The House of Closed Doors (28 page)

THIRTY-FIVE

B
et returned in a matter of moments and motioned for me to go up. I took the stairs two at a time in a most unladylike manner, while Sarah squealed in delight at the sudden movement. Mama’s door was an inch or two open, and I pushed it gently.

My mother was sitting propped up on a chaise, swathed in a loose gown. She did not look very changed: a little puffier in the face, perhaps, and maybe there were a few more streaks of gray in her pale blonde hair. But she was smiling sweetly, an expectant and somehow satisfied look in her eyes. Her gaze shifted immediately to Sarah, and her smile grew more tender.

I was across the room in four strides, flung myself on my knees, and buried my face in my mother’s neck. I felt a lump rise in my throat as she stroked my hair and had to bite my lip to keep myself from bawling like a child. Sarah squawked loudly right next to my ear, and I jumped and laughed despite the tears in my eyes.

“I see my granddaughter is beautiful,” said my mother fondly. “Put her in my lap, Nell dear, and let me take a look at her.”

I stepped back to watch my mother and daughter take the measure of each other. Sarah sat up surprisingly straight, lifted her head to look at the new face, and gazed solemnly at her grandmother for a few moments before yawning and rubbing her face with her tiny left hand. In the lamplight, her eyes glowed a pale jade green.

Mama looked up at me quickly and then back down at my baby again but said nothing. Sarah yawned even wider than before, exposing her two teeth, and grizzled a little. Cuddling Sarah against her shoulder, Mama gazed at me reflectively for a moment. I waited, feeling sure what her next question would be, but it did not come. Instead, she smiled cheerfully and spoke in a much brisker tone.

“And you, Nell. You look positively prosperous. Where did you get that lovely dress? Surely not at the Poor Farm?”

“I think you know it was Martin, Mama. He has been a true friend to us. I did not want to turn up on your doorstep in my Poor Farm dress.”

“I have worried so much about how you were faring in that place.” Mama’s brow furrowed. “Hiram kept reassuring me that you were well treated, and I received two most elegant letters from Mrs. Lombardi‌—‌but to think of my own daughter, brought up in every comfort, living in such a place …” Her voice trailed off, and she coughed a little, turning her head away from Sarah.

I carried a delicate chair over to my mother and seated myself near her. “You know, Mama, it was strange at first to be in such a place, but in many ways Stepfather made a good decision. I was able to be useful and was respected there. And Mrs. Lombardi is a good, intelligent, and pious woman.”

“That much was evident from her letters. But the other women… the imbeciles, the women of ill repute …”

“Some of the women have rough manners, but that is the fault of their upbringing, Mama. And I made a friend you would call an imbecile who is as well mannered and refined as many of the people we see around us every day. The women are unfortunate rather than vicious, for the most part. Most of them just want to be loved, and they respond to kindness with great devotion.”

My mother looked at me with a shrewd sparkle in her eyes. “You have changed, Nell. You have returned to me as a young woman with a tender heart.”

I looked at Sarah who by now was asleep, her little mouth moving in a sucking motion as she dreamed. “You’re holding the reason for that, Mama.”

My mother’s lips suddenly parted in a broad smile that revealed her snaggled front teeth. “What is her full name?”

I felt a little dismayed; had Mama forgotten my note on Mrs. Lombardi’s letter, giving Sarah’s name? Bet was right, she was getting worse. I took a deep breath.

“Sarah Amelia Lillington.” I could feel my face redden slightly; it was the first time I had given Sarah a surname out loud, and for a second the name “Venton” had tried to force itself onto my lips. I thought suddenly of Jack, making plans for his future with no idea that he had a daughter, and a pang of something like guilt shot through my body. He had wronged me, I was sure of it by now; but I had wronged him in return.

My mother patted Sarah’s back, oblivious to the struggles of my conscience. “Did you ever really consider giving her up?” she asked

“Oh, yes. Until‌—‌” I stopped, realizing that of course Mama would know nothing of the events at the Farm. I did not think for a moment that Hiram would have told her. “Until I realized how much I loved her,” I substituted. I let my fingertips brush the warm, silken skin of my baby’s face. “And now I couldn’t let her go for anything in the world.”

My mother looked gravely at me, and her voice took on an edge of steel. “And I will help you keep her, Nell. There are worse things than disgrace.”

B
et entered, carrying a tray with a glass for me and slices of her seedy-cake. Despite the supper I’d eaten with Martin, I was ravenous again. The combination of the caraway seeds in the cake and the cool lemonade was delicious, and I put down my cleared plate with such a satisfied sigh that both Bet and my mother laughed. Bet remained in the room while I ate, looking fondly at the picture made by my mother and her granddaughter.

“It’s a terrible shame Mr. Bratt and me never had any children,” she said. “I always thought I’d have a houseful of boys, somehow. But the good Lord bestows His blessings according to His perfect will.”

“And sometimes the Lord’s perfect will does not conform to society’s dictates.” My mother’s voice was stern, but there was a twinkle in her eye as she regarded her illegitimate grandchild.

I took a big gulp of my lemonade. “Mama, you are a wonder,” I whispered. My mother put out her hand to me. “Can it be possible,” I continued, “that you would go against my stepfather’s wishes and persuade him to let me keep Sarah? His political career …” Although, I thought, perhaps the combination of my mother’s determination and my knowledge of Hiram’s secret would be more powerful than his ambition.

My mother sighed. “We will try to pass you off as a widow, I suppose. That is how these things are usually done.” She laughed at my startled look. “My darling, you will not be the first young woman to return to Victory with a child and a tale of clandestine marriage and sudden widowhood. Eventually, you know, people stop counting on their fingers. If we present a united front, we will ride out the storm.”

“And Stepfather could still become mayor of Victory,” I said.

“That is to be hoped.” My mother’s mouth was primly pursed, but her eyes still held a trace of amusement.

“And as a widow with a small child, it would not be shocking if I were to work to support myself. I enjoyed my work as a seamstress at the Farm, Mama. I know that you would support me.” I laid a hand on her wrist to cut off her protest. “But I wish to be as independent as possible. My work at the Farm made me feel like an adult. I do not wish to return to a state of childhood.”

My mother nodded her head slowly. “In truth,” she said, “I am a little more shocked by the notion of my daughter working for a living than I am about this little one.” She laughed, kissing Sarah who was now thoroughly asleep, a limp bundle against her shoulder. “And yet, of course, your dear father’s sisters were both employed before they married.” I breathed silent thanks to my father for being what my mother called a “rough diamond.”

I did not think at all that Stepfather would readily accede to my plan, but I was holding a trump card. It was a bluff‌—‌all I had against him in concrete terms were the word of a lunatic and some hearsay from a drinking session. I was powerless to bring about the justice that Jo and her baby deserved‌—‌and possibly Blackie, although there only a coincidence of dates stood against Hiram Jackson‌—‌and in any event I could not subject my mother to the scandal and shame of an accusation against her husband.

No, but if I could not bring justice, I could at least acquire my freedom. I was ready to wager my future on the instinctive feeling that my stepfather would relinquish his control over me and my child in return for my silence. I hoped that I was right.

THIRTY-SIX

F
or a few days my mother played with and admired her granddaughter from breakfast till the time I tucked Sarah in bed, with the exception of the hour or so in the afternoon when she received callers. During that hour, I sat in the kitchen with Bet and Marie. If Sarah were noisy, my mother would explain that Bet had an unexpected visitor in the form of one of her many cousins, who had brought her child. And I had no doubt she carried off the lie superbly.

Martin usually visited in the evening after his day’s business was done and often dined with us; with Stepfather absent, my mother was free to dine late, in the European fashion, as Grandmama had always preferred. Mama, Martin, and I took Sarah upstairs to bed before dinner, and Mama’s face glowed with pleasure as she watched Martin kiss my baby’s soft cheek while I sang a lullaby. She had scolded Martin gently for not being forthcoming about my presence in Victory and then let the matter drop.

I had been a little worried lest Mama imagine that Martin was Sarah’s father, but that thought did not appear to worry her. In fact, I often caught her looking hard at Sarah’s green eyes, but she never said anything to me or even mentioned Jack’s name. I had always thought my mother’s character to be rather conventional and predictable, but I had to admit that now I was seeing hidden depths in her.

The day came when I heard the hired carriage draw up outside the house, and my stepfather’s loud voice ordered the driver to hurry up and unload his trunks. I was changing Sarah’s diaper in our bedroom‌—‌now the larger one at the back and not the one I had had since girlhood‌—‌and I hastily finished my task. I opened the bedroom door just a crack, my heart thudding.

I strained my ears to hear what was happening, but our house was well built, and I could not distinguish any words. I heard Hiram’s heavy tread as he entered the parlor and thought I discerned the faint tinkling of a bell as my mother rang for coffee.

What were they saying? Had Mama broached the subject of my presence in the house yet, or was she merely inquiring after Hiram’s journey? I worried about the effect of the excitement on my mother’s heart. I felt no fear‌—‌killer as my stepfather might be, I did not for a moment think that he would show me any violence with my mother present. Strange to think that such a frail, dainty soul stood between me and the wrath of a murderer.