by Rhys Bowen
“But I don't know how to ride a bicycle,” I added. “And I promised Eileen that I'd take her for a walk this afternoon.”
“So tell her she can't go out alone, Barney,” Clara said.
Bamey glanced at Clara, then smiled again. “I'm sure you'll be just fine, Belinda. And you'll never make it as far as the military academy on a bicycle. It’s all up and down, you know. Ill wager youll only get as far as the Van Gelders, but perhaps it’s Roland you're secretly hoping to visit.”
“That oaf? Good heavens, no. Whatever gave you that idea?” Belinda said, but her cheeks had turned red and I realized that her secret motive might be to pay a call on one of the Van Gelders' visitors. I was glad I hadn't agreed to accompany her.
After lunch Belinda paraded through the house in her bloomers. I wasn't sure whether this was designed to shock Clara or flirt with Bamey. Knowing that gentleman’s personality I felt that she was playing with fire by encouraging him, but perhaps she already knew that.
“I've asked Theresa’s maid to find you a pair,” Belinda said. “Then I can teach you to ride a bicycle too. It’s a skill every young woman should possess.”
“I'd dearly like to leam,” I said.
I waited until she had departed for the coach house and Clara had gone for her afternoon rest before I headed for the kitchen. A large, round-faced colored woman was sitting in a rocking chair by the open window, fanning herself with a newspaper as she rocked. Beyond the kitchen in the scullery I could hear the clatter of pots and pans as the scullery maid washed the dishes.
As I tapped politely on the door, the woman looked up and scrambled to her feet.
“It’s all right, Cook. Please don't get up,” I said. “I'm Miss Gaffney, the master’s cousin, and I just came to tell you how delicious I thought the lunch was.”
Cook’s elderly face crinkled into a smile. “Well, isn't that kind of you, miss. I have to admit I do make a good, smooth white sauce and the master tells me my apple crumble is the best he ever tasted.”
“It certainly was,” I said. “I understand you've been with the family a long time.”
“All my life, miss. I started in the kitchen with Miz Theresa’s family in Virginia, and when Miz Theresa got married, they asked me if I'd like to go with her as cook. Of course I said yes. The chance to run my own kitchen doesn't come around every day.”
“So you're one of the few servants they kept after the tragedy,” I said. “I heard that they sacked everyone.”
That’s right, miss,” Cook said, her face growing serious. “Me'n Soames, we were the only two they kept on. Well, they knew they could trust us, having been with the family for so long. And on ac-count of the master particularly liking my cookin'.” She laughed at this joke, her large body heaving silently. They take me every-where with them. Why, they even took me when Miz Theresa was poorly and needed to go away to rest.”
“After the tragedy, you mean?”
“When Miss Eileen was expected,” she said, lowering her eyes modestly at the talk of such intimate matters. “She couldn't take the cold in New York so the master sent her to Florida for the winter. I was the only one she tmsted to go with her.” She gave a little smirk of satisfaction. That’s coz I know which side my bread is buttered.”
“The Senator and Mrs. Flynn are lucky to have such a good cook,” I said.
She preened then. They even take me with them to Washington when they leave the rest of the servants behind. I've cooked for all kinds of famous folks, you know. Senators, generals—”
“Have you really? How wonderful.” I looked suitably impressed.
“I'll tell you another who always praised my cooking,” she said confidentially. “That devil. Albert Morell, the chauffeur. You heard about him, of course.”
“Oh yes. We heard all about him, even in Ireland,” I said.
“I warned Annie Lomax enough times,” Cook said, shaking her head. “She was the child’s nursemaid who was sweet on him. I said to her, You watch yourself, my girl.' If he was a sailor he'd have a girl in every port. He wasn't Irish but he could charm the hind leg off a donkey, just like the master can. Always hanging about in this kitchen, praising my cooking. Your food is fit for the gods, Beulah.' That’s what he'd say. And I was fool enough to spoil him—save him tidbits from the master’s table, you know.”
“You said he wasn't Irish,” I interrupted. “What was he? I think I read he was bom locally?”
“Upstate New York, around Albany way, and he said his folks came from England. But you know what I thought?” She leaned closer to me, although we two were alone in the kitchen. “I always thought he had Italian blood in him. He had those dark flashing eyes and his skin in summertime used to go almost as dark as mine.”
Of course, I thought. There was something about the name that hadn't fit. What if it was originally Alberto Morellii I'd have to look into that.
“I should have known he was rotten to the core,” Cook went on. “I should have suspected when he took one of my meringues. We were having a dinner party that night and I had made twenty-four meringue nests to be filled with strawberries and cream. When I came to fill them there were only twenty-three and then Fanny, the scullery maid, said she'd seen Bertie crunching some-thing as he walked through the kitchen.”
“Did he always come and go through the kitchen?” I asked. I looked out of the window. The kitchen garden began after a thin strip of lawn. I could make out the thatched roof of the guest cottage at the rear of the kitchen garden, then, to the right, there was a clear view of the gravel drive and the carriage house beyond.
“It was a short cut from the carriage house, wasn't it?” Cook said. “As a matter of fact he wasn't supposed to be in the main house at all, but he'd drop in here from time to time, and sometimes he'd sneak upstairs to visit Annie.”
“That day the child was taken, did he come in through the kitchen then?”
She shook her head. “It was after lunch, wasn't it? I always take my forty winks in this chair, but I'd have woken up if anyone came to the door. I'd swear he didn't bring the child out this way”
“What about deliveries that day?”
“Deliveries?” She looked puzzled.
“Laundry? Grocery boy?”
“What are you getting at?” she asked.
“I was just wondering if the child could have been carried out in a laundry basket.”
She shook her head. The laundry is done right here, at that big copper in the scullery. Why do you think they keep all these maids?” She looked up at me. “There was no delivery that day and Bertie Morell didn't come through my kitchen. I reckon it was just what the police thought—he got his sweetheart, Annie Lomax, to bring the child to him.”
I couldn't think of anything else to ask her. “I can see my main problem here is not eating so much that my corset won't lace properly.” I smiled at her.
“You should be like Beulah, honey Ain't never worn a corset and don't intend to. And always enjoyed my food, as I expect you can tell from this body!” Again she shook with silent laughter. A woman after my own heart!
I looked up at the kitchen clock and noted that Eileen would be expecting me soon. I left Cook, fanning herself and rocking again, and took a few minutes in my room to collect my thoughts before I went to fetch Eileen. I had learned nothing new from Cook, or had I? That Albert Morell was possibly Italian. That he sneaked in through the kitchen on occasion. That he could be very charming. But all of the above still pointed to his guilt.
Eileeen was dressed for her outing in a large-brimmed bonnet, trimmed with lace. Her petticoats were stiffly starched and she was wearing stout walking boots.
'You mind your manners with Miss Gaffney,” the nanny said, “and don't go running and hurting yourself. Remember you're a lady.”
Poor little thing, I thought, as I took her hand. I thought back to my own childhood when my brothers and I ran barefoot on beaches and climbed on rocks and slipped and skinned knees and came home freck
led and dirty. Whoever said that money couldn't buy happiness was right.
The doll’s pram was waiting for us outside the front door. Eileen took the handles and we set off across the lawns. She behaved like a perfect little lady, speaking only when spoken to and answering my questions in a small, grave voice. Even when I pointed out a flagbedecked steamer going upriver and encouraged her to wave to it, it was a sedate wave with no joy in it.
The day was hot and muggy. Flies buzzed around us and I found myself wishing I had not suggested this outing. Clearly Eileen found pushing the pram heavy going over the grass, but wouldn't accept help from me. At last we reached the shade of the trees.
“Let’s stop and rest for a while,” I said. “I don't know about you, but I'm all hot and sweaty.”
“You mustn't say sweaty. It’s not polite,” she corrected.
I sat on a fallen tree trunk and encouraged her to sit beside me. She did, cautiously smoothing her white dress.
“It’s nice here in the forest, isn't it?” I asked. “Almost as if we're explorers in the distant jungle. We could be miles from anywhere.”
In answer a squirrel ran across the clearing and up a big pine tree. Eileen jumped up excitedly. “Look, a squirrel. Can we pet it?”
“I don't think it will stay around long enough for you to pet it,” I said, “but next time we come out, we'll bring some nuts or bread-crumbs and see if we can get it to come down and eat.”
“Oh yes, let’s do that.” For a moment she was an ordinary little girl. “What other animals do you think there are in the forest? Are there bears or wolves?”
“I don't think so,” I said. “Foxes maybe, and badgers and lots of rabbits.”
“Will we see them?”
“If we sit very quietly, maybe we'll see a rabbit.”
She sat, holding her breath in concentration. A jay screeched above our heads. A pigeon rose with noisy flapping of wings. Eileen was entranced. Then suddenly I got the strangest feeling. I could swear that we were being watched. Nothing moved in the undergrowth. I heard no sound, but I could feel the back of my neck prickling as if hostile eyes were on me.
I had not until now given a thought to the fact that another child had been kidnapped in broad daylight from this place. And hadn't Joseph Rimes given some kind of warning to Barney earlier today—something about no lengths to which they wouldn't go? Was it possible that the original kidnapping had some kind of political motive and that Bamey knew more than he had told?
I stood up and jerked Eileen to her feet. “It’s time to go back,” I said.
“Oh no, please. I really want to see a rabbit,” she protested. “Another day. Well come back another day.” I took her by one hand and pushed the doll’s pram with the other. She dragged be-hind me, protesting. “No, please. I don't want to go back. I don't want to…”
I didn't slow my pace until we were out on the sunlit lawn again.
Seventeen
I was in a quandary as to whether I should mention my suspicion to Bamey. He'd surely want to know if his daughter was in danger. But by the time I returned to the house to find tea being laid on the veranda, I realized that I might have overreacted to what had been nothing more than a cool breeze from the river. Nevertheless, I decided not to take Eileen so far from help again.
Belinda didn't appear for tea, so it was just Clara and myself. Miss Emily and Miss Ella had also been absent all day and I inquired after their health.
“They've been having their meals sent over to them,” Alice, the maid, said. “As if we don't have enough work to do around here without running up and down with food for them.”
“Are they indisposed?” I asked.
“Not that I could see.” She poured a cup of tea and placed it in front of me, giving me a look that indicated I probably wasn't worthy of being served either.
“I do hope nothing has happened to Belinda.” Clara looked flushed from working in the garden all day.
“I'm sure she’s fine. She probably stopped off to visit the Van Gelders and was invited to tea there.”
“I do hope so.” Clara fanned herself. “Young girls these days ask for trouble. Riding a bicycle to the military academy indeed.
There’s no telling what those young men would do if they saw legs exposed to the kneel”
I went to my room to rest and change for dinner. By the time I came down again, Belinda was back and looking rather smug.
“Did you manage to ride as far as the military academy?” I asked.
“No, I didn't. Cousin Bamey was absolutelyright. It was much farther than I thought and the road is atrocious. I think it’s a scandal there are no decent roads only an hour from New York City. What a backward country this is. There are fine roads all over France and England.”
“So how far did you get?” Qara asked. “As far as the Van Gelders?”
Belinda tossed back her sausage curls. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I stopped off there for a glass of lemonade. It was devilishly hot work, riding a bicycle, you know.”
Clara snorted. “Don't tell me you're getting sweet on Roland Van Gelder after all.”
“Good heavens, no. Not if he was the last man on earth.”
“Are their house guests still there?” I asked cautiously. “They said they planned to head out West.”
“Captain Cathers and Mr. Hartley?” Belinda blushed faintly. “Yes, they were still there. And you made quite an impression on Mr. Hartley, Molly. He couldn't stop asking questions about you. He wanted to know all about your girlhood in Ireland. Of course I had to tell him that we knew nothing about Barney’s numerous relatives in the old country.” She gave me a wicked smile. “I'll wager he was trying tofindout whether your family was prosperous enough to make a suitable match.”
“Odious man,” I said. “If he asks you about me again, please tell him I have no interest in furthering his acquaintance.”
“I don't know why,” Belinda said, and I thought she looked relieved. “He is quite good-looking. A little like Lord Byron, don't you think?”
“And just as brooding, I fear. I intend to pick a husband who can make me laugh.”
“Then you should choose Roland Van Gelder,” Belinda said, again tossing her hair. “His behavior is so pathetically comical that you'd be laughing every minute.”
She swept ahead of me down the hallway
We went into the drawing room together to find the Misses Sorensen had recovered enough to grace us with their presence. They were each sitting with a glass of sherry in their hands, working their way through a dish of cheese straws that had been placed between them.
“I was sorry to hear you were indisposed earlier today,” I said.
“Our talent is very taxing,” Miss Emily said. “Two nights in a row was too much for us. And we hear it was too much for poor Mrs. Flynn too. One does not meddle lightly with the spirit world.”
“No indeed,” said Miss Ella, her mouth full of cheese straw.
Cousin Theresa did not appear for dinner, neither did Bamey or Joseph Rimes. I had thought we would be all women at the table, but then Mr. O'Mara appeared at the last moment, looking very embarrassed at the thought of sitting with a lot of women. He took a seat beside me and concentrated hard on eating his soup. It was leek and potato, on account of being Friday, but again Cook had done a wonderful job with it.
“So Senator Flynn has abandoned you to suffer through a hen party, has he, Mr. O'Mara?” I asked him.
He didn't smile. I hadn't expected him to, but he nodded seriously. “The Senator and Mr. Rimes had to meet with important backers. My services were not required.”
I noticed Miss Emily and Miss Ella were scraping their bowls and looking around eagerly for the next course. On my other side Belinda was waxing lyrical about Paris fashions and the shocking amount of ankle that was being revealed on the Champs-Elysées. I took the opportunity to chat with Mr. O'Mara.
“How long have you been with Senator Flynn?” I asked.
�
��Almost six years.”
“That’s a long time for a young man like yourself. A secretarial position is all very fine, but I'd imagine you must be anxious to move on to something with better prospects.”
“Beggars can't be choosers, Miss Gaffney,” he said quietly.
“Have you ambitions to go into politics yourself one day?”
“Good Lord, no. Such a life wouldn't suit me at all.”
“Then what kind of life would suit you?”
“I had thought to be a lawyer, when I graduated from Columbia University, but I now see that I am not suited to that profession. What about you, Miss Gaffney? How do you envision your future?”
“Aren't all ladies supposed to marry and have babies?” He noted my wicked grin.
“According to the young ladies at Vassar across the river, women can aspire to the law, to medicine, to vote, or to write witty novels if they put their minds to it.”
“And why not?” I asked. “Is there anything in the male physique that would make a man more able to vote, practice law or write novels?”
“Stamina, Miss Gaffney. We are not prone to attacks of the vapors.”
“That’s only because we women are subjected to wearing ridiculous corsets. Apart from that, I would have thought we women were champions at stamina. Look at all those mothers who take care of twelve children. And take Mrs. Flynn—she’s had to have stamina to bear the burden of reliving her tragedy every day forfiveyears.”
“I'd say she was buckling under that burden, Miss Gaffney.”
“Maybe you're right. But what human being could endure it without buckling?”
“The Senator has had to get on with his life.”
“That’s because he has a life outside the home. Did you ever think that it was being cooped up, day in and day out, in a protective little cocoon that made women buckle?”
He looked at me as if I was a fellow human being for the first time. “You may be right,” he said. “Under such conditions, even the strongest constitution can crack.”
Later I wondered whether he had been talking about himself. The next day Belinda informed me that Theresa was still feeling under the weather and would stay in bed yet again.
