“Should we try the Ramble today?” I motioned to the inviting woodland path that disappeared into the undergrowth to my left. The area of Central Park known as the Ramble was made up of a series of winding, intersecting paths through a thickly wooded copse. Only a few steps into the woods and it was hard to believe that you were in the middle of a big city. It was also one of the few places where it was possible to steal a kiss undisturbed.
But Daniel shook his head. “It's too hot for walking today. Why don't we head for that ice cream parlor?”
“Ice cream? That would be wonderful!” On a hot day like this, ice cream won out over kisses with me too. I had only just tasted my first ice cream and was still amazed at a place where such luxuries were available every day.
Daniel smiled at my excitement. “Don't ever change, will you?”
“I might well turn into a severe and snooty spinster when Miss Van Woekem starts to influence me,” I retorted.
He laughed and slipped his arm around my waist. In spite of the heat and the fact that this was surely not proper behavior for a park on a Sunday, I wasn't about to stop him. We joined the stream of Sunday strollers on the wide East Drive. Half of New York had to be here. The upper crust passed by in their open carriages, oblivious to the stream of pedestrians beside them. On the sandy footpath it was ordinary people like ourselves, severe Italian mothers dressed all in black with a fleet of noisy bambinos, Jewish families with bearded patriarchs and solemn little boys with skullcaps on their heads, proud fathers pushing tall perambulators—every language under the sun being spoken around us. As we neared the gate the noise level rose—music from a carrousel competed with an Italian hurdy-gurdy man and the shouts of the ice cream seller. I knew that Daniel wouldn't buy ice cream in the park. You never knew what it was made from, he said, and typhoid fever was always a worry in the hot weather.
Suddenly a dapper little man in a dark brown suit and derby hat stepped out in front of us.
“Hold it right there!” he shouted.
“It's all right. He's only taking our photo,” Daniel whispered as I started in alarm. “He's one of the park photographers.”
I saw then that the man was pointing a little black box at us and we heard a click.
“There you are, sir. Lovely souvenir of the day,” he said, nodding seriously. He had a strange accent that seemed to be a mixture of London Cockney and Bowery New York. He came up to Daniel. “Here's my card if you care to stop by the studio and purchase the photo for your lady friend.”
As he handed Daniel his card he moved closer and I thought I saw his hand go to Daniel's pocket. It was over in a fraction of a second, so that I didn't know whether to believe my eyes. For a moment I was too startled to act, then, as I grabbed Daniel's arm to warn him, I saw the man's hand move away from Daniel again, and it was empty. I didn't want to make a scene, so I kept quiet until we had walked past the photographer.
“I think that man tried to pick your pocket,” I whispered.
“Then he was out of luck,” Daniel said, smiling. “I only keep my handkerchief in that pocket.”
He slipped his hand into the pocket and I noticed the change in his expression. “Yes, the fellow was unlucky all right,” he said, taking my arm. “Come on, let's get that ice cream.”
Two
A crisply starched maid showed me into the refined brick house with wrought-iron balconies on South Gramercy Park.
“Miss Murphy, ma'am,” she said and dropped a curtsy before retiring. The old woman who sat in the highbacked chair by the window looked as if she had been chiseled from marble. Her face had shrunk to a living skull but the eyes that fastened on me were still very alive.
“Well, come in, girl. Don't just stand there,” she said in a sharp, gravelly voice that sounded as if it had dried out like its owner. “What is your name?”
“Molly. Molly Murphy.” Her look was so intense that I was startled.
She sniffed. “Molly—a nickname only suitable for peasants and servants. You were presumably baptized with a Christian name.”
“I was baptized Mary Margaret.”
“And that is a little too pretentious for someone in your station. Nobody below the middle class needs two names. I shall call you just plain Mary.”
“You can call all you like, but I won't answer.” I had recovered enough to challenge her stare. “My name's Molly. Always has been. If you don't like it, you can always call me Miss Murphy.”
She opened her mouth, went to say something, then shut it again with a “hmmph.”
“Let me take a look at you.”
I could feel those dark boot-button eyes boring into me. “Are you not wearing a corset, girl?”
“I've never worn one,” I said. “Back where I come from, we didn't go in for such things.”
She made a disproving tut-tutting noise. “Daniel mentioned that you were newly arrived from Ireland, but he didn't say that you'd come straight from the bogs. When you leave here today I'll give you the money and you'll go to my costumier and have yourself fitted for a corset. And as for the rest of your clothing—I suppose I can't expect you to wear black in this summer heat. Do you possess a plain gray dress?”