A Song Across the Sea (38 page)

Lotte cried unashamedly. “Tara! You came back!”

“I’m sorry I stayed away so long. I had some trouble, you see.”

“I know. I know all about it. I went to the boarding house and Hap tells me.”

“Next time you come to me with this trouble,” Mr. Schoener said firmly. “I take care of this man for you.”

They seated her at the kitchen table and fussed over the baby. A cup of tea magically appeared at her elbow.

“Beautiful baby,” said Mrs. Schoener. “Can I hold?”

“Of course.”

Mary played with the buttons on Mrs. Schoener’s blouse while Tara filled them in on recent events.

“And now you keep her baby as your own,” Lotte said.

“It’s good,” pronounced Mrs. Schoener. “Baby needs mother. But you need husband.”

It was a relief to finally unburden herself, to widen the circle of people who knew she was married to Reece. They were thrilled for her.

“Tara Waldron now? That your name? But you are Kitty McLaughlin too?”

“You don’t even tell us about the wedding!”

“Sure and there wasn’t time. It was that fast, because Reece had to be leavin’ for Europe.”

Mr. Schoener looked somber. “Our Conrad, he enlist. He is soldier now in American Army. Already gone to fight.”

It reminded Tara of something. “Mr. Schoener, why did you answer the door that way? You scared me half to death.”

“Children, go outside.” When the little ones were gone, he turned back to Tara. “I don’t know why I send them away, because they know. They come home from school with black eyes and dirty clothes. Scratches. Get pushed, fall down. Get bad names called at them. ‘Dirty Hun,’ they say, and not just the other children. Grown people, too. They throw things and yell bad things at us.”

Lotte leaned forward. “My mother, someone spat on her last week when she tried to buy fruit at the market. They tell her, ‘Go back to Germany, you dirty Hun.”

“But that’s terrible!” Tara felt her distress as keenly as if it were her own. She knew that anti-German fervor was intensifying, but to see the human cost of it, here, among people that she knew and cared about… The Schoeners were trying to become American citizens. Her eyes went to the large American flag that hung on their wall.

“It’s good that you’re back, Tara,” said Lotte. “Some of our other friends, they stay away now. They’re scared to be with us. Maybe they hate us too, like others. I don’t know.”

At the end of her visit, Tara promised to come back and see the Schoeners again. She would, too. Muldoon be damned. She’d allowed him to interfere with her life for far too long. As for those despicable people who were making the Schoeners suffer so: just let one of them say something to her!

•  •  •

She went about her daily chores as maid and mother and maintained her double life, patiently waiting for an opportunity to find out what Mrs. Millinder’s real feelings toward Reece were. Occasionally she came across Adrienne sitting by herself, reading or arranging flowers, but little more than a polite nod ever passed between the two women. Once, while carrying a load of fresh bedding to one of the third-floor linen closets, she overheard a snippet of conversation through the Millinder’s open bedroom that made her wonder.

“I’ve already told you. He moved and didn’t leave any forwarding address.” That was Mr. Millinder’s voice, sounding cross.

“But he wouldn’t do that. And what makes you think he’s left New York?”

Were they talking about Reece? Was his mother trying to locate him? At that moment, Emory glanced toward the open door and spied Tara loitering in the hallway. She moved on hurriedly and heard the bedroom door close firmly in her wake.

•  •  •

“Where’ve you been? Mrs. Beecham is asking for you. Didn’t sound happy a’tall. You’re wanted in the drawing room. Here.” Cook handed Tara a tray of petit fours. “The Millinders are entertaining some guests.”

Tara reached the drawing room and started circulating among the guests with the petit fours when the unmistakable cry of a baby cut through the soft clatter of conversation. Tara froze. Had everyone else heard it, too? Maybe one of the other maids would get to Mary before—

“What in the world is that, Emory?” a distinguished-looking gentleman in a gray woolen suit asked. “A baby?”

“Certainly sounds like it.” Millinder frowned. “Mrs. Beecham, I wasn’t aware that there was a baby on the premises.”

“Neither was I, sir.” Mrs. Beecham was grappling with two of her worst fears: being dragged into the spotlight by her employer instead of being allowed to remain efficiently invisible, and confronting something totally unexpected. Flustered, she wheeled indignantly on the maids who were present.

“Whose baby is it?” she demanded. “Inga? Tell me what this is all about!”

Inga and the others looked down at the floor and said nothing. Tara sighed. The ruse was over.

“It’s my baby, Mrs. Beecham. Or rather, my cousin Sheila’s baby.”

“Well where is she?”

“She passed on, mum. When she had little Mary.”

Mrs. Beecham staggered a little, trying to assimilate the new information. She generally refrained from any involvement with the personal lives of the staff she supervised, preferring to think that they didn’t have personal lives. Dimly, she recalled giving permission for a younger cousin to sleep in the servant’s quarters. How this had evolved into a crying baby was beyond her immediate grasp.

“So you’re keeping the baby,” she sputtered in disbelief. “What about her husband’s family?”

“She didn’t have a husband, mum. She was not married.”

If everyone in the drawing room hadn’t been riveted by the conversation before this turn, they were now. Mrs. Millinder put her hand on her husband’s arm. “Emory, perhaps we should speak with this young lady privately.”

“Why? She obviously feels no shame about her cousin’s bastard child. I don’t even know that I believe this story about a cousin.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Mrs. Beecham quivered. “Miss Logan came to us with excellent references. One tries to give these Irish girls an opportunity to better themselves, but…” She shrugged helplessly, trying to pretend as if this unseemly drama weren’t unfolding in front of a roomful of guests.

Realizing he’d let things go on far longer than was suitable, Millinder sought to reassert his mastery over the situation.

“Did the rest of you know about this?” he demanded of the other maids. “This bastard child, living under my roof?”

“This is my responsibility alone,” Tara said quickly, her face flushed with anger. “They had nothin’ to do with it. And you’re right, Mr. Millinder. I’m not ashamed of Mary. She’s a fine baby, and I’ll not have you speakin’ that way about her. Or of me poor cousin Sheila, God rest her soul. Sure and she made mistakes, but they’re for God alone to judge—not you. What kind of a man would take out his wrath on a wee baby who’s never done anything wrong? Little Mary is worth more than ten of you, she is.”

It was difficult to tell who was more shocked by her outburst: Mrs. Beecham, the Millinders, or their assembled guests. Mrs. Beecham recovered her powers of speech first.

“You’ll get your things together and leave this house at once, Kitty Logan,” she hissed.

Tara snapped back: “Sure and I wouldn’t stay another minute in this house if you begged me to.”

“But Emory, we just can’t turn her out,” Adrienne Millinder spoke up at last. “Where will she go? Think of the baby. At least give her time to make some arrangements.”

“You needn’t worry about that, Adrienne,” broke in a crisp, assured voice. “This young lady is coming home with me.”

Puzzled, Tara studied the steely, silver-haired woman who’d just spoken. There was something familiar in the stately tilt of her head, the long, slender fingers that set a tea cup and saucer down to rest on a delicate table. The memory finally came to Tara in a rush. The woman who sat with such casual elegance right here in the Millinder’s drawing room was her long-ago companion from the Titanic’s lifeboat.

“Incidentally,” Mrs. Rutherford said dryly. “Her name is not Kitty Logan. It’s Tara McLaughlin. And you’re quite right to dismiss her, Emory. She has no business being a maid.”

“I
shan’t forget the look on Emory’s face when we left. That stuffed shirt! It was a priceless moment.”

Tara sighed. “I don’t like to think I’ve come between you and your friends.”

“Nonsense! Emory is a pompous ass. If you worked in that house for any length of time, you’ll know that what I say is true. I’ve never cared for the man. Only went there today to see Adrienne. She and I used to be great friends, when she first came north and settled in New York. Such a fun, spirited girl! There was no one like her. It’s so sad to see her as she is now. It’s as if she’s just…given up on life. And it’s not just because of her health, either. Noah Waldron—her first husband, who died—was the great love of her life. They were magnificent together. She was vibrant and outgoing and sometimes too headstrong. He was quiet and intense and serious and sort of, droll. They seemed to have come from two different planets and you wondered what on earth they had to say to each other, until you saw them together. They fit like a hand in a glove.” She shook her head sadly. “Noah Waldron was something special. You only had to meet him once to see that. Her son Reece is very much like him. Or was. I haven’t seen him in several years.”

Should Tara tell her new benefactor that she was married to Adrienne’s son? Perhaps it was too soon for such revelations.

“I understand that Mrs. Millinder and her son had some sort of disagreement,” Tara said carefully. She didn’t want Mrs. Rutherford to think she was simply engaging in gossip about her betters.

“I wouldn’t know. It’s so difficult to get Adrienne alone for a chat these days. Emory is always hovering about.”

Tara was still reeling from the events of the past few hours. She’d hastily packed her things and bade quick farewells to the other maids and Cook, and was then whisked away by Mrs. Rutherford to her own stately home. It was almost as large as the Millinder mansion but not as ornate, exuding instead a timeless dignity. She hadn’t seen much of it yet, just enough to gain an impression of quiet, tasteful comfort punctuated here and there by unexpected touches of whimsy. Upon their arrival, a sleepy Mary was handed over to the care of two maids—at Mrs. Rutherford’s insistence.

“I hope she won’t be too much trouble,” Tara worried.

“Trouble? They’re excited to have a baby to fuss over. It’s very dull for them here, taking care of just one old woman most of the time. Besides, I wanted us to have a chance to talk without interruption.”

Tara smiled, still wondering what this was all about. Mrs. Rutherford was speaking to her as if she were her social equal. Although Tara had a healthy sense of self-esteem and thought she was every bit as good as anyone else, she was nonetheless accustomed to having people from the Millinder’s circle treat her as if she were almost invisible: just a pair of hands holding a tray or wielding a feather duster or opening a door to admit visitors. It was a little disconcerting to have a wealthy, cultured woman like Mrs. Rutherford look her straight in the eye and smile at her in a friendly, familiar manner.

“Do you get lonely?” she asked the older woman.

If Mrs. Rutherford minded being asked such a personal question, she gave no notice. “Not often. I keep busy. I’m quite active in the arts, you know, serving on this museum committee or that board of directors. Relatives come to visit me—looking after their inheritances, no doubt. I never had children, but I have plenty of nieces and nephews. I still miss my husband terribly, of course. You remember meeting him that night, don’t you?”

“I shall never forget him. A real gentleman. The way he defended me, a stranger…”

“Yes. Just so. Winthrop was gallant. Like a knight of old.” She sighed. “There were plenty of men who came calling on me after I returned to New York. The Emory Millinders of the world. Ambitious men looking for wealthy widows to romance. I nipped enough of them in the heels and sent them away so that word got around and now, blessedly, I’m mostly left in peace. Winthrop spoiled me, I’m afraid, and no man—so far—has come close to measuring up to him. I’m content to play the role of grand dame, patroness of the arts and charities. I have many friends and it is, all things considered, a satisfying life. Thanks to my husband’s business acumen and my own inheritance, I have enough money to indulge in my impulses.”

They sat down to dinner, which astonished Tara. She’d assumed that Mrs. Rutherford intended to hire her as a maid, but that lady clearly had other ideas. What a novelty it was to be served, instead of being the one doing the serving! Tara hardly knew how to behave. She thanked the maid who put ladled cream of broccoli soup into her bowl, eliciting a knowing smile from Mrs. Rutherford. During the meal, however, her self-consciousness diminished. Mrs. Rutherford’s forthright manner and frank curiosity put her at ease.

“So tell me, Tara, how it was that you came to work for the Millinders. I would have thought that with your talent, you’d be a singing star by now. While I realize I only heard you sing that one time, under very strange circumstances, I rather egoistically pride myself on having certain instincts about people. Mine told me that you were destined for something more than domestic work.”

So the whole story came out, or most of it, anyway. She found herself relaying the last few years’ events in detail, while Mrs. Rutherford listened raptly. She described her short-lived vaudeville career. Muldoon’s reentry into her life, with its violent and destructive consequences. The dismal tavern in the Bowery where she hid and worked. How she came to work for the Millinders. Sheila’s short, troubled life. How the entire staff at the Millinders conspired to help Tara care for Mary and keep her a secret. Mrs. Rutherford spoke little and listened intently, nodding encouragement, seeming to want to hear about every incident that led to Tara’s present-day circumstances.

The roast beef was taken away. Cheese and fruit were served for dessert, but Tara was quite full. She’d managed to eat a hearty meal, despite talking as much as she had!