And through it all, whenever they passed in the hall, Beatrice would pass Howard little notes. I know you love me, she wrote. I know you will marry me when I bear you a son.

When the time came late the following spring, a midwife from the village was summoned by Clem. The family sat in the parlor, listening to Beatrice’s screams from below. But they said not a word, uttered not a single comment-not even when they heard the cries of the newborn. Finally the midwife came upstairs to give the master of the house the news that his servant girl had given birth to a boy. His name was Malcolm. Desmond Young paid the woman, and she left without another word between them.

But in the months that followed, the careful façade they’d all been maintaining crumbled.

The child simply looked too much like Howard. He had the same blond hair, the same cleft to his baby chin. Howard’s mother even removed the baby photograph of her son from the mantelpiece, so uncanny was the resemblance to the child downstairs in the servants’ quarters. As the summer progressed, the resemblance only became more apparent. It was the eyes that clinched it. As Beatrice performed her chores, the infant strapped to her back like an Indian papoose, family members had to look away. It was as if Howard himself were staring at them from the child’s eyes.

Finally someone had to say something.

“I suspect,” Desmond Young intoned one day toward the end of the summer, calling Howard once again into his study, “if I asked Beatrice to show me the child’s foot he’d have a similar crescent birthmark to the one you have yourself.”

Howard could no longer deny such an obvious reality. The child was his. Everyone knew it. He remained silent, his chin on his chest, standing in front of his father’s desk.

“You will have to marry her, you know,” Mr. Young said.

Douglas’s eyes darted up to his father. “You mean…you’d accept her as my wife?”

“What choice do I have?” The older man let out an impatient sigh. “The child will grow up, announcing his paternity simply by walking into a room. The girl will have all the ammunition she needs if she decides to blackmail you-or me-simply by showing people her son.”

“But if I marry her-”

Desmond Young frowned. “It is not a case of ‘if.’ You will marry her, Howard. But you will have forfeited your place in this family.”

“What do you mean?” Howard asked. Desperation was surging up his throat.

“I will find you a house in Bangor,” his father told him. “But that is where my largesse will end. You will need to get a job to support the family you have made for yourself. I know jobs are difficult to come by these days. There’s a Depression out there for people less fortunate than us. You’ll have to find your way best you can.”

“You mean…you’re disinheriting me?”

“That is precisely what I mean.”

“Please, no, Papa. I have such plans. I have great ambition…”

His father scowled. “You should have thought of that before you started sniffing around the scullery.”

“Please, Papa! Don’t do this!”

But pleading was useless. His father ordered him out of the study. Howard walked down the corridor, stunned. He tried to force his brain to work, to find a way out of this terrible predicament.

I’ve got to make Beatrice go away, he thought to himself.

He pulled open the doorway to the basement and headed down the stairs into the servants’ quarters.

He spotted Beatrice heading into her room with the child. He watched through the open door as she laid him in his crib. He’d never so much as held the child. He had kept his distance. Beatrice had fallen quiet around him. The notes had ended. She had either accepted the situation or was simply biding her time, waiting until the moment was right to make her demands of him.

But he had come to make a demand of her.

“Beatrice,” he said, standing in her doorway.

“Howard!” she said, her eyes lighting up at the sight of him. She still loved him. He could see that.

He entered the room, closing the door behind him. What they had to discuss was private. Very private.

“I have missed you so much,” she told him. “But I have tried to be discreet.”

“It is no longer a tenable situation,” he said brusquely. “My father knows the truth. And he has insisted I marry you.”

Beatrice’s face beamed her joy. “Oh, my darling!” She threw open her arms and moved toward him as if to embrace him, but Howard pushed her away.

“I cannot marry you,” he said. “I would be throwing away my entire future. My father plans to disinherit me.”

“Oh, but I don’t care about money,” she said. “I will make you a wonderful wife. I love you so, Howard. And Malcolm needs you. He needs a father.”

Howard fumed. “No! Don’t you see? We would be paupers! The entire world is spiraling down in a depression. There are no jobs! I would lose my place in the family inheritance. I wouldn’t be able to go to Yale as my brother Douglas did! I’m just eighteen years old, Beatrice! I can’t just throw away my life!”

Her eyes filled with tears. “What of my life? More importantly, what about the life of your son?”

“I am making you the same offer I made before. Promise me you’ll go away and take the child with you. I will send you money. I will make sure you are provided for. But you must write a letter to my father promising you will never, ever, come back into our lives. You will keep the secret of Malcolm’s paternity for all of your life, including from him.”

“You’re asking me to never tell my son his father’s name?”

“That is exactly what I am asking. You must understand my situation here. It is the only choice we have.”

Beatrice’s expression hardened. “No. It is not the only choice. You could marry me.” She folded her arms across her chest and stood her ground. “I am not leaving this house except as your wife.”

In that instant, Howard knew she would never go away. She would never leave him in peace. He felt the rage boiling up inside him. He wanted to strike her-but just then there was a rapping at the door.

“No one can know I’m here,” Howard said, hurrying to hide behind the large armoire on the far side of the room.

Beatrice opened the door. It was Clem. Peering around the side of the armoire, Howard could see the handyman clearly, though he was certain the dumb brute couldn’t see him. Clem stood there in the doorway in his ragged, grass-stained overalls, his pitchfork in his hands.

“Beatrice,” Clem said, “I heard you cryin’ again today and I got to thinkin’…”

“Oh, Clem,” she said, “I don’t have time to talk with you now.”

“But I was thinkin’ we oughta get hitched…”

She laughed. “Clem, you’ve asked me that before. You’re very kind. But I’ve told you. I can’t marry you.”

“Well, you’re so sad all the time, you know, carryin’ that baby around. If you was my wife I could take care of ya…”

Little Malcolm had started to fuss in his crib. Beatrice bent over and lifted him in her arms. Bouncing him gently, she looked over at Clem and once again told him no, she could never marry him.

“Why not?” Clem asked.

“Because I’m going to marry someone else,” she said, her voice raised just enough so that Howard knew she was speaking to him. He seethed.

“Who?” Clem demanded. “Who are you goin’ to marry?”

Howard noticed movement in the hallway behind Clem. Another groundsman, Harry Noons, had come in, and was washing his hands at the sink near the servants’ entrance. Howard flattened himself against the wall just to doubly ensure he wouldn’t be seen.

“Who?” Clem asked again, his voice rising. “Who you goin’ to marry?”

Beatrice laughed. “I’m going to marry a man who can offer me much more than you can, Clem.”

“I know I may be a simple man,” Clem said, angry himself now, “but I would do right by ya. I’d treat ya right.”

Beatrice laughed. “I am going to marry a man who is far your superior, Clem. A great man! Far greater than you!”