Chapter Twenty-One
FLORA
8 January 1931
Quebec City, Canada
They walked through the lobby holding hands. It was a bright, beautiful morning, sunlight falling through the window in deep, dazzling shafts onto the oak floor, James and Flora’s steps as light as if they were partially suspended on wires.
Heads turned as they passed, people instinctively smiling at them, and Flora wondered if they could sense their wellspring of joy. This was it now. Nothing could stop them. Mary and Lorna were being released within the hour and they wanted to get into position early. Landon had been paid ‘a retainer’ to keep an eye on the paperwork pertaining to their release. If Lorna relapsed, or if Mary tried... something , anything...they wanted to know about it.
But the days had drifted past with a blissful ease and now all the shadows had cleared. James had taken Flora shopping the previous day and they had bought a crib and blankets, baby clothes, nappies, infant milk and bottles. Everything was being delivered this morning and the concierge would send it straight up to their room.
Flora felt nervous. What if she had somehow forgotten how to mother her child? It had all come so naturally on the night of his birth, her body flooded with the impulses to bond them to one another, to feed him and protect him. But that was a tide that had long since gone out. Her milk had dried up within a fortnight of leaving St Kilda, and hers wasn’t a face he knew. Would he cry for Mary?
Probably.
James had gently warned her to expect teething troubles. This wasn’t a fairy tale but real life. They would make mistakes and get things wrong, but they would learn fast. He was already on the hunt for a nanny and a house to rent over the winter, somewhere they could settle down till the spring thaw.
They walked quickly down the steps to the courtyard, where their car had been brought round. Flora was carrying the fine shawl she had bought to wrap the baby in; that would be her first act of reclamation. She had even slept with it last night so that it would smell of her. The second would be to rename him. Both she and James associated the name Struan with the heartache of this period, and giving their baby the names they chose for him, as his birth parents, felt like a natural and healing next step.
James opened the car door for Flora and she slid into the seat. She pressed the baby blanket to her face, trying to detect her own scent. She wanted to know what he would smell.
But as she looked up and out of the window, she froze.
James had stopped, midway across the front of the car, and was standing alert as a gundog as Landon crossed the courtyard towards them.
Why was he here?
Flora didn’t stir as she watched the Irishman approach and begin to talk to her husband. Her heart felt as if it might leap from her chest, her limbs leaden and holding her back from moving out of the cab into the space where his words would wound her. Because she knew they would. James was raking a hand through his hair. He glanced back at her, making eye contact through the glass. He looked sick.
Despite her instinct for self-preservation, Flora opened the door and got out shakily. She couldn’t endure another delay. Landon’s voice was a low murmur, the words indistinct but solemn.
‘...body was found this morning. There’ll have to be an inquest—’
Her hand gripped the car door. ‘ Inquest ?’
‘Flora—’ James began. He wore a haunted look that tore the hope from her in an instant.
‘My God,’ she gasped. ‘Who’s dead?’