Free Another Kind of Life by Catherine Dunne

think about it:
for Edward, the prison cell, the trial, the personal indignity. For all of them, the unbearable humiliation which would accompany such a very public fall from grace.
    She could not stay in Belfast, that much was clear. Apart from the shame of Edward’s arrest, they had no money. She couldn’t possibly afford to keep the family here.
    At some stage during last night’s sleepless hours, Sophia had held on to a faint hope that this might all be a mistake, that Edward was innocent. That hope had disappeared as soon as she
had arisen this morning. In the dim light of her bedroom candle, she had seen his face clearly, as clearly as when he had stepped out into the hallway yesterday, flanked by the two detectives. He
had turned to her in what she now realized was mute appeal – save me from this . She remembered that look now – and it made her angry. He was not a stupid man; he had to have
known the implications of what he was doing. One simply didn’t ‘borrow’ government funds, no matter how firm one’s intention to pay them back quickly, no harm done. But she
couldn’t think about that, not now. There were too many urgent decisions to be made before she could afford the luxury of bitterness and recrimination.
    She had to get her girls back to Dublin. And Katie and Lily. She owed the two women that much. They had been with her for almost fourteen years now; she didn’t want to lose them,
didn’t know how she would ever manage without them. But that was a problem for later, for Dublin. She finished dressing, her impatient fingers fumbling with the tight row of covered buttons
on the front of her dress. She sighed in exasperation when she finally reached the last button, only to find no matching fabric loop to close it. She must try to be patient; bad temper at half past
six in the morning did not augur well for the rest of the day. And she had Eleanor to think of.
    Methodically, she undid the buttons one by one, and hooked them closed again carefully, making sure she got it right this time. She swept her long hair up into a simple knot that would do until
later and made her way downstairs. Sophia felt her way around the carved rope-edge of the table in the hallway until her fingers made out the shape of the drawer in the centre. She opened it and
took out a flat box of matches. Placed directly above the drawer was the tall, heavy gas lamp, its mantle clouded and sulphurous. Once lit, the flame guttered, throwing shadows on the wall in front
of her. It settled, quickly, into a warm yellow glow.
    She carried it with her into the dining room, its light sending strange, elongated shadows up the walls and on to the stretch of ceiling beyond her writing-desk. She pulled down the leaf of her
desk and balanced the lamp carefully beside her, to her right. She took out headed notepaper and envelopes from the small compartments above. She needed to do this quickly. Her father must know, as
soon as possible, what had befallen them. He was the only one who could help her in Dublin, once she got home. He would get his letter by this evening. That would give him time to reply, if he
needed to, before they took the train tomorrow night.
    Sophia addressed the envelope swiftly, pulled more paper down on to the blotter. She would write to Constance MacBride. She was the only person she felt she could turn to in Belfast. The
imperious, elderly lady was a curious mix: discreet when discretion was necessary, yet straight, honest to the point of bluntness. She was a legend in Belfast society: her connections spread
throughout the city, an intricate, overlapping tapestry of business, politics and philanthropy. She would have her letter by mid-morning.
    Sophia would be back home again by early afternoon, and all she could do then was wait. She knew that Constance MacBride would not let her down. She would come, bringing sympathy and the
smallest possibility of something, anything, to be salvaged. Sophia allowed