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Great-uncle Richard made no more mention of the cottage to me that week. I began to wonder if I hadn't imagined it all or if he had changed his mind. Mary Margaret returned to work the next day, but she looked pale and sickly to me. When I asked her how she was, she said, "Fine," quickly and left it at that. Any more questions seemed to make her paler, more frightened. She looked like she would burst into tears if I dared pursue her.

I suppose it was quite different between Randall and me at school: he looked like he would burst into tears every time he tried to talk to me. Some of my anger and reaction to him was caused by my own indecision concerning my father. If it weren't for Randall's insistent search for him, I wouldn't be faced with this emotional and psychological crisis, I thought. I blamed him and yet thanked him in my mind. He kept away, just off to the side, just behind me in the halls, waiting for a look or a word of forgivenes

s.

Finally, on Saturday morning, I decided I would forgive him and I would tell him about my father's invitation to high tea on Sunday. After breakfast chores, I decided I would surprise him and suggest we do something together that afternoon. Actually, all I wanted to do was take a nice walk in Kensington Gardens and talk. We could buy some sandwiches and something to drink and sit on a bench. It was a beautiful day with few clouds and lots of blue sky. There was a warmer breeze, too. I did love the fresh, clean smell that followed precipitation here.

Buoyed by the weather and my own willingness to be forgiving, I practically skipped along the streets. I knew Randall slept late on Saturday and would surely be just rising.

"They make us get up so early for class," he always complained. Sleeping late on the weekends was his way of getting revenge on the school.

The dormitory was very quiet, not a soul in sight. My own footsteps were the loudest noise, echoing off the walls and in the corridors. I conjured up Randall's look of surprise when I appeared in his room. I was looking forward to settling myself in the crook of his arm, my head on his shoulder, and just talking about my feelings, the events of the past week, and my fears, of course. It was hard talking to no one but yourself. After a while you grew tired of the sound of your own voice. Your head turned into an echo chamber and you knew every answer to every question before it was even asked.

Loneliness is a solitary bird lost in a northern wind flapping its wings desperately in search of its flock, its call to the other birds falling to earth. How cold and gray the world would look even on days without any clouds.

It was time to stop being such a lone bird, I thought. My anger had become a heavy chain around my ankles, slowing me down, keeping me from soaring alongside someone I needed.

I paused at Randall's door and listened. It was deadly quiet. For a moment I was afraid he had gotten up and left. It was that fear that stopped me from knocking. If I had, I might have been able to remain ignorant. Sometimes, ignorance can be bliss.

I reached for the knob and turned it, happy he had left his door unlocked. I opened it quickly and stepped into his room, hoping to find him curled up in his bed, still asleep. I'd wake him with a kiss of forgiveness and he would smile with happiness in his eyes.

Instead, my heart stopped and started. Leslie opened her eyes immediately. Randall was next to her, still asleep. "Mon Dieu!" Leslie cried.

Randall opened his eyes and groaned.

"Huh?"

"Good morning, cherie," Leslie said, sitting up. She had no inhibitions about revealing her nudity.

Randall rubbed his eyes and lifted his head. His mouth opened and closed without a sound emerging.

The sight had nailed my feet to the floor. I wanted to turn and run, but for a long moment, I couldn't move.

"Rain," he finally said, sitting up on his elbows.

"You must not be angry, cherie," Leslie said. "I am here only to cheer him up. He's been so sad because of you," she said, making a pouting, despondent face. "I felt pity for him."

"I see," I said. I glared at Randall. "Did she cheer you up, cherie?"

"Rain, you wouldn't talk to me all week and..."

"Looks like my instincts were right. Don't let me stop you, Leslie. Keep cheering him up. You can cheer him up to hell for all I care," I added, spun around and left, slamming the door behind me. The sound was like a bullet bouncing off the walls. I hurried down the steps before Randall or Leslie could follow. In seconds, I burst out of the dormitory and practically ran all the way to the park, nearly getting hit by a car twice on street corners. Even after all this time here, I still occasionally forgot on which side of the road they drove their cars.

I wasn't crying about Randall so much as I was crying about myself, about my innocence and faith, about my gullibility and my foolish blind hope. How many lessons in human nature did I need before I learned that trust was as rare as an unflawed diamond? Maybe that was why they named one of the biggest and best the Hope Diamond. From now on, I would confide in someone only as a last resort. Never again would I open my heart to anyone.

The tears that streaked my face were bitter tasting. I whipped them off my cheeks with flicks of my hands and dropped myself onto a park bench, folding my arms under my bosom and glaring ahead.

Who did I have here? A great-uncle and greataunt who didn't even know I was related to them and who might pass out from the shock of it if they were ever told? Fellow servants in a house run by Frankenstein? Some nice teachers at the school who nevertheless maintained their professional aloofness, gazing down at me with judgmental eyes? And yes, of course, a father who learned practically yesterday that I existed and nearly turned inside out with the revelation.

Go home, Rain, I told myself. Get on the first plane you can and go home. If you're going to be a servant, be one for Grandmother Hudson. All of a sudden, I burst into hot tears, tears spilled for her and for Jake and for the memory of Mama.

"Are you all right, dear?" a small, elderly lady with a rather ridiculously wide brimmed hat asked. She had a pearl-handled cane.

"What? Oh. Yes," I said slapping my palms to my cheeks to smother the tears. "Thank you."

"How can anyone be sad on such a beautiful day?" she asked with a smile. "And someone so young, too? Whatever it is, my dear, it will pass. You know what time is? It's a big eraser on the end of a pencil. It will clear away your sadness. You'll see," she predicted.

I smiled at her.