Thirty-one
AT first Emmy refused to believe that her mother and Henry Thorne had been together in that hotel. That was impossible. If that was true, then it was also true that on the night Emmy was conceived, he hadn’t been some passing teenage acquaintance that Mum had slept with after having had too many drinks. He wasn’t a person Mum had long put out of her mind as she had led Emmy to believe.
Mum had had a relationship with him. A continuous one. A secret one. Emmy now thought of Mum in those few minutes before she left Emmy at the flat, the last time Emmy saw her. She was going to Henry Thorne for help. She had said they needed someone with connections. Someone with money to help them find Julia. When Emmy had offered to do whatever Mum was willing to do to get what they needed, Mum had laughed in a sad, funny way because she was going to Henry Thorne for help.
Emmy’s father.
And she didn’t even tell her.
“How—how long did they . . . How long were they . . .” But Emmy couldn’t find the words to phrase so delicate and private a question.
Mr. Bowker gave a mirthless chuckle. “You really don’t know, do you?”
Emmy shook her head.
“On and off since the day you were born. Your mother was a sixteen-year-old maid in your father’s house. He was twice her age and unhappily married. When she ended up pregnant, he put her up in a flat across the river. Paid for the doctor, the hospital. Paid for your nappies and your blankets and your sitters. Found her new jobs when she needed them and got her out of jams when she got herself in them.”
The air in the room felt warm with his indignation.
Or maybe it was just hers.
“Because he had to hide what he’d done to stay out of jail and keep his fortune and reputation?” Emmy said, hotly.
“Because he thought he loved her.”
Emmy was stunned into silence.
Before she could summon words to ask him what he meant by that, the door opened, and an older man in a black suit and cap stepped inside.
“I’m here for Miss Emmeline Downtree,” he said.
Mr. Bowker nodded to the world that waited outside the open door. “Watch your step, Miss Downtree.” And then he pivoted to return to his office.
Emmy walked numbly to the sleek black car waiting curbside. The driver helped her inside, but Emmy would later not remember whether he said anything to her, nor which streets they drove down before he turned into the curved driveway of a stately home that was as large as the entire row of flats in Whitechapel. The gray-stoned mansion was four stories high, trimmed in white. Miniature topiaries lined the walkway to the massive front door.
The driver parked the car and then came around to Emmy’s side to assist her out. He motioned toward the wide steps that led to the entrance. The front door swung open, and a maid in a navy blue dress and white lace apron appeared on the threshold.
“If you will follow me, please,” she said. Emmy took the steps slowly and then entered a marble-tiled foyer. Gilded mirrors and picture frames hung on walls that seemed endless.
The maid showed her into a room that appeared to be a study or library. Books lined the walls. Leather sofas and chairs were set about in cozy groupings. A fire danced in the grate and wherever there weren’t books or leather, there was gleaming mahogany.
Above the fireplace was a portrait of a man who seemed vaguely familiar to her, seated next to a slightly plump woman who stood next to him with her arm around his shoulder. On his other side was a boy, about twelve, with his forearm draped over the back of his father’s chair. The man in the portrait looked like Emmy. Or rather, she looked like him.
Henry Thorne.
Her father.
For several long moments Emmy just stood there and stared at the man who had fathered her. She didn’t hear footfalls from behind. There was just suddenly a voice.
“Miss Downtree.”
Emmy startled, and turned to see the woman in the portrait, older now.
“Yes,” she answered.
“Agnes Thorne. Won’t you sit down?” The woman’s tone was cool, as though her words had been carved of ice.
Emmy took the chair Agnes Thorne offered her, and the woman sat down opposite, smoothing her wool skirt. Her brown hair held tints of gray, but her complexion was flawless, her lips full and red, and the pearls at her neck and ears luminescent. She was not beautiful, but she had a commanding air, a gracefulness born of a lifetime of privilege. Emmy caught a whiff of the woman’s perfume. It smelled like something from another world altogether.
The world of the wealthy.
A tea tray was set between them. Agnes lifted the pot. “Tea?”
“Yes, thank you.”
The woman poured and then handed Emmy a cup without so much as a tremble in her fingers.
“I want it to be clear between us that the check you were given is the end of the road.” She spooned sugar—something Emmy hadn’t seen in months and months—into her cup and stirred. “There will be no more after this.”
“Pardon?”
Agnes laid the spoon carefully on the saucer that held her cup. “Your connection to this family—however small it may be—is done after this. We will not hear from you again. Is that understood?”
Blood rushed to Emmy’s cheeks as humiliation bloomed inside her. She fought to stay in control and not let this woman see her shame. Emmy needed answers. She deserved answers.
“No. It’s not understood, actually. I have a few questions.”
The woman looked up, surprised. And instantly furious. “You are not in a position to ask questions, Miss Downtree. You have my husband’s money. I suggest you take it and leave.”
“Why did it take four and a half years for me to learn that my father is dead?” Emmy asked.
Agnes sniffed, put her cup down, and stood. “I thought we could have a civilized conversation regarding this. But I see now that we cannot. You will not get another shilling from me. Not a one.”
Emmy was not leaving. Not yet. She stayed seated. “I don’t want anything of yours—you can be sure of that. I just want a few answers. Why did it take four and a half years for me to learn that my father is dead?”
The woman sat back down slowly. “It’s wartime. Very hard to locate people. You are no longer living at your last-known address. We couldn’t find you.”
She was being untruthful; Emmy felt sure of it. “You didn’t try to find me, did you?”
Agnes Thorne crossed one leg over the other. “Be careful whom you accuse of lying, Miss Downtree.”
Emmy saw hurt in the woman’s eyes when she said this. And it occurred to Emmy that this woman had been lied to for years. Henry Thorne had carried on his affair with Mum up until the day they both died. And this woman had never known. Emmy felt a strange and instant kinship with Agnes Thorne. Emmy had been lied to as well, about the very same thing.
“I didn’t know who he was,” Emmy said, her heart aching for the two of them in a way that astounded her. “Mum never said a word. I didn’t even know she was still seeing him.”
“Don’t you dare say a word about it,” Agnes said, enunciating the first three words as if they were arrows. “Not a word!”
“But I didn’t! I knew nothing.”
The woman’s chest was heaving as she locked her gaze on Emmy, her eyes wild with anger. “How could you not know? Do you think I am silly enough to believe you didn’t know where your clothes came from? And your food? And the rent for your flat? And every toy you got for Christmas! I’ve seen the hidden ledgers, Miss Downtree. I know exactly how much money he wasted on you and your whore of a mother all those years. He paid for it all. So don’t you tell me you didn’t know!”
Emmy’s mouth was open but no sound came out. She had no words to sling back in retaliation. She felt as though she had been tarred and feathered, right there in that beautiful room with its expensive furnishings.
The whore’s daughter.