The Family Way (Molly Murphy, #12)

“I don’t think we’ll bother about calling on those people today,” Mrs. Sullivan said, as we reluctantly packed up the remains of the meal. “Far too hot for social calls. We shall look as if we’ve been perspiring, and that would never do.”


“Oh, but I’d really like to,” I said, more vehemently than I’d expected.

She looked at me strangely. “But you don’t even know them.”

“But my friend in New York would never forgive me if I was in the vicinity of her dear friends and didn’t call upon them,” I said.

She frowned. “Surely, you don’t have to mention it to your friends.”

I wasn’t sure how to proceed from here. “I only need to go through the motions and leave my card. It wouldn’t take long. How would it be if you and Bridie stay by the water where it’s cooler and I’ll see if their house is within walking distance?”

“My, but you are determined in this matter,” Mrs. Sullivan said, dabbing her face gently with a cologne-soaked handkerchief. “We don’t even know if this is the same family.”

“Is it likely there are two lots of Mainwarings in Westchester County? It’s not a usual name, is it?”

“Well, no,” she admitted. “I can’t say I’ve come across anyone else with that name and I know a good many people in the county. Very well, if it means so much to you. Take the trap while Bridie and I will go to see if there is a soda fountain nearby. She has been such a big help to me recently that I think she deserves a soda or an ice cream.”

“Ice cream?” Bridie’s face lit up. “Can it be strawberry flavor?”

“Bridie, remember I’ve told you it’s not ladylike to ask for things. Help me up, child, and then help Molly.” Bridie did so. Mrs. Sullivan dusted herself off.

“It will probably be more fitting to have you call on the Mainwarings alone, rather than three strangers descending on them at once,” she added.

I let out a sigh of relief. We walked back into town and asked for directions to their house. It seemed they were well-known in the vicinity, but not, one got the feeling, well-liked.

“Oh, yeah, the Mainwarings,” the greengrocer didn’t elaborate and went back to piling peaches onto his display. “Big house. Up the hill. You can’t miss it.”

So Jonah and I set off, back up the hill. When the pony and trap reached the top there facing us was a gateway worthy of a palace, its brick columns topped with seated lions and the gates themselves of fancy ironwork.

“In here, Jonah,” I said.

Mrs. Wetherby was probably right in thinking that her daughter had made a good match. Jonah got down to open the gate and through we went, up a driveway lined with flowering shrubs. There were fountains playing in the forecourt and the portico, with its marble columns, was as grand as described. I was beginning to have second thoughts about this whole mission. If Mrs. Mainwaring was part of Westchester society, then word would undoubtedly get around that I had been looking for her housemaid, and that word would finally reach Mrs. Sullivan. She would then know that I’d made up a story and conned her into going to Irvington in the first place. She’d probably even tell Daniel, which would not be a good idea.

I was almost ready to have Jonah turn the trap around and retreat again when the front door opened and a nursemaid in crisply starched uniform came out pushing an impressive perambulator. She looked at me with interest, nodded, then went on walking. A gardener appeared from the side of the house. “You’ll want some water for the pony, no doubt,” he said to Jonah. “Hot day like this. Bring the trap around this way.”

So I had to dismount whether I liked it or not and walked with trepidation up the marble steps to the front door. I handed my card to the maid who opened it and asked if Mrs. Mainwaring was at home. I was ushered into a cool marble foyer with a sweeping staircase on one side.

“She’s resting, ma’am,” she said. “May I tell her what this is about?”

“I’m inquiring about a maid who might have been employed here,” I said. “Her family in Ireland is anxious to track her down.”

“What was the maid’s name, may I ask?”

“Maureen O’Byrne,” I said.

I saw her expression falter, just a little. “Maureen,” she said. “Oh, yes. She was here.”

“But not any longer?”

“Not any longer,” the girl said.

“How long ago did she leave?”

“About six months ago, ma’am.” She was looking around as if she was trying to find a reason to conclude this conversation and leave me.

“Do you know why she left?”

“Harriet, with whom are you gossiping?” came an imperious voice from the top of the staircase. The mistress of the house stood there, tall, slim, and haughty-looking, dressed in a gray, silk tea dress.

“This lady wants to know about Maureen O’Byrne, ma’am,” the girl said, her voice sounding taut and nervous now.

“Who is she?” The words were snapped out.