Cover

Dedication

To Katie Patterson, Executive Director of the Richardson Adult Literacy Center, and all the staff and volunteers who work to help adults striving to learn English as a second language.

To Donna Finlay, Karen Gibbs, Alexandra Haughton, Wanda Lankford, Chris Simmie, and Kandy Tobin, who are the amazing committee members for the Buns & Roses Romance Tea for Literacy, which benefits RALC, and to those who served on the committee in the past.

To the many authors who have generously hosted a table at the annual tea.

And to the wonderful readers who attend and share their joy of reading while making a difference in the lives of so many.

Each year when I attend the event, I feel as though I’ve come home.

Prologue

London

1854

The pain came swift and hard.

Ettie Trewlove gasped, pressed a hand to her swollen belly, and dropped the ladle filled with soup. It hit the scarred oak table, splattering her eldest as he held his bowl out toward her. It wasn’t the first contraction to hit her. They’d been coming all day, but this one was definitely the sharpest, and she felt the wetness rolling down her legs. “Mick, go fetch Mrs. Winters. Quickly now.”

The lad who’d been delivered to her in the dead of night fourteen years earlier didn’t hesitate to dash out the door to search for the midwife. Her other darlings—three boys and a girl—stared at her with large eyes as round as saucers. She gave them a reassuring smile. “You’re going to have to fill your own bowls. Have your dinner in the garden. Stay there until I come for you.”

Slowly she made her way to her small bedchamber. As she began unbuttoning her bodice, she became aware of the quiet footsteps. Glancing over her shoulder, she beamed encouragingly at her daughter. “Off with you now, Gillie. Do as you were told.”

“I’m stayin’.” Her lips pressed in a mulish expression, she marched over to the wardrobe. It had been nearly thirteen years since, wrapped only in a blanket, she’d been left in a wicker basket on Ettie’s stoop. But then all of her children had been brought to her door, one way or another. Gillie took out a nightdress and held it toward her.

Ettie sighed with resignation because her daughter was the most stubborn of the lot. “Until Mrs. Winters gets here.”

By the time Mick returned, breathless and flushed, she was in her nightdress, tucked into bed, having suffered through two more contractions without screaming, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to hold her tongue.

“She’s off deliverin’ another babe,” Mick announced with such solemnity he might as well have pronounced the midwife dead.

“Well, then.” Ettie tossed back the covers. “I’d best boil some water.”

“We’ll do it.” The stoic set of Gillie’s mouth didn’t hide the fear in her eyes.