A New York Christmas (14 page)

I
t took them all that day, and the next. It was almost Christmas when, after much questioning, pleading, and even promises, they finally climbed the rickety stairs in the tenement building where Sara Godwin had supposedly taken refuge. They had found her largely by trailing her attempts to earn money by taking small jobs, never staying in one dwelling more than two days at most, as if she was afraid that someone was pursuing her.

The snow had eased and the east wind had dropped when finally, feet aching and bones cold, they knocked on the door of the smallest apartment on the top floor.

The door opened tentatively and a woman looked out, keeping her weight behind the door so she could close it if needed. Her face was filled with alarm.

Jemima recognized her immediately. It was the same woman who had been walking in Central Park and had turned back to gaze up at the snow-laden branches with
such joy. Suddenly she understood. “Maria?” Jemima said gently.

The woman’s face filled with terror and she tried to push the door closed.

Patrick leaned his weight against it, forcing it to stay open.

“I’m Jemima Pitt,” Jemima said gently. “I’m Phinnie’s friend. I’ve come over from England to be with her for her wedding. I understand that you can’t be … and why.”

Tenderness and grief filled the woman’s eyes. She must have been over fifty, and had certainly not had an easy life, but she was still beautiful.

“You don’t know why,” she said quietly. “I … I wish I could …”

“I do know,” Jemima said, contradicting her. “Mrs. Albright wrote to Mr. Cardew and told him about your first husband. You had no choice.”

Maria’s grief was impossible to hide. She pulled the door open and Jemima and Patrick went inside. The room was tiny and the air was chill, but it was clean and there was a feeling of hominess to it because of the few personal belongings scattered about: There were embroidered pillow covers on the narrow bed, half a dozen
books on a shelf, and a photograph of a handsome black man, smiling, on the bedside table.

“I never stopped thinking about her,” Maria said as Patrick closed the door. “But I couldn’t even see her. It would have spoiled things for her. Why have you come here?”

Jemima hesitated, and it was Patrick who answered.

“Because they are blaming Jemima for killing you, either with Phinnie’s help, or at the least for her sake.”

Maria paled. “Why? That’s …” Then she understood. “It was Harley, wasn’t it?” She closed her eyes, and for a moment she swayed a little, as if she might fall.

Patrick took hold of her, supporting part of her weight, and eased her to the one moderately comfortable chair in the room.

She waited a moment, then opened her eyes. “Sara was dying,” she said with difficulty, her voice thick with tears. “She tricked me. She sent me on an errand to help someone, and she took my place. She wore my clothes—we were always the same size—and I suppose we look a bit alike. Harley hadn’t seen me for years.”

“It wouldn’t matter if he had, and knew he was wrong,” Patrick pointed out. “He identified the body as
yours, so it served his purpose well enough. You weren’t going to come forward and say he was wrong.”

“I couldn’t! Not without Phinnie learning all about me, and that she was illegitimate.” She said the word as if it hurt her. “Even though I thought Joe was dead at the time. Of course I would never have married Albert and left America if I’d known he was still alive!”

“And Phinnie’s wedding?” Jemima asked.

“I just wanted to see her. I wouldn’t have spoken to her, just watched. There’ll be a crowd. No one would have seen me.”

“And Sara Godwin?” This time it was Patrick who asked the question.

“There was no one else to look after her properly. No matter what, I couldn’t leave her to die alone—and yet that’s just what I did!”

“She chose to.” Jemima shook her head. “She did that for you, perhaps to thank you for all you’d done for her.”

“I’ve got to bury her properly. They’re not putting her in a pauper’s grave. I’ve got nearly enough money.” She looked from Jemima to Patrick. “Whatever you think of me, please see that that happens?”

“We will,” Patrick promised instantly. “But before
that, we have to make sure we have the evidence to prove it was Harley Albright who killed Sara, whether he thought she was you or not.”

“How are you going to do that?” Maria asked doubtfully.

Patrick smiled at her. “You’re coming to the police station and you’ll tell my bosses the whole story, including that Harley was following you a day or so before Sara was killed. We all know he identified her as you. We know that Phinnie is Mr. Cardew’s heir, and that when she marries Brent he will become heir to three-quarters of the Albright and Cardew business. The only way for Harley to keep his power and fortune is to discredit Phinnie, either so Brent doesn’t marry her and the shares stay equal among the three of them—or, better still, so that she is written off as illegitimate, Mr. Cardew has no heirs, and the power reverts to the Albrights.”

“Poor Harley,” Maria said with regret. “He was a nice child. So handsome, with all that fair hair. Marguerite adored him. One loves one’s children … so much.”

“When this is settled, will you meet Phinnie?” Jemima asked urgently.

“Oh, no. I won’t spoil her happiness. It will be terribly hard for Brent to come to terms with his brother’s
crime. He will need her support. And Celia will help. She was always strong … and loyal, as much as they would allow.”

Jemima glanced at Patrick and saw him nod very slightly. Did he really know her so well he understood what she was asking? She realized that the joy that Maria was alive, and the relief that she herself would be cleared of any suspicion, was suddenly horribly overshadowed by the thought of leaving New York after the wedding … if it proceeded! She might never see Patrick again, and that hurt more than she had thought possible.

Her own mother had come from a very good family, and scandalized them all by marrying a policeman at a time when policemen were socially regarded as little better than bailiffs or dustmen. Early in their marriage times had been hard and money scarce, but she had been, and still was, extraordinarily happy. And unlike so many women, she had never been bored … or lonely.

This was ridiculous! Yes, she admitted to herself, she was in love with Patrick Flannery, very much in love. But he had not mentioned marriage, and had probably not given it a thought!

Jemima looked at Maria, and read in the older woman’s
eyes an understanding so complete that it made the color burn up Jemima’s cheeks. But then, Maria had married the man she loved, in spite of the fact that he was black, and had once been owned, like an animal. It had not stopped her.

“Brent might not marry Phinnie,” Jemima said aloud. “She deserves someone who loves her wholeheartedly, whoever her mother is and whatever the circumstances. You don’t become a different person just because you discover something about your birth. And money is nice, but it has nothing to do with real happiness. You and I both know that.” It was a challenge, and she wanted an answer.

Maria smiled and touched Jemima’s hand lightly. “Of course we do. Although hunger is hard, perhaps harder than you know.”

“Isn’t hunger of the heart because you denied yourself even harder?” Jemima asked.

“I don’t know, because I was always rash enough not to try it,” Maria answered. “And it cost me dear … but I never doubted it was worth it.”

T
wo days later, Harley was arrested. Brent postponed indefinitely his marriage to Phinnie. It was a polite fiction. Everyone knew that it would never take place. Celia stepped forward to comfort her family and support them, especially Rothwell, as she had done discreetly all their lives.

Phinnie and Jemima left the Albright house and took lodgings in the city, until they should find passage home, early in the New Year. Phinnie’s means were more than sufficient to look after all their needs.

Early on Christmas morning, Jemima persuaded Phinnie to meet Maria.

It was awkward at first.

“I don’t wish to,” Phinnie said miserably. “I don’t know what to say!”

“Start with ‘Hello,’ ” Jemima replied. “I know everything fell apart and nothing was the way you hoped it would be, but don’t let go of what is good. You have plenty of time to meet someone who loves you, no matter who your family is or what’s happened.”

“I thought Brent loved me …”

“I know. And maybe he thought so too,” Jemima said. “But none of that has anything to do with meeting Maria. Come on.”

Reluctantly, Phinnie agreed. They put on their best winter coats and hats and walked down to Central Park, to the place where Harley and Jemima had seen Maria turn back to gaze at the snow-laden trees. They were edged with snow again today, glittering white for Christmas.

“There,” Jemima pointed. Fifty yards ahead of them she saw Patrick. It took her a moment to be certain it was him: He was wearing not his police uniform but a plain dark overcoat, and he was bareheaded. Beside him was Maria, looking at them as if she had known them even in the farthest distance. She took a tentative step forward, then another.

“I’m frightened,” Phinnie whispered to Jemima. “What if she doesn’t like me?”

“She loves you!” Jemima replied. “She always did. Come on!” She stepped out, taking Phinnie by the arm and pulling her forward.

There were other people on the path as well, but none of them took any notice. It was only as they came much closer that Jemima realized that the black man a little behind Maria was the same man she had seen in the photograph beside Maria’s bed. He was older, grayer
at the temples, but the smile had not changed, nor the curious mixture of shyness and inner confidence on display in the picture.

Phinnie stopped in front of Maria. They were the same height, and had the same soft features and dark eyes, the same grace of movement.

Maria held out her hands. Slowly Phinnie took them and held on.

When Jemima looked at Patrick she knew that it was going to be all right. She forgot about Phinnie and Maria, even about the man, Joe, whom Maria introduced quietly and with pride.

“I think you took care of Phinnie’s happiness,” Patrick said, taking Jemima’s arm and beginning to walk toward the edge of the path.

“But what about us?” he asked, stopping and turning to face her. “Are we going to be all right too?”

She looked up at him. She was almost certain of what he meant. It was there in his eyes, his whole face, but she needed to hear him say it.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “Are we?”

“I will be, if you marry me. Will you?”

“I think I probably will.”

He looked startled. “What?”

Jemima laughed and reached up to touch his cheek with her gloved fingers. “I will marry you, and I think I will probably be all right, for always.”

He leaned forward and kissed her.

The passersby smiled, and in the distance Christmas bells began to ring.

To all the adventurers of the heart

THE CHRISTMAS NOVELS OF ANNE PERRY

A Christmas Journey

A Christmas Visitor

A Christmas Guest

A Christmas Secret

A Christmas Beginning

A Christmas Grace

A Christmas Promise

A Christmas Odyssey

A Christmas Homecoming

A Christmas Garland

A Christmas Hope

A New York Christmas