The only reasonable, sensible thing to do was to turn around and go home, but one look in Rosa’s direction made it clear that she would fight such a suggestion with all the strength she could muster.
Anna carried Lia back into the cabin and settled with her on a wooden bench across from Jack, who had already accumulated a small pond around himself. On another day she would have had to laugh—he would have laughed at himself. But for Rosa, who sat a little apart, her body angled away from them. She answered Jack in monosyllables when he asked a question, but she would not even look in Anna’s direction. She was in shock; Anna understood that and lectured herself: any attempt to explain or justify would only make things worse. She tried to work out what she might say:
A priest found Vittorio at the Foundling and gave him to a Catholic family to raise as their own. Now he’s Timothy Mullen, and the law will do nothing to restore him to his sisters. Or she could leave the Church out of it: He is a healthy, happy child, one who is very much loved, and who loves. Timothy Mullen clings to his adoptive mother because he remembers no other.
Rosa was not interested in logic or reason or the law. All attempts to engage her met with a blank look; she was as brittle and unreachable as a stroke victim.
The rain fell all the way across Raritan Bay and was still falling when they left the ferry and walked the short distance to the railway station, where stranded travelers were packed, all wet and cold and not inclined to see the situation as anything but inexcusable. But a tree had fallen across the tracks and it would be at least an hour, probably two, until anybody went anywhere.
Lia was a sodden bundle of miserable little girl in her arms. She needed to be stripped out of the wet clothes and rubbed down, but for the moment any small distraction might help. Anna wiggled her way through muttering discontents to get to a window made opaque by condensation. With her gloved hand she wiped it clean, and began to point things out: a yellow dinghy tugging at its ropes like a restless dog, a runaway hat tumbling over and over in the gusting wind, a flash of lightning in the distance, a lady who stood in the doorway of the bakery, peeking out from under her umbrella, watching for someone who was clearly late.
“Who do you think she’s waiting for?” Anna asked. It was a game Lia loved, the making up of stories, but there was nothing there today, not the least spark. Jack and Rosa had come to stand behind them—or Jack had come, leading Rosa by the hand. He was talking to Rosa, but Lia was listening.
On so little sleep Anna’s mind would have nothing to do with Italian, and so she waited while Jack talked and the girls asked questions. When Rosa’s shoulders slumped Anna knew that he had made the situation clear to her; the only way to Tottenville was by train, trains ran on tracks, tracks were sometimes made impassable by the weather, and the weather was out of everyone’s control. They were all of them wet and hungry, Jack was telling them, but there was a hotel just down the street.
One small good thing struck Anna once they were out in the weather: Stapleton was a wealthy town, so that the roads were paved and the sidewalks raised. They would not have to slog through the mud.
The Stapleton Arms lobby smelled of wet wool and coal oil and sweat. Within a minute Anna decided that she would rather be wet outside than steaming hot in a crowded lobby.
Jack paid a premium for two rooms while Anna talked to the matron about towels, cocoa and buttered toast, tea and sandwiches. The matron went bustling off, and Anna hoped the rest of the staff was as sharp and quick.
Finally in the room, she decided she could forgive the hotel owner for overheating the lobby. It was a very pleasant room with an attached bath—Anna wondered briefly how much Jack had had to pay—a small table, a comfortable chair, and a good-sized bed with clean linen and a pretty quilt. As the first order of business she cracked both windows for fresh air.
She had barely taken off her hat when they were invaded by the matron, leading her maids like soldiers into battle. There were stacks of towels and loaded trays, dry socks and facecloths. Jack took a few towels for himself and disappeared into the next room while Anna began stripping wet clothes off Lia. The matron did the same for Rosa, who allowed this service without comment.
The food was set out on the table, and then the maids ducked their heads and withdrew. Lia, wrapped in towels, managed a smile for the matron, who brought her a cup of cocoa. Rosa accepted a cup too, and soon began to blink sleepily. They had another hour to wait, and a nap seemed the best use of that time.
The matron—Mrs. Singer, as it turned out—had brought a dressing gown for Anna to use. Old and frayed at the hem, but sweet smelling. Anna went behind the privacy screen to strip and handed her clothes over to Mrs. Singer.
“I’ll hang all your things in the kitchen, where it’s warmest.”