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The chauffeur-driven Bentley glided to a halt outside the village post office. Vera sat quietly for a moment taking in the familiar surroundings. The scene was blessedly peaceful after the six years she had spent amid the noise and stench of the Beaver Creek Coal Camp. A leaden sky hung low over the village, but the air was clean and clear. She recognized an ancient orderliness to the grouping of the cottages around the village green, the way the parish church set itself slightly aside from daily life, and the way the White Hart Inn sat squarely at the center of the village. She had not known that she was homesick. She had not knowingly missed the quiet rhythms of village life amid the chaos of the coal camp. Of course, when she had left, the village had been reeling under the effects of war, and only now was it at peace.
She turned her head to catch a glimpse of her mother’s cottage huddled behind an unkempt hedge. Only the chimney was clearly visible, sending a faint wisp of smoke into the morning air. She had no wish to see her mother or to sit in the dreary parlor with its memories of her dead father and her missing brother.
She pushed all thoughts of homesickness aside as mere sentimentality that would soon pass. Get in and get out, she told herself. Sign the papers, take the money, and leave. She would live in a city, maybe London, maybe New York, but she would never again live in this village, and she would never again set foot in West Virginia.
One small piece of business stood between her and her dreams. Surely it would not take long. Carol was the only person in a position to object, but how could she?
She stepped out of the Bentley and opened the door of the village shop, setting the alarm bell jangling. Nothing new here; the shelves were better stocked than they had been during the war, but nothing else had changed. She made her way through the cluttered space toward the grill at the back of the store. Why did everything seem so small and cramped? Even the ramshackle Malloy house had offered more space and light than any house in Rose Hill, although every room in Barbree’s house had been too cold in the winter and too hot in the summer, and coal dust had settled in a fine layer over all of the sparse furnishings.
“Hello, can I help you?”
Carol stepped out from behind a stack of tin cans. Baked beans, Vera thought irrelevantly. In Beaver Creek baked beans came from a sack in the corner and long hours on the stove. Vera doubted that Barbree Malloy even possessed a can opener.
“Can I help you?”
Vera turned to face her friend. She heard Carol’s sharp intake of breath, and then the stack of beans fell to the floor with a crash as Carol flung her arms out in surprise.
The cans of beans rolled noisily across the uneven wooden floor, drowning out Vera’s carefully prepared Americanized greeting. “Hi, long time no see.” She had thought this might make Carol laugh, but it would also let her know that Vera was not the girl she used to be. She was older, stronger, tougher, and she no longer needed an American soldier to help her find her place in the world.
The cans rolled to a standstill, and Vera tried to repeat her greeting.
“Hi—”
“You!”
“Hi, Carol.”
“Where’s Anita?”
Even in the dim light of the shop, Vera could see anger written across her friend’s face. Time to talk some sense into her.
“She’s at Southwold Hall with Lady Sylvia, her new mother.”
“New mother!” Carol was almost spitting in anger. “Lady Sylvia is not her mother. You are.”
Vera felt the power that came from staying calm while her opponent, and Carol was most definitely her opponent, gave way to emotion.
“As you and I both know,” Vera said softly, “I am not her mother.”
“You promised.”
“I promised to take care of her, and that’s what I’ve done.”
“She’s supposed to be with you.”
Vera stepped carefully across the litter of tin cans and took hold of Carol’s arm. “She’s at Southwold Hall being taken care of by her millionaire grandmother.”
Carol shook off Vera’s hand. “Why did you let her go? Why did you let them take her?”
“I was in no position to stop them.”
“What do you mean?”
“I wasn’t there. I was away. I had to earn money. I had to keep bread on the table. Your daughter needed food and clothes.”
Carol took a deep breath. Vera waited. Soon the anger would dissipate. Soon she would see reason.
“So now you’ve come to take her back?” Carol asked. “She must be completely lost without you.”
Vera caught Carol’s arm and felt relieved when Carol stayed where she was, not pulling away.
“Think,” Vera whispered. “Think carefully. Why would I want to take her back?”
“Because you’re her mother.” Carol raised a hand to silence her before Vera could say, yet again, that she was not Anita’s mother. “You’re the only mother she knows. She must be terrified.”
Vera smiled. “I doubt if she’s terrified. She’s probably hopping mad. Anita doesn’t scare easily.”
She thought for a moment about the little girl she had claimed as a daughter. Anita was a wild and difficult child given to temper tantrums when things didn’t go her way. In summer she roamed barefoot and unrestricted along the mountainside, and in winter she whined and fretted at being confined to the house.
Nick had loved the child, but after Nick’s death Vera had found little to love in her, and no need to keep up the pretense of being a dutiful daughter-in-law. She knew, without any sense of guilt or shame, that sooner or later she would have abandoned Anita to the care of Nick’s family, but she had not imagined that the chance would come so soon, or be so advantageous to both of them.
“I want to see her,” Carol said.
Vera remained calm. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. If you and Anita were seen together, people might talk. They might find a resemblance.”
Carol drew in a quick breath. “Does she look like me?”
“A little, but she was spared your ginger hair. She’s more blond than red.”
“Like her father,” Carol whispered. “I want to see her.”
Vera kept her hold on Carol’s arm and kept her voice low. “Are you sure? We can go up to the Hall if you really want to. We can tell the truth, the whole truth?”
Carol’s eyes widened.
“The whole truth,” Vera repeated. “It doesn’t really matter to me, because Nick is dead, so no one will care that I lied to him, but what about you? Do you want the truth to come out? The war’s over, but people have long memories, and if people find out who Anita’s real father was, well ...”
“You have to take her back to America.”
“Really? Do you think she’d be better off in America? Didn’t you get my letter, the one where I told you that West Virginia isn’t exactly California?”
“But it must be better than here. It’s better than her being, well, you know ...”
Vera provided the word. “Illegitimate.”
“Yes.”
“But is it better than being the future Countess of Southwold?”
Vera allowed the silence to lengthen. Carol bent over and began to pick up the cans of beans.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why is Lady Sylvia trying to claim her?”
Vera picked up a can and added it to the pile. “I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t know. She can’t have any idea that Anita is your baby, so she must have some reason for wanting a baby of mine. Anita’s the right age for a war baby, but there are plenty of orphans already in England. Why does she want to claim my baby? Why did she have detectives looking all around America for a baby she thought was mine? I don’t know.”
Carol stood thoughtfully with a can in each hand. “Do you think she was even married to that American officer?”
“Jack Harrigan,” Vera said.
“Yes. Wasn’t he the officer who dug us out of the bomb shelter?”
Vera picked up another can, glad to be keeping Carol calm and focused on the task of retrieving the cans. “So that’s the connection,” she said. “I didn’t remember his name. Harrigan. Yes, you’re right. I met him. The Earl invited me and my mum to tea after the bomb incident, and a couple of the Americans were there. It was the Earl’s way of saying thank you.”