“Freckles, you have too,” she said.
Stooping, I met her at eye level. The sweet little thing had wide sparkling eyes, not quite topaz or chestnut, something in between.
“Hello.”
“You new nanny? Pa-Papa said he might get one. Mrs. G calls her nurse. Don’t want either.”
I wasn’t going to lie, but I’d be vague. “I’m a friend of your father’s. He hasn’t decided on a new nanny, yet. I thought I’d look around to see if he truly needed one.”
The little girl nodded. “Don’t want one. Not nice.”
I straightened the collar of her blush-pink pinafore. “They can be good.”
“The last one not nice.”
Looking at her serious frown, her poked-out lips, I wondered what the last nanny had done.
Ashbrook’s words fell into my ears—chattel, abuse. I felt sick. This precious little girl should never see how mean people could be.
“You can’t touch the box. Mama letters in there. No touchy.”
“Then, I won’t, but do you know where else your father hides secrets?”
The grin spreading across her face blessed my soul. She took my hand and stood.
She wobbled but led me out of the closet. “I’ll show you.”
Time was ticking away, but I liked the feel of her hand in mine.
The little girl stopped and pointed to the pink painting. “See.”
“I like the art, sweetie. This one is yours?”
Her lips bubbled with a little spittle, and she erupted with glee. “Yes. Pa . . . Pa-Papa say I good.”
“What’s your name? I’ve seemed to have forgotten.”
“Papa calls me Hope and princess. I like Hope.”
“I like that name too. Though you are pretty, pretty like a princess. Pretty like your mama.”
The child’s lip trembled. “Mama . . . She gone.”
Before I could stop myself, I was again on my knees, hugging her, winding her little body up in my arms. Her head flopped against my chest.
It was the most natural thing to embrace this babe.
And the most hurtful.
My loss fell upon me, anew. My daughter, the one I lost on theMinervawould be about this age.
Though Ashbrook thought it unwise to contact the St. Maurs, that they may try to lock me away in Bedlam again, I just might try. They would at least know my baby’s name.
Then when I prayed, I could tell her I loved her, that I would’ve died for, should’ve died with her.
“Don’t cry, nanny friend. Don’t cry.”
Hope tugged on my ear, then locked her little arms about my neck, I held her and wanted so badly to have what Ashbrook had, a sweet girl with a name who painted pink streaks better than any.
