On Sparrow Hill (5 page)

Mrs. Cotgrave nodded. “We do have paperwork, Katie. Miss Hamilton has papers stating she may manage things here, and I have papers stating my prior experience.”

“And I have papers, too, that I gave you just a moment ago.”

“Yes, but your papers aren’t signed by anyone, Katie,” Berrie said. “They must be signed by the proper authorities.”

Katie’s shoulders slumped, and her eyes dwindled from meager circles to unhappy slits.

“How can we help you find your way home, Katie?” Mrs. Cotgrave asked.

“I cannot go home. My sister doesn’t want me there until after she gets married.”

“Surely they’ll welcome you back,” Mrs. Cotgrave said.

“And there is the possibility you can return to us after we have the proper papers,” Berrie added.

Katie looked up again, her brows high. “With two signatures, you say? My sister’s and my own? I can sign my name: K-A-T-I-E.”

“We must have two signatures,” Mrs. Cotgrave confirmed. “But neither can be yours. They must be signed by someone else who promises to let you come back to live with them after your stay here is finished.”

“Finished? But I thought I should work here forever, be very useful until I go to heaven like Mama and Papa.”

Mrs. Cotgrave stood. “You shall stay here the rest of today, Katie. But as soon as we find your brother and sister, you must go home until we can acquire the signatures.”

Berrie stood as well and eventually so did Katie. What had her sister been thinking? How could she have simply dropped her here without knowing what would become of her?

Berrie opened the door, only to see Daisy standing there, poised to knock. Perhaps she had news.

“Yes, Daisy?” Berrie asked.

“I . . . um . . . yes, miss. I came to see if I’ll be making up a room for the new girl, or if you need me regardin’ her.”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, we do. I’d like you to send Duff to tell Mr. Truebody about this girl. Her name is Katie MacFarland, and we must learn where she lives in order to send her home.”

“Yes, miss.”

“And in the meantime,” Berrie said to Katie, turning back to her, “we’ll have a nice evening meal, and then we’ll let you see where you’ll be staying tonight, all right?”

Even as Berrie led the way to the kitchen, she wondered what might happen once Katie was reunited with her brother. Berrie could only hope the sister would take responsibility for her actions. An English-hating brother might be too eager to look elsewhere for blame—perhaps even at Berrie’s door.

5

* * *

“Helen said you received a note from my American cousin,” Quentin said as he peeked around the door to Rebecca’s office. “She’s already coming to England?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Rebecca replied. “Actually your American relative will be spending time in Ireland but hopes to visit here as well. I’d like you to read the note. It contains something of a mystery, or at least something they seem to want to share only with you.”

He laughed lightly and she welcomed the sound. She’d heard him laugh too rarely since losing his father and brother.

“They obviously don’t know you’re more than an employee,” he said as he took a seat. “What sort of mystery?”

While she could easily prove she was nothing more than an employee to him, at least based on the number of conversations they’d shared in the past three years, she decided it was best to ignore the comment.

“I’ve printed the e-mail for you,” she said, handing him the page. “You’ll see the note refers to something that started generations ago. I can’t imagine what she means.”

Quentin scanned the page, then read aloud:

“‘Dear Miss Seabrooke,

My name is Dana Martin Walker, and I’m so pleased to have been given your e-mail address through West World Genealogy. My sister, Talie, and I recently contacted the genealogy service in regard to our English cousins for several reasons.

First, I’ll be spending time in Ireland with my husband, who will be working for three months as a consulting architect in County Kilkenny. It’s my hope to visit England within a few weeks.

Second, I hope to learn more about the various branches of my family. I descend from Kipp Hamilton, who was the youngest son of Peter and Cosima Hamilton. When Kipp came to America, he brought with him Cosima’s journal, which has been passed down through our branch of the family. My sister and I have transcribed it into an electronic file to share with our cousins here. We’d be pleased to forward this file to the Hollinworth family if they are not already acquainted with Cosima and Peter’s history.’

“I’d like to see it,” Quentin interjected, “and I imagine you would too. We might do the same for them with the letters written to Cosima.”

Rebecca nodded. “I can transcribe them if you wish,” she volunteered. “I’d enjoy it.”

He returned to reciting the e-mail printout.

“‘There is much to be learned from Cosima’s journal—things that have had repercussions in our family even to this day, which my English cousins might be interested in learning.’”

Quentin looked up from the page. “What could have repercussions from so long ago?”

Rebecca shrugged. “I’ve no clue. It’s my guess she’s hesitant to share it with me instead of someone in the direct line.”

He finished reading the note.

“‘Please let me know if you would like me to send an electronic copy of Cosima’s journal so my English cousin(s) might read it. In the meantime, I’ll keep you posted on specifics of when I’ll be in England.

And by the way, I noticed your name. There is a loyal valet briefly mentioned in Cosima’s journal by the name of Claude Seabrooke who once worked for the Hamilton family. Isn’t that quite a coincidence?

Sincerely,

Dana Martin Walker

Cosima Escott Hamilton’s great-great-great-granddaughter’”

Quentin grinned. “Coincidence, indeed! Now we really must read the journal, if both our forebears are in it.”

“I thoroughly believe history can teach us all sorts of things,” Rebecca admitted. “But the word she used—
repercussions
. . . How could a 150-year-old journal have repercussions today?”

“Hard to imagine.” He set down the note and tapped his forehead. “Perhaps my American cousin is crackers.”

While that was conceivable, she doubted it. Rebecca couldn’t help trying to imagine—and possibly forestall—any undesirable consequences of connecting with someone claiming to be a distant family member. The original note had come to
her
, after all. If anything unpleasant happened as a result, Lady Elise was sure to find out.

More importantly, Rebecca simply had no wish to be responsible for any thorny thing entering Quentin’s life.

“I’ll send a response and copy you on the e-mail,” Quentin said. “I suppose it would be nice to have the letters transcribed before she gets here. If she gets here. Will you need help? We can hire someone to work on it if your schedule is bogged.”

Rebecca shook her head. She was too eager to read the letters herself. “No, my education manager is due back tomorrow. That’ll free up much of my time. I imagine you’ll want to read the letters too. Would you care to read them now or after I’ve transcribed them?”

“After, I think. The handwriting was clear enough, but I think minimal handling of the old pages best, don’t you? My guess is you’ll want to return them to safekeeping in the vault.”

She nodded. “I’ll print out each letter as I finish, then. I’ve begun the first already.”

“You might print a copy for my mother as well. She’s always been proud to be married into the Hamilton line. I think she’d appreciate knowing more.”

“Of course,” Rebecca said, although she had always thought Lady Elise must believe her position as the sister to the Earl of Eastwater brought the Hollinworth family greater prestige, since the Hamilton line had lost its title along with the Hamilton name. “Shall I e-mail them, or will you be taking them to her?”

“She’ll be coming round for dinner on Thursday. We can tell her what we’re about then.”

We?
Rebecca wanted to question just what part she would play in telling his mother but wasn’t sure how to word it without sounding either surprised or, worse, horrified. In all the years Rebecca had known the Hollinworths, she doubted she’d been noticed by Lady Elise.

“This is Tuesday; I don’t think I’ll be able to transcribe many of the letters by Thursday.”

“We’ll just tell Mum about them. You’ll join us at dinner, then? Eight o’clock?”

Confusion, eagerness, and dread collided over the prospect of sharing dinner with Quentin . . .
and
his mother. Rebecca was nothing more than a staff member, granddaughter to a valet. She was to sit at the same table with Lady Elise, an Endicott daughter, sister to an earl? From what Rebecca knew of Elise’s social life, she seldom had a quiet little family meal. Since her husband and older son had died, she lived almost constantly with an entourage of other society people who shared the same interests—and disinterests. What prompted Quentin to suggest such an astonishing notion as inviting Rebecca to the same table?

She must have taken too long to reply, or perhaps trepidation appeared on her face. Quentin’s gaze was fixed on her. “Rebecca? Would you rather not share dinner with me and my mother?”

“No, no. It isn’t a question of what I’d like. I’m just rather surprised. I’ve been connected to your family all my life, Quentin. Only not socially.”

“Hmm . . . Extraordinary yet true.” He lifted teasing brows. “I pledge my best behavior, and I shall tell my mother to do the same. Perhaps, just for the evening, my social circle will be good enough for yours?”

She tried to laugh, but it sounded rather hollow, forced as it certainly was. “I think it’s rather the other way around, don’t you?”

He leaned forward from across her desk, resting his elbows on her shining mahogany. “Rebecca.” He spoke her name gently, pausing so long afterward she wondered if that was all he meant to say. When she was a child, either parent or tutor only had to say her name to communicate praise or reprimand. Just now she had no idea what Quentin meant if he left it at that.

If he had planned to expound, perhaps he changed his mind. He sat back, glanced toward the window, then looked at her again. “I’d like to tell my mother not only about the letters but about the Featherby nomination. You should be there for that. You deserve her gratitude at the very least. Maybe,” he added with a grin, “you might find I’m not as dull as you think if we spend some time together.”

Dull? For a moment she was a child again, wishing his company would never end. Nothing dull about that, even as she reminded herself such a silly reaction needed to be left where it belonged: as a memory of a childhood crush.

Still, she couldn’t ignore her interest in sharing dinner with him, even if it came with his mother’s company. “Very well, Quentin. I’ll be available.”

He left her office after that, abruptly it seemed. Rebecca stared at the door he closed behind him. Thursday.

She’d best get to work on the letters if she was to be able to speak of them with any authority whatsoever.

6

* * *

Have you ever had a notion, Cosima, so mixed of doom and intrigue that you are not sure which route to hope for? That was how I felt the day we showed Katie to her room. On the one hand, there was in her eyes such a guileless sweetness, a purity of hope, that she had found a place to give meaning to her life. How well I understood that! And yet on the other, I felt as though to keep her and expect her to work as she hoped would be looked upon as the vilest usage of another human being. At the very least, I was convinced that was how her brother would have looked upon it, had he only known where she was.

After providing Katie with dinner, Berrie asked Daisy to bring upstairs whatever belongings Katie had arrived with. When Berrie saw the housemaid carrying what appeared to be two weighty satchels, Berrie marveled that Katie had carried them by herself all the way up the steep lane. No doubt the girl was in better condition than even Mrs. Cotgrave.

“After we show you your room, Katie,” Berrie said on the way upstairs, “would it be all right if Mrs. Cotgrave and I looked in your belongings to see if we might find something to help us look for your sister and your brother?” At the girl’s hesitation, Berrie added, “We must find your relatives for the signatures, so you’ll be able to work here when the time is right.”

Katie nodded at last, just as Daisy set aside the bags to open a bedroom door. The rooms on this, the middle of the three stories, had been redesigned with living quarters on one end and schoolrooms on the other. Berrie and Mrs. Cotgrave each had a room on the far end, with two others yet to be occupied. They anticipated one room to be used by visiting family members, those who wanted to see how their child fit in before leaving them in Berrie’s care. The empty room they stood in now was to be used by two staff members: a teacher who had requested live-in accommodations and a round-the-clock nurse, required by the Lunacy Commission, which had assigned them status as a hospital rather than a school. Students and their attendants would occupy what had become dormitories on the uppermost floor.

Daisy moved the satchels to a spot on the floor at the foot of one of the beds in the room. Instead of leaving, Daisy curtsied in front of Berrie. “I’d be happy to unpack the bags, if you please.”

Katie stepped closer before Berrie could answer. “I’m to show Miss Hamilton what I’ve brought.” She turned to Berrie. “You can be sure I’ll not trouble you for uniforms or the like. I’ve another pair of shoes as well, and slippers, too. Those are at the bottom with my underthings in this bag.” She pushed that one aside, lifting the other one onto the bed and opening it. “I’ll not show you my underthings, because no one is to see such things except the person wearing them . . . and her maid, of course. I did not bring Sophy, my maid. My sister wouldn’t let me. I brought my favorite dresses, though they have buttons. I told my sister I don’t know how I shall button my dresses in the back without Sophy. I was able to tie my own scarf today when it came free in the wind, but as I cannot see behind me, I don’t know if it is straight. Sophy would know, but I couldn’t bring her. My sister wouldn’t let me.”