“Please, Mac. We, I mean, my aunt and I didn’t... We didn’t part on the best of terms. And I didn’t ring her up to tell her I was coming.”
He turned the car off. “Well, then I am definitely not just leaving you off. What if she says no, you can’t stay?”
Emmy looked back at the house. She saw a face at the window. Charlotte’s. “She won’t say no.”
Mac reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Give me a second with her, please? Just wait here a bit. Will you?”
He frowned. “Well, if you think that’s necessary.”
“I do,” Emmy said hurriedly, withdrawing her hand from under his. “Just give me a moment so that I can tellher why I am here. And what—what has happened. She probably doesn’t know.”
The red door opened and Charlotte appeared, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
Emmy opened the car door and the biting chill of the outside air prickled her. “I’ll be right back.”
She stepped out of the car, purposely keeping her back to the house as she maneuvered out. She closed the door, kept her head down, and walked up the stone pathway to the front door. Emmy was wearing Mum’s second-best dress, Eloise Crofton’s blue wool coat, and a knitted hat Mac had bought for her to keep her head warm. From a distance and with her gaze fixed on her heeled shoes, Emmy knew she did not look like the fifteen-and-a-half-year-old who had run away from this house just weeks before.
When Emmy was only a few feet from the door, she raised her head to look at Charlotte and their eyes met.
“Emmeline!”
Emmy’s name came out of Charlotte’s mouth like a breath, like a prayer. She bolted forward and drew Emmy into her arms. Weak from illness and so ready to be held by someone who cared for her, Emmy nearly collapsed into her tight embrace.
“Are you all right?” Charlotte said, and Emmy smelled pie crust and cinnamon and nutmeg in the woman’s gray braid.
Before Emmy could answer, she pulled away and looked past Emmy, to the waiting car. Emmy saw in Charlotte’s shimmering irises what her eyes sought.
Julia.
A blade seemed to slice into Emmy’s chest. “It’s just me, Charlotte,” she whispered.
With her arms still on Emmy’s shoulders, Charlottelooked hard into her eyes. “Is Julia... Has she...?” But Charlotte could not finish her question.
Emmy shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know where she is.” The familiar nausea at saying these words swept over Emmy and she faltered. Charlotte caught Emmy as spots began to dance in front of her.
“Emmeline, are you ill?”
She nodded.
Charlotte’s firm arms were around her again in an instant. “Who is that in the car?”
“A friend, the only friend I have, actually. He brought me here. His name is Mac. He’s an American.” Emmy leaned into her.
“Let’s get you inside.” Charlotte turned toward the car and motioned for Mac to follow them.
Emmy heard the car door open.
She let her head fall on Charlotte’s chest. “Charlotte?” she whispered.
“Yes?”
“He thinks my name is Isabel.”
***
MACstayed less than an hour; long enough to have tea, which Emmy knew Charlotte would offer him, and to make sure Emmy had a place to stay. She had only minutes to explain to Charlotte why he believed her name was Isabel Crofton. She was thankful that, upon her introducing Mac to Charlotte, he’d asked to use the privy—it had been a long drive—and Emmy used those precious few minutes to tell Charlotte why she had taken on the name of someone a few years older. So that she would be free to look for Julia. Julia was missing, and had been since the night before Mum died. Charlotte asked Emmy who Mac was and it seemed shefeared he had taken advantage of Emmy, or worse, that Emmy had become what Mum was: a woman who traded favors to get what she needed. As they heard the toilet being flushed, Emmy assured her that Mac was a good man who had been nothing but kind to her. She hadn’t slept with him and he hadn’t asked her to.
