Emma remembered Jane crying, and the smacks and shoves that had usually

accompanied the tears. So she waited, but Bev never hit her, not even

at night when the workmen were gone and they were all alone in the big

house.

Day after day, Emma would cuddle up on the window seat with Charlie and

watch. She liked to pretend that the long, black car was cruising down

the drive, and when it stopped and the door opened, her Dad came out.

Each day when it didn't come, she became more certain it never would. He

had left because he didn't like her, didn't want her. Because she was a

nuisance and b.l.o.o.d.y stupid. She waited for Bev to go away too, and

leave her alone in the big house. Then her mam would come.

WHAT WENT ON in the girl's mind? Bev wondered. From the doorway she

watched as Emma sat in her now habitual position on the window seat. The

child could sit for hours, patient as an old woman. It was rare for her

to play with anything except the ratty old stuffed dog she'd brought

with her. It was rarer still for her to ask for anything.

She'd been in their lives now for almost a month, and Bev was a long way

from resolving her feelings.

Only a few weeks before, her plans had been perfectly laid. She wanted

Brian to succeed, certainly. But more, she wanted to make a home and

family with him.

She'd been raised in the Church of England, in a calm, uppermiddle-cla.s.s

family. Morals, responsibilities, and image had been important parts of

her upbringing. She'd been given a good, solid education with the idea

that she would make a sensible marriage and raise solid, sensible

children.

She had never rebelled, mostly because it had never occurred to her to

rebel. Until Brian.

She knew that although her parents had come to the wedding, they would

never completely forgive her for moving in with Brian and living with

him before marriage. Nor would they ever comprehend why she had chosen

to marry an Irish musician who not only questioned authority but wrote

songs defying it.

There had been no doubt that they had been appalled and baffled by

Brian's illegitimate child, and their daughter's acceptance of her. Yet,

what could she do? The child existed.

Bev loved her parents. A part of her would always desperately want

their approval. But she loved Brian more, so much more that it was

sometimes terrifying. And the child was his. Whatever she had wanted,

whatever her plans had been, that meant the child was now hers as well.

It was difficult to look at Emma and not feel something. She wasn't a

child who faded into the woodwork no matter how quiet and un.o.btrusive

she tried to be. It was her looks, certainly. Those same elegantly

angelic looks of her father. More, it was that sense of innocence, an

innocence that was in itself a miracle considering how the child had

lived the first three years of her life. An innocence, and an

acceptance, Bev thought. She knew if she walked into the room right

now, shouting, slapping, Emma would tolerate the abuse with barely a

whimper. That struck Bev as more tragic than the miserable poverty

she'd been saved from.