10
‘WELCOME TO the United States, Miss Barrington.’
‘Thank you,’ said Emma.
‘How long do you plan to be in the United States?’ asked the immigration officer as he checked her passport.
‘A week, two at the most,’ said Emma. ‘I’m visiting my great-aunt, and then I’ll be returning to England.’ It was true that Emma had a great-aunt who lived in New York, Lord Harvey’s sister, but she had no intention of visiting her, not least because she didn’t want the rest of the family to find out what she was up to.
‘Your great-aunt’s address?’
‘Sixty-fourth and Park.’
The immigration officer made a note, stamped Emma’s passport and handed it back to her.
‘Enjoy your stay in the Big Apple, Miss Barrington.’
Once Emma had passed through immigration, she joined a long queue of passengers from the Kansas Star. It was another twenty minutes before she climbed into the back of a yellow cab.
‘I require a small, sensibly priced hotel, located near Merton Street in Manhattan,’ she told the driver.
‘You wanna run that past me again, lady?’ said the cabbie, the stub of an unlit cigar protruding from the corner of his mouth.
As Emma had found it difficult to understand a word he said, she assumed he was having the same problem. ‘I’m looking for a small, inexpensive hotel near Merton Street, on Manhattan Island,’ she said, slowly enunciating each word.
‘Merton Street,’ repeated the driver, as if it was the only thing he’d understood.
‘That’s right,’ said Emma.
‘Why didn’t you say so the first time?’
The driver took off, and didn’t speak again until he’d dropped his fare outside a red-brick building that flew a flag proclaiming The Mayflower Hotel.
‘That’ll be forty cents,’ said the cabbie, the cigar bobbing up and down with each word.
Emma paid the fare from the wage packet she’d earned while on the ship. Once she’d checked into the hotel, she took the lift to the fourth floor and went straight to her room. The first thing she did was to get undressed and run herself a hot bath.
When she reluctantly climbed out, she dried herself with a large fluffy towel, dressed in what she considered a demure frock and made her way back down to the ground floor. She felt almost human.
Emma found a quiet table in the corner of the hotel coffee shop and ordered a cup of tea – they hadn’t heard of Earl Grey – and a club sandwich, something she’d never heard of. While she waited to be served, she began to write out a long list of questions on a paper napkin, hoping there would be someone living at 46 Merton Street who was willing to answer them.
Once she’d signed the check, another new word, Emma asked the receptionist for directions to Merton Street. Three blocks north, two blocks west, she was told. She hadn’t realized that every New Yorker possessed a built-in compass.
Emma enjoyed the walk, stopping several times to admire windows filled with merchandise she had never seen in Bristol. She arrived outside a high-rise apartment block just after midday, unsure what she would do if Mrs Tibbet wasn’t at home.
A smartly dressed doorman saluted and opened the door for her. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’ve come to see Mrs Tibbet,’ Emma said, trying to sound as if she was expected.
‘Apartment thirty-one, on the third floor,’ he said, touching the rim of his cap.
It was true, an English accent did appear to open doors.
As the elevator made its way slowly up to the third floor, Emma rehearsed some lines she hoped would open another door. When the elevator stopped, she pulled back the grille, stepped out into the corridor and went in search of number 31. There was a tiny circle of glass set in the middle of the Tibbets’ door, which reminded Emma of a Cyclops eye. She couldn’t see in, but she assumed the occupants could see out. A more familiar buzzer was on the wall beside the door. She pressed it and waited. It was some time before the door eventually opened, but only a few inches, revealing a brass chain. Two eyes peered out at her.
‘What do you want?’ asked a voice that she could at least understand.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs Tibbet,’ said Emma, ‘but you may be my last chance.’ The eyes looked suspicious. ‘You see, I’m desperately trying to find Tom.’
‘Tom?’ repeated the voice.
‘Tom Bradshaw. He’s the father of my child,’ said Emma, playing her last door-opening card.
The door closed, the chain was removed and the door opened once again to reveal a young woman carrying a baby in her arms.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said, ‘but Richard doesn’t like me opening the door to strangers. Please come in.’ She led Emma through to the living room. ‘Have a seat while I put Jake back in his cot.’
Emma sat down and glanced around the room. There were several photographs of Kristin with a young naval officer who she assumed must be her husband, Richard.
Kristin returned a few minutes later carrying a tray of coffee. ‘Black or white?’
‘White please,’ said Emma, who’d never drunk coffee in England, but was quickly learning that Americans don’t drink tea, even in the morning.
‘Sugar?’ enquired Kristin after she’d poured two coffees.
‘No, thank you.’
‘So, is Tom your husband?’ asked Kristin as she sat down opposite Emma.
‘No, I’m his fiancée. To be fair, he had no idea I was pregnant.’
‘How did you find me?’ asked Kristin, still sounding a little apprehensive.
‘The purser on the Kansas Star said you and Richard were among the last people to see Tom.’
‘That’s true. We were with him until he was arrested a few moments after he stepped on shore.’
‘Arrested?’ said Emma in disbelief. ‘What could he possibly have done to get himself arrested?’
‘He was accused of murdering his brother,’ said Kristin. ‘But surely you knew that?’
Emma burst into tears, her hopes shattered by the realization that it must have been Bradshaw who’d survived, and not Harry. If Harry had been accused of murdering Bradshaw’s brother, it would have been so easy for him to prove they’d arrested the wrong man.
If only she’d ripped open the letter on Maisie’s mantelpiece, she would have discovered the truth and not put herself through this ordeal. She wept, accepting for the first time that Harry was dead.