But as I sat there, I realized with a streak of panic that there was someone else she might tell. Mr. Taylor.
It seemed as though she hated him. That she wanted to be free of him. But I couldn’t be sure—so the thought hung over me, as heavy and present in the room of my mind as the swan chandeliers overhead.
“Emmaline?” I twisted around in my chair to see Francescostanding behind me. “You have a gentleman caller.”
“Me?” I blurted out.
“Yes, a Mr. Tristan Grafton. We typically don’t allow these types of personal visits here but”—his eyes softened as he stared down at me—“I can hardly see the harm. You’ll only have a few minutes before you need to dress for the botanical garden lunch. He’s in the second-story parlor.”
I tucked my hair back, trying to make sure there weren’t any errant wisps. My heart lifted for the first time since talking to Sophie last night. I hadn’t expected to see him again so soon. At least my gown was a dark shade of pink instead of the sickeningly pastel pink most of my dresses were. In fact, in some lights it could even pass for a soft purple.
“You look beautiful,” Francesco said, noticing my actions as he led me out of the dining room and up the stairs. “No need to be nervous.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, my hands still fussing with my hair. We reached the second story, and Francesco gestured for me to keep going.
“Have fun.” He grinned, jiggling his eyebrows up and down.
I opened the door and stepped inside. Tristan was standing by the window, his back to me. The sight of his messy blond hair made my heart jump. At the sound of the door opening, he turned around.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. Maybe he’d slept on my proposal and decided he was backing out. If he did, the entire plan would crumble before it even began.
“Good morning to you too,” he replied. “Shall we sit?”
We met in the middle of the room, and he stepped aside, offering me that atrocious orange-and-pink settee I’d sat on last time we’d been in this room.
“Thank you, but I think I’ll take the chair.” I sat down on a wingback upholstered with a light-gray fabric. Tristan took the settee, and I laughed nervously at the sight of him balanced on its edge. “The colors complement you.”
“Do they? I’ll remember next time I’m buying a suit—I’ll get one in orange and pink.”
“Is everything all right?” I asked. I didn’t mean to be rude but I couldn’t wait any longer.
“I’m not sure.” He didn’t seem to mind my abrupt change of subject. “Last night, I finally finished going over the textile factory employee lists.”
Textile factory workers. My mother. Amid everything else, I’d forgotten Tristan had taken on this task for me.
Almost involuntarily, I glanced over at the small clock sitting on one of the side tables. Nine thirty-five, it said. Back in Shy, my mother would be checking the taps and getting the beer glasses ready for the day. The stew, which she always set to simmer overnight, would be filling the whole pub with the rich notes of steamed rabbit. I saw myself there, too, pulling out silverware for the noontime customers and folding an endless number of napkins. But that wasn’t right. Only she was there, alone.
Guilt rose in my gut.
“You did?”
“Yes. But it was very strange—there was no record of her.There were plenty of Ediths, but there was no Edith Watkins anywhere.”
I blinked at him. “How is that possible?”
“I don’t know. The records seemed thorough, but perhaps she slipped through the cracks somehow?” Thoughtfully, he tapped his fingers on the side of the settee, his gaze distant. “Or perhaps she worked somewhere else?”
For as long as I could remember, my mother had always said she worked at a textile factory in the city. That was where she’d met my father. That was why she hated the city so much. Yet...
She did keep things from me. She’d never told me who my father was. Never told me about the letters from the bank.
“No, she said it was a textile factory.”
“Could be so,” Tristan said, shrugging. “What did she tell you about it? Did she say anything specific about where it was or what she did there?”
“Yes, she...” I trailed off, realizing I didn’t have anything to finish the sentence with. I thought hard, willing myself to recall something, anything. She must have said something I could remember and hold on to. But nothing came to mind—it had never seemed odd before. I always just thought she didn’t like thinking about the past.
“I wouldn’t worry about it too much.” He placed his hand on my knee. I held still, wanting his hand to stay there forever. “She could’ve very easily worked there and never been recorded.”
