Chapter 18: The Hearth Fund

My mother stood up in the front row.

She smoothed the front of her black dress, and she smiled at two hundred people.

"Lydia has had an exhausting fortnight," she said. "We'll all forgive a little theater."

Nobody smiled back.

Above the stage hung a long cream banner with gold lettering.

It said, THE HEARTH FUND, FOR CHILDREN OF THE HOUSEHOLD, IN MEMORY OF HENRY ALDERCOTT.

My mother had founded it herself, eleven years ago.

Every spring she gave a speech about kindness to the people who keep a house running.

"Mother," I said. "Gwen is Father's daughter, and you've known since she was a week old."

"This is not the place."

"You said it at your own table."

"That was family."

"Then say it here. Did you know?"

The tent was so quiet I could hear a moth beat against a lantern.

My mother looked at the guests, and the guests looked back.

"I knew," she said at last.

"And you made Maud keep her out of the house for twenty-four years."

"Maud was paid very well."

A voice said from the back of the tent, "I was paid to keep my daughter on a wall."

Everyone turned.

Maud Cuyler stood in the tent opening in her grey housekeeper's dress.

Her hair was pinned flat under its net, and her hands hung at her sides.

I had never seen her walk into a room on purpose.

She came down the aisle between two hundred chairs, and Gwen's mouth opened, and nothing came out.

Maud took the microphone from my hand.

"I've kept my mouth shut for twenty-six years," she said. "Tonight I'm going to open it."

"Maud," my mother said sharply. "Sit down."

"No, madam."

It was the first time in her life she had said it to my mother.

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