Unspeakable (28 page)

For when a part of yourself is taken, there are a million ways your mind wishes it back.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

MY FATHER DIDN'T STAY LONG
. We avoided each other, taking our meals at different times; it wasn't hard in a house of this size. I retreated to the study, spent my days staring out the window at the people on the street. I dreaded the day Father would give Lily and Bates their notice. Didn't want to see him hammer the for-sale sign in the garden. Before he left, he reminded me of my only choice—to come back with him, provided I came alone. Provided I never spoke of Faith again. How was that a choice?

“I've business in Coventry for a few weeks. Then I'll be back to wrap things up here. You can stay until the house sells,” he offered, as though he weren't throwing me out on the street. “But it's a valuable property. I can't see it staying on the market for long. Two weeks. Maybe three.”

So I had my deadline. A part of me just wanted to crawl into bed, to burrow under the covers and never come out. It's what I would have done before. But I knew better now. Knew I deserved better, too.

I took long walks along the shore, mulling things over, the answer as distant as the horizon. I thought about it as I cleared out the hundreds of books my aunt had left me, her literary legacy, now sitting in stacked boxes by the door, waiting for Bates to drop them at the library. I'd painstakingly written “Donated by G.B. Hardy” on the inside cover of every one. I thought perhaps it might inspire someone else to write or maybe even to visit Africa. Aunt Geraldine would have liked that. But I kept her novels. And her typewriter—I couldn't bear to give it away. The vacant shelves circled around me, row upon row of them. Their emptiness mirroring my own. Mocking me.

What now? What next?

Without someone to please or serve, it all came down to one question:
What did
I
want?

Always my thoughts came back to her. Faith. I wanted to be in her life. To see her grow. Even if I hadn't the means to support her, I had love to give her. Surely that counted for something.

I hadn't seen Steele in a few days. Perhaps I'd never see him again. He'd gotten what he wanted—my story. Why would he be back?

No, I couldn't wait for Steele's advice or Aunt Geraldine's to-do list. Nor did I want either. I couldn't wait for Jim's ghost, though I swore I felt him watching. And, above all, I would not wait until I had nowhere to go but my father's farm.

I slipped into the kitchen and lifted the car keys from the hook. The car wasn't mine to take, but I was only borrowing it. I'd be fine on my own, as long as I took it slow.

The road to the Barnardo Home seemed longer that day
and I wondered if I was even heading in the right direction. Eventually, I recognized the long stretch of road where Steele had thrown me the keys. It wasn't much farther. After a few more miles and turns through town, I rolled up the gravel driveway. Faith wasn't here. I knew that. But this time, it wasn't my daughter I'd come to see.

Would Mrs. Winters see me? And if she did, what then?

I killed the engine and sat in the car for a few minutes.

What's the worst that can happen?
I asked myself, envisioning it.

That she laughs at me?

No, Mrs. Winters was not that type. I wondered if she ever smiled.

That she tells me I can never see my daughter again?

That was what I feared most. But doing nothing to stop it, nothing to change it, only ensured it would happen.

I won't give Faith up again. The first time, I never had a choice. But I do no
w.

I opened the door and made myself walk the footpath to the front step. Made myself enter and ask for Mrs. Winters. I sat nervously on the edge of the waiting-room chair for what seemed like hours. With no appointment, who knew how long it might take. But I wasn't leaving until I saw her. I'd made that clear.

I still didn't know a lot of things: where I'd live, how I'd make it work. But I knew who I was and what I truly wanted—and I needed to say it.

“I'm Ellen Hardy,” I said, standing as Mrs. Winters finally entered the waiting room. I held my head high. “I am Faith's mother.”

“Is this about the article for the newspaper?” she asked.

“No.” I cleared my throat. “I just want to see my daughter again …” My voice drifted off. I wasn't really sure what to ask or how this wish might be possible. I just knew I wanted it.

“Come with me.” She led me into the office where I'd first met her with Steele, but she was not the stern matron now; her demeanour had softened.

“I must admit, Ellen,” she said, lifting the teapot from the side table and pouring the steaming liquid into two china cups, “I assumed your only interest in Faith was that Mr. Steele thought it would make a good photo opportunity. She'd been here a year and you'd never tried to contact her before. Never even asked how she was faring.”

“They took her from me right after she was born. I never even got to hold her, Mrs. Winters. As I said before, they told me she'd died,” I explained, ashamed to think that I'd believed their lies. But why wouldn't I? “I never knew she lived … and now that I do, I need to be a part of her life.”

Mrs. Winters considered me for a moment. “Do you have the means to care for her?” she asked, cutting to the heart of it. “A job? A home?”

I shook my head, worried she'd take the hard line. That it was all or nothing.

“I see. Well, you're not the first unwed mother, and I daresay, you won't be the last.” She handed me the steaming cup. “Many, like you, want to be with their children and simply can't because of their circumstances. It's hard to raise a child on your own. Especially for a young mother like yourself.”

Hard? It terrified me. I edged the trembling cup onto her
desk and looked down at my empty hands.
So this is it. This is where she tells me I can't
.

“But,” she continued, “that doesn't mean it is impossible …”

I glanced up.

She paused. “I don't suppose you've had any training as a domestic servant?”

I told her of my experience as a stewardess aboard the
Empress
. I even told her of my life at the Magdalene Asylum, my aunt's passing, and my father's ultimatum. She swallowed it all with a sip of her tea, and I realized she'd probably heard similarly tragic stories from countless other women. That for her, my story had none of the sensationalism Steele craved. It simply was what it was. Backstory. What concerned her now was what happened next.

After weeks of Steele making me look back, it felt liberating to finally be looking forward.

“It is not our intention to separate mother and child. In fact, I believe that relationship is integral to both.” She looked at me with such understanding. “Dr. Barnardo developed a plan for women in your exact situation. With your experience you'd have no trouble being hired by an approved employer, and there are many in the Liverpool area. We'd board Faith in a home nearby, closer to you.”

I nodded in relief. The car wasn't mine to take and travelling this far to visit Faith was simply not possible.

“She'd be fostered within walking distance of your employer. You'd pay half of Faith's fostering from your wages and our benefactors would cover the rest. Five shillings a week.”

“Would I see her?” I asked.

“You could visit with Faith during your time off.”

I could hardly believe it. It wouldn't be easy for Faith or for me—uprooting her from Anna's home, the only home she'd ever known, labouring long days for a glimpse of her now and then—but it was something. It was a start.

“Thank you,” I said, my heart and eyes brimming with hope. “For doing this.”

“We're only the trellis,” she said. “A support for those in need.”

I took out my hankie but decided not to dab at the tears. For the first time in a long time, they'd sprung from joy and, unashamed, I let them run free.

“How your rose fares, if it grows, if it blossoms, is entirely up to you,” Mrs. Winters said, reaching over and squeezing my hand. “And it's my hope that in time, you and Faith won't need us at all.”

Chapter Forty

WITHIN THE WEEK
, Mrs. Winters had secured both a new foster home for Faith and a new job for me. I worked as a housemaid for the Morgans, a wealthy family on the far side of town. It was a good hike from Strandview Manor, but who knew how much longer I'd be able to stay at my aunt's house? Who knew how much longer any of us had? I'd broken the news of my father's plans to Bates and Lily. I owed them that at least. Knowing Father, he'd return and toss them out with no notice at all. They were dismayed, but not surprised. Lily would be fine—a young girl like her would have no trouble starting over. But I worried about Bates. Looking back, I realized that he'd been more like family to me than my own father. When I grieved my mother and, years later, my child, it was Bates who listened, who told me things would get better. Bates who picked me up from the asylum and, most recently, from the docks. Bates who'd been my rock during Aunt Geraldine's funeral and all the aftermath. In his simple,
steadfast, and quiet manner, Bates had always been there for me. How could I let Father just turn him out on the streets? But how could I stop him when I was powerless to prevent him from doing it to me, too?

As I child, I had visited the Morgans with my aunt, though I doubted they remembered me. I was not G.B. Hardy's niece to them, just the maid from Barnardo's. To Colonel Morgan, I was merely a new name on his ledger. Lady Morgan seemed far too busy planning her luncheons and fundraisers to give me more than a once-over when I appeared for the interview. She'd skimmed my letter of reference from Mrs. Winters. “I told them I'd take you on as a maid, but you can't live here.” She did not remember having met me before. But I wondered if her daughter did.

Charlotte Morgan had always been a bit of a snob. It didn't matter that she had a dozen designer dresses, a concert pianist as a tutor, or a powerful father who moved in all the right political circles. What mattered most to Charlotte was that everyone knew it. I remembered meeting her just once, when we were ten, at a fundraiser for African charities held by her mother. My aunt was the guest speaker.