1
THORNECREST
ALLINGCROSS, KENT
APRIL 1934
IT WAS ON a sunny spring morning in the eighth month of my pregnancy that a woman arrived on my doorstep claiming to be married to my husband.
The day started out much like any other, with no hint that I would soon be involved in a melodrama worthy of any of the radio plays with which I had lately been amusing myself. I arose early and breakfasted heartily before going to the morning room to complete my correspondence. My husband, Milo, was in London for the weekend, tending to some business with our solicitor, and I was taking advantage of the solitude to catch up on my letter writing.
Things had been quiet at Thornecrest, our country house, over the past few months, and, for once, I didn’t mind the slow pace. My pregnancy had been progressing well, and we were expecting our first child in a month. Many of the anxieties I had felt in the initial stages of my pregnancy had begun to subside as we neared the birth. Perhaps it was the growing bond with my child. Or perhaps it was simply the knowledge that the baby’s arrival was inevitable, whether I was prepared or not.
I was composing a letter to my cousin Laurel, who was on holiday in Greece, expressing just such a sentiment.
I am growing more and more excited the closer I come to the baby’s arrival. I had worried that I might be anxious, but I am feeling rather calm and confident about it all. Perhaps when one realizes that life is about to be irrevocably altered, there is little choice but to embrace the change with open arms.
Little did I realize how apt this sentiment would prove to be.
A brief clearing of the throat drew my attention from my letter. I looked up to see Grimes, our butler, standing in the morning room doorway.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Ames,” he said.
“Yes, what is it?”
He hesitated, and that was the moment I knew that something must be amiss. The butler was normally the epitome of unflappable professionalism, but I could tell he was doing his utmost to remain composed. That didn’t seem to bode well for whatever he was about to say next, and I felt a brief surge of alarm that something might have happened to Milo before Grimes’s next words put me more at ease.
“There is a young woman here…” The words trailed off, and I waited for him to continue, wondering at his uncharacteristic reticence.
“She gives her name as … Mrs. Ames,” he said at last.
I frowned. Certainly it wasn’t my mother. Grimes was acquainted with her, and he wouldn’t be acting so strangely if it were she. Despite her somewhat aggressive personality, she was not the sort of person to ruffle Grimes’s feathers. No, it must be someone else.
But there was no other Mrs. Ames. Though my maiden name and my married name were, coincidentally, the same, neither Milo nor I had another female relation with the same surname. Unless it was some distant relative of whom I was unaware.
“Does she say if she’s a relative of mine or of Mr. Ames’s?” I asked, to prod him forward.
He seemed to be marshalling himself for some unpleasant task, and then he came out with it.
“She claims to be Mrs. Milo Ames, madam.”
I blinked. Surely he had misspoken. He did not correct himself, however, and I realized that he meant what he said.
“Mrs.… Milo Ames,” I repeated after a moment of heavy silence.
“Yes, she’s come looking for Mr. Ames … her husband.”
This was growing more bizarre by the moment.
“There must be some mistake,” I said. It was the only logical conclusion.
“Undoubtedly,” he replied. I could tell, however, that he was not convinced. Grimes had never especially cared for Milo, and he didn’t put forth much effort to hide the fact. Even now that Milo was making great strides toward putting his past behind him, Grimes remained staunchly disapproving. Perhaps it was because Grimes had always been loyal to Milo’s father, and Milo and the elder Mr. Ames had never seen eye to eye.
In any event, there was nothing to be done about this mysterious situation but to face it head-on.
“You’d better show her in,” I said. “I’m sure we shall sort this all out.”
He nodded. “Very good, madam.”
I rose from my seat at the writing desk and smoothed my hair, telling myself that I should remain calm. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. While it was true that my husband had something of a colorful reputation, I didn’t think that bigamy would be much to his taste. After all, one marriage had often seemed to require much more effort than he cared to exert.
Nevertheless, I was a bit flustered by the idea that someone else was claiming to be married to him. It was all so strange.
A moment later Grimes returned to the room, followed by a young lady.
“Ah … Mrs. Ames, madam.”
“Thank you, Grimes.”
I knew he was curious, but he was too proper to linger in hopes of overhearing something; he turned and left, closing the door softly behind him.
I turned my gaze to my visitor. The girl was young and very pretty, with pale blond hair and cornflower-blue eyes. She was also distressed. Though she tried to hide it, I could tell that she was in a state of barely suppressed agitation. Her gloved hands were clenched at her sides, her face was ashen, and she was breathing much more quickly than the walk from the front hall to the morning room would normally dictate.
I was quite sure that Grimes had not told her what she was walking into, and I tried to decide the best way to broach the subject.
“Good morning,” I said, deciding upon the conventional greeting.
“Who are you?” she asked bluntly. There wasn’t any aggression in her tone, and I took it that she had been expecting to see Milo … or whoever she thought her “Mr. Ames” was.
“I’m Mrs. Ames,” I said.
This caught her off guard. She looked a bit uncertain then, and I considered how I should proceed. One wasn’t exactly taught the proper etiquette for such situations, after all.
“Mrs. Ames?” she repeated at last.
I nodded.
“Who … who is your husband?”
“My husband’s name is Milo,” I said.
She grew a shade paler, if possible, and it seemed to me that she swayed ever so slightly on her feet. I took a step toward her, but she collected herself and met my gaze before looking me over. It was, I thought, the first time she had looked closely at me, and her eyes stayed for a moment on my rounded stomach.
“You’re going to have a baby,” she said in the dazed tone of someone who has been met with a terrible shock.
“Yes.” For some reason, I felt almost guilty admitting it.
She burst into tears.
Good heavens, this was going poorly.
After the briefest of pauses I hurried to her side, trying to decide how best to comfort her. Displays of great emotion had always been vexing to me, and this situation was particularly bewildering.
“He told … He said that he loved…” Her words broke off into a sob, her face buried in her hands.
I was at a total loss, but I was now certain that it wasn’t Milo who had seduced this young woman. He wouldn’t have made such a rash declaration.
I gently took her arm and led her toward the white Louis XIV sofa before the fireplace. She sank into it, still crying into her hands, and I looked around for a handkerchief. It was, I feared, too late to spare her gloves, but she might at least have a proper place to wipe her nose.