A New York Christmas (8 page)

The white light, reflected off the snow, was beginning to fade. She was finding it very hard to keep hope when one of the guards returned, brandishing the keys.

“Your lucky day,” he said without a smile. “Someone put up bail for you.” He unlocked the door noisily and pulled it wide. “I guess that means we don’t have to give you supper.”

Mr. Albright? Harley, relenting? It was his testimony that had put her here, at least mostly. Or Phinnie? Maybe she had prevailed upon Brent to come?

“Thank you,” she said to the guard, and went out through the iron-bar door as quickly as she could. “How do I get …?” And then she wondered if she would be welcomed back into the Albright house. Perhaps not. Where could she stay? She couldn’t leave the city because she was on bail, but she did not have sufficient money to pay for her own lodgings for as long as it might be before she came to trial. It was midwinter, nearly Christmas. She would freeze to death without shelter. The streets would be worse than jail.

The guard was looking at her. He sighed. “She’s out there waiting for you. You’d better get out of here before she changes her mind.”

Jemima’s heart rose. It must be Phinnie after all. Phinnie, of all people, had realized that she could never have hurt Maria Cardew, let alone killed her.

“Thank you,” she said hastily to the guard. Then she followed him along the stone passageway and, this time, out as far as the entrance.

But it was not Phinnie who stood waiting for her; it was Celia Albright. She was wearing a very ordinary dark cape over her dress and a hat that could have belonged to anyone. She seemed to have shrunken into herself, her shoulders hunched wearily. However, her face lit up with relief when she saw Jemima and she moved toward her quickly, searching her face.

“Are you all right? No one has hurt you?”

“I am perfectly well,” Jemima answered as levelly as she could, but her voice was thick with emotion. “Just cold and … frightened.”

“Of course you are,” Celia agreed. “Come, we must get out of here as quickly as possible. It is a dreadful place. The carriage is waiting around the corner; there
is no room for it here.” She led the way at a brisk pace and, all but treading on her heels, Jemima followed. It was getting dark and the streetlights, less elegant in this part of the city, were beginning to glow brightly.

As soon as they were seated in the carriage, it moved away.

“Thank you,” Jemima said again, meaning it with a depth of feeling she could not conceal.

Celia’s face was unreadable in the shadows, but her voice was tense.

“I would be grateful if you did not mention it to Mr. Albright—in fact, to anyone in the family. It could lead to … unpleasantness.”

Jemima was puzzled. “Did Mr. Albright not—”

“No,” Celia cut her off. “I did it myself, with Farrell’s help. Rothwell may guess that, but I would prefer that he did not know it. I doubt he will ask me.”

Jemima was stunned. The family had been prepared to leave her in jail, perhaps even over Christmas! Fight for her, pay a lawyer, perhaps, but only because she was connected to them as Phinnie’s friend.

“Did Phinnie ask you to?” she said impulsively.

Celia remained staring ahead. “No,” she replied very quietly. Jemima had to strain to hear the words. “Please
do not ask me any further questions, Miss Pitt. I prefer not to answer you. I do not know what happened to Mrs. Cardew, but I don’t believe that you had anything to do with it, except unintentionally. But not everyone agrees with me.”

Jemima took several moments to weigh what she had heard. Why would anyone imagine she could have so savagely killed Maria Cardew, a woman she had never met and who had nothing to do with her life? Could they really believe that Phinnie had asked her to do it and she had agreed? Whatever kind of person did they think Phinnie was? She was in love with Brent, certainly. Her only dream was to be his wife. Yes, she liked the wealth and the position in society, but the idea that she would kill for those things was absurd.

The murderer must have been someone from Maria’s past life, whatever she had been doing over the years between leaving Mr. Cardew and finding herself in the cheapest of lodging houses in New York. It was just the most wretched of misfortunes that Harley and Jemima had found her on the day of her death. Such coincidences were rare, but of course they did happen.

What was it going to be like living in the Albright mansion from now until Christmas, and then the wedding,
under the shadow of suspicion? She could hardly attend parties with people wondering if she had knifed a woman to death!

But would they know? What had the newspapers said? She needed to be aware of that before she arrived. She turned to Celia again.

“Miss Albright …”

“Yes?”

“What have the newspapers said? Did they name me?”

“No. Rothwell managed to prevent that. And of course Mrs. Cardew was not named either. And he simply told Phinnie the barest of facts, which was both a sadness to her and something of a relief. She no longer has to fear that her mother might turn up at the wedding, or one of the parties, and cause the most acute embarrassment.”

Jemima tried to imagine it. “It would have been unfortunate,” she agreed. “But not so terrible …”

“Phinnie has been told that Maria drank,” Celia explained. “So far as I know, that is not true. She has also been told that her mother was of extremely loose morals with regard to men. That is … questionable. I would
have said she had somewhat eccentric tastes, which is not at all the same as being loose.”

Any further conversation was prevented by their arrival at the Albright mansion. It was completely dark. They were only a moment or two on the lighted front step, and then in the warmth of the bright hall. The butler greeted Celia with respect and Jemima with civility.

“I am sure you would like something hot to eat,” Celia said as they crossed the hall under the blazing chandelier. “The family is dining out. I am not hungry, but you may have your food brought up to your room; or, if you prefer, you can eat in the kitchen. I do that myself occasionally, and it is very pleasant, and rather more comfortable than dining in a bedroom. I do not care for the odor of food remaining all night.”

“Thank you,” Jemima said, accepting. “The kitchen sounds a good idea, and will be less troublesome to the staff. You don’t think they will mind my presence?”

For the first time, Celia smiled with genuine warmth. “You have been most courteous to them, my dear. They will not mind in the least.” There was a wealth of implication hidden in her words, but Jemima did not pursue it, although the ideas whirled in her mind later as she
sat at a bench in the kitchen and enjoyed one of the best meals she had eaten since leaving home. She could hear Lucy, the chambermaid, giggling in the pantry and every now and then the footman’s voice singing a snatch from one of the latest musical shows—“Give my regards to Broadway, remember me to Herald Square …”

Cook was rolling her eyes and muttering, but nothing unkind. Violet, the scullery maid, was sweeping the floor, the broom making a swishing sound over the stones. Billy, the boot boy, was restoking the stove. It was warm and familiar in the way that well-used kitchens are.

T
he following morning at the breakfast table it was very different. Jemima arrived at the usual time that the meal was served. The last thing she wanted was to cause inconvenience by being either early or late. Everyone else was present. They all looked up as she came into the room and took the same chair as she had previously, the only one currently unoccupied.

“Good morning,” she said quietly.

Mr. Albright looked up from his plate and replied politely but without expression.

“Good morning, Miss Pitt,” Brent answered. He looked at her guardedly, his light eyes distant, as though she were the merest acquaintance. Perhaps he was withholding judgment, but certainly he had not acquitted her in his mind.

Harley glanced at her without speaking at all, and continued with his meal.

Phinnie was very smartly dressed in clothes Jemima knew she had not brought with her. They were the height of fashion, big-sleeved and wide-skirted, actually rather too old for her, dominating her youthful beauty.

“Good morning, Jemima,” Phinnie said coolly, then searched for something else to say, and found nothing.

Only Celia addressed Jemima with warmth. “Good morning, Miss Pitt. I hope you slept well?”

Harley glared at her but she ignored him, continuing to speak to Jemima.

“I am going shopping in the middle of the day, and will take luncheon in town. Perhaps you would like to accompany me?”

“Is that wise, Aunt Celia?” Brent asked, frowning at her.

Celia’s temper was raw and she clearly held it in with difficulty. “What are you suggesting, Brent? That we require Miss Pitt to spend the rest of her time as our guest sitting in her room? It is still nine days until Christmas, and two weeks until the wedding.”

“I am aware what day it is,” Brent replied. “It is the middle of winter and everything is covered with snow. It is not a great hardship to stay in a well-heated house with a library and a music room, and servants to bring you anything you might wish. Most people would count themselves very fortunate to enjoy such a life.”

Phinnie looked at him, her eyes soft and bright, then back at Celia. “Brent is right. I’m sure Jemima will be very comfortable, and grateful for your hospitality.” Her voice quivered a little on the last sentence, but it was impossible to tell what emotion moved her. It could have been pity, fear of the future, an ever-increasing devotion to Brent, or anxiety that he thought Jemima guilty of some kind of complicity in Maria’s death. It might even have been grief. Even so, Jemima did not care for being spoken around, as if she were not present to answer for herself.

Harley looked at them one by one, and said nothing. He seemed to be watching, waiting for something.

Jemima looked at Celia. “Thank you,” she said sincerely. “I would be delighted to come with you. To walk a little would be very pleasant, and I should enjoy your company.”

J
emima was in the hall, with her overcoat on, waiting for Celia, when Phinnie came over to her. Her brows were drawn down and her expression was one of annoyance.

“Jemima, are you deliberately trying to spoil my wedding?” She said it quietly, so no nearby servant could overhear her, but with an edge of real anger in her tone. “Celia was just being pleasant to you! Can’t you see that? The last thing she wants is to be seen with you in public. Mr. Albright paid to have you released because he is a good man. That doesn’t mean anyone here thinks you are innocent!”

Jemima felt as if she had been slapped. No wonder Celia did not wish the rest of the family to know that it was she who had paid Jemima’s bail, presumably with her own money!

“Indeed?” Jemima said coldly. “And does that include you?”

“What can I think?” Phinnie demanded. “That it was some lunatic off the street? Why? From what Harley said, she had nothing to steal. She was found in her own bed, stabbed to death.”

“I know that!” Jemima snapped. “I was the one who found her, poor woman.”

“She wasn’t a ‘poor woman,’ ” Phinnie said bitterly. “She had everything—a good and decent husband, kind, respected, and wealthy—and she left him … and me … to go back to a life on the streets. No one forced her to do that, she was just a … a whore! She chose that, no one made her. Some women have no choice; she had every choice in the world.” Now tears were running down her face and her voice was all but choked.

Jemima felt the burning pain and injustice of the situation, and a terrible pity for Phinnie. Her own childhood was filled with memories of love, laughter, and adventures, long, lovely days spent mostly with her mother and her brother, Daniel, as well. Phinnie had had none of that.

But no matter what Maria Cardew had been, or what
she had done that was selfish, or even lewd or revolting, it didn’t change the fact that Jemima had not hurt her.

“I did not kill her, Phinnie,” she said firmly. “I have no idea who did. I just found her.”