Page 104 of The Lost Heiress
“Oh,” Florence said, unable to hide the shock from her voice.
“Yes,” Charles said. “It surprised me as well. She’s due at the end of the summer.”
“I’m—I’m very happy for you,” Florence said, but in her mind, she saw Bass’s face—Bass, leaning into Birdie in the library, kissing her neck.
“Thank you,” Charles said. “We will need someone to look after the baby—a nanny. Birdie doesn’t want to take much time away from her charities or the foundation. It would be such a comfort to me—andI’m sure Birdie will agree—to have someone close to us, someone we really trust, in that role.”
He looked at Florence, and Florence understood.
“I don’t know anything about babies,” Florence said.
“I saw how you looked after Granny Doris when she was sick,” Charles said. “And the way you cared for Astrid. You have a nurturer’s heart, Florence. You’d be a natural.”
Florence wavered—it was never a role she had envisioned for herself, but then again, here was a way forward, a way to make herself useful and needed at Cliffhaven. A way to stay.
“Okay,” Florence said. “Yes. Of course.”
Birdie gave birth to Saoirse early one late-summer day at Cliffhaven. Florence was the first to hold her after the doctor pulled her from between Birdie’s legs, red faced and squalling. Florence clasped her gently to her chest and marveled at the existence of her. Impossibly small. Impossibly soft. Still covered in the thin film of vernix from the womb.
Florence moved into the nanny’s quarters off the nursery, her days fading into a delirious haze of bottle feedings, changing cloth diapers, baths, and rocking Saoirse back and forth in the chair next to her crib, her downy head lilting against Florence’s chest as she fought off impending sleep. Saoirse curled her hand around Florence’s index finger, and Florence could almost burst with how full she felt—how content, how happy, even.
Florence read to Saoirse from picture books as Saoirse cooed and pawed at the pages with her pudgy fingers. When Saoirse could crawl, Florence went down onto her knees with her on the nursery floor, played at blocks and Barbies, madechoo choonoises while dragging a toy train across the carpet. Florence stitched up the baby blanket that Saoirse wore to threads, the one she couldn’t sleep without, and checked under her bed for monsters before turning out the light. When Saoirsehad a nightmare, it was Florence she called out for in the middle of the night—“Tabby, Tabby, my Tabby”—Saoirse’s first word she ever spoke after “No.”
Charles was a frequent visitor to the nursery, leaning over Saoirse’s crib to tuck her in, putting her onto his shoulders, and bouncing her around the room during playtime. Florence would watch them from her chair, but she could never bring herself to tell him what she knew, the truth that simmered beneath the surface. She wondered if time would lay bare the sins of Saoirse’s mother—if, as she grew, Saoirse’s light hair would settle into a vibrant blond, if her chin, the arch of her nose, might betray her.
Time could bear witness, Florence decided, but she would not, could not, bring herself to do it. She loved the child too much to ever harm her, even with the truth.
Chapter Forty-Two
August 28, 1982—The Night Of Saoirse’s Birthday Party
Oh my God,” Saoirse said, her hand on her chest. The lightning illuminated the sky again, turning the pitch-black night momentarily bright as day, like a temporary, fleeting sun. It illuminated the woman standing there at the bottom of the staircase, angled toward Saoirse and Santos on the beach.
“Tabby,” Saoirse said, breathless, “you scared me half to death.”
Florence proffered the umbrella she held in her hand. “I’m sorry, child. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Florence said. “It’s going to be raining cats and dogs any moment, and I saw you headed down here earlier without an umbrella.”
It was just like Saoirse to do something like this, to wander down that rickety old staircase in the dark. A staircase that was hazardous enough when traversing it in broad daylight when it was sunny and dry out, let alone in the wet dark. And on top of that, she came down here withhim, of all people. It was as if she was deliberately putting herself in harm’s way.
“Mr. Santos,” Florence said coldly. “I don’t recall seeing your name on the guest list.”
She had seen Saoirse hanging on to a boy as she made her way down the stairs, but in the dark and with the distance, she hadn’t been able to make out who it was.
“Please, Tabby, don’t be cross,” Saoirse said. “I invited him.”
“I see,” Florence said, the displeasure plain in her voice. “You should come back up to the house, both of you. The weather’s turning.”
“It’s not going to rain,” Saoirse said defiantly.
Then, as if to spite her, the sky opened up, and it started to pour.
Saoirse swore under her breath.
“Come up to the house,” Florence said again. “You’ll catch your death out here.”
This time, Saoirse didn’t need persuading. Florence opened the umbrella, and Santos held it as best he could over Saoirse and Florence as they climbed the stairs, slowly and arduously in the dark. Though, in truth, with the winds as bad as they were, the umbrella did them little good.
When they got to the top, the yard and terrace were empty. Everyone had gone inside.
