Nora Chattoway watched as her granddaughter broke into a run and hurried out of the festive foyer of Pearlbelle Park. She sighed and shook her head. Would any of her grandchildren ever like her?
At least baby Ned always squealed with excitement when he saw her—though the toddler did the same for everyone. How strange that her step-grandchild seemed to be the only one who didn’t mind her.
That didn’t mean Nora didn’t love Alice and Ivy, her first grandchildren. However, even after spending the last two and a half years trying to form relationships with them, they still hadn’t learned to love her.
But she would keep trying. Even if Alice was always more interested in someone bigger, flashier, more interesting—and Ivy … Nora wasn’t sure what went on in Ivy’s head. Only that she didn’t seem to care much for her grandmother.
Nora knew she wasn’t much fun. She was just an old widow trying to milk a bit of joy out of what might be the last years of her life. She didn’t want to die until she’d fully lived whatever time she had left. She’d wasted over fifty years. It was time to find out what mattered and pursue it wholeheartedly. To Nora at least, that meant building stronger relationships with family.
And perhaps with God. She still stretched out her arms tentatively on that score. There was much to learn, much to be found out. Much that was new to be discovered—much that was old to be explored once again.
At any rate, she wouldn’t do herself any favors by standing, now almost alone, in this foyer and watching people leave her. She’d best find out where she belonged and prepare to have a lovely Christmas with two of her children and the rest of their small family.
“Mrs. Chattoway? Is it Mrs. Nora Chattoway?”
Nora turned to see a woman a few years older than her daughter, perhaps in her early thirties. The lady was lovely with dark curls framing a narrow face and blue eyes, almost like Claire’s, but even darker.
“Yes, I am. And … and you are?” Was that the proper way to address someone? Nora wasn’t sure. It had been so many years since she’d been out in society, meeting friends, speaking to people. Confinement by a tyrant to a Yorkshire castle was no laughing matter.
“Mrs. Dorothea Angel.” The woman smiled, and Nora supposed there was something familiar about her, though she wasn’t sure what. “But my maiden name is Samielson. I don’t suppose you remember Anna Samielson? She’s my mother.”
Nora’s heart lightened. “Why—y-yes! I do. She was a dear friend b-before I married! I loved Anna. We’ve fallen out of contact, of course, but—oh, dear, I do remember you! Though, you were no bigger than a doll … you couldn’t remember me!”
“I didn’t, exactly.” Mrs. Angel shook her head. “I remembered the name. My mother used to speak of you—of what a shame it was that you had—that you had fallen out of contact. When I heard that the … when I heard that the current Mrs. Knight’s maiden name was Chattoway, I had to see if it was really you!”
Poor woman. Like Nora, she seemed to struggle to word things in socially acceptable ways. And how sweet that Anna Samielson had remembered Nora! Yes, Nora remembered her as well, but then, she had had years with nothing to do but think over past acquaintances.
Oh! She should’ve asked how Anna was. “How is your mother?” She hoped that didn’t come off too rushed.
“She’s well.” Mrs. Angel didn’t flinch as if Nora had interjected herself abruptly, so she felt free to relax. “Living in the country now, with Papa, and they both seem happy whenever we visit. I think they enjoy the quiet.”
Nora sighed. Yes, everyone always seemed to think that when one got away from children and grandchildren, one would enjoy the quiet. For her that wasn’t true. “I’m glad. I’ll have to remember to try to reach her—I am … that is, I have a great deal more time on my hands, and … I could.”
“Good. She would enjoy that. Remind me to give you her address before we leave.” Mrs. Angel glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, I see my dear husband is beckoning me. Poor Rupert is always waiting for me to finish a conversation! I did have a question, if you don’t mind—and I promise it is good-natured.”
Nora’s shoulders hunched at this. Usually when one had to promise a question was good-natured, it wasn’t—or at least it felt that way. “Very well.” What else could one answer?
“Your granddaughter—she was your granddaughter, wasn’t she? The blonde child who just ran out?”
Nora nodded. “Yes, that was Claire’s daughter Ivy. You’ve heard the story—?”
“Oh, never mind that.” Mrs. Angel tossed it away with a flip of her hand. “I’m willing to be open-minded, and I’ve never cared for the scandal papers. I understand enough to not judge the Knights. No—it was something about her … something that caught my eye just now. You see, when you were speaking to her, she became teary-eyed and then suddenly froze—it reminded me of something.”
Nora cocked her head. “Whatever do you mean? I grant that Ivy is a sensitive child, and I … she doesn’t care for me. I suppose she isn’t used to my being here.”
“Er, no, it’s not that.” Mrs. Angel shook her head, and it occurred to Nora that the woman’s face was pale, her eyes traced with tears. “Is she … is Ivy all right? In the head, I mean?”
Nora blinked. She hadn’t expected such frank honesty from a practical stranger. “Why, I—” She paused, confused. Of course curiosity was to be expected, but how could one notice that about Ivy with just a glance? Nora had had to talk to the child before she’d observed more than a shy little girl. Even after Claire had explained it, she hadn’t understood. As far as she knew, Ivy had been born simple. Nora didn’t know that there was anything particularly remarkable about this. The girl wasn’t a lunatic. Certainly it wasn’t noticeable.
“I know it’s an unusual question, but please answer me if you are able.” There was something gentle and warm in Mrs. Angel’s eyes, and Nora couldn’t help but be drawn to it.
No, it wasn’t just curiosity. There was something more. Nora would answer her. “No, I suppose not. Ivy is simple, but she’s a harmless child, and she does well for who she is. Sometimes she just … Claire—Mrs. Knight—has always described it as she struggles to cope with the world. But there’s nothing dangerous about her, certainly.”
“Oh, no, I wasn’t afraid of that—not really.” Mrs. Angel glanced over her shoulder once again, probably at her husband. “I can explain it all later, but if I could ask you a few more questions about the child—really understand the situation—well, I might be able to help.”
“Help?” How could an English noblewoman help a simple child like Ivy? The situation was tragic, yes, but nothing was to be done but to cope.
“Yes.” Mrs. Angel pressed her lips tightly together. “I believe I could offer you a solution that you would find interesting. Would you come to my room? I could explain it better in private.”
Nora took a deep breath. Was it wise to share intimate family details with a woman she didn’t know well? After all, Ivy’s problems weren’t widely known. Yet Nora couldn’t deny that she was curious to know Mrs. Angel’s solution. Furthermore, if, with the woman’s assistance, Nora could help her family, help Claire and Ivy … she would be doing something noble.