Her mother simply looked at her, her expression passive and unchanging. Lavinia might have received more of a reaction if she’d asked her if she were expecting it to rain.
“Which baby farmer did you give it to?” she asked determinedly. “What were her initials? M. K. or D. B. or X. X. or some other combination?”
“What the devil are you talking about?” Neville asked, his gaze roaming over her from head to toe as though he were searching for the evidence that a babe had once grown inside her. “What child?”
Slowly, carefully, her mother set her teacup on the saucer, the bone china making only a hint of noise, and set the saucer on the table. “You are ranting, dear, but I am grateful to see you finally have had the good sense to return home.”
She took a step forward, her skirt touching the edge of the table. “I want to know to whom you gave it.”
“Do you need to spend some more time in the madhouse until these delusions go away?”
“You no longer have any control over me, Mother.”
“Don’t be absurd. You are five and twenty, not yet wed, with no means to support yourself. Of course I retain control.”
“I do have means.” The words empowered her, made her feel stronger. “Did you not notice my new frock? You certainly didn’t purchase it for me.”
“I daresay, it is rather obvious it did not come from Paris.”
“Wait, wait,” Neville said, stepping nearer to their mother in order to meet Lavinia’s gaze more squarely. “Lavinia, are you implying here that you gave birth—”
“Yes, Neville. When I was eighteen.”
“How did I not know of this circumstance?”
“Because your father kept you occupied,” the countess said with a sniff. “We didn’t need you blabbing to Thornley that your sister had gotten herself into such an unconscionable situation, with a commoner of all people.”
Her brother dropped down onto the edge of the sofa cushion near where their mother sat, his mouth agape, and she recalled Sister Theresa’s words about looking like a fish. She found strength in that as well, remembering that she had someplace else she could go if need be. Neville blinked, blinked, looked around the room as though struggling to recall how he had come to be there. “You had a child?” he repeated. “You were going to marry Thornley, but you weren’t...”
He seemed at a loss for words. She, however, was not. “A virgin? Untouched? No, I was not.”
“And as Thornley had the poor judgment to marry someone with questionable origins, we shall now have to find someone else for you to wed. Perhaps the Duke of—”
She interrupted the countess. “I’m not here for marriage. I want to know about my child. Was it a boy or a girl?”
“I don’t recall.”
“How could you forget something like that, Mother?” Neville asked, giving Lavinia a glimmer of hope that perhaps her brother would side with her on this.
“A boy or a girl?” she repeated.
Her mother merely glared.
“To whom did you give it?”
“A servant. However, he is no longer employed here.”
“What was his name?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Was he to take it to a baby farmer?”
“He was. For putting away.”
She slammed her eyes closed as the reality and the pain she’d been holding at bay ripped through her. She’d learned thatputting awaywas code for killing. Opening her eyes, she stared at the horrid woman sitting on the sofa as though she were innocent of heinous actions. “It was your grandchild.”
“It was not. It was a bastard. Born in shame, born in sin. A nonperson.”
