The Family Way (Molly Murphy, #12)

As I entered my house I saw the curtains in the kitchen billowing out and realized that I’d left the windows open to cool down the place. I closed the windows then sat at the kitchen table, trying to catch my breath. I had walked far too fast for my current condition and I could feel my heart hammering in my chest. As if in response the child wriggled and squirmed. I put my hand on my belly to quiet it and felt the strong little kick against my fingers. He or she would be born in a few weeks and would probably never meet his Uncle Liam. I felt tears pricking at my eyes.

My brothers and I had never been that close. I was the big sister, the one who cooked for them and mended their torn clothing and broke up their fights. Joseph had only been two years younger than I—a co-conspirator in my adventures—but Liam was five years younger—the little one who tagged along and who ratted on us to our mother if we did something wrong. I’d never really known him. For a few brief moments we had been together in Dublin, but only as fellow soldiers in a failed uprising. And yet he and Malachy were all the family I had in the world and he was clearly risking his life by being here. I wanted to help but he wouldn’t let me.

“Oh, Liam,” I said out loud, overwhelmed with futility and grief. I sank my head into my arms on the table and stayed there, feeling the cool of the scrubbed wood against my cheek. I suppose my disturbed night’s sleep must have had something to do with what happened next, because I awoke to find someone shaking my shoulder.

I sat up, heart thumping and with no idea where I was. Daniel’s concerned face came into focus above me.

“Good God, Molly. What’s wrong?” he asked. “You look terrible.”

I could feel my cheek smarting as it came back to life. “Nothing’s wrong. I must have nodded off, that’s all.”

“Doing too much again, I’ll wager,” he said. “And too late to bed last night. I don’t know how many times I’ve told you that you have to take it easy. Go and wash your face, there’s a good girl, and spruce yourself up. I’ve brought a guest home for lunch.”

I was instantly galvanized into action. “A guest? Why didn’t you warn me? I could have made something special.”

“It was rather spur of the moment. We had a meeting together and then he asked after my wife and said how much he’d like to meet you again. Since it was around lunchtime I suggested we come back here.”

“Who is it?” I asked.

“You’ll see. I’ve put him in the front parlor and I’ll bring him a glass of whiskey to keep him happy until you have lunch ready.”

I crept upstairs and started in horror when I saw my face in the bathroom mirror. Lying against the wood of the table had flattened one side of my cheek, giving it a strange, villainous expression. I splashed cold water and massaged my cheek to bring it back to life, then brushed my disheveled hair, all the while trying to think what on earth I could serve to Daniel and a nameless male visitor. Really men were hopeless, weren’t they—expecting their wives to produce a meal out of thin air, like a conjurer drawing a rabbit from a hat.

By the time I had made myself look respectable I had decided that I had enough eggs in the larder to make an omelet with cheese and parsley. I had some salad greens from the day before that shouldn’t have wilted too much and I had those lovely peaches to serve for dessert. I could hear the sound of deep male voices in the front parlor as I came down the stairs, followed by hearty male laughter. Of course my curiosity got the better of me. I had to know for whom I’d be cooking lunch.

They both looked up as I appeared in the doorway and got to their feet.

“Ah, Molly, there you are,” Daniel said. “You remember Mr. Wilkie, don’t you?”





Seven

Mr. John Wilkie, head of the newly formed Secret Service, came toward me, his hand extended.

“My dear, Mrs. Sullivan, how good to see you again. And looking so radiant too. Your husband informs me that congratulations are in order.”

His hand gripped mine in a powerful grasp.

“How good to see you again, Mr. Wilkie,” I said. “Although if Daniel had informed me in advance that he was bringing a guest to eat with us, I’d have been able to make you a better meal.”

“I’m sure whatever you prepare will be just fine,” Mr. Wilkie said. “And I assure you that my desire in coming here was to see you again, not to sample your cooking skills.”

“I hope an omelet will do,” I said.

“It will fit the bill perfectly.” He gave me a beaming smile. From his jocular manner it was hard to believe that this was a man who was responsible for the security of the nation and who dealt with spies and anarchists.

As I excused myself to go through to the kitchen I heard him say to Daniel, “It’s too bad you’ve chained her down with a family, Sullivan. I could have used her to work for me. She’s one gutsy little woman. And sharp too.”

“Too sharp for her own good, sometimes,” Daniel retorted. “I’m glad she’ll soon have a baby to occupy her and keep her out of mischief.”