On Sparrow Hill (15 page)

“Argh! Get out!” The same angry tone as yesterday, though not so loud. “Out! Out you go!”

Berrie pulled open her bedroom door, her eye immediately drawn to another open door down the hall. From it emerged a half-dressed, tousled Simon MacFarland, leading by the wrist a fully dressed, fourteen-year-old Eóin. Simon, shirtless and shoeless, appeared every bit as bad tempered as he had the moment Berrie first saw him.

She caught his attention and the frown he’d directed Eóin’s way now turned fiercer upon her. “You might do well to put a lock on that door,” he growled. “Unless it’s your intention to have everyone in the place personally awakened to someone sitting on the foot of their bed?”

Berrie tried but wasn’t sure she succeeded in hiding an amused smile. Eóin was their silent wanderer, particularly in the earliest morning hour. “A closed door is usually deterrent enough, so we’re judicious in our locks. Such things aren’t practical in a place one might figure out how to lock but not
unlock
.” Then as she took Eóin’s hand to lead him downstairs, she said over her shoulder, “We’ll be outside in ten minutes for drills. As it’s one of Katie’s favorite times, you might want to be there.”

The grass was damp and slippery from an overnight rain, and the morning sun made the unabsorbed droplets glisten like a crop of freshly grown diamonds. As usual, their little army consisted of four rows of five, including Berrie, Mrs. Cotgrave, and the attendants. Mrs. Cotgrave had tried using a whistle to start their march but gave it up after the first few days as it proved too troublesome a noise for a couple of the children. A clap of the hands was loud enough, and now that most of them knew what was expected of them, they followed without trouble. Not exactly in step, though they made a respectable marching sound with only a few of the boys picking up their feet and pounding them like soldiers. The rest followed along with less dexterity and less noise.

Katie’s line consisted of the two girls and Jens and Eóin, easily the best marchers among them. She must not have expected her brother to be their audience today, because Berrie noticed him a full five minutes before Katie did. When Katie spotted him, she stopped abruptly to wave, and to Berrie’s dismay Tessie crashed into Katie from behind. Like a train derailment, Annabel and then the boys each failed to stop in time. They all went down in their turn, and then Burt, the student leading the line next to them, stopped as well. Only his stop was more mischievous, since he crouched as he’d been taught in leapfrog. The boy behind him had no warning and thus began another series of tumbles.

Wet but undaunted, Berrie and Mrs. Cotgrave managed to reform the lines and their army marched on, finishing with their usual morning exercises.

“Did you see us march, Simon? And bend? Do you know we can even march in the rain? Then we must all wear those awful coats to keep us dry, and I don’t like them. But if I must wear the tarp to march, I will.” Katie’s voice was as exhilarated as her bright eyes and pink cheeks. After twenty minutes of marching; ten minutes of hopping, bending, and stretching; and two minutes of deep breathing of fresh outdoor air to end the routine, most of the faces were flushed with health.

Simon nodded, his expression impassive.

“Will you come with me, Simon? Breakfast is next. Before that, can I show you my garden? I have potatoes, and I don’t want them to stink. Do you remember, Simon, how you told me the potatoes were bad and so many people died and the English didn’t help? How can I tell if they’ll stink? I have something else too. Tomatoes! They’re big red berries, and I’m growing them. They’re not ready yet, but Mrs. Cotgrave said the flowers are where tomatoes will grow.”

She was already walking off, and Simon followed. It was out of the routine that Katie seemed to enjoy adhering to as much as any of the other students, but excitement over her brother’s presence must have taken precedence.

When Katie arrived in the dining hall, her brother still in tow, the room was as quiet as could be expected. Tessie hummed as usual, and a few of the boys muttered or alternately screeched and yowled. Interspersed reminders not to fill one’s mouth, admonitions to eat more slowly, and promptings to use a serviette soon mingled with Katie’s chatter. It was a peaceful breakfast as meals went, one that made Berrie proud. For the most part, students even remembered to eat with utensils.

When she gave a prayer of thanks at the end of the meal, she included her heartfelt, if silent, addition that the meal had gone so well.

Berrie watched Simon follow Katie from the dining hall on their way to the first classroom. There she would not only practice her letters but help other students. Berrie could well imagine what Simon would see through Katie’s day: academics first, color and number recognition, some coin identification, followed by crafts and singing. Before lunch, all levels met in the dining hall for chapel time. Afternoons were called workshop classes, where those in the upper levels took turns choosing, weighing, and selling imitated practical items, such as wooden fruit or other food items, then practiced payment and giving change. Other levels learned domestic chores, where Katie always volunteered for the kitchen. As long as she was kept from the flour, she enjoyed helping to prepare dinner. For boys, the workshops included boot cleaning, simple carpentry, or farm work.

Teatime brought leisure, another favorite hour of everyone’s day, including Berrie’s. Some were able to play at cricket, while others took supervised walks, sat on the swing suspended from one of the taller trees, listened to a book being read, or on occasion took a trip to the village in Jobbin’s wagon.

Without a single outburst for the day so far, Berrie offered another prayer of thanksgiving. Whatever Simon MacFarland decided, at least it wouldn’t be based on the worst the manor had to offer.

Berrie found her way to the small library that had once been an office for Cosima’s father. As she took her seat behind the desk, she noticed a fat envelope resting in the center. On it was written simply
Escott Manor.
There was no stamp, which meant it had been delivered by private courier. Why hadn’t this been brought to her upon delivery, and how long had it been here?

Tearing it open, she was momentarily confused by the official look of the letter. Items received from Mr. Truebody or various committees she’d dealt with so far always included the manor’s full name as part of the address. This appeared to be from a solicitor on behalf of one Finola O’Shea. The name was unfamiliar.

Berrie scanned the letter and the thick pages that followed, soon spotting other names: Rowena O’Shea née Kennesey, Mary Escott née Kennesey . . .

Finola O’Shea was related somehow to Escott Manor?

Berrie read the last paragraph, her heart sinking lower with each word.

. . . therefore by Irish inheritance custom, due to the aforementioned, proven fact that Rowena O’Shea née Kennesey should rightfully have inherited 50 percent of the Escott Manor holdings, we charge the current landholders, Mary and Charles Escott, with due payment of half the property or value of Escott Manor. Rowena O’Shea’s unfortunate death should in no way prevent her loving child from being awarded what was rightfully hers these decades since.

Berrie let the paper float to her desktop, seeing it flutter away from her unsteady hands.
Half
of Escott Manor . . . belonged to someone else?

21

* * *

Rebecca hung up the phone. She’d called Quentin’s mobile but received no answer. He was likely still asleep, as she should have been. Hopefully he would awaken and notice the message before his mother came to his door in the same manner she’d arrived at Rebecca’s.

She showered and dressed, then forced the curls of her hair once more to order. Outwardly she would present herself unfazed by her early morning visitor. Inwardly a weight had settled in the pit of her stomach and wasn’t budging.

She wished he’d answered her call, though she told herself he knew his own mother far better than she did and probably wouldn’t be taken unawares, as she’d been.

The weight at the bottom of Rebecca’s stomach wasn’t worry over Quentin abandoning their relationship because of his mother. What troubled her was the knowledge that someone important to Quentin, someone who should become important to Rebecca, didn’t approve of them as a couple. True, her father had once told her she didn’t need everyone’s approval, adding with a grin she only needed his and God’s. But it seemed obvious to her that life went easier when those in close relation could give their blessing unconditionally. She had little hope to gain Elise’s.

Rebecca went to her office, where a list of e-mails and a stack of Berrie Hamilton’s letters awaited her. She hadn’t delved very deep when there was a firm knock at the door.

Before she could answer, Quentin stood before her. His hair was tousled,but he was immaculately dressed in a stark white cotton shirt and khaki trousers.

“She admitted she was here,” he said, taking a seat on the opposite side of Rebecca’s desk. No greeting, no invitation to share one of Helen’s delicious breakfasts. Instead he was studying her closely. “Are you . . . all right?”

She smiled. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He lifted his hands and they landed with a thud on his lap. “Oh, I don’t know, Rebecca. Perhaps because for the past three weeks you’ve been waiting for a blitzkrieg, and there she was, at the foot of your bed this morning.”

She laughed. “Yes. And yet here I am. Still intact.” She held his gaze. “And still, I trust, with a job?”

He moaned, standing and coming around the desk to pull her up into his arms. “Consider this your home, Rebecca. Not even my mother has the power to change that.”

Quentin kissed her, then whispered, “I thought I’d find you with your bags packed again.”

“I wouldn’t leave without a discussion first.”

He tilted his head. “You’ve changed your mode of operation?”

Rebecca shook her head. “That was before we’d established any sort of relationship, a necessary setup. But now . . . we’re invested in one another, Quentin. Your mother’s disapproval is still on the outside. Time will tell if we let it in.” She paused, then added, “I won’t abandon things unless it’s mutual—or not without an explanation. I trust you to do the same.”

“Agreed. Let’s seal that, shall we? With a kiss?”

She offered no protest.

He smiled. “Ready for one of Helen’s breakfasts?” he asked. “This morning’s drama left me hungry.”

She nodded, pausing only long enough to click Print on her computer. “Yes, and we’ll take this with us. An e-mail from Dana. I think she’s learned something about Berrie’s school.”

She read the note aloud as they walked to the kitchen.

“‘Greetings!

I’m excited to share that I’ve met a woman by the name of Lorna Kettle, whose great-great-grandmother actually worked at the Escott Manor school. I don’t yet know what this has to do with a school by the name of Sparrow Hill. Only thing is: Escott Manor was open for just a year! I have access to all kinds of old records, and I’ve even seen Royboy Escott’s file, so I know without a doubt I have the correct school.

Have Berrie’s letters revealed why the school was only for such a short time?

I’m hoping to copy the records I’ve found, and when I return to England I’ll bring with me what I have.

Until then,

Dana’”

Rebecca looked at Quentin with a frown. “Berrie’s school was only open for a year? How odd, for all her hopes and dreams.”

“Perhaps the letters will tell why.”

“I plan to spend the day transcribing them. Care to help?”

She’d only been half serious, but Quentin nodded and added with a grin, “I suppose you don’t know I consider myself one of the fastest keyboarders in England.”

“Oh, really?”

“Absolutely. I’ll challenge you to a transcription race after breakfast. You’ll see then who’s the fastest under this roof.”

22

* * *

I used to tease Christabelle unmercifully for her penchant to worry. As the old proverb goes, she will fret the possibility of the little old man falling out of the moon. I think I may even have chastised you a time or two, my dearest Cosima, for all the worry you brought to your marriage, even now as you await the birth of another child. I do pray for you all every day. You know I am concerned, yet God has given me the sweetest peace about the child you carry, just as He gave me peace about your son. I pray He gives that peace to you as well.

I only wish He would give me that peace for my school! Every challenge we meet brings anxiety, when I know I should trust Him instead. Worry, I have learned, seems to be a virus. Once caught, it is nearly impossible to cure. Maybe we both need to guard ourselves against it, but apparently neither of us knows how to counsel the other in doing such a thing.

Upon reading the letter that threatened the very mission I was created to accomplish, I immediately sent for Mrs. Cotgrave. She, better than anyone, understands the vision and shares my belief that the idea for the school came from no less than God Himself—first to you, Cosima, and then to the rest of us. So how can a woman such as Finola O’Shea and her solicitor threaten that vision?

“I shall have to contact Mr. and Mrs. Escott, of course,” Berrie said to Mrs. Cotgrave after she’d read the document.

Mrs. Cotgrave didn’t look up from the papers. “That’ll take some time, won’t it, though? Your last letter from them said they were about to embark to Africa. Quite likely they’re gone by now.”

Berrie closed her eyes. “Yes, I’d forgotten. My brother, then. He’ll know what to do. But that will take time as well. He may have to come here, and I doubt he’ll want to either leave Cosima or have her travel in her condition, at least until after the baby is born.”

“We might contact Mr. Truebody,” Mrs. Cotgrave suggested. “Perhaps he has a name of someone who might help.”

“I was trying not to involve him.” Berrie sighed. “We probably have no choice. Only what sort of help can we afford?” She frowned. “I hate to ask my father for more funds, yet I don’t see any way round it.”