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Dear Molly,

I hatched a plan—to escape the farmhouse. One day, when the laundry van came to take the bags of clean clothes to town and drop off dirty ones, I waited for Mrs.Lynch to approach the driver for payment, and as she counted the bills, I jumped in the back of the van and hid behind the mountain of clean clothes. Fortunately, no one saw me, and when Mrs.Lynch closed the van doors, I knew I had a chance.

As we bumped along the country road, I fumbled in the dark, holding on to my suitcase, which I’d slipped under one of the bags. When the van stopped, I was ready. The doors opened, and the driver grabbed two big bags, bringing them out to a lovely house on a pleasant street in town. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the light, and as the driver chatted with the woman who answered the front door, I made a run for it, suitcase in hand. At seven months pregnant, I was slow and clumsy, but I was determined to make my escape.

Soon enough, I was in the center of the bustling town, asking for the bus station and being eyed suspiciously by the locals, who clearly wondered why a pregnant young girl with a fancy suitcase was traveling by herself. With the little bit of money I still had hidden inside my case, I purchased a ticket that got me all the way to the town closest to home. The return trip took hours, and I gazed out the window, imagining what I would say to Mama and Papa when they opened the manor door.

After more than a half day of travel and a long, lonely walk from the bus station to where Gray Manor was situated on the outskirts of town, I arrived at the familiar front door, exhausted and hungry.

I rang the bell and waited, my speech prepared— Mama, Papa, the farmhouse was a dangerous place. I know you’d never want harm to come my way. That’s why I’ve returned. Please, take pity on me. I’ll do whatever you ask, just let me come home and have this baby.

But when the door swung open, a woman appeared who was most definitely not my mother. Smartly dressed, with a strand of pearls around her neck and her auburn hair in a neat chignon at her nape, she looked familiar and yet I couldn’t quite place her.

“Flora?” she said. “Flora Gray?”

It was then that I realized. “Mrs.Peterson,” I replied. “You’re Percival’s mother. I went to school with your son…for a few months, anyhow.”

“Yes, of course. He told me all about you. He was quite besotted.”

Her eyes traveled to my belly, taking in my condition. My gaze went past her. I fully expected my mother to appear and explain that Mrs.Peterson was there for a ladies’ tea. But that didn’t happen.

“Where’s my mother?” I asked.

“Your mother?” Mrs.Peterson echoed. “I’m afraid no one really knows where your parents are.”

“But…this is Gray Manor,” I said, a certain learned righteousness creeping into my voice.

“Not anymore,” she replied. “The Brauns put it up for sale months ago, and my husband and I were the winning bidders.”

I must have looked about to faint, for Mrs.Peterson reached out a hand to steady me. “You didn’t know,” she said.

Tears threatened to spill from my eyes.

“Please,” she said. “Come in.”

The next thing I knew, I was seated in the parlor of what was no longer my home learning that my parents had forfeited the manor and simply vanished. Rumors abounded about where they’d gone once their fortune was stripped from them. Questions were raised about me, and many of my parents’ former acquaintances, the Petersons included, had heard Mama and Papa had gone to France to meet up with me.

“They said you were at a Parisian finishing school,” she revealed.

It was glaringly obvious that wasn’t the case.

“And how’s Percival?” I asked. “Where is he?”

“At university,” she said. “He went abroad. My son was never a great student, but somehow he passed his entry exams.”

I broke down entirely then, sobbing into my hands. Mrs.Peterson rubbed my back. I confessed where I’d been sent, described the farmhouse and Mrs.Lynch and the girls, how we were worked to the bone.

“I now know how to cook, clean, launder, and raise chickens—all skills I never in my life thought I’d learn.” I alluded to the horrors of the place and the fact that not all mothers and babies made it out alive.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry to hear this,” she said.

“I don’t believe my parents meant to abandon me. They must have sent word, but I never received their letters. Are you sure you don’t know where they are?”

She looked at me with such pity when she said, “Flora, I have no idea. There was a young lad who came by a few weeks ago,” she said. “He said he used to work here. He was asking about you.”

“John Preston,” I said.

“Yes, that’s the name. Is he the—”

“If he comes again, you never saw me,” I said.

She noticed my shaking hands. “Tea?” she asked.

“Please,” I replied. She disappeared into the kitchen, returning with tea and scones. I was so famished I ate mine in two bites.

“Have another,” said Mrs.Peterson, offering me the basket. “I’m not great in the kitchen, but I try.”

“You have no cook?” I asked.

“No cook, no maid, no servants at all. It took everything we had to buy this manor,” she said, smiling tightly. “Flora, what will you do now?”

I stared into my teacup and began to weep yet again. “I don’t know.”

“A girl in your condition doesn’t have many options,” Mrs.Peterson said, pointing out the obvious. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in using your newfound skills.”

I had no idea what she was suggesting. I stared at her, dumbfounded.

“I could use the help,” she added, “in exchange for free room and board.”

“Are you offering me…a job?” I asked.

“I can’t offer you pay, but you said you can cook and clean. Listen, it would only be until the baby was born, but if I’ve offended you—”

“No,” I said. And knowing I had no other options I asked, “How soon can I start?”

—

So it was that I went from being to the manor born to serving as a maid for the new owners. I cleaned and cooked and laundered for the Petersons. And I hid myself in their home as my belly grew and grew.

I had my own room off the kitchen—a spartan chamber that used to be Penelope’s. My old wing upstairs now belonged to Percival, though I never did see him, as he was away at school. Papa’s beautiful library was entirely empty—every last bookshelf bare. Only the main floor of the manor was furnished, for the Brauns had auctioned off all of my parents’ things before selling the property. Mrs.Peterson explained that my parents’ former friends and colleagues had snapped up their antiques and heirlooms, proudly displaying them in their stately homes and relishing telling the tale of how the Grays fell from their high perch and ended in penury.

“It seems the only heirloom left from this estate is the one item I took with me—the Fabergé,” I said.

“The Fabergé?” Mrs.Peterson repeated. “You have it? Your parents made a ruckus about it before leaving. They accused the Brauns of stealing that egg from the manor,” she revealed.

“It was mine. I took it with me when I left. I kept it hidden in the farmhouse.” I then explained about Algernon and our failed engagement and the gift I was left with in the end.

“Would you ever sell it?” Mrs.Peterson asked, her voice lilting on the last two words.

I saw my opportunity, and I took it.

“Of course I’d sell it,” I said. “For the right price.”

“Great,” said Mrs.Peterson. “Give the egg to me, and my husband will find a buyer.”

Molly, I put that egg into Mrs.Peterson’s hands, and a few weeks later, just as my feet began to swell and my back was in pain much of the time, she interrupted my dusting and drew me aside.

“We sold it,” she announced as she pressed an envelope into my hands, “to a writer my husband knows. We received a decent enough price, so the funds in the envelope are yours.”

It was an astonishing sum—a few thousand. I was so desperate that it didn’t even occur to me to ask how much the Petersons had kept for themselves, but I now suspect they made off with a fortune. At the time, it didn’t matter, because that envelope was my lifeline, an answer to my prayers.

My due date was a month away. There was still no sign of my parents. I announced I’d depart in a week’s time, and the Petersons did nothing to stop me. I filled my suitcase with my clothes and Mrs.Mead’s blank diary. I took my envelope of cash, and I left the manor for good. First, I went to town, and then I took a bus into the city, where I rented the cheapest apartment I could find, one that you know very well, Molly, for it is the one you call home to this very day. I deposited my money in a bank account I called the Fabergé for reasons that are probably now quite clear. And through the Petersons, I found a job in the city as a maid for the Astors, well-to-do friends of theirs who’d moved to the urban center.

I worked for a few short weeks; then one day, while I was scrubbing their marble floors, my water broke. They were good enough to take me to a hospital, where I gave birth in a room away from the other, married mothers. While birthing, I held the hand of a total stranger, a nurse who assured me everything would be okay, and in my delirium I would have sworn she was someone I knew.

And so it was that into the world came the most beautiful infant, with dark, tousled hair just like her father’s and porcelain skin much like yours, Molly. And unlike my mother when I was born, I was overjoyed to learn my child was a hale and hearty girl.

“What will you name her?” the kind nurse asked.

“Margaret,” I said. “Maggie for short.”

“A perfect name,” said the nurse, “for a perfect little girl.”

She placed the bundle against my chest, and for the second time in my life, I fell madly in love.