Margaret said, “Sophie, have you lost your hearing? I was asking—”
The strangers had stopped and were looking at Aunt Quinlan’s door with its frieze of angels and lilies.
“We have company,” Sophie said.
Aunt Quinlan sat up, cheered as she always was at the arrival of visitors. “And still no sign of Anna. I wonder if Sister Ignatia has taken her hostage. Maybe we should send Mr. Lee with a ransom.”
? ? ?
JACK COULDN’T QUITE believe that Anna Savard might actually live in this particular house, but there was the door with angels and lilies, finely carved along the stone lintel. He had gone down this street hundreds of times and always he had wondered about this substantial limestone house of four stories, with mature pear and plum trees visible over the garden wall.
“Do you know that lady?” Oscar pointed with his chin to the window where a young woman stood.
Jack didn’t recognize her and neither did Rosa, whose whole face collapsed. “No,” she said. “That’s not Dr. Savard. But the angels and the lilies—”
“Remember Sergeant Pettigrew said there were two ladies named Savard living here.” There was no sign of Maroney’s legendary impatience and volatility; he had been tamed by a little girl with a dirty face.
The door opened. The woman standing there was not Anna Savard, though she had the same bearing and the air of confidence. This woman’s features were fuller, and her eyes were a color he couldn’t name, not green or blue but somewhere in between, just as her skin was somewhere between old honey and copper. While these thoughts went through Jack’s head, Oscar was dealing with introductions and explaining what had brought them to her door on a spring evening. Jack heard the words Hoboken and orphan and Sister Mary Augustin.
As it turned out this was also a Dr. Savard, another female physician. Jack had gone most of his life without ever encountering such a creature and now they seemed to be everywhere.
Rosa was saying, “Is the other Dr. Savard here? Can we see her, please?”
This Dr. Savard had a kind smile, one that would put a child’s worries to rest. “She isn’t here right now, but we expect her any moment. Would you like to come in and wait for her?” And then her gaze shifted, first to Oscar and then Jack. “Detective Sergeants, please do come in.”
She introduced them all to another woman, this one called Margaret Cooper—middle-aged, a little nervous in disposition, a war widow, if Jack was any judge—and to the older lady, Mrs. Quinlan.
“I sense a mystery and its unraveling all at once,” Mrs. Quinlan said. “Very exciting. Come in and sit down. Mrs. Lee, we will have guests for supper once Anna is come, but right now we’re in dire need of tea.”
The parlor was large and comfortable, but Jack felt as though he had stepped, unawares, onto a train that was gathering speed. Odder still, he was too curious to even think about getting off. Instead he watched as the Russo girls were stripped of their wraps and swaddled in blankets to sit together in an upholstered chair close to the hearth. They were telling their story to the three women, Rosa in English with commentary from Lia in Italian. Little by little Rosa’s hectic tone quieted and she began to hiccup between sentences, quick sharp gulps of air. A little girl after all, ready to hand over her burdens to these women who listened so closely with such serious expressions. Looking at her now it was hard to believe she had dared so much, and survived.
In Jack’s experience most men gave children little thought; they were distractions to be ignored or resources to be trained and put to work or burdens to be fed and clothed, and often all three at once. As a police officer Jack had come to understand that the children in circumstances such as these required more—demanded more—than willful ignorance or benign disregard.
Rosa was terrified, angry, confused, despairing, but at the same time she distinguished herself by an iron force of will. There was a simple, undeniable fact she would make these women understand: her brothers must be returned to her. Their father had deserted them, but Rosa would not.
Jack let his gaze wander over the room, full of color and well lit by gaslight from crystal wall sconces and hanging lamps. Paintings and drawings crowded the walls and overhead a mural in jewel-like colors spread over the entire ceiling. There were tall bookcases filled to overflowing behind glass fronts, a basket of needlework set aside, plants in tiled pots, shiny leafed and vigorous. It was an unusual room in an unusual house, peopled by women who seemed unshakable, who took the appearance of wet Italian orphans and police detectives at their door as nothing out of the ordinary.