“See, you are a clever girl,” Hope said, watery-eyed and smiling. She leaned over the bed and brushed her finger ever so gently across her great-niece’s cheek. “What are you going to call her, pet?”

Alice looked at her aunt intently. “Eadie, after Granny.”

Hope gave her a meaningful smile—it had been her mother’s name—then she began to cry, setting Alice off too.

“Your father would have been pleased,” Hope said.

Eadie meant “rich in war,” and Alice was determined that only good should come from her daughter’s arrival in the world.

“Well done, Mrs. Cotton,” the doctor said. “You can write to tell the father that she’s arrived and that you are both doing well, with nothing at all to worry about.”

Alice’s lips tightened, but they wouldn’t form a smile. She would never share the truth of how Rupert had deceived her with anyone, especially Eadie.

Gently grasping her daughter’s tiny curled hand, Alice kissed the crown of her head. Her beautiful dark-eyed girl blinked once or twice before she fell asleep.

Eight

Brighton, March 18, 1943

When Alice woke a few days following the birth, the guesthouse was quiet. After a couple of tries she managed to get to her feet and shuffle over to the white wicker crib. With eyes alight in anticipation she leaned forward, ready to see her baby.

But the cot was empty. Her breath caught; she closed her eyes, then opened them, but there was still only the bare wrinkled sheet.

She reached out, expecting warmth but felt only smooth, cold cotton, and she snatched her hand away.

Her eyes darted about the room, searching, as she remembered the birth. How her mother hadn’t arrived in time and her aunt had taken charge. Alice smiled in relief as she realized it was clear that Hope had taken Eadie downstairs—then she picked up her daughter’s blanket and found the handwritten note.

I’m sorry, Alice, but this really is for the best.

She sat on the edge of the bed, frozen. Obviously her mother had taken Eadie, but her brain kept seeking another explanation. Perhaps Ruth was downstairs, or the note meant something else. Alice kept the blanket pressed to her face as she thought through scenarios, but they all seemed too implausible.

Her memory of the day after the birth was muddled, but she had a vague recollection of voices when the nurse had shown her how to feed Eadie and finally given her something for the pain. It must have worn off a little, and that was when her mother had arrived. Yes, Alice remembered seeing her now, watching Ruth hold Eadie . . . before falling into an exhausted sleep.

The sickening bile of panic rose in Alice’s throat. Her mother must have had another breakdown. The birth of an illegitimate grandchild, not long after the losses of her husband and son, had been too much for someone so religious and principled.