Page 23 of The Lost Heiress
“Mrs. Wilson,” Doris said, the disapproval heavy in her voice. “She looks awfully thin.”
“She gets three square meals a day, ma’am,” Mrs. Wilson said, which was not a complete lie, Florence supposed. There was always food set out in the servants’ hall, and they all sat down to dinner together while the family was eating, though after her mother had passed, no one made sure she ate, and no one missed her if she wasn’t at the table. And so, since Florence’s stomach was too full digesting her grief to eat, she had subsisted on very little—a bowl of porridge in the afternoon, a roll taken from the bread basket in the evening.
“I see,” Doris said. She turned back to Florence. “What’s your favorite thing to eat, child? If you could have anything at all?”
“Cake,” Florence said, without hesitation. The cook had made one for her last birthday, small and round, with pink buttercream frosting and her name spelled out in white chocolate drops across the top.
Doris smiled, as if there were something in Florence’s answer that she approved of or, at least, that she found amusing.
“Maggie,” Doris said, “would you run down to the kitchen and bring up a bowl of that potato stew and some rolls? And see what can be done about a cake.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Maggie said. She set her needlework down and disappeared down the hall.
Florence looked around the room. She wasn’t used to being fussed over in this way, as if she was of any consequence. She was used to being looked past, looked through, but rarely lookedat. When people asked her things, they were more accusations than questions.Where have you been? What are you doing? Why would you do that?It felt strange and unfamiliar, the warmth of someone’s care. It made Florence’s heart pinch; it made her miss her mother.
Her eyes caught on two large oil portraits above the fireplace. In the portrait on the left sat a much younger Doris Oppenheimer Towers in a pale-blue dress, a man standing behind her, who Florence could only suppose had once been her husband, though she couldn’t guess at his name—he had been dead a long time. In the portrait on the right was the most recent iteration of the Towers family. Scarlet Towers was seated in the middle, her husband, Augustus, standing behind her. Florence had only a vague memory of him. There had been a big to-do in the servants’ quarters a couple of years back when he had died suddenly of a ruptured ulcer in his spleen. Charles, Augustus’s son from his first marriage, stood behind them in the portrait, and Scarlet and Augustus’s daughters stood to either side. The smallest girl had a bunny-slope noseand an impish grin. The other girl was striking in her beauty. She had a heart-shaped face and large, round violet eyes.
“How old are you, dear?” Scarlet Towers asked.
Florence tore her gaze away from the portrait. “Six,” Florence said, but her voice was so small and meek that it came out almost a whisper.
“Six,” Scarlet repeated brightly. “That’s a wonderful age. I have a little girl, you know, who’s six exactly. Her name is Verity.”
Florence nodded.
“Come sit next to me, child,” Doris said. “I’d like to take a closer look at you.”
Florence glanced back at Mrs. Wilson, and Mrs. Wilson nodded.
“Go on, now,” she whispered curtly.
Florence ambled forward, her chin tucked down, too frightened to look Doris Oppenheimer Towers in the eyes. She glanced back at Mrs. Wilson as she sat down between Doris and Scarlet, and she thought she saw her cringe as her dirty dress made contact with the immaculate velvet sofa.
They all sat there in weighted silence for a moment. Florence was too terrified to breathe, let alone speak. She kept her head down, her eyes catching on Doris’s hands and, in particular, a ring she wore on her index finger. Florence had never seen anything quite like it before. It was a beautiful silver ring, with little beads and a cross.
“Do you like it?” Doris asked, catching her stare.
Florence immediately looked away, embarrassed at being caught.
“It’s quite all right,” Doris said, slipping the ring off her finger. She held it out in the flat of her palm for Florence to see. “Go on, then,” Doris said. “Try it on.”
Florence hesitantly obeyed, taking the ring and slipping it onto her index finger at first, just as Doris had worn it, but it was far too large. So she put it on her thumb next, where it was a snugger fit. She marveled at wearing such a thing on her finger. She had never worn jewelry before.
“You can keep it if you like it so much,” Doris said.
And Florence finally had the courage to look up at her, to study her expression, to see if she was serious.
“It’s a rosary ring,” Scarlet interjected from Florence’s other side. “The beads represent the Hail Marys, and the cross is the Our Father.”
“Never mind all that,” Doris said. “I wear it because it’s pretty. And I think it’s just fine to wear something because it’s beautiful, because it brings you joy.”
Florence could feel Scarlet stiffen next to her, but she didn’t say anything in return. Instead, she tilted her needlework toward Florence so she could see it.
“Do you know how to cross-stitch, dear?” Scarlet asked her, and Florence shook her head. “Well, every girl should know how to cross-stitch,” Scarlet went on, showing her how to hold the needle, how to push it in through the fabric and pull the thread taut. Florence pursed her lips as she concentrated and made a stitch on her own, and then another.
“Very good, dear,” Scarlet commended her.
Doris turned back toward Mrs. Wilson. “The child has no other family?” Doris asked.
