“You’re Thia,” I say, smiling. “Anson’s sister. Your brother told me all about you. How you like to paint and play the guitar.”
She inches forward, shy but curious. She’s eleven or twelve, but tall for her age and a little awkward, with large front teeth and a liberal dusting of freckles. Her lumpy sweater and ill-fitting skirt make her look shapeless and plain, but beneath the dowdy layers there is a beauty waiting to bloom.
“Are you really French?” she whispers with a kind of awe. “Daddy said you were. He calls you Anson’s little French seamstress. What’s a seamstress?”
I register the slight but choose to ignore it. Instead, I focus on Thia, the way she tilts her head as she studies me. She’s Anson to a T, and I suddenly long to wrap my arms around her. “A seamstress is a woman who makes dresses,” I explain. “And yes, I’m from Paris.”
The corners of her mouth turn down. “They have the war there.”
It seems an odd way to put it, though perhaps not to a child. America is sending its men to fight, but they have been spared the horrors of occupation and bombs. “Yes,” I answer quietly. “They do.”
She sits beside me, hands pressed between her knees. “Anson’s there. He drives sick people around.”
I smile, charmed by her innocence. “Yes, he does. And he’s very good at it.”
“Did he drive you around? Is that how he met you?”
“No. We met at the hospital where we both worked. I was sick on my first day, and he helped me.”
She grins, wrinkling her nose. “Anson’s always helping people. He’s nice.”
“I think he’s nice too.”
“Please don’t tell my father I spied on you. He wouldn’t like it. I was only supposed to knock and then bring you down to lunch, but I was hoping we could be friends.”
I can feel my heart melting as I look at her face, shy yet hopeful. “Of course we can be friends. And you can come see me anytime. Is your room next to mine?”
“No.” She stretches out an arm, pointing to the opposite end of the hall. “The family rooms are at the other end of the gallery. Mine’s the first one on the right side, and Anson’s is across the hall. Mummy and Daddy’s room is way down at the end, but it’s only Daddy’s room now.”
“Who lives at this end?”
“Oh, no one lives here. It’s just where we put guests. Auntie Diane stayed in here when she came for Mummy’s funeral. She’s Mummy’s sister, but Daddy says she’s not really our family.”
I nod, understanding. To Owen Purcell, family means blood. Sisters-in-law don’t count. Neither do French fiancées.
“We’d better go down,” Thia says. “Daddy doesn’t like it when people are late.”
Thia waits while I wash my face and attempt to pat my hair into place. My reflection startles me. I’m so very pale, the bones in my face sharp after weeks of meager meals and little sleep. I run a hand over my clothes. My skirt and blouse are shabby and horribly wrinkled after too many wearings, but I have nothing better to put on and no money to buy new.
I step out of the bathroom to find Thia at the bureau, running a tentative hand over the lid of my box. For a moment, I feel a frisson of panic, a territorial instinct.
Thia snatches her hand away, but an instant later her gaze returns to the bureau. She points shyly. “What’s in there?”
I grin at her with a conspiratorial wink. “All my secrets. Let’s go down, shall we?”
Downstairs, in the dining room, Owen is already seated at a long linen-clad table laid for three. He glances up as Thia and I enter, his lips thinning as he takes me in. “I thought you might have changed,” he says coolly. “Were you able to rest?”
“Yes. Thank you. I’m feeling much better. Thia tapped on my door to let me know it was time to come down.”
Thia beams her gratitude as we take our seats, but Mr. Purcell continues to scowl. “Her name is Cynthia,” he says stiffly. “After my mother. We prefer not to encourage diminutives.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize . . . It’s how Anson always referred to her.”
“Yes, well, my son has always indulged her. I suspect it’s to do with the difference in their ages. Cynthia, your napkin.”
Thia suppresses a scowl as she drags her napkin into her lap. I follow her example, wondering if his reproach was actually meant for me.
Seconds tick by without conversation. I run my eyes around the dining room, avoiding Owen’s gaze. It’s a beautiful room, everything white and gold and sparkling clean, and suddenly I feel conspicuous, like a dusty smudge amid all the loveliness.