“You remember these words, Eve,” Grandma would say, pointing to the picture. “You may not have a father here on earth, but you have a heavenly Father. And the Lord will always be your faithful shepherd.” Eve wrapped the framed picture in one of Granny’s afghans to take with her to Wellingford Hall.
She awoke in her bed in the cottage the next morning for the very last time. Outside, the gray clouds hung so low Eve could almost touch them, as if they offered misty tears in sympathy. She closed the cottage door with a silent goodbye, and she and Mum started up the long road to Wellingford Hall carrying everything they owned.
Just as the great manor house came into sight, they were halted by a flock of sheep, blocking the way as they straggled across the road and through the pasture gate. The shepherd greeted them with a tip of his hat.
Eve knew then that the Good Shepherd would watch over her in her new home.
WELLINGFORD HALL, 1932
Eve knew how to disappear. In the nine months that she’d been a scullery maid at Wellingford Hall, she’d become an expert at climbing through a window or slipping outdoors unnoticed to escape for a few minutes, then reappearing where she was supposed to be as if she’d never left. As long as she worked hard and got everything done, no one took much notice of her disappearances. Today she peered through the grimy scullery window at the green world beyond, and the warm spring sunshine and blue sky beckoned to her through the wavy glass. She hurried to finish scrubbing Cook’s best copper pot with washing sand and dried it to a gleaming shine, then climbed up on the scrub table so she could squeeze through the tiny window and escape. It was a tight fit. Eve had grown taller during the past few months and her shoulders were broader. She wouldn’t be able to squeeze through the opening much longer, but for now, she was free.
Her eyes watered in the bright sunshine after working in the dismal cellar. She waited for them to adjust, listening for the sound of George’s trimmers snapping and clipping. Eve found him pruning a row of boxwood in the formal gardens. She loved the beautiful world of bright flowers and green bushes that George had created, divided into neat geometric shapes by gravel walkways. Water burbled from the fountain. Marble statues and benches lay tucked behind bushes, waiting to be found. Eve could no longer roam through the woods, but exploring Wellingford’s formal gardens was the next best thing.
George stopped snipping and pulled a rag from his back pocket to wipe sweat from his brow. “How’s my favorite lass?” he asked. “The world treating you okay today?”
“It’s treating me just fine, George.” Gravel crunched beneath her shoes as she bounded over to hug him. With his slender, compact frame and round, bristly face, brown from the sun, George reminded her of a whiskery otter she’d once seen in one of Mr. Clarkson’s nature books. George walked to church on Sunday with Eve and Mum and sat in one of the pews with them. Eve didn’t have a grandfather, but she imagined that if she did, he would be just like George. “I wish I could work outside with you all day instead of inside,” she said.
“I wish you could, too, lass. You’re a sight prettier than those oafish lads from the village who work for me.” He stuffed the rag into his pocket and leaned toward her, lowering his voice as if telling a secret. “Can you spare a minute, Eve? I’ve got something special for you.” He took her hand as they wove through the manicured flower beds toward the kitchen garden near the stables, now converted into garages for Mr. Clarkson’s automobiles. George halted beside a sunny garden patch. “The first strawberries are ripe—see them in there? Go ahead and pick yourself a few.”
“Strawberries!” Eve dropped to her knees and plucked a deep-red one from the vine, then popped it into her mouth. She closed her eyes as she savored the juicy sweetness.
“Take as many as you want, lass. Just don’t tell anybody, especially Tildy.” He gave her a wink. Mum said George and Tildy, the cook, were sweet on each other, but Eve couldn’t imagine two people as old as them falling in love.
She ate a few more berries, then filled her apron pockets with them. George helped her up. “Thanks, George. I’ll eat the rest by the kitchen window in case Mrs. Smith yells for me.”
“You’re very welcome, darling.”
George had known her daddy before the war, and Eve loved to ask about him. “He was a fine young man, your father,” he’d told her. “Pity you never knew him. That war was . . .” He shook his head as if unable to find the words. “Such a waste. . . . Such a hellish waste of life. You never saw a young man more smitten than your father. Flirted shamelessly with Ellen. I think he used to let his sheep out of the pen on purpose so they would wander down here, and he’d have an excuse to see her. Of course, your mum was a beauty. Still is. You take after her, lass.”