May 1936
Wilmington, North Carolina
Cecily woke up in a strange bed, wearing an unfamiliar nightgown, hearing rain outside.
It came to her instantly: My baby is dead.
The room she was in was tiny, with sloping ceilings and one small dormer, sprinkled in raindrops, letting the twilight in. She tried to sit up, but, between the pain and her severed stomach muscles, couldn’t, and she sank back down.
She remembered: she had walked from the McNaughton Home as far as she could manage, wanting to find the train station. From her arrival weeks ago, she knew it couldn’t be more than a mile away—she just didn’t know in which direction. She’d stolen six dollars from Millie’s petty cash in the kitchen, and figured she could get somewhere on that. Maybe even out of state, where they wouldn’t be looking for her.
But the train station would probably be the first place they’d look. And she was exhausted. In pain. Bleeding. The sky had clouded over and a light rain begun to fall. She sat down—just for a moment, she’d told herself—underneath a large shrubbery at the back of a block containing a very large, elegant house. No one would ever see her, she thought, stretching out under the greenery, and though for a moment she’d thought, What if they send dogs after me?, she was asleep almost instantly, or maybe she’d just passed out.
Now a woman’s voice said from the shadows, “Welcome back, little runaway.”
Cecily was instantly on guard. She hadn’t imagined things could get any worse, but it was now clear they absolutely could. She was at some stranger’s mercy, just when she’d made up her mind never to be at anyone’s mercy again. And someone had undressed her! But her bra was still on; she felt Lucky’s picture inside it, against her tender skin. Thank heavens. If someone had seen it, there could’ve been bad trouble. She worked her mouth, then managed, “What makes you think I’m a runaway?”
The woman moved into the gray light that slanted through the dormer and put a finger on her chin, as if playing at thinking. She was sharp-featured, blond, wearing bright red lipstick and a slim dove-gray skirt, plus a crepe georgette cap-sleeved blouse with tiny pleats, a Peter Pan collar, and covered buttons. She was the most elegant woman Cecily had ever seen. “My gardener found you under the shrubbery in the rain,” she said, then laughed. “Listen, you’re safe here, all right? I’m not going to turn you in. You must be running from whoever cut you up like that. A skillful job, but that doesn’t mean you wanted it done.” She cocked her head slightly. Her voice softened. “Did someone take a baby out of you?”
Cecily tried to glare, to scowl. But it took everything she had not to start crying.
The woman shook her head, hands on hips. “I bet it was at the McNaughton Home. You know, actually, I don’t even want to know! A little kid like you. It makes me sick, the things that happen to girls.” She let out a breath, brushed her hands together and smiled, as if that settled that. Her moods seemed to change as quickly as the sky on a partly cloudy, very windy day. “Anyway, I’m making you my pet. I don’t want you to worry about a thing. You’ll stay here until you’re better.”
“I can’t stay here!”
“You most certainly can, and you will. Now, I’m going to bring you some soup.” And the woman turned away and was gone.
It seemed Cecily was going to have to plan another escape, but the mere idea of trying made her so tired. She’d been thinking for months about running away, and then she’d finally done it, and freedom had lasted all of an hour.
Anyway, the woman seemed almost nice. And this room—it was papered in tiny forget-me-nots. Even the sound of the rain was pleasant, from in here.
Though this was just the kind of thinking that always got Cecily into trouble. Not being aware until it was too late that no one actually had her best interests at heart.
A big orange cat padded into the room and jumped onto the bed with her. She smiled at the sight of him, scratched him behind the ears. She almost hadn’t realized how lonely she’d been. He nudged her hand a few times, then lay down beside her and purred while she stroked his soft flank. A thousand thoughts tumbled through her mind—Tommy was dead, maybe Lucky had never loved her at all, she would never see Prince again, she would never in her life have another child—and settled in a new arrangement. Tears streamed down her face, and she petted the cat, letting his purr vibrate through her hand.
“Oh, George, are you making a nuisance of yourself?” the woman said, when she came in, carrying a tray. The tray had a flower in a bud vase on it. “You can push him away, if he’s bothering you.”
“I like him,” Cecily said, wiping her tears from her face with the flat of her hand.
“Oh, you poor kid,” the woman said, standing there holding the tray. There was nowhere to put it, on account of the cat. “George, honestly.” The cat looked up briefly, then snuggled deeper into Cecily’s hip. The woman shrugged. “Well, he’s adopted you.” She began unloading the contents of the tray onto the small bedside table. The bud vase, a bowl of soup, a cup of tea. “Hortense makes French onion soup to die for, I promise you. Do you like French onion soup?”
Cecily, who had never heard of French onion soup, narrowed her eyes.
The woman smiled, as if to say she would indulge Cecily for a little while. “Well, anyway, you’re in for a treat. Here, let me help you sit up.” She did so gently, then handed Cecily the bowl, a linen napkin, and a spoon, then pulled up a ladderback chair and sat down. “Now, tell me your name.”
The soup smelled delicious. It was a rich, buttery-brown color and had a slice of bread floating in it, and the bread was covered in melted cheese. The sight and smell distracted Cecily, weakened her defenses. “Cecily,” she blurted, then looked up, surprised by the sound of her real name. She had almost decided she would not be Jacqueline DuMonde ever again, but—not quite. Not till right this minute. And the decision felt very final now, suddenly, and a little bit frightening.
“Cecily, I’m Grace. It’s nice to meet you. Now, your body has obviously been through quite an ordeal. I didn’t examine you thoroughly, but I saw your stitches when I got you out of your wet clothes. So, you’re going to need plenty of rest and time to heal. I’m afraid if you had tried to get much farther today, it might have killed you.”
Cecily could hardly believe this was true; didn’t want to, in any case.
“Now, the important thing is that my father never knows you’re here. He would insist on reporting you to the police or some such nonsense. I don’t think we’ll have that problem for now. He’s even sicker than you are, one floor down and on the other end of the house. The servants won’t say anything. Now, I do know a doctor I think we could trust. Do you want me to call him to come take a look at you? I would pay for it, of course.”
“No!”
One thin eyebrow arched. “I didn’t think so. However, my guess is that this happened pretty recently?”
Cecily swallowed. Not answering didn’t seem to be an option. “A week ago.”
Grace nodded. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to take care of you—even cut your stitches out, when it’s time—unless you develop a high fever or other signs of infection, in which case I will call this doctor, all right?”
Cecily nodded—Grace had an authority that was impossible to ignore—though immediately she thought she should say that it would have to be a doctor other than Dr. Addington. But Grace had already guessed about the McNaughton Home, and obviously wasn’t in favor, so chances seemed good that Dr. Addington was not her friend.
The soup was beckoning Cecily. She’d had a little cooling in the spoon, and lifted it to her mouth.
Heaven.
But she needed to stay on guard—
“Do you have parents who will be looking for you?”
“No!”
Grace narrowed her eyes, then nodded. “I suppose I might as well believe you, but if I find out that’s not true, I will be very unhappy with you.”
“It is true! I’m an orphan. I have been all my life, almost.”
Grace appeared to be making the calculations: An orphan, at the McNaughton Home? If true, then a scholarship girl. (Cecily thought then that Grace must know everything about everything. Did she know about Wayward?)
But Grace just gave another brief nod. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Cecily let out her breath. “Thank you.”
A tiny smile showed that Grace also knew just how much she was overlooking, just how charitable she had decided to be. But Cecily’s hunger overtook her. She spooned up another bite of soup.
“Just so you know,” Grace said, “you don’t have to worry. I do know what I’m doing. I was a nurse in the war, which scandalized my parents, but wasn’t my father happy when it meant he didn’t have to pay for a nurse, either when my mother had her cancer or when he had his stroke?”
Cecily looked up.
Grace’s mouth tightened. “Mother was sick for three years, and then she died. My brothers died in the war. So, now it’s just me and my father.” She pointed her chin at the cat. “Plus George, whom you’ve met. And we have Hortense in the kitchen; Rilla, our housemaid; and Paul, the gardener. He’s the one who found you and carried you upstairs. As I said, none of them will say anything. They don’t even go into my father’s room, except Rilla, to clean, once a week. I bring him his meals and take care of him. He’s getting better.” Grace laughed sharply. “To be honest, I liked it better when he couldn’t speak.”
Cecily cocked her head. It seemed to her that people too often took their fathers for granted—even if these fathers didn’t always do the right thing. She thought briefly of the prayer card she had left behind, then quickly reminded herself: she was done praying for impossible things.
Grace sighed. She leaned toward Cecily. “Listen, Cecily, I know the things that can happen. Believe me, I do. And, whatever happened to you, I want you to know that it wasn’t your fault. I’m saying that to you because I wish someone had told me that, twenty years ago, when I was your age.”
Cecily licked her lips, nervous again. She didn’t want to trust Grace—but what choice did she really have? “Did you have a baby?”
Grace’s mouth twitched. She looked at her hands. “No. I didn’t. They wouldn’t let me.” Her eyes flashed up. “But I always thought it was a little girl.”
Tears sprang to Cecily’s eyes, as she remembered Isabelle’s knitting needle.
Grace sat up straight and smoothed her skirt. “Now everyone thinks I’m an odd old maid. I paint. Do you think it’s a cliché?”
Cecily didn’t know what to say. Grace laughed and went on. “I dream of studying with Georgia O’Keeffe. I don’t even know if she takes students, but, after my father dies, I intend to go to New Mexico and camp out in her yard till she agrees to take me on. Well, who knows? But I’ll tell you one thing, I am never going to marry. My father hates me for it. But I made up my mind, after what was done to me. It’s the only way to keep your sovereignty, as a woman, is not to marry.”
Cecily thought she should know the word, but she couldn’t remember its meaning just now. “Your what?”
Grace laughed, softly this time. But it seemed like she was laughing at herself, not at Cecily. “Oh, we’ll have plenty of time to talk about all this. I don’t mean to throw you in over your head. All I want you to begin thinking right now is, It’s not my fault.”
Cecily blinked back tears again. She set her soup bowl back on the bedside table, her middle aching with the movement.
“You need to eat,” Grace said, not unkindly.
“My baby died.” The words, too terrible to speak aloud, came out a whisper.
“Oh, Lord! I figured someone stole him, or told you you couldn’t keep him, or maybe you ran away from him. He died?”
Cecily began to tremble. “I would never have left him. He died. Because I couldn’t give birth to him properly. Because I was not equipped. That’s what the doctor said. I—”
“Oh, you poor, poor kid!” Grace stood and rushed out of the room, like she just couldn’t stand the pain within it.
Cecily closed her eyes, her face hot with tears. With one hand, she stroked the cat. The other, she curled around under her arm, pressing the snapshot to her aching skin.