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Harry shuffled forward into the brightly illuminated Customs Hall, where porters were delivering cartloads of expensive luggage to be claimed by their smartly dressed owners.
Blanche moved in beside him. Her face, normally serene and smooth under a layer of makeup, was smudged with stress, and her tightly curled blond hair fell far short of its normal perfection.
“We should have brought a nursemaid,” Harry said, as he had said every day since they began their journey to England.
“I wanted to get to know her.”
“So now that you know her, what do you think?”
Blanche smiled fondly down at the child. “She reminds me of Jack. He had a temper.”
“He sure did,” Harry agreed.
Blanche’s sudden smile made her look ten years younger and hardly old enough to be a grandmother. “We’re so lucky, Harry. When Jack died, I thought we’d lost everything, but now we have Celeste. It’s like a miracle.”
“I still wonder why it took six years for Jack’s wife to ask for our help.”
Blanche patted his arm. “When you see her, you can ask her. Not long now.”
The child took advantage of Blanche’s momentary distraction to release herself from her grandmother’s grip. She darted away into the crowd, a flash of red vanishing and reappearing among a sea of dark suits and fur coats.
“Oh my God,” Blanche screamed. “Go after her, Harry.”
Harry was a big man, broad shouldered with large meaty hands that had made him a sought-after college ball player, and he was quick on his feet. There had been a time in Harry Harrigan’s early life, before the college scholarships, when fleet-footedness had been a distinct asset. He took off after the child, elbowing the other passengers aside, and caught up with her just as she was about to run out of the Customs Hall and back toward the ship.
“Let me go. I ain’t going with you. I want to go home.”
Harry winced at the piercing West Virginia accent and the voice pitched at a level that could be heard in her home valley above the clanking of the coal trains and the screeching of mine whistles.
“Celeste.”
“Anita.”
He shook her, none too gently. “Celeste,” he repeated. “Your name is Celeste Harrigan and you are my granddaughter.”
“I ain’t. I ain’t Celeste Hurricane.”
“Harrigan.”
“I ain’t her. I ain’t, I ain’t. I want my mother.”
“Well, she doesn’t want you,” Harry said harshly. “You’re going to get a new mother, so stop your squawking and get back over there with your grandmother.”
“You gonna hit me?” the little girl challenged. “Go on, hit me. I don’t care.”
Harry looked down at the defiant face, trying to find a trace of his son in the angry features. It wasn’t in the dark eyes, but perhaps it was in the tilt of her nose and the strawberry-blond curls that Jack had inherited from his mother and passed on to this unexpected child. News of her existence had come as a blessed relief, a miracle that had sent Blanche rushing to the Church of the Sacred Heart to light a dozen candles. So she was an uncouth, unschooled, foulmouthed little brat; it didn’t matter. Her mother, Lady Sylvia Blanchard, would take care of all that.
He tucked the child under his arm and carried her squirming body back to Blanche. He smiled happily at the immigration officer and handed over three passports, two of which were genuine and one of which had been created by Inky Feinstein of Elk Grove. The immigration officer glanced at them, stamped them with a large rubber stamp, and welcomed them to Britain.
Harry set the child back on her feet.
“Where do we go now?” Blanche asked. “Should we take a taxi? How far is it to London?”
“Not London,” said Harry, “Southwold. They’re sending a car. I plan to get straight down to business. There’ll be legal formalities. I may have to spread some money around.”
Disapproval showed on Blanche’s face. Harry knew that his wife’s conscience was more tender than his own.
“You want this to happen, don’t you?” he asked sharply.
“Yes, of course, but—”
“Then let me do it my way. Trust me, Blanche, I know what to do. You worry about the kid and I’ll worry about the legalities.”
They stepped out of the Customs Hall, and a porter followed dutifully behind with a cartload of luggage. Harry looked up at the gray sky, where dark clouds scudded in the wind. The air was filled with the sound of seagulls calling as they circled above the oily waters of the harbor.
The buildings around the Queen Elizabeth’s dock seemed to have been recently repaired, but beyond lay the skeletal remains of a once busy harbor. Looking across the water, he saw a flotilla of battered naval vessels, warships, frigates, even a submarine. Beyond the harbor a line of hills broke the gloomy horizon. A cold wind ruffled the fur on Blanche’s mink coat and played with the hem of the little girl’s dress. Harry turned up his coat collar.
“Someone from the solicitor’s office is meeting us,” Harry said.
He looked along the line of waiting vehicles, where passengers were already climbing into taxicabs. A tall bespectacled young man approached diffidently.
“Mr. Harrigan?”
“Yeah, I’m Harrigan.”
The young man removed his hat. “Toby Whitby from Champion and Company.”
“Good, good. Hope you brought a truck. My wife doesn’t travel light.”
The young man seemed bemused.
“A truck,” Harry repeated impatiently. He gestured to the porter with the luggage.
“Oh.” The young man thought for a moment. “We’ll need an estate car.”
“Do you have one?”
“No, not with me.”
Harry concluded that the young man was not giving the problem his full attention. He was staring at the little girl who was, even now, pulling impatiently against Blanche’s restraining hand.
Well, Harry thought, it was understandable. This child had been the subject of much correspondence, and here she was. Not surprising at all that the young lawyer should stare at her instead of addressing the problem of transport. Not surprising, but not acceptable.
“Well?” Harry barked.
Whitby tore his worried gaze away from the child. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll arrange for an appropriate vehicle. In the meantime, the Countess has sent her personal car for you. If you would like to come this way ...” He gestured along the line of waiting vehicles, where a massive black car with a crest on the door stood out from the line of taxicabs and smaller proletarian vehicles.
As they approached, a liveried chauffer sprang from the interior to hold the door open for them.
Blanche lifted a worried face to Harry. “The luggage? All my things? My jewelry?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Blanche lowered her voice. “Everyone looks so poor, Harry. Are you sure they won’t steal—?”
Her question was interrupted by an eruption of energy from the child they called Celeste.
“I wanna go home. I want my mom.”
Blanche took a firmer grip of the child’s hand. “Not now, Celeste.” “I ain’t Celeste.”
Harry looked back at the Customs Hall. He was worried that someone would hear the shrieking child’s declaration that she was not who her passport said she was.
“Just get her in the car,” he ordered.
He followed his wife into the cavernous interior of the car and was assaulted by an odor of old leather, gasoline, and stale cigarette smoke. He looked back to see the solicitor giving instructions to the porter. His wife’s red leather train case was on the top of the pile of luggage.
“Bring the red one,” he ordered.
When the train case had been placed safely into Blanche’s hands, and the solicitor had taken a seat inside, the car pulled away from the curb and moved smoothly into the line of traffic leaving the docks. The vehicle was obviously old but it rode smoothly, the engine purring so softly that it could hardly be heard.
“I want one of these,” Harry declared. “What is it?”
“A Bentley,” said their escort.
“I’ll have to get me one.”
Blanche opened the train case and produced a handful of wrapped candy. She gave one to the child. The young man looked on in surprise. Rationing, Harry thought. They still have rationing. When’s the last time he saw a piece of candy? He hesitated over the idea of offering to share the child’s candy and then thought better of it. The man on deck, the one who had suggested that the United States had bankrupted Britain, had made it clear that he and his money might be a mixed blessing. Offering children’s candy to the dignified young lawyer might not be a good way to start.
“What was your name again?”
“Whitby, Toby Whitby.”
“Mind if I call you Toby?”
The lawyer looked surprised. “No, I suppose not.”
“I’m Harry, and this is—”
“Oh no, I couldn’t do that. Mr. Champion would never agree to that, Mr. Harrigan. We have to retain a certain amount of formality.”
“When in Rome,” Blanche muttered under her breath.
“So,” said Harry, “what’s the story, Whitby? What do we do now?”
“I’m escorting you to Southwold Hall,” said Whitby. “The Countess is very anxious to meet you and to see her ... daughter.”
Harry noticed the hesitation. Not for the first time, he wondered if everything was on the up-and-up. Blanche wanted it to be the case and he wanted what Blanche wanted, but he had no intention of putting aside his naturally suspicious nature. He had not made his fortune by being naive and credulous. He looked at the little girl who was huddled in the corner, sucking on candy. She had Jack’s hair and coloring, but what about those dark eyes? He would reserve judgement until he had seen Lady Sylvia herself.
“Shall we meet the Earl?” Blanche asked. “I understood he was not well, but perhaps seeing his granddaughter will lift his spirits. I know it’s done wonders for me.”
She smiled at the sulking child, and Harry felt a twinge of guilt. Blanche was so certain that this child was Jack’s legacy, and therefore, Jack’s life had not been without purpose. How could he disappoint her?
Whitby cleared his throat. “Unfortunately,” he said, “the Earl has succumbed to his illness.”
“Succumbed?”
“Died.”
The word was flat and unambiguous. They had all seen so much death in the past ten years, Harry thought, that euphemisms had become pointless. Death was death, whether at the hands of an enemy soldier or in the debris of a bombing raid or just in the inevitable progress of an illness. The Earl was dead, just as Jack was dead; a word that left no room for misunderstanding.
“So what happens now?” Harry asked.
“Perhaps we shouldn’t intrude,” Blanche suggested. “We could go to a hotel. I’m sure they won’t want us in the house while they make the arrangements.”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Harrigan,” said Whitby. “It wasn’t unexpected. Well, not totally unexpected. The Earl had been ill for some time. We have retained copies of his major documents, and everything is in order. The Earl had already gifted most of the estate to his daughter in order to avoid death duties. Legally speaking, there is little to do. The title has passed automatically to Lady Sylvia. She has become the Countess of Southwold.”
Whitby looked at the little girl, still sucking on her candy and glaring around with the feral eyes of a trapped animal.
“That little girl is now Lady Celeste Blanchard and next in line to become the Countess. She’ll probably have a seat at the coronation next year.”
“Oh my,” said Blanche. “Imagine that. It all sounds very grand,” “Maybe so,” Harry agreed, “but titles and invitations to coronations won’t get you far without money, and there’s no money, is there, Mr. Whitby?”
“I’m not free to divulge details of the estate,” Whitby said stiffly.
“Of course not,” Harry agreed, “but I don’t need you to tell me. I have my own ways of finding things out, so let me tell you. There is no money.”
“Really, Harry,” said Blanche, “I don’t think this is the time to talk about that. I don’t suppose they’ve even had a funeral yet.”
“Tomorrow,” said Whitby.
“We’ll have to get Celeste a black dress,” said Blanche.
Harry looked out at their surroundings. They were passing through a dreary townscape of boarded-up buildings.
“Do you even have any shops?” he asked.
“Yes, we have shops,” Whitby replied with a bitter edge to his voice, “but we also have rationing. You won’t be able to buy any clothes, not legally.”
“Oh dear,” said Blanche.
Harry smiled. “It’s just a question of money.”
“I’m sure it is,” said Whitby, in a tone that seemed not quite neutral.
The big car carried them away from the docks and purred quietly through a landscape of rolling hills while rain lashed at the windows. The little girl grew quiet, her eyelids drooping. Eventually she laid her head in Blanche’s lap and went to sleep.
Harry looked at the serene expression on his wife’s face. She was, at long last, content. The death of her only child had left her stunned. For six years she had been nothing but a walking shadow, unable to find any meaning in life. He had bottled up his own grief and expended his energies on growing his business, although the fortune he amassed gave him no pleasure. The news from England jolted them out of their separate mourning and brought them together again. Jack had married. Jack had a child. Harry threw every resource he possessed into finding the child and rejoiced in seeing Blanche come alive again.
Blanche’s hand rested on the child’s head, smoothing the curls. Harry tried to think of Jack as a child before his first haircut and the taming of his hair. Had the curls been the same? Blanche was convinced, but Harry was uncertain, and Jack’s eyes had been gray, while this child’s eyes were deep, dark brown. Harry would withhold judgment until he had seen the mother.
And, he asked himself, what if it’s all false? What if she looks nothing like the English aristocrat and not very much like Jack, what will you do then? Will you walk away? Will you deprive Blanche of her new hope?
He closed his eyes, lulled by the comfort of the leather seats and the sound of the rain against the windows. When he opened them again, the car was turning into a driveway marked by stone pillars and wrought iron gates.
“The Southwold crest,” said the young lawyer, pointing to the emblem on the open gates. “This is Southwold Hall.”
Celeste stirred in her grandmother’s lap.
“We’re here, dear,” said Blanche.
Harry peered through the window as the house emerged from the curtain of rain. “Good God,” he said.
Blanche turned from the window, her eyes bright. “Oh, Harry, it’s beautiful.”
Harry stared at the great house. The facade was white stone, with arched windows that would not have been out of place in a cathedral. At each corner of the building, graceful turrets reached up into the mist. The red-tiled roof was ornamented with more than half a dozen chimneys. The driveway, lined with dark skeletal trees, swooped in a graceful curve to bring them alongside a massive front door, standing open to welcome them.
Blanche pulled Celeste onto her lap and pointed through the window.
“This is your mommy’s house.”
“Is she here?” the child asked hopefully. “Is my mommy here?”
“Yes,” said Blanche. “Of course she is. She’s waiting to see you.”
Harry caught the young lawyer’s eye. It was obvious that Mr. Whitby was thinking exactly what Harry was thinking. Any minute now there would be an explosion of tears.
Harry took another look at the house. “It’s going to cost a fortune,” he said.
“Then we’ll spend a fortune,” Blanche replied.