Another Homecoming (3 page)

The administrator backed up a step to ask nervously, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Howard started forward once more. “Let’s get this over with.”

He passed through the long corridor too quickly, granting him little time to form some kind of picture of what this couple might be like. Old? Young? Dark? Fair? Tall? Short? Just where was he sending Martha’s little girl?

The administrator pushed open a door, and Howard found himself face-to-face with the prospective parents. One quick sweep was enough to work a knot in his stomach. The woman was as erect and cold as the Statue of Liberty. She stood by her husband’s side, gazing at the baby with an expression of utter bafflement. The husband was big and gray and hearty, his face creased by unbounded joy as he cradled the little one in clumsy yet gentle arms.

At the sound of their footsteps, the woman stiffened even further. “Lawrence.”

“What, oh—excellent.” The big man took a step forward. “You the doctor?”

“That’s right. Howard Austin.”

“I’m Lawrence Rothmore. This is my wife, Abigail.”

“Charmed.” The woman’s single word was as cool as her demeanor. As she adjusted the mink stole draped about her neck, the double strand of pearls was fully revealed and the diamond on her finger glinted in the light. “Don’t you think we should speak with the doctor alone, dear?”

“Sure, sure.” He gave the administrator a hearty smile. “You don’t mind if we have a quiet chat with the doc here, do you? Sorry, doc, I’ve forgotten your name already.”

“Austin. Howard Austin.”

“No, no, of course not.” The administrator gave the couple a little half-bow, followed by a look of genuine entreaty to Howard. Then he backed from the room. “I’ll just be in my office.”

The woman turned her full attention on Howard. “Doctor, can you assure us this is a proper baby?”

The directness took his breath away. “I beg your pardon?”

“Proper,” the woman repeated, drawing out the word in an exaggerated fashion. “A proper baby. Not one from—well, pardon me, doctor, but we don’t know a thing about the family, do we?”

“Abigail,” her husband said. But the word did not carry heat. His attention remained focused upon the tiny child in his arms. “The administrator has already told us—”

“The administrator wants our money,” she replied crisply. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with wanting to know that our baby is healthy and comes from parents who aren’t, well, deranged or anything.”

Howard Austin’s sudden anger brought a grating depth to his voice. “The baby’s mother is one of the finest women I have ever known.”

Abigail Rothmore faltered momentarily under the doctor’s glare but managed to draw herself together to demand, “And the father?”

“Sergeant Harry Grimes,” Howard Austin began, and then stopped. He had broken one of the primary rules governing adoption, which was to never let the adopting couple know the names of the parents.

“Yes, doctor?”

Howard Austin sighed. Put it up to the day’s stress and strain. “He was killed on the North African front.”

“Hey, that’s tough.” The gentleman lifted his graying head at the news. He was an older man, and probably had twenty years on his society wife. Genuine sympathy shone from his face. “How is the mother holding up?”

“Not well.” There was a sincerity to the gentleman that the woman lacked. Howard focused his attention on Lawrence Rothmore. It was easier than allowing himself to think of Martha Grimes, lying upstairs in a private room. She had been moved out of the obstetrics wing, where her sobs had been upsetting the other mothers and newborn babies. “Not well at all. She’s young and doesn’t feel that she can take care of the child on her own. But that doesn’t make it any easier to give Katie up for adoption.”

“Hey, I’m sorry to hear that.” The man had the gruff voice of a hale and hearty type, big across the shoulders and a paunch from good living. “Think maybe we could help out?”

“I’m sorry,” Abigail interrupted. “Did you say the child’s name is Katie?”

“It’s nice of you to offer,” Howard responded to the husband, “but actually I was breaking the law in mentioning the father’s name. Besides, she’ll hopefully have a war pension coming to her.” He then turned to Abigail and continued, “Katherine is the name given by the birth mother. But you have the right to change that if you wish. Just as the child’s birth certificate will list you as the actual parents.”

Both adults showed genuine relief. Lawrence Rothmore spoke first. “I’d sure like Katie to think of us as her real parents.”

The man, Howard noticed, had an unhealthy flush to his complexion. Too much rich food, high blood pressure, and not enough exercise. Definitely a heart patient in the making. “That is entirely your choice.”

“Let me just be perfectly clear on this point,” the woman said, her cool aloofness fully restored. “You are saying that there is no chance that some pestering journalist might ferret out details sometime in the future?”

“None at all,” Howard replied, understanding her perfectly. “If you want to claim to all the world that you have borne this child, that is your decision.”

“It’s just like Randolf told us. The secret lives and dies with us,” Lawrence concluded. He added for the doctor’s benefit, “Randolf Crawley, he’s our lawyer. My wife’s cousin. Getting on in years, but sharp as they come.”

Abigail fingered her pearls and murmured, “I still say we would be better off selecting a proper male heir.”

“We’ve been through all that,” Lawrence said, hugging the baby closer to his chest. “If you want to adopt a second child—”

“Simply out of the question.” Abigail’s tone closed that door permanently.

“I want a baby daughter.” There was a sudden power to his voice, a revealing of the force that had carried him to the top. “And that’s final.”

Abigail opened her mouth, must have thought better of it, and changed tack. “Very well,” she said. “But this name, Katie, simply won’t do. I mean, really, it’s just too—well, too ordinary.”

As swiftly as the man’s power had been revealed, it vanished. Lawrence Rothmore’s attention returned to the little bundle sleeping in his arms, and his features softened. “What did you have in mind?”

“Kyle,” Abigail announced. “It was my maternal grandmother’s name, as you know. And Elizabeth from my mother.”

“Kyle Elizabeth Rothmore.” He nodded his head. “Sounds good to me.”

Howard Austin glanced at his watch and gave a start. Where had the time gone? “If you’ll just step into the administrator’s office, he will have the papers ready for you to sign.”

“Yeah, he mentioned you were off today for a year’s duty.” Lawrence Rothmore allowed himself to be ushered across the foyer. “Any idea where?”

“Three months’ surgical duty on a hospital boat—after that is anybody’s guess.”

“Well, good luck to you, doc. And thanks. Thanks a million.”

Or half a million
. Howard accepted the man’s hand, while he returned the woman’s perfunctory nod. He then raced back up the stairs. But instead of heading for his office and the pile of unfinished paper work, he continued up to where Martha Grimes lay on the third-floor private wing. It was the least he could do, a last gift to a woman for whom he wished he could do more. A lot more.

Perhaps it would help her to know that little Kyle Rothmore was going to receive everything that Martha herself could not give.

2
 

“Now, Bertie, don’t you dare
drop them.”

“No, Miss Kyle, I wouldn’t dream of it.” Bertrand Ames shut the manor’s tall oak door, which was difficult given the load he carried, and turned sideways to make sure Kyle Rothmore, nearly three, was coping with the broad flagstone stairs. Her two teddies kept her from seeing the steps. “You be careful, now,” he cautioned in return.

If anyone had ever suggested to Bertrand Ames that his job would include responsibility for the well-being of a Raggedy Ann doll, three stuffed bunny rabbits, and an enormous pink elephant, he would have turned in his resignation on the spot. But here he was, taking the curving front steps very slowly, so as to be there in case his small charge lost her balance. The doll and stuffed animals were crammed together in a colorful bundle up against the chest of his immaculate uniform.

And then Jim, the head gardener, chose that moment to come around the corner of the house. As with all the servants, Jim answered directly to Bertrand Ames. Jim was a fine gardener but an impossible man to deal with. He had an acid wit and complained with every breath he drew. It did not help that Bertrand and his wife were, like all the staff, relatively new to the Rothmore household. For some unknown reason, the entire household staff had been fired and new people hired three years ago. He and his wife had come shortly after that. At times Bertrand still felt as though he were struggling to establish his authority and position.

It would not do at all for the gardener to go back to the kitchen and start making caustic remarks at Bertrand’s expense. Dignity was a vital part of his position.

Bertrand wore three hats within the Rothmore household—butler, chauffeur, and head of the household staff. He managed the tasks by rising before dawn, working hard all day, and keeping himself aloof from the other staff. His habitual expression was a disapproving frown. As Jim walked toward them, Bertrand prepared a frosty response to any remarks about his unusual bundle.

But Jim did not pay him any mind at all. Instead he doffed his ancient cap and gave a creaky bow. “Morning, Miss Kyle. Great day for going out and about.”

“I’m taking Mr. and Mrs. Teddy for a drive,” she announced.

“Now ain’t that a grand thing.” He hustled over to the gleaming Rolls and opened the front door.

“Bertie has all their friends so they won’t get lonely,” Kyle continued.

Bertrand winced at the announcement. Only Maggie, his wife and the Rothmores’ head chef, called him Bertie. But like all the servants, Maggie’s heart had long been lost to the charms of this child. Their own children were long gone, grown up and off leading their own lives.

Bertrand readied his coolest voice, preparing for the snide comment on his nickname Jim was bound to offer. But to his surprise, the gardener only nodded and agreed. “Always a good thing to have your friends around.”

Bertrand stepped forward and began settling his load onto the front seat’s posh leather. Kyle handed him the teddies. “Thank you, Bertie.”

The gardener had eyes only for the little girl. He asked eagerly, “Anything I can do, Miss Kyle?”

She gave that one careful thought. “They might get a little cold.”

“There’s a lap blanket in the trunk,” Bertrand said cautiously, handing him the key.

“Right you are.” The old man scurried around, came swiftly back with the checkered alpaca cover. “Want me to set it in place?”

Bertrand reached over. “I’ll take that, thank you.”

“I was the one got it out.”

“That will do, James.” There was a momentary tug of war before seniority won out and Bertrand had the privilege of tucking the blanket around the row of fuzzy passengers. He backed out and straightened. “Will that do, Miss Kyle?”

Inspecting the arrangement meant climbing onto the Rolls’ running board and peering inside. The action hiked her little skirt up high enough to reveal the row of blue ribbons in her pantaloons, ones that matched the pair in her honey-colored hair. “Does Mrs. Teddy have room to breathe?”

The question required both Jim and Bertrand to fit in around Kyle. They gave the passengers a careful examination before Bertrand repositioned the pink elephant over closer to his seat. Then he solemnly proclaimed, “I feel certain Mrs. Teddy will be most comfortable, Miss Kyle.”

“Yep,” Jim agreed. “Looks mighty fine to me.” He retreated, waited until Kyle had climbed down and straightened her skirt, then asked, “Seems I’ve heard talk about some big day coming up, Miss Kyle?”

“My birthday,” she announced proudly. “Mama says we’re gonna have a party.”

Bertrand started to dismiss the gardener but was held back by the gleam in the man’s eyes. There was a genuine affection in Jim’s tone as he said, “A party. Now ain’t that nice. Think maybe it’d be a garden party?”

When Kyle seemed perplexed by that question, Bertrand found himself offering, “Perhaps if the weather is nice.”

“Then you oughtta come out and show me where you’ll have your guests,” Jim said eagerly. “Maybe I can put some pretty flowers around, dress things up a little.”

Bertrand was hard pressed not to smile. The gardener had a thousand excuses for avoiding any extra work. But the little child had this effect on the entire household. There was something special about Kyle, as though a glorious light shone from her heart, even at this early age, something so special that it lit up the lives of everyone around her. Everyone, that is, except for—

“Ah, good, there you are. For once you’re ready on time.” Abigail Rothmore carefully swept down the steps on her high heels. “James, I noticed the flowers in the front hall are wilting.”

“We were just talking about that very thing, Mrs. Rothmore.” The gardener shifted over far enough to block Bertrand from view as the butler ducked into the front seat and flipped the blanket up and over the stuffed animals. “I believe the roses are ready.”

She dismissed him with a flick of her gloved hand and inspected her little girl. “Turn around and let me see you, child. Well, it appears you’ve managed to keep yourself clean for once. Very well, Bertrand, you may open the door.”

“Yes, madam.” He bowed lower than necessary, the only way he could hide the glint of anger as he saw the child freeze under her mother’s austere gaze. When they were both settled, he shut the door and found himself facing the gardener. Jim was still watching Kyle through the car window. He caught Bertrand’s eye and gave a slight grimace before turning away.

Bertrand walked around to his door, reflecting that he and Maggie had only two reasons to put up with Abigail Rothmore, and those were her husband and her daughter.

Before he even started the car, Abigail was off on her usual litany of instructions. “Sit up, child. Straighten your dress. And just look at your hair. How on earth do you manage to—”

“Where to, madam?” Bertrand asked, putting a bit more bark into his voice than necessary.

“What? Oh, the dance academy, of course. It’s Thursday.” But his question had the desired effect and deflected Abigail from further berating the little girl.

“I don’t like ballet,” Kyle said very softly. “It makes my toes hurt.”

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, dance will teach you both proper posture and an appreciation of music. Besides, it will introduce you to our kind of people.”

“I don’t have any friends there,” Kyle quietly persisted.

“Of course you do. I just heard that the Crawleys’ lovely daughter is being sent there as well. She will make an excellent friend.”

“I don’t like Emily Crawley,” Kyle said. Her voice was so quiet as to almost go without noticing. “She’s mean to me.”

“Nonsense. Emily Crawley comes from one of the finest families in Chevy Chase. Not to mention the fact that her father sits on the Rothmore board. Even if the idea of him having a daughter at his age is positively scandalous.” Impatiently Abigail tapped her fingers upon the polished burl of her armrest. “Bertrand, I have a luncheon in town. You shall need to drop me off, go back and pick up Kyle, and bring her home on your own.”

“Very good, Mrs. Rothmore.” At least there was that to look forward to. Kyle liked to sit up front with him, hugging one of her animals and asking all the questions that she kept to herself whenever her mother was around. Bertrand had never known another child of her age to be so bright and inquisitive.

And yet nothing could please her mother. “Nanny says you have finally managed to learn all your alphabet.”

“Yes, Mother.” A hint of eagerness. “Can I ’cite them?”

“Recite, child, recite. You really must practice your elocution. And no, it is quite enough to hear a positive report from Nanny for a change.”

Bertrand clenched down hard on his irritation as he observed the little girl through his rearview mirror. Kyle gave a little frustrated kick, then commented, “I wish I could have a baby brother.”

Abigail gave her daughter a look of genuine horror. “Where on earth did you come up with such a notion?”

“Maggie says her daughter’s just had a new baby. A little boy. Can we, Mama? Please?”

“Absolutely not. Out of the question. As if you were not already more than I can manage. Oh, do stop swinging your legs, Kyle. Can’t you be still for an instant?”

Bertrand’s heart lurched as he watched her subside into a shadow of the bright little thing who had chattered with them earlier. But Abigail was not finished. “Really, you must stop treating the staff like they were family. It just isn’t proper to call the cook by her first name.”

“But she’s . . . she’s my very best friend,” Kyle protested.

“Don’t talk nonsense. Help are not friends. You are a privileged young lady, and you must learn to act the part. I don’t see why it is so much to ask, expecting you to be at least a little grateful for everything that has been given to you.”

“Thank you, Mama,” Kyle said dully.

“That’s better.” Abigail Rothmore adjusted the fold of her skirt. The diamonds in her bracelet caught the sunlight and shimmered little rainbows round the car’s interior. “Now if only you could learn how to behave in a way that reflects your social standing and family position, I will be satisfied.”

Kyle’s chin quivered a moment, but she brought it under control. When her mother’s attention was caught by something outside her window, Kyle gave her eyes a swift little wipe. She raised her gaze, and Bertrand attempted all the warmth he could manage into the smile he gave her through the rearview mirror. Then and there he decided he would treat her to her favorite snack, a chocolate malted milk and a box of animal crackers. They would stop by the sweetshop on the way home, no matter what Maggie might say about the child’s appetite being ruined. He would give anything to see the little girl smile again.

Howard Austin removed the stethoscope from his neck and fitted it into his black carrying bag. He forced a cheery tone. “Fit as a fiddle, heart big as a mule’s. Nothing’s going to keep our Harry down for long. I want you to start walking with just one cane—see how far you can make it.”

Harry gave a silent nod, the expression on his face not changing. When he had first arrived home, he had been wasted down to skin and bones, but now he was beginning to put on weight. His leg was mending well. But nothing could be done about the eyes that looked empty of everything, or the flat, toneless voice that expressed the few words he chose to say. At the moment, he chose not to speak at all.

As Howard backed toward the doorway, he tried to find some cheerful note to end the visit. He could only think of the news that was on everyone’s mind that summer. “Looks like we’ve got the Japs on the run once and for all. Can’t be long now.”

Harry looked up from his chair. It was placed just beneath the bedroom window so as to catch whatever breeze the sultry day might bring. Sunlight falling through the lace curtains turned his face into stark lines and shadows. The words he spoke now carried deep feeling. “Wish I were over there with them, Doc. That’s where I belong. The army’s the only thing I ever found worth doing.”

“Where you belong is right here with your family,” Howard responded, feeling his smile was as false as his hearty tone.