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Carol pulled Toby into the cluttered interior of the village store and flipped the sign on the door.
“I’m closing early for lunch,” she declared as she shot home two bolts. “I don’t want them all in here gossiping. Come on into the back.”
Toby followed her through an interior door and into a cozy sitting room where a banked coal fire sent out a steady heat.
“Is this where you live?” he asked.
“Yes, it’s all mine. It goes with the shop.”
“Do you live on your own?”
She nodded her head. “My mother died in ’46, and I took over the shop and the post office. I thought I might have ... someone ... but it was a long time ago, and it couldn’t be, so I’m alone.”
Toby longed to get up and examine the framed photos on the mantelpiece. Someone? What kind of someone? Would there be a photo of a man in uniform? He resisted the urge; none of his business. Just being with her in the warm little room was sufficient intimacy for the time being.
Carol left the room and came back carrying an airmail envelope. “This is it,” she said. “I can’t show it all to you, because some of it’s kind of personal.”
“There is no legal requirement for you to show me the letter,” Toby assured her.
Carol looked alarmed. “Why would there be a legal requirement?”
“I can’t tell you.”
She frowned. “There you go again, keeping secrets. Look, just read what she says, and you’ll know that everything you’ve heard about baby-stealing is nonsense. Vera didn’t steal a baby. She could be really selfish and annoying, but she would never do a thing like that. She has her own little girl, why would she take one from someone else? Her life hasn’t turned out the way she expected it would, but she loves her baby. Everything she did was for that little girl.”
Carol handed him the envelope. Toby sank uninvited into an armchair, and she leaned across him to turn on a table lamp. He pulled the sheets of flimsy paper from the striped envelope and started to read.
...didn’t tell them I was coming. Didn’t even tell them he had married me. His grandmother, a horrible old woman called Barbree (and I have no idea how to spell it, but that’s what it sounds like), says that he was engaged to someone called Darlene, so he can’t be married to me.
He met me in New York, and I asked him how long it would take to get to California, and he just laughed. He said we weren’t going to California, that he lived in West Virginia.
Toby rested his eyes for a moment. Vera’s handwriting was little more than a scrawl, as if she was writing in a hurry, just dashing words down on the paper in a rush of emotion.
“When did she send this to you?” he asked.
“Five years ago. I haven’t heard a word since.”
Toby refocused.
It’s a horrible place, coal dust and dirt. They’re all miners, and when they’re not at the coal mine, they’re out shooting rabbits and things. I don’t even recognize some of the animals they bring home and expect us to eat. Barbree guts them and skins them in the kitchen and hangs up the fur. It smells awful. His mother is quite nice but his father is always angry, and he has two little brothers who just keep staring at me and saying they don’t understand me. Well, I’ll be damned if I’m going to start talking like them just so they can understand me.
Don’t worry, I’m not going to try to come home. I know I can’t do that. I’ve made my bed and I’ll have to lie in it. The one good thing is that Nick loves Anita. She has him wrapped around her little finger. She’s two now and starting to talk. I’m going to make sure she has an English accent and doesn’t sound like all of the rest of the Malloys. Horrible old Barbree keeps saying that Anita isn’t Nick’s child, but Nick just tells her it’s none of her business and of course Anita is his child. I haven’t even written to my mother. I don’t want her to know how...
“Do you want a cup of tea?”
He looked up. Carol was standing in the kitchen doorway.
“Yes, that would be lovely.”
It was all lovely; the cozy room, the Closed sign on the door, the glowing fire, and Carol making tea in the kitchen. The only unlovely thing was the content of Vera’s letter.
While Carol bustled around the kitchen, Toby studied the young bride’s letter. It was apparent that Carol had only given him a couple of pages of what might have been a very long epistle. Toby had formed a mental picture of Vera as a free and easy young woman, selfish, impetuous, headstrong, and full of fun. The woman who had written this sad letter sounded disappointed but determined. She didn’t sound like someone who would give up her child to strangers.
Carol bustled in with a tea tray.
“I’m surprised she said that she doesn’t want to come home,” Toby said.
“She can’t,” Carol said firmly.
“Are you sure?”
Carol concentrated on pouring the tea. “She doesn’t have the money, and there’s no reason for her to expect anyone to help her. No one in her family has any money, and I know what they’d say if she asked. They’d say exactly what she said, that she made her own bed and now she has to lie in it.”
She took the letter from Toby’s hand. “I just wanted you to see that the baby is fine and there is absolutely no possibility that she belongs to anyone other than Vera and her husband. She says how much Nick loves her.”
“Maybe he does,” Toby agreed, “but I can’t imagine why he didn’t tell his family that he had a wife and a child.”
“No, neither can I,” said Carol. “I thought he really cared for her. He’s a big disappointment.”
“I suppose he promised her the moon,” said Toby.
“He promised her a home in California, and a swimming pool and orange trees and no more worries,” Carol confirmed. “I haven’t told anyone else about where she is or what it’s like. I can’t see any reason to let the whole village know about his lies. Better that they think she’s living the high life in California.”
“Did you tell her mother?”
“No, not even her mother. Mrs. Chapman has had enough to deal with, and now this business with Terry attacking Mr. Ruddle.”
“I don’t think he did,” Toby protested.
“Can you think of anyone else who would do such a thing?”
Toby shook his head. That was the problem. He was convinced that Terry was not the perpetrator, but the idea of Lady Sylvia sneaking around banging people on the head was ridiculous.
Carol tucked the letter back into the envelope. Toby wondered how many pages the young bride had written and hoped that he would never be forced to ask Carol to show him the rest of the letter. The fact that Nick Malloy had taken a liking to the child hardly proved that he was the father. He couldn’t help wondering what else Vera had said and why Carol wouldn’t let him read the other pages.
Carol extended a heaping sugar bowl. “Sugar?”
“No, really, I can’t use your sugar ration.”
“There are certain perks attached to running a shop,” Carol said. “Don’t worry, it’s not black market.”
He knew she was trying to distract him. He appreciated her effort and smiled as she put two heaping teaspoons into his teacup. He paused, savoring the sweetness, but he couldn’t abandon the subject entirely.
“Carol?”
“Yes?”
“Are you sure that the baby she took to America was hers?”
Now she was angry. “Of course I am. Who else’s would it be? That’s a ridiculous question. The baby was the whole reason he married her and why she could go to America.”
Toby said nothing. Mr. Champion had taught him the wisdom of silence.
He watched the play of light across Carol’s face as she set the teacup back into the saucer. Her mouth was set in a stubborn line. “It was her baby. She was pregnant, she gave birth, she took the baby to America.”
“Were you actually there?”
“When she gave birth?”
“Yes.”
“No, of course not. She went to a clinic. Why do you need to know?”
“Did you ever see the baby?”
Carol set her teacup back onto the tray. Her face was flushed. “Why are you asking?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Then I can’t answer you. Obviously, something is going on. First Mr. Ruddle talks about baby-stealing, then you start asking me questions about whether or not I actually saw Vera’s baby, and now you say things about legal requirements. Well, I’m not going to tell you anything more until you tell me what this is all about.”
Their eyes locked, and Toby knew that she would not back away from her ultimatum. He broke the gaze and looked at his watch. He was due at the Hall in thirty minutes to meet the nurse who had delivered the baby and who was being paid to give answers. He thought about the telegram from the wealthy Harrigan grandfather who would soon be arriving along with the disputed child. How was that going to be kept a secret, especially if Lady Sylvia named the child as her heir?
“Do you know anything about Lady Sylvia marrying an American?” he asked.
Carol laughed derisively. “What American?”
“An American officer. She married him in 1944.”
Carol shook her head. “No, that’s not possible. Even if she got married in London, we would have known. Mrs. Pearson would have said something. She was always boasting about how close she was to Lady Sylvia. I certainly didn’t hear anything about it, and I’ve never seen any sign of an American husband. Haven’t even seen any letters from America coming through the post office.”
“You wouldn’t,” said Toby. “Apparently, he died in the Normandy invasion.”
“Well,” said Carol, “there were American officers in the village, and they used to go up to the Hall to dine every now and then. We all thought the Earl invited them because they’d bring him extra rations. The Earl was rationed just like we were. There were a couple of nice-looking young officers.” She paused thoughtfully and then shook her head. “We would have known. No one keeps secrets in a place like this.”
“And you were working as a land girl on the Earl’s estate the whole time,” Toby confirmed, “so you would have seen for yourself.”
“No, not the whole time. Just before the Americans left for Normandy, we were sent to a farm in Billingshurst.”
“So it could be true about Lady Sylvia marrying an American,” Toby persisted.
Carol shook her head vehemently. “No, it’s really not possible. Billingshurst isn’t that far away and news travels. I would have heard about it from someone. What gives you the idea she married an American, and if he’s dead, why does it even matter?”
Toby took a deep breath. The image of Robert Alderton’s battered body floated before his eyes. Where were Alderton’s notes? How had Lady Sylvia known already that Alderton was dead? Why did the Earl have Alderton’s file? Mr. Champion had urged secrecy, but secrecy was getting him nowhere. The secret behind the child’s birth could only be found in this village, where Sam Ruddle had kept a careful eye on the comings and goings of the American soldiers. Sam Ruddle was in no position to answer questions, but Carol was.
Toby set his foot on the slippery slope of flexibility.
“Can you keep a secret?”
Carol rolled her eyes. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“No, I need your word.”
Carol patted the empty space on the sofa. “I give you my word. Come and sit here.”
Toby sank down beside her. The sofa was small, and he felt the warmth of her shoulder against his, and the pressure of her thigh.
He looked at his watch again. Time was racing by. She was silent for once, looking at him with inquisitive brown eyes and waiting for him to speak. The feeling was intoxicating. Instead of his usual stumbling small talk, he had something to say. He could talk to this girl, really talk. He could be very flexible.
When it came out, he was surprised by how little he really had to say. He could not mention Alderton’s murder, and all that remained took little time to tell. Lady Sylvia claimed that she had married Jack Harrigan, an American officer, and that Vera Chapman had stolen the baby that resulted from the marriage and taken it to America.
Carol could hardly contain an impatience that verged on anger. “No, no, no. Vera came home with the baby. We all saw her. The vicar christened her. It was Vera’s baby. The Earl came to the christening.”
“Then why did Sam Ruddle talk about baby-stealing,” said Toby, “and why has he been attacked?”
“Terry Chapman—”
“That’s too easy. It’s obvious that the whole village wants Terry Chapman to be guilty; less work for the police, less problems for the village. Even his mother won’t really be sorry to see him go. I’m telling you, I saw Terry, and he’s not violent. He wouldn’t have done it.”
Carol snatched the teacup from Toby’s hand. “Well, it’s more likely than some crazy story about Lady Sylvia marrying an American and Vera stealing her baby. I wouldn’t have shown you Vera’s letter if I thought you were going to twist it around like that.”
The teacup trembled on its saucer. Toby could see that she was shaking with emotion.
“You’re on their side, aren’t you? How much are they paying you to tell lies about Vera?”
“No,” Toby protested. “No one is paying me to tell lies. I’m just trying to get to the truth.”
“Truth!” said Carol. “I’ll tell you the truth. Vera’s baby is nothing to do with Lady Sylvia. I was there. I saw her at the christening. The Earl came and Her Ladyship came with him. She wouldn’t even touch the baby; didn’t even want to look at it? What kind of mother would refuse to even hold her baby? Go and ask the vicar if you don’t believe me.”
Toby rose to his feet.
“Please, Carol, I—”
“Times are changing,” Carol said defiantly. “People like the Earl can’t just take whatever they want anymore.”
She turned her back on him and walked away. “I’d like you to leave,” she said over her shoulder.