Fallen Grace - Mary Hooper [84]
‘We have an adoption certificate,’ said Mr Unwin, and he exchanged a meaningful glance with his wife.
‘It’s just that – silly me – I’ve mislaid it at the moment,’ put in Mrs Unwin. ‘And, you know, with the terrible shock of our dear cousin’s death only yesterday, I haven’t yet been able to find it.’
‘We will find it, though,’ said Mr Unwin.
There was a pause just as long as a heartbeat and then Mr Stamford said in a jocular tone, ‘Well, as it happens you don’t have to worry, because – what do you think? – by some strange coincidence we have the very thing here!’ He waved a document in the air. ‘At least, it says adoption certificate at the top.’
The silence that followed this statement was longer and more profound as all three members of the Unwin family stared at the certificate, each wondering how on earth Mr Stamford had managed to get his hands on it and what this might mean.
Charlotte Unwin began crying. ‘I’m telling you the truth: I am Lily Parkes! Mama – my real mama – had a miniature of Papa by her bed, and she always used to say how much I looked like him! It was painted by someone . . . someone whose name I can’t quite remember but . . .’
And then the door to the office was unceremoniously flung open and Grace heard a voice shouting, ‘No! Mama painted it herself!’
She looked around to see her sister – her dearest, real sister Lily – standing there, with a smiling James behind her. She rose, and Lily saw her and ran towards her, in her great eagerness tripping over the rug and almost falling. And then the sisters were in each other’s arms.
x
‘It’s Mrs Beaman we have to thank,’ James began to explain just a little later.
Grace and Lily – the latter having just managed to quell her sobs – were now sitting side by side, arms around each other, on the chaise longue in the small waiting room. They made a strange pair: one girl elegant in turquoise blue, the other in a stained apron over a dingy grey cotton frock with no shoes on her feet.
‘Mrs Beaman, the Unwins’ cook?’ Grace asked in surprise.
‘The very same. Apparently when you, Grace, went to the Unwins’ home after Christmas wanting to see Lily, Mrs Beaman felt so sorry for you that she decided to go to the police and tell them the truth: that Lily had been removed from the house against her will.’
‘Oh, how kind of her!’ Grace cried.
‘Well, it was partly kindness,’ James said, ‘and also the fact that George Unwin hadn’t been too generous with his bribes. He seemed to think that ten shillings might cover the matter from beginning to end.’
‘And where has Lily been all this time?’ Grace asked, looking anxiously at her sister and hoping she hadn’t suffered too much.
‘In a hospital . . . an asylum in a Manchester slum,’ James answered.
‘Oh, Lily, was it too awful?’ Grace asked.
Lily considered. ‘It wasn’t that bad,’ she said. ‘There were lots of children there . . .’
‘Children whose relatives wanted them out of the way,’ James put in in a low voice.
‘And I looked after some of them and told them stories. But I really missed you! And I kept asking when I would see you but no one took any notice of me.’ She shot a look at Grace, gazing in admiration at her fashionable gown and bonnet. ‘But you look so very grand and ladylike now . . . are you sure you missed me?’
‘Of course I did!’ Grace answered, hugging her closer. ‘Every minute.’
‘Mrs Beaman reported the matter,’ James went on, ‘and then when the police at this end started their investigations, two of them eventually went up to Manchester. They spoke to some chaps there, and between them they found out where Lily had been placed. They brought her back to London yesterday, and one astute peeler recognised her name and realised who she was. He got in touch with Binge and Gently and, well, you know the rest.’
‘I do, and it’s all wonderful,’ Grace said, smoothing her sister’s matted hair.
‘They said you might