by Rhys Bowen
On Wednesday morning I bundled up the children and we all went together to the Jefferson Market, which was in full early morning swing. Piles of vegetables on stalls all around. The earthy aroma of potatoes mingling with the strong smell of Brussels sprouts, and among them sprigs of holly, of mistletoe. Then the occasional flash of color, mounds of squash and pumpkins, a display of oranges, some of them wrapped in foil, ready to be stocking gifts.
We smelled the Christmas trees before we found them—that delicious fresh piney smell. And there they were—spruce fresh from New England and Upstate New York. Bridie gave an excited little squeal and darted forward. “They are so beautiful,” she exclaimed.
We stood back and let her choose, smiling at each other when she chose modestly, not the biggest tree, but one that she could lift herself. We also bought nuts and butternut squash to roast, a pumpkin to make into soup, and a sprig of holly. Bridie insisted on carrying the tree home herself. Once home, we put it in a bucket of water outside the back door so that it would still be quite fresh when Daniel came home.
Bridie asked to let Tig and Emmy see our tree and went over to fetch them. When they came back, I showed the children how to make paper snowflakes and left them sitting deep in concentration at the table. Then I decided I had enough time to slip away before visiting hours at St. Vincent’s Hospital.
“Would you mind if I went out for a few minutes?” I asked my mother-in-law. “We’ve been trying to locate the children’s family and I think we might finally have a lead.”
“Really? But aren’t they English?” Mrs. Sullivan asked me. “Do they have family over here?”
“They came over from London, to be sure,” I said, “but I now think that their mother was American and she brought them back here after their father died, hoping to be reunited with her family here. Does the name Montague mean anything to do?”
She thought for a minute, then shook her head. “There is no Montague I can think of in Westchester County, and I’ve no real knowledge of society within the city these days.” She looked up at me. “But you go and do what you can. The children are happily occupied and the little fellow just likes being with them.”
I kissed her cheek. “You are very kind to us and I do appreciate it. I’m glad you’re part of our family at Christmas.”
She looked rather embarrassed and pleased, and I realized that she must be lonely in that big house in Westchester County and glad to be with us. I took the locket in its little leather box, put it in my purse, then I bundled up and went out into the snowy streets, catching the Sixth Avenue El to the Upper West Side. It was this train that had almost killed me and my son and I still had qualms about boarding it, but I told myself not to be so silly. Accidents happen and one accident was not going to spoil the rest of my life. All the same, I found I was holding my breath as the train rounded the sharp curve to join the tracks of the Ninth Avenue train.
We arrived without incident and I descended at the Sixty-sixth Street station, heading toward the park. The sun came out between clouds as I approached the park and it gleamed and sparkled like a winter wonderland. Even though I was in a hurry and had a task to complete I couldn’t help going up to the railings, watching the bright figures skating on the lake and small boys dragging sleds behind them. A perfect scene for the Christmas season, I thought.
Then I turned to that magnificently monstrous edifice, the Dakota building. It was the first luxury apartment block built so far north, away from the center of town and at the edge of the park. Hence the name—so far west that it was almost in the Dakotas. Now the city had spread north and west to join it, with other such apartment buildings rising in majestic splendor on this side of the park, while the East Side now boasted its museums and mansions. I went up to the imposing front entrance, where a doorman in full livery greeted me, and asked for Mr. Eustace Everett’s residence.
He frowned. “I’m afraid Mr. Everett is not here at the moment, ma’am. He went out early this morning and I suspect you will find him at his place of business.”
“Montague Coffee Importers?” I asked. “Would you happen to know where that is?”
“On Wall Street, so I am given to understand, ma’am. Down toward the docks.”
I thanked him and set off again with a sigh. Having come so far north to now head to the southern tip of Manhattan was most frustrating. I told myself that the children were in good hands and the Sixth Avenue El would take me down to South Ferry, from where it would only be a short walk to Wall Street. So I made my way back to the station and found that my heart no longer pounded quite so violently as the train rounded the curve where the accident had taken place. An icy wind was blowing off the Atlantic when I climbed down the steps to the street below and the usually placid meeting of the Hudson and East Rivers was flecked with whitecaps as well as floating ice. A most unappetizing scene, I shivered as I pictured Tig and Emmy being thrown into such water. Only a monster would consider such a deed, I thought, and picked up my pace toward Wall Street. I was so glad they were safely with Sid and Gus.
There was no mistaking the Montague Coffee Importers building. It was at the very end of Wall Street, facing the docks, and the aroma of coffee betrayed its presence before I saw the name painted across the brickwork. The open doors to the warehouse showed an expanse piled high with sacks of coffee. Laborers were hoisting sacks onto their shoulders and then carrying them off and up a flight of stairs, bending and staggering under the weight. I walked past until I found a separate entrance and went up a flight of narrow stairs to a dark hallway. I didn’t think this could be the right place to find the owner’s quarters, but at least I’d find somebody who could direct me. As I was looking around a young clerk emerged from a side cubicle. He was a lanky youth with red hair brighter than my own. “Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked.
I asked if Mr. Everett was available.
“He is, ma’am. But he’s very busy today. We’ve a ship just docked from Brazil. Would our foreman, Mr. Grimes, or Mr. Everett’s secretary do instead?”
“No, I wish to speak with Mr. Everett himself,” I said. “It will not take long.”
“May I ask what this is about?”
“A personal matter of great urgency. One concerning his family,” I said.
“Please wait here, I will inquire whether he will see you.” He looked downright scared as he headed into darkness along the hall. I waited. There was nowhere to sit, but at least it was warm and smelled of coffee. At last he returned. “Mr. Everett had agreed to give you a couple of minutes of his time, if you will follow me.”
He set off at a great rate, while I followed. Along the hall and up another flight of stairs. Then he tapped on a door and I was ushered into a bright, well-appointed office. After the Spartan conditions of the stairs and hallway I was surprised by the thick carpet, mahogany bookshelves, and desk. The view from the window looked out over the East River, where, in spite of the cold conditions, there was a hive of activity. Small figures unloaded crates and pushed barrows. Their shouts and cries echoed up to us. Directly in the foreground a sailing ship was being eased into a berth. It was interesting to note that there was a distinct absence of steamships to be seen. I tried to imagine those small vessels negotiating the Atlantic in conditions like today’s.
All this flashed through my mind in an instant before the man at the desk swiveled around in his chair to face me. He was young, a trifle on the podgy side, with neatly parted dark hair, round cheeks, and fleshy lips. Not unattractive, but somehow with a spoiled look to him. Clearly one who was used to privilege.
“Ah—Eustace Everett. And you are?” he asked. He spoke in a clipped manner and I noticed he did not smile or offer me a seat.
“Mrs. Sullivan,” I said, “and I am sorry to disturb you when I understand you are so busy.”
“What’s this about?”
“It’s about your cousin, Margaret Montague,” I said.
This really surprised him. His eyebrows shot up. “Margar
et? She’s been gone for years. Don’t tell me she’s come back?”
“I believe she did return to New York a few months ago,” I said. “So she did not try to contact you or her father?”
“She certainly didn’t try to contact me,” he said. “She may have tried her father, but she’d have been out of luck. I don’t know how much you are aware of our story, Mrs. Sullivan, but Margaret was foolish enough to run off with a servant…”
“The music teacher, I believe.”
“Whatever he was, he was not of her social standing. A penniless man of the lower classes and not a suitable match in any way. When her father found out that they had eloped he made it quite clear that she was no longer his daughter. He cut her out of his will and said she was never to be spoken of again.” He looked up at me suddenly. “My uncle is a hard man, Mrs. Sullivan. If Margaret had returned and begged to see him, his pride would not have allowed it. Besides, he is in poor health at the moment.”
“So I understand,” I said. “I am very sorry.”
His eyes narrowed. “So may I ask the reason for your visit today? Is it possible you have been sent as an emissary from my cousin?”
“No. I have never met your cousin,” I said. “But I have met her children. I found them begging on New York streets and when I heard their story I resolved to help them.”
“May one ask where my cousin is if her children are reduced to begging?”
“I wish I knew. All I can tell you is that she brought them to New York, left them in the care of a woman who runs a boardinghouse, and then disappeared. That was in March and nothing has been heard of her since. So one has to assume that some kind of tragedy has befallen her.”
“You heard this story from whom exactly?”
“The children,” I replied.
He gave me a supercilious smirk. “I’m not sure what to think about this—whether the children put you up to it, or you saw the children as a good opportunity.”
“Are you suggesting that I am helping the children for my own gain, Mr. Everett? Really, you must be a poor judge of character.” I fought to keep my temper. No sense in walking out and making him an enemy when he was the one person who might be able to help us.
That supercilious smile still lingered at the corners of his lips. “Then maybe you are a kindhearted woman of the sort who does good deeds among the poor in the city. Well meaning, but naïve. These children told you they were Margaret Montague’s offspring, did they? My dear Mrs. Sullivan—the news of my engagement was just in the newspapers. Such mentions bring people like you out of the woodwork. Hitherto unknown relations, people who claim I owe them money…” He paused, took out a big handkerchief, and blew his nose.
I waited. He put the handkerchief away, then said, “Do you have any proof at all that these are my cousin’s children? The children know of their mother’s family and heritage?”
“They knew very little, Mr. Everett. Apparently she never spoke of her family. But we have seen the ship’s manifest and their names were clear enough to be proof. Margaret Everett Jones and her children, Thomas Montague Jones and Megan Everett Jones. What more proof do you need?”
When he didn’t answer I said, “Might I bring the children to see you? I’m told the little one strongly resembles her mother.”
“I hardly knew my cousin, Mrs. Sullivan,” he replied. “I grew up in Philadelphia and was only brought to New York after Margaret ran off and her brother was killed, and it was realized that I was now the heir. And the Montague family can be thankful for that. Margaret was a female and thus not equipped to run a business of this scope and magnitude, and David would never have buckled down to work as I have. He liked his pleasures and took nothing seriously, from what I’ve been told.”
“How did he die?” I asked.
“A riding accident. He tried to show off and jump a particularly tall gate. He was thrown and broke his neck.”
“Your poor uncle,” I said. “And how fortunate that you were able to come and take the place of his children.”
He gave a satisfied little nod, apparently not realizing the element of sarcasm in my remark. “Yes, it has been fortunate, for him and for me.”
“And soon you are to be married. My congratulations.”
“Thank you. I am well satisfied. It is a good match. But if you’ll excuse me, I must return to work. I’m afraid there would be no point in my meeting your beggar children. I have only the dimmest memory of my cousin, and I certainly couldn’t upset my uncle with this kind of outrageous news. In his precarious current state of health it might even kill him.”
He swiveled his chair around, indicating I was dismissed and he wanted to get back to work.
“You asked if I had proof, Mr. Everett,” I said. “Actually I do.” He stopped and then turned his chair back toward me. I reached into my purse and brought out the leather box, placed it on his desk, and then opened it. “This is the locket their mother always wore. It bears her initials and inside are two locks of hair—one is hers and the other her brother’s. If you would show that to your uncle, I’m sure he would agree to see the children.”
He took it and examined it, holding it in his podgy hands.
I went on, more boldly now, “Surely if these are your cousin’s children, your own flesh and blood, you would not want them to freeze to death on the streets of New York? And is it not possible that your uncle would want to know he has grandchildren? All I ask is that you show this to your uncle at the right moment. If he still refuses to acknowledge them, then so be it. But I can’t believe he would turn them away.”
He took the locket and replaced it in the box. “Very well, Mrs. Sullivan. I will do as you ask. As it happens I’m to go out to Oyster Bay tomorrow with my fiancée to make sure everything is in order for our big engagement party on Saturday. If my uncle seems well enough I will show it to him.”
“Thank you. I am most grateful,” I said. “They are lovely little children and deserve something better than the New York streets.” I reached into my purse. “Here is my card,” I said. “Please send me a note as soon as you have news.”
“Of course. Now I really must get back to work.”
He was already examining a sheaf of papers as I left the room. There was no sign of the young clerk and I found my own way back to the street.
Nineteen
I just had time to go home to check on the children before it was visiting hours at St. Vincent’s Hospital. This time I bundled up Liam and Bridie, hoping that Daniel might be well enough to look out of the window and see his son. Daniel’s mother came with us too. Liam was keen to be out of the buggy and playing in the snow, leaning forward in his harness, holding up his arms, and making urgent cries.
“Hush your noise. You can’t get out now. We’re going to see Dada,” I scolded. He was such an adventurous little soul that I wanted to keep him safely contained for as long as possible.
When we reached the hospital I sent my mother-in-law up first. It was only right after she had been kind enough to watch the children for me the last time I visited. I wheeled the buggy around to where I thought Daniel’s window should be and told Liam to watch. Any minute now Dada would appear. Then a face came to the window—not Daniel’s but his mother’s. She was beckoning to me urgently. A wave of fear shot through me. Something had happened to Daniel. He had had a relapse during the night. Gangrene had set in, or infection. Hurriedly I pushed the buggy around to the entrance. I couldn’t take it up the steps and was wondering what to do next when my mother-in-law herself appeared, breathing heavily as if she had run part of the way.
“What is it? Bad news?” I asked as she came down to us.
“No, good. They say he’s ready to go home. He’s all dressed and waiting.”
“Why, that’s splendid. Couldn’t be better.” I hugged her.
“So why don’t I wheel the buggy back with the children and you can bring him home in a cab,” she said.
“Yes. Perfect.” I was so reli
eved I was almost lost for words. “That’s very kind of you,” I managed to stammer.
“Not at all, my dear. You go up to your husband now.”
I watched them walk away with Bridie helping to push the buggy, then I bounded up the stairs to Daniel’s ward. He was sitting on a chair beside his bed, dressed in a jacket I didn’t recognize. He still looked horribly pale, but he broke into a big smile when he saw me.
“Good news, eh, Molly? They say the wound is healing nicely and as long as we wash and dress it twice a day and I try not to move too much, I should be right as rain in a few days.”
“That is good news.” I bent to kiss him. “So are you ready to go home? I’m sure you’re not allowed to walk yet.”
“When I’m ready they will take me down in a wheelchair to the casualty entrance,” he said. “So perhaps you can go and hail a hansom cab?”
“I will,” I said. I beckoned to a young sister. “Captain Sullivan is ready to leave,” I said. “Should I go and find a cab for us now?”
“You should, Mrs. Sullivan. And we’ll meet you around the side, where they bring in the ambulances.”
“Will my husband be warm enough dressed like that?” I looked at him critically. “And where did that jacket come from?”
The sister laughed. “From the poor box, I’m afraid. It was the only one in his size. His own clothes were so bloodstained they had to be thrown away. But we’ll wrap him in a blanket. You can return it to us when you can.”
“Thank you.” I smiled at her. “I’ll see you downstairs then, Daniel.”
And off I went. Soon a hansom cab was found, Daniel was helped up to the seat, the driver was instructed to drive slowly and avoid the bumps if he could, and we started for home. Even moving at a sedate pace it was still a bumpy ride over lumps of snow and ice in the street, and I glanced nervously at Daniel each time the cab lurched. But he returned my worried glances with a smile. When we came to Patchin Place the cabby was unwilling to take the vehicle up such a narrow street, knowing that he’d not be able to turn it around and not wanting to back up the horse.
