The moment froze in time. The two women staring at each other, years of things Sam didn’t understand moving between them. The look on the older woman’s face: surprise, disgust, anger, and, underlying all of it, fear. He thought of his own mother, warm and loving and brilliant and funny, and his stomach soured. Today was a day for knowing things he’d been too lucky to know of before.

It was probably less than a second before the woman moved, gesturing a maid towards her. She spoke briefly into the girl’s ear and, without looking at her daughter again, followed her husband into the waiting carriage.

Alva let out a rush of breath as the maid walked towards them. Sam frowned, staring at the carriage, which had yet to move. Were they not going to greet their own daughter?

The maid was young, probably only sixteen. She was red-faced with embarrassment, her blond hair tucked neatly away.

“Here we go,” Alva whispered, but there was no outward emotion on her face.

“Mrs. Webster,” the girl began when she reached them, her words coming out flat and separate, like she wanted them as far away from herself as possible. “Mrs. Rensselaer wishes me to remind you that she has no interest in seeing you and your repeated attempts to contact her only embarrass yourself and her.”

Sam’s jaw dropped.

“I wasn’t…” Alva paused and took a breath. “It doesn’t matter. Tell Mrs. Rensselaer I won’t embarrass her in this way again.”

The maid curtsied and turned to leave.

“Now wait just a minute,” Sam said, his simmering anger bursting to a boil. “That woman is your mother, right?”

Alva nodded curtly.

“Like hell she’s going to talk to you this way,” he said, and started towards the carriage.

“Sam!” Alva hurried after him, yanking on his arm. The maid stood stock still, with her mouth open. “Sam, no.”

“You, embarrass her? No. It’s enough.” He pulled on his arm to free it, but she clung on stubbornly.

“Sam, you’ll make it worse,” she said, a pleading note in her voice that brought a sick, nauseous edge to his fury. “It is how it is. I’m sorry you had to see it, but please don’t involve yourself.”

“Alva,” he said, turning fully to face her. “It’s already worse. She has no right to say that to you—to anyone, but especially not to you.” He wanted to say because she was the woman’s flesh and blood, but it was so much more. No one had a right to treat the woman he loved this way, and they had. But he was damned if he was going to sit by and let them continue.

“It won’t make any difference,” she said. “You can’t … you can’t yell her into loving me, Sam. I wish you could, but you can’t.”