Chapter Twenty-Three. Rose
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ROSE
It was Grace’s idea to interrogate Birdie O’neill, the former Harrow Home midwife, on Saturday afternoon.
I wait by Auntie’s car for fifteen minutes past our agreed-upon time, then start searching for Grace.
Ella and Magnolia are giggling in Ella’s bedroom, windows open and ceiling fan whirring while they listen to records.
Lou is napping in anticipation of going to the carnival later.
Mrs. Harrow—baking a blueberry crisp in the hotel kitchen—says that Cooper is working at the feed store and Grace is swimming with Stanley.
I find them necking out by the hotel pool.
I cough to announce my presence. Twice.
Grace looks up. “Oh, hi, Rose,” she says lazily.
“Do you still want to go shopping?” I ask through gritted teeth.
Stanley puts a hand on Grace’s thigh. I think he’d brand her like a cow if he could. “Can’t you see she’s busy?”
Is she really going to let that Neanderthal speak for her?
Grace shifts her skirt. “I did say I’d go shopping with her, Stan.”
“Can’t you go tomorrow? I want to see the Punch and Judy show,” he whines.
“The shops won’t be open on Sunday,” Grace says. “I’m sorry. We won’t be long.”
She climbs off his lap and pulls her hair into a high, bouncy ponytail. The movement draws his gaze to her breasts, and I wonder if she did it on purpose, to distract him. How much of the Grace he knows is calculated? How much of the Grace I know is calculated?
Stanley scrubs a hand over his sandy crew cut. “I’ll drive you. I bet Miss Priss is used to having a chauffeur.”
I bristle at the nickname. “Pardon me?”
“Stanley! She’s the boss’s daughter,” Grace scolds.
And your friend? The only person you trust with your secrets.
“I’ll meet you at the car in fifteen minutes, Grace,” I snap. “If you’re not there, I’m leaving without you.”
Twenty minutes later, Grace slinks around the corner of the hotel. I’m already behind the wheel of Auntie’s convertible, a green scarf tied over my curls.
!
“You’re late,” I sigh as I hand her a spare silk scarf.
“You are not in charge,” she grumps. “This is my investigation.”
I’m tempted to point out that I funded her investigation to the tune of three dollars last night, and I’m the one who can drive. But I bite my tongue.
“I mean it,” Grace insists. “I’ll ask the questions. We have to go about this the right way.”
And Grace is positively famous for her tact. “Fine. I won’t breathe a word unless you ask me to.”
“Good.” She lifts her chin. She’s wearing a demure, cornflower-blue shirtwaist dress with buttons up the front, with a brown belt and brown loafers. She looks like a Sunday school teacher.
“Should we have a code word? In case you get nervous and go all blank again?” I needle her.
“I won’t!” she snaps.
Please. She’s nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.
“Fiddle-faddle.” I pronounce the word with relish. “Just in case.”
Grace rolls her eyes. “That’s absurd.”
“That’s why I like it. It’s fun to say. Give it a go.” I put the car in drive and roll slowly down the rutted lane. “Which way?”
“Turn right. Why did you even learn how to drive, anyway, if you have a chauffeur?”
“Well, I won’t live at home forever, will I?
I’d like to go to Barnard. That’s a college in New York City.
If I’m there, I can walk places, or take the subway, or get a cab.
But if I end up at Swarthmore, which is my second choice, I may want a car.
And Father said he wants us to be modern women,” I explain.
“How nice for you,” Grace says witheringly. “Turn left after that barn.”
Why is she in such a snit? It’s not my fault that her father’s a donkey.
“I could teach you, if you want. I’m not afraid of your father.” I’m a little afraid of her father. “You ought to learn before you go to college.”
“Who said I’m going to college?” Grace snarls.
I bite my lip. She can’t be planning to marry Stanley right after graduation, can she? I know loads of girls who’ve married men who aren’t half as clever as they, but at least they’re marrying into money!
“Turn left up here, onto Razor Creek Road. We’re looking for a farmhouse.”
We drive around several sharp curves; crawl over a rickety, rattling bridge; and then pass through a grove with trees arching greenly overhead.
When we emerge into the sunshine, on our left is a field of freshly cut hay with two men tossing square bales onto a wagon.
It smells heavenly. A little way down the road, there’s a meadow dotted with blue and orange wildflowers.
To its right sits a farmhouse that looks as though it’s seen better days.
A red barn is crumbling behind it. A tire swing hangs from a big oak tree out front.
“That’s it!” Grace shouts. “Turn! Turn!”
I jerk the car into the dirt lane. We rattle up to the house. As I park the car, Grace pulls off her scarf and smooths a few flyaways, then uses the side mirror to freshen her lipstick. “Ready to face the beast,” she mutters, looking for all the world like a recalcitrant child.
We pause on the porch. The white paint is peeling, one step is rotted through, and the front lawn is choked with dandelions. But climbing roses bloom along the porch, pink and heady with scent. Cheerful plaid curtains flutter in the breeze. The smell of bread drifts out the open windows.
Grace smooths her skirt. She tightens her ponytail. Then she knocks.
The front door is yanked open by a boy with a strawberry- blond crew cut and two missing front teeth. He stands there staring up at us owlishly, wearing only a pair of cutoff jeans.
“Hi. Is your grandmother at home?” Grace asks.
“Gran!” he hollers. A slightly smaller boy runs up and shoves him, hard, so that he tumbles out the front door.
I leap aside before he knocks into me. A third, towheaded little fella runs after them.
The trio leap off the porch and onto the lawn, where they start tussling like a bunch of unruly puppies.
A woman in a green housedress comes to the door. She has a prominent nose and auburn hair in a poodle cut like Joan Fontaine’s. She’s carrying a squirming baby in her arms. “Hello. Are you girls lost? Need directions to town?”
Grace frowns. “No. I’m—don’t you recognize me?”
“Should I?” the woman asks, with some asperity.
Grace’s face falls. There’s an awkward silence.
“Fiddle-faddle,” she whispers.
I might feel a moment of satisfaction. I’m only human.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m Rosemary Thorpe.” I give her my most winsome smile. “My father is the hotelier who bought the Harrow Home. I understand that you used to work there. You might not recognize her all grown-up, but this is Grace Harrow.”
“Oh.” The woman is wearing cat-eye specs on a chain around her neck. She puts them on and looks at Grace with striking hazel eyes. I bet Birdie O’Neill was a real looker back in her day. “So it is. Still skinny as a weed, aren’t you?”
Grace’s polite smile edges toward a grimace. “Nice to see you again, Mrs. O’Neill.”
“We’d like to speak with you, if you can spare a few minutes,” I say.
“I don’t have many to spare these days. A pack of imps, they are.” Mrs. O’Neill casts an exasperated glance at the boys. “Last week they tried to paint the poor dog!”
“Oh my goodness,” I giggle. “Dare I ask?”
She gestures at the black-and-white cows across the lane. “They wanted to see if the cows would think he was one of them.”
I laugh. “Well, we could sit out here on the porch where we can keep an eye on them, if you like. It’s such a lovely day. It’d be a shame to waste all this sunshine, wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose the wash can wait.” Mrs. O’Neill puts the baby down, and he waddles toward me. He’s a plump blond cherub in overalls and a diaper.
“Hello there,” I say. “Aren’t you a handsome little man?”
Across the porch, Grace taps her foot, impatient. But Mrs. O’Neill smiles as she settles into one of the rocking chairs. “He is, isn’t he?”
“You would know,” I say, bringing the conversation to heel. “You must have delivered hundreds in your time at the Harrow Home.”
“Twenty-five years. From the September my Dot started school till I joined the Army Nurse Corps in ’42.” Mrs. O’Neill sighs. “I don’t mind telling you, midwifery is hard work. Rewarding, but hard. Some of the girls start out with romantic notions, but they get over it right quick.”
I let my smile fade. “I understand. My mother died in childbirth.”
Mrs. O’Neill clucks sympathetically. “I’m sorry, dearie. There’ve been some I couldn’t save, and that’s always a hard thing. A sad thing.”
“Like Dessa Slaughter?” Grace blurts.
My carefully laid foundation, destroyed in an instant. I glare daggers at her.
“How do you know about poor Dessa?” Mrs. O’Neill asks.
“She died the summer Cooper and I were born. And Daisy Wheeler ran away, and Aunt Emmeline drowned.” Grace has all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. “Dad fired the rest of the staff, but not you. Somebody had to deliver all those babies. You delivered us, didn’t you? Did Ma have a hard time?”
Mrs. O’Neill shifts in her chair, her gaze on the wooden floor. “I’ve helped hundreds of babies into this world, dearie. And I’m getting older, you know. I’m afraid I don’t remember each and every one.”
I’ve been dubious about Grace’s claim that the twins are adopted; it feels borne of desperation rather than any real evidence. But Birdie O’Neill is sharp as a tack, and her claiming otherwise makes me suspicious.
“Twins don’t come along often. Especially twins born to the boss’s wife,” Grace retorts.
“Are you accusing me of lying?” Her grandsons may have softened the old harridan, but Birdie doesn’t take any guff. “If you’ve got questions, ask your ma.”
“Ma doesn’t like to talk about that summer. On account of what happened to Emmeline.”
“Well, that was a sad business, and no mistake.” Mrs. O’Neill stands. “I should get to the wash. It’s never-ending with those four, and the baby still in diapers.”
Thinking fast, I reach into my pocketbook and come out with a five-dollar bill. “Here. For your trouble.”