When the brass doorknocker fell for the third time, Margaret O'Sullivan left off her beeswax polishing and bustled from the Winslow's front parlor to the marble-floored foyer, her black bombazine skirts crackling with the heaving force of her stride. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, all the saints in Heaven, and Francis the ass in the stable too, sure and if 'tisn't enough I have to do with the cleaning and the cooking without having to meet and greet the bloody visitors too?"

Still muttering under her breath, Maggie wrenched the door wide.

Ample hips fisted, she rolled her sharp Irish eyes at the dirty street urchin loitering upon the stoop. "Be you daft coming to the front door? Rag collectors use the servants' entrance 'round back." With a wag of her double chin, she pointed the way.

"No rag picker am I, ma'am. No servant neither."

Though visibly angry, the lad nevertheless removed his scruffy tweed hat, revealing fine manners along with a thick head of coal-black hair. Gorgeous hair 'twas too!

And more than likely crawling with lice.

To put some space between herself and nit infestation, Maggie took a hasty backward step, where, from the safety of distance, her once over of the vagrant continued.

She snorted. Imagine the scamp doffing his cap! Like him was a gent!

Tall and gangly, all limbs and cocky swagger, the boyo could have no more than thirteen years on his spare frame; for all that he comported himself more like a man than a boy, a telling lack of facial hair failed to support the boast.

Ah, but, put some meat on his bones, give him a nice long soak in a tub, a strenuous delousing with kerosene, and he would charm the drawers right off the colleens, that he would. Why, even ladies-born would eat from this one's hand!

And go down lower too, if he made the demand—

But Maggie had gotten ahead of herself. Today, he was only a young boy, short of wind from what must have been one hell of a good long run. Why had the filthy mite decided to darken the Clearbrook's grand front door? If not a rag picker come looking for castoffs, did the lad peddle gold trinkets, sure to turn grass-green in less than a fortnight? Or, perhaps he was a sweep on the lookout for a sooty chimney? God forbid he be a tinker, thinking to mend the household's metal utensils! Everyone knew gypsies would rob a household blind if given half the chance.

Hmm. Maggie tilted her jaw. With that wealth of coal-black hair and those flashing dark eyes, the lad might very well have Romany blood. A theft in the house, and her employer, Michael Winslow, would give her the boot—

"Well, speak up!" Maggie finally said, tapping her toe. "I have not the whole-blessed day to stand about dawdling. State your name and tell your business."

"No disrespect meant, ma'am, but I tell my business to the master of this here house, and nobody else."

Maggie's jaw dropped. Why, would ye look at the arrogance on him! Dressed in rags, still wet behind the ears, and yet the lad's confident bearing and self-possessed manner belied both his tender years and lowly station in life.

Impressed, Maggie gave the unlikely toff the benefit of her doubt. "And whom shall I say is calling?"

"His son, Sebastian."

"Son?" Brogue thick as clotted cream and dripping with sarcasm, she scoffed, "The master of this here house has no son. Off with ye now, before I set the authorities on yer bony arse."

"Set whoever you like on me, ma'am. All the same to me, and neither here nor there what you do. I ain't leaving 'til I have words with my father!"

He lowered his eyes, his belly grumbled. "My mother's last hope rests with Michael Winslow. Right now, all she has left is me."

Poor lamb! Maggie's heart went out to the brave lad. Dirty cap in hand, trying so hard to stay strong as his empty belly touched his backbone and the spit in his mouth leached dry, he fair choked on pride as he swallowed it down. Love for his ma had prompted this errand of mercy. How could she refuse love?

She never could. With a sigh of resignation for yet another lost housekeeping position, Maggie stepped aside for the boy to enter. "Wait here while I ask if Mr. Winslow is at home to his son."

As luck would have it, her employer chose that instant to bellow, "Mrs. O'Sullivan! I need you. What keeps you at the door?"

Maggie turned 'round. And gawked.

Saints be praised! There stood the self-important master of Clearbrook himself, a pink bundle held awkwardly in his arms.

As Mr. Winslow approached, Maggie's words stumbled over each other on the way out of her mouth. "S-someone h-here to see you, sir."

"I told you, no callers today." Her employer shook his head. "Will this brat's mewling never cease?"

Then, as if the wee little thing were not but a big nuisance, Michael Winslow shoved the pink bundle at Maggie's matronly bosom. "Here, you take her."

Straight away, the fretting month-old infant rooted, tried to latch on.

Why, the babe is hungry! In need of a hug too.

Plenty enough hugs remained in Maggie's beefy arms, but alas, no babe had suckled at her flat teats these past thirty years.

And what a sad state of affairs this was, indeed! Michael Winslow had demanded a son. Having received a daughter instead, he would allow no one to forget his bitter disappointment, particularly not his delicate new bride. As Mrs. Winslow had taken to sickbed after the birth of her daughter, she would produce no heir any time soon, if ever a'tall, a'tall. And so this innocent babe would pay for the mistake of her gender.

Margaret's Irish temper flared. Fockin' housekeeper position be dammed! Someone had to speak up to the tyrant, and it looked like the duty fell to her.

She glared at Michael Winslow. "This babe is starved. Without a wet nurse, she will not survive the week."

"Hire one," her employer replied, as if teats grew on trees!

As Maggie's brow furrowed, a voice chimed in as clear as a tolling bell: "There is Mrs. Thompson."

Hidden away in the corner as he was, not saying much, but not missing much either, leastwise, not as far as Maggie could tell, the lad had slipped from her attention. At his suggestion, she hearkened to him once more. "Mrs. Thompson?"

"A washwoman on the Bowery. Her baby came too soon, and died day before last. She could wet-nurse the babe."

Maggie jumped at the proposal. "Tell this Mrs. Thompson to come over today. Otherwise, her milk will likely dry up. This little one's only chance rests with her."

"What is he doing here?" Michael Winslow blustered, finally noticing the observant boyo.

Worried over her new charge, Maggie dispensed with pomp and circumstance. "Your son Sebastian to see you."

"Son?" The master of Clearbrook's face turned florid. "What a preposterous lie! Boy, you are no son of mine!"

"Mother is sick. Consumption." Taking two paces forward, Sebastian grabbed a hold of Michael Winslow's morning coat. "Without your help, I fear she will d-d-die. Please, come with me now? Say yes!"

"If your mother has the wasting disease, she has one foot in the grave already. Naught I can do for her," he said with a shrug. "And what is more, stop spouting filthy slander about me! That woman was little better than a servant in this household. And you share none of my blood."

"True, but when mother and I lived here, you told me to call you father!"

The man who paid Margaret O'Sullivan's salary looked apoplectic. "Leave my sight, you bastard whelp, before you spread your whore-mother's putridity." Turning on his well-shod heel, her employer stormed away.

Outraged, Maggie had all to do not to call after the sod and give him the dressing-down he so richly deserved.

This time, the tyrant had gone too far. Was the man blind? Resentment shone bright in Sebastian's eyes, the kind of resentment that smoldered for years and then ignited. Aye, Michael Winslow had made himself an enemy this fine day.

And then Margaret let righteousness go. In the here and now, she had more immediate concerns than a man's cruel indifference.

As the hungry babe in her arms squalled, she turned to the dejected lad. "Will you still fetch the wet nurse?"

"I said so, ma'am. And I always keep my word."

He could not lay claim to the lineage, but Sebastian clearly possessed a gentleman's honor. God help him and Michael Winslow too, if the lad also possessed a long memory.

Saying a silent prayer to the Virgin for the wisdom to accept what could not be changed, Maggie reached into the pocket of her apron. Pulling out a coin, she pressed the money into the grubby lad's palm. "For yer troubles."

To Maggie's astonishment, the lad refused the alms with a shake of his shaggy head.

And then she knew-'twas as bright as the self-respect shining on his too-thin face.

No beggarly soliciting for young Sebastian. No accepting of handouts, neither. And none of this asking for charity nonsense. He might not have come into life with a silver spoon stuck in his mouth, but he would find his rightful place, even if he had to steal it.

"Go on with ye now," she urged. "Pride is all well and good, but it makes for a poor meal. Do it for the sake of yer ma."

Peering down at the pink blanket, the dying woman's son fisted the coin. "Does the baby have a name?"

Maggie nodded. "Aye. That she does. 'Tis Miss Sarah."

"Sarah," the lad softly repeated.

Like a miracle, the wailing stopped. The infant's big blue eyes fastened on the boyo's grieving face.

"Not too close," Maggie said, setting things straight. "The likes of you are not meant for the likes of her."

Her warning came too late. Gurgling and cooing, Miss Sarah had already reached out her tiny baby hand from its pink blanket cocoon and latched onto the lad's grubby finger.

Incredulous, the housekeeper watched what ensued. The boy tried all manner of maneuvers to break free of the infant's fierce hold. He twisted. Squirmed. Even tried prying the dainty fingers off, one-by-one.

But no matter what Sebastian did to free himself, Sarah obstinately refused to let him go.