Red Lily

bring her James back to Memphis, where she would carry him up the stairs to his nursery, lay him tenderly in his crib, and sing him to sleep?
    “Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly,” she sang softly, twisting her thin fingers together as she stared out at the winter trees that lined the road.
    She’d brought the blanket she’d ordered him from Paris, and the sweet little blue cap and booties. In her mind he was a newborn still. In her shattered mind the six months since his birth didn’t exist.
    The carriage rolled down the long drive, and Harper House, in all its glory, stood commanding the view.
    The yellow stone, the white trim were warm and graceful against the harsh gray sky. Its three stories were proud and strong, accented by trees and shrubs, a rolling lawn.
    She’d heard that peacocks had once wandered the estate, flashing their jeweled tails. But Reginald hadn’t cared for their screaming calls, and had done away with them when he’d become master.
    He ruled like a king. And she’d given him his prince. One day, one day, her son would usurp the father. She would rule Harper House with James. Her sweet, sweet James.
    Though the windows of the great house were blank and glazed by the sun—secret eyes staring out at her—she imagined living there with her James. Saw herself tending him there, taking him for walks in the gardens, hearing his laughter ring in the halls.
    One day, of course, that’s how it would be. The housewas his, so in turn, the house was hers. They would live there, happily, only the two of them. As it was meant to be.
    She climbed out of the carriage, a pale, thin woman in an ill-fitting gray dress, and walked slowly toward the front entrance.
    Her heart thudded at the base of her throat. James was waiting for her.
    She knocked, and because her hands refused to be still, folded them tightly at her waist.
    The man who answered wore dignified black, and though his gaze swept over her, his face revealed nothing.
    “Madam, may I assist you?”
    “I’ve come for James.”
    His left eyebrow lifted, the barest fraction. “I’m sorry, Madam, there is no James in residence. If you’re inquiring about a servant, the entrance is in the rear.”
    “James is not a servant.” How dare he? “He is my son. He is your master. I’ve come for him.” She stepped defiantly through the doorway. “Fetch him immediately.”
    “I believe you have the wrong house, Madam. Perhaps—”
    “You won’t keep him from me. James! James! Mama is here.” She dashed toward the steps, scratched and bit when the butler took her arm.
    “Danby, what is the problem here?” A woman, again in servant black, bustled down the wide hall.
    “This . . . woman. She’s overwrought.”
    “To say the least. Miss? Please, Miss, I’m Havers, the housekeeper. You must calm yourself, and tell me what is the matter.”
    “I’ve come for James.” Her hands trembled as she lifted them to smooth her curls. “You must bring him to me this instant. It’s time for his nap.”
    Havers had a kind face, and added a gentle smile. “I see. Perhaps you could sit for a moment and compose yourself.”

    “Then you’ll bring James? You’ll give me my son.”
    “In the parlor? There’s a nice fire. It’s cold today, isn’t it?” The look she gave Danby had him releasing his hold. “Here now, let me show you in.”
    “It’s a trick. Another trick.” Amelia bolted for the stairs, screaming for James as she ran. She made it to the second floor before she collapsed on weak legs.
    A door opened, and the mistress of Harper House stepped out. She knew it was Reginald’s wife. Beatrice. She’d seen her at the theater once, and in the shops.
    She was beautiful, sternly so, with eyes like chips of blue ice, a slender blade of a nose, and plump lips that were curled now in disgust. She wore a morning dress of deep rose silk, with a high collar and tightly cinched waist.
    “Who is this creature?”
    “I’m sorry, ma’am.” Havers, swifter of foot than the butler, reached the door of the sitting room first. “She didn’t give her name.” Instinctively, she knelt to drape an arm around Amelia’s shoulders. “She seems to be in some distress and chilled right through.”
    “James.” Amelia reached up, and Beatrice deliberately swept her skirts aside. “I’ve come for James. My son.”
    There was a flicker over Beatrice’s face before her lips clamped into a tight line. “Bring her in here.” She turned,