On Sparrow Hill (24 page)

“What did you notice, Katie?” Berrie asked. Katie often said the most surprising things, simple yet profound in her way. As when she’d noticed the birds around the manor before she’d drawn her first image of them. Berrie had tried to identify some of the specific varieties since her brother Peter had tried teaching her such a thing from the youngest age. Katie took to the old custom of calling any small bird a sparrow. She said God must love the little sparrows, because He not only made a lot of them—many more than bigger birds—and gave them more colors and songs, but He’d also given them more courage. She’d never seen a big bird go after another bird many times its size, although she’d seen more than one sparrow go after a crow that came near its nest.

Katie directed her smile Berrie’s way. “You know that I notice things, Miss Berrie, don’t you? And the things I notice are often missed by others?”

“Yes, Katie, that’s true.”

“Today I noticed something about you.”

Berrie glanced beyond Katie to her brother, hoping he wasn’t listening. Katie’s observations might very well be honest and true but weren’t always flattering. Of Mrs. Cotgrave’s mole, Katie had noted it grew a hair in its very center.

“And it was about Simon, too.”

If Simon hadn’t been listening before, he was now. He turned his gaze Katie’s way, saying nothing.

“I noticed, Miss Berrie, that you and my brother, Simon, are very much alike.”

Berrie couldn’t hide her surprise at Katie’s words but decided her reaction wasn’t any less than Simon’s. His brows were lifted higher than hers must have been.

“Why do you think that, Katie?” Simon asked.

“One thing is because you both work all the time. Do you know Miss Berrie does a lot of work in her office, Simon? Just like you do at home or when you go to London. And another thing is you both tell others what to do. This is good when you’re telling me what to do, but I think that’s why you sometimes argue, because you’re both used to having others do as you say. And another thing is you always leave your dried apricots on your plates after dinner, so that means you both don’t like dried apricots. And the last thing is you both have the same look on your face sometimes, like you know when one is going to tell the other to do something and you don’t like that because this is your job, to tell others what to do. So that’s why I think you’re both very much alike.”

Berrie glanced from Simon to the others, grateful Duff hadn’t stopped playing and few beyond them had heard Katie’s words. Having anything in common with someone who not only detested her but this school was ridiculous.

“That’s very interesting, Katie,” Simon said.

He didn’t sound irritated in the least. Rather he smiled as he spoke, which was odd indeed.

“I’ve noticed a difference, too.” Katie frowned and her large forehead wrinkled. “One that shouldn’t really be there.”

Berrie exchanged a glance with Simon, noting he didn’t encourage Katie to continue any more than she did.

“It’s this,” Katie said. “It’s God. Miss Berrie prays all the time, Simon. The way you used to. Do you remember how you taught me about God? that He is like the air? And I thought of something else He’s like. Words. Did you know you can’t see words? We can write letters, but they’re just pictures of sounds. They aren’t something you can hold in your hand. And time. Yesterday is something you can’t touch or hold, either, but we know it’s real because we remember what we did. So God is like you said, like air, and He’s like words and yesterday, too. Since you told me this, I don’t understand why you don’t pray anymore. Has God gone away from you but not from me and Miss Berrie? Why would He do that?”

Simon looked away, staring into the light of the fire instead of at anyone else. On his face was a frown, one of the first Berrie had seen not inspired by her or her school.

“He hasn’t gone away, Katie,” Simon said at last, in a voice so low Berrie knew only she and Katie could hear.

Katie smiled broadly, the opposite of her brother’s continued frown. “Then you don’t have any differences at all, you and Miss Berrie. Isn’t that nice?”

Duff had ended the last song and Mrs. Cotgrave was already herding students inside. Berrie stayed behind as the others walked ahead, shaking out the blanket and taking time to fold it more carefully than necessary. It was true she thought Katie’s brother as interesting as he was annoying, but surely she hadn’t said or done anything to indicate to Katie that she
wanted
to have something in common with her brother?

She’d given up on the idea of marriage years ago, perhaps as long ago as her first season out, in London. She knew why she’d received nary a single offer, and it was because any time a man looked at her with interest she’d quickly grilled him on too many topics. Faith, foremost, then politics and education, child rearing and social ills, the punitive system and foreign policy. She couldn’t help herself; those were the topics that appealed to her most when her father and brother sat down to the table. She refused to behave as though she knew nothing of such things when she had an opinion on it all.

But each and every man she’d met that first year, and then the second, seemed to want only the body of a wife and not the mind. Even Lord Welby.

She watched Simon walking with his sister. He couldn’t be younger than she was, perhaps even a year or two older. Why wasn’t he wed already?

Berrie stopped such a surprising line of thinking, all caused by Katie’s simple observation. It didn’t matter if she was right. The Lord didn’t have marriage in mind for Berrie; she was sure of that. He had more important things for her to devote herself to than marriage and family. This was her family now, all of the children other parents had entrusted to the school. Nothing was going to change that.

Besides, even if she had misunderstood and the Lord God did want her wed someday, she was certain it wouldn’t be to a man with whom every conversation escalated to an argument.

Berrie slowly returned to the manor, knowing she wouldn’t walk tonight. Not when she recalled the last time she’d done so when Simon was still there. She glanced back to see Duff tending the dying fire. A further glance took in the surrounding area, and she frowned. Finola stood at the edge of the firelight, watching Duff dousing the last of the flames.

Maybe Berrie would take her walk, after all, and ask Finola to join her. No sense allowing an opportunity for something unseemly—whether or not she need worry about such a thing.

37

* * *

Rebecca sat on the bed with Padgett, each of them holding a small plastic pony. She tried to follow Padgett’s imaginative story line of ponies rescuing a lamb named Emma who’d fallen into a ravine, but Rebecca’s mind was on Dana in the lavatory. She’d learned the pregnancy test was best taken first thing in the morning, and so they’d spent yesterday in desperate distraction. A train ride to Stratford-upon-Avon, an outdoor performance of Hamlet that Padgett had slept through. Lazy lunch, late shopping.

Though Quentin had wanted to come, he let Rebecca talk him out of it. She told him it was only because Dana needed a friend, refuting the look she saw on his face that silently accused her of hanging on to her unease about Lady Caroline. Rebecca believed his assurances and told him so. Still, while she worried with Dana, Rebecca wondered where he spent the day, if Lady Caroline had been part of it—by his choice or his mother’s. By last night she thought if jealousy was to be partner in this relationship, maybe God wasn’t its designer after all.

Rebecca glanced at her watch. Dana had been in there more than five minutes. Rebecca heard nothing from behind the lavatory door, no indication of what Dana might be facing. She wanted to call through the door but couldn’t imagine how hurrying things along might help. And so she participated while Padgett’s pony rescued the little lamb.

At last the doorknob twisted and Rebecca’s gaze flew to the doorway. Dana did not step into the bedroom; instead she stood just inside the lavatory, beyond Rebecca’s vision. Padgett, caught up in her play, seemed not to notice.

Rebecca trotted her pony to the make-believe barn, tugging gently on one of Padgett’s braids. They were coming undone from having been slept in and would need Dana’s attention before long. “I think this pony needs some breakfast. How about you?”

“Not hungry,” she said, then went on with the story.

Rebecca slid from the bed, facing Dana. “Well?”

Her face was anemic, but her skin had been that shade nearly every morning since they’d arrived, color returning only after a meal. There was one difference. Her eyes were streaked with red. “It’s positive.”

A swirl of confusion rose in Rebecca; what should be a joyful moment for Dana, learning she was pregnant, was something altogether different for her. Rebecca stepped closer, grabbing Dana’s hand. “Okay. So now you know for sure.” She glanced over her shoulder to Padgett, who was still oblivious, then turned back to Dana. “Are you going to call Aidan?”

Dana’s eyes widened—not in eagerness, rather in horror. She took a step back. “Will you take Padgett downstairs? give her breakfast?”

Rebecca nodded. “I’ll have tea and toast ready for you. Herbal, no caffeine. And a glass of milk, maybe oatmeal, and a banana . . .” She knew she was rambling, that the words weren’t any comfort, but they were noise, and silence seemed worse.

After breakfast, Padgett took her ponies outside, and Rebecca watched her through the window. She played well by herself, bringing her imagination wherever she went.

An hour later, Dana entered the kitchen. Her hair was wet from a shower, her face still pale and her eyes puffy, nose red, giveaways for tears. Rebecca sliced banana, ready to add it to the oatmeal she’d made. She wanted to say something, call upon some heavenly wisdom that would ease Dana’s fears of the future, fears for the tiny life growing inside her.

But Rebecca knew better than to offer empty hope. She’d learned not to do such a thing when her mother became ill, not to listen when others tried infusing her with their own hollow promises. All the months she’d spent hoping her mother would get better had only made accepting her death harder. Hope had become the enemy, at least for a while.

It wasn’t until her father had confronted her and demanded to know if she would have preferred never having known her mother, having been spared the pain but also the pleasure of her as a mother, that Rebecca began to accept the adage about life being a miracle, no matter how long it lasted. She realized then that hope was sometimes found only in an eternal perspective.

“Did you call Aidan?”

Dana stiffened. “No.”

Rebecca said nothing.

“I want to finish going through the school records,” Dana said. “I think I’ll do that before I help transcribe any more of Berrie’s letters, if you don’t mind.”

“All right,” Rebecca said gently. “But are you sure that’s best? The records are a bit—”

“Too realistic?” Her voice sounded oddly inflexible, defying Rebecca to say otherwise.

“I thought you agreed Berrie’s letters are more interesting, not so clinical.”

“Don’t think the records are telling me something I don’t already know.” Dana stared straight ahead, sounding hard. Not the kind of voice she’d heard from Dana so far, even while she’d been so worried.

“Maybe,” Rebecca began gently, “you know too much already. Whatever happens with this baby cannot possibly include everything going through your mind right now.”

Dana still stared ahead and Rebecca had no idea if her words were welcomed or resented, whether they were received as one of those hollow-hope offerings. She’d been too busy and isolated out here in the country for the past three years. She hadn’t been a friend—a good friend—to anyone since university days. She wasn’t sure she knew how anymore.

“Eat,” Rebecca prompted. “You always feel better with something in your stomach.”

Dana accepted the warm oatmeal. She didn’t finish it but ate enough that the hue of her skin no longer matched the pasty color of the bowl contents.

“Rebecca,” Dana said after she emptied the remnants of her meal in the trash, “would you mind walking Padgett down to the farm while I go through the rest of the records this morning? I’d like to get through as much as I can without her interrupting every five minutes.”

Rebecca nodded even though she wanted to refuse. Dana’s mood was somber enough; reading those records wouldn’t do much to improve that.

But Rebecca kept Padgett on the farm for hours, feeding the animals, letting Padgett ride the pony, holding Emma, who was getting too fast and agile to allow such a thing for long.

Rebecca watched, wondering what was ahead for this little girl. Big sister to a handicapped sibling? Even that might be better than being alone, as Rebecca had been. Her mother’s health had never been good, and her father told her it was a miracle she’d been able to carry Rebecca full-term. Having more children had always been out of the question. Maybe having a special-needs sibling would come with difficulties all its own, although she supposed any relationship had its share of that. Wouldn’t Padgett be better off with someone else to love in her life? Or would this new one only be a burden, as Dana must fear?

Before being in contact with Dana, before reading Cosima’s journal, Rebecca hadn’t thought much about such children. School groups always seemed to bring students on the gifted end, with mainly bright, well-behaved children. Only rarely had anyone arrived at the Hall with a child possessing any sort of intellectual disability.

Even when Quentin had waited for the fragile X blood test results, Rebecca hadn’t really delved into the idea of having a child with cognitive challenges. She’d believed the doctors, and they’d been right. Quentin’s results had come back negative. As Dana had predicted, there was no fragile X in Quentin’s line.

Rebecca didn’t begrudge Dana her fears; she wasn’t even sure she could comfort her, since lately she hadn’t been able to overcome many of her own fears about life-changing decisions. She did know she would be Dana’s friend and support her in any way she could.

Rebecca wouldn’t offer empty hope, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt to offer a reminder about the eternal one. That much she could offer with trust.