In Dublin's Fair City (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #6)

“Then lean on me. Let me carry you. Let me get you some beef broth, or some tea, or maybe a brandy?”


I could see the door leading to the interior of the ship looming ahead of me.

“I’m afraid I just want to be left alone,” I said, and fled for that door.

“Don’t go, Oona, I love you, I adore you, I worship you,” he called after me. “You know how I feel about you. Don’t leave me in misery.”

I ignored his wails as I pushed my way in through the heavy door. I arrived back at my cabin to find Rose there, straightening the toiletries on the dressing table.

“Poor Miss Sheehan,” I said. “I understand now why she wanted to change places with me, and why it's so hard for her to go anywhere. Ihave just been pestered by a most annoying young man. He hung around me like a puppy dog.”

“They do all the time, miss,” Rose said. “Every time she opens her front door, at least one of them is standing there with a bunch of flowers for her, and when she leaves the theater, she positively has to fight them off.”

“She should get married and have a big fierce husband to drive them away,” I said. “Does she have no constant escort?”

“There is always some kind of man wooing her,” Rose said, “but not a one she takes seriously.”

“Has she never been in love?”

“There has only been one man for her, and he's not available,” Rose said.

“Married?”

“Oh no, nothing like that.” Rose sounded indignant on her mistress's behalf. “He was one of those Freedom Fighters, the Brotherhood, you know, trying to drive the English out of Ireland. He led some sort of attack on an English barracks, and he's been jailed for life.”

“Oh, that's terrible,” I said. “How sad for her.”

“That was years ago,” Rose said. “Since then she's devoted her whole life to the theater and now, of course, she's risen to become a big star. She's a wonderful woman. And the best of mistresses too.”

“I wonder how she’ll fare in that tiny second-class cabin of mine,” I said, with a smile. “Sleeping in that narrow bunk bed?”

“Oh, I think she’ll be just fine.” Rose looked away, not meeting my eyes.

That evening I could hear music floating out from the ballroom across the smooth dark waters. I was tempted to go out on deck again to take a look for myself, but I didn’t want to risk meeting Archie Fortwrangler and his fellow admirers. So I sat at my porthole, gazing wistfully at the moon and wondering about life and happiness in general and Oona Sheehan and my own happiness in particular.

The next few days passed smoothly enough. I soon learned that young men about town like to sleep in late, and I was fairly safe if I took an early stroll around the deck, which was most pleasant if a little chilly. On a couple of occasions I was conscious of an older man in a tweedjacket following me at a distance, but he must have been one of Oona's less brazen admirers, as he never dared approach and speak to me.

Rose brought me a selection of books from the ship's library, and a pack of playing cards, to keep myself amused. Meals were brought to me. There was always champagne to drink, chocolate, and bowls of fruit to eat. Frederick reported that he was constantly intercepting young men trying to find a way to my door, each time he brought me another note, love letter, or more flowers or chocolates or champagne. Sometimes I heard them protesting in the corridor. “But I must see her. I know she’ll see me! Did you give her my flowers? Tell her that Artie adores her.” Or Teddy, or Bertie, or a never ending stream of admirers. Teddy certainly sent lovely flowers—huge displays of them, while Bertie sent a dozen red roses and a box of chocolates every day. I wondered what they looked like and was tempted to invite them in as boredom overtook me. I began to feel like a prisoner in a very exclusive jail. I soon grew weary of wearing a wig all the time. It was devilishly hot and itched horribly, but I couldn’t risk not wearing it and being surprised by Frederick as he delivered the latest offering of sweets or flowers.