A New York Christmas (13 page)

“I won’t let them think that,” he promised.

She looked away. Suddenly it mattered more that he believed her, that he did not for a moment think she was guilty, than that she still might face trial for murder and not be able to prove her innocence.

He interrupted her thoughts. “Finish your coffee. We have a lot to do.” He said it gently, but it was an instruction, almost an order.

Toward the end of the day they met with an old man, nearly blind, who said he had known Sara well. He had been a cobbler. He knew everyone’s feet.

Jemima and Patrick sat with him in his small tenement room sharing hot food that Patrick had bought from a shop in the narrow street opposite. It was very savory meat cooked and then wrapped in leaves. Patrick
told her the shop owners were Russian immigrants and they had told him the name of the dish, but he couldn’t now pronounce it. It was delicious, though, and Jemima told him so.

The cobbler also ate his with relish.

“Sara,” he said with a smile of memory. “Good feet, she had. But sickly, even then.”

“Even then?” Patrick said quickly. “How long ago was that?”

“Oh, thirty years or so. Had a hard time, Sara did. Wonder she lived so long.” He blinked several times, as if to hide tears. “Wouldn’t have made it without Maria.”

Jemima leaned forward quickly. “I thought that thirty years ago Maria was busy helping people fight against injustice? Is that not true?”

The cobbler stared at her, a touch of anger in his eyes. “Course she did! Both of them. That’s when it all happened. In the seventies, before they came to this part of the city.”

Patrick started to speak, then stopped. He nodded to Jemima.

“If you knew them, then I’d really like to hear the truth,” Jemima said. “Her daughter is my friend and I
think she deserves to hear something more than gossip, a lot of which is unkind.”

“Unkind!” the cobbler snorted. It was dim inside the small room. He burned a stove to keep the air from freezing but he clearly could not afford to burn a light as well, and the window was blurring over with snow. “That what you call it? Bastards deserve to be hanged themselves.”

Jemima waited. She did not even dare glance at Patrick, but she was acutely aware of his presence in the room, sitting opposite her, their knees almost touching.

“Them as used to be slaves got into a bit of trouble back then,” the cobbler began. “Blacks, you know? Some folks were fine, but in some ways it seemed we weren’t so very far from the South. The ones who’d run away were here and there. Some folks didn’t think they should own things, like horses and land and such. You know?” He looked at Patrick, his eyebrows raised in question. He had caught Jemima’s English accent and clearly did not expect her to understand.

“I’ve heard,” Patrick said, nodding. He was Irish; he knew about discrimination.

“Sara used to help people,” the cobbler went on. “Got
into it with Maria. There was one real bad time. Black man been a slave, owned a real nice place. Some folks got very upset about it. Spread around stories that he’d stole it, that they should turn him out of it. It turned into a big fight on the street. Women and children in it too. Sara and Maria were both there. Feller who used to be a slave fought to get the women out. In the end, one man was killed. Son of a bitch had it coming. He had no regard for the safety of the women or the children, injured a few in that fight. But he was white. Maria fell in love with the man what did it. Married him, she did. Some folks never forgave her for that.”

“That was the scandal?” Jemima asked. She didn’t know what to make of this information. How could Maria have been married once before? Did the Albrights know about it? Her heart was racing.

“It’s enough,” the cobbler replied, pursing his lips. “Black don’t marry white. Some folks consider it unnatural, a sin against God, like.”

“Where is that man now?” Jemima forced herself to ask, and yet she dreaded the answer. Maria had lived in an apartment with Sara Godwin. Had she had a falling out with this other man? Could he have done it?

“Don’t know,” the cobbler replied with a sniff. “He was taken down here in New York, to be tried for killing that white son of a bitch. Pardon my language, miss.”

Jemima shivered at the word “tried.” She felt Patrick’s knees touch hers, just for a moment. Had he meant to, or was he just moving because he was stiff?

“What happened?” she whispered.

“They told her he died in prison,” the cobbler replied, his voice hoarse. “But I heard after that he hadn’t. Don’t know what was true.”

“What happened to Maria?” Patrick asked.

“Some rich white feller kind of looked after her. She were a real handsome woman. His name was All-something …”

“Albright?” Jemima filled in.

“Yes, something like that. He was married, of course. Men like that always are. Got to keep the family going. Anyway, she married his business partner, or something. English … like you,” he said to Jemima. “Is that why you’re asking all this?”

“Yes. Maria’s daughter is my friend.”

“Well, ain’t it a small world. And this daughter come here just as poor Maria’s killed? That’s a terrible shame.
You tell her that her mother was one of the best ladies that ever drew breath, you hear me?”

“Yes,” Jemima answered. “Yes, I will. I promise.”

O
utside again in the more heavily falling snow, Jemima turned to Patrick. He was standing to the windward of her, sheltering her from the worst of it. It blew against him and piled on his shoulders.

“Do you think someone killed her because years ago she married a black man who used to be a slave?” she asked.

“I think that’s very possible, though it’s a shame that it is,” he replied. “Are you prepared for Delphinia to learn this?”

“No!” She looked away from him, down at the snow around her boots. “No. She might not mind, but imagine what the Albrights would make of it if they don’t already know!”

“Delphinia’s a Cardew,” he pointed out. “Come out of the snow. We can find somewhere better than this to
talk.” He took her arm as he said it, gently but too firmly for her to resist.

Jemima said nothing. It was difficult to talk out here in the street because the wind snatched her words and the freezing air almost choked her.

They walked side by side until they came to an alley and found room to stand in a recessed doorway, sheltered from the worst of the weather.

She remembered Harley Albright’s words to her, before they had even found Maria’s body, when it was still a matter of stopping her from creating a scene at the wedding.

“Marguerite Albright, Harley’s mother,” she began. “He said to me that she had told him about Maria and what a terrible woman she was.”

“Well, if the cobbler is right, then Mr. Albright was very fond of Maria, and Mrs. Albright was probably jealous,” he pointed out.

“Do you suppose she knew about Maria’s first husband?”

“It’s definitely possible. What are you thinking, Jemima? That it was one of the Albrights after all?”

He was worried, she could see. It would be difficult to prove; might his superiors try to prevent him from even
suggesting it? Jemima would be a much easier target, much more comfortable. Nobody in New York would care if she was convicted. Would it matter to them that her father was important in England? The fear came back over her like an icy wave.

Patrick saw it in her eyes. “Jemima, don’t! I won’t let that happen,” he promised.

“You might not be able to stop it,” she replied. “If Mrs. Albright knew the truth about Maria, then she would’ve cared very much indeed that Phinnie didn’t marry into the Albright family.”

“Then why wouldn’t she just tell Brent the truth?” he asked.”

“Maybe she died before she had the chance? Or Brent doesn’t care as much?” Another thought occurred to her. “What if … what if Marguerite Albright had written to Maria back when she was in England and told her that her first husband was alive after all? Then she was not a widow! She was a bigamist! Her marriage to Edward Cardew was not legal.”

He was watching her closely, trying to read what she was thinking now.

“Phinnie would be illegitimate,” she told him. “Would she still be Cardew’s heir?”

“She’s still his daughter!” He was angry at the injustice and it was naked in his face. “Maria thought she was a widow. In fact, we don’t know for certain that she wasn’t. Mrs. Albright could have said her husband was alive simply out of …” He stopped.

“Out of spite?” Jemima finished. “Revenge, for Mr. Albright having liked Maria so much?”

He shook his head, his eyes very grave. “Not just that. More importantly, so the company’s power and money will stay with the Albright family.”

“But she died well before Brent proposed marriage to Phinnie … oh.” Now it was there, real and cold as ice. “She told Harley. Of course. And if Brent married Phinnie, then between the two of them they would own three-quarters of the company: Phinnie’s entire Cardew share from her father, and Brent’s half of the Albright share. She leaned forward and put her hands over her face, pushing her fingers through her hair, heedless of the mess she made of it. “Poor Phinnie.”

Patrick said nothing. He understood too well to say something meaningless.

“She’s so much in love with him,” Jemima went on. “Do you think he is even half as much in love with her?”
She did not look up at him. She was afraid he was going to struggle to find some comfortable half-truth.

“No,” he said softly. “If you really love someone you stick by them, no matter what. You don’t doubt them, or make a way to get out of it.”

Now she did look up. “What makes you say that? Did he make a way to get out of it?”

“Yes. When I questioned him, he didn’t defend her—not completely. If anyone said that about you, I would have defended you, whether I had the right to or not.”

She tried to smile through the emotion that was beating so hard inside her it almost robbed her of breath.

“Thanks to Harley they
are
saying it about me,” she pointed out. “He tricked me well. He spent enough time with me to guess I would get impatient and leave the coffee shop. He must’ve also sent the young boy to tell me the room number. I’m sure he had a backup plan, but he didn’t need one. I played right into his hands.” Jemima’s voice was bitter.

“I know what people are saying thanks to Harley.” Now his eyes hid nothing. “And I am defending you. I’ll prove you didn’t do it. We’re nearly there now. But you can’t help Delphinia, except maybe to make her see the
truth about the Albrights, and to give her the knowledge that her mother was a good woman who got caught up in a tragedy that wasn’t of her making.”

“Why did she leave Phinnie? She was only two years old!” Jemima protested.

“What if Mrs. Albright didn’t write to Maria, as we supposed, but to Cardew, telling him all about Maria’s first marriage? Cardew may have given Maria no choice. And she certainly wouldn’t be allowed to take Phinnie with her, even if she had the means to look after her. But he must’ve loved Phinnie enough to leave it at that, at least.”

“I suppose I should have known that,” she said. “It explains everything, doesn’t it?”

“Except what happened to Sara Godwin,” Patrick agreed.

“Why did she run off, and where is she now? Hadn’t she enough loyalty to see that Maria at least had a decent burial?” Jemima asked, somewhat angry.

“Perhaps she is afraid they’ll come after her too?” Patrick said.

Jemima tried to imagine the conflict in Sara Godwin. She owed Maria her life, but she was ill, alone now, and knew that Maria had been murdered. Perhaps she even
knew who had done it. And the woman in the same building had said Sara had been followed …

Patrick must have been thinking the same thing.

“We must find her,” he said with sudden urgency. “If she saw the man following her, she might know who it was, or at least be able to describe him. I suspect that it was Harley, though. I think he killed Maria and then very neatly organized it so you would be the one to find her. But we need to prove that.”

Jemima nodded hesitantly. “Yes.”

“What is it?” he asked. “Why don’t you want to? Are you afraid we’re wrong?” He put his hand over hers. “Jemima, we aren’t wrong. It all fits together and makes sense of all the bits we couldn’t understand before.”

She met his eyes. “I know. I just hate that Sara owed so much to Maria but just ran away when she was dead, instead of staying to help. I understand! Maybe I wouldn’t have done better. But I still hate it.”

“I’ll find her alone, then,” he answered.

She glared at him. “No, you won’t! I’m coming with you.”

This time he laughed, his face eased in relief. She realized that it very much mattered to him that she came, and the feeling was wonderful, as if the cold outside
barely existed. She withdrew her hand from his. “Let’s begin.”