I wish I was writing with better news. Our investigation into the whereabouts of your daughter hasn’t been as successful as we’d hoped. You were right in your belief that she survived the birth, and when we located the midwife who assisted with your delivery, she was able to confirm that your daughter was taken immediately to a waiting family. It appears there was never any intention for you to have a choice in the matter, and for that, I’m truly sorry. The only solace you might find is that your daughter is alive, however it appears the family who adopted her have left the country.
We have not given up, but with no official adoption records to be found, and the shroud of secrecy at the convent, neither me nor my investigator are confident we will findher now that they’re no longer in England. Some might say that it’s for the best, as the family she’s with will be all she’s ever known, but I also understand that she’s your own flesh and blood, and that the decision should have been yours from the very beginning. Please know that we will leave no stone unturned as we continue to search for her, and we will continue to apply pressure upon the convent to release more information. If it’s any consolation, our investigation might make them think more carefully about doing this to another young woman—or at the very least, one might hope so.
As an aside, I want to congratulate you on your decision to open your home to unmarried pregnant women in need. I have no doubt that your uncle would be immensely proud of what you’ve chosen to do with the house he left you and your new-found independence.
If there are any further developments, I will of course be in touch with you, and please let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.
Regards,
Timothy Allan, Lawyer
It had been three months now since Charles had passed and she’d asked the lawyer to find out the circumstances of her daughter’s disappearance. Because she’d known all along that her baby hadn’t died—there were nights she’d wake, drenched in sweat, remembering the muffled sound of her cry, knowing that she’d been very much alive. Reaching for the warmth of a body that wasn’t there. She’d close her eyes and be transported back to that room, the place of terror where she’d felt pain unlike anything she’d ever felt before, where her daughter had been taken from her; the memories like a patchwork she couldn’tquite put together. Most of the time she did everything she could to forget, but sometimes it was almost impossible to push the memories away, and she always seemed to find her way to that room in her dreams, trying to grasp what was real and what was her imagination.
But the worst part wasn’t even that her daughter had been adopted without her consent. To know that her own flesh and blood was being raised by another woman was a pain like no other; it was not having had the chance to cradle her and touch her little cheek, to hold her tiny hand and press her lips to her head, to have a full memory of her daughter to cherish. It was not having had the chance to say goodbye that broke something inside her. That the child she and Gus had made had been ripped away from her while she’d lain helpless on that bed, as if she was somehow undeserving of being her mother, as if her lack of marital status made her unworthy.
Since Charles’s passing, there had been so many times she’d sat with the little box he’d left behind, turning it over in her hands and imagining how he’d come up with the idea to leave the keepsake for her. And it had blossomed into an idea.
If only I could have left a box for my daughter. If only there was a clue I could have given her, so that she’d have something of mine when she was old enough to understand. So that she could have found her way to me if she’d ever wanted to find me.
But the truth was that her daughter would likely never know she ever existed. If the lawyer and his investigator couldn’t find her, if no one ever told her that she’d been adopted, it was as if Hope never existed in her life in the first place. It was like a punch to her stomach, but it was the truth and there was no way around it.
She rose, tucking the letter into the kitchen drawer where she always kept it, and went to start on some housework. She’d begun her training in midwifery since Charles’s passing, and aspainful as it had been when she’d given birth so recently herself, it had kept her busy. But try as she might, none of the hospitals or churches she’d left her name and address with had sent anyone to her, and she’d begun to wonder if she’d ever welcome any young women into her home, or whether she was destined to live there alone.
Hope walked into the front room, plumping some cushions, before a movement across the road caught her eye. She watched as a young woman gazed at the house from where she stood, shifting from one foot to the other as if she was nervous. But what made her stand out to Hope wasn’t the way she was fidgeting; it was her large, rounded stomach, on which she had rested one hand.
Cross the road. Please, just cross the road and knock on the door. Don’t just stand there. Don’t walk away.
All she wanted was to help other women, so they didn’t have to suffer like she had, and suddenly it felt as if she might get the chance. If only this woman would cross the road.
Hope’s breath caught when she finally saw her move, and within seconds there was a gentle knock at the door. She hurried through to the hallway and pulled it open, not wanting the young woman to lose her nerve and turn away when she was so close.
38
‘I was hoping you’d decide to knock,’ Hope said with a smile as she surveyed the very pregnant young woman standing on her doorstep. ‘It was awful looking out and seeing you standing there in the cold. Please, come in.’
Hope held out her hand, smiling when the young woman slowly lifted hers in return. Her palm was so cold, and Hope tried to warm it as the woman immediately stepped inside, not needing any further encouragement.
She used her other hand to push the door shut, sensing how nervous her visitor was while trying her best not to show it.
‘My name is Hope,’ she said, letting go of her hand and ushering her ahead. The warmth of the fire was immediate, and she noticed how her guest moved closer to it, closing her eyes for a moment as if to soak in the warmth or perhaps the feeling of safety.
‘I’m Evelina,’ she said, clearing her throat.
Hope gestured for her to sit in the chair closest to the fire, and she sank straight into it.
‘Is that a French accent I detect?’ Hope asked, in French, pleased when it elicited a smile from Evelina.
‘It is,’ Evelina replied.
‘I’ve only been in London a short while myself,’ she said. ‘I miss being able to converse in my own language, so you’re a breath of fresh air today.’
Now it was Hope who felt warmth spread through her. It was almost a sign from the universe that the first woman to visit her was from her home country, that she could help someone else who’d ended up in a place she was unfamiliar with.
Hope busied herself making coffee, not wanting to ask too many questions or make Evelina uncomfortable. Part of her wanted to tell her that she understood her predicament; that she’d been through the pain and trauma that Evelina was facing and understood it like perhaps no one else would. But she didn’t. She’d already decided that she wouldn’t share her own story with any of the women and girls who passed through her home. Her lawyer was the only person who knew the truth, and once he was gone, she had no intention of anyone knowing about her past.
‘How far along are you, Evelina? Or are you not sure?’ Hope asked. ‘Sometimes it’s hard to work out the exact timings, so please don’t worry if that’s the case.’
She watched as Evelina rubbed her hands together, as if the feeling was coming back into them after being cold for so long.
