Ivy looked away from Joel’s tortured expression. She knew being orphaned hadn’t been something he talked about much as a boy, but at times he revealed his questions of who his own mother had been, if she had cried for him or merely passed him along with indifference. He had come into his own and found his place in his faith and himself. But Ivy could tell that Gabriella’s ache resonated with Joel. More than theories and pieces of evidence, Gabriella was a human being who had experienced the kind of torment no one ever should. Her infant needed rescuing, something no one had ever done for Joel.
“We need to visit the orphanage. I need to go deeper, not just accept what Mr. Casey says at face value.” Joel flicked the reins against the horse’s back. In an impulsive gesture, he reached for Ivy as he threaded the reins through the fingers of his left hand. Her fingers interlaced with his, and Ivy swallowed hard at her concession. She was accustomed to pulling away from him, but she knew, in spite of their own adversity, he needed that connection. In this moment, whatever held them at odds was overshadowed by Gabriella’s circumstances and Joel’s own pain. No woman should have to endure such terrifying conditions, and then to bear a child? For that child’s life to be cut short or to be abandoned? From the moment she’d read Gabriella’s writings about her babe, Ivy knew Joel imagined himself as that child. Orphaned. Alone. Maybe even left for dead. He understood the babe’s circumstances. He had been alone for far too long.
She’d let him hold her hand. Ivy sat in the wing chair across from the orphanage director’s desk, but her eyes were on her left hand. Bare skin. Her fingers had intertwined with Joel’s like when they were children and she was racing ahead of him on the path and dragging him along behind. He’d often teased her that her feet had wings and she flew without thinking. She always told him thinking was too painful and one day he would learn to fly ahead of her.
Joel shifted in his own seat as Mr. Casey entered his office. The director’s walrus mustache bounced as he wrinkled his nose a few times. Perturbed or an itch? Ivy wasn’t sure, but he did narrow his eyes when he saw her. Perhaps it would have been better for her to wait in the carriage or even the sitting room. She had no desire to sabotage Joel’s inquiry.
“Miss Thorpe. Joel.” Mr. Casey eased onto his desk chair and tipped his head.
“Detective Cunningham.”
Ivy didn’t miss the inflection in Joel’s voice as he corrected his old guardian.
Mr. Casey cleared his throat. “What brings you both here? Again.”
Joel shifted in his chair. “I have more questions about the infant that was left here at the orphanage.”
The director’s face remained placid. He folded his hands on the desktop, a tarnished silver ring on his middle finger. “Very well.”
“You stated its mother was the one to leave it here?”
Ivy glanced between Joel and Mr. Casey. They eyed each other with distrust, or maybe dislike. She wasn’t certain. Either way, an invisible thread of discord stretched between them.
“She was.” Mr. Casey tapped his index fingers together. “I’ve already discussed this with both of you at separate times. I am not certain what more you think I can provide. This is not connected to the recent murder or to Miss Thorpe’s fascination with the victim.”
Ivy bit her tongue and adjusted her attention to pull at a thread on the cuff of her sleeve, grime on its cuff from rifling through Foster Hill House looking for remnants and clues.
Joel moved to the edge of his seat, his hair wavier than usual due to the moisture in the air. Ivy fought a smile. It gave him an especially rakish and impressive profile.
“The mother’s name. I would like it please.”
The addition of the word please was merely a formality. Ivy could easily read the demand disguised by the cool courtesy in Joel’s tone of voice. The glower of Mr. Casey’s expression indicated he heard it as well.
The director leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath his weight. He ran his hands down his coat lapels, worn at the seams. “As I told you on your last visit, I’m afraid I don’t have a name, Detective. But even if I did, that isn’t something I would merely hand over to you. We do attempt to protect the anonymity of parentage here at Oakwood’s Home for Orphans and Waifs.”
“Of course you do.” Joel’s knee bounced now, evidence of growing impatience. Ivy resisted the urge to reach out and rest her hand on it.
Mr. Casey raised a bushy eyebrow. “What are you implying?”
“I would like to see my own records.” Joel’s knee bounced faster.
“Your own?” Mr. Casey unfolded his hands with such a flourish it caused papers to fly to the floor. “Why ever would you want to see those?”
“My own history. My parentage. I’m certain you require more than the mere disposal of a child here at your premises.”
“No, we do not. Most parents who leave a child with us have no care for them, or perhaps do not have the wherewithal to provide for them. Sometimes they prefer anonymity.” Mr. Casey bent and retrieved the papers from the floor. “Whatever the circumstances, your implications are insulting. We have never hidden anything from you since the day you arrived here.”
“As a toddler,” Joel stated.
Ivy couldn’t resist any longer. Her hand landed softly on his knee. Joel stiffened and stared at it before raising his gaze to meet hers.
This isn’t about you, Joel. She hoped her thoughts communicated through her look. He blinked and drew in a deep breath.
“Mr. Casey, every child should have an opportunity to know their lineage. If the baby left here was not left by its own mother, then there are further pieces that must be investigated. I, of all people, know what it is like to travel through life with no evidence to support who I am. Is my last name even truly my own or did you simply make one up for me?”
Oh goodness. Ivy had never contemplated such a thing. The idea that Joel Cunningham wasn’t his given name stunned her, bringing with it an understanding of why he was so insistent on having proof instead of assumption. His life was based on theory. It must be a miserable thing to bear.
Mr. Casey cleared his throat. Then he cleared it once more, louder. He launched into the answers Joel was digging for while giving them a cold look. “The girl left with us was less than two weeks old. As for the woman who left her here, I truly have no evidence if she was the mother, outside of the fact that she claimed to be. She left no name. I did not require one. Her only message was that the girl was to remain anonymous. Only her given first name was offered.”
“Which is?”
Joel’s hand slid over Ivy’s where it still rested on his knee.
Mr. Casey glanced between them. “Hallie.”
Hallie. Gabriella’s daughter’s name was Hallie. Assuming it was her baby, and if so, how would they prove it?
“Did the woman who left Hallie here give you any indication of where she was headed?” Joel voiced the question that bounced in Ivy’s mind.
The director sniffed and swiped at his nose with a handkerchief he’d pulled from his vest pocket. He crumpled it and stuffed it back in the pocket as he gave an agitated shake of his head. “No. No, she did not. But I suppose next you would like a description of her? I already gave it to Miss Thorpe. Brunette. Brown eyes. Shorter than Miss Thorpe, and round. Homely, really.”