“More to the point you take care of yourself, Daniel Sullivan,” I went over to give him a kiss. “You’re the one in danger, not me.”
“I’ll be careful, I promise,” he said, managed a grim smile, and left.
Ryan stayed with me, keeping Liam so entertained with his antics and silliness that I managed to forget my own fears and laugh with him. Then the stunt would be over and the fear would creep back. If a gang wanted to finish off Daniel it would be so easy. They could be waiting for him around any corner in the city; they could be leaning from an upstairs window as he walked past and throw another bomb at him.… How could I possibly bear to be parted from him? Then I told myself that I would bear it because it had to be borne. If Liam and I were safe then that was one less thing for Daniel to worry about and therefore he could pay full attention to taking care of himself.
After a while Ryan’s exaggerated cheerfulness began to wear thin on both of us and we were both relieved when Mrs. Goodwin arrived. There was no sign of tiredness on her unlined, plain face made even plainer by the severe bun she wore. Ryan took one look at the high-collared navy blue uniform she wore and beat a hasty retreat. He only liked to surround himself with objects of beauty and couldn’t abide plain women.
“Call upon me anytime, Molly dearest,” he said as he blew me a kiss.
Mrs. Goodwin looked after him with interest. “What an extraordinary man,” she said and I realized that normal people were startled by Ryan’s flamboyant attire—today he was wearing his Lord Byron lace shirt and velvet trousers.
“Ryan O’Hare, the Irish playwright,” I said. “An old friend who has been so kind to me and taken good care of us.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “The one who writes those controversial plays. Thrown out of England, wasn’t he?”
I laughed. “Yes, he was. But it’s so good of you to come here, especially after working all night.”
She smiled, the smile softening the severe face. “Actually I didn’t have too bad a time of it. I was in a hotel, waiting for a meeting of crooks that never happened. So I spent the night in a soft armchair with a drink at my side.” She came over to me. “But you, my poor dear girl. I couldn’t believe it when I heard the news. Shocking. Unforgivable. You’d have thought that these Italians at least thought the family sacred. Well, you all survived. That’s the main thing.”
“My poor little servant girl wasn’t so lucky,” I said. “She died trying to save my boy.” And I heard my voice crack as I said it. “I feel so awful.”
“Nothing you could have done,” she said. “Our job is now to make sure you and your child are safely far away. Here you are.” She put a parcel on the bed. “I popped into Stewart’s department store on my way here and bought you necessities. I wasn’t quite sure of your size but I think they’ll do well enough for the moment.”
I opened the string around the package and found a plain white shirtwaist and dark blue cotton skirt as well as undergarments, petticoat, hose. They were almost as unattractive as the uniform Mrs. Goodwin was wearing, but I knew she meant well and they were certainly an improvement on the blackened, tattered remnants of my own clothing. And, mercy of mercies, she had added some strips of toweling, saying as I saw them, “I wasn’t quite sure how big your baby was, or even what babies wear, but I do know they get through a lot of diapers, so I thought these might keep you going.”
I thanked her profusely, went to the bathroom down the hall to wash and change and gave Liam a bath at the same time. His clothes were soiled but they would have to do until … I broke off that sentence. Until what? It was frightening to realize, for the first time since I fled from Ireland and arrived, penniless and a fugitive in this country, that I couldn’t envision a future. But when I emerged—washed, dressed in clean clothes, and with a relatively clean baby in my arms—I was determined not to let Mrs. Goodwin see my worry. My family had been though hell and survived. It would work out one way or another.
Six
“You stay here,” Mrs. Goodwin said as we prepared to leave. “I’ll go and hail a hansom cab for us. I don’t want you to be seen loitering on the street. We might be followed.”
I did as she said, waiting in the shadows of the foyer beside a large potted palm until she returned and swept us rapidly into a waiting cab. As we crossed Washington Square I called out suddenly, “Wait. I must see my house first.”
“My dear, do you think that’s wise?” Mrs. Goodwin put a warning hand on my arm.
I nodded. “I have to see for myself. I have to know.”
“Very well. Driver,” she leaned up to him, “take us first to Patchin Place.”