Constance experienced the sensation of her heart breaking and mending in the same moment. You’re my mother, aren’t you? Of all the words to come from Ivy’s mouth, Constance would never have anticipated that question. Never have expected her daughter’s forthright curiosity to solve so many riddles and puzzles with simple honesty. Never have expected that Etta and James Wilson could have been so generous with the truth.

“I cried when I parted from you,” Constance said, “cried for days, until I learned how to keep the crying on the inside, though I knew your Mama Etta and your Papa James would love you dearly. She cried the day you were laid in her arms.” That memory became less painful with the telling, less bitter.

“Was my first papa a rotter?”

What an extraordinary, wonderful person Ivy was. What wonderful people Etta and James Wilson must have been.

“He was young and spoiled. You have his height and his beautiful hair. He did not survive to know of your birth.”

“Was he a soldier?”

“He was the son of a wealthy York merchant. He died while at university.” More than that, Constance could pass along at another time—she hoped. “Are you happy, Ivy?”

Ivy looked around, then stepped closer. “I am soon to be dragooned away to the Antipodes. Uncle Whitlock has quarreled with his bishop and his archbishop, and nobody in all of England wants him for a vicar or even a curate. The aunties despair of him. I don’t want to go to Australia, but Uncle sends me to my room to memorize Bible verses if I argue with him. I’m through the Gospels already.”

Such a mild punishment was a relief to Constance. “I don’t want to see you go so far away.”

“Mama Etta said you’d find me. She had a daughter when she was young, but the baby died, or so she was told. My aunties are scandalized that I know of such things, but they are easily scandalized, except for Aunt Flora. She says mendacity has no place in a child’s upbringing. Are you happy, Mama?”

Mama. She called me Mama.

And what a question. What a dear, insightful, fraught question. “I have found the man with whom I’d like to spend the rest of my life, and that is a significant, precious joy. I have been searching for you, though, for much of the last decade, and right now, I am the happiest woman on earth. When I think of you being forced to emigrate, much of that happiness fades.”

Ivy regarded her, the girl’s expression puzzled. “You talk like a lawyer. Everything has a but. You are happy, but. You have found a good fellow, but. I am only happy to meet you, purely, entirely happy. Uncle Whitlock said you’d never come, and he was wrong. He’s wrong a lot, but one doesn’t tell him that.”