Chapter 7 - The Girls Behind the Winthrop Foundation
Celeste came to Eleanor’s house without makeup.
Without jewelry.
Without the gold gown.
For the first time, she looked thirty-two instead of untouchable.
Adrian wouldn’t let her near Lucia.
I appreciated that.
Celeste sat across from us.
“My father runs the Winthrop Arts Foundation.”
We knew.
It funded elite youth programs across New England.
What we didn't know was that Charles had spent years searching for girls connected to Rose.
Not only biologically.
Students.
Former students.
Children taught by anyone who had studied at Rose Bennett’s Maine studio.
He collected recordings.
Recital footage.
Applications.
“Why?”
The dance.
Rose had hidden pieces of the code inside different choreography.
Not enough for any single student to understand.
But enough that Charles believed he could reconstruct the locations of missing evidence.
Then Lucia performed the original falling star.
Celeste’s stupid challenge gave Charles confirmation.
“Did you know?”
“No.”
Adrian looked at her.
“You called her a servant's child in front of two hundred people.”
Celeste’s face reddened.
“I was cruel.”
Not excuse.
Admission.
“I wanted people laughing at someone else.”
“Why?”
She looked at Adrian.
“Because your grandmother had told me that afternoon she was reconsidering our engagement announcement.”
Eleanor didn't deny it.
Celeste felt humiliated.
So she passed humiliation downward.
Ugly.
Human.
Not the mastermind.
At least, perhaps not.
Celeste showed us a folder taken from Charles’s study.
Photographs of fourteen girls.
Lucia was newest.
Another face stopped me.
Me.
Age six.
Standing outside Rose's studio.
Charles had been watching us since childhood.
Then another photograph.
Rose entering a hospital two days before I was born.
Beside her—
Rebecca.
And Charles.
Samuel stared.
“I’ve never seen this.”
On the back:
BABY B: SURVIVED.
I felt cold.
“What does that mean?”
Nobody answered.
Eleanor asked carefully:
“Emily, were you told anything unusual about your birth?”
“No.”
Premature delivery.
Emergency surgery.
That was all.
Then Rebecca arrived.
No dramatic entrance.
The front door opened and an elderly woman stepped inside carrying an umbrella.
Late forties?
No.
Early fifties.
She looked like my mother.
Enough that I couldn't stand.
“Rose?”
She flinched.
“No.”
Eleanor whispered:
“Rebecca.”
Mother and daughter stared at each other across thirty-four missing years.
Eleanor moved first.
Rebecca stepped back.
“Don't.”
That stopped her.
“I buried you.”
“You buried paperwork.”
Eleanor started crying.
Rebecca didn't.
Not yet.
She looked at me.
“You found the hospital photograph.”
“Yes.”
“Then we’re out of time.”
“What does Baby B mean?”
Rebecca closed her eyes.
“Emily…”
“What?”
“You weren’t the only baby Rose delivered.”
Silence.
My mother had given birth to twins.
Two daughters.
Me.
And another girl.
“Where is she?”
Rebecca looked toward Celeste.
Everyone turned.
Celeste's face went white.
“No.”
Rebecca whispered:
“Baby B was adopted through Charles Winthrop Sr.”
Adrian stared at his fiancée.
Celeste stood.
“No.”
Her voice cracked.
“My mother gave birth to me.”
Rebecca shook her head.
“Your mother adopted you.”
Celeste backed away.
Rebecca continued.
“Rose was your biological mother.”
The room disappeared.
Celeste looked at me.
I looked at her.
May you like
The woman who had mocked my daughter in front of Boston society—
was my sister.
