“Yes.”
She had known him almost immediately. When she first saw Vittorio in Hoboken he had been in Rosa’s arms. A strong child, who held up his head and turned toward the sound of his sister’s voice, kicked vigorously and produced a wide, toothless smile—all signs of timely development.
“Two months is an eternity in the life of an infant,” she said. “Vittorio Russo is almost twice the age he was when I examined him in Hoboken. But yes, I think it is him. The coloring is distinctive, and it’s hard to overlook the fact that this family lives so near Mount Loretto.”
“The father had blue eyes,” Jack said.
“Did he?”
“And he was fair-haired. They all were.”
“It’s unlikely that they would produce a dark-haired child, then.”
Jack said, “Is there a way to find out for sure—beyond asking Father McKinnawae?”
They were silent for a few minutes as the horse picked up its pace. Horses wanted to get home as much as people did, Mr. Lee had told her once.
“We could talk to the parents,” Anna said, finally.
“No, we can’t,” Jack said, easily.
And he was right; approaching the family was to be avoided at all costs. They would take offense or feel threatened or both, and not without cause.
Anna said, “I wonder who delivers children here. If there’s a midwife or a doctor.”
“I think Nell is probably the better prospect,” Jack said.
“Nell?” And then Anna remembered, the waitress at the café. “You’re right, I think. She spends all day watching people come and go, but the café isn’t open in the evening.”
If they stayed overnight, they could talk to Nell over breakfast. Anna found she didn’t have the courage to make such a suggestion.
? ? ?
THEY RETURNED THE horse and trap to a cheerful Mr. James Malone, who had been joined by a Michael Malone, the very image of his father and far more talkative.
While the men discussed horses and the weather—Jack was working his way around to asking about a hotel, she was sure—Anna wandered away to read notices nailed to the wall of the livery. Livestock for sale, someone hoping to buy a secondhand plow, a lost dog, a boatswain open for business, a respectable lady who did laundry at a very reasonable rate. There were notices of church services in Perth Amboy: First Presbyterian, United Methodist, St. Peter’s Episcopal, Second Baptist, and St. Mary’s Catholic. She wondered if Mount Loretto’s church would serve the community too. There seemed to be a large Irish population. On the notices she saw a scattering of German names, but many more like Ryan, McCarthy, O’Neill, Daly, Duffy, and O’Shea.
Jack came up behind her. “Let’s go for a walk.”
Tottenville was more a village than a town, but a growing one and well kept, the sidewalks swept, gutters cleaned, and display windows free of grime. They passed a dry goods store, a grocer, a barbershop, all doing a lot of business late on a Saturday afternoon.
“Here’s the doctor you were wondering about.” Jack inclined his head to a shingle that hung on the gate of a substantial house. Dr. Nelson Drake was responsible for the health and well-being of this pretty town at the southernmost point of New York State, and he seemed to be prospering. Just across from the doctor was the town court and post office, still open for business and beyond that, the Tottenville Hotel.
A block farther on they found a smithy with a sign nailed to the outside wall:
EAMON MULLEN
GENERAL BLACKSMITHING, HORSESHOEING,
PLOW AND WOODWORK
The wide doors were shut and the window shuttered, no sign of life anywhere.
They had come to the end of the little street, where they found a bench that looked out over a small wilderness and beyond that, the sea.
“We don’t even know if it’s the same Mullen,” Anna said.
Jack covered her hand with his own. “It’s harder now, isn’t it. Seeing him with a family. He looked healthy.”
“Yes,” Anna agreed. “He looked healthy and well loved. And the older sister, too. No lack of nourishment or attention.”
“Why would they have adopted?” Jack asked.
Anna thought back over all the women she had cared for, the ones who were desperate to have children, and those who were terrified by the idea. Almost every woman she knew had a story of a mother or sister or aunt who had died giving birth or shortly thereafter, or who had lost one child after another. There were women who grew shells that allowed them to survive such losses, and others who broke under the weight.
“She might have lost a child,” Anna said. “Or she can’t conceive. That’s not uncommon.”
“Was the daughter adopted too, do you think?”