Fiona went numb with disbelief. She was pregnant with Arthur’s child. He was married to Evelyn, not to her. And the cleaning lady surely knew that she was living here in this apartment as his mistress. Mrs. Murphy was counseling her to have an abortion. Fiona felt too dazed to be shocked by the offer. “I-I’ll let you know,” she mumbled.
“Don’t wait too long, dear. The sooner you take care of things the better.” She patted Fiona’s hand and left to fix the tea.
Fiona had all day to pull herself together and decide what to do before Arthur arrived. In the end, she realized that she had no other choice except to tell him. Her father would never take her back with a baby on the way, and she had no way to support a child on her own. She wouldn’t even consider Mrs. Murphy’s proposal and kill her baby before it was born. She clung to the hope that Arthur would finally leave his wife when he learned the news and marry her. But the idea of telling him terrified her. What if he left her instead?
She waited until he was lying contentedly in her arms before bringing it up. “I have something to tell you, darling,” she began. “We… I… I think I’m going to have a baby.”
Arthur grew very still. “How certain are you?”
“I-I haven’t been to a doctor, but… I’m fairly certain.”
Arthur swore softly, and Fiona began to cry.
“No, darling, don’t cry,” he soothed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to swear. I’m angry with myself, not you.”
“But what are we going to do? We have a baby on the way, and we aren’t married.”
“I’ll take care of you and the baby. It doesn’t change the way I feel about you.”
“But things have to change, Arthur. I don’t want to have a baby out of wedlock. We have to get married!” She felt him move away slightly, his high forehead furrowed. She had never made demands of him before, and she was sorry that she had to make them now. But the deep fear she felt— for herself and for her child—had driven her to do it.
“You know I want to marry you, Fiona. You’re wearing my ring.”
“Will you tell your wife about the baby? Will she divorce you now?”
“Perhaps.” Fiona felt him pull away a little more. “Don’t worry about it, darling. I’ll take care of everything.”
“But if we’re not married, our child won’t have a name. He’ll be a—” “He’ll be my child,” Arthur said, covering her lips with his fingers.
“He’ll have my name. And so will you, darling. So will you.”
“When? When can we get married?” He didn’t answer. Fiona was tired of asking. “Do you know what I’ve become, Arthur? Do you know what people think of me? My father warned me that you were just using me as your mistress, and now—”
“No! It isn’t true!” he said, clutching her tightly. “That’s not what you are, Fiona—you’re my salvation. I hated my life before I met you, hated going home from work to that cold, empty house. I felt so trapped. There were times when I thought I would never be happy again, times when I just wanted to stop living and end it all. Then I met you, and you gave me a new life with love and companionship and tenderness—all the things I’d been missing for so long. You’re already my wife, not Evelyn. Can’t you see that?”
“Then why do you take her to theater openings and social events instead of me?”
“I told you, Fiona. I have to keep up appearances—”
“I know all about the anniversary party you and Evelyn had. Twenty years! How can you celebrate a marriage that’s over?”
He released her and lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. “That was Evelyn’s idea, not mine. She wants to make sure our son gets into a good prep school next fall, and that won’t happen if there’s a scandalous divorce. I don’t know how to convince you that it’s over between Evelyn and me. I go to Westchester because I have to—but I come here because I want to. This is my home, Fiona.” He turned to her again and took her gently into his arms.
“Maybe, deep inside, I wanted a child of our love. I’m not sorry about the baby. This is the family I’ve longed for, right here in this apartment. The child is ours. How can I help but love him when I already love his mother so much? Fiona, what’s wrong?” he asked when she began to cry again.
“Nothing—I’m happy, that’s all. Happy that you want our baby.” He smiled and used a corner of the sheet to dry her tears. “But where will we put the baby, Arthur? There’s only one bedroom.”
He laughed. “That’s easily fixed. I’ll tell the landlord we need a bigger apartment—two bedrooms, maybe even three. We’ll move as soon as one becomes available.”
“I love you, Arthur,” she said, kissing him again. “You’re the most wonderful man in the world.”
The next time Fiona left money for her father, she added a note to it: Don’t send any more clippings. I won’t read them. The newspaper articles— and Fiona’s anxious jealousy—quickly stopped.
By the end of October, Fiona’s pregnancy was already starting to show on her slender body. When she returned home from her appointment at the beauty salon one afternoon, she was surprised to find her father standing on the sidewalk outside her building, waiting to see her. She tried to draw the edges of her jacket around her so he wouldn’t notice, but she saw the recognition in his eyes right away.
“You’re pregnant?” he asked without a word of greeting.
“What do you want now, Dad?”
“Answer my question, girl. Is that man finally going to marry you now that he has you in a family way?”
“Of course. Arthur loves me—and our baby.”
“That isn’t love,” Rory said, shaking his head. “Love is something you can see, Fiona. It’s not just useless promises and meaningless words.”
“Do you see this lovely apartment? Have you seen the money he gives me every week, the clothes he buys for me?”
“Those things are for his own sake, not yours. He wants to keep you for himself, and the fancy apartment and the money he gives you ease his guilt. He’s so rich he never misses one cent of it. But what is he willing to do for you, to sacrifice for you, eh? Nothing! He would lose his good name and his fine reputation if he divorced his society wife and married his poor, immigrant mistress—and he certainly isn’t willing to sacrifice that. No, Fiona, don’t you ever believe that the man loves you just because he says so. Make him show his love by giving something up for you. Sacrifice shows love, not empty words and lies. If he loved you he would marry you, no matter the cost to himself. He would make this child legitimate.”
“Arthur promised me that he would,” she began.
Rory gave a short laugh, echoing the doubt that Fiona herself was starting to feel. “The man is cheating on his wife, girl. If he ever does divorce her and marry you, don’t you suppose he’ll find another mistress to replace you? Once a cheater, always a cheater.”
“No. He loves me, Dad. He’s going to marry me.”
Rory gripped her shoulders, his face inches from hers. “He never will, Fiona. Never! Leave him and come home with me.”
“I can’t leave him now. Who will take care of my baby and me? I don’t want my child to grow up in that horrible tenement, to walk the streets in rags, begging like all the other urchins. Is that the life you want for me, Dad?” He released her, and she saw the look of pain in his eyes. His shoulders sagged.
“We’ve made a mess of things, Fiona. A blooming mess of things.”
Aye, we have at that, she thought. But she didn’t say the words aloud, afraid to let her father see her doubt and her fear. “Did you come to see me for a reason, Dad?” she finally asked.
“I’ve missed you, girl,” he said hoarsely. “I came to see how you were doing and…” He gestured to her growing belly. “And now I see.”
“When are Mam and the girls coming?” she asked.
Rory shook his head.
“Good-bye, then, Dad. I have to go. Arthur will be home soon.”
She hurried inside with Rory’s speech
about sacrifice still echoing in her mind. The word reminded her of Christ’s sacrifice, and as she thought of Him impaled on the cross, tears came to her eyes. Fiona was so sorry that her sins had made Jesus suffer, but there was no way out for her now. All she ever wanted was a mansion and servants and a wealthy husband. But she had wanted the wrong things and had gotten them the wrong way. After living with a married man and bearing his child, Fiona’s life would be ruined as far as marrying a respectable man was concerned. Even Kevin Malloy wouldn’t marry her now. But she had no way out. She had even stopped nagging Arthur about the divorce, knowing that if she made him angry, he might simply walk away and never come back, leaving her and the baby with nothing. She didn’t want to go back to the tenement. She couldn’t do that to her child. She had to stay with Arthur, continue her sinful lifestyle. She had to make this sacrifice for her child.
Fiona tried to put on a happy face whenever Arthur came, but the pregnancy made her emotional, and she couldn’t always control her tears. One of those times was when Arthur suggested they stay home in the evening instead of going out dancing together. She knew he couldn’t risk being seen with her in her condition, but she couldn’t hide her disappointment. When he left, she felt as though she had let him down.
“I have a surprise for you, darling,” Arthur said when he arrived the following weekend. He left the apartment door open a crack and hurried inside to lead Fiona to the door. Then he stood behind her, covering her eyes with his hands. “Okay—bring it in, Charles.”
Fiona heard thumping and grunting as Charles wrestled something through the front door. Wheels squeaked as they rolled across the hardwood floors. “Ta-da!” Arthur sang as he removed his hands from her eyes. Fiona stood blinking at a tall mahogany cabinet with a coffin-like lid and two lower doors. “It’s a phonograph, darling,” Arthur said with a proud grin. He fished money from his pocket to tip Charles, then sent him on his way.
“Now we can still dance the night away, and—” He didn’t get to finish. Fiona threw her arms around his neck and cut off his words with her kisses.
“I love you so much, Arthur!”
“And I love you. Here, I’ll show you how the phonograph works. … You lift this lid, and… see? There’s the turntable where the recordings go. They’re stored down here,” he said, bending to open the lower doors.
“I bought thirty recordings that I thought you might like, but you can pick out some more later on. The crank goes in the side, like this, and you wind it five or six times—” It made a grinding noise as Arthur wound it. “Don’t wind it too much or even the waltzes will sound like the nickelodeon.
Then you lower the needle, like this, and… ta-da!”
“May I have this dance?” he asked as the music began to play. Fiona floated in his arms, loving him more than she ever thought possible.
But even with music to listen to, she sometimes felt claustrophobic in the apartment. She grew tired of shopping, and with Mrs. Murphy to clean and do the laundry and shop for groceries and cook, there was little for Fiona to do. It was the life she’d once thought she’d wanted, complete with a servant to do all the work, but she often felt lonely and bored, especially when Arthur didn’t visit for four or five days. She reminded herself not to nag or complain when he did visit though, remembering that she had no hold on him except her love.
Arthur brought home a radio soon after the phonograph, and it did bring Fiona a measure of companionship on the days and nights when he wasn’t there.
Then he had another surprise for her one Friday evening—a new suitcase.
“I know you’ve been feeling a little cooped up,” he said. “So pack some warm clothes, darling. We’re going on a little trip.”
Fiona was ecstatic. She hadn’t been out of New York City since arriving with her father on the ship nearly two years ago. She quickly packed the new bag, and they drove to a little resort town in the Pocono Mountains called Deer Falls. They spent the weekend in a rustic log cabin on a lake, where the air smelled of pine and the moss and needles felt as soft as carpeting beneath her feet. On Saturday Arthur rented a boat and rowed her out on the mirror-like water. They watched a flock of geese flying south overhead, and she trailed her fingers through the cool, clear water.
“It’s so peaceful and quiet here,” she said softly, hating to disturb the tranquil day. “It reminds me of home.”
“Ireland, you mean?”
She nodded. “It’s very green there, with beautiful mountains and rolling countryside, much like this.”
“Do you miss it, darling?”
“Never—when I’m with you.” She drew a deep breath, inhaling the rich scent of earth and pine. “I could live up here with you forever, Arthur.” He gave a slow, sad smile.
“My wife always hated it up here. She complained about the bugs and said there was nothing to do.”
“I can think of plenty to do,” she said softly. Arthur lifted the oars and rowed them back to shore.
Later, they sat beside the lake wrapped in a blanket, enjoying the warm sunshine. That night they built a fire in the stone fireplace to warm the cabin. From the front porch, they had a view of a million stars.
“Do we have to go back?” she asked as Arthur began to pack on Sunday afternoon. “Can’t we just live here like two hermits? Our baby could grow up in the fresh air and swim in the lake all day until he was as brown as a trout.”
“I’m afraid we can’t,” Arthur said sadly. “But I promise I’ll bring you back as often as I can.”
They returned to Deer Falls for a weekend in December, when the woods were white with snow and deer came to the clearing behind the cabin. Arthur brought her back again in February for her twentieth birthday. But March, when their baby would be born, was drawing close, and Fiona was still distressed because she and Arthur weren’t married; her child would be illegitimate. She was running out of ways to ask him about his divorce.
“What’s going to happen next month, when the baby comes?” she asked as they drove home from Deer Falls after her birthday.
“I’ve made all the arrangements for your confinement at a maternity hospital over on Amsterdam Avenue. If I’m not around, Charles will call a cab for you, and—”
“Can’t I call you? Can’t you come and drive me to the hospital?”
He glanced at her before turning his attention back to the road, and the cool look in his eyes chilled her. “That would be very awkward, Fiona. You know you can’t call me at work, and it would be out of the question to call me at home.”
“I see.” It unnerved her that he’d referred to his house in Westchester as “home.”
“I’ve already registered you at the hospital under my name.”
“What should I tell them my name is?”
“Fiona Bartlett, of course. That will be your name, darling. Soon.”
She sighed as he reached to squeeze her knee; she was trying hard not to calculate how long he had been telling her “soon.” For the first time, Fiona realized that she might have to endure her child’s birth alone. Arthur came and went sporadically, rarely telling Fiona his plans and seldom staying overnight. His visits had become even less frequent as she’d grown larger and more ungainly, and at times she wondered if he’d taken another mistress in her place.
“Don’t be frightened, darling,” he said, misunderstanding the worried look that Fiona knew must be on her face. “It’s a very modern hospital with the best of everything. You’ll be in good hands.”
“I just wish…” She swallowed, wondering if she dared to say aloud what she was thinking.
“You wish what, darling?” he prompted.
“I wish that I didn’t have to go through this alone—that I had my Mam or… or someone with me.”
“Doesn’t a baby usually take hours and hours to be born?” he asked, frowning. “I wouldn’t be much good to you, pacing in the waiting room all that time.”
“No, I suppose not.”
It turned out that Fio
na was alone on the morning that her labor pains started. She waited until they were ten minutes apart as the doctor had instructed, then asked Charles to call for a taxi.
“I’ll be sure to tell Mr. Bartlett where you are, ma’am,” he promised as he tucked her and her suitcase into the cab. “I hope everything goes okay for you.” She nodded, too tearful to speak.
Her son was born on St. Patrick’s Day, March 17, 1922. His hair was very dark, and he had Arthur’s long, narrow face and soulful eyes. She loved him fiercely from the first moment she held him in her arms, and knew she would gladly die before she ever let any harm come to him.
“He’s a beautiful little boy, ma’am,” the nurses told her. “What name should we put on the birth certificate?”
It seemed an odd way to ask what she’d decided to name him. Fiona wondered if they knew the truth about her. The nurses called her ma’am or Fiona, not Mrs. Bartlett—and the baby’s father wasn’t pacing the waiting room floor with all the others.
“We haven’t decided on a name, yet,” she replied. “I’ll let you know.”
Arthur finally arrived the next day, begging Fiona to forgive him for not coming sooner. He showered her and the baby with gifts and flowers.
“How did you get all of this into your car?” she asked.
“It was a tight fit,” he said, laughing. “Good thing we moved to a larger apartment last fall.”
“Yes, it is.” Fiona bit her tongue, determined not to comment on the fact that she lived alone in the apartment most of the time. “Have you seen the baby, Arthur? Isn’t he beautiful?”
“I peeked in the nursery window,” he said, stroking his mustache. “I daresay he doesn’t look too appealing just yet. But you look more beautiful than ever, darling. Radiant, in fact. It will be wonderful to be able to get my arms around you again.”
“Yes… Arthur… we’ve never talked about names. I was wondering if we could call him Patrick since he was born on St. Patrick’s Day.”