Page 24 of The Lost Heiress
“No, ma’am, none,” Mrs. Wilson said. “The sisters of Saint Mary’s Convent in Sacramento have agreed to take her in. It’s a very good home, I assure you. She’ll be brought up in the way of the Lord. Communion every Sunday.”
“I see,” Doris said.
Florence could feel Doris’s gaze on her, observing her, and she tried very hard to keep her hand steady with the needle.
“You’re a quick study, Florence,” Doris said approvingly. She was quiet a moment. “Child,” Doris finally said, “how would you like to come stay in the nursery with Verity? You could take your lessons together. I daresay, Verity could use the influence of a companion with a sharp mind or, at the very least, the company.”
Florence looked up at her with wide eyes. She could hardly believe her luck. But before she could say anything, Mrs. Wilson interjected.
“But, ma’am,” Mrs. Wilson started. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I mean no impertinence; it’s just—I’m not sure Florence is the proper company for Miss Verity to keep. She has not been brought up in the proper way. Nothing against her mother, ma’am, as I will not speak ill of the dead, but the child has not been taught manners and has never been to a day of school. She does not know how to read.”
“All the more reason, then,” Scarlet said, speaking up from her place next to Florence and placing her hand on Florence’s shoulder. “The Lord instructs us, ‘Rescue the poor; and deliver the needy out of the hand of the sinner.’ The Lord tells us, ‘The stranger and the fatherless and the widow, that are within thy gates, shall come and shall eat and be filled: that the Lord thy God may bless thee in all the works of thy hands that thou shalt do.’”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs. Wilson said. “That is all very well, but there are things you do not know.”
“Yes?” Doris prompted her.
“I do not wish to speak indelicately,” Mrs. Wilson said, “but I am not entirely sure the child’s mother was married. I wouldn’t wish that stain upon your household, ma’am.”
Florence stared down at the fabric of the couch, heat rushing into her cheeks. Next to her, she felt Scarlet grow silent and withdraw her hand from her shoulder. Florence felt ashamed of herself, of her very being. She ran her fingers along the velvet sofa under her as the words repeated in her head.A stain. A stain. A stain.
“Remarkable,” Doris said. “A woman who was able to evade matrimony. I’m very sorry now I didn’t get to meet her. I’d have liked to ask her how she managed such a thing.”
“Doris,” Scarlet said, in a scandalized whisper.
“Oh, come off it, Scarlet,” Doris said. “Either this woman took her pleasures where she could find them—a thing men do often enough—or she was taken advantage of and is deserving of our sympathy. Either way, that’s hardly the child’s fault.” Doris turned once again to Florence. “So I ask you again, Florence. Would you like to stay here?”
Florence did not look at Mrs. Wilson or Scarlet. She stared straight up at Doris Oppenheimer Towers and nodded vigorously. “Yes,” she said, her voice small and gravelly from lack of use.
“Very good. It’s settled, then,” Doris said. “Mrs. Wilson, you can have Florence’s things brought up to the nursery.”
“As you wish, ma’am,” Mrs. Wilson said, resigned.
Maggie returned then with a tray of steaming stew and a platter of rolls with a fresh dab of butter.
“The cake’s in the oven,” Maggie said as she set the food down in front of Florence.
“Eat a bit, Florence, and then you can have some cake,” Doris said.
But Florence hardly needed prompting. The smell of thyme and rosemary, pepper and cream and potatoes and leeks, made her mouth water, and she barreled spoonful after spoonful into her mouth, suddenly ravenous.
That night, after Florence had packed up her things from the cottage, which all fit neatly into a cloth sack, Mrs. Wilson took her once again by the hand and led her upstairs to the nursery. Florence could see in the glow of the night-light that it was a big beautiful room, with a giant bay window and two feather beds, one on each side of it. In one bed, Florence saw a dark mop of hair spilled across the pillowcase and a lump under the covers. That was Verity, she figured. Florence glanced up at Mrs. Wilson, and Mrs. Wilson pressed a finger to her lips.
“Don’t wake her,” Mrs. Wilson whispered sternly. “You can meet her in the morning.”
She pointed toward the empty bed, and Florence set her sack down at the foot of it and climbed in. Florence looked up at Mrs. Wilson, and Mrs. Wilson stared down at her. Florence knew better than to ask her to tuck her in.
“Good night, then,” Mrs. Wilson said gruffly.
When Mrs. Wilson had gone, Florence sat up in her bed and looked around the room, taking it all in. The walls were painted to look like the sky—baby blue with soft, billowy clouds. There were more toys thanFlorence had ever seen before—a miniature kitchenette and table and chairs, dolls, stuffed animals, blocks, a train. There was a dollhouse, three stories tall, painted pale pink, with white shutters and an attic at the top. Every room was carpeted, and there was decorative paper on the walls, and furniture—real furniture carved out of wood—and a whole family of dolls that lived there, one for each of them: Doris Oppenheimer Towers, Augustus and Scarlet Towers, and the children: Charles, Astrid, and Verity.
Florence lay back down on her back and stared up at the ceiling in the soft glow of the night-light. She whispered the three words that she had never thought to question until a few weeks ago, when she learned it could all be taken away from her.
“I am home,” she said. “I am home.”
“Mother says we get to keep her,” said a voice excitedly.
“She’s not a pet,” said another voice.
