The woman merely nodded. “Please, do come in. Angela is playing in the back with her fa—with Mr. Baker.”
The front room was as warm and welcoming as the woman, with a fire burning on the hearth and comfortable-looking furniture scattered throughout. Lavinia didn’t want to think about the woman holding her daughter on her lap, with a quilt wrapped around her as she read or sang to her on a cold evening.
“Would you care for a cuppa tea?” Mrs. Baker asked.
“No thank you.” Her stomach was such a coiled mess she feared she wouldn’t be able to hold down the simplest of brews.
“Of course not,” the woman said, seemingly embarrassed now that she’d made the offer. “You’ll be wanting to meet...her.”
“I’ll just wait here,” James said, lowering himself into a chair, leaning forward with his forearms on his thighs, his hands clasped, his head bent. A man not too pleased with his role in all this.
Fanny Baker led them through a room with a table that would seat six and on into a kitchen that smelled of fragrant spices. Through a door and into a garden where pansies still bloomed in spite of the colder weather.
And there at the far end, standing beside a man at what appeared to be a makeshift workbench, was a little girl, her blond ringlets blowing in the breeze. Reaching out blindly, Lavinia found Finn’s hand, squeezed it. The joy and love that swept through her nearly took her to her knees.
The girl turned, her eyes brightened, and she began running toward them, holding something. “Mam! Mam!”
Lavinia nearly lowered herself to the ground and spread her arms wide, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw Fanny Baker doing the same and had to acknowledge that she wasn’t the one to whom the girl was running, wasn’t the one she was calling out to. But soon, she would be. Soon they would have moments like this.
The lass was taller than she’d expected her to be, slender, but when she flung herself at the woman greeting her, she nearly caused her to tumble. “Look, Mam! Da taught me to use the hammer.” She showed her mother a block of wood with one small nail protruding from it. “I didn’t hit my thumb when I wielded it. He taught me a new word, too.Wield.That’s what you do with a hammer.”
Her smile was bright, with a gap in the front where a tooth should have been, her face filled with such joy that Lavinia’s chest tightened into a sweet ache.
“Well done, I say,” Fanny Baker said. “But we have company. This is Miss Kent and Mr. Trewlove.”
The girl looked up at them through huge green eyes. “Hello.”
Releasing her hold on Finn, Lavinia knelt. “And you’re Angela. What a pretty name.”
“I’m named for the angels what brung me.”
Aware of Mrs. Baker backing away, Lavinia reached out and skimmed her fingers over the child’s hair. “I like your ringlets.”
“Mam fixed them special this morning.” She scrunched up her face. “But I like my braids better.”
How many other things did she prefer—preferences Lavinia would learn with time.
Finn knelt beside her, placing a forearm on his raised thigh, clutching his hands together, and she wondered if he did that to stop himself from reaching for the child, for hugging her close. “You did a smashing job with the nail.”
“I’m practicing.” Her eyes sparkled. “We’re going to build a cottage in the tree.”
She pointed toward a huge oak at the back of the garden, and Lavinia wondered when the plans had been made, how many other plans her actions would interrupt. Her daughter grabbed her father’s arm—not realizing, of course, that it was her father’s arm she held. “Come on, I’ll show you,” she exclaimed excitedly, as though they couldn’t see the tree perfectly fine from here.
Finn glanced over at Lavinia, and she gave a small nod. He unfolded his body, reached down, and drew her to her feet. Then he swung Angela up into his arms and her delighted screech echoed around them. He strode to the tree where Mr. Baker met him and shook his hand, while his daughter began pointing at various branches.
“They’ve been planning to build the hideaway in the tree for some time now. Joe promised her they’d do it in the spring for her birthday. She likes climbing, is fearless when it comes to heights. That’s why she squealed when your man lifted her up. She’s happiest up high. Is he her father?”
“Yes. We were very young, not married. I wanted to keep her, but my mother took her from me while I was too weak to stop her.”
“She’s been a blessing to us. Smart as a whip. Already knows her letters. She likes flowers. Helped me plant the pansies. Occasionally she’ll hold a funeral for the blossoms that die. Don’t know where she got the notion to do that.”
Lavinia thought of the funerals she’d held for her brother’s butterfly collection. Were they so very much alike? What other things might they have in common?
“I’m trying to think what else I should tell you, but I suppose you’ll figure it all out,” Fanny said, her voice trembling slightly. “I’ll go pack up—”
There was a catch in her throat. She gave Lavinia her back, and using the hem of her apron, dabbed at her eyes. When she circled back around, she offered a tremulous smile. “Forgive me. The breeze always causes my eyes to water.”
This woman was being so brave, striving not to let Lavinia see that she was dying inside, and suddenly she knew that’s exactly what the woman was doing—because she had died when she’d begged her mother not to take the baby from her. All the sorrow and grief—a lifetime’s worth—had been smashed into those few minutes when she’d watched her child being taken beyond her reach.
