“It’s most certainly not. And it’s nearby. Come on. Get your hat and coat.”
Soon we were walking arm in arm across Washington Square. The trees were a mass of blossoms. The flower beds were full of spring flowers. And the children were out in force, enjoying a balmy spring evening. I watched them running with their hoops and pushing their doll carriages and thought wistfully of little Bridie and her brother Shamey, who had lived with me until their father took them to live on a farm. Much better for them, of course, but I did miss them occasionally. I let my thoughts drift to the future and imagined Daniel and me strolling through a park like this while we pushed a baby buggy . . .
“I can’t tell you what a relief it is to be back at work.” Daniel interrupted my reverie. “Those months under suspicion were almost the end of me. You have no idea how deeply I sank into despair. You were the only thing that kept me going.”
I looked up at him and smiled. He covered my hand with his own. I felt a warm glow inside as we walked down West Tenth Street until we came to a little Italian restaurant. It had checkered tablecloths and jugs of red wine on the tables. Daniel ordered big bowls of spaghetti and I soon found that it was not possible to eat Italian food daintily and in a ladylike manner. Daniel laughed at my efforts. “We’ll make a New Yorker of you yet,” he said.
Twenty-eight
The next morning I took the El to the Upper West Side, precariously balancing a jug of barley water and a pot of broth. I managed to bring both of them successfully to Emily’s room. She looked no worse than the day before and I heaved a sigh of relief when I saw her.
“Molly, this is so good of you,” she said, lying back onto her pillows, “but I’m afraid you’ve gone to so much trouble for nothing. I have barely taken a sip of the broth you brought me yesterday, and I don’t know what I’m going to do with all this.”
“You should finish that first, so that I can take them their bowl back,” I suggested. “Shall I heat some up for you?”
“I don’t think I could manage it.” She shuddered. “But maybe the barley water. My throat is so dry.”
I sat with her while she took a few sips, then I transferred the rest of the barley water to a glass jug she had and tipped the rest of the chicken broth from the delicatessen into my jug and her saucepan. “I’d better take this back. And I’m going to see your Mr. McPherson. He might be able to make you up some medicine to take down your fever and ease your stomach. And I’m going to ask him to recommend a good doctor for you.”
“But I can’t afford doctors.” She attempted to sit up.
“Nonsense, I’m paying. You owe me my fee, remember? Besides, I rather think that you’ll soon have the money to pay for things without worrying.”
“You’ve really found out the truth?” she looked up at me. “You know who my parents are?”
“I do indeed.”
“And am I an heiress?”
“Maybe.”
She reached out and grabbed my arm, her fingers digging into me. “So tell me my parents’ names.”
“Your mother was a lovely, fun-loving young woman who married the wrong man.” I paused. “Her name was Lydia.”
“Like my aunt? Wait.” Her eyes opened wide again. “Do you mean my aunt Lydia?”
“The very same.”
“Don’t tell me that Horace Lynch was my father,” she said angrily. “No father ever treated his child as I was treated.”
“You’re right. He wasn’t your father. Hence his bitterness to you and your mother.”
“Then who was my father?”
“A charming and handsome Italian gardener. Your mother was a young girl at the time. She fell madly in love with him, but she was married to Horace Lynch.”
“I see.” She lay there, eyes closed, contemplating this. “She couldn’t run off with the gardener, could she? She was stuck with Horace.”
“He agreed not to turn her out onto the street, but said the baby had to go. She fought for you, Emily. He agreed that they would keep you but not as their own child.”
She lay silently again, thinking, then she said, “You know it’s funny, isn’t it, but small children know. I said to her once, ‘I wish you were my mother’ and she had this funny, sad smile on her face and she said, ‘No mother could love you more than I.’ But she died soon after that.”
I nodded.
“How did you find this out?”
“I’m a detective. I went to Lydia’s birthplace and talked to people.”
“Does Horace Lynch know you’ve found out?”
“I extracted the full story from him.”
“But he still wants nothing to do with me?”
“I did point out to him that legally he is your father and things could be very embarrassing for him should this come to the courts. I also suggested that you might be quite content with a small allowance, rather than going after your mother’s entire fortune.”
“Molly! You didn’t say that!”
“I most certainly did.”