Page 31 of The Hidden Daughter (The Lost Daughters #7)

‘I hate doing this to you, Amalie, you know how fond we are of you and how special Oskar was to us,’ Rachel said. ‘I wish we could have had you to stay for longer.’

Amalie forced a smile as they stood awkwardly by the door, her suitcase at her heel and a bag slung over her shoulder.

Rachel had packed a fresh loaf of bread for her as if she was seeing her off on a picnic, and kept talking as if they would be great friends who’d see each other again soon, but Amalie was no fool.

This woman wanted her out of her house before there was even a hint of scandal, and she couldn’t imagine what Oskar’s mother had said in her letter.

‘Thank you for having me,’ Amalie said politely, biting her tongue when it came to what else she’d like to say.

‘You’ll be discreet now, won’t you?’ Rachel said. ‘No one else needs to know about your, how should I put it—well, the unfortunate predicament you find yourself in. Helen here tells me that the place you’re going to is excellent, and that you’ll be back on your feet in no time.’

This time it was harder to fix her smile.

She wanted to scream that she was pregnant, not suffering from the plague, and that the baby growing inside her was as wanted as the four children who were galloping around the house behind their mother.

But she didn’t. If Oskar had been there, she would have given Rachel a piece of her mind, but Amalie knew she couldn’t afford to burn any bridges, not now.

‘Helen will see you there, and perhaps we could see you after…’ Her words lingered, and Amalie spared her the need to continue.

‘I understand. Thank you again.’

Rachel gave her a pat on the shoulder and then Amalie left, grateful that they’d at least given her use of their maid and car to transport her there.

She was embarrassed enough about where she was going, wondering if people watched this Hope’s House to see who arrived.

In the night, she’d imagined married women throwing rotten fruit at the young, unwed women who arrived with bulging bellies, even though she’d known it was likely her overactive imagination.

When they finally arrived, Amalie stared out of the window in surprise.

They were in a quiet street surrounded by well-kept homes, and the one they were parked outside of was the nicest of them all.

A small, discreet sign stating ‘Hope’s House’ was the only indication that it was any different to the other homes on the street, and she found herself staring at the magnolia tree.

Despite almost all the other trees on the street losing their leaves at this time of year, it was still covered in lush green leaves.

‘This is the place?’ Amalie asked.

‘This is it,’ Helen said. ‘Didn’t I tell you it would be nice?’

Amalie got out of the car and stared up at the house, admiring the bay windows upstairs.

It was the kind of home she’d read about in books, where she might have imagined she and Oskar would end up raising their family if they’d stayed in England, but certainly not what she imagined a house catering for unmarried women might be like.

‘Thank you, Helen,’ she said, giving her a big, warm hug, the opposite of the pathetic back pat that she’d given Rachel. ‘I’m here because of you, and I’ll never forget your kindness when I needed you most.’

Amalie took her luggage from the car and waved Helen goodbye, but she didn’t walk straight to the door.

Instead, she stood and stared up at the house, before going to sit on the steps.

She needed a moment; to accept that this was her fate, that Oskar wasn’t coming for her, that it was just her and her baby alone in the world now.

A shudder ran down her spine as she imagined the reaction from whoever was behind the door, the way she was going to be looked at and treated, and then she glanced down at the ring on her finger—a promise of what was supposed to come.

Why did you have to leave me, Oskar?

The door opened behind her, and Amalie quickly stood, smoothing the creases from her dress and preparing herself for the worst. But the woman standing there was as unexpected as the house itself.

‘Would you like to come in?’ the woman said, with the faintest lilt of an accent. She was perhaps twenty years older than Amalie, her hair pulled back into a soft bun and wearing an expression that was more one of kindness than judgement. ‘If you’d rather sit a while longer, that’s perfectly fine.’

‘I—’ Amalie started, immediately feeling emotional and having to blink away tears. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘Well,’ the woman said, coming closer and holding out her hand. ‘You could come in for a cup of tea and start by telling me what led you to my door.’

‘I don’t have to stay?’ Amalie asked. ‘If I come in—’

‘You can stay here for as little or as long as you like,’ the woman said. ‘Or you don’t have to come in at all, we could just sit on the steps here for a bit if you’d prefer. But it’s much more comfortable inside.’

Amalie smiled. ‘You’re Hope, aren’t you?’

‘I am,’ Hope said. ‘And it’s just me and another young woman here at the moment, so there’s nothing to be nervous about.’

‘I’m Amalie,’ she said, taking the hand that Hope was still holding out to her. Hope’s palm was soft, and her clasp was firm yet gentle.

‘Well, Amalie, how about I take your luggage for you, and we can go and get that cup of tea on?’ she said. ‘I have some baking just out of the oven, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s that most young pregnant women love a little something sweet.’

Amalie smiled through her tears, immediately warming to this woman who was inviting her into her home. She paused before walking through the door, looking up, sensing in the strangest of ways that she was, somehow, exactly where she was supposed to be, and that Oskar was looking down on her.

The house was warm and comfortable, and Amalie found herself seated at a table in the kitchen, watching as Hope moved about and made them tea, with the promised baked goods placed in front of her.

‘I can’t pick out your accent, Amalie. Where are you from?’

‘Norway,’ she said.

‘And what brings you to England? Have you lived here for long?’

Hope sat down across from her and poured the tea.

‘My fiancé was supposed to meet me here,’ Amalie said. ‘It was to be a fresh start, we were to be married when he arrived but he, well—’

Hope’s eyes met hers.

‘The plane he was travelling on crashed. There were no survivors.’

Hope’s hand covered hers, and she found herself crying into her teacup over this stranger’s kindness.

‘I can’t go home, my father wouldn’t allow it, and even if he would, they don’t have the means to support me,’ she said, trying to keep her voice even. ‘And his family never liked me. It’s why we were coming here in the first place.’

‘I think I read about the crash in the newspaper,’ Hope said. ‘It was a small plane that left from Oslo.’

Amalie nodded. ‘Do you still have the paper, by any chance?’ she asked. ‘I would like to keep the clipping, just so I…’ Her voice trailed off. ‘It sounds silly, but reading about it might help me to accept his death.’

Hope rose immediately, disappearing for a few minutes and leaving Amalie to compose herself and take a sip of tea. She’d always preferred coffee, but after the weeks she’d spent in England now, she was starting to get used to it.

‘Here it is,’ Hope said when she returned. ‘Would you like me to cut it out for you?’

‘Please,’ Amalie said, as goose pimples covered her skin just at the sight of the newsprint.

They sat in silence while Hope took out a pair of scissors and deftly cut the article out, folding it in half and placing it on the table between them.

‘You know, every young woman who comes through my door and sits at this table has a story,’ Hope said.

‘Most have been let down by a man whom they thought loved them. Some have lost the love of their life in circumstances like yours, where they’ve found themselves pregnant before they were married.

But the common theme is that each and every one of them has had their heart broken. ’

Amalie listened, not sure whether it made her feel better or worse to know that she wasn’t alone.

‘But the one thing I can tell you is that everything will be all right. It might not seem that way now, and it certainly doesn’t mean that the path ahead will be without pain, but I promise that you will get through this. Not without pain and sadness, but life will be better again one day.’

‘What happens if I stay here?’ Amalie said, her lower lip trembling as she asked the question.

Hope’s smile was kind as she leaned forward. ‘It means that you will be safe and cared for. Most of the young women who give birth here ask me to find a family to adopt their baby, but that’s your decision. You will never be forced to do anything you don’t want to do here, and that’s a promise.’

‘So, you would let me give birth here and keep my baby?’ Amalie asked, barely recognising her own voice, it was so quiet. ‘If that’s what I wanted?’

‘Something I’ve come to realise is that this world can be so cruel to women,’ Hope said. ‘We have choices taken away from us, we have decisions made for us, and for the handful or two of women who walk through my door each year, I treat them with the respect and dignity I wish I’d been shown.’

Amalie met her gaze, understanding what this kind, sweet woman was trying to tell her. If she’d been braver, she would have asked her what she meant, but then Amalie had the feeling too that if Hope had wanted to say more, then she would have.

‘Do most of the women who give birth choose adoption?’ Amalie asked. ‘Am I mad for thinking that I might be able to raise this baby on my own?’

‘You’re not mad,’ Hope said, shaking her head. ‘Don’t ever think that makes you mad. It makes you a mother, and it means that you have a heart.’

Amalie stared out of the window, at the pretty garden that was slightly overgrown but somehow still incredibly charming. ‘Why is it that men can make mistakes and be forgiven, but a woman makes one bad decision, and she is shunned or made to relive the consequences over and over?’

‘Because,’ Hope said, rising and pushing her chair back against the table, ‘we live in a man’s world. Which is precisely why I’ll be helping young women who need me until my very last breath.’

Hope beckoned for her to rise, and when she did, she looked pointedly at the luggage sitting in the doorway to the kitchen. ‘Shall we take these things upstairs, or do you need some time to think about whether you’d like to stay or not?’

A sense of calm passed over Amalie, and for the very first time since she’d left home to travel to England, she didn’t need to wrestle with her decision.

‘Yes, I would like to stay, if you’ll have me, that is,’ Amalie replied. ‘I know I’ve only just met you, but I feel safe here, and I’m well used to working, so you’ll have to let me pay my board in cleaning and such.’

‘Amalie, I thought I told you, I don’t expect—’

‘I insist,’ she said. ‘Besides, it’s the very least I can do. Sitting idle will only remind me of my Oskar. I need to keep my mind occupied.’

‘Very well then,’ Hope said, carrying the largest piece of luggage up the stairs ahead of her to a room that looked over the garden, with a big bay window and blue gingham curtains that were tied back with a matching bow.

The room was warm and flooded with light, with a bed on one side and a small writing desk and an armchair on the other. And somehow, it immediately felt like home.

It was at that small desk that Amalie sat once Hope had left her to settle in, taking out the newspaper clipping and slowly unfolding it. There was no photo, for which she was thankful, but reading about the crash left her with her fist pressed to her mouth and tears streaming down her cheeks.

Oskar was gone, she finally understood that, but this Hope’s House was her second chance, and even though her grief felt like it was ripping straight through her body and threatening to tear her in half, she knew that she had to make the most of it.

For her baby, this might be the one and only opportunity they were given to stay together, whether that was for a few days, a week or a month.

I’ll do everything I can for our child, Oskar. If there’s a way for us to stay together, there’s nothing I won’t do to make that happen.

I promise.