drab.
* * *
She hadn’t planned to see the baby—after all, it had nothing to do with her. Someone would have to take care of it, since both of its parents were dead. Who that someone might be was no concern of hers. She didn’t want to know what was going to happen to the little girl Bradford had made with his other woman.
But then the lawyer had said, “Your husband’s child has no one. None of our local agencies have been able to trace her mother’s people . . . and as for your husband . . .”
Bradford had had one sister who lived in California. She prided herself on being a moral and upright Christian woman and would have been appalled at the idea of taking in her brother’s love child.
“I’m afraid you are as close to family as this baby has,” Mr.
Robichaud said.
How did a person walk away from a responsibility like that?
And besides, now that the initial shock had worn off, she had to admit that a part of her was curious. In a sad, angry way that she wasn’t proud of, she wanted to see the baby her husband—who wouldn’t have a baby with her—had had with someone else.
“I have some time tomorrow,” she told the lawyer.
“I’ll drive you to her home.”
* * *
She wasn’t a pretty child. She was small for her age, and her features were weak: a pinched little nose and thin lips. She hadn’t gotten those from Bradford. And those brown eyes weren’t his—the unknown woman was responsible for them too. But there was no question that she was her father’s daughter. She had his square jaw, his chin, and most importantly, that unmistakable red-brown hair. Cassandra would have known it anywhere. She looked at a little hand with its tiny seashell nails and for a few minutes she just stood there, gazing.
The child was very still—shouldn’t a ten-month-old baby be crawling around? Trying to walk? Crying because there was a stranger in the room?
“Is she always this quiet?” Cassandra asked the woman who had been hired to help take care of the baby since she was born.
It seemed that Bradford had indulged his lady love with household help.
“She’s good as gold,” said the woman looking down at the child who was sitting in her lap. The little girl was afraid, that was clear, but she wasn’t cowering. She stared at Cassandra from behind the nursemaid’s fleshy arm.
Good for her!
The thought flashed through Cassandra’s mind.
She doesn’t want to show she’s afraid. I wouldn’t, either. I think we
may be a little alike.
Except for the red hair.
“She never cries,” the nursemaid said.
Or laughs, I imagine,
Cassandra thought, looking at the serious little face.
I wonder what it would take to make her smile. . . .
“Lotta has been staying here in the house with the baby. She’s been paid through to the end of the month,” the lawyer said. “The house is rented by the month too. After that . . .” He let the sentence dangle.
The poor little thing has been through so much already. And if
someone doesn’t do something for her . . . But there is that red hair . . .
his red hair . . . Do I want to see it every day of my life? Don’t be so
petty, Cassie! Father would say I’m better than that. But am I?
“What will happen to her?” Cassandra asked.
“If you don’t intervene? The state will take her.”
“And they’ll find parents for her. A good family. Right?”
“They’ll try. But she’s ten months old, and most people want to adopt an infant. It’s more than likely she’ll wind up in the system.”
“The system?”
“Foster care.” He sighed. “That’s a slippery slope. The longer a child is in it, the harder it is to get them out.”
So there they were. A man and a woman had had some pleasure and the
* * *
She hadn’t planned to see the baby—after all, it had nothing to do with her. Someone would have to take care of it, since both of its parents were dead. Who that someone might be was no concern of hers. She didn’t want to know what was going to happen to the little girl Bradford had made with his other woman.
But then the lawyer had said, “Your husband’s child has no one. None of our local agencies have been able to trace her mother’s people . . . and as for your husband . . .”
Bradford had had one sister who lived in California. She prided herself on being a moral and upright Christian woman and would have been appalled at the idea of taking in her brother’s love child.
“I’m afraid you are as close to family as this baby has,” Mr.
Robichaud said.
How did a person walk away from a responsibility like that?
And besides, now that the initial shock had worn off, she had to admit that a part of her was curious. In a sad, angry way that she wasn’t proud of, she wanted to see the baby her husband—who wouldn’t have a baby with her—had had with someone else.
“I have some time tomorrow,” she told the lawyer.
“I’ll drive you to her home.”
* * *
She wasn’t a pretty child. She was small for her age, and her features were weak: a pinched little nose and thin lips. She hadn’t gotten those from Bradford. And those brown eyes weren’t his—the unknown woman was responsible for them too. But there was no question that she was her father’s daughter. She had his square jaw, his chin, and most importantly, that unmistakable red-brown hair. Cassandra would have known it anywhere. She looked at a little hand with its tiny seashell nails and for a few minutes she just stood there, gazing.
The child was very still—shouldn’t a ten-month-old baby be crawling around? Trying to walk? Crying because there was a stranger in the room?
“Is she always this quiet?” Cassandra asked the woman who had been hired to help take care of the baby since she was born.
It seemed that Bradford had indulged his lady love with household help.
“She’s good as gold,” said the woman looking down at the child who was sitting in her lap. The little girl was afraid, that was clear, but she wasn’t cowering. She stared at Cassandra from behind the nursemaid’s fleshy arm.
Good for her!
The thought flashed through Cassandra’s mind.
She doesn’t want to show she’s afraid. I wouldn’t, either. I think we
may be a little alike.
Except for the red hair.
“She never cries,” the nursemaid said.
Or laughs, I imagine,
Cassandra thought, looking at the serious little face.
I wonder what it would take to make her smile. . . .
“Lotta has been staying here in the house with the baby. She’s been paid through to the end of the month,” the lawyer said. “The house is rented by the month too. After that . . .” He let the sentence dangle.
The poor little thing has been through so much already. And if
someone doesn’t do something for her . . . But there is that red hair . . .
his red hair . . . Do I want to see it every day of my life? Don’t be so
petty, Cassie! Father would say I’m better than that. But am I?
“What will happen to her?” Cassandra asked.
“If you don’t intervene? The state will take her.”
“And they’ll find parents for her. A good family. Right?”
“They’ll try. But she’s ten months old, and most people want to adopt an infant. It’s more than likely she’ll wind up in the system.”
“The system?”
“Foster care.” He sighed. “That’s a slippery slope. The longer a child is in it, the harder it is to get them out.”
So there they were. A man and a woman had had some pleasure and the
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