The Legacy. Kate Hoffmann

up in the midst of one of her black moods.

      “We cannot keep her or her daughter in this house,” he said. “I won’t have it.”

      “She’s worked as a domestic before and she claims to be an excellent seamstress.”

      “Let’s be candid with each other, shall we, Geneva? You don’t need a seamstress. You want that child.”

      Edward watched as his mother’s face grew pale. She slowly rose, her hands clutched in front of her. “Why can’t you do this one thing for me?” she asked in a strangled voice. “Just let me have what I need. I will make my way through this, I promise. But I have to deal with this in my own way.”

      “This child is not yours,” he warned. “And if I see you becoming too attached, I will force them out of this house. And if I see any strange behavior from you, then you will return to the hospital until you are able to comport yourself in a proper manner. Is that understood, Geneva?”

      His mother nodded. “Yes, Henry.”

      “This will not become an obsession, or I will call an end to it.”

      “I understand,” she replied.

      He picked up a ledger from his desk and opened it, focusing his attention on the columns and rows of numbers. “That is all.”

      Geneva circled his desk, then placed a dutiful kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Henry.” With that, she swept out of the room, her head held high, her eyes watery with tears. She didn’t even notice Edward standing outside the door, brushing right by him, her skirts rustling.

      A few moments later, Edward walked into the library, his footsteps silent on the thick Oriental carpet. He stood in front of his father’s desk, his heart slamming in his chest. When his father finally looked up, there was an expression of impatience etched across his face. “What is it?”

      “Are you going to send Mummy away again?”

      “That is none of your concern,” he said.

      “Please don’t send her away,” Edward begged. “I promise, I’ll watch over her.”

      Henry Porter stared at his son for a long moment. “And will you tell me if she begins to confuse this Irish urchin with your sister Charlotte?”

      Edward nodded, crossing his fingers behind his back to lessen the lie. “I will, Father,” he said.

      His father nodded slowly. “You’re a good boy. And I think you understand how important it is that your mother keep her wits about her. She has been very emotional lately and that’s not good for anyone. You must try to distract her from her worries.”

      “I will. I’m good at that.”

      “Very well,” his father said. “I’m glad you see things my way. Run along now, Edward, I have work to do.”

      Edward hurried out of the library and when he reached the safety of the hallway, he uncrossed his fingers and asked God to forgive him for the lie. It wasn’t really a sin to lie when he was just doing it to make his mother happy, was it? She’d suffered so much over the past few years. And if Rose and little Grace were the key to her happiness, then Edward would do everything in his power to make them both stay, his father’s wishes be damned.

      “What are you doing out here?” Malcolm strode down the hall and gave Edward a hard shove, sending him back against the wall. “I thought you’d be in the nursery playing with that little brat Mother brought home.”

      “She’s not a brat,” he said.

      Malcolm sent Edward a look of utter disdain. “That brat is going to steal every minute of Mother’s time. She won’t pay attention to you anymore. She won’t even see you, just like she doesn’t see me. Get used to it, Edward. It’s only a matter of time before she loves you less than she loves me.”

      “Maybe if you’d be nicer to her she’d love you again,” Edward accused.

      “I don’t need her,” he replied. “Neither does Father. You’re the only one in this family who still cares for her and that’s because you’re still a baby.”

      “I am not!” Edward shouted, lashing out at Malcolm. He shoved against his chest, but Malcolm had three years on him and considerable strength.

      Malcolm grabbed Edward’s arm and twisted it behind his back, then pushed him up against the wall. “Don’t ever touch me again,” he muttered, his breath hot against Edward’s ear. “If you do, I’ll just find a way to take it out on that little Irish girl you’re so fond of.”

      He gave Edward’s arm a final twist, then pasted a smile onto his face and walked into the library. As Edward stood outside, he listened as his older brother spoke with his father, the conversation relaxed and friendly.

      The lines of loyalty in the Porter house had been clearly drawn since Charlotte had died. His older sister had held them together as a family, but they were on different sides now—Malcolm and Henry against Edward and his mother. Even though Edward was younger, he wasn’t afraid of his brother. Malcolm may be stronger and taller, but Edward was far more clever. He would do what it took to protect his mother, even if that meant destroying Malcolm in the process.

      CHAPTER THREE

      ROSE SAT AT THE WINDOW in her room above the coach house, sunlight spilling onto her lap and illuminating the mending that rested there. She rubbed her eyes, trying to wipe away the fatigue that seemed to descend upon her in the early afternoon.

      Though it had been three years since she’d been rescued from the streets by Geneva Porter, her health hadn’t fully returned. Her lungs were often congested and her eyesight had begun to falter. Though she was strong enough to work, she was left with far too little energy to raise a rambunctious daughter. She tipped her head back and closed her eyes, remembering the first months of her stay at Porter Hall.

      It hadn’t taken long to understand the strange dynamics of the Porter family. Geneva’s “illness” wasn’t an illness at all, but a chronic melancholy that seemed to grip her without warning. She’d visited countless doctors and taken just as many remedies, but the only thing that drew her out of her depression was Mary Grace.

      The little girl, now six years old, had became a balm to Geneva’s spirit and whenever she felt her mood darkening, she’d come to the carriage house to fetch Mary Grace and spend the afternoon in the garden, watching her chase butterflies and pick flowers.

      In the beginning, Rose hadn’t minded. She believed a strong bond between the two would only help her position in the household. But it had also caused some jealousies with the other, more senior, staff members. Geneva’s maid, Ruth, had distrusted Rose from the start and jumped on any opportunity to drive a wedge between Rose and the mistress of the house. Cook was chilly and aloof, perturbed that she was expected to deliver meals to the carriage house for Rose and Mary Grace, while the rest of the staff took their meals in the kitchen. And their quarters had been decorated with many little luxuries from the attic, so different from the cold and sterile servants’ rooms on the third floor of the manor house.

      But Rose wasn’t going to feel guilty for her position with Geneva Porter. If Geneva’s affection for Mary Grace would keep them warm and well-fed, then who was she to deny her mistress anything? Or her daughter? She glanced over to the corner and watched as Mary Grace bent over an old wooden box she’d found.

      “What are you doing, my girl?” Rose asked. “What do you have there?”

      Mary Grace picked the box up and carried it over to her mother. She opened the top to reveal a variety of woodcarving tools. “Where did you find these?” Rose asked.

      “In the stables. Under a pile of hay.”

      “Do you know what they are?”

      Mary Grace shook her head. “I’m going to give them to Edward. He’ll know what they are.”

      “They’re