Maude Brown's Baby (31 page)

“R
eady?”

“Give me a minute.
This is harder than I expected.”

Clara’s forehead wrinkled, then relaxed. “I think I know,” she said. “You’re right to be worried.”

“Clara, I don’t …”

“No, let me finish.” She put her fingertips on Donald’s arm.

“This man we’re about to see is probably no one you ever knew. Our meeting could be over in a minute. But maybe not. If he is really a relative of yours, or knows someone who is, then things will change for you.” She stopped and looked up into his eyes before continuing.

“Donald, you’re opening a door without knowing what’s on the other
side. A few minutes from now, for better or worse, your life could be very different.”

Donald looked to the distance, drawing another de
ep breath. He exhaled slowly, looked back to Clara and forced a smile.

“Either way, I’ve got to know.”

Clara took Donald’s arm and spoke first when they reached the wheelchair.

“Mr. Payne?”

“Humph,” the man snorted as he scowled briefly at Clara. He spent a few seconds longer on Donald.

“Mr. Payne? I’m Clara Barnes. We spoke yesterday by telephone.”

“I remember.”

“T
his is the young man I wanted you to meet. Donald, this is Mr. Geoffrey Payne.”

Donald offered his hand. The man in the wheelchair released it as quickly as he might the handle of a hot pan.

“Pleased to meet you, sir.”

“Humph.”

“Mr. Payne,” Clara said, “We don’t wish to waste your time, but if you have a moment, perhaps we could move to that table.”

“Let’s get on with it,” Geoffrey said, dropping his hands to the side wheels.

“Let me help you, sir,” Donald said, reaching for the back of the chair.

“I am perfectly capable of moving this confound
ed thing myself!”

Donald backed away as Geoffrey Payne struggled to roll across the damp grass. The chair’s thin rubber wheels dug shallow
groves in the soil, but the man was surprisingly strong. He stopped at one end of a park table, locked the wheels in place and slumped forward, hands clenched in his lap.

“Here we are, then,” he said stiffly. “I’m listening.”

“Mr. Payne,” Donald began, “I lost my parents in the 1900 storm. I have no idea who they were, but I think you might.”             

“You say your name is Brown?” Payne stared straight ahead as if
he were talking from behind a closed door. “Brown’s common enough. What makes you think I know anything about you?”

“We have a photograph, sir.” He nodded to Clara, who reached for her handbag. A rubber ball rolled near Donald’s side of the table. He retrieved it and tossed it back to a clutch of boys playing nearby.

“A photograph?”

“Yes
, sir. A photograph of a man who looks like you, sitting in a chair and lifting a little girl in the air.”

“Let me see!” It was the first sign of interest.

Clara handed him the print. Geoffrey Payne clutched it with both hands. He stared long enough for the sound of children to fill the air. He lightly touched the image of the girl before he spoke.

“Gracie.”

He said the name softly, then his voice and eyes hardened again.

“Where did you get this?” He looked suspiciously at Donald, but Clara answered for him.

“A friend of my mother’s found it a few days after the storm, Mr. Payne.”

Geoffrey
turned to face Clara.

“Where?”

“In the ruins of a house, upstairs, between some books that were still on a shelf.”

“Good Lord,” Geoffrey
said, his defense breached. He struggled, like a fighter reeling from a good punch.

“I haven’t seen this photograph in eighteen years, but this doesn’t prove who you are. What makes you …”

“We have another photograph, sir, taken in the same room.”

Geoffrey
’s hand trembled as he took it from her.

“Wesley!” he cried, then covered his mouth with the back of his hand. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes.

“Wesley?” Donald asked.

“Of course! This is Wesley Brown, a dear, sweet child who died in the storm. Oh, God, the memory still hurts. Wesley and his
mother, both lost the same day!”

“Was her
name Maude?” Clara asked. Geoffrey flinched as if she had poked him with a stick.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“I have another photograph just like this one, sir,” Donald said. “Mine has writing on the front.”

“What writing?”

“The words ‘Maude Brown’s baby’ are in pencil across the bottom of the card.”

Geoffrey Payne leaned forward, both hands flat on the table as Donald continued.

“A woman was forced to leave me with a nurse at John Sealy Hospital in the early afternoon of September 8, 1900. A physician on duty wrote a letter to his wife and described to her what happened. I have the letter.”

“The day of the Great Storm?”

“Yes, sir.”             

Geoffrey
’s hand shot across the table to Donald’s arm. “You are Wesley Brown?” His eyes went wide, searching for anything familiar in Donald’s face. Geoffrey had looked frail, sitting alone in his wheelchair. Now the hand on Donald’s arm had a young man’s grip.

“The nurses at Sealy didn’t know my name, sir, so they called me Donald.”

“This can’t be! I thought Wesley—I thought you—died long ago!”

Clara had seen the
uniformed man when they arrived. He was alone, and had not moved from a bench on the far side of the path. He was watching them still, out of earshot, but intent on Donald’s conversation with Mr. Payne. Clara, struggling to keep her own joy and relief in check, looked back to the table. Geoffrey’s questions tumbled out.

“An orphanage in Houston? You grew up there?
”

“Only until the age of twelve, sir.”

“No! What then?”

“
I was taken in by Naomi and Clarence Stokes.”

“Good people, I hope?”

“Yes, sir, the best.”

“Thank God.”

Geoffrey dropped back in his chair. A leaf fell onto his lap blanket, but he didn’t notice. In the stillness, Donald felt his strength slip away. Simply talking was an effort. He glanced at Clara, who was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. He turned back to Geoffrey.

“Sir, did you know my parents?”

Geoffrey sighed, looking off in the distance. “Yes, Donald, your mother was a dear friend.”

“And my father?”

“A fine chap, although I didn’t know him well.”

“Then please tell me about my mother. What was she like?”

Geoffrey looked at Donald, again studying his face. He leaned closer.

“You have her hair, I’d say, and the shape of her chin. Take off your glasses, please.”

Donald slipped them off, but held them in one hand.

Geoffrey
moved his head back and forth several times. “Different eyes, I think.”

“Sir, I mean, what was my mother like as a person?”

“Ah! Of course.” Geoffrey settled back. “Your mother was a lovely girl, cheerful and bright. She was the sister I never had.”

Donald exhaled slowly as Geoffrey continued.

“I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know Maude. Her parents and mine were close friends. Our fathers met in boarding school. Maude and I were the same age and inseparable as children. It was a sad day indeed when we both went away to different schools. That’s why I was so happy when she eventually came to live with us, even under the circumstances.”

“Sir?”

Geoffrey looked trapped. A male grackle landed on the far end of the picnic table, his black feathers iridescent green in the sun. Mouth open, the bird jerked his head, demanding a handout. Finding none, he flew on.

Clara and Donald exchanged glances.

“What circumstances, Mr. Payne?” she asked.

Geoffrey looked at Clara, turned to Donald, cleared his throat and continued.

“Wesley—I mean Donald—your mother was what some people call a free spirit.”

“Sir?”

“Maude loved life, and she was loved by her parents and mine, but she did not share their views about … about marriage.”

“Oh!” Clara said, suddenly understanding.

“My mother did not marry?”

“Not exactly. Your mother was unmarried at the time your sister was conceived. Maude simply announc
ed it one day over dinner, casually, as if she meant to say a package was coming in the post. My brother and I were not surprised. Maude was twenty-three at the time, and quite familiar with the facts of life.”

“My sister,” Donald repeated slowly. “What year was that, sir?”

“Let’s see, Maude graduated from college in ’96, so that would have been the spring of 1897 when she let her family know.”

“College? My mother graduated from college?” Donald saw Clara smile, as if Mr. Payne confirmed what she already knew.

“Yes, we all did,” he continued. “Of course, it was easier for us men to get into university. My brother and I attended Harrow, and Maude went to Bedford.”

“What did she study?” Clara asked suddenly.

“Literature and philosophy, but photography was her passion.”

“Photography!” Donald gripped the front of the bench. Slowly he began to rock, bearing most of the weight on his arms.

Clara reached into her handbag and
pulled out a third card.

Donald’s hand shook as he took the card from Clara and
passed it to Geoffrey.

“Is this my mother?”

Again, Geoffrey’s eyes moistened as he touched the surface of the print. “Yes, Donald, this dear lady is your mother.” He coughed, then cleared his throat. He handed the card back to Donald, then looked away to a group of five young boys engaged in a rough game of keep-away with someone’s cap. He seemed to draw strength from their play. With his finger, he tapped the card in Donald’s hand.

“I took the picture myself after she adjusted the camera so that all I had to do was squeeze the bulb. I’m afra
id I’m not a photographer. She was a delightful person, but sadly, this picture doesn’t show it.”

Wind loosened more gold and red leaves from the trees, and several tumbled across the table. Donald covered the prints with his hand to keep them from blowing
away. He searched Geoffrey’s eyes. No longer hard, they belonged to a kind and gentle man who lived with a great deal of pain. Donald leaned closer. He struggled silently for words, and then heard them as if he and Mrs. Carhart were speaking as one.

“Mr. Payne
, I am very grateful to your family for helping my mother.”

Geoffrey
sighed, adjusted himself in his wheelchair, then continued his story.

“But of course. You see, the Lancasters, your dear grandparents, were devastated
when they learned that Maude was expecting. They truly loved Maude, but they could not bear the disgrace. Your grandfather had worked himself up through the ranks until he finally ran the London office of my father’s shipping company. For their daughter to have a child without the benefit of a husband would have ruined the Lancasters socially.”

“But Mr. Payne, you implied that Donald’s mother did marry.”

“Right you are, Clara. She married straight away. The father's name was William Brown, a young soldier she met while on a photographic trip to Scotland. As soon as she wrote to him that she was with child, he sent for her and they married in Aberdeen. She took his name, of course, and Maude Lancaster became Mrs. William Brown.”

“My father was a soldier?”

“Yes. Captain Brown was a fine soldier, but he had to serve in places where your mother, especially while she was carrying Grace, could not join him.”

“Sir …
”

Geoffrey
held up his hand.

“My family had an estate near Liverpool. It was much easier for Maude to live quietly with us in the country during her pregnancy. It would have been impossible to keep the
secret from neighbors if she had remained with her parents in London.”

Clara watched Donald. He wouldn’t look at her directly. He rocked again on his hands, eyes down to the photographs on the table. He finally spoke, too softly to hear.

“Did you like him?”

Geoffrey
leaned closer. “Say again, please?”

Donald looked up.

“Did you like my father?”

“Ah. Captain Brown seemed a splendid fellow to me, and it was clear that he loved your mother, but his military
career took him away. Maude continued living with us long after Grace was born, and Captain Brown visited whenever he could.”