And she didn’t even tell her.
“How—how long did they... How long were they...” But Emmy couldn’t find the words to phrase so delicate and private a question.
Mr. Bowker gave a mirthless chuckle. “You really don’t know, do you?”
Emmy shook her head.
“On and off since the day you were born. Your mother was a sixteen-year-old maid in your father’s house. He was twice her age and unhappily married. When she ended up pregnant, he put her up in a flat across the river. Paid for the doctor, the hospital. Paid for your nappies and your blankets and your sitters. Found her new jobs when she needed them and got her out of jams when she got herself in them.”
The air in the room felt warm with his indignation.
Or maybe it was just hers.
“Because he had to hide what he’d done to stay out of jail and keep his fortune and reputation?” Emmy said, hotly.
“Because he thought he loved her.”
Emmy was stunned into silence.
Before she could summon words to ask him what he meant by that, the door opened, and an older man in a black suit and cap stepped inside.
“I’m here for Miss Emmeline Downtree,” he said.
Mr. Bowker nodded to the world that waited outside the open door. “Watch your step, Miss Downtree.” And then he pivoted to return to his office.
Emmy walked numbly to the sleek black car waitingcurbside. The driver helped her inside, but Emmy would later not remember whether he said anything to her, nor which streets they drove down before he turned into the curved driveway of a stately home that was as large as the entire row of flats in Whitechapel. The gray-stoned mansion was four stories high, trimmed in white. Miniature topiaries lined the walkway to the massive front door.
The driver parked the car and then came around to Emmy’s side to assist her out. He motioned toward the wide steps that led to the entrance. The front door swung open, and a maid in a navy blue dress and white lace apron appeared on the threshold.
“If you will follow me, please,” she said. Emmy took the steps slowly and then entered a marble-tiled foyer. Gilded mirrors and picture frames hung on walls that seemed endless.
The maid showed her into a room that appeared to be a study or library. Books lined the walls. Leather sofas and chairs were set about in cozy groupings. A fire danced in the grate and wherever there weren’t books or leather, there was gleaming mahogany.
Above the fireplace was a portrait of a man who seemed vaguely familiar to her, seated next to a slightly plump woman who stood next to him with her arm around his shoulder. On his other side was a boy, about twelve, with his forearm draped over the back of his father’s chair. The man in the portrait looked like Emmy. Or rather, she looked like him.
Henry Thorne.
Her father.
For several long moments Emmy just stood there and stared at the man who had fathered her. She didn’t hear footfalls from behind. There was just suddenly a voice.
“Miss Downtree.”
Emmy startled, and turned to see the woman in the portrait, older now.
“Yes,” she answered.
“Agnes Thorne. Won’t you sit down?” The woman’s tone was cool, as though her words had been carved of ice.
Emmy took the chair Agnes Thorne offered her, and the woman sat down opposite, smoothing her wool skirt. Her brown hair held tints of gray, but her complexion was flawless, her lips full and red, and the pearls at her neck and ears luminescent. She was not beautiful, but she had a commanding air, a gracefulness born of a lifetime of privilege. Emmy caught a whiff of the woman’s perfume. It smelled like something from another world altogether.
The world of the wealthy.
A tea tray was set between them. Agnes lifted the pot. “Tea?”
“Yes, thank you.”
The woman poured and then handed Emmy a cup without so much as a tremble in her fingers.
