Lily Fairchild. Don Gutteridge
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of all concerned. The child will go to Toronto with its nurse to be adopted by a prominent family there who know generallyabout the circumstances of its conception and birth and, in spite of such, have, in the most magnanimous and humanitarian of gestures, offered to give this poor creature life and hope.”
Lily flinched. “It is all for the best, Lily, I believe that,” said Mrs. Edgeworth near tears.
“Indeed so,” said Thackeray. “The wet-nurse is packed and ready to go, as is the infant itself. Mrs. Edgeworth will have the satisfaction of knowing that she not only saved the reputation of a wayward girl but that the illegitimate offspring of the unfortunate union will be given a second chance at life. You, my child, will suffer briefly at the loss of an infant not yet dear to you, but may return to your own family purified and renewed. As a bonus for any inconvenience, I am also authorized to tell you that a cash settlement in compensation has already been deposited in your Aunt’s account in a Port Sarnia bank.”
Clayton Thackeray sat back waiting for some response , be it tears, rage, or thanks. He got nothing. Finally rising, he said to Mrs. Edgeworth, “Not a soul in Port Sarnia has gained a whiff of this. It’s been handled with the utmost discretion and concern for the feelings of those involved. The girl will return with not a single blot upon her character.” With that, he swept out, Mrs Thackeray following behind to see him properly away.
A moment later Mrs. Edgeworth returned. Lily had not moved.
“Oh, Lily. Mr. Thackeray asked me to find out something important for him. It seems the lady in Toronto who’s going to adopt the babe wants to know, just for herself, the last name of the babe’s mother. I’m to write it down on this card.”
Apparently Lily didn’t hear, her mind far away.
“It will all work out, dear-heart,” Mrs. Edgeworth said, dropping all pretense. “We’ll work it out together.” She took Lily’s hand, its calluses grown smooth, its flesh pink again. “Can you tell me your name? Not Ramsbottom, but the one you had before you were taken in.”
“Fair Child…” Lily said distractedly
Mrs. Edgeworth wrote it down.
It was July 4. If she were home now Lily would be watching the fireworks display across the River as the Yankees celebrated the seizing of their liberty. Many people took the ferry over and stood in the grounds of Fort Gratiot to view the skyrockets soared independently starward, hear the army band strike up a victory march and the guns that had driven the British back where they belonged boom over the non-partisan blue of the fresh-water sea to the north.
According to all observers, Lily was “recuperating nicely.” She left her room for daily walks about the garden. She let Lucille chatter on at will. The colour flowed back into her cheeks; the freckles reappeared with it.
Lily knew this hurt was permanent, like many others before it. It seemed safer, she thought, to stay inside the ache, to let it be continually numbing, and build whatever remained of her life around it. But, as before, the sun rose each day with impudent optimism, the rosebushes stretched and infected the garden with their ungirded profligacy. The wind sweetened her chamber each morning. She ate and grew lithe again. At night she held the jasper talisman in her fist, and waited for a sign of its magic to re-enter the world.
In the meantime, she realized she must write to Bridie. Mrs. Edgeworth helped her, the day after the baby’s swift departure, by writing down Lily’s words and mailing off the letter immediately.
“Dear Aunt Bridie: I love you and Uncle very much. I am fine. The babe was born dead. I will be coming home as soon as I get strong enough. Soon. Love, Lily.”
Despite her careful monitoring Mrs. Edgeworth detected Lily crying only once: the evening after the letter was sent. She was left alone.
Two weeks then passed with no reply from Bridie. She understood why her Aunt had chosen not to write before the birth of the child, but fully expected a response to her terrible news. Lily began to feel that something momentous was about to happen, though she was uncertain whether it would be happy or sad. The talisman was strangely silent, as if it had already spoken on the subject and was surprised that Lily was not able to interpret the obvious.
Lily was about to suggest to Mrs. Edgeworth that she ought to return home as soon as possible when she experienced a slight haemorrhage and was put back to bed with stern warnings. However, in the late afternoon she persuaded Lucille to help her into the wicker wheelchair and push her into the garden, where she sat by the rose arbour in the westering sun, pondering her predicament. What am I doing here? she thought. I want only to belong to some place, to someone besides myself. The young man inside the Prince’s suit was not the one, clearly, but they had created a child together. And what has it come to? What did it bring? “My word, look who it is!” Mrs. Edgeworth’s voice cracked with some of its former zest. “Lucille, come here quick! Tippy’s coming up the walk!”
There was a scurry in the household behind Lily. She turned away, letting the sun warm the nape of her neck. Between female greetings and excited exclamations came the rumble of a man’s response. For a while all was quiet within. Lily grew strangely tense, the hairs on her neck rose. Her heart pitched without reason. She heard the slap of the screen door, the steady step, the coolness of the shadow blotting out the light behind her. She turned in her chair to face the silhouette framed by the setting sun.
“Tom,” she said, steadying her voice.
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