Duchess, page 29
But maybe being royalty had nothing to do with place. Or title. Maybe it birthed from something inside.
Something rich and miraculous.
“She’s so beautiful, darling.” Rolfe leaned over the bassinette, the trauma of the past seven years seemingly erased from his face. His hair bore streaks of white, evidence of the bleak living conditions of their imprisonment. And the knowledge that he’d left his work unfinished.
Until, perhaps, now.
He reached in and pulled out the swaddled baby, cradled her close to his body.
Something about seeing Rolfe, his big aviator hands holding their child, his regal smile cast upon the cherub face of their three-month-old, could make Rosie weep in gratitude at their miracle.
A child born in her late years, conceived during war. Rosie prayed in earnest every day as she lay in bed, determined not to move.
Determined not to let it all vanish. Believing that, after all this time, hope wouldn’t die.
The child squirmed in his arms, hiccoughed, frowning, working her tiny fists out of the blanket.
“I think she’s hungry,” Rolfe said.
“Of course she is. She spends nearly every waking hour eating.” But Rosie took her into her lap, nestled her close.
“Can you check on the staff, see if Mr. Yates has brought in the tree—”
“Shh, Rosie. Everything is set. Yates and his staff have bedecked the halls just as you directed. The tree in the ballroom is up and sparkling, ready for tomorrow’s gala, and he’s erected another in the children’s wing, even more glorious. The presents are tucked at its base and all the rooms prepared for the orphans.” Rolfe pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Relax. Everything is ready. I’m going to meet the train now. And Sophie and Hale will be bringing the children after dinner. Everything is going to be perfect.”
She caught his hand, delivered him a smile right before he closed the door.
Perfect. Maybe. But it didn’t have to be perfect.
Because what she had was enough. More than enough.
Indeed, by her meekness, she’d inherited more than she could have asked or imagined.
Outside, falling snow drifted against a gray pallor, the glow from the windows upon the drifts. A fire flickered in her tile fireplace, sending warm, fragrant heat through the chamber.
She fell asleep with the child in her arms, rocking her, and woke to the voices in the foyer, lifting the two stories and tumbling down the hallway. She left the baby sleeping and changed into a short, double-breasted black dress with a high collar. She’d finally lost her baby inches, although she’d never regain her curves, not without a corset.
But those had died with the war, and she no longer worried about competing with the likes of Joan Crawford or Bette Davis, or the newcomers, Donna Reed, Lana Turner, and Ingrid Bergman.
In fact, with Rooney and Fletcher at the helm of Palace Studios, she merely watched it blossom as a movie-making machine, Spenser finally landing the lead roles he deserved.
Take that, Nazi Germany.
And her film—the original version of Red Skies over Paris—had hit America just in time for them to start to wake up to the Nazi atrocities, their takeover of Europe. She liked to think that, alongside her Academy Award for Best Picture, she’d helped awaken America to the threat of the resurging German empire.
But she never returned to America to claim her award. Or that life. Not when she had this rich, perfect, new one. She found the slew of letters from Irene waiting for her in Belgium, received and cared for by Sophie. Sammy had grown into a strapping sixteen-year-old, and Rosie could only thank God the war ended before he turned eighteen. They had a daughter, Dinah, age four, who sported Spenser’s eyes, his dark curly hair.
She piled her long hair up on her head, pinned it in place, and wished she still had her pearls, or any jewelry to hang around her neck. But she’d given it away to Sophie long ago, and Sophie used it to ransom the lives of refugees smuggled out of the Third Reich.
After checking on the baby, she closed the door behind her and made her way down the hall. Yates and his footman had already begun to transfer the luggage to the rooms. The laughter, deep and thick, trickled up along the stairway and quickened her heartbeat.
She found Finn already ascending the stairs, searching for her. He watched her, grinning, as she descended. He looked so much a man, she could hardly recognize him. But that’s what the military and four years flying for the Navy did to a boy. He wore his dark blond hair short, and age filled out his shoulders, his chest broad and strong.
“Sis!”
She tumbled into his arms, and he swung her around, set her down on the landing.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” she said, catching his face in her hands.
“And miss my niece’s christening?”
“But the newspaper—?”
“Oliver certainly hasn’t forgotten how to run the Chronicle. In fact, he reminds me nearly every day of that. The man can’t seem to remember he’s retired. He’s in his glory, back at the office.”
“How was your trip?” She looked past him, searching for her other guests.
“Mama went to sit down, Bennett with her. His eyesight is going, so it’s better if they stay together.”
She leaned past him, glimpsed her mother in the sitting room. Lowered her voice. “How is she?”
He leaned close. “She calls me daily with a list of eligible women for me to court. I fear I won’t see another bachelor year.”
Rosie reached up, patted his cheek. “You could do worse than listen to her.”
The door opened behind him, ushering in the chill, and Rolfe entered, shaking off the snow from his coat. He caught Rosie’s eyes. “Look who’s back from boarding school.”
A willowy twelve-year-old with luminous blue eyes and dark hair edged out from behind him, carrying a carpetbag, wearing a wool coat, a red cashmere scarf.
“Angelica.” Rosie drew her into her arms. “How was your first term?” When Rosie discovered just who the little girl at the orphanage truly was, she insisted Rolfe bring his stepdaughter home, at least during the summer months, and she’d spent the entire glorious month of August discovering a young lady who could capture her heart.
Angelica surrendered in her arms then stepped back and curtsied. “Very good, m’ lady.”
Finn raised an eyebrow.
“We talked about this, darling. You don’t have to be shy with me. Call me Rosie.”
She managed a shy smile. Nodded. But Rosie knew how overwhelming it felt to step into so much grace, so much love.
“The housekeeper has made up your room, Angelica.” Rolfe said. He turned to Rosie. “Truman and Lilly are getting settled in their rooms, said they’d be down for dinner.”
“Please don’t start with your war stories at dinner, Rolfe. Save them for your cigars.”
“I am sure even Truman doesn’t want to relive our aerial battles over a dinner of roast goose.” He allowed one of the footmen to relieve him of his coat, his hat.
She stepped close to him. She didn’t want to ask, afraid of too much hope blooming in her voice.
“Coco is here. And she looks just like you.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I fear we may have another starlet on our hands.” He winked at her.
Lilly had left the door of communication open, allowing Rosie to write to her daughter, to reacquaint her with her heritage. Chilly at first, Coco’s letters had warmed over the past year.
She caught Rolfe’s hand, squeezed.
He nodded. “His train gets in tonight, after dinner.”
That felt like an eternity, but he’d kept his promise after all. That should be enough.
She entered the parlor, found her mother with her shoes off, soaking her feet. “I feel that I am still rumbling, my bones rattled,” Jinx said, making to rise.
“Don’t get up, Mother,” Rosie said and leaned down to kiss her. She wore a long black travel dress and smelled of powder, the faint scent of her French toilette. Age pearled her hair, and she wore it captured back, at the nape of her neck in a netting, Rosie couldn’t ignore the skin gathered around her jawline, the years of war and worrying for Finn that embedded her eyes and lined her mouth.
By the grace of God, Finn had lived through his campaigns in the Pacific.
Bennett wore his spectacles, now bottle thick, and smiled at her. He was still handsome in his nearly seventy years, despite his thinning hair, the wrinkles etched into his face. “You’re looking radiant, Rosie,” he said and she couldn’t help but love him all over again.
“Where is my grandchild?” Jinx asked.
“I’ll fetch her,” Rosie said.
“What of her nanny?”
“I haven’t employed one, Mother.” She glanced at Finn as she exited, hoping the baby was awake.
She was nearly at her chamber when the door across the hall opened. She stilled at the woman that appeared in the hallway. Eighteen and shapely, with amber blond hair cut short below her ears, just a little too much of the Wild West of her Montana home in her green eyes, she wore a pleated wool skirt, a long cashmere sweater, and as she paused, so did Rosie’s heart. Crazy, wild tears burned her eyes.
“Hello, Coco.”
The girl drew in a breath, lifted her chin. “Aunt Rosie? Nice to finally meet you.” She found a smile, something tentative, and held out her hand.
Rosie caught it, let the warmth, the youth of it soak into her. The old ache revived, swept through her, and with everything inside her, she wanted to pull her daughter close, to tighten her arms around her, breathe her in, never let her go. But Coco didn’t know her. Not really.
Not yet. She took a breath, and for a moment, took the stage and found the right voice. “Thank you for coming.”
Silence. Rosie’s breath rose and fell in her chest as Coco considered her, too much in her eyes for Rosie to discern.
Please, let me in. Let me apologize. Don’t run away.
Then, “I wanted to meet my half sister,” Coco said quietly.
Yes. Okay. Rosie let out a breath and nodded. “She’s in here.”
She opened the door to her room, heard the baby rustling in her blankets. Rosie went to the bassinet, fixed her swaddling, and pulled her into her arms.
Coco stepped close, ran a finger down her cheek. “She’s beautiful.”
“She looks like you.” Rosie hadn’t stayed long after Coco’s birth, but she’d never forgotten the shape of her newborn’s face or the smell of her skin.
“She does?” Coco glanced up, then, aware of her tone, glanced away.
“Yes,” Rosie said softly. “She has your hair, the way it stands up in tufts, and your big eyes. And she cries like you did. Loud and stubborn.”
“I’m not stubborn,” Coco said, but caught her lower lip between her teeth.
“I doubt that,” Rosie said, winking.
Coco grinned. Then she leaned over and kissed the baby on the forehead. “Grandma Jinx has talked of nothing but this baby for three months.”
“Let’s introduce them.”
She brought the baby, now waking, downstairs. Jinx had replaced the pan of water with a knitted afghan. Rosie placed the child into her waiting arms.
She said nothing, just stared down at her, as if drinking her in. “She’s so lovely, Rosie.” She leaned close, pressed her lips to the baby’s forehead. “And she smells like you.”
Oh. Rosie sank down on the divan opposite her. “She does?”
“A mother never forgets,” Jinx says.
Rosie glanced at Coco. No, she doesn’t.
She wanted to capture this moment on film. Everyone hitting their marks, their faces stilled for all time. Coco, a younger snapshot of herself, strong, courageous, ready to dive into life, and Angelica, believing in a family, in belonging. Finn, dashing and the embodiment of grace, a blessing to them all. Jinx, her expression a sort of awe, Bennett beside her, touching the bundle of his step-grandchild. Rolfe pressed his hand to Rosie’s shoulder and squeezed.
Yes, maybe a girl didn’t have to be a duchess to feel royal.
And then the door opened. Feet stamped into the foyer, and everyone looked up, toward the commotion.
And time stopped.
Rosie saw it just as she’d hoped it would be. Jack, tall and covered with diamond droplets of snow glistening in his blond hair. A slight layer of whiskers at his cheeks, the evidence of his overnight train ride from Brussels where he worked with the international community tracking down German war criminals. The war had aged him, especially after the German SS discovered his covert activities and he’d escaped from the country.
Thankfully, they never connected him to Rolfe, or perhaps they too would have suffered the fate of too many anti-Nazi conspirators.
Jack closed the door behind him, swiped the derby from his head, and crunched it in his hands. Then, with only a hint of accent, “Hello, Mother.”
Rosie held her breath, the secret coiled so tight inside her for the past six years she thought she might expire with the pain of it in her chest.
Jinx had turned white. Rosie got up to rescue the baby, but Rolfe beat her to it. Instead, she helped her mother to her feet.
Her hands trembled in Rosie’s, her breath shuddering in her chest. She shook her head even as she managed, “Jack?”
He nodded, glanced at Rosie, as if at a loss. Then, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I—I—”
He closed his mouth, his face twitching.
“Jack was with Army Intelligence, Mother, ever since the Great War. He lived with the Germans, pretended to be one of them, and then, when the war with Germany began again, he helped me and Rolfe transport refugees, Jews and other political prisoners, out of the country.”
Jinx tightened her hands in hers. “You knew.”
Jack took a step closer. “I asked her not to tell you, Mother. I—I didn’t want you to lose me twice.”
But Jinx was just staring at him, her chin trembling, her chest rising and falling.
The clock ticked over the mantle; the baby stirred in Rolfe’s arms.
And then, “I never got over losing you the first time.”
“And I never got over regretting how I left you,” Jack said. He took a step into the room. “Please forgive me? I should have—I should have understood.” His gaze flickered to Bennett. “I was wrong.”
Jinx released Rosie’s hands and turned to him. She was crying, the tears soft and bright on her face. “I forgive you, Jack, if you forgive me.”
Then her arms were around him, and he caught her tight to himself, his head buried in her shoulder, shaking as he wept. “I love you, Mother.”
Rosie pressed her hands to her cheeks, wiping her eyes, so much inside her she could burst.
Jinx leaned back, pressed her hands to Jack’s face. “My boy.”
He caught her wrists, nodding, grinning.
“I guess we should meet,” a voice said, and Rosie saw Finn advance across the room, his hand extended. “Finley Jackson Worth.”
Jack cast a look at Rosie. “I have a—brother?”
“You made the rules, not me.”
Jack turned back to Finn, grinning. “I have a brother.” Then he wrapped his arm around Finn, slapped him on the back.
The baby started to whimper. Jack freed Finn. “And I suppose this is my niece?” he said, looking at the baby.
“Actually, I’m your niece too,” Coco said, rubbing her arms. “My mother—uh, Lilly told me about you.” She held out her hand. “I’m Rosie’s oldest daughter, with her first husband, Guthrie.”
Rosie pressed her hand to her mouth as Jack took Coco’s hand. “Of course you are. You look just like her.”
Coco reddened, a blush streaking into her face. “I grew up in Montana with Lilly.”
“She did a good job by you,” he said.
“She comes from good stock,” Lilly said from behind him. Rosie hadn’t seen her enter. She looked older, her hair piled in a bun at the nape of her neck, looking lean and noble with her Crow heritage. A dark-haired boy stood beside her, his eyes hard on Coco. TJ, Lilly called him, if Rosie remembered correctly. Truman had his hands curled over the boy’s shoulders. Lilly’s daughter, Daisy, sat next to her great-aunt, Jinx, looking every inch like the cowgirl her mother had once been. How Rosie remembered Lilly’s restless years in New York City.
Lilly caught her gaze.
She couldn’t have picked a better mother for her daughter. Thank you, Lilly, for the beautiful daughter you raised.
The baby erupted in a howl, red faced and angry. Rosie took her in her arms, pulled her close, soothing her.
“She’s magnificent, Rosie,” Jack said, cupping his big hand against her head. “Has your personality exactly.”
She narrowed her eyes at him but grinned.
“What’s her name?”
Jinx took his other hand, and Rosie noticed how he wove their fingers together.
“Sarah,” Rosie said. “It means princess.”
“The Worth family princess,” Jack said softly. He pressed a kiss to the baby’s downy forehead. “Welcome to the family.”
Author’s Note and Acknowledgments
There is nothing better than diving into a story like this one, surrounding yourself with research and ideas, the culmination of a storyline you’ve been working on for two years. I loved penning this novel because I knew that after the hard beginning of Heiress, with so much pain and so many mistakes made by Jinx, and the bittersweet middle story, Baroness, where Rosie walks so far away from her inheritance, Rosie’s redemption would be rich and profound. I loved watching her discover that she didn’t need the world’s applause she longed for—that she had it all inside, with the love of God. If you’ve read all three books, perhaps you noticed the themes: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” Esme learned this in Heiress, as she discovered that wealth came from knowing your Savior. “Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.” Lilly learned this in Baroness as she let go of her grief and recognized the comfort of her father, Oliver, and that she couldn’t outrun God’s love. “Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.” Rosie learned this in Duchess, that inheriting everything she wanted—the applause of earth and heaven—was about surrender and trusting God’s love. The series is named “Daughters of Fortune” not only because of their circumstances, but because I hoped readers might see what a true fortune looks like. What a true inheritance is when a person puts their faith in the Lord.
