The Family Way (Molly Murphy, #12)

Gus

I folded the letter and put it onto my bedside table. Again I experienced that simmering frustration. Surely I could have found my brother by now? Surely I’d have been able to come up with the answer to the wrong baby—at least I could have given it a darned good try. I liked a case I could sink my teeth into. And now here I was, cut off and powerless in Westchester County while the rest of the world had come to a standstill. It seemed that nobody was making any progress in any direction, almost as if we were all suspended in a giant limbo of summer heat. And now it looked as if Sid and Gus would be heading out to the tip of Long Island—too far away for me to contact them if I needed them.

I gazed out of the window. Jonah was raking the grass. “I wonder,” I said. I picked up my writing set and wrote back, telling them of the trip to Irvington, the beauty and tranquility of the river.

There are some charming little inns along the Hudson and the breeze is delightfully refreshing. There are also some very fine residences—no doubt Gus will know their owners and could even secure herself an invitation to one of them. If you’ve a mind to escape from the city, you could do worse than come up this way and thus do a good deed by saving your poor friend from dying from boredom and from lectures on being a good homemaker. Is it really essential that I know how to preserve plums?

After I had given the letter to Jonah to take to the mail, I felt a trifle guilty at making such a preposterous suggestion. I was always prevailing upon their good nature, wasn’t I? They could exist quite happily without me but I really needed them. I had grown up with no close female friends, the local girls thinking that I was strange because I wanted to read and educate myself, and dreamed of a better life. It had been such a treat to discover women with whom I could share opinions, hopes, and fears. But would they not grow tired of such an annoying neighbor eventually? It was too late now. The letter was already winging its way to New York.

It did cross my mind that if Sid and Gus came to the Hudson, I’d have a perfect excuse to escape occasionally and wondered if I might push my luck by asking to learn how to drive the pony trap. Obviously not at the moment as Mrs. Sullivan was still recovering from today’s outing. She was sitting on the sofa and fanning herself with the magazine she had been reading as I came into the room. “I don’t know if it was quite wise of us to go on an excursion in weather like this,” she said. “I feel like a limp rag and it must be even worse for you. You must put your feet up immediately and have Bridie bring you an ice bag for your ankles.”

“I’m really just fine,” I said.

“Nonsense, you’re looking quite drawn and tired around the eyes,” she said. “I should never have let you go on that wild goose chase to visit Mrs. Mainwaring. You should take it easy for a while, at least until the weather changes.”

I chose the wicker armchair by the French window.

“You had a letter from your friends then,” she said. “Good news from the city?”

“No news of any consequence,” she said. “They have seen nothing of Daniel which means he is still working incredibly hard.”

“That poor boy will work himself into the grave. We must do something about it, Molly.” She leaned over to me. “His father had connections with all kinds of political figures and I know they’d be only too happy to introduce Daniel to the world of politics. He only has to say the word.”

“I don’t think he wants to go into politics, Mother Sullivan,” I said.

“He’ll change his mind once he has a family,” she said, and went back to her magazine.

I decided to take the risk. “My friends say they are finding the city unbearably hot,” I said. “I told them how lovely it was by the river today and suggested that they come and stay at an inn out here.”

“I suppose they could always stay here,” she said.

“Very kind of you, but I think they’d prefer the breezes on the river. And they do like their privacy. But of course they’d love to pay a visit to you—maybe to luncheon or tea.”

“Of course,” she said, looking relieved.

Conversation turned to other matters but the seeds were sown. Now all I had to be was patient. I spent two days as a model prisoner, lying with my feet up, even finishing the back of the tiny jacket with not too many dropped stitches. I made an attempt at a watercolor painting of the roses. I read a book. I helped pick raspberries for jam. And all the time a thought was nagging at my brain. When can I go to the convent and find out what happened to Maureen?