Joel winced, the corners of his eyes squinting with hurt. “I know.”
“But you didn’t have a choice.” Resignation laced her voice. Ivy saw surprise flicker in his eyes. He didn’t say anything, but his fingers gripped hers tighter. “I blamed you. I said it was your fault. I didn’t realize Mr. Casey was sending you away, that you were being shipped off to fend for yourself in Chicago. I didn’t know you’d tried to come to me, I just—assumed. I jumped to conclusions that you let Andrew die and that you were just selfish, that you didn’t care about us.”
About me.
“I’m so sorry.” Ivy leaned into Joel’s chest, her forehead against his shirtfront, the spicy smell of him warming her senses.
The ache—it never went away. No matter how much she’d hated Joel. No matter the silence, and even if his letter seeking reconciliation was lost, Ivy had buried herself with Andrew that night. She had ceased to live.
“Why did you write only one letter? Why not more? Hundreds of them, until I answered you?”
Joel sniffed and, even as his hands rose to cup her arms, looked beyond her to Andrew’s grave. “One letter with no answers? I couldn’t abide not hearing back from you. Wondering—no—knowing you hated me. The silence was your answer.”
“But I never received it,” Ivy argued.
Joel shrugged. “How was I to know that?”
“Why did you come home?” Ivy spoke into his chest, but Joel’s hand came up and brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. She looked up at him. “Besides needing resolution for yourself, why did you come home, really?”
“For you, Ivy. I came home for you.”
Chapter 32
Ivy sat opposite the Widow Bairns, balancing a teacup in her hands. The parlor was stifling hot, with the fire in the fireplace blazing to warm the spring chill from the older woman’s bones. Her father had wanted her to deliver the latest round of medicines to the widow’s home, but after her interlude with Joel at the cemetery, Ivy wanted only to escape to her room. She needed her journal, she needed to revisit the night of Andrew’s burial and to reconcile the anger she had harbored for so many years. But first, the Widow Bairns needed her medications. She hadn’t anticipated the elderly woman to be chatty and desiring company. She had Maggie, didn’t she? Her great-niece?
Ivy managed a wobbly smile as she lifted the teacup and sipped.
“. . . And so that’s what I did with that flower patch.” The widow smiled, her wrinkles deepening. Ivy had drifted away in her thoughts. Apparently, they were discussing gardens. She nodded.
“Mm-hmm.” Ivy tried to sound interested.
Widow Bairns raised her eyebrows. “More tea?”
Ivy glanced into her cup. It was almost full. “No, no. I’m fine, thank you. I must be on my way shortly.”
Widow Bairns snapped her fingers at Maggie, who sat unobtrusively in a corner chair. Maggie leaped to her feet.
“More tea for Miss Thorpe,” the widow demanded, not unkindly but with significant importance.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ma’am? Ivy squelched a frown. The relationship between great-aunt and niece seemed odd. Formal. Too formal. More of a servant and mistress than old family.
Maggie lifted the teapot from its place on the table. Ivy offered her cup out of politeness. Reaching forward, Maggie began to fill the cup. Her sleeves stretched up her arms, revealing her wrists.
Ivy frowned. “Maggie, what happened?”
Bruises around Maggie’s wrists were faded and so pale, Ivy almost didn’t see them. Maggie set the teapot on the table and yanked down on her sleeves. “N-nothing, miss. I—”
Ivy didn’t miss the look she exchanged with the widow.
“She slipped and took a tumble a few weeks ago,” Widow Bairns interjected.
“I see.” Ivy sipped her tea out of pretense now, suspicion taking over. The markings were similar—no—identical to Gabriella’s. As if Maggie had been bound. No fall would result in bruising such as that. “My father would be willing to help, if you’re still in pain.”
“No, I’m quite well, thank you.” Maggie’s hands shook as she clasped them behind her back.
Ivy met Widow Bairns’s eyes. For an old woman, they were sharp and knowing. She narrowed them. Protective. The widow was protecting Maggie from something—or someone.
Another sip, another exchanged look with the widow and Ivy changed the topic strategically. “So, how do you enjoy living here in Oakwood with your aunt?”
Maggie plopped back onto her corner chair and twisted her hands in her apron. “It’s very nice.” There was a question in her eyes. They’d had a similar conversation before, Ivy knew, and repeating the former, rather introductory, questions was redundant. But she needed to watch Maggie’s reactions this time.
“And you came from . . . ?”
“Milwaukee.”
“Madison.”
Both Maggie and Widow Bairns spoke at the same time. Ivy raised an eyebrow at the contradiction. Maggie ducked her head, and the older woman pursed her lips.
“Maggie hails from Milwaukee but came by way of the Madison train station.”
“I see.” Ivy was suddenly thankful for her tea and the distraction of sipping it. That made absolutely no sense. The train didn’t route through Madison to get to Oakwood. “How long are you staying, Maggie?”
This time Maggie didn’t respond. Widow Bairns set her teacup on its saucer with a nervous clatter. “As long as she needs.”
Ivy glanced between the two women. As long as she needs? She frowned, then quickly softened her expression into something less direct. Staying with Widow Bairns or hiding at Widow Bairns’s? Ivy recounted the clues and ties to Foster Hill House. She remembered Mr. Casey’s description of the woman who had left baby Hallie at the orphanage, claiming parentage. There was no doubt Maggie fit the description, however generic and vague it was.
Another sip.
Silence.
The widow sniffed into her handkerchief.
Maggie played with her apron strings.
Ivy knew. Maggie had left the baby at the orphanage. Baby Hallie had to be Gabriella’s, which meant . . . Ivy met Maggie’s eyes once more, and this time the truth radiated from them whether Maggie wished it to or not. Maggie knew who Gabriella was, as well as the terrible secret Foster Hill House harbored.
She wanted to launch into a thousand questions, but she knew in an instant that Maggie would flee, taking the answers with her. No. It was best to leave it to Joel and Sheriff Dunst and feign a lack of interest. They would need to question Maggie, to find out what had happened and why Maggie had chosen to stay in Oakwood with Widow Bairns. Until then . . .
Ivy sipped her tea, now almost gone. “It’s delightful that you’re here, Maggie.” She mustered a warm, inviting smile intended to put the two women at ease. “Nothing is more wonderful than being surrounded by family.”
Maggie returned Ivy’s smile with hesitancy, and the widow’s shoulders relaxed under the crocheted shawl.
There was one more stop Ivy must make before she returned to her home to revisit her own tumultuous emotions. She must find Joel again, but for entirely different reasons than reconciliation.