But it helped when things worked out well, when the smiles of the new parents were as radiant as the smile of the child’s.
It had been a close thing with Jessica Mallory, Andrew Dalworth being a single widower and nearing sixty, but Judge Williams had decided for him — not only because of the character references which included clergymen, educators and United States senators, or because of his impressive financial background but because, as the judge had confided to Miss Scobey, in his chambers, “It was the little girl who tipped the scales, to be quite honest about it. She couldn’t have been more at home or at ease with Mr. Dalworth. She just seemed to belong with him...”
Once Judge Williams had made his decision, the other details of the adoption fell smoothly into place. Even a primary residence in Ireland had been satisfactory to Judge Williams after he had examined the photographs of Easter Hill and made inquiries into the quality of education available at schools in nearby towns.
Finishing up the last details of the clerical work, Miss Scobey tucked the thick file into her briefcase. She walked a short block up Market Street and took one of the birdcage elevators in City Hall up to Judge Williams’ Courtroom J-11, where she gave the Jessica Mallory folder, which included Miss Scobey’s personal notes, observations, and recommendations, to the judge’s aide, Adam Greene.
J-11 was in recess now and with dust motes in the air and with the long, vacant benches empty, it had something of the look of a deserted village church on a Sunday afternoon.
Miss Scobey sat down in the chair beside Adam Green’s desk and popped a mint lozenge into her mouth. She smiled with a sense of shared accomplishment at Adam as he placed the Jessica Mallory folder in a drawer of his desk.
“Well, chalk up another one for our side,” he said. “Yes, Miss Scobey, you found another safe pasture for one of God’s stray lambs.” Smiling at her, he said, “That little Miss Mallory, she’s certainly a beautiful child.”
Then his smile faded and he said thoughtfully, “To tell you the truth, I’m relieved she’s off in Ireland now.”
“Why do you say a thing like that?”
“It’s just a feeling I’ve got, something deep in my bones...”
Miss Scobey said patiently, “Adam, I happen to know you graduated cum laude from Villanova. So spare me the rabbit’s foot and voodoo drums routine. What is it?”
He grinned and said, “White mama tell it like it is.” Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed a hand over his jaw, a frown shadowing his eyes. After a moment he shook his head and said, “It’s nothing overt or actionable, Miss Scobey. Just a few bad vibes, say. Going back a few months, I had a telephone call here the day after Jessica Mallory’s parents were killed in that plane crash. From a man who claimed the Mallorys owed him money — thirty-five hundred dollars — and he demanded to know how and where to file a claim for it. I got suspicious because he was trying to sound like a colored man, but overdoing it, bad grammar and a bit too mush-mouth to be convincing.”
Miss Scobey felt an unpleasant chill as she remembered the “colored” houseman who had answered the phone once when she had called the Eric Griffiths at their place in Chester County.
“Go on, Adam,” she said quietly.
“Well, the next thing the man asked me about was flight insurance.” Adam Greene frowned and drummed his fingers on the desk. “And right there, Miss Scobey, is where I may have messed up. You see, the first thing Judge Williams asked me to do was to check the Mallory family’s assets and insurance. I shouldn’t have said anything but I was irritated with that darkie act — so I came out and told him that the Mallorys hadn’t signed up for flight insurance.”
So that’s how the Griffiths had known, Miss Scobey thought.
“If that’s all there was to it, I wouldn’t have worried,” Adam Greene said. “But that same man called me again, Miss Scobey, although the next time he wasn’t hiding behind a darkie’s drawl.”
“When was this second call?” Miss Scobey said, a sudden sharpness in her tone.
“I’ll bet you could guess,” Adam Greene said with a small, unamused smile. “It was the day after the newspapers ran that first story about Andrew Dalworth’s petition to adopt Jessica Mallory.”
“Yes, I could have guessed,” Miss Scobey said.
“He told me he was Jessica’s uncle, and he wanted to know where she was and where Mr. Dalworth was. When I told him I couldn’t give out that information, he started hollering about his rights, about blood being stronger than money—” Greene shook his head. “He really went ape when I told him to write a letter to Judge Williams, that it was the court’s authority — that’s when he hung up. But the next day his wife called, all sweetness, and said that it was a matter of grave family importance that she get in touch with the child.”
Miss Scobey remembered then the look of Maud Griffith’s eyes, cold and unrevealing as globes of glass, as cooly removed from the pain and drama of Jessica Mallory as those of a sleek and selfish cat.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” she asked Adam.
“I didn’t want to worry you, Miss Scobey. And besides, I didn’t think you could do anything about the calls anyway.”
“But it’s always good to know these things anyway.”
Adam Greene said somberly, “I’m gonna give you another rumble on the tom-toms, Miss Scobey. Something in their voices made me very glad to shade the truth, tell them that Miss Mallory’s whereabouts were no longer the business of this office.”
“Alright, Adam,” Miss Scobey said. Her voice was more concerned as she added, “If the Griffiths ever call again, tell them the same thing. That as far as this court is concerned, the Jessica Mallory case is closed.”
“That would be a pleasure,” Adam Greene said and locked the drawer containing the Mallory folder. Then he tucked the key carefully into his vest pocket.
Chapter Seven
Easter Hill was a slate-gray mansion on high ground that dominated a coastline of rough, wild beauty, steep cliffs and rolling meadows spiked with shale and fieldstone. The gray waters of the north Atlantic fused in these southern seas with the Gulf Stream, producing, in season, warm winds and a climate that nurtured the incongruous palm trees swaying above the Connemara shores from Ballycastle down to Galway Bay.
At eight years of age, Jessica Mallory had become securely adjusted to the rhythms of a convent school and to the surface tranquility of Irish country life. She thought of Andrew Dalworth, whom she called Andrew, not as a second father but simply as an “older” father. She still remembered her own father and mother, like images from a dream, as a tall, patient man with books and pencils, and a smiling lady who hugged her and played games with her on the floor in a room filled with bright posters.
Sometimes, when her school schedule permitted, she went on trips with Andrew, to Paris and London and on occasion back to the United States. When she couldn’t go with him, her life at Easter Hill revolved around the people who looked after them there; Flynn, the butler; Mrs. Kiernan, the cook; Rose and Lily, the housemaids. Taking care of the grounds and stables were Kevin O’Dell, a young groom, and the gardener, Capability Brown, who had explained to Jessica that he had been named after an English landscape artist — the famed Capability Brown who had designed the gardens and lakes at Blenheim, country seat of the Marlboroughs and Churchills.