Legacy of the Dead - Charles Todd [67]
Fiona MacDonald hadn’t come upon a woman lying by the roadside in the throes of childbirth, taken advantage of an opportunity to kill her and steal her baby. She had known for some time that a child would be born—she had made sure that her aunt had known too. And it meant, clearly, that the infant had been promised to her.
But by whom?
And if there had been no need to kill the mother in order to take the child, who was the woman whose bones had been found on a mountainside?
More important from the point of view of Lady Maude, what role—if any—had Eleanor Gray played? And where was Eleanor Gray now?
No one could say.
Hamish spoke the thought that Rutledge had already considered—and did not want to address now: that the child might have been a temporary gift to Fiona, to keep until the mother was ready or able to reclaim him. Until she had done what she had intended from the start to do, study to become a doctor?
And Fiona, already planning for the child, wanting the child, coveting the child forever, might have decided that she couldn’t bear to give him up.
Hamish added, pain in his voice, “It’s what they’ll say. It’s what they’ll want to believe. Unless the mother is found alive, to bear witness for her!”
15
RUTLEDGE PUT THE TIN BOX BACK WHERE HE’D FOUND it for the time being, and was already on his way to the stairs, when a thought struck him.
His sister Frances had found in a small cedar chest belonging to their mother the carefully preserved christening robes that the two of them had worn. Wrapped in tissue, these were still white and soft, with lacy bodices and a wide band of matching lace at the hem, small caps frilled with lace and the tiniest of tucks, long ribbons for bows under the chin. Little knitted boots with blue or pink ribbons to tie them. Frances, who seldom cried, had said in a husky voice, “She never held grandchildren—mine or yours. It must have grieved her.”
As if that was the ultimate wrong to the dead . . .
And in the center of each long skirt, hanging down almost to a grown man’s knees, let alone an infant’s, had been a large embroidered oval with entwined initials in white satin thread.
His had been his great-grandfather’s christening robe, carefully handed down from generation to generation. Frances had worn their grandmother’s. A family tradition that had meant much to people proud of their heritage—
And surely, even if she had abandoned her baby at birth, Eleanor Gray would have seen to it that he was christened properly, and in a long white gown. Not, perhaps, the one that had been passed down through the Gray generations, but most certainly one that was suitable to the occasion. Unless it had been borrowed—
Rutledge turned around at the head of the stairs and walked swiftly back down the passage. While Fiona had had the front room, there were two more at the back, one empty with a neatly made bed covered with clean sheets to keep off the dust, and the other a small boy’s realm, with a toy chest, a clothes chest, a dresser, and a crib.
Rutledge went first to the clothes chest. It was nearly empty. Here were only the outgrown dresses and stockings and tiny shoes kept for memory’s sake. A small, pretty blanket for a baby that had seen much service. A blue velveteen coat with a matching cap, and a threadbare stuffed horse, one ear chewed off and one leg missing. At the bottom, carefully preserved in tissue and lavender, was a christening gown. He took it out and unfolded it with gentle hands.
Hamish saw it before he did. An embroidered half-circle of entwined letters, this time in the bodice.
Rutledge carried it to the window and examined it closely. Beautifully shaped initials with tiny forget-me-nots in the spaces. MEMC.
But did it stand for Maude Cook—or Mary Cook? Or someone else?
By the time McKinstry had