The Queens of Crime

Chapter Thirty-Five

A PRIL 13, 1931

O XFORDSHIRE, E NGLAND

If one should ever find oneself in the sort of predicament I found myself in January of 1924, then one should be so lucky to have a cousin like Ivy. A cousin who has filled the role of selfless older sister, better than an actual sibling, since the beginning. A cousin who has offered unstinting, unquestioning aid, no matter how terrible the bind one gets in. A cousin who’s made it her life’s work to take in orphaned and unwanted children, to love and care for them as if they were her own.

Because that is what Ivy did for my child, John Anthony. My precious. My secret.

“John!” I exclaim, arms outstretched.

He races toward me, crying out, “Cousin Dorothy!” This is how Ivy explains my relationship to him. For now, at least.

His little arms wrap around my broad ones in a ritual we’ve conducted each of the three days I’ve stayed at the Sidelings. I count the minutes until his activities or his school day are finished. When I hear the back door open with a shudder, and John, with Samuel and Rebecca—Ivy’s two other wards—come bounding into the house, I have to stop myself from leaping up with excitement.

Before a roaring fire and a heaping mound of freshly baked biscuits, I ask the children about their day. On my first day here, they giggled and told me about their Scottish schoolteacher, Miss Lambert, with her funny accent, and the surprise visitor they had in their one-room schoolhouse—a puppy belonging to their classmate Gus. Today, I hear about the mishaps in their Sunday school classroom. I chortle along with them, taking in my son’s lovely wide brown eyes, deep dimples, and capacity for joy.

This glimpse into the day-to-day life of my seven-year-old son is both uplifting and crushing. While I rejoice that he is happy and healthy, I desperately wish I could be a regular part of his existence. Walking him to school, making him meals, reading him books—I envision it all. But I cannot do any of those things as his mother—not without damning his reputation and ruining my ability to earn a living for us both. An illegitimate pregnancy is a stain that would never, ever fade.

Staring at John, I think back on that day I realized I was pregnant. I’d never imagined I’d find myself alone and with child. Alone, yes: I’d envisioned that state many times. I’d never had much luck with men, and I imagined I’d stay single forever. Until I met John Cournos, in fact, my romantic interests were mostly theoretical. Unrequited crushes on professors or brothers of friends or fellow teachers. But when the Russian-American writer and translator entered my life, all that changed. I became swept up in his brilliant mind and big ideas—all except his views on the necessity of consummating our feelings for each other. There I held fast to my religious upbringing and declined, a decision that undoubtedly prompted his return to America.

I’d been devastated when he left. Even though we’d had heated disagreements over my views, I’d always believed we’d end up together. When days passed without a single letter from him, I was heartbroken. Vulnerable and lonely, I found myself accepting the overtures of a neighbor in my building, Bill White, a car salesman with whom I had very little in common. One evening, after too many glasses of wine, I did that which I’d refused to do with John Cournos. And little John is the result.

Not that I could ever regret it when I gaze into the beautiful, innocent face of my son. The few cherished hours we have together are worth every second of the pain caused by our separation and the shame I suffered by his birth. How I’d hoped my marriage to Mac would create a fresh path for John and me to be together every day, as adoptive mother and son. Because when I confessed the existence of John to Mac, he’d vowed to adopt him—when the time is right. Mac and Ivy are the only two people in the world who know about John; I never told my parents because I knew it would have crushed them. Legitimacy would change everything for John. But the time never seems to be right for Mac. For a child of our own, yes. To adopt John, no.

Ivy hovers behind the table where the children and I gather. Reaching back, I clasp her hand. “You have done a magnificent job with these children.”

“Caring for them is my calling and a gift, Dorothy,” she replies.

The sound of barking fills the room, and the children race to the kitchen window. Their friend Gus has arrived with his puppy, and they run to the back door, almost as one. Tears well up in my eyes at the endearing sight, but I will them away. I don’t want John to see me crying when he returns to the room.

“How can I ever express my gratitude for all you’ve done for John?” I ask.

“I’m the grateful one.”

“It’s a gift I wish I could undertake myself.”

She squeezes my hand. “I know you do. But in your stead, I try my best.”

“I wish Mac would follow through on his promise.”

“It would be wonderful for you three. But until then, I’m happy to have John in my care.” Ivy would never judge Mac. Or anyone, for that matter.

“Sending checks seems like paltry recompense for all the daily work you do and all the love you bestow.”

“Those checks make all this possible. Not just for John but for the other children as well. So do not torture yourself for one second, Dorothy,” she insists, gripping my hand more tightly.

I inhale deeply to calm myself. “Speaking of which,” I say, “I should probably leave Sidelings and get back to writing. My manuscript is already overdue, and I’m feeling much better thanks to your ministrations.” The headaches have indeed subsided, and while my ribs are still sore, I can get about somewhat normally. I could manage the train back to London.

“I adore having you here, Dorothy, and so does John. So please stay as long as you like. And in any event, I’m fairly certain it’s John and his giggles that are speeding along your recovery.”

“I feel like you’ve been at my side, inspiring me and saving me from myself, for as long as I can remember, Ivy.” I think back on the holidays and long August weeks when Ivy and her mother—Mum’s sister—would stay at the rectory with us. We’d put on plays, write stories, and read voraciously. “Do you remember when we read The Three Musketeers ?” I ask.

“Of course. It’s still a favorite.” She points to a teetering stack of books to the right of the sofa.

As she walks toward the pile, I ask, “Do you think it’s too mature for John?”

“Not at all. You started reading it a bit later, but then you were tackling it in French. What seven-year-old boy is too young for the stories of Athos, Aramis, Porthos, and D’Artagnan, wielding their swords to fight for right?” she asks, handing me the well-loved copy.

The children rush back into the room, bursting with descriptions of the puppy and its latest antics. When they pause for breath, I hold the book aloft and ask, “Are you ready for a tale of adventure?”

They cheer, and I pull John onto my lap. He squirms a little before settling in, and I realize he’s getting a bit old for lap sitting. Before he can wriggle away, I begin reading.

The first few lines do not capture his attention, but that all changes when I say, “A young man—we can sketch his portrait at a dash. Imagine to yourself a Don Quixote of eighteen; a Don Quixote without his corselet, without his coat of mail, without his cuisses… Too big for a youth, too small for a grown man, an experienced eye might have taken him for a farmer’s son upon a journey had it not been for the long sword…”

The other children’s faces light up. Soon they have sidled up to me and study the illustrations on the pages as I read. The sound of a knock on the door registers, but I pay it no mind. Ivy is an integral part of this Oxfordshire village, and neighbors are always dropping off items for her charges, among other things.

I become swept up in the familiar story once again, but then a line I’ve always loved strikes me anew. I slow my recitation. “You are young. You ought to be brave for two reasons: the first is that you are a Gascon, and the second is that you are my son. Never fear quarrels, but seek adventures—”

“Dorothy.” Ivy’s voice finally reaches me.

“Yes?” I look up from the page, over John’s head, to the front door.

There stand Agatha, Emma, Ngaio, and Margery. Cheeks flushed from the brisk spring weather, overcoats cinched around them, and an air of anticipation in their eyes. How on earth had they found me here?

“Your friends are here to visit,” Ivy says, her voice quizzical. “They call themselves the Queens.”