Brentwood
Authors: Grace Livingston Hill
© 2014 by Grace Livingston Hill
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All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
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Chapter 1
Chicago, 1930s
M
arjorie Wetherill had always known she was an adopted child. She had been told when she was so young that it meant nothing at all to her. And as the years went by and she was surrounded by love and luxury, she thought little of it. Once when she was in high school she had asked about her birth family casually, more out of curiosity than because of any felt need for them, and she had been told that they were respectable people who had been unfortunate and couldn’t afford to bring her up as they would like to have her brought up. It had all been very vague. But Marjorie was happy, and her adoptive mother greatly stressed the fact that while Marjorie had not been born her own, she had been
chosen
because they loved her at first sight, and that meant more even than if she had been born theirs.
As Marjorie grew older, however, she wondered now and then how a mother, if she had a true mother heart, could bear to give up her child. It seemed an unnatural thing, to surrender her permanently that way and promise never to see her again. But there was even uncertainty as to whether her mother was still living. And so the thought passed by and the happy days of her girlhood went on.
Mrs. Wetherill was a devoted parent, and she and Marjorie were dear companions. It scarcely seemed real to Marjorie that there had ever been any other mother, and as for another father, he wasn’t even sketchily in the background.
When Mr. Wetherill died, Marjorie was still in her school life, and she and her mother were brought even closer together, so that when Mrs. Wetherill was suddenly stricken with an illness that they both knew would be swift and fatal, the girl spent the last months of her adoptive mother’s life in utmost devotion to her. When it was over and she was alone, Marjorie felt utterly desolate, and life seemed barren indeed.
There were many friends, of course, for the Wetherills had a large, pleasant social circle, and there were instant invitations for prolonged visits here and there, but Marjorie had no heart to go. She longed for someone of her own. The world seemed empty and uninteresting.
People told her that feeling would pass, and she tried to believe them, but she fell to wondering more and more about her birth family and wished she knew whether any of them were living, and where. She wished she had asked more about them.
Then one morning, about ten days before Christmas, because she could not settle to anything else, and because she had been almost dreading to go over her beloved mother’s intimate papers, she went bravely to Mrs. Wetherill’s desk in the living room, unlocked it, and began to look over the papers in the pigeon-holes.
The old lawyer had gone over all the papers of the estate with her, those that were kept at the bank, and there was nothing to worry about as far as money was concerned. The entire Wetherill estate was left to her without a question, and it was a comfortable fortune. The income was ample for any possible needs.
But this desk was where Mrs. Wetherill used to write her social and friendly letters, and seemed a very intimate part of her. Marjorie had known that sooner or later she must go over everything and put away or destroy the things their owner would have wished disposed of. In fact, Mrs. Wetherill had given her careful instructions about it.
But as she went from drawer to drawer, emptying every pigeonhole and burning in the fireplace such things as had to be destroyed, she came finally to the little secret drawer, and there she found among several other important papers, a thick letter for herself.
In great surprise, for she had not known of any such letter, she began to read it, the quick tears springing to her eyes as the precious handwriting seemed to bring back the dear one who had left her.
Dearest Marjorie:
There is something that perhaps I should have spoken of long ago, but did not, and I feel as if I must leave some word about it behind for you when I go. I cannot bring myself to talk about it to you and spoil our last brief days together, but I feel that it is something you should know
.
I have never told you much about your birth family. I did not really know much myself to tell, until about two years ago. My husband arranged everything about the adoption. He wanted me not to be troubled with details. He wanted me to feel that you were my own dear child, not adopted. So I never asked much about the facts
.
I saw you first in the hospital. We were going through looking for a baby we could adopt, and when I saw you in the ward, I fell in love with you, only to find you were not for adoption
.
I never told you that you were one of twins. I did not want you to be drawn away from me by other ties. Perhaps I was selfish in that. I begin to feel now that I was. But anyhow it is past and cannot be undone. However, I feel that you should know. If you feel like blaming me I beg you to be pitiful, for I loved you
.
You were a very beautiful baby, and so was your twin sister, yet she had a frailer look than you, and we found upon questioning that she had little chance to live unless she could have an operation and special treatment, which your parents were unable to give her
.
But though neither of you were candidates for adoption, yet I had set my heart upon you. After seeing you, all the other babies looked common to me. So, my husband set about it to see what he could do. He discovered that your father was not strong and needed to get away to the country where he could have light work and be out of doors. My husband finally put it up to your mother while she was still in the hospital that she should give her consent to our adopting you, Mr. Wetherill agreeing to finance the treatment of both your father and little sister, and to make it possible for your family to live on a nice little farm where they could be able to support themselves until better days came
.
These details I did not know at the time. I only knew that to my great joy you were mine at last, adopted according to law, your parents signing over all rights and promising not to try to see you without our consent
.
Once, when you were about three months old, your mother wrote me, begging that she might come and see you, but I persuaded her that it would be better for us all if she did not, that it would be easier for her not to have seen you. Your father—Mr. Wetherill—went to see your own father and had some sort of an understanding with him, so that they did not come near us or write any more. So the years went by, and I was very happy with you. My dear, you know that you have always been to me all that a child born to me could have been, and perhaps a little more, because I had picked you out from all the babies in the world to be mine
.
It was not until after my husband died that I heard again of your birth family. It seems they had saved and saved, and gathered together enough to pay back all the money that Mr. Wetherill had given them when he adopted you, and they wrote begging Mr. Wetherill to accept it and to allow them to come and see you at least occasionally
.
I sent the money back, of course, and wrote very firmly refusing their request, feeling that it would be most disastrous. I had no idea just what kind of people they were, and I felt it might hurt your life
.
But then, about a year ago, just as you were graduating from Miss Evans’s School, your mother came to see me
.
I was surprised at what a lovely, frail little woman she was. She was very plainly dressed, but she looked neat and pretty, and she had eyes like yours. It went to my heart. She said sometimes she could not sleep at night, thinking that she had given you up. She said it seemed at times as if she would go crazy thinking of things she might have done instead, to raise the money to save the lives of her husband and other child, and yet keep you
.
I really felt very sorry for her. She looked so much like you that I began to feel like a criminal. She wanted to see you. But I would not let her. I felt it would be a catastrophe for you at your time of life. Your big photograph taken in your graduating dress was on the desk and I showed it to her, and finally gave it to her. You wondered what had become of it and I had to make up a story about something being the matter with the frame till I could get another
.
She went away sobbing, and I have never forgotten it. When I have looked at you, and thought of her, I have felt like a criminal. I ought to have let her see you. I had no right to come between a mother and her child, no matter what she may have been, although she seemed quite lovely and respectable
.
And now that I am about to die, I feel that I should leave behind me this information so that you may do what you wish in the matter. Perhaps you will want to do something for your own mother. You will have quite a fortune, my dear, and you are free to do what you wish with it, of course
.
After your mother had gone away I sent her quite a generous check, but she returned it by the next mail and sent with it also the amount of money which your father—which my husband—had given your own father. I felt quite badly about that. It seemed to put me very much in the debt of your parents
.
But now I am leaving the matter in your hands, my dear, and if you feel there is anything you would like to do, or if you want to grant your mother’s wish to see you, I want you to know that I am willing. I think perhaps I have sinned in this matter, and I want to make it right if I can. So I am giving you your mother’s name and address. Do whatever your heart dictates
.
You already know how much I have loved you, how I love you as my own, and so I need not say it again. If you feel, dear child, that I have done wrong, I beg you to forgive me, for I have loved you greatly, and I have tried to do my best for you in every other way
.
Your loving mother
,
May D. Wetherill