The Gilded Hour (48 page)

“Monks,” Jack said, before she could ask the question. “Franciscan; I think there’s a monastery not too far away. Look, it’s right on the bay.”

He pointed and Anna saw the glint of sun on water through a stand of trees.

“This is a huge undertaking. It’s overwhelming,” Anna said.

“The Catholic Church,” Jack agreed. “They move mountains when it suits them. Should we ask for a tour?”

“We’ve come this far,” Anna said.

•   •   •

T
HEY
WERE
DIRECTED
to one of the buildings that was almost finished, with a makeshift office on the ground floor. One wall of shelves was already filled with overstuffed binders, all neatly labeled. Under a single window a desk was heaped with file folders and correspondence boxes. A thick wad of receipts and bills of lading and orders had been threaded onto a long nail driven through a block of wood. A small jug held pencil stubs and a few pens, the nibs in clear need of attention.

In the middle of the room a monk leaned over a table where a set of architectural drawings had been rolled out and secured with bricks. He was making notations with a pencil, working with his nose almost pressed to the paper.

He looked up at the sound of Jack’s knock, his expression friendly and welcoming. Anna let Jack handle the introductions because she was never sure of the proper protocol in such circumstances, but she was sure that the protocol was important to getting the discussion off on the right foot.

“You aren’t the first callers to go away disappointed today,” he was saying to Jack. “I’m very sorry that you’ve come so far for no good reason.”

Brother Jeremy struck her as a no-nonsense, well-intentioned sort, and she was inclined to believe that he meant what he said. He was well over fifty, with short iron-gray hair and a sunburned nose, wide in the shoulder with great square hands that were stained with ink and paint both. He reminded her of Uncle Quinlan, she realized suddenly, but could not put her finger on why that might be.

Jack pulled out their single ace: “It was Sister Irene at the Foundling who suggested we talk to Father McKinnawae.”

“Ah, Sister Irene,” said Brother Jeremy. “You’ve left no stone unturned. I can only wish you better luck with your next visit. Now, may I give you a short tour?”

It was not unexpected, but Anna still struggled with disappointment as they walked the property with Brother Jeremy. They saw buildings that would serve as dormitories, looked at classrooms and workrooms and washrooms and offices. There was a very large kitchen where ten people could work side by side, and an attached dining hall. There was an infirmary, as yet nothing more than walls, with plumbing in place.

It seemed to Anna that any boy who had been living on the streets of the city unsure of even the next day’s meal must be content here. At the very least he would be warm and fed, and he would learn to read and write and a trade, too, Brother Jeremy assured them. “Carpentry, toolmaking, sailmaking, farming. Any boy who shows a calling will be sent on to a seminary when he’s old enough.”

Anna swallowed that fact without comment and felt Jack relax beside her.

Brother Jeremy said, “You might like to walk along the bay, while you’re here. We’ll water and graze your horse while you’re gone if you like.”

Jack offered Anna his arm, and they set off through a small wood full of birdsong and trees in new leaf. A flickering of yellow caught Anna’s eye; had Jack seen it? A warbler, he thought from the song. High in a tree was a pure white owl, and nearby, a woodpecker hard at work.

They were quiet, and Anna wondered if things would be awkward now that they had only each other to deal with. That thought was still in her mind when they came out on a narrow footpath that wound through brush and shrubs. It struck her like a drawing out of a children’s adventure story, and the idea made her pick up her pace.

Jack let out a small laugh, one that told her he was just as intrigued. Together they followed the path until it brought them to a narrow marsh where someone had put a wide board down to serve as a bridge, and beyond that point the grasses began to fall away, showing up spottily on the swells of sand that blocked their view of the beach.

Birds were everywhere, but Jack was almost as clueless as Anna about their names. Long-legged, knobby-kneed birds with narrow arched beaks like scimitars stood in the marsh waters where ducks with different
markings and colors were busy among the reeds. The sound of great wings beating the air made Anna look up to see a bird as big as a man—or so it seemed—heading away from the bay with a fish in its talons. A falcon? An eagle? She had no idea, and felt the lack. She could name every bone and muscle in the human body, but she had no idea what to call the small brown birds with white bellies that strutted along like little old men.

They climbed the ridge of sand and found the ocean spread out before them. The water was deep blue and choppy, tumbling white-combed waves catching sunlight so bright that tears sprang to Anna’s eyes despite her broad-brimmed straw hat. There were boats on the horizon, too small to make out, and a little ways down the beach a small group of people were gathered around a picnic basket.

“Over there.” Jack inclined his head toward a protected spot overhung by a stand of tall bushes.

They made themselves comfortable despite the fact that they were both dressed to pay a call on a priest. Jack took off his jacket and spread it over a bush, but there was nothing Anna could shed. She was wearing her favorite summer walking dress with a shirtwaist of fine batiste, pleated from the shoulders and embroidered along the neckline, and most important, completely out of fashion because the sleeves were cut wide to give her freedom of movement. She spread the skirts around herself, layers of silk charmeuse and dimity that caught the breeze and lifted up to reveal her stockings and shoes. Her half boots were kid leather and practical for walking, but Rosa had insisted on lacing them with pale green ribbons to match her stockings.

“When we were little, Aunt Quinlan would take us to visit a friend who lives on Long Island, and we ran half-naked on the beaches, all day long. It was heaven.”

Jack looked over his shoulder at the family with the picnic basket. “That I would like to see.”

“Unlikely,” Anna said. “Unless you can find a beach like Robinson Crusoe’s.”

“You were happy here, as a child.”

Anna considered. “After my parents died, Aunt Quinlan dedicated herself to me—and to Sophie, when she came. She would have nothing less
than our happiness.” She stopped herself. “Tell me about when you were young; did you swim?”

Greenwood, he told her, was a good place to raise children. There had been a lot of hard work in the fields and greenhouses and among the beehives, but they were free to roam when their chores were done. There was a stream overhung by trees and a small lake, and they swam in high summer at every opportunity.

While he talked they watched the small family, and in particular the antics of a little girl who capered around them. The sound of her voice came to them in snatches on the wind, high and laughing.

All at once she let out a screech of delight and hightailed it for the water, a man—her father, Anna guessed—chasing after her roaring in mock pursuit. They were both wearing bathing costumes of bright red fabric, and they stood out against the sand like candle flames. He picked the little girl up and held her over his head, straight-armed, while he stalked into the water, where he threatened and she cajoled, and then, finally, where he dropped her. Sputtering, she jumped out of the shallow water and ran for her mother and a towel.

“That’s a good lesson for a girl her age,” Anna said. “Be prepared to reap what you sow. I always detested girls who screamed no when they really meant yes.”

But Jack seemed not to hear her. He was still studying the little family, something odd in his expression.

Anna said, “What is it? Do you know them?”

“No, I don’t think so.” He stood up, retrieved his coat, and hung it over his shoulder by one crooked finger. “We should probably get back to town. The last train is at four, or we will have to find a hotel room.”

This decision had been hanging over her head for days, even weeks, and now it could be avoided no longer. She could do the simplest and most conventional thing and go back to the city to sleep in her own room. Or they could stay here, together. In a single hotel room, with no one to interrupt or distract them.

Anna believed that she was free of most of the restrictions society put on young women. Here was the real test.

“Will we register as husband and wife?”

“If we want one room, yes. They are likely to refuse us, otherwise. What part of it makes you uncomfortable?”

“I should be able to rent a hotel room without lying,” Anna said. “It’s no one’s business but my own.”

“Ah, well,” Jack said. “There the good citizens of New York disagree with you. There are all kinds of laws on the books about what goes on behind closed doors.”

“And you enforce them?”

“Not if I can help it. Not unless someone is being harmed.”

“I would like to stay here,” Anna said. “So we can present ourselves as a married couple, if we must. If you’re sure.”

That got her a half smile. “I’m more than sure.”

“Then why the serious face?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “I had an odd idea, but I don’t want to go into it right now.”

Anna was brushing the sand from her skirts but noticed that Jack had turned his attention away again.

“Let’s go this way,” he said, and held out his hand.

•   •   •

T
HE
FATHER
AND
daughter had wrapped themselves in towels and settled down with the rest of the family when Anna and Jack approached. A family like a million others, father, mother, an elderly woman who would be a grandmother, the little girl, and a babe in arms, swaddled in layers of linen and cotton, with a white lace cap on its head.

“Good afternoon!” the father called over the noise of the waves and the gulls.

Anna turned to return the greeting and stopped. The little girl was crouching in front of her mother, kissing the baby’s cheek with all the affection a very young girl could bring to the task. Anna was reminded of Lia, though this girl was blond and fair skinned.

She must have felt Anna’s gaze, because she looked up and then launched herself toward them, bouncing with every step.

“I am Theresa Ann Mullen and I have a baby brother,” she said, pronouncing each word carefully. “His name is Timothy Seamus Mullen. Do you want to see him?”

Somehow Anna knew, even before the young mother turned the baby
in her arms to show him off. She knew what she would see: a child of about five months, with very dark hair that curled, and eyes the color of the cloudless sky overhead.

For a moment she could make no sound at all, and finally her voice came rough.

“Hello,” she said. “What beautiful children you have, Mrs. Mullen. Truly beautiful.”

The young woman smiled shyly and murmured her thanks.

“Will you sit and take something to drink?” her husband asked. He had a deep, almost melodious voice, as purely Irish as Anna had ever heard.

“You’re very kind to ask.” Jack took her elbow. “But we do need to get back to town.”

•   •   •

T
HEY
WALKED
IN
an arc back toward Mount Loretto. As they crested the low sand dunes, a cottage came into sight. It was surrounded by trees and a pasture where cows and a few horses grazed.

“Do you think?” Anna asked. “Is this where they live?”

“Very likely,” Jack said. “They couldn’t have walked very far with everything they had with them.”

They didn’t talk again until they had gotten back to the building site, reclaimed the horse and trap, and set out for the town.

“I wasn’t sure,” Jack said. “I just caught a glimpse of his head. You think it’s him?”

“Yes.”

She had known him almost immediately. When she first saw Vittorio in Hoboken he had been in Rosa’s arms. A strong child, who held up his head and turned toward the sound of his sister’s voice, kicked vigorously and produced a wide, toothless smile—all signs of timely development.

“Two months is an eternity in the life of an infant,” she said. “Vittorio Russo is almost twice the age he was when I examined him in Hoboken. But yes, I think it is him. The coloring is distinctive, and it’s hard to overlook the fact that this family lives so near Mount Loretto.”

“The father had blue eyes,” Jack said.

“Did he?”

“And he was fair-haired. They all were.”

“It’s unlikely that they would produce a dark-haired child, then.”

Jack said, “Is there a way to find out for sure—beyond asking Father McKinnawae?”

They were silent for a few minutes as the horse picked up its pace. Horses wanted to get home as much as people did, Mr. Lee had told her once.

“We could talk to the parents,” Anna said, finally.

“No, we can’t,” Jack said, easily.

And he was right; approaching the family was to be avoided at all costs. They would take offense or feel threatened or both, and not without cause.

Anna said, “I wonder who delivers children here. If there’s a midwife or a doctor.”

“I think Nell is probably the better prospect,” Jack said.

“Nell?” And then Anna remembered, the waitress at the café. “You’re right, I think. She spends all day watching people come and go, but the café isn’t open in the evening.”

If they stayed overnight, they could talk to Nell over breakfast. Anna found she didn’t have the courage to make such a suggestion.

•   •   •

T
HEY
RETURNED
THE
horse and trap to a cheerful Mr. James Malone, who had been joined by a Michael Malone, the very image of his father and far more talkative.

While the men discussed horses and the weather—Jack was working his way around to asking about a hotel, she was sure—Anna wandered away to read notices nailed to the wall of the livery. Livestock for sale, someone hoping to buy a secondhand plow, a lost dog, a boatswain open for business, a respectable lady who did laundry at a very reasonable rate. There were notices of church services in Perth Amboy: First Presbyterian, United Methodist, St. Peter’s Episcopal, Second Baptist, and St. Mary’s Catholic. She wondered if Mount Loretto’s church would serve the community too. There seemed to be a large Irish population. On the notices she saw a scattering of German names, but many more like Ryan, McCarthy, O’Neill, Daly, Duffy, and O’Shea.