Authors: Rhys Bowen
“We’ll see,” Mrs. Sullivan said.
So things were finally moving along. All I had to do was to come up with a person in New York who might possibly be a friend of Mrs. Wainwaring. Not Sid or Gus. They were frowned upon by polite society and tried to steer clear of it. I thought of other young women of good family I might know. I had become acquainted with several of Sid and Gus’s Vassar classmates and I remembered Fanny Poindexter, who had died so tragically a year ago. Dead women tell no tales, I thought. She’d be perfect. Now all I had to do was to wait patiently.
The next day brought no letter from Sid and Gus, which meant that they still hadn’t found Liam. Also no letter from Daniel, but he was not good about writing. Men aren’t. They only resort to letters if there is something important to say that can’t wait. But at least I took it to imply that he hadn’t caught Liam either. Mrs. Sullivan showed no intention of making the trip to Irvington and I began to wonder if she had forgotten. I couldn’t think of a way to remind her about it without seeming overeager and rude. So I had to lounge around the house and garden, trying to fill the hours with my sad attempts at knitting, or with writing letters while Mrs. Sullivan busied herself with household matters, pausing to give me the occasional lecture on the correct cleaning of silver or the right way to mend a scorch mark on a tablecloth. To my annoyance she decided that the plums were ready for bottling and took Bridie and me with her to the shed while she hunted for suitable jars. I had a horrid feeling that this might be a process taking several days and wondered if she’d possibly let me go to Irvington alone.
Indeed the next morning we were rounded up after breakfast to pick plums. By afternoon she had great pots of plums bubbling on the stove and by nightfall there were jars sitting on the kitchen window ledge to cool.
“I hope you made a note of everything I did, Molly,” she said. “I know you live in the city now, but there will come a time when you’ll have to preserve your own fruit.”
As we sat down to a late cold supper she looked at us in satisfaction. “A job well done,” she said. “I think we deserve a day off, don’t you? Why don’t we take that trip to the river tomorrow. Are you feeling up to it, Molly?”
I managed to suppress any emotion when I replied, “What a good idea. Yes, I think I might be up to it.”
Eleven
We set off for Irvington after breakfast, the picnic basket at our feet and Bridie sitting up beside the driver. It was pleasantly cool as we passed along leafy lanes, with no sound except the gentle
clip-clop
of the pony’s hooves and the cooing of pigeons in the trees above. After an area of thick woods we came to a point where the road started to descend to the river below us, sparkling in the morning sunlight. A paddle steamer was making its way upstream and the sound of music floated across the water from its deck. Bridie gave a squeal of delight.
“Sit still, or you’ll fall off,” Mrs. Sullivan warned, yanking on the back of her pinafore. The pony descended the hill slowly until we were riding down the main street with its clapboard stores and old brick taverns. It had as old a feel to it as any town at home in Ireland, like stepping back in time.
“Should I inquire where the Mainwarings live?” I asked, trying not to sound too eager.
“We’ll leave that for later,” Mrs. Sullivan said. “One does not pay a social call before noon.”
I glanced across at her and thought how interesting it was that she started life as the child of Irish immigrants who fled from the potato famine, yet now behaved as if she’d been born with that proverbial silver spoon in her mouth. Perhaps that was why she wasn’t too keen on me—I reminded her of her own past, which she had chosen to forget. Jonah assisted us down from the cart, my back now stiff from sitting on the hard bench, and we went for a walk along the water front, with Bridie commenting excitedly about the river traffic that passed us. “Do you think the ship my father and brother went on was bigger than this one?” she asked as a cargo steamship came down carrying bricks and stone.
“Much bigger,” I said. Her father and brother had gone off to Panama to help build the new canal and she hadn’t heard from them for months. I knew Seamus was not much of a writer, being barely schooled, but I wondered if they were all right. A few stories about the conditions at the canal had trickled through to New York and they didn’t sound good. Strangely enough, her father’s decision to go to Panama had been Bridie’s good fortune. Instead of living precariously in slums wherever Seamus could pick up laboring work, Bridie was now on her way to becoming a young lady and would no doubt end up as snobbish as Mrs. Sullivan if my mother-in-law had anything to do with it.
When the sun became too hot we retreated to a riverside park and spread out our picnic cloth in the shade of a big elm tree. Then followed my absolutely favorite kind of meal: ham sandwiches, cold meat pie and pickles, tomatoes and radishes fresh from the garden, peaches and plums and currant bread, washed down with homemade ginger beer. We lay replete in the shade watching the boats on the river glide past us.
“I don’t think we’ll bother about calling on those people today,” Mrs. Sullivan said, as we reluctantly packed up the remains of the meal. “Far too hot for social calls. We shall look as if we’ve been perspiring, and that would never do.”
“Oh, but I’d really like to,” I said, more vehemently than I’d expected.
She looked at me strangely. “But you don’t even know them.”
“But my friend in New York would never forgive me if I was in the vicinity of her dear friends and didn’t call upon them,” I said.
She frowned. “Surely, you don’t have to mention it to your friends.”
I wasn’t sure how to proceed from here. “I only need to go through the motions and leave my card. It wouldn’t take long. How would it be if you and Bridie stay by the water where it’s cooler and I’ll see if their house is within walking distance?”
“My, but you are determined in this matter,” Mrs. Sullivan said, dabbing her face gently with a cologne-soaked handkerchief. “We don’t even know if this is the same family.”
“Is it likely there are two lots of Mainwarings in Westchester County? It’s not a usual name, is it?”
“Well, no,” she admitted. “I can’t say I’ve come across anyone else with that name and I know a good many people in the county. Very well, if it means so much to you. Take the trap while Bridie and I will go to see if there is a soda fountain nearby. She has been such a big help to me recently that I think she deserves a soda or an ice cream.”
“Ice cream?” Bridie’s face lit up. “Can it be strawberry flavor?”
“Bridie, remember I’ve told you it’s not ladylike to ask for things. Help me up, child, and then help Molly.” Bridie did so. Mrs. Sullivan dusted herself off.
“It will probably be more fitting to have you call on the Mainwarings alone, rather than three strangers descending on them at once,” she added.
I let out a sigh of relief. We walked back into town and asked for directions to their house. It seemed they were well-known in the vicinity, but not, one got the feeling, well-liked.
“Oh, yeah, the Mainwarings,” the greengrocer didn’t elaborate and went back to piling peaches onto his display. “Big house. Up the hill. You can’t miss it.”
So Jonah and I set off, back up the hill. When the pony and trap reached the top there facing us was a gateway worthy of a palace, its brick columns topped with seated lions and the gates themselves of fancy ironwork.
“In here, Jonah,” I said.
Mrs. Wetherby was probably right in thinking that her daughter had made a good match. Jonah got down to open the gate and through we went, up a driveway lined with flowering shrubs. There were fountains playing in the forecourt and the portico, with its marble columns, was as grand as described. I was beginning to have second thoughts about this whole mission. If Mrs. Mainwaring was part of Westchester society, then word would undoubtedly get around that I had been looking for her housemaid, and that word would finally reach Mrs. Sullivan. She would then know that I’d made up a story and conned her into going to Irvington in the first place. She’d probably even tell Daniel, which would not be a good idea.
I was almost ready to have Jonah turn the trap around and retreat again when the front door opened and a nursemaid in crisply starched uniform came out pushing an impressive perambulator. She looked at me with interest, nodded, then went on walking. A gardener appeared from the side of the house. “You’ll want some water for the pony, no doubt,” he said to Jonah. “Hot day like this. Bring the trap around this way.”
So I had to dismount whether I liked it or not and walked with trepidation up the marble steps to the front door. I handed my card to the maid who opened it and asked if Mrs. Mainwaring was at home. I was ushered into a cool marble foyer with a sweeping staircase on one side.
“She’s resting, ma’am,” she said. “May I tell her what this is about?”
“I’m inquiring about a maid who might have been employed here,” I said. “Her family in Ireland is anxious to track her down.”
“What was the maid’s name, may I ask?”
“Maureen O’Byrne,” I said.
I saw her expression falter, just a little. “Maureen,” she said. “Oh, yes. She was here.”
“But not any longer?”
“Not any longer,” the girl said.
“How long ago did she leave?”
“About six months ago, ma’am.” She was looking around as if she was trying to find a reason to conclude this conversation and leave me.
“Do you know why she left?”
“Harriet, with whom are you gossiping?” came an imperious voice from the top of the staircase. The mistress of the house stood there, tall, slim, and haughty-looking, dressed in a gray, silk tea dress.
“This lady wants to know about Maureen O’Byrne, ma’am,” the girl said, her voice sounding taut and nervous now.
“Who is she?” The words were snapped out.
“Mrs. Daniel Sullivan from New York, Mrs. Mainwaring,” I called up the stairs. “I received an urgent letter from a family in Ireland, who are trying to trace their niece. In her last letter home she wrote that she had found employment in your household.”
Mrs. Mainwaring came slowly down the stairs, taking in the cut of my clothing and the quality of my hat, I’ve no doubt. She was working out whether I was somebody of sufficient importance to talk to. In the brighter light of the foyer I could see that she was not as young as I had expected and her face was rather gaunt. Not a great beauty and with a hard look to her eyes.
“Maureen left our employ several months ago,” she said.
“Could you possibly tell me where she went?”
“I have no idea.”
I decided I had better stretch the truth a little if I wanted to learn anything more. “I should have mentioned that I am currently visiting my mother-in-law—Mrs. Sullivan of Elmsford—who is a friend of your mother’s.”
“Oh, I see.” The gaunt look softened a little. “And what connection does Maureen have to you?” Again her eyes traveled over my outfit. Not the best quality, she was thinking, but not entirely shabby either. “Is your mother-in-law with you?”
“She found the heat too oppressive to undertake the trip,” I said, not mentioning that she was currently eating ice cream at the bottom of the hill.
“Well, you’d better come in and sit down, I suppose,” she said. She turned to the girl who was hovering in the background. “Bring some iced tea through to the Blue Room, Harriet.”
“You’re most kind,” I said and followed her through to a small sitting room at the back of the house. It had a fine view of the river and was decorated with blue Chinese plates. The sofa was upholstered in blue silk and the walls painted white with blue panels inset. A pretty room, one of good taste. She indicated I should sit and I did.
“I’m sorry, you asked what connection I had to the girl,” I went on, thinking that for once the truth might be the best plan of action. “At one time I used to own a small detective agency in New York City. Naturally I gave it up when I married. However this letter arrived out of the blue a week ago. I intended to pass it on, but when I was at a gathering of one of my mother-in-law’s friends—Letitia Blackstone? You probably know her—”
She nodded. “Yes, I’ve met Mrs. Blackstone.”
“—and your name was mentioned, it seemed too fortuitous to ignore. I’d like to be able to put these peoples’ mind at rest. I do hope you’ll forgive the intrusion.”
“Of course,” she said, none too graciously. “And I wish I could help you more. Maureen was indeed in our employ. She was a pleasant enough girl, good looking, nice personality, hard worker, but with too much of an eye for the young men, I’m afraid. She got herself…” She paused and coughed as if the words offended her sensibilities too much to utter. “… in the family way.” And she blushed bright red, picking up the fan that hung at her belt and fanning herself. Harriet reappeared carrying a crystal jug and glasses on a tray. She put it on a Chinese lacquered side table. We watched in silence as she poured and handed each of us a glass.
“So you dismissed her,” I said as Harriet departed.
“I am not a monster, Mrs. Sullivan,” she said. “We sent her to the nuns. There is a convent not far away who make it their mission to take in fallen girls, such as Maureen. They allow them to stay until they have had their babies and then try to find good homes for the children. They do wonderful work and have saved many a poor girl from complete ruin.”
“What is the name of this convent?”
“The convent of the Holy Innocents, very appropriately,” she said. “I believe the sisters are of a French order. They came down from Quebec originally. I’m not Catholic myself so these things are somewhat of a mystery to me.”
“And that was the last you saw of her, when you sent her off to the nuns?”
“It was,” she said. “And I’m surprised. She was a good worker and we offered to take her back when she had fully recovered. But she never came.”
“She might have felt too ashamed,” I suggested.
Mrs. Mainwaring shook her head, “I very much doubt it. I got the impression the young woman thought a lot of herself. Ideas above her station, you know.”