Alice’s gaze dropped to the woman’s navy tweed suit and the Union Jack brooch fixed to its lapel near the collar of her lilac blouse. Her graying hair curled at the front and fell longer at the back. There was an idiosyncrasy to her manner, and Alice knew that anyone who did what she did must have remarkable inner strength to deal with many unconventional people and might not judge her harshly.

A lump had lodged in her throat, and she struggled to reply. “I’m not entirely sure why.” She hesitated, her mind going to an uncomfortable place. “I think she loves her God more than me . . . more than us.”

It looked as if Miss Swift was about to say something, but she must have changed her mind since she simply pressed her lips together and blinked slowly.

“We’d agreed to pretend it was my cousin’s baby and raise it together.” Alice swallowed. “She made the arrangements, but she didn’t follow through with them.”

“And when did all this happen?”

“Eadie was born a week ago, and taken six days ago.”

The older woman looked at her worriedly. “Have you seen a doctor?”

“I’m fine, Miss Swift. I just need to find Eadie.” Alice wasn’t fine; her tear was bleeding badly, despite the baths Penny had insisted she take. Her breasts were engorged and she had a mild fever, and while she knew her despair and sleeplessness were partly caused by anxiety, her friend had told her it was the baby blues and perfectly normal to be tearful and overemotional after giving birth. She’d been learning all the things she had expected her mother to share.

Miss Swift regarded her carefully, then took her by the hand. “Come and sit down. And call me Joanna, please.” She led Alice to a small sofa in the center of the modest office, the furniture far less ornate here and altogether more functional. Alice bit her lip, trying not to cry, and concentrated on the reading material that lay on the coffee table in front of her. There was a pile of academic texts and a large encyclopedia, and there were also popular magazines and journals with editions of Illustrated London and The Spectator recognizable by their spines. Alice considered how well versed Joanna Swift must be in understanding human nature—and what atrocities and acts of kindness she must have seen.

“I wish I could help you, Alice, but I have no idea what happens to the couples we don’t accept as adoptive parents, although I can assure you that we do know the origin of every baby that comes to us. However, the Adopted Children’s Register might help. The entry won’t contain any information about the birth, though, only about the adoption.”

“How can I find it?”

“It’s held by the General Register Office, not by local Register Offices.”