London
Mrs. Goodwin and Martha arrived in England on a rainy morning after a turbulent passage across the Irish Sea. They disembarked at Fishguard in Wales and traveled on the “boat train” to Paddington Station in London. Martha had gazed out of the window of the train at the bleak English countryside and wondered where on earth Wordsworth had got his inspiration from, for surely his poetry wasn’t about this dull and sodden land? Mrs. Goodwin had told her that when the sun shone there was no place more beautiful than England, but to Martha it just looked desolate. The hills were a dismal, dreary green, the forests dark and damp and shivering beneath foggy clouds. Hamlets nestled in the valleys, the smoke from their chimneys wafting cheerlessly into the mist, and on the hillsides sheep huddled together against the gale, their woolly coats a dirty off-white color like the sky. Martha’s thoughts were drawn back to Ireland, whose emerald hills seemed to have a deep and tender charm, even in the middle of winter. It didn’t occur to her that Ireland’s beauty was rendered all the more arresting because of JP Deverill’s attachment to it. In any case, she longed to return. She did not want to be in London at all.
Mrs. Goodwin’s brother, Professor Stephen Partridge, was a historian who had taught at Cambridge University for thirty years before retiring and writing large, indigestible tomes on eighteenth-century France. He was only too happy to welcome his sister back from America and to meet her young charge, about whom he had read a great deal in his sister’s regular letters home.
Professor Partridge was tall and thin like a reed with a balding head of gray hair, a pair of round glasses and a tidy gray moustache, which sat pertly above his vanishing top lip. He had never married and preferred his own company, leading a solitary life of books, which were his greatest pleasure. However, he had a couple of spare bedrooms and a maid who came daily to clean and cook and wash and iron, so his sister and Martha were no imposition, as long as they didn’t stay too long. A couple of weeks would be more than enough. He wouldn’t mind his routine being disturbed for a short and finite period. He trusted his sister to be sensitive to his need for solitude.
Martha was astonished by Mrs. Goodwin’s brother. She had imagined someone warmer, softer, more cheerful and much less austere. Goodwin was a cozy, maternal woman. Her brother was quite the opposite. He was stiff, dry like an old bone and brittle. His three-piece suit was clean and pressed, his shoes were polished and he seemed clean, pressed and polished in them. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he said in a high voice that surprised Martha, for she had expected it to be much lower. His English accent was more pronounced than Mrs. Goodwin’s and his reserve more acute.
Martha had told Mrs. Goodwin to explain her situation to her brother in private. She didn’t think she could discuss it without getting emotional, and she was loath to break down in front of a stranger. Judging by her first impression of Professor Partridge, she didn’t think he’d be comfortable with a weeping woman. So, while Mrs. Goodwin and her brother drank tea in the parlor, in front of a tidy fire, Martha sat at the little writing desk in her bedroom and wrote two letters. One to her parents to let them know that she was safe and well in London and the other to JP.
10 Ormonde Gate, Chelsea, London
Dear JP,
I hope this finds you well. I have just arrived in London and my first impressions are nothing like as delightful as my first impressions of Dublin, but perhaps that is because I don’t have the advantage of a good guide. It is raining, which Goodwin tells me is perfectly normal. I so enjoyed our day together in Dublin. I think it could have drizzled to its heart’s content and we would still have found the sunshine in each other. You made it fun, JP, and for a girl enjoying her first taste of freedom far from home I am truly grateful.
I am staying with Mrs. Goodwin’s brother, Professor Stephen Partridge.
I send you my fond wishes,
Martha
Martha read the letter more times than she could count. She did not want to come across as forward and yet at the same time she did not want to be too formal. They had shared something special in Dublin, and she wanted JP to know how deeply it had affected her. She wished that he had written first, but that was impossible given that he did not know her address. Therefore, she had been left no choice but to put pen to paper and hope that she hadn’t misread his feelings.
When she had finished, she went downstairs for supper. Mrs. Goodwin was still talking to her brother in the parlor. Mrs. Hancock, the maid, had put another log on the fire and taken away the tea tray. Mrs. Goodwin was now drinking a small glass of sherry while Professor Partridge was enjoying what looked like a glass of brandy. Martha sat on the sofa and answered questions about her home in Connecticut, when Mrs. Goodwin allowed her to answer. So excited was she to be showing Martha off to her brother that she frequently interrupted before Martha could speak, jumping in with elaborate descriptions of their life in America. Professor Partridge did not mention Martha’s present predicament. It was only when they retired to bed after supper that Mrs. Goodwin told her that she had discussed the matter with her brother and he had suggested they call on an acquaintance of his, a certain Lady Gershaw, who lived in Mayfair and knew “everyone who was anyone,” which would most certainly include a titled lady such as Martha’s birth mother. “We’re getting closer,” said Mrs. Goodwin with a smile. “I’m feeling very positive about the whole situation.”
Martha was hopeful, albeit anxious that her expectations might not be met. She had imagined the reunion a thousand times. There were countless reasons why the mission might go wrong, and Martha did not want to dwell on any one of them. But now that they were close to finding out who her birth mother was, those reasons rose to the surface of her mind like little pins to pop the bubbles of fantasy there. “Thank you, Goodwin. You are too good to me.” She embraced her tearfully. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’ve been my most loyal friend all through my life. I’m lucky to have you.”
Mrs. Goodwin was so touched that she squeezed her lips tightly to hold back her emotions and embraced Martha in return. “Whatever happens, Martha my dear, don’t forget that you have a loving family back home in Connecticut. I don’t blame you for wanting to find out who brought you into the world, and for all I know she might be looking for you too, but it’s Mrs. Wallace who has loved you and cared for you from the moment she held you. That’s what being a mother is about.”
“I won’t forget,” said Martha. “But I won’t rest until I know why my birth mother gave me away. Why she didn’t want me. Why she couldn’t keep me.”
The following morning the two women took the bus to Mayfair. The professor had telephoned ahead, and Lady Gershaw had invited Mrs. Goodwin and Martha for a cup of tea at eleven. They had devised a plan, because of course they could not reveal the real reason why Martha wanted to find Lady Rowan-Hampton. They were confident that their plan would be sufficient for Lady Gershaw to help them find her.
Lady Gershaw lived in a palatial white house a few streets away from Hyde Park. The two women climbed the wide steps leading up to large double doors with big brass doorknobs and a heavy brass knocker and rang the bell. A moment later a butler in a pristine tailcoat and starched white shirt opened the door and peered at them. He looked from Mrs. Goodwin to Martha and then said, in the accent of the King, “Lady Gershaw is expecting you.” He invited them into the hall and led them across the shining floor to a grand and elegant sitting room, warm from the glow of a hearty fire. “Lady Gershaw will be with you shortly,” he said, and left them alone.
Martha was wringing her hands nervously until Mrs. Goodwin stopped her by placing her own hand on top. “You don’t need to be nervous, my dear. Stephen speaks highly of Lady Gershaw.”
“I’m not nervous about her, Goodwin, but about what she might tell me.”
Just as Mrs. Goodwin was about to reassure her again, a short, rotund woman of about sixty, with a cheerful round face, bright green eyes and a wide, confident smile strode into the room in a pair of sensible brown lace-up shoes and a tweed suit, followed by three small fox terriers. “How lovely!” she exclaimed, putting out a hand. “You must be Stephen’s sister,” she said, looking directly at Mrs. Goodwin.
“Yes, I am,” replied Mrs. Goodwin, shaking her soft, pudgy hand. “And this is Martha Wallace, my charge from Connecticut.”
“Welcome, my dear,” said Lady Gershaw fruitily. “Please, do sit down. Amy is going to bring us tea. I hope you like tea?” She turned to Martha and raised her eyebrows.
“Oh yes, I do, Lady Gershaw, thank you.” Martha waited for Mrs. Goodwin to sit down on the sofa before taking the place beside her. Lady Gershaw chose one of the armchairs, and the terriers, after sniffing the two guests with prodding, curious snouts, settled on the rug at their mistress’s feet.
“I don’t suppose Stephen has told you why we are friends?” Lady Gershaw said with a mischievous smile. “Well, let me tell you. I wrote to him out of the blue, because I adore his work. You see, I’m an avid reader and history is my passion. I’m an admirer. That’s how we met!” She shook her gray curls. “Isn’t that funny? I bet you couldn’t have guessed.”
“No,” said Mrs. Goodwin, genuinely surprised. “I would never have guessed.”
“Professor Partridge wrote back to me. So sweet of him to bother, and I wasted no time in responding. You see, I’m a persistent woman,” Lady Gershaw said with a coquettish grin. “And I usually get what I want. In this case, I invited the Professor to tea, rather like we are meeting today, and, bless him, he came. I gather he is something of a recluse, but I did write an extraordinarily good letter. We discussed his work for much of the morning, and that is how our friendship began. He is the teacher and I am the pupil and he is so fascinating, I could listen to him for days! I only wish I was able to drag him away from his books more often, but if I did, I would be the loser, for I’d have to wait even longer to read his work.” Martha controlled the smile that was about to break out on her face for it was clear that Lady Gershaw was in love with Mrs. Goodwin’s brother. Martha was certain that her ardor was not reciprocated. Professor Partridge did not seem like a man much interested in women. He seemed like a man who was interested only in books.
“So, you are his sister, Mrs. Goodwin. Do tell me what it was like growing up with Stephen. Have you always been close?” Mrs. Goodwin satisfied their hostess with stories from her childhood, while they sipped the tea the maid had brought in and ate the biscuits without noticing the three pairs of eyes that watched them greedily from the rug at Lady Gershaw’s feet.
Martha wondered whether they would ever get around to finding out whether Lady Gershaw knew of Lady Rowan-Hampton. Lady Gershaw was so gripped by Mrs. Goodwin’s stories it was as if Martha was not in the room. At last, when the old lady drew breath, Lady Gershaw turned to Martha.
“My dear, how long will you be staying in London?”
“I’m really not sure. I’d like to see as much of it as I can,” she said vaguely.
“You must go to the theater, and the museums are wonderful. London is a treasure chest of delights. I only wish the sun would shine for you.”
“Lady Gershaw,” Mrs. Goodwin interrupted, aware of Martha’s growing impatience. “I have a favor to ask you.”
Lady Gershaw was so enjoying talking to Professor Partridge’s sister that she was prepared to do anything Mrs. Goodwin requested of her. “Please, tell me, what can I do for you?”
“Many years ago I worked for a family who introduced me to a certain Lady Rowan-Hampton, Grace Rowan-Hampton. She gave me something of value, and now that I’m in England I would very much like to give it back to her. Might you know who she is and where I might find her?”
Martha’s heart was beating very loudly now, pounding against her rib cage like a drumstick. She began to pick her nails and bite her lower lip, but Lady Gershaw was not looking at her. She was looking at Mrs. Goodwin with a wide smile, delighted that she was in a position to help Professor Partridge’s sister—delighted that she could boast of her wide and illustrious connections. “My dear Mrs. Goodwin,” she gushed. “I know Grace Rowan-Hampton very well. She lives not far from here. However, she is not in London at present. She spends most of her time in Ireland.”
“Ireland?” repeated Mrs. Goodwin. Martha’s cheeks glowed red.
“Yes, she and her husband, Sir Ronald, have a house in county Cork. Ronald travels so much, but Grace prefers to be there. She has a lovely house in a small town called Ballinakelly.” At the mention of JP’s hometown Martha’s whole face flushed. She stared at Lady Gershaw over her teacup, afraid to put it down in case she dropped it.
“How very strange,” said Mrs. Goodwin, with forced calmness. “We were only just in Dublin and met a man and his son who live in Ballinakelly.”
“And who might they be? I bet I know them,” said Lady Gershaw, and it was clear to Martha that this was a woman who made it her business to know everyone.
“Lord Deverill,” Mrs. Goodwin replied.
“Bertie Deverill,” Lady Gershaw exclaimed happily. “What a coincidence! Whyever did you not ask him?”
“I didn’t think of it,” said Mrs. Goodwin truthfully. “I never thought for one moment that they would know each other. I never imagined that Lady Rowan-Hampton would live in Ireland.”
“Know each other? Why, they are the very best of friends.” She pulled a face to suggest that she was keeping a monumental secret and that it was all she could do not to divulge it. “Very best of friends,” she repeated with emphasis. Martha realized that her jaw was hanging open and swiftly closed it. “Would you like me to arrange for you to meet her?” Lady Gershaw asked.
Mrs. Goodwin glanced at Martha, who was staring at Lady Gershaw with eyes so wide it was alarming. “No, really, you’re much too kind. Next time I am in Ireland I will pay her a visit.”
“She will be in London in the spring. She always returns for the Season and to see her sons, of course. You know all three are married with children?”
“No, I didn’t know she had children,” said Mrs. Goodwin.
“They don’t much like Ireland. Ever since the Troubles they have lived here. I imagine the company is more exciting for young people in a vibrant, cosmopolitan city like London.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Goodwin agreed.
“Do allow me to invite you all for dinner,” Lady Gershaw said in a sudden flourish of inspiration. “I know Stephen rarely goes out, but really, he should be more generous with his brilliant mind and share it with us lesser-gifted folk. Allow me to host a dinner for you. How about next week. What do you say?”
Mrs. Goodwin was a little embarrassed. It didn’t seem correct that an aristocratic lady such as Lady Gershaw should host a dinner for a woman who was of no social standing, even if she happened to be the sister of someone Lady Gershaw so greatly admired. But Mrs. Goodwin had no choice but to accept. “We’d be honored, Lady Gershaw,” she replied.
“Good, that’s settled then,” said Lady Gershaw with satisfaction. “I will put together a small group of people you will like. Martha dear, how old are you?”
“Seventeen,” she replied.
Lady Gershaw narrowed her eyes. “I might recruit a couple of young gentlemen for you. Tell me, what does your father do?”
Mrs. Goodwin was so relieved that Lady Gershaw had asked a question to which the answer was going to be entirely to her approval that she jumped in and spoke on Martha’s behalf. “Mr. Wallace is in the Foreign Service. He’s one of the most well-connected men in Connecticut. Of course, the Wallace family is a very respectable, very distinguished old family . . .” Martha squirmed uneasily on the sofa, but Lady Gershaw’s eyes were gleaming.
As they left the house half an hour later, Lady Gershaw stood at the top of the steps and waved. When they were safely out of earshot Martha exploded. “Goodwin, my mother is in Ireland. She lives in Ballinakelly, near the Deverills. Can you believe the coincidence? It’s too much! We should have mentioned her to JP and saved ourselves the trouble of traveling all the way to London.”
“I’m astonished,” Mrs. Goodwin agreed. “It’s extraordinary.”
“We must go to Ireland at once.”
“Not before we have dinner with Lady Gershaw.”
“But that’s next week! Do we really have to?” Martha complained.
“My dear, we owe her everything. Thanks to her you might be reunited with your mother, after all.”
“She has three sons,” said Martha thoughtfully. “Do you think she might be pleased to discover that she also has a daughter?”
“I don’t know. She might not welcome you turning up out of the past. Remember she is married and has a family. She’s a respectable member of the aristocracy. She’ll have a reputation to uphold. Until we meet her there’s no telling what sort of woman she is.”
“I think she’s going to be happy, Goodwin. I can feel it,” said Martha with a shiver of excitement. “And to think I’m going to see JP again! It’s too wonderful. Come, let’s not take the bus. Let’s walk through the park and find somewhere nice to have lunch. I don’t care that it’s raining. Everything is going to turn out well. I just know it is.”
Mrs. Goodwin followed after her, wondering how she was going to break it to her brother that he was going to have to have dinner with Lady Gershaw.