The Midnight Rose (67 page)

“Yes,” said Rebecca, taking the rose and understanding why Mrs. Trevathan wanted her to have it. She put it to her nose and inhaled the still-strong scent. “Good-bye, Mrs. Trevathan.”

“Good-bye, dear.”

Rebecca left the kitchen and walked across the main entrance hall. She paused under the great dome, remembering the first time she’d seen Anthony standing by the door.

“Good-bye,” she whispered into the silence.

A
ri looked out of the window onto the leafy green of the city garden that surrounded the Victorian house. He could hear the chatter of children’s voices playing outside.

“The registrar, Miss Kent, will see you now.”

“Thank you,” said Ari, standing up and following the woman along a narrow corridor, the very particular smell of overcooked food reminding him of his own school days in England. He was ushered into a small office, where an immaculate, tiny woman in her sixties sat behind a cluttered desk.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Malik. I must tell you this is most irregular. You’re meant to go through the process of contacting an official adoption agency, who will then contact us with details of your ancestor.”

“Do forgive me, Miss Kent, but for a number of reasons, the first one being that I’m not sure of the name he would have been given, and secondly, because I leave for India tomorrow, I’ve thrown myself on your mercy.”

“I see. May I ask how long ago it was that you believe your relative was brought in to the orphanage?”

“I believe it was eighty-nine years ago. In 1922, on the twenty-second of August.”

“Well, at least that is precise,” Mrs. Kent said. “How old would he have been?”

“About three. He was of mixed race, an Anglo-Indian. And he had blue eyes. I believe he was probably brought here by a Dr. Trefusis, although whether he’d have used his true surname either, I’ve no idea.”

“It seems you’re very well informed, Mr. Malik. Although I should warn you that it was rare for a child of that age, especially of mixed blood, to be accepted here. Forgive me for using a blunt analogy, but, a little like puppies, newborn babies were easier to rehome than older children, and finding families has always been the goal of this home for the children in our care. It was a cruel world back then, Mr. Malik.”

Ari realized this woman called a spade a spade. “The family was wealthy, so perhaps there was money offered?”

“Perhaps.”

Ari watched Miss Kent’s keen eyes appraising him.

“Well, despite the fact that you’ve chosen to circumnavigate the system, Mr. Malik, I’m pleased to tell you that our particular institution is allowed to release archived details to relatives after seventy-five years. You understand, of course, that this is because we assume the person in question is already dead and therefore won’t be threatened by such personal information being passed on. Other places specify ninety or even one hundred and ten years before these kinds of records can be released. We’re all living so much longer these days, you see.”

“Suffice to say, the relative I’m searching for is almost certainly dead, although whether he died in infancy, or only ten years ago, is another question I currently can’t answer.”

“Well, why don’t we start with the date you’ve given me and see what the archives hold?” Miss Kent picked up the telephone and asked for the relevant ledger. A few moments later, a young woman appeared with a large leather-bound book.

“Thank you, Heather. Right, now let’s see.”

Ari watched in an agony of suspense as she turned the pages to find the correct date. He knew that if this was a blind alley, he had nowhere else to go.

“Right, here we are, August the twenty-second . . .”

He waited with bated breath as she read what was written, grateful at least that there must be something noted down on the pages.

“Now, a baby boy was brought to the home at ten o’clock that evening by a Dr. Smith. The child was a foundling, apparently, and had been dumped on the good doctor’s doorstep.”

“Hardly,” muttered Ari.

“Mr. Malik”—Miss Kent eyed him over her glasses—“I can assure you that this was quite normal behavior for desperate women. It was either the vicar or the doctor of the parish who usually received the little bundle of joy to be disposed of. And they did their utmost to help.”

“Of course.”

“And you’re right.” Miss Kent turned her attention back to the ledger. “The child was not named. He’s described here as ‘of Eurasian appearance with blue eyes. Healthy, seems well nourished and approximately
three years old. No distinguishing features. Donation made.’ ” Miss Kent looked over her glasses at Ari. “Sound like him?”

“Yes.” Ari felt a wave of emotion but did his best to control it.

“Don’t blub just yet, Mr. Malik,” said Miss Kent with a glimmer of a smile, “there’s more to come.”

“Did they name him?”

“They did.”

“And . . . ?”

“They called him Noah. Don’t ask me why, perhaps there was a flood in London that day. Children here have been named for less and I think it’s a rather distinctive name.”

“Yes, it is. What about his surname?”

“Adams. A good biblical name too. And do you know, that rings rather a large bell . . .”

“Noah Adams,” Ari repeated to himself. “Did he stay here for long?”

“Patience, Mr. Malik, I’m just checking something.”

Miss Kent had risen and moved toward a filing cabinet. She pulled out a folder and studied it. Then she turned to him, seemingly moved herself.

“Goodness,” she exclaimed.

“What is it?”

“It seems he became the esteemed trustee and member of our board whom I knew as Dr. N. Adams.”

“You knew him?”

“Yes, I did. He was a wonderful man. He did so much for the home in terms of raising money and improving conditions for the children. He retired in his late seventies due to ill health and died a few years later. He was an institution here, I can tell you.”

Ari dug in his plastic wallet for the envelope Anahita had sent from her solicitor and took out its contents. “Do you by any chance know the exact date of his death?”

Miss Kent went back to the file and pulled out a photocopy of an obituary. “Here, this was in
The Times
. We kept it because it mentions he was a trustee of ours.”

Ari took it and read the date of Noah Adams’s death. Then he compared it to the date Anahita had written down ten years ago in her weak, spidery writing just before she herself had died.

“Oh my God.”

The dates were identical.

“Are you all right, Mr. Malik? You seem shaken.”

“I am, forgive me.”

“Well, the good news is that you now have everything you need in order to learn more about his life, courtesy of
The Times
. How very strange,” mused Miss Kent as she walked to the photocopier. “I knew that Dr. Adams was here as a child himself but I never had reason to investigate further. I was extremely fond of him—we all were. There.” Miss Kent handed Ari the photocopy of the obituary.

“Thank you.” Ari looked down at the black-and-white photograph of an attractive, elderly man. And there was not a doubt left in his mind that he was staring at the features of his
own
bloodline. Still dazed, he tried to collect himself to think what more he could ask Miss Kent to fill in the blanks that the obituary wouldn’t tell him. “He was a kind man?”

“Oh yes. He used to visit the children once a week on a Wednesday and bring them cakes as a treat. They’d have tea together and he listened to them, Mr. Malik, rather than talking at them. And because we’re a private institution and not government-run, Dr. Adams did all he could to fund-raise and improve facilities here. He also sponsored and encouraged the brighter children to take up places at university as he had himself. He was an inspiration to them.”

“My great-grandmother never believed her son had died, as she’d been told. Do you by any chance know if Dr. Adams ever tried to find his real mother?”

“I don’t, Mr. Malik, and unfortunately, the person who could perhaps have told you—his wife, Samantha—also died a few years ago.”

“Did they have children?”

“Sadly, no. Dr. Adams used to say that the children here were his family. In fact, on his wife’s death, we discovered the two of them had bequeathed everything they had to the home. It’s kept us going, Mr. Malik, I can tell you.”

“Were they happily married?”

“I believe it was a real love match, and they certainly seemed devoted to each other when they visited. But you can read the details in the obituary.”

“Of course. Thank you, Miss Kent, for all your help. I really mustn’t take up any more of your time.”

“Not at all. I’m only glad I could be of some assistance. Here’s my
card with my e-mail on it. If you think of any further questions, don’t hesitate to contact me.”

“I won’t.” Ari tucked the card into his wallet, then stood up. “Good-bye, Miss Kent.”

•  •  •

Having made a donation himself, Ari walked out of the building into the bright light of the July afternoon. There was a playground to one side, where a couple of young children were sitting in a sandpit with buckets and spades. Ari heard their cries of pleasure, saw the well-tended gardens and the immaculate paintwork on the old house.

This was Moh’s legacy, he thought as he found a bench and sat down in the sunshine to read the obituary. Anahita would have been so very proud of her son, who had obviously inherited his mother’s gift for medicine and his father’s philanthropic nature.

Dr. Noah Adams MB BCh (Oxon) FRCOG, OBE

24 February, 2001

The eminent obstetric surgeon Dr. Noah Adams grew up in the Randall Home for Foundlings in Walthamstow, East London. Despite a less-than-easy childhood, Dr. Adams won a scholarship to Oxford to study medicine. His time there was interrupted by the Second World War and he joined the medical corps, in which he served in France and later in East Africa. Returning to Oxford to complete his degree, he married Samantha Marshall, a British nurse he had met while out in France. Dr. Adams moved to London and worked at St. Thomas’s hospital, subsequently completing the necessary exams to be admitted to the Royal College of Surgeons. His specialty was obstetrics and the care of pregnant women in particular. He was a pioneer in the study and causes of preeclampsia, a life-threatening condition which can result in death to mothers and their unborn babies. Dr. Adams wrote many eminent papers on the subject and on maternal health in general. Dr. Adams was a trustee and on the board of governors of the children’s home in which he had grown up, and was a tireless campaigner for orphaned children. He subsequently received an OBE from the queen for his charitable work and research into obstetrics. Dr. Adams leaves behind his widow, Samantha.

Ari only realized he was crying when he saw damp patches were blurring the photocopied words. Wiping his eyes, he sat in the sunshine watching the young children playing happily.

He took Moh Chavan’s death certificate out of the plastic wallet, then tore it up and let the pieces flutter to the ground around him.

“I found him, Anahita,” he whispered as he looked upward.

I
said I’m taking a break, Victor,” Rebecca repeated to her agent. “And I won’t be back for at least six months, maybe even a year.”
Maybe never
, she thought.

“But, Becks! You’re as hot as hell right now. I get that you need a break, but couldn’t you come back home and maybe plan this for a year or so’s time from now?”

“No. I’m leaving tomorrow,” replied Rebecca firmly.

“Well, personally, I think you’re crazy. The media will assume it’s because your heart is broken over Jack, and share those thoughts with the world.”

“Let them. You know what, Victor? I really don’t give a damn.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. “I just don’t understand, Becks. All these years we’ve worked together planning your career, picking the right films. We get you to this point and then you say you’re off! Hey, you’re not pregnant, are you?”

“No, Victor, I’m not pregnant,” said Rebecca, wanting this conversation to be over. “As I said, I just need a break.”

“Okay, so where are you going?”

“I’m not going to tell you. I get that you don’t understand, but there’s absolutely nothing you can say to change my mind. So I suggest we end this conversation. If you’d pay me whatever comes in to my checking account in the next few months, I’d be grateful.”

“Yeah, and it might be the last you’ll receive as an actress if you go through with this scheme of yours. You know as well as I do how soon the phone can stop ringing and you’re yesterday’s news.”

“Good-bye, Victor, and really, thanks for everything.”

Rebecca put down the receiver and flopped back onto the bed in relief. Maybe she
was
crazy, but for the first time in her life, she didn’t want to please anyone else. She needed to spend some time learning about the world and her place in it. She wasn’t a commodity to be bought and sold, she was a human being. And if her career faltered in the time she was going to be away, then so be it.

As Marion Devereaux had said to her that day, it was knowing
herself
and gaining life experience which would truly improve her skills. She wasn’t likely to see any of that living in her rarefied, privileged world playing make-believe women who always got a happy ending, being treated like a princess. She stared around her Claridge’s hotel suite and smiled wryly, knowing there’d be none of this where she was going tomorrow.

She had left a couple of messages for Ari earlier, asking him to call her, but so far he hadn’t. His silence hurt more than she cared to admit, but whether or not he was part of the deal, she wasn’t going to change her mind. She knew that men and their demands had played far too big a role in her life so far. It was time she gained some respect for her own opinions and intelligence, rather than simply her beauty. Maybe then she could begin to form an honest and healthy relationship with someone else.

So, whether Ari Malik returned her message or not, tomorrow morning she was on a plane to India.