again. The child brought him such happiness, and every choice he’d made that had brought him here—to this moment of togetherness—was worth it. He would endure without Molly’s money, without Beattie’s adoration. For the love of his daughter, he could endure anything.
NINE
E ven though Henry had expressly forbidden it, Beattie found herself knocking quietly on her neighbor’s front door. To say she was desperate was true on so many levels, but she was most desperate for money. Her one pair of shoes, brought with her from Glasgow, the ones she had used to run away from Morcombe House, were finally beyond repair.
Not that she was going to ask Doris for money. The thought mortified her. But she knew the elderly woman lived alone, and perhaps she had odd jobs that Beattie could help her with and be paid for when Henry was out and wouldn’t know.
Beattie crouched down and straightened the hem of Lucy’s dress. It would have to come down again. The child was growing so fast.
“What are we doing here, Mummy?”
“I have to speak very quickly to the lady who lives here. Her name is Doris.” She stopped short of saying “Daddy mustn’t know” because that was a sure way to get Lucy to saysomething. No secrets could be kept from Daddy. She would rely instead on the fact that Lucy was young and easily distractible. An afternoon playing with the peg dolls in the boat made out of a soapbox would make her forget.
The door opened, and Doris was standing there, looking down at her curiously. “Mrs. MacConnell?”
“Beattie,” Beattie said, standing and extending her hand.
Doris took it briefly, smiling. “How nice of you to drop by. Can I make you tea?”
“I . . .” Beattie hesitated. Then decided she could not form half a friendship with this woman. “Of course. Thank you, I would like that very much.”
She ushered Lucy in ahead of her and sat her down in the sitting room with the little baby doll that Henry had bought her—Beattie had held her tongue: there were so many things they needed more than dolls—where she played happily while Doris made tea and Beattie eyed the room. It was immaculate. Clearly, this woman needed no help with household chores. Every gleaming surface was adorned with little glass statues, china candleholders, silver boxes. Over the mantel hung a heavy, decorated crucifix. A watercolor painting of Jesus—blue-eyed and fair-haired—sat on the mantel just like a photo of a favorite relative.
“I must say,” Doris said, pouring the tea, “I never thought I’d find you in my sitting room.”
“I’m very sorry,” Beattie said. “My husband and I have rather kept to ourselves.” Not entirely true. Henry was well known in the bars. His indiscretion was no doubt how Molly had tracked him down.
“You don’t need to explain anything to me,” Doris said, sitting next to Beattie on the high-backed sofa. “I’m just glad you came. I’ve been very lonely since my husband died.” She blinked rapidly, then forced a smile. “I do hope you’ll come again.”
“Well, that is one of the reasons I wanted to speak to you. I’m rather hoping to find some work: cleaning, perhaps? Or cooking? I’m very good at sewing, if you need anything repaired.”
Doris shook her head. “Oh, no. I like to do all those things myself. It keeps me fit. And I don’t really have the money to hire anybody. Since Tom died, I do have to be careful with what I’ve got.”
Lucy was circling the room slowly, admiring the knickknacks gleaming on every surface. Beattie tried to hide her disappointment.
“It’s a shame you don’t live a little farther north. My cousin Margaret in Lewinford is a seamstress, and she always has more work than she can manage. She often employs young women like yourself.”
“Lewinford? How far away is it?”
“Fifty miles, dear. Too far to travel. Especially with a young one.” Doris’s eyes settled on Lucy, and she smiled. “She’s a pretty thing,
NINE
E ven though Henry had expressly forbidden it, Beattie found herself knocking quietly on her neighbor’s front door. To say she was desperate was true on so many levels, but she was most desperate for money. Her one pair of shoes, brought with her from Glasgow, the ones she had used to run away from Morcombe House, were finally beyond repair.
Not that she was going to ask Doris for money. The thought mortified her. But she knew the elderly woman lived alone, and perhaps she had odd jobs that Beattie could help her with and be paid for when Henry was out and wouldn’t know.
Beattie crouched down and straightened the hem of Lucy’s dress. It would have to come down again. The child was growing so fast.
“What are we doing here, Mummy?”
“I have to speak very quickly to the lady who lives here. Her name is Doris.” She stopped short of saying “Daddy mustn’t know” because that was a sure way to get Lucy to saysomething. No secrets could be kept from Daddy. She would rely instead on the fact that Lucy was young and easily distractible. An afternoon playing with the peg dolls in the boat made out of a soapbox would make her forget.
The door opened, and Doris was standing there, looking down at her curiously. “Mrs. MacConnell?”
“Beattie,” Beattie said, standing and extending her hand.
Doris took it briefly, smiling. “How nice of you to drop by. Can I make you tea?”
“I . . .” Beattie hesitated. Then decided she could not form half a friendship with this woman. “Of course. Thank you, I would like that very much.”
She ushered Lucy in ahead of her and sat her down in the sitting room with the little baby doll that Henry had bought her—Beattie had held her tongue: there were so many things they needed more than dolls—where she played happily while Doris made tea and Beattie eyed the room. It was immaculate. Clearly, this woman needed no help with household chores. Every gleaming surface was adorned with little glass statues, china candleholders, silver boxes. Over the mantel hung a heavy, decorated crucifix. A watercolor painting of Jesus—blue-eyed and fair-haired—sat on the mantel just like a photo of a favorite relative.
“I must say,” Doris said, pouring the tea, “I never thought I’d find you in my sitting room.”
“I’m very sorry,” Beattie said. “My husband and I have rather kept to ourselves.” Not entirely true. Henry was well known in the bars. His indiscretion was no doubt how Molly had tracked him down.
“You don’t need to explain anything to me,” Doris said, sitting next to Beattie on the high-backed sofa. “I’m just glad you came. I’ve been very lonely since my husband died.” She blinked rapidly, then forced a smile. “I do hope you’ll come again.”
“Well, that is one of the reasons I wanted to speak to you. I’m rather hoping to find some work: cleaning, perhaps? Or cooking? I’m very good at sewing, if you need anything repaired.”
Doris shook her head. “Oh, no. I like to do all those things myself. It keeps me fit. And I don’t really have the money to hire anybody. Since Tom died, I do have to be careful with what I’ve got.”
Lucy was circling the room slowly, admiring the knickknacks gleaming on every surface. Beattie tried to hide her disappointment.
“It’s a shame you don’t live a little farther north. My cousin Margaret in Lewinford is a seamstress, and she always has more work than she can manage. She often employs young women like yourself.”
“Lewinford? How far away is it?”
“Fifty miles, dear. Too far to travel. Especially with a young one.” Doris’s eyes settled on Lucy, and she smiled. “She’s a pretty thing,
Similar Books
