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  She kept calling him “Sergeant.” Was that his name? He could not think. His mind felt so foggy. And there was something about the way she spoke, something strange.

  “You’re in a British field hospital. You’ve been wounded.” The nurse hesitated a moment, then continued, “Nod your head if you can understand what I’m saying, Sergeant.”

  He nodded his head, though he could make little sense from her words. They seemed to dance through his mind and then disappear before he could lay hold of them. Strange how he could hear her and understand her, and at the same time understand nothing at all.

  “You lost your identification in the battle. We don’t know who you are. There seems to be no record of you.” When he did not respond, she raised her voice. “Can you tell me your name? What regiment are you from?”

  A dull drumbeat sounded at the very back of his consciousness. Steadily it grew louder, until he realized it was not a sound at all, but rather a pain. A dull agony that beat to the steady rhythm of his heart.

  Another voice approached the end of his bed, one that spoke with authority. “Any word who he is?”

  “Not yet, doctor. He seems to just come and go.”

  “Just as well.” The deep voice spoke with clipped brusqueness. “No need to have him awake enough to feel his leg.”

  His leg. As though the words were a cue, he felt the dull beat of pain center down to his left leg. It did not hurt too badly yet. But there was something about the pain that scared him, even in his confused state. As though the pain was only the slightest hint of what was to come.

  The terse voice demanded, “Any word from HQ?”

  “Yessir. Still no idea who he is.”

  “Well, let’s see what we can do about this leg. There probably was a letter in his back pocket, but the scraps that are left don’t tell us anything. We can worry about his identity later.” The deep voice drew nearer. “Help me shift his bandages so I can have a look.”

  Harry felt movements around him. Then the pain focused. It became not just a feeling, but a white-hot light. He groaned.

  “How long has it been since his last injection, nurse?”

  “Just under two hours.”

  “Well, no need to chafe him any more than necessary. Hurry and give him the morphine before we go any further.”

  Hurry. Harry. The pain shot through the fog in his mind, bringing every thought into crystal clarity. Perhaps that was his name. But maybe it was the name of someone else, another friend out there in the heat and the dust and the war. He wanted to speak, to ask if he was the Harry or the other guy. Then he felt the needle’s jab, and soon a new wave of confusion swept through him. He did not mind. The pain receded with the sound of his heart, until it was nothing more than a shadow on the distant horizon of his consciousness.

  The last words he heard were, “Now let’s see if we can save this leg.”

  The administrator of Baltimore General Hospital stepped into Dr. Howard Austin’s office. “Got a minute?”

  “No.” He did not want to be disturbed. Packing up and preparing for his departure was harder than Howard Austin had expected.

  But the administrator did not move. His normally unflappable calm had deserted him. “I told you, leave all that. We’ll just lock the office up and hold it for your return.”

  Howard finally said the words that surrounded him, clawing at his throat until it was hard to breathe. “And what if I don’t come back?”

  Instead of arguing, the administrator slumped in defeat. “Howard, this is a terrible time to be asking, but I need a favor.”

  “You are joking.”

  “I wish I were.”

  “My train leaves in exactly”—he glanced at his watch, then continued—“four hours.”

  But the administrator still did not budge. “You know the baby you delivered yesterday morning.”

  “The Grimes girl?” His attention finally shifted to the man standing in his doorway. “What about her?”

  “We’ve been in contact for quite some time with a couple who wants to adopt a baby girl.” It was the administrator’s turn to avoid Howard’s gaze. “They want to speak with the doctor in charge of the birth and prenatal care. They insist on it.”

  His movements stilled, Howard demanded, “What are you not telling me?”

  “This couple,” the administrator said, with a sigh, “they’re, well . . .”

  “Rich,” Howard guessed, his tone flat.

  “You know we urgently require donors to keep going and buy new equipment,” the administrator replied, his voice rising defensively. “They’ve offered to help build our new wing if we find them a proper baby.”

  A proper baby.

  “How much?”

  “Half a million dollars,” the administrator replied, awestruck. “No strings attached.”

  Right, no strings—but a baby.

  Howard rose to his feet and started toward the door. Despite all he faced, he very much wanted to meet this pair. He had a deep feeling of obligation to Martha and her baby. The baby she had refused to see. She knew that once her eyes settled on her baby girl, she would never be strong enough to carry out her resolve. It would be so much easier for her to know that her child had been well placed. “Where are they?”

  The hospital entrance was a product of a bygone era, a tall, swooping dome of brick, crowned by brass lights. The floors were marble and worn into soft waves. The wooden walls probably had once been very grand, but now looked faded and in dire need of varnish. Howard was halfway down the stairs when he drew to a halt, his attention caught by the Rolls Royce automobile. Just outside the glass-topped entrance doors, a uniformed chauffeur stood patiently beside the long, low-slung vehicle.

  The administrator backed up a step to ask nervously, “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” Howard started forward once more. “Let’s get this over with.”

  He passed through the long corridor too quickly, granting him little time to form some kind of picture of what this couple might be like. Old? Young? Dark? Fair? Tall? Short? Just where was he sending Martha’s little girl?

  The administrator pushed open a door, and Howard found himself face-to-face with the prospective parents. One quick sweep was enough to work a knot in his stomach. The woman was as erect and cold as the Statue of Liberty. She stood by her husband’s side, gazing at the baby with an expression of utter bafflement. The husband was big and gray and hearty, his face creased by unbounded joy as he cradled the little one in clumsy yet gentle arms.

  At the sound of their footsteps, the woman stiffened even further. “Lawrence.”

  “What, oh—excellent.” The big man took a step forward. “You the doctor?”

  “That’s right. Howard Austin.”

  “I’m Lawrence Rothmore. This is my wife, Abigail.”

  “Charmed.” The woman’s single word was as cool as her demeanor. As she adjusted the mink stole draped about her neck, the double strand of pearls was fully revealed and the diamond on her finger glinted in the light. “Don’t you think we should speak with the doctor alone, dear?”

  “Sure, sure.” He gave the administrator a hearty smile. “You don’t mind if we have a quiet chat with the doc here, do you? Sorry, doc, I’ve forgotten your name already.”

  “Austin. Howard Austin.”

  “No, no, of course not.” The administrator gave the couple a little half-bow, followed by a look of genuine entreaty to Howard. Then he backed from the room. “I’ll just be in my office.”

  The woman turned her full attention on Howard. “Doctor, can you assure us this is a proper baby?”

  The directness took his breath away. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Proper,” the woman repeated, drawing out the word in an exaggerated fashion. “A proper baby. Not one from—well, pardon me, doctor, but we don’t know a thing about the family, do we?”

  “Abigail,” her husband said. But the word did not carry heat. His attention remained focused upo
n the tiny child in his arms. “The administrator has already told us—”

  “The administrator wants our money,” she replied crisply. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with wanting to know that our baby is healthy and comes from parents who aren’t, well, deranged or anything.”

  Howard Austin’s sudden anger brought a grating depth to his voice. “The baby’s mother is one of the finest women I have ever known.”

  Abigail Rothmore faltered momentarily under the doctor’s glare but managed to draw herself together to demand, “And the father?”

  “Sergeant Harry Grimes,” Howard Austin began, and then stopped. He had broken one of the primary rules governing adoption, which was to never let the adopting couple know the names of the parents.

  “Yes, doctor?”

  Howard Austin sighed. Put it up to the day’s stress and strain. “He was killed on the North African front.”

  “Hey, that’s tough.” The gentleman lifted his graying head at the news. He was an older man, and probably had twenty years on his society wife. Genuine sympathy shone from his face. “How is the mother holding up?”

  “Not well.” There was a sincerity to the gentleman that the woman lacked. Howard focused his attention on Lawrence Rothmore. It was easier than allowing himself to think of Martha Grimes, lying upstairs in a private room. She had been moved out of the obstetrics wing, where her sobs had been upsetting the other mothers and newborn babies. “Not well at all. She’s young and doesn’t feel that she can take care of the child on her own. But that doesn’t make it any easier to give Katie up for adoption.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry to hear that.” The man had the gruff voice of a hale and hearty type, big across the shoulders and a paunch from good living. “Think maybe we could help out?”

  “I’m sorry,” Abigail interrupted. “Did you say the child’s name is Katie?”

  “It’s nice of you to offer,” Howard responded to the husband, “but actually I was breaking the law in mentioning the father’s name. Besides, she’ll hopefully have a war pension coming to her.” He then turned to Abigail and continued, “Katherine is the name given by the birth mother. But you have the right to change that if you wish. Just as the child’s birth certificate will list you as the actual parents.”

  Both adults showed genuine relief. Lawrence Rothmore spoke first. “I’d sure like Katie to think of us as her real parents.”

  The man, Howard noticed, had an unhealthy flush to his complexion. Too much rich food, high blood pressure, and not enough exercise. Definitely a heart patient in the making. “That is entirely your choice.”

  “Let me just be perfectly clear on this point,” the woman said, her cool aloofness fully restored. “You are saying that there is no chance that some pestering journalist might ferret out details sometime in the future?”

  “None at all,” Howard replied, understanding her perfectly. “If you want to claim to all the world that you have borne this child, that is your decision.”

  “It’s just like Randolf told us. The secret lives and dies with us,” Lawrence concluded. He added for the doctor’s benefit, “Randolf Crawley, he’s our lawyer. My wife’s cousin. Getting on in years, but sharp as they come.”

  Abigail fingered her pearls and murmured, “I still say we would be better off selecting a proper male heir.”

  “We’ve been through all that,” Lawrence said, hugging the baby closer to his chest. “If you want to adopt a second child—”

  “Simply out of the question.” Abigail’s tone closed that door permanently.

  “I want a baby daughter.” There was a sudden power to his voice, a revealing of the force that had carried him to the top. “And that’s final.”

  Abigail opened her mouth, must have thought better of it, and changed tack. “Very well,” she said. “But this name, Katie, simply won’t do. I mean, really, it’s just too—well, too ordinary.”

  As swiftly as the man’s power had been revealed, it vanished. Lawrence Rothmore’s attention returned to the little bundle sleeping in his arms, and his features softened. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Kyle,” Abigail announced. “It was my maternal grandmother’s name, as you know. And Elizabeth from my mother.”

  “Kyle Elizabeth Rothmore.” He nodded his head. “Sounds good to me.”

  Howard Austin glanced at his watch and gave a start. Where had the time gone? “If you’ll just step into the administrator’s office, he will have the papers ready for you to sign.”

  “Yeah, he mentioned you were off today for a year’s duty.” Lawrence Rothmore allowed himself to be ushered across the foyer. “Any idea where?”

  “Three months’ surgical duty on a hospital boat—after that is anybody’s guess.”

  “Well, good luck to you, doc. And thanks. Thanks a million.”

  Or half a million. Howard accepted the man’s hand, while he returned the woman’s perfunctory nod. He then raced back up the stairs. But instead of heading for his office and the pile of unfinished paper work, he continued up to where Martha Grimes lay on the third-floor private wing. It was the least he could do, a last gift to a woman for whom he wished he could do more. A lot more.

  Perhaps it would help her to know that little Kyle Rothmore was going to receive everything that Martha herself could not give.

  2

  “NOW, BERTIE, DON’T YOU DARE drop them.”

  “No, Miss Kyle, I wouldn’t dream of it.” Bertrand Ames shut the manor’s tall oak door, which was difficult given the load he carried, and turned sideways to make sure Kyle Rothmore, nearly three, was coping with the broad flagstone stairs. Her two teddies kept her from seeing the steps. “You be careful, now,” he cautioned in return.

  If anyone had ever suggested to Bertrand Ames that his job would include responsibility for the well-being of a Raggedy Ann doll, three stuffed bunny rabbits, and an enormous pink elephant, he would have turned in his resignation on the spot. But here he was, taking the curving front steps very slowly, so as to be there in case his small charge lost her balance. The doll and stuffed animals were crammed together in a colorful bundle up against the chest of his immaculate uniform.

  And then Jim, the head gardener, chose that moment to come around the corner of the house. As with all the servants, Jim answered directly to Bertrand Ames. Jim was a fine gardener but an impossible man to deal with. He had an acid wit and complained with every breath he drew. It did not help that Bertrand and his wife were, like all the staff, relatively new to the Rothmore household. For some unknown reason, the entire household staff had been fired and new people hired three years ago. He and his wife had come shortly after that. At times Bertrand still felt as though he were struggling to establish his authority and position.

  It would not do at all for the gardener to go back to the kitchen and start making caustic remarks at Bertrand’s expense. Dignity was a vital part of his position.

  Bertrand wore three hats within the Rothmore household—butler, chauffeur, and head of the household staff. He managed the tasks by rising before dawn, working hard all day, and keeping himself aloof from the other staff. His habitual expression was a disapproving frown. As Jim walked toward them, Bertrand prepared a frosty response to any remarks about his unusual bundle.

  But Jim did not pay him any mind at all. Instead he doffed his ancient cap and gave a creaky bow. “Morning, Miss Kyle. Great day for going out and about.”

  “I’m taking Mr. and Mrs. Teddy for a drive,” she announced.

  “Now ain’t that a grand thing.” He hustled over to the gleaming Rolls and opened the front door.

  “Bertie has all their friends so they won’t get lonely,” Kyle continued.

  Bertrand winced at the announcement. Only Maggie, his wife and the Rothmores’ head chef, called him Bertie. But like all the servants, Maggie’s heart had long been lost to the charms of this child. Their own children were long gone, grown up and off leading their own lives.

  Bertrand read
ied his coolest voice, preparing for the snide comment on his nickname Jim was bound to offer. But to his surprise, the gardener only nodded and agreed. “Always a good thing to have your friends around.”

  Bertrand stepped forward and began settling his load onto the front seat’s posh leather. Kyle handed him the teddies. “Thank you, Bertie.”

  The gardener had eyes only for the little girl. He asked eagerly, “Anything I can do, Miss Kyle?”

  She gave that one careful thought. “They might get a little cold.”

  “There’s a lap blanket in the trunk,” Bertrand said cautiously, handing him the key.

  “Right you are.” The old man scurried around, came swiftly back with the checkered alpaca cover. “Want me to set it in place?”

  Bertrand reached over. “I’ll take that, thank you.”

  “I was the one got it out.”

  “That will do, James.” There was a momentary tug of war before seniority won out and Bertrand had the privilege of tucking the blanket around the row of fuzzy passengers. He backed out and straightened. “Will that do, Miss Kyle?”

  Inspecting the arrangement meant climbing onto the Rolls’ running board and peering inside. The action hiked her little skirt up high enough to reveal the row of blue ribbons in her pantaloons, ones that matched the pair in her honey-colored hair. “Does Mrs. Teddy have room to breathe?”

  The question required both Jim and Bertrand to fit in around Kyle. They gave the passengers a careful examination before Bertrand repositioned the pink elephant over closer to his seat. Then he solemnly proclaimed, “I feel certain Mrs. Teddy will be most comfortable, Miss Kyle.”

  “Yep,” Jim agreed. “Looks mighty fine to me.” He retreated, waited until Kyle had climbed down and straightened her skirt, then asked, “Seems I’ve heard talk about some big day coming up, Miss Kyle?”

  “My birthday,” she announced proudly. “Mama says we’re gonna have a party.”