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The Legacy
Kate Hoffmann
Three generations of women fight a legacy…of loss…As a widow, Rose Fitzgerald is forced to take work as a maid. But when madness and disease invade the manor house, Rose knows she must stay strong–or lose her baby daughter, Grace.lies…As an adult, Grace flees her poisoned past, landing in the arms of World War II lieutenant Adam Callahan. But then a secret marriage and a shocking truth put her newfound happiness at risk.and ill-fated loveWith a grown daughter, Grace fears Jane will suffer the destiny of all their kinswomen. But Jane vows to break the tragic cycle…with a man whose powerful love just might make that possible.





Dear Reader,
It’s difficult to believe that this is the twelfth book in my Quinn family saga. When I began this series in September 2001, I never dreamed that it would become so involved. But many of you have written and even more have bought the Quinn books, making them a very popular family!
I’ve explored the original six Quinn brothers, their sister, three of their cousins and a good number of their ancestors, as well. And in The Legacy, I return again to Ireland to tell the story of a long line of women—the ancestors of Emma Porter Callahan Quinn, the mother of my three latest Quinn heroes, Ian, Declan and Marcus. The story begins in the months before the Irish famine of the 1840s and ends in America. And like the stories that came before it, it’s a story of love and family loyalty.
I’m not sure if there will be more Quinn stories. It is a large family and there are many cousins. But for now, I’ll leave you with this book. Be sure to look for new stories from me, coming out in the Blaze line. You can keep up to date with all my releases at www.katehoffmann.com.
Happy reading,
Kate Hoffmann

The Legacy
Kate Hoffmann

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

KATE HOFFMANN
has penned over fifty stories for Harlequin Books since her first release in 1993. She has enjoyed creating sexy heroes that her heroines (and her readers) can’t possibly resist. Kate lives in a small town in Wisconsin with her three cats and her computer. She enjoys golfing, genealogy and gardening, and also volunteers with music and theater programs for young people in her community. Her favorite place in the whole wide world is her bedroom. Her second favorite place is Ireland, which is where the fairies worked their magic and put the Mighty Quinns in her path. The popular family saga now encompasses twelve books with the release of The Legacy.
For Marie Grace McDougall and Jack Edward Parry, together again.

CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE
14 April 1845
Today is my wedding day. My name is Jane Flaherty— now Jane McClary for I have married Michael McClary this morning at our parish church. I begin this diary so that I might look back in years to come on the early days of my marriage, so that I might tell my children of the tiny details of my life. And here I begin. This book was given to me by the lady who employs me as a seamstress. Her name is Mrs. Grant and she tells me I am a fine talent with needle and thread. She said it would be useful to have a place to keep my household accounts, and made of this small book, a wedding gift. But instead, I will write my thoughts and my dreams on these pages. It is for her kindness that I am able to write and read at all, for she taught me when I first went to work for her. And I will teach my daughters and they will teach theirs. Then they may all see the world in the pages of great books. My Michael has come home for his supper and I must end here.
“AMERICA?”
Jane McClary slowly sank into the rough wooden chair, placing her hands on the table. Her heart felt as if it had dropped to the floor and she stared at her husband. His eyes were bright with excitement, a quality that had made her fall in love with him the very first time they’d met.
“Surely you see.” Michael reached out and took her hands between his, the calluses rough against her skin. “Our future is there. There are jobs and good land to farm. People are leaving every day, from Dublin and from Cork. The boats are full to Liverpool and still more want to go.”
“But, our home is here,” Jane said. “Our families are here.”
Michael shook his head. “But not our future.” He glanced around the sod house. “I work until my back aches and my fingers bleed and we never get ahead. And you, you sew into the wee hours, your eyes straining to see the stitches, and for nothing more than a few shillings. How much longer can you do that, Jane? And what will happen when we have a family? It will be even more difficult to leave then. If we are to go, it must be now.”
“But we can’t afford one passage, how could we afford two?”
“We won’t,” he said. “It’s three pounds ten. We have a bit saved and Johnny Cleary says that he’ll loan me the rest for he’s taken his entire flock of sheep to market just today. And when I get there, I will find work and send for you. Our babies will be born in America, Jane, and they will grow up fine and strong. They will have a future that they could never have here in Ireland.”
Jane drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She had seen friends and relatives make the same decision, and though she’d heard harrowing tales of the dangers of crossing the Atlantic, all that she knew had arrived safely. And Michael was right. Ireland offered nothing to an ambitious man and he had always been that. A bit of a dreamer, too, she thought to herself. But how could she deny him this? She was his wife and bound to follow where he led, like Ruth from the Bible. It was her duty.
“When will you go?” she asked.
“In a week’s time,” he said.
“That soon?” Jane dropped her hands to her lap, twisting her fingers together nervously. They’d been married not yet three months and now he would leave her to live alone.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of newsprint. “There. Read that. Johnny gave that to me. He says there’ll be jobs waiting for us. Good jobs with good pay.”
Jane picked up the paper and read the advertisement. “Strong Irish Lads Wanted,” she said. “Railroad work. A dollar a day, room and board included. Call at 17 Carney Street, Boston, upon arrival.” She glanced up at Michael. “And how long until I might join you?” she asked.
“They say the passage is six or seven weeks, eight if the weather turns bad. I will work through the winter and send for you in the spring. The time will fly by and you will barely know I’m gone. And during that time, you will sew curtains for our grand new house in America. I promise you, Jane, it won’t be a dark and tiny stone cottage with a leaky thatch roof. It will be a grand house made of wood, with real glass windows and a marble fireplace to keep you warm at night.”
Jane put her hand on her belly. The baby would be born in the spring, March if she counted correctly. She hadn’t told Michael yet. She’d wanted to wait just a bit longer to be certain. But now, she would keep the secret from her husband, for if he knew, then he would never leave.
She pushed away from the table and walked to the dry sink, then pulled down the small butter crock from the shelf above it. Inside was their life savings, enough to buy a pretty dress, new pair of shoes and perhaps dinner at a fancy hotel in Dublin. Jane crossed to the table and dumped the money on the scarred surface, then counted it out. “One pound, nine,” she murmured. “We can sell the cow. You’ll have to have food to eat, and a warm coat. I hear that winters are fierce in America and I won’t have you getting sick for wont of decent clothing.”
“And what will you do for milk and butter if we have no cow?”
“I will buy it in town. Mrs. Grant pays me enough to feed me. And Jack Kelly has always coveted this plot of land. He’ll be happy to take it over after I harvest the crop. I can sell the potatoes you won’t be here to eat and the garden will provide the rest. I will do quite well for myself,” Jane said with a weak smile. “You married a clever girl, Michael McClary, and you would do well not to forget that.”
Michael nodded, then rose to stand beside her. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her against him, kissing her softly on the forehead. “We’ll have a fine life in America,” he said. “I’ve seen it in my dreams.”
Jane closed her eyes and pressed her cheek against his chest. His heart beat, strong and sure, and Jane tried to memorize what it felt like to be held by him. There would come a night when she’d reach across the rope bed and he wouldn’t be there. But she would be brave, for she loved this man and would follow him to the ends of the earth if he asked.

CHAPTER ONE
ROSE
Dublin, 1924
ROSE BYRNE STOOD IN THE protection of a church facade, staring out at the cold drizzle that had turned the cobblestone streets slick. The sky above was so gray she couldn’t tell if it was morning or afternoon. She’d stopped listening to the chiming of the church bells on the hour. It only made the time move more slowly.
Rain had been falling for almost three days and the dampness had set into her bones and her lungs until she wondered if she’d ever feel warm again. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine a sunny summer day from her childhood, when she’d walked in the meadows around her Grandmother Patrick’s Wexford cottage and lain in the tall grass amongst the butterflies and wildflowers.
Life had been so simple then, her dreams untarnished, her future full of promise. Though it had not been five years ago, it seemed like a lifetime now, so much had changed. She’d married at nineteen and traveled with her husband, Jamie Byrne, to Dublin where he’d found work at a mill. They’d lived in a small flat near the river, just two drafty rooms and a grimy window with a view of another tenement, so different from her grandmother’s cottage. But it might have been scalp, a hole dug in the ground with sticks for a roof, for all she and Jamie cared.
Though the country was in turmoil and Dublin at the center of it, at first Rose and Jamie paid little attention to the politics that drove Irish life. Though Jamie worked hard, his pay never seemed to be enough to buy any more than the necessities. After a time, he became frustrated and spent his evenings at the pubs instead of at home.
Rose found work taking in laundry and sewing for a well-to-do Irish merchant and his family. And when she’d discovered herself pregnant after six months of marriage, she and Jamie had looked forward to the birth of their first child. But the baby had been stillborn just a month before it was due and a miscarriage followed that.
When she found herself pregnant again, she had begged Jamie to take her back to Wexford, to use the small inheritance from her Grandmother Patrick to build a new life where the air was fresh and she might have a chance to carry her baby to term. But Jamie had become involved in a patriot’s cause, in a revolution that had been brewing for years in the pubs and factories all over Ireland. He refused to leave.
It was his duty to their unborn child, he’d argued. He wanted his children to grow up in a free Ireland, an Ireland that might promise a better future than the one he’d been dealt. But Rose was frightened she would bring a child into a world at war with itself and as her time grew near, she watched the conflict escalate and her husband take risks that put his life in danger daily.
Jamie had sworn his allegiance to the IRA, determined that Ireland become an independent and unified republic from north to south, east to west. But the Free Staters, willing to let the northern counties of Ulster go in a treaty with Britain, won out in the end.
His dedication to a lost cause had cost him his life. Jamie Byrne, husband of Rose Catherine Doyle, had been killed in October of 1921, when he and three other Republicans were ambushed on a country road outside of Dublin. He’d been buried by the government in an unmarked grave.
A cough wracked her chest and the child nestled against her body wriggled beneath the damp wool blanket, her wide, blue eyes staring up at Rose. “It’ll be fine,” she cooed. “We’ll find a place to live with a warm fire and a solid roof. And we’ll have hot food to eat and I’ll feel better again.”
“Sleep, Mama,” Mary Grace murmured, reaching up to touch her mother’s cheek.
Rose drew the blanket up around the child’s face, then stared down at her dirty fingernails. Her hem had been soaked in so much muddy water, her white petticoat had turned grey. And her hair, once a vibrant auburn, was now limp and filthy.
Mary Grace Byrne had been born a week after Jamie was murdered, three years ago. Rose had almost expected the angels to take her, as well. They’d taken so many of the people she’d loved—her mother and brother, her grandmother, and her beloved Jamie. But though she’d come a month early, Mary Grace had inherited her father’s dark hair, his indomitable spirit and his good health.
They’d lived on the inheritance for a time and money she took in for laundry and sewing. Rose had tried to find a job in a factory, but her health prevented her from working the long hours. Money soon became scarce and the landlord impatient. She’d been forced to sell the sewing machine that her grandmother had given her as wedding present. With it went any chance to make a living.
Three months ago, she and Mary Grace were evicted, tossed out onto the streets after she’d fallen behind on the rent. Now, she was forced to scrabble through the rubbish bins for food, joining the ranks of the poor and indigent who existed on whatever the streets of Dublin could provide. She knew to hide during the day and to forage at night, avoiding the authorities who might drag her off to the poorhouse and take her daughter away from her. And occasionally, a passerby would take pity and toss her a coin, enough to buy Mary Grace a bit of milk and bread.
She began to hum a tune, a lullaby that she remembered from her childhood, rocking her daughter against her. If only she’d had family she could turn to, Rose thought. Her parents were gone, her mother dead in childbirth with Rose’s younger brother. Her father had put Rose in the care of Bridgit’s mother, Elizabeth Patrick, and then left without a word as to his destination or his return. Rose could barely remember him. But when she fell in love with Jamie, she’d thought she’d found a man who would protect her forever. She’d been so terribly naive.
Rose shivered, hugging her daughter close. How much longer could they survive? Winter was nearly upon them and the weather was becoming so cold. She hadn’t eaten in three days and if she didn’t get out and find food for them both, she’d be forced to make a decision soon. To die with her child and join her family in heaven, or to leave the girl on the steps of St. Vincent’s orphanage. Surely the sisters would take good care of such a pretty little thing.
She pressed her lips to Mary Grace’s smooth forehead, then ran her fingers over the wavy dark hair on her head. “You’re a strong little thing, you are. You come from a long line of strong women. We still have time, wee one. We’ll find a way, I swear on all that’s holy.”
Rose reached into the bundle she carried, the sum total of her life tucked inside a tattered scrap of wool. She withdrew a leather-bound journal and carefully flipped through the pages of tidy script. Her family hadn’t had much. No pretty heirlooms to pass down. But her grandmother had given her Jane McClary’s diary, an account of the horrible years of the potato famine in the 1840s.
It had always been passed to the first-born daughter and when Rose had been married, her grandmother had handed it to her, tears swimming in her eyes. “You must keep the story alive now,” she murmured. “This was my most treasured possession. I gave it to your mother on her wedding day and now, it is yours.”
It wouldn’t fetch much, Rose mused. Had it been a brooch or a bracelet, she might have sold it to buy food. But then, a previous generation might have done the same and there would never have been a legacy to pass along. But somehow, Rose knew that this was the way of it, that the words of Jane McClary had been written especially for her…to give her strength, to keep her alive when all hope seemed gone.
She opened to a random page and turned the book toward the feeble light. With the diary had come an education, for Jane had taught her own daughter to read and write, and Rose’s grandmother, Elizabeth, had taught Rose’s mother, Bridgit. And when the time came, Rose would teach her own daughter, Mary Grace, and she would know for herself that she came from a long line of stubborn, independent and courageous women.
10 August 1845
Michael is gone. Bound for Liverpool he is and from there will travel by ship to Boston, America. I made a brave face for his leaving, but my heart felt a terrible fear. The babe growing inside me must feel this too. There are whispers of a blight on the potato crop, but all seems well here. Michael will find work when he lands and then will send for me and our child. I pray for his safe journey and for the day we will see each other again.
Rose had read the diary over and over again since the day it had been given to her. And in the bleakest of times, it had provided courage and perspective. Jane had lived through a famine, nearly starving to keep her daughter, Elizabeth, alive. And Elizabeth had survived and given birth to seven children, including Rose’s mother, Bridgit, and then had raised Rose. Elizabeth Byrne Patrick had lived to the age of seventy-five and died in her sleep six months before Mary Grace had been born.
All her living children had long ago left for America and there had been only one heir who remained to mourn her—Rose. Would she have a long life as her grandmother had? Would she live to marry again and give her daughter brothers and sisters to play with? Or would she leave this earth as her mother had, slipping away at a young age with barely a chance to live?
Rose pushed aside the wool blanket and reached beneath her daughter’s rough linen shift. She withdrew a small gold medallion, then stared at the words written in Gaelic around the edge. “Love will find a way,” she murmured. Jamie had given her the medallion as a wedding gift and he’d worn one just like it, the one she now wore around her own neck. The gold would buy them another week of life, perhaps two. Tomorrow, she would find a place to sell them both.
She closed her eyes, then slowly slid down along the rough stone wall until she sat with Mary Grace cradled in her lap. Drawing the blanket up over their heads, she closed her eyes and let sleep absolve her of her worries. Love would find a way.
The love she had for her daughter was such a powerful thing…it had to count for something.

LADY GENEVA PORTER SLOWLY walked up the steps to Christ Church cathedral. She made a point to visit the cathedral every time she traveled to Dublin, seeking comfort in the grandeur of the Gothic architecture and the beauty of the stained glass. Even on a gloomy day like today, she found warmth and light here.
She always came for the same reason. Her mother had once told her prayers said in a cathedral got to heaven faster than those said in an ordinary church. She’d always hoped that it were true. Reaching into the pocket of her cloak, she smoothed her fingers over the Bible she’d brought with her, then reached out for Edward’s hand.
Her son was no longer at her side and Geneva turned, searching for the seven-year old. He’d wandered over to a large pillar and was staring down at a pile of rags, left in a sheltered spot.
“Edward, come along.”
“Mummy, what’s this?”
“Edward! Come away from there! It’s probably just rags for the charity bin.”
She watched as he kicked at the pile of rags with the toe of his boot. To Geneva’s horror, it moved. Edward jumped back and she rushed over to grab his arm. “Come away, I said.”
“Mummy! Someone’s hiding under there!”
She pulled him along toward the door of the church, but a child’s cry stopped her in her tracks, the sound hauntingly familiar. “Lottie?” she murmured, pressing her hand to her breast.
Geneva turned around and slowly approached the source of the sound, stunned that someone would have left a child amongst a pile of rags. These Irish had no sense of responsibility, Geneva thought, anger bubbling up inside her. But when she reached the spot, she realized that the rags hid both a woman and a child.
“Is she dead, Mummy?” Edward asked, clinging to his mother’s arm.
Geneva knelt and plucked at the filthy blanket wrapped around the woman’s head and face. Once she’d brushed it aside, she found the child, resting in the woman’s lap, whimpering, her grimy cheeks wet with tears. The little girl turned brilliant blue eyes up to Geneva and smiled through her tears. “Mama?”
Geneva felt the breath leave her body and for a moment, she thought she might faint. But then, her heart began to beat again and she reached out and touched the girl. “Edward, run and get Farrell. Tell him to bring the motorcar around.”
“Why?”
“Just do as I say,” Geneva snapped. She brushed dirty hair from the woman’s face, stunned to see how young she was—and how deathly pale “Hello,” she murmured. “Can you hear me?”
The woman stirred slightly, her eyes fluttering open for a moment. “My girl,” she murmured. “Please help my daughter.” With trembling hands, she tried to hold the child out to Geneva. “Keep her safe.”
Geneva carefully picked the child up and set her on her feet. Compared to the mother, the child looked to be in relatively good health, although grimy from the soot and dust that hung in the air. From the child’s size she’d judge her to be two or three years old, but children raised in Irish poverty were often smaller than those raised in the comforts of a good English home.
The girl stopped whimpering the moment Geneva helped her to stand and she held out her little arms and hands to Geneva as she tumbled into her skirts. “Mama,” she said with a soft giggle. “Go home, Mama. Now.”
“Charlotte?” Geneva whispered. Tears flooded her eyes as she remembered the first time she’d held her own daughter, all red and wrinkled, the doctor proclaiming the first Porter child to be in excellent health.
Geneva hooked her finger beneath the child’s chin and examined her face more closely. “You are Charlotte, aren’t you?” Geneva said, her voice trembling. “You called to me and I came. I knew I’d find you again.” She hugged the child fiercely and the girl gave a tiny cry of surprise. “I never stopped looking. Never. I’m going to take you home, Charlotte.”
She felt a hand on her shoulder and she turned to find Edward standing behind her. “Mummy, are you all right?”
Geneva brushed the tears from her cheeks and forced a smile. “Of course, darling. Did you find Farrell?”
Edward nodded. A few moments later, Farrell joined them, dressed in a finely pressed uniform. “Help me,” Geneva ordered. “Farrell, we need to get this woman to the car immediately.”
“Lady Porter, I beg your pardon, but you can’t possibly mean to—”
“Farrell, you heard what I said. We are going to take this poor thing and her child home and you will help me or I’ll drive the bloody motorcar myself. Now get her to her feet.”
Grudgingly, Farrell reached down and pulled the woman up to stand. When her knees buckled beneath her, he cursed softly, then scooped her into his arms and carried her.
“I’ll fetch her things,” Edward offered.
“Don’t be silly,” Geneva said. “She can’t possibly have anything of value.” But her son didn’t listen and gathered the blanket and a small bundle into his arms. A book fell out of the bundle and he picked it up and tucked it beneath his jacket. “Mummy, she has a book.”
The boy crawled into the front seat of the touring car while Farrell helped Geneva and the woman into the rear. Geneva nestled the child in her lap, wrapping the girl in her cloak and trying to warm her little limbs with her body. But there wasn’t much she could do for the young woman. She looked as if she were half dead of starvation. And who knows what fever she might be carrying?
Geneva had been sorely tempted to leave her there, to take the girl to safety first and then come back and look after her mother. But it would not have been the Christian thing to do and Geneva prided herself in her adherence to a strict standard of moral behavior.
Farrell pulled the car out onto the street and headed west out of Dublin. “Drive quickly,” Geneva said, “but not too quickly, for the wind can be bitter cold back here.” She adjusted her hat pin, then wrapped the trailing ends of her veil around her neck. It was at least a thirty-minute drive back to Porter Hall. “Hand me that lap robe, Edward,” she shouted.
Then little boy crawled up onto his knees and shoved the heavy fur robe over the back of the seat. Geneva clumsily covered the young woman. “What is your name?” she asked, shaking her awake.
The woman moaned, then looked at Geneva through glazed eyes. “Where am I?”
“What is your name?” Geneva repeated.
“Rose,” she said. “Rose Byrne.
“And the child?”
“Her name is—” A fit of coughing interrupted her and she pulled the lap robe up to her mouth. When she’d finally regained her voice, she sighed softly and closed her eyes again. “Her name is Mary Grace.”
Geneva looked down at the child. Mary was such a common name among the Irish. Every other girl in the countryside was named Mary. But Grace was a fitting name for a child found outside a church. “Grace,” Geneva murmured. She tickled the girl’s cheek. “You are Grace.”
The rest of the drive passed relatively quickly. Rose slept the entire route while Edward rested his chin on the back of the front seat and watched the scene before him. “What are we going to do with that girl?” he asked.
“Her name is Grace. Her mother is Rose. And I suspect we will take care of them until they are both well and then we’ll send them on their way. It is an act of charity to help those less fortunate, Edward, and this is a lesson you would do well to remember. We were sent to that church for a reason today. It was God’s will.”
When they reached Porter Hall, Geneva ordered the car taken around to the kitchen entrance. Farrell carried Rose inside with Geneva and Edward trailing along behind, the little girl toddling between them. The two kitchen maids and Cook were left speechless by their unexpected entrance, but Geneva wasn’t about to make any long-winded explanations to the help.
“Warm some soup,” she ordered. “Farrell, take Rose upstairs and put her in the yellow room, across the hall from my chambers. Betsy, heat some water so that we might wash the grime off of her and the child. I want blankets and a clean nightgown brought up. And we must feed them both, perhaps some warm milk and porridge to start.” The servants stared at her, unsure of what to do, and Geneva cursed softly. “Don’t stand there with your mouths agape, do as I say. Now!”
With that, she picked up the little girl, resting her on her hip, then she walked out of the kitchen and up the rear stairway to the bed chambers on the second floor. Farrell had already settled Rose in the yellow room and Geneva set the little girl at the foot of the bed.
“Shall I fetch Lord Porter?” Farrell asked. “He’s at the mill today.”
“What could he possibly do to help?” Geneva asked. “You will go for the doctor and I will inform Lord Porter of this myself when he returns home.”
Geneva bit back an oath. Ever since Charlotte’s death three years ago and Geneva’s subsequent breakdown, the servants had been particularly watchful. She suspected they’d been ordered to report any unseemly activity or behavior to her husband, for though they were deferential to her, Lord Porter paid their wages.
Surely this latest incident would call her sanity into question, but Geneva had already begun to formulate a plan to keep Rose and her daughter at Porter Hall. Once the young woman had recovered, they would offer her a job. There were always scullery maids coming and going. She could start there and work her way up. And then, her child could take on some simple duties once she was old enough.
Geneva looked down at the little girl’s face, wondering at how a child of such common birth could be so pretty. Perhaps Geneva would take Grace under her wing, as she had her own daughter. Charlotte had just begun to appreciate fine music and art when the angels had come for her.
The spiritualist Geneva had visited in London just last month had assured her that Charlotte would return, that she would make her spirit known to Geneva before the third anniversary of her death. And now she had come again, reborn in this beautiful little girl. Geneva dared not believe it was true, but it had to be. All the signs were there, just as the spiritualist had told her.
She examined the child closely. The girl wore nothing more than a rough linen shift with ragged underclothes beneath. She stripped them off, carefully examining her before counting her toes and fingers. “Well, Grace, you don’t seem to be in such bad health for such a horrid beginning in life.” The girl watched her silently. Though she was small, her arms and legs were still plump. “You’re quite a lovely little thing now, aren’t you?” She wrapped her in a blanket, then picked her up and carried her over to the fire that burned in the grate.
“What is that?”
Geneva glanced over her shoulder to see her eldest son, ten-year old Malcolm, standing near the door. “It’s a child,” she cooed.
“Not that,” he muttered in cold voice. He pointed to the bed and Rose. “That. Father will be furious when he sees what you’ve brought home. That filthy wretch should go back to the gutter where she belongs with the rats and the lice and the other Irish rubbish. And she can take her ugly Irish child with her.”
Geneva found it difficult to believe that she’d given birth to both Malcolm and Edward. Edward was sweet and caring and Malcolm was the exact opposite, spiteful and foul-tempered. Edward had inherited Geneva’s compassionate streak and Malcolm had taken after his cold and ruthless father, a man who never passed up a chance to give voice to his prejudices. “The Bible tells us to be charitable to those less fortunate,” Geneva murmured as she pressed a kiss to the girl’s forehead.
Malcolm scoffed. “Is that what you call this, Mother? Charity? Or are you just trying to replace Charlotte again? It didn’t work last time and it won’t work this time.”
“No one could ever replace your sister,” Geneva said.
It was obvious Malcolm was fully aware of the incident that had sent her to the hospital just six months after Charlotte’s death. She hadn’t meant to just walk off with the little girl in the park, but she’d looked so much like Charlotte and Geneva had become confused. When they’d arrived home, the authorities had been called and money paid to silence the parents of the little girl.
“She’s dead,” Malcolm screamed, “and she’ll never come back and it’s all your fault. Papa told you not to take her with you to London. He said there was sickness there. But you never listen to him. You’re the one who took her away.” He rushed over to Geneva and grabbed the girl’s foot, giving it a vicious yank.
“Ow,” Grace cried. “Bad boy!”
“Charlotte was the only one in this family who loved me and you took her away.”
Geneva felt the emotions well up inside her and she turned on her son, slapping him across the face. She had said the same words to herself over and over, every hour of every day for the past three years. It had been her fault. They would have been safe in Ireland, but there had been a new exhibit at the National Gallery that she’d been certain Charlotte would enjoy, so they’d traveled together.
“I am your mother and you will not speak to me in that manner again.”
Malcolm laughed. “No great loss, Mother. You’ve gone so far ’round the bend that you don’t understand half of what’s said in this house anyway.” He stalked out of the room, brushing by Edward, who had taken up a spot at the door.
Geneva sent her youngest son a wavering smile and he immediately returned it, then came rushing toward her. “Don’t listen to him, Mummy. I think you did a very fine thing bringing the poor lady and her little girl home with us. We’ll make them both better.”
“We will, won’t we,” Geneva said. “Now, you run and see if you can find Mummy’s maid. Ask her to go to the nursery and see if she can find one of Charlotte’s old nightgowns in the chest. I believe I saved a few just to have around for my grandchildren.”
“I’ll go look for them,” Edward offered.
Geneva had only one ally in the house and that was Edward. He’d always tried his best to make her happy, to take her mind off the dark thoughts that seemed to plague her daily. If it came down to it, Edward would stand up for her against her husband and her older son. Though he was only seven, he was wise beyond his years and knew exactly how to get what he wanted. And that was usually no more than the means to make his mother smile.
“You’re a good boy,” she whispered as she watched him run out of the room. “And I will always love you the best.”

CHAPTER TWO
“IT’S TIME FOR YOU TO WAKE up now.”
Rose drifted toward consciousness, following the voice of the child. Was it Mary Grace who was speaking to her? Mary Grace hadn’t learned to string many words together yet. And she didn’t speak with an English accent. Had she died and gone to heaven? Was it an angel’s voice she was hearing?
“Open your eyes,” the child whispered.
She felt fingers touch her face and Rose willed herself to do as she was told. Her eyes fluttered open and she found herself staring into the face of a young boy, his dark hazel eyes ringed with jet black lashes. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
“Would you like a drink of water?” the boy asked.
Rose nodded and he held a cut-crystal tumbler up to her lips. She sipped slowly at the cool liquid, letting it slide across her parched lips and tongue. And when she could drink no more, she fell back into the down-filled pillows. “My daughter,” she murmured. “Where is she? Is she all right?”
The little boy nodded. “Mummy has put her to bed in the nursery.”
“She’s alive?” Rose asked.
The boy frowned, then nodded. “Mummy was feeding her and then she fell asleep. She ate a little bowl of porridge and her belly got very fat.” He held out his hands in front of his stomach.
Rose closed her eyes and smiled. Mary Grace was alive and so was she. Somehow, she’d ended up in a beautiful room, in a comfortable bed, watched over by the young boy. And her daughter had been given a meal. God had finally answered her prayers.
“There’s food,” he said. “Would you like something to eat?”
“Yes,” Rose replied. As she tried to sit up, she realized how weak she was. Her head spun and her arms were barely strong enough to support her weight. The little boy helped her tuck a pillow behind her back, then set a tray beside her on the bed.
“The porridge is cold. So is the tea. But there is bread and butter and some of the ham we had for supper last night. I’ll fetch you something to drink. Would you like that?”
“Stay here for a bit,” Rose said. “Tell me who you are and where I am. How did I get here?”
The boy sat down on the edge of the bed. “My name is Edward Porter. I’m seven years old. My father is Lord Henry Porter and my mother is Geneva. And I have a brother named Malcolm.” He glanced around. “This is my house, Porter Hall. My sister, Charlotte, used to live here but she got a fever and died and now she’s gone to heaven.”
“I’m so sorry,” Rose said.
He shrugged. “Everyone says that.”
“Do you miss her?”
“Oh, yes. Terribly. But Mummy says she’s with the angels in heaven and she watches over me. Sometimes at night, she comes into my room and talks to me.”
Rose nibbled at the bread, taking small bites until she felt the food begin to fill her stomach. “How did I get here?”
“We found you at the church,” Edward explained. “And we put you in our motorcar and brought you home.”
“Have I been here long?”
He shook his head. “It was morning and now it’s evening. Papa will be home soon and he will be very cross with Mummy. Malcolm says he’ll send you to the poorhouse. But you mustn’t be scared.”
Rose pushed the tray aside, then slipped from beneath the bed covers and swung her legs to the floor. She stared down at herself, surprised to find that she’d been dressed in a lacy nightgown and her hands and feet were clean. “I have to leave then,” she said. “Will you help me find my clothes?”
“No,” Edward cried. “You must stay. Mummy will make it right, you’ll see.”
“What is going on in here?” A woman, wearing a beautifully detailed afternoon dress, bustled into the room. Her pale hair was pulled back into a tidy knot. Her lovely face was marked by delicate and refined features. Rose had a vague memory of her voice. This must be the little boy’s mother— and Rose’s savior.
“Get back into bed,” she ordered, her words spoken in aristocratic English. “You are far too weak to be walking about. Edward, I asked you to look after our guest.”
“This is my mummy,” Edward told Rose.
Rose tried to stand, but her legs were weak and her knees buckled. She sat on the edge of bed, a bit dizzy with the effort. “Thank you so much for your kindness, ma’am. But I wouldn’t think to impose on you and your family any longer.”
The woman frowned, her arms hitched on her waist. “You’re educated,” she said. “You don’t speak like a common Irish girl.”
“I know how to read and write,” Rose said. “My grandmother taught me when I was just six years old, so that I might—” Rose stopped and glanced around the room, a sudden panic gripping her. “Where are my things? The bundle that I had with me? I must find it.” She tried to rise again, but Edward skipped over and handed her the leather-bound diary.
“Is this what you want?” he asked. “I put it in my pocket to keep it safe.”
Rose took the diary and clutched it to her chest. “Yes,” she murmured. “Thank you. I couldn’t bear to lose this.” She sighed. “I’d like to see my daughter. Could you take me to her, ma’am?”
“You may call me Lady Porter,” the woman said. “And before we do that, you and I must speak. My husband will be home soon and we must prepare a good story for him. Have you ever worked in a house like this?”
Rose shook her head. “No. But when I first came to Dublin, I worked for a well-to-do Irish family. The Dunleavys. Mr. Dunleavy owned a dry goods store.”
“And what did you do for them?”
“I was a laundress. But I also did sewing for Mrs. Dunleavy and her daughters. I made them gowns and I mended their clothes. I’m very good with a needle and thread and I can operate a sewing machine. My grandmother taught me well. I can make a dress from any fashion plate you might show me. And I do fine embroidery.” She pointed to Lady Porter’s gown. “Like that.”
“Then when you have recovered from your ordeal, you will work for me as a laundress and a seamstress. That way, you can watch your daughter while you work. We will find a room for you above the carriage house where you might be…out of the way.”
Rose stared at Lady Porter, unable to believe her good fortune. “Oh, ma’am, that is far too kind. You’ve already done enough.”
“Nonsense. It becomes more difficult daily to find good help and you’re motivated to work hard. You’ve had an education of sorts, which recommends you as well. And both of us know you would never last another week out on the streets. Now, your wages won’t be much, since we will also be supporting your daughter.”
“I don’t need wages, ma’am. I’ll work for food and a warm place to sleep.”
“We’ll discuss this when you’re well. Now, there is one other thing. And you must be truthful about this. The child. Was she born out of wedlock?”
“Oh, no,” Rose replied. “No, I was married. My husband was—” She paused. If they knew the truth of Jamie’s political activities, the Porters might not be so glad to have the wife of an IRA sympathizer working in their very English household. “He died. Three years ago. It was an accident. He fell while he was helping a friend to repair a roof.” She promised herself to say a rosary for the lie.
“How tragic,” Lady Porter said. “And how long were you on the street?”
“Three months,” Rose said.
“You must have been quite resourceful to have survived that long. That quality will serve you well in this household.” She held out her hand. “Lie back now and finish eating. You need a good night’s sleep. You can see Grace in the morning.”
“Mary Grace,” Rose corrected. “Her name is Mary Grace.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure she’ll be quite happy to see her mother in better health. But she’s sleeping now herself and it wouldn’t do to wake her.”
Lady Porter took Edward’s hand and led him to the door. “Come, let’s leave Rose to rest. We must see if we can convince Malcolm to take our side in this matter before your father returns.”
When Rose was alone, she tried again to stand, holding on to the bedpost for support. She took a few steps, then a few more, feeling her strength beginning to return. She grabbed a small blanket from the end of the bed, and wrapped it around her shoulders, then slipped out of the room.
The hallway was dimly lit and quiet. Her bare feet brushed against the soft wool carpets and she peered in each door, searching for her daughter. When she found what looked to be a nursery, she stepped inside, then realized she wasn’t alone. Lady Porter sat in a rocking chair near the window, Mary Grace in her arms.
“Aren’t you my pretty girl, Lottie,” she cooed. “You’ve come home to me at last. And this time, I’ll never let you go.”
Rose stepped inside the room, ready to correct her. Why was she having such a difficult time remembering Mary Grace’s name? And why did Lady Porter insist that Mary was napping when she wasn’t? But as she watched Lady Porter, Rose began to realize that all was not right with the woman. She continued to talk to the child as if she were much older.
In then end, Rose returned to the hallway, an uneasy feeling settling over her. For now, she’d accept the Porter’s hospitality and her hostess’s odd behavior. She didn’t have any choice. The dangers out on the streets of Dublin were far worse than any danger she and Mary Grace might face inside the walls of Porter Hall.

“GENEVA, THIS IS ABSURD. You cannot bring home an Irish peasant and her brat like they were stray animals. This behavior only proves you still haven’t recovered fully.”
Edward stood in the hallway outside his father’s library, hidden in the shadows as he listened to his parents’ conversation. Though he knew it was wrong, eavesdropping was the only way he ever really discovered what was happening inside Porter Hall. Most of the servants paid him little heed, for they assumed he didn’t comprehend most of what was being discussed by the adults. And Malcolm took great delight in keeping the secrets he’d been privy to.
There was only one thing Edward truly didn’t understand and that’s why he continued to listen. Something was not right with his mother, but no one would say what it was. She’d had to go away after Charlotte had died and though he wasn’t sure exactly how long she’d been gone, it had been a long time. If she was going to be sent away again, this time he wanted to know why.
“What was I to do?” she asked. “Let them both die? That poor child needed my help. At least there was something I could do.”
“They’re Irish. They have their damn free state now. Let them take care of their people the way they always wanted to.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Geneva said. “She was close to death. How was she supposed to care for that little girl?”
“Do you have any idea what’s going on outside this house, Geneva? Have you any conception what this family has had to face in the past ten years? With the uprising and the civil war, we have been teetering on the edge of ruin. It’s been all around you and you’ve been completely oblivious.”
“I read the papers, Henry. I’m aware of the political climate in Ireland.”
“Well, let me give you a better account of it, just to be certain. We used to have a good life here. A prosperous life, a life that my father blessed us with when we married. I was happy to take over the enterprises in Ireland. But now, we live here in—in exile.”
“That’s not true, Henry.”
“Oh, no? When the troubles started, my brother and father didn’t hesitate to sell anything that might fetch a good price. They left me with the mills and the mines they couldn’t get rid of. Let Henry have them,” he muttered. “He’ll be grateful for that much.”
Edward’s father stood and walked over to the whiskey decanter, then poured himself a drink. He took a long swallow, then turned back to his mother. “Now that this country belongs to the Irish again, our property is worth only what an idiot Irishman might pay for it. We’re trapped here, Geneva, with no way out.”
“The uprising was put down. The civil war is over,” Geneva said. “You employ hundreds of Irish workers who want to work. I can’t see how we’re headed for ruin, Henry.”
“I served in parliament, I helped run this country. And now, suddenly I have no say in how this government treats my interests. That’s decided by the Irish now and their damned Diál Eireann. And with them in charge, this country is doomed to fail.”
“Irish, British, free state, republic, Catholic, Protestant, what does it all matter? We have a home and you have a livelihood. You make a comfortable living. You’re a smart man, you can make what you have a success. The terrible times are ended. We have two sons and we must make the best of it.”
Edward peeked into the library and watched as his father stared into his glass. “The terrible times have only just begun, Geneva,” he muttered. “As long as Ulster is under control of the British, the people in this country will never rest. Another civil war is just around the corner.”
“Then perhaps we should stop thinking of ourselves as English and consider ourselves Irish. We’ve lived here through all the troubles, for nearly fifteen years. Our future is here. This is our home and we are not visitors in this country.”
“You are mad,” Henry muttered.
Geneva shook her head, her voice quivering. “I—I am not mad. You live in your world of comfort and wealth, you employ these people in your mills and mines and take advantage of them every day. But you never look at them, you never see them. They’re good people. They survive on nothing, trying to support their families on pay that isn’t enough for one, much less seven or eight.”
“And you live in the same world with me,” he said, his voice angry and accusing. “My money buys those beautiful gowns you wear and pays for your trips to London and for your spiritualists and fortune tellers.” Edward’s mother gasped. “What? You didn’t think I knew about them? Those charlatans preying on your grief.” He cursed, then sat down behind his desk.
Everyone in the family had changed since Charlotte’s death, Edward thought. Malcolm had become mean and nasty, deliberately inflicting pain on his younger brother whenever he could. His father stayed away from home as much as he could and when he was home he was cold and unapproachable and often drunk. And his mother… Edward drew a ragged breath. Some days she was just like she used to be, happy and lighthearted, laughing at the silly stories he told. And other days, she wouldn’t come out of her room, caught up in the midst of one of her black moods.
“We cannot keep her or her daughter in this house,” he said. “I won’t have it.”
“She’s worked as a domestic before and she claims to be an excellent seamstress.”
“Let’s be candid with each other, shall we, Geneva? You don’t need a seamstress. You want that child.”
Edward watched as his mother’s face grew pale. She slowly rose, her hands clutched in front of her. “Why can’t you do this one thing for me?” she asked in a strangled voice. “Just let me have what I need. I will make my way through this, I promise. But I have to deal with this in my own way.”
“This child is not yours,” he warned. “And if I see you becoming too attached, I will force them out of this house. And if I see any strange behavior from you, then you will return to the hospital until you are able to comport yourself in a proper manner. Is that understood, Geneva?”
His mother nodded. “Yes, Henry.”
“This will not become an obsession, or I will call an end to it.”
“I understand,” she replied.
He picked up a ledger from his desk and opened it, focusing his attention on the columns and rows of numbers. “That is all.”
Geneva circled his desk, then placed a dutiful kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Henry.” With that, she swept out of the room, her head held high, her eyes watery with tears. She didn’t even notice Edward standing outside the door, brushing right by him, her skirts rustling.
A few moments later, Edward walked into the library, his footsteps silent on the thick Oriental carpet. He stood in front of his father’s desk, his heart slamming in his chest. When his father finally looked up, there was an expression of impatience etched across his face. “What is it?”
“Are you going to send Mummy away again?”
“That is none of your concern,” he said.
“Please don’t send her away,” Edward begged. “I promise, I’ll watch over her.”
Henry Porter stared at his son for a long moment. “And will you tell me if she begins to confuse this Irish urchin with your sister Charlotte?”
Edward nodded, crossing his fingers behind his back to lessen the lie. “I will, Father,” he said.
His father nodded slowly. “You’re a good boy. And I think you understand how important it is that your mother keep her wits about her. She has been very emotional lately and that’s not good for anyone. You must try to distract her from her worries.”
“I will. I’m good at that.”
“Very well,” his father said. “I’m glad you see things my way. Run along now, Edward, I have work to do.”
Edward hurried out of the library and when he reached the safety of the hallway, he uncrossed his fingers and asked God to forgive him for the lie. It wasn’t really a sin to lie when he was just doing it to make his mother happy, was it? She’d suffered so much over the past few years. And if Rose and little Grace were the key to her happiness, then Edward would do everything in his power to make them both stay, his father’s wishes be damned.
“What are you doing out here?” Malcolm strode down the hall and gave Edward a hard shove, sending him back against the wall. “I thought you’d be in the nursery playing with that little brat Mother brought home.”
“She’s not a brat,” he said.
Malcolm sent Edward a look of utter disdain. “That brat is going to steal every minute of Mother’s time. She won’t pay attention to you anymore. She won’t even see you, just like she doesn’t see me. Get used to it, Edward. It’s only a matter of time before she loves you less than she loves me.”
“Maybe if you’d be nicer to her she’d love you again,” Edward accused.
“I don’t need her,” he replied. “Neither does Father. You’re the only one in this family who still cares for her and that’s because you’re still a baby.”
“I am not!” Edward shouted, lashing out at Malcolm. He shoved against his chest, but Malcolm had three years on him and considerable strength.
Malcolm grabbed Edward’s arm and twisted it behind his back, then pushed him up against the wall. “Don’t ever touch me again,” he muttered, his breath hot against Edward’s ear. “If you do, I’ll just find a way to take it out on that little Irish girl you’re so fond of.”
He gave Edward’s arm a final twist, then pasted a smile onto his face and walked into the library. As Edward stood outside, he listened as his older brother spoke with his father, the conversation relaxed and friendly.
The lines of loyalty in the Porter house had been clearly drawn since Charlotte had died. His older sister had held them together as a family, but they were on different sides now—Malcolm and Henry against Edward and his mother. Even though Edward was younger, he wasn’t afraid of his brother. Malcolm may be stronger and taller, but Edward was far more clever. He would do what it took to protect his mother, even if that meant destroying Malcolm in the process.

CHAPTER THREE
ROSE SAT AT THE WINDOW in her room above the coach house, sunlight spilling onto her lap and illuminating the mending that rested there. She rubbed her eyes, trying to wipe away the fatigue that seemed to descend upon her in the early afternoon.
Though it had been three years since she’d been rescued from the streets by Geneva Porter, her health hadn’t fully returned. Her lungs were often congested and her eyesight had begun to falter. Though she was strong enough to work, she was left with far too little energy to raise a rambunctious daughter. She tipped her head back and closed her eyes, remembering the first months of her stay at Porter Hall.
It hadn’t taken long to understand the strange dynamics of the Porter family. Geneva’s “illness” wasn’t an illness at all, but a chronic melancholy that seemed to grip her without warning. She’d visited countless doctors and taken just as many remedies, but the only thing that drew her out of her depression was Mary Grace.
The little girl, now six years old, had became a balm to Geneva’s spirit and whenever she felt her mood darkening, she’d come to the carriage house to fetch Mary Grace and spend the afternoon in the garden, watching her chase butterflies and pick flowers.
In the beginning, Rose hadn’t minded. She believed a strong bond between the two would only help her position in the household. But it had also caused some jealousies with the other, more senior, staff members. Geneva’s maid, Ruth, had distrusted Rose from the start and jumped on any opportunity to drive a wedge between Rose and the mistress of the house. Cook was chilly and aloof, perturbed that she was expected to deliver meals to the carriage house for Rose and Mary Grace, while the rest of the staff took their meals in the kitchen. And their quarters had been decorated with many little luxuries from the attic, so different from the cold and sterile servants’ rooms on the third floor of the manor house.
But Rose wasn’t going to feel guilty for her position with Geneva Porter. If Geneva’s affection for Mary Grace would keep them warm and well-fed, then who was she to deny her mistress anything? Or her daughter? She glanced over to the corner and watched as Mary Grace bent over an old wooden box she’d found.
“What are you doing, my girl?” Rose asked. “What do you have there?”
Mary Grace picked the box up and carried it over to her mother. She opened the top to reveal a variety of woodcarving tools. “Where did you find these?” Rose asked.
“In the stables. Under a pile of hay.”
“Do you know what they are?”
Mary Grace shook her head. “I’m going to give them to Edward. He’ll know what they are.”
“They’re woodcarving tools,” Rose said. “And I think Edward would like these. He’s always carving with that little knife of his. He’d do much better with a fine set of tools like these.”
“I’ll give them as a gift. Maybe for Christmas,” Mary Grace said. “Or Edward’s birthday. He’ll be ten years old in…” She screwed up her face as she tried to remember. “Soon.”
Rose smoothed her hand over the top of the box. “Why, we could find some paint and put his monogram on the top. That would make the gift very special.”
“What’s a monogram?” Mary Grace asked.
“Edward’s initials. Fancy folk put their initials on everything they own. That way everyone knows who it belongs to.”
A box of old tools was little to offer in return for what the Porter family had given Mary Grace. Clothes had magically appeared in the wardrobe and new dolls would find their way into the old chest at the foot of the bed. Books full of beautiful, hand-tipped drawings were stacked on the table beneath the window and nearly every day, Mary Grace would return from the house with some tiny trinket, an old piece of jewelry or a hair ribbon.
Even if Jamie had lived, he never would have been able to provide so well. But Rose knew all the lovely luxuries came at a price. She just hadn’t been asked to pay it yet. Whatever it was, she’d simply remember that her daughter was happy and healthy and that was worth more than anything in the world to her.
A soft knock sounded on the door and Mary Grace jumped up to answer it. To Rose’s surprise, Geneva stood on the other side. Lady Porter had never been to Rose’s rooms. When she’d wanted to speak with her, she always sent someone to fetch her and they talked in her parlor. And now she was here with tea, all laid out on a silver tray.
Mary Grace jumped up from her spot and ran over to Geneva. She helped her lay the tea service out on a small table as if she’d been doing so for years. Rose watched them make the tea, then realized that they’d probably had tea together often. When they finished, Geneva pulled a hard candy from her pocket and placed it in Mary Grace’s palm. “Run along now, Grace. I need to talk to your mother.”
“Thank you, Lady Porter,” the little girl said with a curtsey.
“Edward is out in the garden. Why don’t you go visit with him.”
They both watched as Mary Grace skipped through the door, her pretty skirts flying out behind her.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Geneva said. She handed a cup of tea to Rose. “There’s sugar and milk. Do you take either?”
Rose shook her head, unsure of how to respond. It wasn’t the choice of sugar or milk, but the fact that her mistress was waiting on her. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, of course.” Geneva poured herself a cup, then grabbed a chair from the table and set it in front of Rose. As she sat down, she smoothed her hands over the skirt of her elegant frock, then crossed her ankles. “There is something I’ve come here to discuss with you. It’s about Grace.”
“Has she caused some trouble? I try to keep a close eye on her, but sometimes she does wander off.”
“She’s six years old and I know that you plan to send her to the parish school in the village when the term begins next month. I’m sure you’re aware that she’s a very bright child.” Geneva cleared her throat. “You’re also aware that I’ve grown quite fond of her since you’ve both come to live here.”
“Yes,” Rose replied. “And I thank you for everything you’ve given her. You don’t know how much it means to me to know that she’s safe and healthy.”
“But that isn’t always enough,” Geneva said. “There will come a time when Grace will have to make her own way in the world and to do that, she must be educated. I would like to take responsibility for this.”
“But I’m certain she’ll learn everything she needs to know in school,” Rose said. “And I’d prefer her to have a religious education.”
“I don’t think sending her off to a parish school will really serve her well,” Geneva said. “I’d like to provide her with a tutor. That way, she can get the very best education. And, when she’s older, if she wants to have a profession, then she’ll be prepared.”
“But the parish school would—”
“The parish school will teach her just enough so she can keep house and cook meals and raise children,” Geneva said. “I’m talking about more. French and art history and literature.”
“Why would she ever have need of that?”
“Maybe she won’t,” Geneva said. “But it will expand her mind. It will make her want more for herself than what most Irish girls do.”
“It will make her yearn for things she can never have,” Rose countered stubbornly. It was the wrong thing to do. Every ounce of sense told her that the more Mary Grace came to depend on Geneva, the more she’d be hurt when she realized this fine life was far beyond her reach. Perhaps this was the price? Her daughter’s broken heart?
And if she turned Mary Grace over to Geneva’s care, then what part would she play in her daughter’s life? Mary Grace had already become accustomed to the luxuries of life at Porter Hall. Rose wanted to believe that the time they spent together as mother and daughter would form the woman she’d become. “It is too generous,” she said. “I’m sure Lord Porter would not approve.”
Geneva’s eyebrow shot up and she gave Rose a cool look. “My husband would have you both out on the street again. It is only my generosity and affection for Grace that keeps you here.”
In that single sentence, Rose knew the decision wasn’t hers to make. She could either chose to fight and lose, or surrender immediately. “I see. And what say will I have in my daughter’s life?”
“You know you are ill,” Geneva said, her voice suddenly conciliatory. “You grow weaker by the day. Consumption is not a disease that one recovers from, my dear.”
Just the word sent a shiver down Rose’s spine. She suspected that her bouts with lung fever were more than just a passing illness, but hadn’t wanted to admit there was something more serious affecting her health. And if she admitted it now, then surely she would be put out. “It’s not consumption,” she said. “My lungs were weakened by fever while Grace and I were living on the streets. It hasn’t affected my work. And I will recover.”
Geneva stared at her for a long moment, then smiled. “Of course you will. But the more time she spends at the house with me and her tutors, the more time you have to rest and recover.”
“I—I suppose you’re right,” Rose said.
“Of course I am. We are agreed then.” Geneva stood and smoothed her hands over the waist of her frock. “I’m so glad we had this little talk. I’ll see to hiring a tutor for Grace. And she’ll begin her studies next month.”
Rose got to her feet and gave her a curtsey. “Thank you, Lady Porter. For your generosity. I’m sure that my Mary Grace will do her best to please you.”
Geneva nodded, then walked out of the room, closing the door softly behind her. Rose immediately went to the wardrobe and grabbed an armful of clothing, tossing it on the bed. They couldn’t stay. They would leave tonight, sneak off while the family slept. She’d be able to find another position, perhaps not one as comfortable as this, but certainly with her experience and— A fit of coughing overtook her and Rose bent forward, her hands braced on her knees, gasping for breath.
When she regained her composure, she sat down on the window seat and pressed her palm to her chest. There would be no references. And without references, there would probably be no job. Who would hire her? Geneva was right. She was sick. And she had a daughter who wasn’t yet old enough to take care of herself. Her choices were no better than they had been that day when Geneva found them on the front steps of the church.
The money she’d saved would last them three or four months at the most and after that, they’d be right back to where they began. There would have to be another way to hold on to her daughter. Rose took the clothes back to the wardrobe and carefully hung them up, then noticed the diary sitting on the top shelf.
She closed her eyes and hugged it to her chest. This would be the way. Since she’d arrived at Porter Hall, she rarely opened it. But now, she’d begin reading it to her daughter. And if the day came when she was no longer in this world, then her daughter would know where she came from. And she would remember.
She opened the leather-bound book and began to read a passage, the words coming back to her, renewing her strength. She would go on one more day, and after that, another. And no matter what disaster or tragedy befell her, she would carry on for as long as God let her live on this earth.
13 September 1845
I know not where to begin. Michael is gone a month already and I imagine him standing onboard a wonderful sailing ship, on his way to America and a new life for us both. But life back here in Ireland has grown troubled. We’ve begun to dig the crop and a terrible thing has happened. After but a day or two out of the earth, the potatoes begin to putrefy. None are fit to eat and I am forced to take what is left from the rest of our garden patch. Without the cow to provide milk, my belly is hungry most of the time. I pray that Michael will send for me as soon as he arrives in America, for our life—the baby’s and mine— becomes more fragile with each day that passes.

“IT’S BEAUTIFUL. LOOK AT ITS little ears. Oh, Edward, it looks so real.”
Edward held a tiny carved rabbit up on his palm and Grace studied it more closely. “I like it better than the turtle I made for you,” he offered.
“I think all your animals are wonderful,” Grace said.
“What would you like me to make now?” He spread the carving tools in front of him and picked up a small piece of wood that Dennick had brought him. “I’ve wanted to try a horse, but I think the legs would be hard to carve.”
Grace lined up her small menagerie, rearranging the animals on the blanket that they’d spread on the grass. He hadn’t many friends, but he could count Grace as his best. Sure, she was only six years old, but she was a lot like Charlotte, always interested in what he was doing and thinking. In truth, since she’d come to Porter Hall, Edward had nearly forgotten Charlotte and all the sadness that had followed her death.
His mother had been happier than he’d seen her in a long time, her dark moods coming only occasionally now. And though Malcolm barely tolerated Grace, he’d become too busy with his own school chums to care much about what either of them did. In truth, it had been a relief when Malcolm had decided to continue his studies at a private school in Dublin. He left early each morning and returned right before supper, then spent the rest of the evening working on his studies.
Edward’s father had insisted that Edward be enrolled as well, the argument going on for days before a final decision was made. In the end, Geneva had won out and Edward continued on with his tutor. But the fight had caused the two factions in the Porter family to become even more distant. Edward was Geneva’s son and Malcolm belonged to Henry and decisions would be made accordingly.
He wanted his father to love him as much as he loved Malcolm. But there were qualities in his father and brother that he could never understand—or accept. They were both self-centered and cold-hearted, with a cruel streak that ran deep. And they considered themselves above others, especially the Irish. Edward had never been able to understand their hatred of a people that he found warm and charming and kind-hearted.
“Oh, make me a kitten,” Grace said.
He picked up the block of wood. “Are you sure? Wouldn’t you like a jungle animal? I could try a lion.”
Grace nodded, a wide smile on her face. “Yes. A lion then.” She continued to play with the little animals, walking them across the blanket and talking to them. When she’d made a gift of the carving tools, he’d realized how well Grace knew him. There was no one in the world who knew him better.
“What do you have there?”
Edward turned around to find Malcolm standing over them. He was thirteen now and had grown so much bigger since his last birthday. But he’d also become lazy and unkempt, unconcerned with his appearance. He wore his school uniform, the jacket rumpled, as if he’d slept in it, and the trousers were stained with mud. It looked like he’d been in another fight at school.
“Wood carvings,” Edward muttered, turning back to Grace.
“Wood carvings,” Malcolm mimicked in a high-pitched voice. He bent over Grace’s shoulder and plucked the rabbit off of her palm.
She jumped up and tried to get it back, but Malcolm grabbed the wooden animal by the ears and pulled, then let the pieces fall to the grass. A tiny cry slipped from Grace’s throat and she knelt down to pick up the broken rabbit.
A blinding anger filled Edward’s head and with a primal growl, he tossed aside the tool and hurled himself at Malcolm’s legs, driving his older brother to the ground. The tackle caught Malcolm by surprise and knocked the wind out of him, giving Edward time enough to land a few decent punches to the face. When he bloodied his brother’s nose, Edward sat back on his heels.
“You ugly piece of shite,” Edward muttered, twisting his brother’s arm around his back. “What would you do that for? Why would you hurt her feelings like that?”
“Get off me!” Malcolm shouted, twisting beneath him. But no matter how he struggled, Edward kept hold of him. Though he’d fought with his brother in the past, the fights had always ended with one of their parents stepping between them or with Edward surrendering. But he had an advantage now and he wasn’t going to give up.
“Apologize,” Edward demanded.
“Get off,” Malcolm shouted, kicking and punching at Edward. Though he landed a few hard jabs, they didn’t hurt, the anger coursing through Edward dulling the pain. This time had been coming for a long while, the chance for Edward to stand up to his brother’s cruelty, the chance to stand up for Grace. But Edward knew that he’d only bested him through a surprise attack. He was still far too small to do so on a daily basis.
“Stop,” Grace begged, trying to pull the two of them apart. “Please, Edward, stop. You can make me another rabbit.”
“No,” Edward growled. “Not until he apologizes.” Edward twisted Malcolm’s arm again and his older brother cried out in pain.
“All right,” he muttered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I broke your bloody bunny. Now let me go.”
Edward released his hold and rocked back on his heels. Malcolm scrambled to his feet, then gave his younger brother a shove, sending him back into the grass. “Don’t you ever put your hands on me again,” he threatened.
“Then stay away from Grace, and stay away from me.”
Malcolm brushed the grass off his trousers, then strode back toward the house. Grace bent down beside Edward and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Why does he have to be so mean?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he replied. Before Charlotte’s death, Malcolm had been so different. They’d all cared about each other, protected each other. But now, he had an anger inside of him that grew stronger every day. And he seemed to delight in taking it out on the nearest vulnerable target. Usually that was their mother, often it was Edward. But now, he preferred Grace as his object of torment.
“If he bothers you, you have to tell me,” Edward said. She was so much weaker, unable to defend herself against a bully who was seven years older. As he’d done for his mother, Edward would now try to protect Grace.
“Don’t tell your mother,” she whispered. “She might want to send me away.”
“No,” Edward said, taking her hand. “She’d never do that. She loves you.” He smiled. “I love you, too, Grace.”
She returned the smile. “And I love you, Edward.”
“What is going on out here?” Rose approached, her skirts rustling as she walked toward them. “I heard shouting. And Malcolm has a bloody nose.”
“Nothing,” Edward said. “Malcolm fell out of the tree.”
She held out her hand to Grace, then pulled her to her feet. “Come along, Mary Grace. I need you to help me with the ironing. You mustn’t bother Master Edward.”
“She’s not bothering me,” Edward said. “Grace is my friend.”
Rose hitched her hands on her hips. “No,” she said. “Mary Grace is a servant in this house. She works here along with me. There will be no friendship. You are not equals.”
With that, Rose turned and pulled Grace along behind her. Edward watched them leave, puzzled by her statement. Though he understood Rose’s position in the household, he’d never thought of Grace as a servant. His mother treated her like a daughter, dressing her in Charlotte’s old clothes and making gifts of Charlotte’s books and toys.
But perhaps that was Grace’s job in the household, to keep his mother happy, to stave off the dark moods that always accompanied Geneva’s grief over Charlotte’s death. Though he was only ten years old, Edward understood the difference between servants and their masters. He’d seen his father turn out kitchen maids and gardeners without a second thought as to how they might survive without a job.
He gathered up the tools and Grace’s animal collection, then walked back to the coach house. Though it was a simple fact, Edward still couldn’t think of Grace in that way. It wasn’t proper to love a servant, not the same way he loved his sister. But his feelings were his own, and as much as Malcolm hated Grace, Edward loved her even more.
The door to the coach house opened and Grace emerged with a small wicker laundry basket filled with linen napkins. She struggled to get it out the door and Edward jumped up and grabbed it from her.
“Don’t,” she said.
“I’ll help you.”
Grace shook her head. “Mama says we shouldn’t be friends. She says it’s not right.”
“No,” Edward said. “She’s wrong. My father is the master and she’s the servant. That’s nothing to do with us.”
“She says someday I’ll work for you. That I mustn’t love you like my brother. I must respect you like my master.”
Edward wrested the basket from her arms, the napkins tumbling onto the grass. “No! I won’t have it. If I’m your master, then I order you to be my friend.”
She fell to the ground and began to pick up the table linens, carefully refolding them and putting them back into the basket. “I—I want to be your friend, Edward. But we’ll have to be secret friends.”
“Yes,” he said. “We can do that. We will swear an oath. Where shall we meet?”
“In the stable,” Grace said. “In the afternoon, while Mama takes her nap and Lady Porter writes her letters. No one will find us there.”
Edward nodded, then picked up the basket and placed it in her hands. He set the animals on top, wrapping them up in a napkin. “We will meet tomorrow.”
Grace nodded, then hurried along to the kitchens. Edward sighed softly. Grace had been his from the moment he’d first found her at the church. She was the only person in the world who loved him for who he was, the only person who mattered to him. There were times when he believed what his mother believed, that Charlotte had come back in Grace’s body. He saw it in her delicate features, in her sweet nature and her unbending loyalty, in her sparkling blue eyes and raven black hair.
They were best friends, though he knew better than to admit it out loud. Boys his own age, from proper Dublin families, ought to be his best friends. That’s what his father had said. But he and Grace shared a special bond, one that would never be broken. And if that was wrong, then Edward didn’t care. For in his heart, it felt right.

CHAPTER FOUR
“BONJOUR, MONSIEUR PROFESSEUR. Comment allez-vous aujourd’hui?”
“Trés bien, merci, Mademoiselle Grace. I see you are anxious to begin your lesson for today.”
Grace smiled at her tutor. Professor was so simple to please. Though he’d been a bit chilly to her at first, she managed to charm him after only a few weeks of lessons. She’d suspected he’d felt it beneath his station to tutor an Irish Catholic girl, considering his proper British breeding. But Geneva had stepped in after only a few lessons and made certain that he was giving his full attention to their work together.
“I’ve studied my verbs,” she said. “Would you like to hear them?”
“Very well. The future indicative of ‘to have.’”
“J’aurai, tu auras, il aura, nous aurons, vous aurez, ils auront.”
“Très bien, mademoiselle. We have worked together for how long now?”
“Since I was six,” Grace said. “Four years now, Professor.”
“I will tell you, you have far surpassed Master Malcolm in your studies.” He leaned closer, as if to impart a very interesting secret. “I helped him study for his entrance exams to university and he is a rather unremarkable student. His Latin is atrocious, his penmanship is illegible and he can barely cipher. Master Edward, however, is the opposite. Since I’ve been teaching him, he has embraced his education. He will always excel, I am sure of it.”
“Grace!” Edward burst into the room, his color high, his dark hair tousled. He was growing into a very handsome young man, Grace mused. Nearly fourteen years old. If she didn’t consider him a brother, she might actually fancy him— when she got a bit older. “You have to come. Right now.”
“Miss Grace is having her French lesson,” Professor said. “And when she’s done, you and I have a rendezvous with your mathematics book.”
“This is much more important.” Edward crossed the room and grabbed Grace’s hand, then dragged her to her feet. “We have to go now. Lesson over.”
They ran out of the room, Grace’s hand clutched in Edward’s. He led her out the back door, then across the courtyard toward the stables. The old stone building was a fair distance from the house and by the time they reached it, Grace was out of breath. She bent over and placed her hands on her knees, gasping. “What is it?”
“Lily has had her colt,” he said. “Rawley came up to the house to tell me and I wanted to show you.” He pulled open the heavy wooden door of the stable and they stepped inside. The interior was dark and dusty and Grace crinkled her nose as they walked down the row of stalls.
When they reached the end, Edward jumped up on the gate, then held his hand out to her. “She’s in here,” he said.
Grace climbed up beside him and stared down at the newborn colt, curled up in a pile of straw in the corner. Like its mother, it was a rich, chocolate brown with a white blaze on its forehead. “It’s a girl?”
Edward nodded. “And it’s yours,” he said.
She gasped. “Mine? Whatever will I do with a horse?”
“You’ll learn to ride. You’re a young lady and Mother said Lily’s colt was to be a Christmas gift for you.”
“Isn’t the colt a little small to ride?”
Edward gave her a playful punch to the shoulder. “Don’t be a ninny. Of course, you can’t ride her now. You’ll ride a pony first and then one of the gentler mares. And by the time she’s old enough to ride, you’ll be an expert.”
“What will we call her?” Grace asked.
“That’s up to you,” he said. “Mother asked that you name her.”
Grace thought about it for a long time, trying to come up with the perfect name for the baby horse. The colt’s mother was called Lily, so perhaps she ought to be named after a flower as well. “How about Daisy?” she said. “Or Violet. I like Violet. Or maybe Sweet Pea?” She sighed. “How am I supposed to decide?”
“You don’t have to decide now,” he said.
“No, she should have a name. She’s been born and everyone gets a name when they are born. It will be Violet. Violet is her name.”
Edward grinned. “It’s a fine name. The one I would have chosen.” He jumped off the gate and held out his hand to her. “Come. Mother asked that I bring you to her after you’d seen the colt.”
“I should go back to my French lesson.”
“Bugger your French lesson. She has a surprise for you.”
They walked back to the house, Edward chatting about riding lessons and saddles and stirrups. She’d never thought to learn to ride. It didn’t seem of much use, considering most people were replacing their horses and carriages with motorcars these days. “You know, I’d much rather learn to drive than ride,” she said. “How old must I be to drive?”
“You want to drive a motorcar?” Edward laughed. “Don’t be silly. We have a chauffeur. If we drove ourselves, we’d have no use for Farrell.”
“But wouldn’t it be fun?” she said. “We could fly down the road as fast as the car would take us. You will teach me how to drive, won’t you Edward? Just as soon as possible.”
“Only after you learn to ride,” Edward said.
When they entered the house, they went straight to Geneva’s parlor. She was sitting where she did most mornings, at the pretty desk in the corner by the window. Her correspondence was stacked around her and when Grace stepped up to the desk, she looked up and smiled.
“And what do you think of your gift, Miss Grace?”
“Thank you, Lady Porter. It’s a wonderful gift. But I’ll have to ask Mama if it’s all right to keep it.”
“One does not turn down a gift like that,” Geneva said. “It shows bad breeding. You will graciously accept and tell your mother I will hear no complaints about it. Is that clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Grace said. “Now, I must go back to my studies. The professor is waiting for me.”
“No, you should come back to the stables,” Edward said. “I’ll introduce you to your pony and then I’ll give you your first riding lesson. Can we, Mother? Surely Grace can leave her studies for one day.”
Geneva glanced back and forth between the two of them, an odd expression on her face. But then it passed, and she nodded. “I’ll let him know you’re taking a short holiday from your books.” She set her pen down on the desk and stood. “Come. If you’re going to ride, you’ll have to have proper clothes.”
Grace followed Geneva upstairs to the room that had once been Charlotte’s. The door had always been closed whenever Grace was in the house. The servants had warned her that the only person allowed inside was Lady Porter.
“My daughter had a lovely riding costume,” she said. “It would probably fit you perfectly. She was nine when we bought it, but you’re a bit smaller than she was.”
“I couldn’t think of wearing—”
“Nonsense. There is plenty of wear left in it.”
Lady Porter opened the door and walked inside the room, but Grace hung back, waiting to be invited in. “It’s a lovely room,” she murmured.
Lady Porter turned around. “Yes, it is. I took great care in decorating it.”
“You must miss her terribly.”
Her expression grew wistful. “Every moment of every day. A daughter is a precious jewel, a reflection of all the dreams that I had as a young girl. Sons belong to their fathers, until they go off and make a life of their own. But there is a connection between mothers and daughters that can never be broken.” She forced a smile, then turned back to the wardrobe.
The wide cabinet was filled with clothes but Geneva found the blue velvet habit right off. She held it out in front of her, slowly stroking the fabric. “I remember when we bought this,” she said. “Charlotte was so pleased with the way she looked.” Geneva held it out. “Go ahead. Try it on.”
“Now?”
She nodded. The look in her eyes was so hopeful, so melancholy that Grace was afraid to refuse. She slowly stripped off her dress until she stood in her chemise and pantalets. Then, she pulled the skirt up over her hips and fastened the buttons at the waist. A fine linen blouse with ruffled cuffs came next, followed by a matching velvet jacket. Grace turned her attention to the buttons and when she was finished, she looked up to find Geneva staring at her with a frightened look in her eyes.
“Lady Porter? Are you all right?”
Slowly, the woman sank to her knees, her hands clutched against her chest. A low moan slipped from her throat and a moment later, she bent forward and began to wail. Grace glanced around the room, uncertain of how to react. She reached out and touched Geneva on the shoulder, but the woman was so distraught that she didn’t notice.
Grace backed out of the room, then raced downstairs to find Edward. He was in his father’s library and when she entered, he knew immediately that something was wrong. “It’s your mother,” Grace said.
They hurried upstairs to Charlotte’s chamber and Edward immediately dropped to the floor next to his mother. He held her elbows, forcing her to sit up, and when he’d caught her gaze, he spoke to her in a soft but firm voice. “Stop. Mother, you must stop now. Listen to me. If you don’t stop now, you won’t be able to stop later.”
“I can’t do this,” she sobbed. “Everywhere I look, I see her. She’s crying out to me and I can’t reach her.”
“If you don’t control yourself, Father will send you away again. And I won’t be able to rescue you. Please, Mother, try to stop.”
“Where is she? Where is Charlotte?” She glanced up at Grace and through her tears, a smile broke across her face. “There you are, my darling.” She held out her hand and it trembled.
Grace looked to Edward for guidance and he shook his head. But Geneva was insistent and finally, Grace bent down on the other side of her and took her hand. “You have to stop now…Mother,” she murmured. “Listen to Edward. He knows what’s best.”
“Oh, my darling. Look how pretty you are. That color suits you. It always has.”
“Let’s get her to her bedchamber,” Edward said.
They both took an arm and drew her to her feet, then walked her down the hall to her room. When they got inside, Edward settled his mother on the bed, then picked up a small bottle from a tray beside the bed. “This always seems to calm her,” he said, mixing a spoonful of the medicine with a glass of water. He handed it to Grace. “You do it.”
Grace drew a deep breath and held the glass out to Geneva. “Here, Mother, drink this. It will make you feel better.”
She gulped the liquid down, then slowly lay back on the bed. When she closed her eyes, Grace moved away from her, her own hands trembling. There were times when life seemed so good at Porter Hall, the days so bright and carefree. But then something would scratch the shiny surface and expose the darkness beneath. They were all teetering on the edge of disaster. And Grace felt as though she was the only one who could hold them all together.
“Do I resemble her?” she murmured.
Edward shook his head. “Charlotte was fair, like my mother. She had light brown hair.” He looked at her. “Your eyes are the very same color, though. I don’t know why she doesn’t see the difference.” He took a ragged breath. “She frightens me sometimes.”
Grace took Edward’s hand and held it tight. It was such a burden to carry for a young man of fourteen. And even more so for Grace, whose own loyalties seemed to be tested at every turn. She’d found a home here with the Porters and though she didn’t remember a life before this, she knew from her mother that it had been desperate.
She would do whatever was needed to keep her place at Porter Hall. And if that meant pretending to be Charlotte Porter on occasion, then she’d learn to play the part well.

GENEVA’S HEAD THROBBED. She pressed the cool cloth to her brow and sank back into the pillows. It had been nearly a week since she’d ventured out of her bedroom, but gradually she was beginning to drag herself from her stupor.
She’d grown accustomed to the drugs she took and as of late, it required more and more of the tonic to make her mind go quiet enough for her to sleep. And then, when her thoughts were finally silenced, it took longer to recover.
The bottle of medicine sat on a silver tray next to her bed and she reached out for it. But her hand shook as she tried to grab it and Geneva closed her eyes. She couldn’t allow herself the luxury of sleep any longer. The rational part of her mind told her that there was a limit to her husband’s patience and it was usually reached after a week in bed.
Edward had spent most of his time watching over her, making sure she was protected from the prying eyes of the servants. He brought her meals, gave her medicine and read to her from the poems of Keats and Browning. And when he wasn’t reading, he spoke to her in soft tones, drawing her back to a world that had become so difficult to face. It was more than a boy his age ought to bear, but Geneva had no one else to depend upon.
A soft knock sounded on the door and she called out, expecting Edward to come in. But Rose stepped into the room and softly closed the door behind her. She wore the plain gray uniform that all the servants at Porter Hall wore and her dark hair was drawn back into a severe knot at the nape of her neck. She looked thin and very pale.
“Lady Porter, I’ve brought some fresh linens. Master Edward asked that I bring them right up.”
“Leave them on the chair,” she said, her voice filled with all the exhaustion she felt.
“And I’ve also returned the riding habit you gave to Mary Grace. I don’t think it’s a good idea for her to learn to ride. It’s so…dangerous.”
Geneva stared at her for a long moment, trying to make sense of her words. “Riding habit? What riding habit?”
Rose cocked her head, confusion marring her somber expression. “I’ll—I’ll just put the linens here.” She set the bedsheets on the chair, then turned back to the bed.
“How are you feeling? Mary Grace has been very worried.” She paused. “Sometimes grief is a terrible thing to bear. Especially the grief of a mother.”
Geneva closed her eyes. She felt so numb, as if every ounce of emotion inside her had evaporated. This was the way it went, the lows and then the highs, the plummeting descent and the slow, gradual rise back to happiness. “A mother should never have to watch her child die.”
“Do you not believe she’s in a better place?” Rose asked.
“How can I think any place is better than her home, with her mother and her father?” Geneva sighed. “Is your faith that strong?”
Rose shook her head. “Not all the time. In the middle of my own grief, when I needed it most, it seemed to vanish. But then, I realized that I was not grieving for my husband or for the life he might have had. I was grieving for myself, for everything I’d lost.”
“And I suppose you’ll tell me that it was God’s will that my Charlotte died? That he was the one who struck her down with scarlet fever? I cannot believe in a god who would take such a precious child from this world. From me.”
“I lost two babies before I gave birth to Mary Grace,” Rose said. “The first was stillborn, a son, a beautiful child with the face of an angel. I would like to think they’re all in heaven with Jamie, though my priest tells me they are not.”
“You don’t believe dead babies go to heaven?”
“They weren’t baptized. Babies who aren’t baptized remain in limbo, in neither heaven nor hell. Since they cannot be baptized, they cannot be cleansed of their original sin.”
“So their souls just float there forever.”
Rose nodded. “It is a difficult thought to bear and one I struggle with. But I try to think of limbo as a place that’s pure and simple and innocent, where the babies know nothing of God or heaven, so they can’t know what they’re missing.”
“Believe what you need to believe,” Geneva said, flopping back into the pillows and throwing her arm over her eyes.
“At least you know she’s in heaven,” Rose said. “There must be some comfort in that.”
“I’m tired,” Geneva muttered. “Leave me now.”
Rose walked to the door, but she didn’t leave. “You can’t have her,” she murmured. “She’s all I have. I’ve lost everything.”
Geneva pushed up on her elbows. “What are you babbling about?”
“Mary Grace. She’s my daughter, not yours. Nothing you do for her, nothing you give her, will ever change that.”
“Get out!” Geneva screamed. “Get out! You have no right to speak to me that way.” She sat up and a blinding pain shot through her head, turning everything around her black. Geneva swallowed back a wave of nausea. “Pack your bags,” she muttered. “I’ll give you a month’s severance. But I want you out by the end of the day.”
Rose stared at her for a long moment and Geneva waited for her to plead for her job, knowing the satisfaction she’d take in putting Rose Byrne in her place. Since the day she’d brought Rose and Grace to Porter Hall, the woman had always been just a bit too proud and haughty for a servant.
But to Geneva’s surprise, Rose didn’t rise to the bait. She simply tipped her chin up and nodded. “I think that would be for the best, Lady Porter.”
She turned and walked out. A few moments later, Edward came in, carrying a tea tray. He glanced back over his shoulder, then studied Geneva for a long moment. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Geneva said, straightening the bedclothes over her lap. “I—I just sacked Rose.”
Edward gasped. “What?”
“You heard me. She was getting entirely too comfortable here. She had the audacity to imply that I wasn’t grieving Charlotte’s death in a proper way. That I ought to be happy that she’s in heaven and not here with me.”
“What have you done?” Edward accused. “You can’t send them away.”
“I have every right to do just that. I’m in charge of the household staff. I hired her and I can sack her.”
“You’re just tired,” he said. “I know Rose speaks her mind, but she’s a proud woman. And there are times when you do treat Grace more like she’s yours than Rose’s. Mother, please. Let me go to her, let me try to convince her to stay.”
“I will not be spoken to in that way,” Geneva said, her anger growing.
“Then you will put Grace out on the street,” Edward said. “And they will wander about until they both get sick and die. You’ll allow Rose’s daughter to die, simply to make you feel better about Charlotte. Where is your Christian charity, Mother? Does it disappear simply because you have a headache or you’ve taken too much of your tonic?”
Geneva opened her mouth to speak, but then snapped it shut. Emotion welled up inside of her as the reality of what she’d done sunk in. She’d managed to keep herself on an even keel since Grace had arrived. The dark moods were far less frequent and she felt as though she was beginning to climb out of the depths of her grief.
Was that because time had passed or was it because she’d had Grace to raise? For that’s what she was doing, behind Rose’s back. She’d given Grace everything that had been meant for Charlotte, all the womanly wisdom that she possessed. And had Rose Byrne been any other mother, she might have had a right to be jealous.
But Geneva had saved their lives. She’d picked them up off the street and given them a place to live, fed them and clothed them and even educated Grace at no small cost. Rose at least owed her a little understanding and gratitude. Unbidden tears began to roll down her cheeks and Geneva found it difficult to breathe.
“Bring her here,” she said in a strangled voice. “Tell her I must speak with her again.”
She closed her eyes and laid back, drawing in slow, deep breaths to try to quell the pain that was now pounding in her brain. There had been a time, in the not too distant past, when her life had been so right, when she’d had everything she’d ever wanted. Now, it was filled with confusion and regret, fear and loss. Would she ever feel happy again?

CHAPTER FIVE
EDWARD DRAGGED THE TRUNK INTO his bed chamber and left it at the foot of his bed. His mother stared at it critically, her hands hitched on her waist. “We really ought to buy a new trunk for you. It wouldn’t do to have you arrive at Harrow with that tatty old thing.”
He shook his head. “Mother, it doesn’t need to be all shiny and new. This trunk has seen a lot of the world. I’d prefer it. It will make me appear well-traveled.”
“But Malcolm had a new trunk when he went to off to school. You should, too.”
“Malcolm has always been more concerned with appearances,” Edward murmured. When his brother had left for university last fall, he’d required an entirely new wardrobe, including six suits, eight pairs of shoes, three hats and a cashmere overcoat. And not one trunk, but two. Edward assumed the fine clothes were to make up for his brother’s lack of academic acuity.
He ran his hand over the scarred surface of the trunk, examining the stickers that told the trunk’s history. “When did you go to Istanbul?” he asked.
“Your father went there when he was just out of university. He did the grand tour. My parents only allowed me Italy and France. And here is our honeymoon,” she said, pointing to another sticker for New York. “We went to America on the maiden voyage of the Olympic, Titanic’s sister ship. Your aunt Fanny and uncle Richard lived there before they moved to California. I was seasick the entire way, but it was a wonderful trip. Your father nearly decided to stay and find his fortunes there. Just think, you could have been born an American.”
Geneva crossed the room to the wardrobe and flung open the doors. She studied the contents, kept tidy by the upstairs maid, then shook her head. “This will never do. You’ll need new clothes.” She turned and faced him. “We’ll just have to leave a bit early and do some shopping in London before we deliver you to school.”
“We could always just go to Dublin and find what I need at Clery’s.”
“At a department store? No matter how much your father complains, our family fortunes have not sunk so low that we are forced to shop at a Dublin department store for your wardrobe. Your father will take you to his tailors on Savile Row, and have suits made for you. We can have them delivered to you at school when they’re finished.”
Edward forced a smile. “I don’t think Father will have time for a trip to London.”
His father had been even more preoccupied with business since the spring elections and Edward doubted that he’d accompany them. De Valera was now in charge of the government and he advocated a complete break with Britain and a sovereign Irish nation including those counties in the north. He abolished the oath of allegiance to Great Britain and withheld British land annuities. In turn, Britain imposed a twenty-percent duty on all Irish imports—including wool. The coal business still flourished, however, since Ireland had in turn imposed a tariff on the imports of English coal.
“And I certainly don’t need a new wardrobe. One or two suits will do. We wear uniforms most of the time.”
They hadn’t traveled to London for years, not since his mother had been caught up in the world of spiritualists and psychics. Once Grace had come to live with them, Geneva had seemed content to remain at Porter Hall.
She pulled a jacket out of the wardrobe and held it out in front of her. “There is an exhibit of French paintings at the National Gallery that I’m wild to see. And, of course, we must attend a concert or two. We’ll do some shopping and—” She smiled as if struck by a sudden idea. “Since your father won’t go, we’ll take Grace. Oh, it will be a wonderful trip, the three of us. Edward, go fetch her. Now. We’ll tell her all about it.”
“Mother, I’m not sure that Rose would agree. You know how she can be.” His mother had been much more careful with Rose’s feelings since she had nearly walked out two years ago and taken Grace with her. But lately, Geneva had become obsessed with Grace again and Edward sensed that another confrontation was just on the horizon. He had hoped it might happen before he left for school. That way, he would have the chance to smooth it over and soothe hurt feelings before either party took drastic measures.
“She agreed to let me hire a tutor for Grace, didn’t she? This is just another educational experience. Every young lady should see the great capitals of the world. And Dublin does not count,” she added, wagging her finger at Edward. “Now go. And bring her back. I want to give her the good news myself.”
Edward wandered out of the room, convinced that he wouldn’t be able to change Geneva’s mind. When it came to Grace and what she believed the girl needed, Geneva could not be dissuaded.
After the last row, it had taken nearly a year for Grace to feel comfortable again at Porter Hall. Her mother had gone so far as to pack their belongings and convince Farrell to drive them to Dublin. Grace had been hysterical, begging her mother to relent. It had taken Edward an entire day of pleading before Rose had finally accepted Geneva’s apology and agreed to stay—with a substantial raise in pay.
Taking Grace to London was a bold move. Unless… Edward smiled. Unless the invitation came from him. Perhaps if he presented his case, then Rose might agree. And since he was going away to school, it would be a chance for the two of them to have one last adventure together.
He found Grace in the yard, hanging bedsheets to dry in the warm breeze. Her dark hair was pulled back and tied with a ribbon and she wore a simple cotton dress. “I know my love and well he knows,” she sang softly. “I love the grass where on he goes.” She continued to hum as she reached into the basket and withdrew another sheet.
He snuck up behind her and grabbed her around the waist, causing Grace to scream in surprise. She turned and punched him in the shoulder. “I’ll die of fright one of these fine days,” she said. “And you will stand at my grave and weep, Edward Porter.”
“I will not,” Edward teased. “I’ll be glad when you’re gone. You’re a right pain in the arse, Grace Byrne. And I haven’t a clue why my mother would even consider taking you to London.”
She blinked in surprise, her mouth hanging open. Edward reached out and hooked his finger beneath her chin to close it. “Well?”
“London? Your mother wants to take me to London?” Her bright expression slowly faded. “I—I don’t think my mother will allow me to go,” Grace said. “And I can’t leave her. There’s so much work and she needs my help.”
“She can do without you for five or six days. And Mother will make sure she has help with the laundry and the mending while you’re gone.”
“I suppose I could ask,” Grace said.
“Now, there’s the tricky part. You must say it was my invitation, not my mother’s. Do you understand? That way, I’ll help to convince her. I will say it does you no good to study art history and then never visit a museum, or to study piano and never hear a great concert. It’s my wish that we have one last adventure before I go off to school. And she will agree.”
“Then let’s go ask her now,” Grace said anxiously.
Suddenly, the trip seemed so much more exciting. To explore a city as grand and as wonderful as London with his best friend would be an adventure to remember for a lifetime. He’d shown her all the pictures in the books, told her stories of his previous trips, the museums, the parks, the shops. But it wouldn’t be the same as experiencing it together.
When they reached the carriage house, they found Rose sitting near the window, darning stockings. She was hunched over her work, trying to see the tiny stitches through a pair of spectacles she’d purchased from a passing tinker. She looked up as Grace crossed the room. Edward waited by the door for an invitation to enter.
“Are you all right then?” A frown furrowed Rose’s brow. “You look as though the devil has been chasing you.”
“It’s the most wonderful news,” Grace said, trying to catch her breath. She glanced back at Edward and motioned him inside.
“What is it?”
“I’ve been invited to go to London. With Edward and Lady Porter. Isn’t that wonderful, Mama? I’m to see London.”
Rose’s expression turned cold and she stared down at her work, her fingers nervously toying with the needle and thread. “No,” she murmured. “I won’t have it.”
“But why?”
“I just won’t. You’ll not leave Ireland, not as long as I have breath in my body.”
Grace took a step back, as if stunned by the anger in her mother’s voice. “But why?”
Rose stood, tossing her darning to the floor, then crossed the room. She grabbed a linen towel and folded it smartly, then grabbed another. “You don’t think I know what Geneva Porter is about? She thinks she’s very clever, sending her son to convince me. But I see through her ways.”
“Mama, I don’t understand.”
“Tell her, Edward,” Rose said. “Tell her why your mother spends so much time and money on a servant girl.”
Edward shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean,” he replied, refusing to rise to her challenge. This battle for Grace’s soul had gone on since the very first day Geneva had held Grace. And it would continue until his mother or Grace’s departed this world.
“She has found a replacement for her dead daughter,” Rose continued. “And now, she’s decided to turn you into her daughter. The lessons and the clothes, the gifts. And now London. They’re all given at a price, Mary Grace.”
“She’s just generous,” Grace said. “It wouldn’t do to refuse. It would show that I have bad breeding.”
“Bad breeding?” She shook her head. “Tell me your name,” her mother demanded. “Say it. Say your name to me now.”
“Grace,” she replied. “I’m Grace Byrne.”
Tears flooded her mother’s eyes and she shook her head. “No. You’re Mary Grace Byrne. Mary is your given name. But because Lady Porter preferred Grace, I allowed you to be called that. But I won’t have her putting all these fancy ideas in your head. You’re a simple Irish girl who doesn’t need to be puffed up with silly dreams.”
“She doesn’t do that!” Grace shouted. “You’re lying.”
“I am your mother, Mary Grace. And you’d do well to remember that. Lady Porter isn’t interested in you. You remind her of her dead daughter and she’ll live off that fantasy for as long as she needs to grieve. When she’s finished, she’ll toss you aside.”
“Do you think I want to be a servant my whole life? Maybe I want something better. Lady Porter can give that to me.”
“You will be servant in this house, or some other house. Mark my words. If you think the Porters will ever accept you as their own, then you’re a bigger fool than I am, Mary Grace Byrne.”
“I’m going to London,” she said. “And you can’t stop me.”
Her mother stared at her for a long moment, then turned away. Edward watched as Rose’s shoulders slumped. For a moment, he thought she might collapse. But then she straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “Go then. You’ll make your own mistakes, you will. And when your heart is broken, then maybe you’ll finally know that I’m the only mother you’ll ever have.”

THE TRIP WAS MORE THAN Grace could have ever imagined. They’d taken the Lady Leinster, a night express steamer ship, across the Irish Sea from Dublin to Liverpool and then caught the train for London the morning of their arrival. She’d never thought to travel such a great distance. The farthest she’d ever been before had been an occasional trip to Dublin, a thirty-minute ride in the Porter’s motorcar. But this was a grand adventure and everything she saw was made more exciting because it was brand new.
She and Edward had stood on the stern of the ship and watched as Ireland faded into the misty evening horizon. Then, after a night in a comfortable cabin, they had breakfast as they watched England appear in the east, growing greener with each mile of water that the ship consumed.
A quick trip from the docks to the train station and they were soon onboard the London Midland Scotland line bound for London. Another comfortable compartment was waiting along with a light luncheon and a tea. Everything tasted so much better because she was eating on a boat or a train. The air seemed to vibrate with excitement and all the people she saw were wildly sophisticated. Grace knew, from that moment on, that she would always want to travel.
There was only one dark cloud hanging over the trip. She had left without apologizing to her mother. They’d barely spoken over the ten days between the invitation and her departure. Rose had waited for Grace to bend to her wishes and refuse the invitation, but Grace had been just as stubborn as her mother and was determined to go.
Grace hadn’t wanted to hurt her mother. And she knew her mother’s fears were not all imagined. But what harm would the trip do? And there was so much to be gained from it. Who was to care if it put grand ideas in her head or made her want more than she could ever have in life? Wasn’t it a greater sin to let such a wonderful opportunity pass by?
They took a small suite at the Savoy, a luxurious hotel with electric lights, gilt-adorned lifts and uniformed porters. Their room had a view of the Thames and the Waterloo Bridge. They took some time to get settled and after they’d unpacked, Edward invited Grace to take a stroll through the Embankment Gardens. Geneva begged off, deciding instead to have a cup of tea, then a short nap. They would have supper at five in the hotel dining room and would take an evening boat trip on the Thames.

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