A New York Christmas (Christmas Novellas 12)

by Anne Perry

  Phinnie looked slightly uncomfortable, but her happiness was too intense to be seriously disturbed by Celia’s predicament. ‘I can think of no greater honour,’ she said quietly. She turned for a moment to Brent, then away again, as if to ease the emotions and continue with the meal.

  Jemima wanted to say something polite and meaningless that they could all grasp on to, like throwing a lifebelt into the sea, but she felt it was not her place. There was obviously some family issue that no one wished to name, and yet was under the surface all the time, and it had to do with Maria Cardew.

  They ate in silence for several minutes. Every touch of knife or fork to the plate was audible. Even the movement of fabric against the padded seats of the chairs could be heard as much as felt.

  ‘I imagine Christmas will be celebrated wonderfully here,’ Jemima said at length. ‘It is a new beginning, and here it will be especially appreciated.’

  Harley looked at her blankly. ‘I had always thought of Christmas as a time of tradition above everything else,’ he remarked. ‘It is nineteen hundred years old!’

  ‘It is the rebirth of hope, and gratitude,’ she replied, remembering something from a sermon she had heard, under protest, a year ago. ‘It is the promise that we can start again, wherever we are.’ Her look challenged him to argue with her, if he dare refuse the olive branch she held out.

  ‘Of course it is,’ Mr Albright said firmly. He smiled very slightly, but with a flash in his eyes of approval, for her tact, and perhaps also her theology.

  ‘We celebrate it with bells and garlands and music, just as you do,’ Brent agreed. ‘And, of course, wonderful food. It is a time for families to be together and rejoice.’

  That was not what Jemima had meant, but she let it go. They spent the rest of the meal recounting Christmas experiences and traditions that were special to the Albright family. Maria Cardew was not mentioned again, although the late Mrs Albright was remembered often. It seemed Harley had been especially close to her, and clearly still missed her presence.

  Jemima was sorry that Phinnie would not have an older woman to guide her around the pitfalls of society. She was profoundly grateful for her own mother’s advice, and even more for that of her aunt Emily, who was less of a rebel than Charlotte. It was very good to know the rules, even if you did not intend to follow them.

  Much later in the evening, when she had already bidden everyone good night and was crossing the upstairs landing on her way to bed, she met Celia Albright.

  ‘Do you have everything you need, Miss Pitt?’ Celia asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, thank you,’ Jemima replied sincerely. ‘I’m sure I shall sleep very well. You have been most kind.’

  Celia did not move, as if there were something else she wished to say.

  Jemima also hesitated. It would have been a dismissal to have left, and she already felt a sympathy with the older woman, even if it was for a situation she only imagined and might not be real at all.

  ‘If you are worried about Phinnie, she may be too excited to sleep, but she is very happy and well-suited also,’ Jemima added.

  Celia gave a tiny gesture of resignation. ‘I’m sure. She will not miss Maria because she never really knew her. A pity, because she was a beautiful woman. Oh, I don’t mean her face, although that was lovely too, I mean her courage, her gentleness, her laughter. Whatever else you hear about her, Miss Pitt, don’t judge her unkindly. Emotions can run . . .’ she searched for the words, ‘. . . in ugly paths sometimes. Assumptions are not always correct.’

  ‘About Mrs Cardew?’

  ‘She was a good woman, in spite of appearances.’ Celia bit her lip. ‘Sleep well.’ She turned away and hurried along the corridor and round the corner, her head high, her thin shoulders stiff.

  Jemima went to her own room and closed the door. The curtains were drawn across the window, perhaps to keep out the cold on the glass as much as anything else, but she had liked the sight of the bare trees. It was something familiar and beautiful in a strange new place where she was very much alone.

  No one spoke of Phinnie’s mother, as if the subject were forbidden. Phinnie herself was desperately in love with Brent and on the edge of a new life, with no one but Jemima here by her side. And yet Celia Albright seemed to feel intensely that Maria Cardew had been a good woman. If that were true, what on earth could have made her leave her only child, little more than a baby, and surely needing her desperately? Jemima could barely even imagine the loneliness of the child, the bewilderment, the confusion. Why would any woman do such a thing?

  One thing she was sure of, and that was her own path. Whatever happened, however much Phinnie irritated her, she must be the friend she needed now. She must never be abandoned again.

  For the next three days there were social events to attend where Phinnie was proudly introduced to some of the cream of New York society. There was a soirée with an excellent violinist, and of course the sort of pleasant conversation Jemima knew at home in London. It was like the most elegant stage, everyone acting on it as if he or she were the star, with polite laughter, sophisticated wit, calculated remarks. Jemima was both disappointed and relieved that it was so familiar. She had wanted adventure for herself, but she could see how well and how easily Phinnie would settle in here, and that was what mattered.

  The weather was cold but still pleasant, and there were sightseeing trips around Central Park, which was really very attractive, and quite different from the London parks. For a start, it was enormous, and far more naturally scenic in spite of being in the very middle of the city. There were no formal gardens such as Jemima was used to, but some very beautiful walks, none the less.

  There was also a visit to the Metropolitan Opera, very grand indeed, and the music was superb. On the fifth evening there was a ball, and for the first time Jemima was acutely envious of Phinnie. She radiated happiness and she had acquired a beauty that turned more than just Brent Albright’s head. Jemima ached to have someone look at her in that way, to feel the warmth of the heart’s safety in being so loved.

  She forced it out of her mind and smiled as if she were enjoying herself. She danced with whoever asked her, even though it was more a matter of courtesy than whether she cared to.

  On the following morning, to her surprise, Harley caught up with her as she was crossing the hall to go back up the wide, sweeping staircase to her room.

  ‘Miss Pitt,’ he said urgently, putting his hand on the carved newel post as if he intended to be there some minutes. ‘Are you engaged this morning?’

  Surely he must know she was not? Celia Albright was taking Phinnie to a dressmaker to have further gowns made for her, with the winter season in mind. She had brought many with her, but one should not appear twice in the same outfit, if in company with people from another recent event. For Phinnie, the only child of a very wealthy man, cost was of no importance at all. Jemima herself had no need of more gowns, and while her family were now financially comfortable, they would remain so only if expenses were regarded with care.

  ‘No,’ she replied to Harley. ‘I thought I would take the opportunity to write to my parents and tell them what an exciting city New York is, and that your family has been most kind to me.’

  ‘It is our pleasure,’ he answered, although his smile went no further than his lips. ‘I’m delighted you find New York so . . . invigorating. It is my city, and I admit I am proud of it. I would welcome the chance to show you some of the more colourful parts of the city, such as Little Italy. You will be quite safe, and the food is excellent. Of course, it is best explored on foot. Or if you prefer, there is Battery Park, down by the water?’

  It was a pleasant idea, and Jemima had no reason to refuse, although she admitted to herself that the invitation surprised her. She believed he made it more from good manners than a desire for her company. Perhaps his father had suggested he do so.

  ‘Thank you. If you are sure you can spare the time I would love to see Little Italy. I dare say I may not have the ch
ance again.’

  ‘It would be my pleasure,’ he assured her. ‘Shall we meet here in half an hour? Please wear your overcoat. The wind is chill.’

  Harley was quite right. As Jemima sat in the carriage beside him, on the way towards Little Italy, the wind was indeed sharp. However, she was too interested in the sights of the bustling streets to mind. He was a good host, explaining the recent history of many of the neighbourhoods including those they would not visit, such as Hell’s Kitchen, down by the river.

  ‘Started when they put the tanneries there,’ he told her. ‘Made the river filthy, of course, but industry does. Lot of Irish immigrants, fleeing the “Great Famine”. After the Civil War the population got a whole lot larger, and gang warfare started.’

  Harley was more talkative than she had expected, and she enjoyed his stories of the city and its different areas. He loved the life, the variety and the courage of the people, and it animated his face as he spoke. She saw a glimpse of a very different man from the rather stiff one who occupied the mansion in which she was a guest, and Phinnie the prospective mistress. She wondered fleetingly what the arrangement would be when Harley married. He was the elder brother, so would Brent then find his own home? Or would they all remain under the one roof? The house was certainly large enough.

  ‘This is Little Italy, Mulberry Street to be exact. Would you like to walk a little?’ Harley invited as the carriage drew in to the kerb. ‘Perhaps we could have a hot cup of coffee? There is a place a couple of hundred yards away, not very glamorous, but the coffee is good.’

  Jemima accepted with pleasure, and fifteen minutes later they were seated in a crowded but most agreeable small restaurant. All around her people were speaking in Italian, animated and musical, much of it loud. The walls were hung with pictures of Naples and Sicily, and there were Chianti bottles on the tables.

  Harley leaned forward towards her. ‘Miss Pitt, may I confide in you? I am certain you have Delphinia’s happiness very much at heart, as I have my brother’s.’

  Suddenly she realised why he had brought her here. It was far more than a matter of hospitality, or even pride in his city. He was deeply concerned about something and it showed clearly now in his face.

  ‘Of course,’ she agreed, putting her coffee down and giving him her full attention.

  He considered a moment before he spoke again, as if carefully formulating his words.

  ‘I am not sure how much Phinnie knows about her mother, Maria Cardew, although that may not be her name now . . .’

  Jemima was startled. Looking back, she had no reason for it, but she had assumed that Maria was dead, or at the very least she had disappeared from their knowledge.

  Harley saw the expression and smiled bleakly.

  ‘I’m sorry to raise the subject, but you seem by far the best person to turn to. You clearly care for her, and are taking your role in her life most seriously. Your first concern is always her wellbeing.’

  Jemima felt herself blushing. He was praising her where she felt she had not yet deserved it sufficiently.

  ‘You are modest,’ he said quickly. ‘But what I say is true. Also, if I have understood correctly, your father is a man of some wisdom and experience in matters of . . . I really don’t know how to put this delicately . . . of criminal acts . . .’ His phrasing was awkward, and yet he did not look discomfited. She realised with a rush of very mixed emotions that he was too confident in himself to care what she thought of him. His indifference stung.

  ‘He is head of Special Branch,’ she said coolly. ‘They are responsible for any threat to the safety of the nation in a criminal or espionage kind of way.’

  He looked momentarily blank.

  ‘Not military attack,’ she added. ‘Do you think Maria Cardew is a danger to America?’

  This time it was he who blushed, and a flash of appreciation gleamed in his eyes for an instant. He would not quickly underestimate her again.

  ‘No, of course not,’ he answered. ‘She is simply a woman of poor judgement and even poorer morals. I am afraid that she may turn up at the wedding, which would be natural, as Delphinia’s mother, but in appalling taste and desperately embarrassing. And goodness only knows who she might bring with her. Some of her associates were . . .’ He spread his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. ‘It might be better if I left it to your imagination. I don’t wish to use language you would prefer not to hear.’

  Jemima’s imagination was racing. What kind of a woman was Maria Cardew? If she had been impossible to understand before, now she was also frightening.

  She could see in her mind’s eye the vision of a cathedral wedding, the high society guests in their gorgeous clothes, their stiff faces, their polite laughter. And then suddenly Maria Cardew, perhaps drunk, loud-voiced, announcing that she was the mother of the bride. Phinnie would never live it down. Ruin had been brought about by less.

  How could any woman twice so injure her own child?

  ‘Is she mad?’ she asked quite seriously.

  Harley Albright looked at her with something close to gratitude.

  ‘I see that you understand. Yes, I think perhaps she is, and more deserving of our pity than our anger. But the damage she would do to our family, especially Phinnie, who is about to become one of us . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t need to describe it. Even the kindest people would find it impossible to forget. The less kind would make it their business to see that no one else ever did!’

  Jemima winced at the thought of it.

  He misunderstood. ‘Of course we have enemies, Miss Pitt. It would be dangerously naïve to think that we didn’t. We have wealth and power. My father is a generous and good man, but he has been highly successful in business, far more so than some of his acquaintances. My mother was beautiful. That alone can sow the seeds of envy. There are those who would rejoice at our downfall.’

  Jemima waited for him to continue. She sipped her coffee, but it had lost its magic.

  ‘That is why I ask you to help me,’ Harley said gently. ‘I believe you will, for Phinnie’s sake, not mine.’

  She was puzzled. ‘What can I do? I can see perfectly how awful it would be if Mrs Cardew were to turn up at the wedding, but what could any of us do to stop her?’ She frowned. ‘Why do you think she even knows about it?’

  ‘Ah . . .’ he let out a sigh. ‘That is the crux of the whole situation. I am almost certain that she is in New York.’

  ‘In New York? That’s terrible!’ Now she could see it perfectly.

  ‘Yes . . . yes it is,’ he agreed. ‘I suppose we should have foreseen it. After all, the marriage of Brent Albright to Delphinia Cardew will be the wedding of the year. I imagine that even in other cities it will have been announced in the society columns of newspapers. If Mrs Cardew read of it she could be misguided enough to come.’

  ‘Surely she must see, after all these years, that she would not be welcome?’ Jemima protested. ‘I don’t know the circumstances of her leaving, but nothing alters the fact of it. Phinnie doesn’t want to see her. How could she?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Harley nodded grimly. ‘I am aware of the circumstances. My mother told me, shortly before she died. But I prefer not to discuss them. Sufficient to say that they could hardly be worse. Will you help me?’

  ‘Of course. But what can we do?’

  ‘I have given it a great deal of thought,’ he replied earnestly. ‘I can think of nothing else but to find her, and persuade her that she would hurt Phinnie, perhaps irreparably, if she were to appear at the wedding. If she wishes to see her, which I suppose is possible, we could promise to arrange it, but privately.’ His face registered extreme distaste. ‘I would even be willing to pay her a certain amount, if she remains several miles away, perhaps even in another city, and never makes the relationship known. I hope that will not be necessary, but as a last resort . . .’

  ‘Then she could extort money from you indefinitely,’ Jemima warned. The moment the words were out of her mouth, she wondered if
she had been wise to say them.

  Harley stared down at the table for several moments before meeting her eyes.

  ‘I had thought of that, Miss Pitt. That is why I hope to persuade her of the unpleasantness of that course. She would earn Delphinia’s undying contempt, to say the least. I am simply unaware of what has become of her and what manner of person she is now.’

  ‘And before?’ Jemima asked the question she knew her father would have asked.

  ‘At the time of her marriage to Cardew?’ His eyes widened. ‘A pretty and ambitious young woman who had already had more than her share of romantic adventures, with all manner of men, but who knew how to please an upper-class Englishman in a foreign country, who had no idea such women even existed.’

  Jemima doubted very much that upper-class Englishmen were anything like as innocent as Harley Albright supposed, but this was not the time to say so.

  ‘I see. Now we are twenty years later, her looks may not be as attractive, nor her health as good,’ she pointed out.

  His face tightened. He looked bleak and even a little frightened.

  ‘Of course. You are quite right. We need to find her, and then deal with her in whatever way seems best. I need you to help me, Miss Pitt. I need your common sense and imagination to find her, which, coupled with my reputation and my knowledge of New York, should be sufficient.’

  She nodded. ‘I will do all that I can.’

  ‘When we find her I will need your understanding of women, and your presence to be a protection and a witness to whatever agreement we may reach with her.’

  ‘I am returning to England in the New Year,’ Jemima pointed out.

  ‘I know that,’ he said earnestly. ‘But Maria Cardew will not. And by then I hope we will have the matter settled. Will you help me?’

  ‘Of course I will. Where shall we start?’ New York was a teeming city full of all manner of people; this she knew after barely a week. Maria Cardew could be anywhere, and none of the Albrights had seen her for nearly two decades. She could have changed entirely since then. Most women do between their thirties and their fifties.