Judith Ascott crossed the room and laid a hand protectingly on Eileen’s shoulder. “May I offer a solution? You have asked me to use my wits. I know of a case—not unlike this one—a young girl who made the same blunder. She had a married sister who had no child. Among all their friends, I am the only one who knows that the splendid little boy is not that sister’s child.”
“How—how was it managed?” Lavinia’s practical mind demanded.
“They went together to a sanitarium, where not even the superintendent knew which was the wife of the man whose name the baby was to bear. I should suggest sending at once for Sylvia. She and Eileen could—”
“Never work in the world!” Lavinia exploded. “Oliver detests children. He won’t let Sylvia have one of her own—even if she wanted it. And he’d leave her ... if he knew there was such a disgrace in the family.”
“Yes,” Eileen said with bitter scorn, “he was born in Salem, where they put scarlet letters on women who sin. I guess it’s the river for me.”
“There is another way,” Judith cried, defiant and exultant. “I can take the baby for my own. I will go away with you, until it’s over, and you can come back alone, with nobody to know—”
“You mean—” Lavinia Trench stood up, her eyes wild, her throat swelling—“you mean, marry Larimore and palm the child off as his?”
“That—if no other way can be found. We could go to New York, where the building of the Sanderson home would provide the necessary explanation. Eileen might take lessons from Professor Auersbach for several months. She could come home in a year. I would not return until a child in my arms would cause no remark.”
David moved to her side and pressed his lips reverently to her brow. “Daughter,” he murmured, his eyes overflowing.