in her parlor. But then, a woman rich enough to buy a child probably wasn’t put out by much of anything. I studied her out of the corner of my eye, her silk suit and creamy strand of pearls, and hated her just a little. Not for the things she had, or the life she lived, but for the status she enjoyed—a married woman of means, the kind Mrs. Jennings believed deserved to raise other people’s children.

  Her eyes were still trained on me, I realized. She was waiting for me to say something. Finally, she reached over to pat my hand. “Come, now, Alice. There’s no need to be shy. If you’re going to be looking after my son, we need to get to know each other.”

  Looking after her son? There was a loud buzzing in my ears as my brain scrambled for an explanation. Did she think I had come about a job? A job raising . . . her son. Gemma Tate had a son.

  I had a son.

  A son. The words beat against my temples like a pulse. But how was any of this possible? When Landy mentioned the agency I thought she was referring to Sacred Heart, but it was beginning to look as if I wasn’t the only one who’d jumped to a wrong conclusion.

  I was relieved when Landy appeared brandishing a tray loaded down with a china tea set. She said nothing as she set down the tray, but threw me another sharp glance as she shuffled out. When she was gone, Mrs. Tate filled two cups and handed one to me.

  “Now, then, you were about to tell me your story.”

  “My story,” I repeated numbly, as the events of the last twenty-four hours blurred into this impossible moment. Suddenly, I was tired, so bone weary I wasn’t sure I could keep my head up long enough to do what I’d come to do. I had spent the last two hours rehearsing my story—how I’d been sent to Blackhurst against my will, how my child had been taken from me, how I had vowed to find that child at any cost—but the words all evaporated.

  “Perhaps you’d be more comfortable if I told you a little about us first. Then we can talk about you. I have to be honest, hiring a nanny wasn’t my idea. The truth is, I couldn’t bear the idea of sharing that little boy with anyone, but with my husband gone so much of the time it makes sense to hire someone, and so here you are. I want my son to have the best of everything, and that includes the best nanny. His name is Austin, by the way, after my daddy.”

  “Austin.” I repeated the name, out loud at first, and then again in my head. It felt wrong, not like any name I would have chosen. I made up my mind to change it the moment I had you out of the house.

  She was still going on between sips of tea. “I still can’t believe it. My husband and I waited so long for that child to come along, and what a child he is. You’ve never seen such a smart little boy in your life. I’m convinced he’s going to be walking any day now.” She clamped a hand over her mouth, shaking her head. “Will you listen to me ramble? I suppose every mother thinks her baby’s an honest-to-God miracle, but my Austin truly is. Sometimes I still can’t believe it—a mother, after all those empty years. I feel like Sarah from the Old Testament; the Lord saw fit to bless me just when I’d given up hope. He teaches us faith in some mighty strange ways, I guess, and thank heaven he does. Would you like to see him?”

  I think my heart must have stopped in my chest. She had just offered to let me see my baby—my son. You. How long had I waited to hear those words? And yet the question caught me off guard. I was still trying to find the nerve to say what I’d come to say, but the words wouldn’t form, because I could see that nothing would ever make her give you up. Her eyes were luminous, lit with pride and the kind of love only a mother can feel, deep, possessive, fierce, and I knew in that moment that she would fight for you, and that she would win. If it was left to the courts and women like Mrs. Jennings to decide, I would lose you all over again.

  Still, I couldn’t help myself. I got to my feet and followed her up the winding staircase. The floor seemed to tilt as we reached the top, and for a moment I went still, clutching the banister as a terrible idea began to take shape.

  What if I were to play along with Mrs. Tate’s charade and take the job as nanny? And what if, one day after I’d put a little money aside, I took you to the park to play—and never brought you back? Kidnapping is an ugly word, but is it really kidnapping if the child is your own? Could they put you in prison for something like that? The thought left me so giddy I stumbled over my own feet and had to grip the banister with both hands.

  Mrs. Tate reached out to steady me, her kind eyes sweeping over me. “Alice, my goodness, you’ve gone white as a sheet. Are you ill?”

  I let go of the railing and squared my shoulders. “Not at all, Mrs. Tate. I’m fine.”

  She studied me another moment before continuing down the gallery. Somehow I made my feet move, following her to what I assumed must be the nursery door, wondering all the while how hard it would be to get you back to England.

  She was beaming as she opened the door, inviting me to enter ahead of her. My heart throbbed against my ribs, and I wondered that she didn’t hear it, too, and guess my monstrous thoughts. Instead, she just stood there, smiling and radiant, as she prepared to introduce me to her little miracle. I recall nothing of the room, nothing of the furnishings or carpet or draperies, only the pair of bright eyes peering at me through the slats of an enormous crib—eyes that felt as unfamiliar to me as Mrs. Tate’s had when I entered the parlor downstairs.

  But how could that be? I looked at him again, peering out at me through the wooden bars. This was all wrong. He was supposed to look like my Johnny, with dark hair and sea-colored eyes. But there was nothing of my Johnny in his face—or of me, either.

  Mrs. Tate’s face glowed as she peered down at him in his crib. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he? I was so nervous the day he came home from the hospital. I was terrified I’d drop him and break him.”

  “From . . . the hospital?”

  “He was running a fever and they wouldn’t let me take him until his temperature went down. You can’t imagine what it’s like having to wait like that. But finally they said he was ready to come home. I swear, I held my breath the whole way. I had no idea what I was doing, and my husband was away at the time. Just look at that face. He’s the absolute spitting image of my daddy at that age. He had those exact same dimples. Austin, honey, this is Alice. She’s come to see about being your nanny.”

  The green eyes that were not Johnny’s seemed to brighten as they took me in, pleased with what they saw—or at least curious. Crabbing toward the crib railing, he curled chubby fingers around the slats, offering me a gummy smile.

  My heart seemed to come apart all at once. For months—long before Mam ever sent me to Blackhurst—I had imagined the moment I would look into your eyes and feel the bond that only exists between mother and child. But there was no bond, no heart-stopping, throat-thickening moment of recognition. This child was a stranger to me.

  I mumbled something unintelligible, and I think I may even have managed a smile, but I still can’t be sure. I had made a terrible mistake. And in my desperation had been prepared to make an even bigger one, to kidnap a child who didn’t belong to me.

  He was still gurgling as Mrs. Tate scooped him from the crib and, after planting a kiss in the crook of his neck, deposited him into my arms. He smelled of soap, and milk, and talc, the way I always imagined you would smell. My eyes blurred at the unfairness of this fresh new loss, my throat so tight I could scarcely breathe, let alone speak.

  “There, now,” Mrs. Tate was cooing. “Let me look at the two of you together. Oh yes, a fine fit, I’d say. Oh my, Alice, are you . . . are you crying, honey?”

  I shook my head, handing Au
stin back to her, then turned away to wipe my eyes. “I’m fine, really.”

  “Nonsense. People don’t cry when they’re fine. They cry when something’s wrong. And you’re still a funny color. When did you last eat?”

  Her voice seemed to be coming from a long way off, and I couldn’t make out the words. I felt boneless, as if all the fight had gone out of me in one long gush. “I don’t . . .”

  “Never mind. Come with me.” After settling her son back in his crib, she turned back to me, her face the picture of determination. “No protests, and no pretending you’re fine, either. We’re going to get some food in you, and then you’re going to tell me what’s wrong.”

  She had me by the elbow before I could answer, steering me back down the stairs. A good thing, too, since I’m quite sure I would have pitched down headfirst had I tried it on my own.

  I wanted to bolt for the door when we reached the bottom, but Mrs. Tate led me to the couch instead and dropped down beside me. I heard her call for Landy to bring some sandwiches to the parlor, along with a glass of milk. Her kindness made it worse. I had come to take her child, to steal him if necessary, and there she was, holding my hand and worrying about when I’d last eaten.

  “Now, then,” she said, looking me straight in the eye. “Tell me what’s happened. You look as if the whole world’s come crashing down around your ears.”

  Perhaps it was the kindness in her wide brown eyes, or the warmth in her tone, but suddenly I was undone, and the whole hideous calamity of the past year began to unravel in a torrent of choked words and crushing sobs. I told her about you, and how your daddy died before he could give you his name, about how Mam was so ashamed that she made me give you away. I left out the bit about Blackhurst and the nuns, and about stealing the watch and the money so I could come to America to get you back. I sounded hysterical enough without adding those bits, and for reasons I couldn’t explain, I wanted Gemma Tate to think well of me.

  I had been staring down at my lap, working at the pleats of my skirt as I made my confession. Now, as I ran out of words and the room went quiet, I had no choice but to look up. I expected disapproval. Instead, Gemma Tate’s eyes were shiny with tears, her chin quivering like a child’s.

  “Oh, honey, that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. To have to go through something like that at your age, all alone and so far from home. And your baby . . . it’s just so tragic.”

  I said nothing, afraid I would cry again.

  “Where is home, exactly?” Mrs. Tate asked, handing me the glass of milk Landy had brought. “England, I’m guessing, but what part?”

  I eyed her warily and pressed my lips tight.

  “I’m not going to try to contact your mother, honey. I’m just curious.”

  “Cornwall,” I said at last. “A little fishing village called Sennen Cove.”

  “Does she at least know where you are? Your mother, I mean?”

  “No. And I don’t want her to know. She’s nothing to me now.”

  “Oh, honey, don’t say that. You’ve been through an awful thing—a truly awful thing—but your mama will always be your mama. You’ll forgive her in time.”

  “No, I won’t!” I shot back fiercely. “You have your son. You don’t know what it’s like to ache for a child, to have a hole in your heart because a part of you is missing.”

  “But I do know, Alice.” The tears that had pooled in her eyes finally spilled, leaving shiny tracks on her cheeks. “I felt exactly like that before Austin came along, like I would never be whole without a child of my own. My heart was just so . . . empty. I know it’s not the same as what you went through, but I know that ache, honey, and it hurts me to know you feel it, too, and that it’s put a rift between you and your mama. Maybe in time . . .”

  “Time won’t change the way I feel,” I said more harshly than I meant to. I appreciated her words, and even her tears, but they stung a little, too, because she was right—it wasn’t the same thing. “I said a lot of terrible things to her before I left, and I meant them all. I’ll always mean them.”

  Mrs. Tate reached for a napkin from the tea tray and dabbed at her eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was slow and measured. “Even mothers make mistakes, Alice. It doesn’t mean we don’t love our children. There isn’t anything in the whole wide world I wouldn’t do to protect that little boy up there, because he’s mine and that’s just the way it works. And maybe that’s what your mama thought she was doing when she sent me away and made me give you up—trying to protect you.”

  “I don’t care what she was trying to do. My baby’s gone. I’ll never forgive her for that.”

  Mrs. Tate nodded. “What will you do now?”

  I shrugged and looked away.

  “Would you like to work for me, do you think? As Austin’s nanny?”

  I stared at her in disbelief. I remembered the look on Mrs. Jennings’s face as she assessed me from over the top of her glasses, summing me up in one head-to-foot glance, like I’d just crawled out of a dustbin, and I searched Gemma Tate’s face for it now. But there was no judgment, no scowl of disapproval. I didn’t understand. “But what I just told you—about the baby and not being married. Doesn’t that make me . . . unsuitable?”

  Gemma tossed her head back and laughed, a soft tinkling sound that made me think of crystal glasses at a party. “Honey, there are all kinds of reasons you’re not suitable, but none of them have to do with you having a baby. It’s more about you being white. The women in my circle tend to bring in colored women to look after their babies. It’s just how things are done here. One thing’s for certain, you’ll be the talk of my ladies’ club. But I don’t care, if you don’t. Let them talk. The only thing I care about is hiring someone who will love my son as much as I do, and you’ve got a whole lot of love in your heart to give. If you’re interested, that is. It would mean living here with us, though. Would that be a problem?”

  The tears came again, quieter this time. I knew what she was doing. She was taking pity on me—a disgraced woman with no money and no prospects—and I didn’t care. I hadn’t a shred of pride left. How could I, without a friend in the world or a penny in my pocket? It was an act of Christian kindness, scraps from a rich woman’s table, and I jumped for it.

  Perhaps I should have told her the truth then and there, that I hadn’t been sent by an employment agency, that I had paid a man to tell me who had adopted my child, and that that man had lied to me, but I didn’t. I had fallen into this woman’s kindness, and would not risk it by telling the truth. And so, my little one, that is how I came to be nanny for one of the richest little boys in Charleston. Looking after someone else’s child, day after day, when I’ve been deprived of my own, will be the cruelest form of torture, but I’ll have a job and a place to bide my time while I think how to keep on with my search. For that, and so much more, I will always be grateful to Gemma Tate. Please don’t think for a moment that I’ve stopped yearning for the day we’ll be together. I haven’t. You’re out there, somewhere, and I promise to find you if it takes my last breath.

  All my love,

  Mam

  THIRTY-ONE

  PALMETTO MOON MOTEL

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  OCTOBER 25, 2005

  Dovie stole a glance at Dora, pale and stoic on the bench beside her, seemingly oblivious to the sinking sun and the soft amber rays filtering down through the ancient oaks overhead. It had been an unusually balmy day for November, a last gasp of warmth before fall finally gave way to another chilly Lowcountry winter. Dovie had suggested they go out to the little courtyard near the pool while she read, hoping the fresh air and change of scenery might help Dora’s cough and perhaps even lighten her mood.

  It was impossible to ignore the precipitous decline in Dora’s health. She’d lost an alarming amount of weight since their first meeting nearly three weeks ago, and seemed to be ha
ving more bad days than good, despite the array of pill bottles beside her bed. But it was the chronic wheezing Dovie found most worrisome, along with the coughing spells that seemed to come with greater and greater frequency these days.

  She had promised to hold nothing back in reading the letters, and technically, she’d kept that promise. But given Dora’s deteriorating health and fragile state of mind, she had decided a little restraint might not be a bad thing, which was why they had agreed that Dovie would be sharing the letters in increments of no more than two or three at a time, to give Dora a chance to absorb whatever might be in them. Now, looking at the set of Dora’s shoulders, stooped with the weight of new sorrows, she wondered if even that had been too much.

  At least they finally knew how Alice had come to work for the Tates, how she’d been duped into believing she was near the end of her quest, only to discover she’d been taken advantage of in the most heinous way by the greedy and opportunistic Danny. To have endured so much, sacrificed so much, for the love of a child she’d never even held in her arms was an admirable thing, though the details had proven hard reading indeed.

  “You raised a brave and remarkable young woman,” Dovie told Dora quietly. “You should be proud of that. Through everything, she never lost sight of her child. That took courage, and a whole lot of will.”

  Dora shook her head, a slow, heavy lolling. “She was those things in spite of me, not because of me. It was her father she took after. A will of steel that boy had. You could see it in his eyes, green as the sea in a storm, and hard. When he wanted something he took it. And when he didn’t he let it alone. Just like he did me. That’s where she gets her backbone. Not from me. I’ve always been a coward.”