“I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t you live here all the time?”
“My lawyer advised me not to. I need to maintain legal possession of my house in Westchester by living there. And there are always matters to discuss concerning the children and so on. Aren’t you tired of staying in the hotel, Fiona? Wouldn’t it be so much better for both of us if you lived here?”
She longed to say yes—but how could she? “I’ll think about it,” she promised. And she did—all the way home on the subway and as she walked though the dark, rainy streets. She had come to America to have a better life, but she certainly wasn’t better off in the tenement. How wonderful it would be to quit her job and live in a modern apartment with electricity and plumbing. She could set aside part of the living allowance Arthur gave her to send home to Mam and the girls.
Fiona was still deep in thought as she climbed the steep stairs to her rooms. She heard a baby wailing somewhere on the first floor and two men arguing in a foreign language on the second. The hallways stank of onions and boiled cabbage. Arthur’s apartment was warm and quiet and clean.
It would be wrong to live with Arthur if they weren’t married. But he had said that he wouldn’t really be living there; she would have the place all to herself most of the time. And she was already committing a sin by sleeping with him; at least she wouldn’t have to come home to this place anymore. Arthur was going to marry her soon—he’d promised.
Rory was sound asleep, snoring loudly when Fiona let herself into the dark apartment. Why should she have to come back here every night to cook and clean and wash for him? What was he doing to make a better life for them in America? As far as Fiona could tell, nothing! She had done all the work of introducing herself to Arthur, flirting with him, getting him to fall in love with her. Now she had a chance at a better life, so why not take it? The fact that she truly loved Arthur was an added bonus. What more did she owe her father? After working in the hat shop for more than a year, she surely must have repaid him for her passage to America by now.
Fiona undressed in the dark and crawled into bed, but she couldn’t sleep. Why should she continue living this way? No one could blame her for choosing a better life with the man she loved. If her father had an opportunity like this one, he would certainly take it.
After tossing in bed for several hours, wrestling with her thoughts and her conscience, Fiona finally reached a decision: This would be the last night she would ever spend in this bed and in this apartment. She fell asleep then, content with her choice.
The next morning, Fiona made breakfast for her father and went to work at Madame Deveau’s hat shop for the last time. “I’m leaving to get married,” she told her boss, Mrs. Gurche. “Today will be my last day here.”
The girls she worked with hugged and congratulated her when she showed them the ring Arthur had given her; she hadn’t dared to wear it to work before.
Fiona collected her pay that afternoon and raced back to the tenement so she could pack her belongings before her father got home from work. She left him her entire week’s pay from the hat shop and a note: Arthur and I have eloped. I’ve quit my job and moved into his apartment. If you come by once a week, I’ll give you money for Mam and the girls out of the living allowance Arthur gives me. She wrote down his address.
Fiona had no regrets as she walked away and no second thoughts. She never once looked back.
Fiona was alone in Arthur’s apartment a few days later when the doorman rang for her. “There’s a gentleman down here to see you, ma’am. He says his name is Rory Quinn.”
For a moment, Fiona couldn’t think what to do. The truth was, she didn’t want to see her father. She didn’t want to be reminded of who she really was and where she’d come from. In the few short days that she’d lived here, Fiona already felt like a different woman—a wealthy woman who lived in a lovely, modern apartment and could afford to shop in expensive stores. Arthur was a very generous man. He’d not only given her spending money, he’d gone out and bought new clothes for her himself: a beaded cocktail dress and silk stockings and lingerie that felt as light and smooth as water against her skin.
“Ma’am? Are you still there?” Charles asked when she didn’t reply.
“Yes—thank you, Charles. Tell him I’ll be right down.” The apartment would feel tainted, somehow, if she invited her father up.
“Hello, Dad,” she said when she reached the lobby. She wanted the doorman to know who Rory was in case he told Arthur that a strange man had come calling. “Let’s go for a walk, shall we?”
She was afraid, for a moment, that Rory would refuse and make a scene right there in the lobby in front of Charles. Fiona could tell by the high color in her father’s cheeks that he was angry—and barely holding back his temper. She took his arm and led him outside before he could refuse.
“Isn’t this a lovely neighborhood?” she asked as they walked. “And Central Park is only a few blocks away. The park is so beautiful this time of year, and—”
“I didn’t come for a stroll in the park, Fiona.” He stopped, pulling her to a halt beside him. Fiona glanced back at the apartment building, hoping the doorman wasn’t watching.
“I’m sorry that we ran off and eloped without your permission, Dad, but—”
“Stop the lies, girl! I know the truth. I looked into the man’s background. Arthur Bartlett is every bit as rich as he says he is—a Wall Street banker with investments everywhere. But he’s married, Fiona. He’s a married man with two children.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “I’ve known for some time. Arthur told me the truth months ago. But he’s in the process of divorcing his wife, and we’ll be married as soon as it’s final. She’ll probably be eager to sign the papers now that she knows I’m living here. I love Arthur, and he loves me.”
“You’re so nai ve,” Rory said in a trembling voice. “Now that he’s moved you in here and made you his mistress he’ll never divorce his wife.”
“I’m not his mistress! Arthur does want to marry me. He says that I’m his real wife, not her.” Rory closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again Fiona saw tears in them.
“’Tis my own fault for driving you to this—my own daughter. But this isn’t the life I wanted for you, Fiona. I never meant for this to happen. Go get your things. You’re leaving him and coming home with me.”
“No!”
“You’ll do as I say, do you hear?”
“I won’t. I’ve done everything you’ve said, all along, but I won’t anymore. You didn’t get this lovely apartment for me—I got it myself. And now you expect me to just leave it all because you said so? You expect me to go back to work in some sweatshop again and live in rat-infested rooms with all the dirt and disease? Never! You’re the one who taught me to want more in life than what Mam had—and I did everything you said. You can’t expect me to go back to that now. I won’t do it!”
“Arthur Bartlett deceived you. He pretended he wasn’t married when all the time he was.”
“And we deceived him, Dad. I pretended to be someone I wasn’t. What’s the difference? You can hardly cry ‘unfair.’”
“What about your mother and sisters? You were supposed to marry well and help pay their way. Do you think he’ll let them move in here with you?”
“I’m certain Arthur will help pay their way once we’re married. Besides, I’ve been giving you my pay every week for almost a year. What happened to all the money we’ve earned? Why haven’t you sent for Mam and the girls?”
“I’ll not have you talking to me this way.”
“And I’ll not have you controlling my life for one more day. I’ve done everything you said—giving up Kevin Malloy, stealing onboard the ship, breaking into stores at night, and throwing myself at Arthur at the theater that first time. But not anymore, Dad. Without me to cook and wash for you, maybe you’ll finally have a reason to send for Mam.”
Rory stared at her, his mouth gaping. He seemed too stunned to spea
k. Fiona began slowly backing away from him toward the apartment.
“Arthur gives me a generous living allowance. If you come by each Friday, I’ll leave an envelope of money for you with the doorman. Let me know when Mam and the others come from Ireland. I want to see them. … Good-bye, Dad.”
Fiona turned and hurried inside, grateful that her father didn’t follow her. She had escaped from him, but as she rode the elevator upstairs, she couldn’t escape from his words. Was Rory right—was she being nai ve? Was she simply Arthur’s plaything—his beautiful bird in a golden cage? The apartment seemed small and confining as she paced around it, wondering if Arthur’s wife was the one who was delaying the divorce… or if he was. Fiona was still upset when Arthur stopped in to see her later that night after work.
“Fiona, darling, what’s wrong?” he asked as soon as he saw her. Fiona moved into his arms, immediately sorry for having doubted his love. Arthur was so loving, so sensitive that he could read her every mood even before she spoke a word.
“Nothing, Arthur—”
“But I can see that you’ve been crying. Come, sit down and tell me all about it.” He led her to the sofa. Fiona felt safe and loved once again as she nestled in his arms. “What happened?” he asked gently.
“My father came to see me today. He… he knows we didn’t elope. He knows you’re still married, and he’s very angry about it. I’m afraid he’ll cause trouble for us.”
“Don’t worry about him, Fiona. We have each other, now.” He began kissing her neck, his bristly mustache tickling her skin. “I’ve been thinking about you all day…” he murmured.
Fiona’s earlier worries came rushing back. Was she being a fool? Was this the only reason Arthur came to see her? She didn’t want to pressure him and scare him away, but she didn’t want to be his mistress all her life, either.
“Didn’t you hear what I said, Arthur? My father knows the truth about us, and he’s furious. You have to do something! I’m afraid he’ll try to marry me to another man or else take me back to Dublin with him.”
Arthur stopped kissing her and sat back. His dark eyes lost their velvety softness, and there was a coldness in them that she had never seen before.
“He can hardly afford to take you back to Ireland on a dock worker’s pay, can he?”
Fiona stared at Arthur, horrified. “How long have you known?” she whispered.
“New York only seems like a big city, darling. In fact, it’s not. Everyone knows everyone else among high society. And that’s true in the business world, as well. No one has ever done business with Rory Quinn—except on the loading docks.”
“You knew all along that I was an impostor?”
“It didn’t matter to me, Fiona.”
She struggled out of his arms and leaned back against the sofa, feeling as if she might faint. What had she done? Why had she let this man ruin her life? The nuns were right, after all—one small sin leads to bigger and bigger ones, until you can never escape from the mess you’ve made.
“My father was right,” she wept. “You were just using me!”
“Oh no, you’re wrong, Fiona. I fell in love with you long before I learned who you were or where you came from. By then I didn’t care.”
She heard the emotion in his unsteady voice, and when he took her face in his hands and made her look at him again, she saw the love shining in his eyes.
“The most beautiful woman I’d ever seen walked up to me at the theater one night, and I was captivated. Then I got to know you, and you were as fascinating and as enchanting as you were beautiful. I was so lonely, Fiona. My marriage has been over for years, and there were times when I thought I would never be happy again. Then you showed an inter-est in me, and I could scarcely believe it. You could have married any man in New York—handsome men, younger men half my age. But you looked at me as if I were handsome—”
“But, Arthur, you are handsome.”
He pulled her to himself, clutching her tightly. She felt his tears on her neck. “See, my darling?” he murmured. “How could I resist falling in love with you?”
He stayed all night for the first time since she’d moved into the apartment. This time it felt wonderful to wake up beside him. She felt like Mrs. Arthur Bartlett. She made breakfast for him in the morning before he left for work, and he kissed her good-bye as if he didn’t want to leave her.
“Meet me for lunch, Fiona. There’s a place down by my office, just off Wall Street. Shall we say, twelve-thirty? Charles will call a cab for you.” He gave her the address and money for cab fare, then kissed her good-bye again. “I don’t know how I’ll ever wait until twelve-thirty,” he said with his sad, lopsided smile.
Fiona floated on air all morning. Her father was wrong. Arthur truly loved her.
Chapter
27
F iona stepped from the hired cab, her arms loaded with packages from her day of shopping. Charles hurried out front to help her.
“Let me get those for you, ma’am.”
She smiled and thanked him, but she couldn’t quite meet his gaze. She’d noticed that Charles always called her ma’am, not Mrs. Bartlett or even Miss Quinn. She heard him addressing all the other residents by name, and she wondered what he thought of her. He must know that she and Arthur weren’t married.
“Oh, and ma’am?” Charles said before opening the elevator door for her, “Mr. Quinn left something for you when he came to pick up his envelope today.”
He set down Fiona’s packages and retrieved an envelope from behind his counter. She glanced at it and saw that it was the same envelope she had given her father a week ago, his name printed on the front in her handwriting, the seal opened. She avoided looking inside until Charles finished carrying her packages into the apartment for her and she’d closed the door behind him.
Her father had sent her a newspaper clipping, torn from the society pages. It told about a political fund-raising dinner held the previous week. But it was the photograph, not the article, that caught Fiona’s attention. Arthur had his arm draped protectively around a woman’s shoulders, pulling her close the way he always did with Fiona. It was an affectionate gesture that Fiona loved; it made her feel as if Arthur was claiming her for his own and saying to the world “Hands off—she’s mine.” According to the caption, the woman was Mrs. Arthur Bartlett.
Fiona felt a chill of fear as she took the picture over to the window to study it. Even in blurred, black-and-white newsprint, she could see that Evelyn Bartlett was a striking woman, with fair skin and dark hair and a radiant smile. Arthur was looking down at his wife, not at the camera, but Fiona knew by the expression on his face that if she could see his eyes, they would be soft and warm and filled with love.
She crumpled the picture into a ball and tossed it into the trash, refusing to torture herself with it. Nor would she mention it to Arthur. The dinner had taken place last Saturday—the night he had told Fiona that he couldn’t see her. But he had made it up to her by spending all day Sunday with her. Arthur loved her, not his wife. The dinner had been a social obligation he couldn’t squeeze out of.
A week later Rory sent two articles. The first one reported on a group of society women attending a lecture. He had underlined the words Evelyn Bartlett, the cultural society’s president, is the wife of banking mogul Arthur Bartlett. The second article told about the opening of a new play: Present at the theater’s grand opening last night were financier Arthur Bartlett and his wife, Evelyn.
Rory sent more articles the following week and the week after that. Fiona quickly recognized a pattern: The society events were always on evenings that Arthur hadn’t been able to come to the apartment. But many of them had taken place on the same day he’d visited her for an afternoon tryst. She felt a stab of jealousy at the thought that he’d been with his wife after assuring Fiona of his love that afternoon. Now that she’d seen a picture of Evelyn Bartlett, she couldn’t get the image of her and Arthur out of her mind.
Fiona promised hers
elf she wouldn’t read the articles anymore. She vowed to throw away the envelopes without even looking inside them. But each time something would compel her to read about the man she loved, to learn more about the double life he was living.
One hot summer day, Fiona pulled an article from Rory’s envelope and read the words, Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Bartlett hosted a dinner at their home on July first in honor of their twentieth wedding anniversary. She ran into the bathroom and vomited. Why would Arthur agree to an anniversary celebration if he and Evelyn were fighting a bitter divorce?
Fiona couldn’t stop crying. Her nausea lasted all day, and she was grateful that Arthur didn’t come to see her that evening. But as she cried herself to sleep, Fiona wondered where he and Evelyn were that night and what news she would read about them in the next batch of articles.
Fiona was still sick in bed when Mrs. Murphy came to clean the apartment the following morning. “You poor dear,” she soothed. “Shall I make you a cup of tea to settle your stomach?”
“I’ll try one… but to tell you the truth, Mrs. Murphy, the thought of eating or drinking anything makes me feel sick.”
Mrs. Murphy paused in the doorway as if considering something.
When she turned to speak, Fiona saw the look of concern on her face. “I know that it’s none of my business, dear, but are you sure it’s just the flu?”
“What else would it be?”
Mrs. Murphy regarded her steadily. “Well… might your monthly curse be a wee bit late, too?”
Fiona felt the rush of heat to her cheeks. She suddenly knew what Mrs. Murphy meant—and she also knew that she was right. Fiona’s cycle was more than a week late. But how could she be pregnant? Arthur always assured her he was taking care so that wouldn’t happen.
Mrs. Murphy must have seen the certain knowledge on Fiona’s face because she stepped back into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’ve known some girls who’ve had the same trouble that you’re having, dear. I can give you the name of the doctor they went to see. Mr. Bartlett doesn’t ever have to know about it.”