I kept his secret behind bars;He left me behind

Rain hammered the tin roof and rolled down the walls like a curtain. Mary Hartwell lay on a thin mattress, biting her lip until she tasted blood. She had gone into labour hours earlier, too poor to go to a hospital, too frightened of what might happen if her employer found out.

"Please, God," she whispered, clutching her belly as another contraction hit.

Her cries carried into the street. Two neighbour women hurried in without knocking, faces pale. "Mary! Why didn't you call us sooner?" one scolded, throwing off her shawl.

"I thought I could manage," Mary gasped. Sweat ran down her temples. "It's too soon-"

"No time for talk," the other neighbour said. "Boil water. Tear sheets."

Push, Mary, push," the older neighbour urged. She wiped Mary's forehead with a damp cloth.

"I can't..." Mary sobbed.

"You can," the younger said. "I've birthed five. Look at me."

The candlelight flickered as the storm raged. Mary screamed, pushed,Mary's world narrowed to the women's voices and the rain on the roof. She screamed, and the first baby slipped out into waiting hands. A minute later another cry filled the room.

"They're girls," the first neighbour said, wrapping them in towels. "Two girls, Mary. Lord have mercy."

The candlelight trembled over two tiny faces. One was heavier, her skin flushed pink; the other was small and pale with a teardrop-shaped mark beneath her collarbone. Mary's heart squeezed painfully.

"Elena," she whispered, touching the mark on the smaller girl. "And Isabelle. My angels." She pressed her lips to their soft heads. "God, let me keep them both."

Mary pressed both infants to her chest, breathing in the sweet, milky scent of their skin. "No one will ever separate you," she murmured, rocking them gently. "I don't care how hard I work. I'll keep you both safe. You'll grow up side by side, you'll know your names, you'll know each other..." A tear rolled down her cheek and landed on the smaller girl's forehead. "You'll never be alone."

For three days the neighbours came and went, helping her wash and feed the infants. She stayed home, weak but happy, staring at the tiny faces pressed against her chest.

"Are you going back to work at the Kingstons'?" one neighbour asked.

Mary shook her head. "Not yet. They... they mustn't know."

On the fourth night, little Isabelle began to cough. By morning she was burning with fever. Mary bundled her in a blanket. "She needs a doctor," she told Elena's sleepy twin. She left the healthy baby with a neighbour and hurried to the small charity clinic across town.

That evening, exhausted, she returned home to fetch clothes, money and Elena whom she previously left with the neighbour. The door was ajar. Rain dripped onto the floor. Inside, a tall man in a wet overcoat stood waiting - Mr. Kingston himself.

"Mary." His voice was like ice. "You've stopped coming to work. And I can see you are no longer heavily pregnant.Where is my child?"