A New York Christmas (12 page)

Jemima controlled herself with an effort. “I did not know Mrs. Cardew,” she said levelly. “And she was already dead when I found her.”

“Poor Maria,” Celia murmured, pain quite naked in her voice. “She always struggled, but mostly for other people.”

Jemima leaned forward. “Other people? What do you mean?”

“So very idealistic,” Celia said, not looking at Jemima but at some indefinable point on the far wall.

“What kind of ideals?” Maybe if she pressed hard enough, Celia might tell her something useful. “It sounds like she was … admirable. Could she have angered someone, do you think? One person’s ideals sometimes endanger someone else’s privileges.” She was grasping desperately at straws.

“Oh, indeed,” Celia said heavily. “Harley, for example, would not agree with her ideals. But of course he was not yet born when she was fighting her big battles.”

“What battles?” Jemima said a little huskily. Was this something real at last?

“Thirty years ago.” Celia avoided Jemima’s eyes.

Jemima’s heart sank. For a moment she had felt hope surge up.

“Freedom for the slaves,” Celia continued. “Real freedom, not just on a piece of paper. Even in the seventies and early eighties it was very hard for them. There
was so much bitterness here in New York. Never knew what it was like farther south, except that it was so much worse.”

“But surely Maria didn’t ever have slaves!” Jemima protested.

“Oh, no, of course not,” Celia agreed. “But she fought on their behalf. Ran herself into quite a lot of danger. I don’t know a great deal about it, because my father was always very stern over such things. Just as my brother is, and Harley, of course. But you’ll know that because of his political stance.”

“Political?” Jemima was lost again.

“Oh! Has he not told you?” Celia seemed surprised. “Harley is expecting that President Roosevelt will appoint him, as soon as he starts his second term in the new year. I’m sure you know he won the election last month.”

“Really? I had no idea.”

Celia met her eyes, no amusement or deceit in them.

“Oh, yes, very really indeed. Never doubt it.”

“How … interesting,” Jemima murmured, her mind racing. Could this possibly have anything to do with Maria’s death? Was Celia trying to tell her this so obliquely that she could deny it later? Why? What did
she know? Or was she deliberately leading Jemima astray?

She cleared her throat. “Do you think Mrs. Cardew’s opinions were too radical?”

“I?” Celia said with surprise. “No. I admired her for them, as much as I understood what she was doing. I knew that it was dangerous for her.” She hesitated so long Jemima thought she was not going to continue. Then suddenly she spoke again. “And I despised myself for not taking the same risks.”

“What exactly was she doing?” Jemima was perfectly aware that the question was intrusive, but she had to try.

“Helping black people in trouble to escape the consequences of raising their voices, trying to be like white people, own property, have opinions,” Celia said. “After the end of the Civil War, the resistance against change was too strong. The old attitudes were still everywhere.”

“She must have been very brave,” Jemima said with awe.

“And foolish,” Celia added. “I liked her for it.”

“But Mr. Albright didn’t?”

“I really don’t know how much he knew,” Celia answered,
her voice lifting in surprise as if she had only just realized the fact.

“And Harley?”

Celia smiled. “Certainly not. He would be appalled. All he knew, all he knows, is that she had a certain reputation. Why don’t you try the cakes? They are one of Cook’s specialties.”

Jemima recognized that the discussion was closed. She took one of the cakes, and it was indeed delicious.

D
inner was long and wretched. Phinnie chattered about her wedding, and never once looked at Jemima. Harley talked about politics, while Brent looked alternately happy and miserable. Mr. Albright spoke to Celia about people Jemima did not know.

Jemima felt awkward remaining downstairs after dinner was finished and they had all retired to the sitting room.

Phinnie sat close to Brent, as if she could not bear to have more distance between them than was necessary.

Mr. Albright sat in the largest armchair. Jemima
imagined the very shape of it had molded itself to his body. Perhaps his father had sat in it before him, and his grandfather also. In time it would be Harley’s, who now stood by the mantelpiece, too restless to sit down.

Jemima took one of the smaller chairs, but after only a few minutes she rose to her feet again. Maybe she was running away, but she found she would rather have stood outside in the snow in silence with Patrick Flannery than sit in this warm, lovely room with the Albrights and their stilted conversation.

“It has been a long and interesting day,” she said to Mr. Albright. “Will you excuse me if I retire a little early?”

“An excellent idea,” Harley replied before his father could. “Good night, Miss Pitt.” There was no warmth in his voice.

“Good night, Miss Pitt,” Celia echoed. “Sleep well.”

Jemima acknowledged the good wishes, then turned and walked out the door, across the huge hall, and up the stairs. She had just reached the landing when she became aware of someone behind her. She turned quickly and saw Phinnie a couple of yards away from her.

“You’ve been asking about my mother,” she accused,
her voice harsh and bitter. “What are you trying to do? The police have been asking me questions, as if they thought I might have asked you to kill her, even paid you to do it!”

Jemima was stung by the injustice of it. “That’s their job,” she retorted sharply. “They are bound to realize I didn’t do it. Why on earth would I?”

“For me, of course,” Phinnie responded.

Jemima was stunned. “Don’t be ridiculous! Apart from the fact that we have known each other only a short while, why would I do anything so terrible?”

“So that when I marry Brent I can pay you, of course!” Phinnie replied. “Either with money or by making sure you meet all the right people in New York. You are clever enough to have thought of that.”

“Oh, yes!” Jemima agreed. “And even blackmail you for the rest of your life?”

Phinnie gasped, her face going pale. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

“Well, I suppose if I’d killed poor Maria to stop her from bursting into your wedding and spoiling it, I would probably stoop to pretty much anything,” Jemima said cuttingly, with an anger close to despair. “But as I already told you, all I wanted to do was help
Harley
find
her so that
he
could pay her to stay away. He was afraid she might make a scene and embarrass everyone, ruin the family’s reputation. And you never know, when the president comes to consider him for high office, he might think you an inappropriate relative for a man in the public eye.” She knew the last bit would hurt Phinnie, and she meant it to. Phinnie had been willing enough to hurt her.

“So you … you didn’t …” Phinnie said slowly, the angry color draining out of her face leaving her sickly pale.

“No,
of course
I didn’t!” Jemima snapped. She was about to turn away and go on to her bedroom when she realized that Phinnie’s amazement and relief were real. She had truly feared Jemima had killed her mother. “I saw Maria once, for a moment, in Central Park,” she said gently. “When we were following her, and she turned to look back at the snow on the trees. There was such joy on her face at the beauty of them that for a moment she too was beautiful. The next time I saw her she was dead.”

Phinnie’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want to like her,” she whispered. “She left me! It took me all my life, until I met Brent, to stop wanting her to come back and
explain to me what was more important to her than staying with me.”

Jemima wanted to put her arms around Phinnie, be—for an instant at least—the sister she did not have. But it was too soon.

“That is what I am trying to find out,” she said instead. “I’ll start again tomorrow morning. I promise.”

Phinnie nodded, too close to losing control to speak.

T
he next day was bitter. The wind cut like the edge of a knife, and there was ice in the breath of it.

Jemima would rather have stayed inside, but she had very little time left. The memory of the prison always hovered at the edges of her mind like an encroaching darkness. Was it time she sent a telegram to her father and asked him to come? But what could he do here anyway?

Because of course he would come, and he’d find a way to learn the truth and prove it. But part of her didn’t want to send for him. Part of her wanted to find
out what happened without his help. Was she just being foolish?

She increased her pace, footsteps crunching in the snow. A woman passed her on the pavement, walking briskly, bent forward and huddled into her coat. The man a few steps behind her had his hat jammed on his head and his scarf over half his face.

An automobile passed them all, the driver sitting up rigidly, having difficulty keeping the snow from coating the glass windshield. She smiled to herself, happy to be walking.

At last she reached the coffee shop, her hands so numb she could hardly grasp the door handle. A man opened it for her and she thanked him. Inside she looked around for Patrick. When she saw him, her heart lifted and she found herself smiling as he stood up and came over to her.

“Are you all right?” he said anxiously. “I wish you didn’t have to be out today …”

“There isn’t time,” she said simply. “And I have a lot to tell you.”

He guided her to the seat where he had been waiting, putting his arm around her shoulders. Even a day ago
she would have moved away. Today she let it be. It was comfortable and she was willing to admit it. He held the chair for her, then ordered hot coffee, and more for himself.

Warming her hands on the mug, the chatter of all manner of languages around her, she told him what Celia had said about Harley and his ambitions, about Maria Cardew and her rescue of former slaves in trouble, and then Phinnie’s accusation that Jemima had killed Maria—and finally, her belief that Jemima hadn’t done it.

“So that makes you sure she wasn’t the one who killed Maria?” he said. There was no time to be less than frank.

“Yes, I am. She truly believed I had done it, which means she couldn’t have. We need to learn more about that part of her life. But if Maria risked her life helping black people who used to be slaves, she will have made enemies.”

He smiled with wry, sad humor. “I know it’s 1904, but not everything has changed. Old wounds are slow to heal. We’re said to be ‘a melting pot,’ but there’s a lot that hasn’t melted yet. Did Celia say anything about Sara Godwin?”

“No. Patrick …” A thought occurred to her, and although she hated it, it had to be voiced. “Do you think Sara Godwin could have killed her? Perhaps Maria’s death had nothing to do with the Albrights or her past at all but was because of an enmity between the two women?”

There was regret in his face. “It could even be that whoever killed her mistook her for Sara Godwin. I’ve been asking around more to find anyone who knew them a bit better, and another woman in the same building said they were always very careful, as if they were constantly afraid of something. According to Ellie, Maria said Sara thought someone had been following her, and she was afraid that he knew where she lived. But we have no description of him.”

“He could be anyone,” she said, a wave of hopelessness overwhelming her. “How can we even look for him?”

Patrick reached across the table and put his hand over hers, holding her when she tried to pull away. She stopped pulling. His touch was warm and strong.

“I don’t need to find him to prove he existed,” he told her. “Two witnesses, independent of each other, and a little more about her past, will be enough to prove he
could have killed her. We just have to know what kind of woman she was, and make a case for why it is believable that he mistook Maria for her. They did look alike. That much I know already, from questioning their neighbors.”

“Will it be enough?” she said anxiously. “Won’t they still think it’s me, because I was there and we don’t know anything about this man?”