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

“Then maybe it is lucky that we have made no such promises,” Daniel said stiffly.

“How right you are. Nobody owns me, Daniel Sullivan. I am my own person, and I mix with whom I choose. If you can’t trust me enough to have good judgment in my friends and my actions, then I see no future for us together.”

Daniel picked up his straw boater. “In that case there is little point in my remaining here any longer. Good day to you, Miss Murphy.”

He gave a polite little bow and left. I stood there staring at that front door. I was so tempted to run after him and make everything all right again, but I forced myself to stay where I was. For the first time in my life I’d had a glimpse of what being married might mean: having a man dictate to me how I should think, with whom I should associate, surrendering my own identity and my freedom. Why did so many women opt for this so readily? Love, I supposed. Did I love Daniel Sullivan enough to marry him and subordinate my will to his for the rest of my life? In the first flush of romance with Daniel I’d have willingly said yes to any proposal. And then there's security, of course. How many women can provide for themselves? Even professional women find it hard to overcome the prejudices of society. Those with private incomes like Gus and Sid do just ine, but I wasn’t making too good a job of keeping J. P. Riley and Associates afloat.

Which brought me back to the invitation for this evening. Something to do with your detective work, Ryan had said. Did that mean that Tommy Burke, impresario, was interested in hiring me for an assignment? Wild horses would not keep me away from the party tonight.

I half expected that Daniel might come back to apologize for getting upset over nothing, but he didn’t, leaving me feeling uneasy and hollow inside. Maybe I felt a little guilty too, because I did realize that Danielwas on edge at the moment and it was not a good time to confront him. But it didn’t bode well for any hope of a future relationship if we both flew off the handle so easily and had such different views of what we wanted from life.

By eight o’clock I was dressed in my inest attire, a sea green taffeta dinner dress, cast-off from Gus's days as a society debutante. The leg-o’-mutton sleeves were now old-fashioned, but the color contrasted well with my red hair. Besides, it was either that or a muslin. After much struggling I managed to tame my hair and hold it in place with tortoise-shell combs. The complexion paste had certainly made my face feel smooth, but it was glowing like a setting sun and I had to calm it down with some corn starch. Still, the inal result, as I glanced in the mirror, was not too terrible,- and I felt a wave of excitement surge through me. Fancy parties at a roof cabaret with a famous theater impresario were not something that happened often in my life.

Sid and Gus emerged at the same moment as I, looking stunning in emerald green and peacock blue. Sid's short dark hair was styled in a sleek, smooth cap, and I noticed that under her emerald green theater cape, she was wearing trousers. Normally such attire would cause a stir, but I suspected that at a theatrical party, she would feel right at home. I supposed that Daniel did have a point when he saw that such friends would be frowned upon in polite society. But then we didn’t live in polite society.

Ryan was waiting for us at the entrance to Patchin Place, having already secured a cab, and we all piled in. He was still wearing the royal blue cape over a frilled lace shirt tonight and looked ridiculously like Hamlet.

“No Daniel, I notice,” Ryan said. “Not his cup of tea, does one surmise?”

“Daniel walked out in a huff after forbidding me to attend this party,” I said.

“And you didn’t allow yourself to be browbeaten. Splendid. Well done,” Sid said.

“Have you ever known me to be browbeaten?” I asked.

“No, but women have been known to act quite ridiculously when it comes to pleasing a man.”

“For your information,” I said, “I don’t ever intend to take orders from a man, not even Daniel Sullivan. If he doesn’t trust me to choose my own friends, then he’d make a poor sort of husband.”

“Ah, so we were to blame for the upset,” Sid said. “Daniel doesn’t approve of your mixing with people like us.”

“Then I pity Daniel and his lack of judgment,” I said. “And we will talk no more about him.”

We were making our way up Sixth Avenue and I stared out at the pageant of New York life unfolding on the sidewalks, as it did every warm evening: mothers sitting on stoops with babies on their laps, small boys playing kick the can, small girls jumping rope. As always I was conscious that I was in a great city, teeming with life, full of exuberance and promise, and I tried to put aside my dark mood.