I felt a rage inside of me that almost blinded my sight. I dug my nails into the palms of my hands. I wanted to kill him.
‘What in God’s name are you talking about?’ I said in a low voice I hardly recognised as my own.
‘But she was worth more to me alive. A boy would of course have earned more, but as it was, she made a tidy sum.’
He looked up at me and smiled. Laughed at my ignorance. Just as he had when we were children and I, the younger sibling, always slower on the uptake.
‘You had no idea, did you?’ He took a swig of his drink, looking victorious. ‘Good old Paddy kept that secret to himself.’
I grabbed a knife off the dresser and lunged for him.
‘God help me, Lyndon, if you don’t tell me the truth right now I will carve your eyes out.’
‘Steady, old girl, you could injure someone with that.’ He casually sat back down in his carver chair. ‘I sold her. To a couple who were desperate for a child. Lynch arranged the whole thing. Done it before, apparently.’
‘She’s alive?’ I could hardly breathe and leaned on the back of one of the dining chairs for support.
He made no reply. Something was not playing out as he had predicted.
‘You sound relieved.’
‘God, you really have no clue, do you?’
‘About what?’
‘About what it means to love!’ I steadied myself for a moment, then realised the extent of his inhumanity. ‘You sold your own granddaughter.’
I threw Mr Turner’s copy of the article on the table, then turned to leave.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me where she is?’
‘Would you tell me if I did?’
He smirked to himself.
‘You know me well, little Opale.’
The term unsettled me. Only Armand had called me that.
‘After tomorrow, everyone will know you for exactly what you are.’
I walked out of the room and somehow, kept myself upright. I passed the housekeeper in the hall, who gave me a queer look. I was lost in an endless maze of emotions and memories that no longer seemed to fit anywhere. My daughter was alive. That was all I needed to hold on to.
On reaching the front door, I heard the loud report of a gunshot. I halted. Then I heard a woman’s scream. I didn’t turn back. I commanded my feet to move, one in front of the other, until I was out in the street, taking the air into my lungs. I knew I had a choice. I could let this awful series of events become my new story – a story I would be condemned to carry with me for eternity – or I could let it die with him. It was a choice I would have to make every day for the rest of my life.
Chapter Fifty-Three
MARTHA
It had grown dark. I felt safe in our little cocoon. It felt like such a relief, letting Henry in, sharing all of the things I no longer wanted to carry on my own. We knew that we had both been drawn here for a reason – something special that gave a shimmering magic to every kiss, every caress. I could hardly believe that he was mine, that those eyes were for me only. He whispered silly things into my neck, searched my skin with his fingers and, most sweetly of all, fell asleep in my arms.
Madame Bowden had not returned, and with some strange prescience, I no longer expected her to. Call it intuition, but I guessed that she had always known more about this building than she had let on. She knew more about me, also. Who was she? What had she been testing me for? Had her friends from the dinner party been in on it? Was it all some sort of act? I did not have all of the pieces yet, but I could no longer delude myself that my arrival in Ha'penny Lane was purely happenstance.
I became aware of something else, something wonderful. I could read Henry again. His stories were as clear to me now as the day we met. Even in his sleep, I was reading the reunion he’d had with his father and despite the complicated emotions, how much it had meant to him. Maybe it wasn’t love that blocked my ability at all. Maybe it was the opposite of love, for myself. To stay with Shane, in spite of how he treated me, I’d had to abandon myself in some way. Silence the inner voice that knew something was wrong, ignore the gut feeling that told me I did not deserve this. That my life held so much more potential than becoming someone else’s punching bag. I lost my gift of reading Shane when I grew blind to myself and my own needs. Equally, I lost my gift with Henry when I refused to see how much I loved him. How much I needed him.
I felt him stirring beside me. His hair, slightly damp against his forehead, smelled of paper and an autumn breeze. I carefully snuck out of bed, trying not to wake him, and slipped upstairs to retrieve my book from the hall table. I sat in one of Madame Bowden’s Queen Anne chairs and read the last few pages.
Lost is not a hopeless place to be. It is a place of patience, of waiting. Lost does not mean gone for ever. Lost is a bridge between worlds, where the pain of our past can be transformed into power. You have always held the key to this special place, but now you are ready to unlock the door.
Each person who finds themselves here brings a special gift that if you use it, you can transcend your fears. A story handed down through memory, lives that reveal themselves to you without words, books that breathe their knowledge softly in your ear, mechanical toys that spring to life under kind hands, nostalgia rescued and reborn into a new life – all of these things are the real magic within these walls. There is an energy here that can transform into anything it wants. It has remained hidden from all except the true believers, a tiny seed that still contains all that it once was and can be again.
Are you ready to cross the threshold and claim your birthright?
My body felt steady and grounded like a tree with deep roots, while my mind was light and flowing in the breeze. This was my journey. While I never would have chosen what happened with Shane, it had led me here in my search for something better. Opaline was right – I felt powerful. Not in an egotistical way, but in a calm, knowing sort of way. Like I was finally ready to take ownership of my life.
Then I remembered something Henry had said, or rather had held back. My instincts told me that it was significant. I was ready to know the full truth.
‘What was it you came to tell me?’ I asked, sitting on the bed beside him.
He stretched and yawned. ‘What?’
‘When you came here today, you said you’d found something?’
He rested on his elbow and blinked a few times, like a computer restarting. ‘Oh yes, hang on.’
He swung his legs out of bed and pulled on his boxers before grabbing his jacket from upstairs. I felt chilled the instant he left and smiled to myself.
‘It’s okay,’ I whispered. I had to reassure myself that it was safe to have these feelings. It would not be easy, learning to trust him. I was only starting to trust myself.
‘Opaline’s baby,’ he said, bursting back into the flat. ‘She didn’t die at all. They just told her that.’ He sat on the end of the bed and handed me the time-worn certificate. It was an unofficial adoption record for a baby girl. Her name was recorded as Rose.
‘My God, how could they do that to her?’
‘Money, I imagine. It was quite common at the time.’
Henry squeezed my hand and I felt so glad that he was there. I couldn’t face this alone.
‘My eyes are playing tricks. Can you read out what the name of the couple is?’