Page 105 of The Summer Country

“Not often,” admitted George. “All right. I’ll be back presently.”

“Thank you,” said Emily, with real feeling. She waited until he’d picked his way back along the trail before turning back to Old Betty. She flicked the catch on the locket, feeling the two sides release. It was rather an awkward position, but she didn’t want to remove it from her neck, so instead she leaned forward, holding out the locket on its ribbon as far as it would go. “Is this the child?”

“Gih muh dah day.” Old Betty reached out and took the locket, angling it toward her faded eyes. She turned it this way and that, forcing Emily to crick her neck at a decidedly uncomfortable angle.

“This child is older, I know,” said Emily breathlessly, trying not to breathe into the woman’s face. “She would have been three or four here. I know babies don’t look much like anyone yet, but . . .”

“I in know.” Old Betty released the locket. “Mi’ be.”

George came back, directing Jonah, who was laden with comestibles and looking distinctly discomfited at being forced to deliver packages to a Redleg. Emily hastily stuffed the locket back into the collar of her dress.

George cleared his throat, directing Jonah to hand the basket to Old Betty. “For your troubles,” he said. He held out a coin. “For your troubles as well.”

When she took it and bit it, he looked pointedly at Emily.

“Thank you,” said Emily, feeling subdued. There was so much she wanted to ask, but she knew she wouldn’t understand the answer and didn’t want to draw George into it. As an afterthought, she added, “Do you know where my grandfather took the child?”

In the stream of words that followed, only one was clear. Peverills.

“She says, where else would he take her but Peverills?”

“Yes, I got that, rather. Thank you,” she said again, and they followed a rapidly retreating Jonah to the horses as, behind them, Old Betty began to explore the bounty of the basket. “I hope that wasn’t the whole of your lunch.”

George smiled down at her looking a bit strained. “No, there’s plenty. Shall we have that picnic? There’s a lovely spot not far from here.”

“Yes, let’s.” She wasn’t terribly hungry, but eating was something one did. She allowed George to help her up onto her mount, not really noticing where they were going, other than that it was steep, and the terrain seemed to require all of her companion’s attention, for which she was grateful.

She had assumed that her mother must be the child of her grandmother’s first husband. But no one had said anything to make her believe such a child existed. Mrs. Poole had believed them childless.

And here, here was another child. Her grandfather’s child.

It was a family commonplace that her mother had been Grandfather’s favorite, Uncle Archie her grandmother’s. But what if it was more than a question of temperament? What if her mother wasn’t her grandmother’s child?

Would her grandmother have taken in another woman’s baby? The answer was immediate and unequivocal. Yes. Not merely because her grandfather had asked her to, but because her stern Calvinist conscience would accommodate nothing less. But that didn’t mean she had to like it.

Emily remembered the tension between her mother and grandmother. Young as she was, Emily had been old enough to mark the discord between them. But she had always taken their arguments at face value. Her grandmother had disapproved of her mother’s passionate pursuit of causes, adjuring her to be more circumspect; her mother had retorted that her grandmother ought to do more to serve her Lord than sing his praise. Ungoverned, said the one; hypocritical, said the other.

But there had been affection in it too, hadn’t there?

They had looked alike. Everyone said so. Or was it only her grandfather who said so?

“Mind how you go there.” George took her bridle. Clearing his throat, he added, “It wasn’t uncommon, you know.”

“What?” She had no idea what George was on about. “Did you say something?”

“Your grandfather—many men back then had, well, outside children.” Emily looked at him in surprise, nearly causing her horse to stumble. “You shouldn’t be ashamed of him. It was really quite common.”

“And does that make it right, that it was common?” Emily was too distracted to be tactful.

“You know what they say, autres temps, autres moeurs.” When Emily only stared at him, George added hastily, “My grandmother’s never said, but I gather my grandfather kept a colored woman and her children in Bridgetown. They even call themselves Davenant.”

He made it sound like a vast social faux pas. “It seems to me they’ve a right to the name, don’t you think? They’re your cousins.”

“Not really. These other families, they, well.” George looked up with relief as they reached the end of the steep and winding path, the vista opening up before them to reveal a broad beach, edged with scrub and studded with crags. “Ah, here we are. They call this Bathsheba’s pool, from the Bible, you know. The story has it that Bathsheba bathed in milk to keep her skin fair. When you look at these waters, you can almost believe they’re milk, can’t you?”

Emily was still feeling prickly and unsettled, but it was easier to let him change the subject than pick a fight on a subject on which they were clearly not going to come to an accord. She let Jonah take the bridle and slid down from the horse onto the rough grasses at the verge of the beach. Pebbles prickled through the soles of her boots. “Do you think it will do anything for my cousin’s freckles? My aunt used to blister his nose with lemon juice.”

“People do bathe here,” said George, taking her pleasantry for a genuine inquiry. “But I’m not sure I would advise it. It’s rather rocky.”