“Un gallo!” her sister echoed, as if a rooster could only exist in Italian.
“I was sure I could find it because Dr. Savard has to help us. They took our brothers away, and I have to find them. I was so sure I could find a house with angels over the door,” she finished.
To Lia Oscar said, “Angeli sopra la porta?”
“Si. Putti e gigli.” It struck Jack that the little girl was trying very hard to be exact.
He turned to Pettigrew. “Is there a house nearby with lilies and angels carved above the door—”
“More likely cherubs or cupids—” Oscar suggested.
“Coo-pids,” Lia mimicked.
“—carved into the stone lintel. Does that sound familiar?”
“It’s Mrs. Quinlan they want,” the patrol officer said. “If they had said about the angels and lilies before, we would have solved this right away. The Quinlan place is half a block away.”
At that Rosa’s composure finally cracked and tears began to leak down her face. There was something very formal about her even in her despair, but the little one was less bound by pride. Lia might not have understood the exchange, but her sister’s tears were more than she could bear.
When Oscar held out his arms, Lia collapsed toward him, pushed her face into the wool of his coat, and sobbed openly.
“She could have told us she was looking for the Quinlan place,” Pettigrew said to Jack, gruff embarrassment in his tone. “Everybody knows the house with the walled garden. All they had to do was speak English.”
• • •
COUSIN MARGARET WAS reading aloud to them from the paper, something she liked to do because, Sophie understood, it was the only way to introduce the subjects she wanted to discuss. Margaret, raised in this house by Uncle Quinlan and his first wife, had only a few interests: her sons, the way she was perceived by the other old Knickerbocker families, keeping the memory of her husband alive, and crime.
She read many papers every day and kept a ledger detailing all the crimes that happened within a square mile of home. Now she sat in an elegant but understated day dress, her posture perfect, her head held erect, and read to them about a burglary on Greene Street, just two blocks away, in that neighborhood she referred to as French Town. If she went on any longer in that tone there would be an argument; Aunt Quinlan could tolerate only so much of Margaret’s fearmongering and even less of her distaste for immigrants. Eventually she would be compelled to remind her stepdaughter that her father’s grandparents had been immigrants. It was an old and exhausting argument, and Sophie was thinking of ways to deflect it when she saw two men coming up the street, the older of the two carrying a very little girl in a ragged coat far too big for her. A second girl of eight or nine years was looking up at the houses as they passed, pointing to gates and lampposts and doorways and explaining something. The girls looked as though they had been living on the street and had had a hard time of it.
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.
His sisters would look around this room, at the clothing and draperies and tablecloth, and tell him what it all meant. They might be affronted or charmed.
On a side table in a prominent spot, a dozen framed photos were grouped together. He counted eight men in uniform, the youngest no more than eighteen. On a cabinet card, elaborately framed, was a man of at least seventy.
“That is my father,” Margaret Cooper said, coming up behind him. Jack realized just then that she stood out from the others primarily because of her clothing, quite fashionable and conservative, which meant that she was trussed like a leg of lamb bound for the oven.
“Did he return to active duty for the war?”
She smiled, happy to have him open the conversation.
“He was an army surgeon, retired. The next photograph is my brother James. Aunt Quinlan—as Sophie and Anna call her—is my stepmother.”
“The other men?” he asked.
She pointed to each face in turn, her finger hovering but not touching. “This is Andrew—my husband—he fell at Chickamauga. This is Nathaniel Ballentyne, Aunt Quinlan’s son by her first husband. He died at Shiloh, fighting beside my brother. Nathaniel and James went to school together; they were the best of friends. These five”—her finger skimmed—“are some of my stepmother’s nephews. None of these men came home. Not one.”
Oscar had been standing aside but paying attention. Now he made a soft sound in his throat. “I’m sorry to hear it. My sincere condolences.”
Jack glanced at Mrs. Quinlan, still deep in conversation with the little girls, and then returned to the collection of cabinet cards. A wedding party, a fat little boy standing with one hand wound in the coat of a huge dog, two young blond women so much alike that they had to be twins. A small painting on an easel showed an Indian woman with high cheekbones, her hair threaded with white. She was laughing, her arms wrapped around herself.
Oscar touched his shoulder and inclined his head to a portrait that hung on the opposite wall. There were dozens of photographs and paintings of President Lincoln that appeared every so often in newspapers and magazines, but Jack couldn’t remember ever seeing an oil portrait, one in which the man came to life.
“That is my stepmother’s work,” Margaret Cooper said. “Mrs. Quinlan is well regarded as an artist. Or was, before arthritis put an end to it all.”
It was hard to fathom, at that moment. The old lady who spoke so kindly to the little girls had been beautiful as a younger woman, that was still clear. But she had also been capable of painting like this, President Lincoln as Jack liked to think of him, alive, sharp energy in the dark eyes. Everyone had their own memories of the day of the assassination, stories that had been told again and again and would be told today and tomorrow and all the days of their lives. The conversation could start up among strangers in a train car or at Sunday dinner.
Jack’s attention moved to a photograph of two young girls and a boy of ten or eleven. After a moment’s study he realized one of the girls was Sophie Savard, and the other was Anna. He supposed the boy might be Cap Verhoeven, with a mop of blond hair and a grin of the kind so rare in photographs.
Oscar said, “It looks as though they grew up together like brother and sisters.”
“Not quite.” Sophie had come to help the housekeeper with a tea cart. “I was ten when Aunt Quinlan sent for me, as soon as it was safe to travel after the war. Listen,” she said, turning. “She’s so pleased to have the chance to speak Italian; see how her face lights up.”
The old lady’s language was quite formal, and by listening to it Jack knew that she had traveled or lived in Italy long ago and learned from tutors who placed more value on formal grammar than conversation, but still she had an ear for the language.
She must have felt him looking, because she raised her head and smiled at him. And took his breath away. Beautiful as a young woman, yes. The beauty had gone with the years but left something just as powerful behind.
And just then Jack heard the sound of the front door opening and closing, and then she was there. Liliane-called-Anna. Her color was high, but Jack had the idea that it was agitation rather than the weather at fault. Standing in the doorway she pulled her hat off and her scarf away to reveal the tripling pulse at the base of her throat.
She had caught sight of the Russo girls and moved forward without pausing, dropping her things as she went. The others were talking to her all at once, but Anna seemed not to hear them. She made a visible effort to straighten her back and steady her expression, but it was clear that she was shaken.
“I see we have company,” she said, her voice a little rough.
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Quinlan. “You’ve met Rosa and Lia, I believe.”
The girls were leaning forward, as interested in Anna as she was in them.
“We met in Hoboken, yes,” Anna said. “In fact, I was about to go out searching for the two of you. You have entire convents up in arms.” She crouched down in front of the girls and touched them lightly: heads, faces, shoulders.
Her aunt said, “We have other guests, Anna.” She nodded toward the alcove where Jack and Oscar stood.
Anna pivoted, her expression suddenly guarded. Jack tried to smile and found himself able to muster no more than a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Good evening,” Oscar said, clearly enjoying both the situation and Jack’s carefully masked interest. “Dr. Savard, I hope you will forgive the intrusion.”
A new wash of color rose along her throat and crept into her face, only to fall away just as rapidly to leave behind mottling, something Jack had seen only rarely in his life, on the faces and throats and breasts of the few women he had taken to his bed. The image took him by surprise and made him turn his face to hide his own expression, which he feared would give away as much as a woman’s blush.
Oscar was talking about Pettigrew, the children in the porter’s office at the university, how they had come to find the house. Jack heard only bits of this, he was so flustered by the workings of his own mind. Then he turned his head and saw that Anna Savard was watching him. For a split second he had the idea that she had read his thoughts and seen a picture of herself, stripped bare, in his embrace, breathless.
She smiled, a half smile, a weary but welcoming smile such as she might give anyone.
“Rosa,” she said. “You must promise me never to run away again.”
“They lost my brothers,” Rosa said with great calm. “And they don’t care.”
“Nothing was done out of malice,” Anna said. And seeing the girl’s confusion: “They did not set out to cause you harm.”
“But harm was done.”
Such presence of mind, in such a young girl.
Rosa said, “You won’t send us back, will you?”
And there was the question. Before anyone could respond, Margaret Cooper stood abruptly. “Of course not,” she said in a tone that brooked no discussion. “What these little girls need is a warm bath and a good meal, and then a bed piled high with pillows and blankets and comforters where they can sleep through the night without fear. Where they can sleep as long as they like and then have a large and filling breakfast.”
The most maternal of the group, then. The younger Savard women seemed satisfied to have their cousin take the little girls in hand. Lia, biddable, came off her chair with a thump, trailing blankets. Even Rosa got to her feet without question, her face slack with weariness now that she had finally reached her goal.
• • •
THEY WERE GOING into the dining room before Anna had time to make sense of the situation or her own state of mind. Or minds, because she seemed to have more than one. She was exhausted and exhilarated, angry and in the grip of an almost preternatural calm, agitated and focused. Part of that had to do with the turmoil of questions that had occupied her during the cab ride home: how to best search for the missing girls, if there were friends who could be called in to help or if that would further complicate an already fraught situation, if the police should be notified and why the Sisters of Charity had not done so already, if it would be sound reasoning to start by inquiring at hospitals, all of these questions and more. And underlying all of this, a dread that sat heavy: had she shown even minimal interest instead of just walking away from
the ferry, this whole situation might have been avoided. She should have done something. Anything.
All of that, only to be relieved of the burden by the simple act of coming home to find the girls in her own parlor. The sight of them safe had worked like cold water on a hot afternoon.
And then she had turned to find Detective Sergeant Mezzanotte looking at her just when she had resigned herself to forgetting him.
He was still looking, sitting across from her at the table in her own home, quiet and observant as his partner told the story in more detail. Now that the little girls were out of the room, they talked more openly about the things that might have gone wrong but didn’t.
Anna applied herself to her food with such focus that it took a moment to realize that someone had asked her a question. Mrs. Lee stood beside her with the soup tureen, one brow raised and a quirk to her mouth that did not bode well. Nothing escaped Mrs. Lee. There would be questions, but Anna would not give her answers because a lie would be sniffed out immediately, and the truth was too tender to be handled.
Aunt Quinlan said, “Anna, did you mention Detective Sergeant Mezzanotte when you told us about your trip to Hoboken on Easter Monday?”
“She mentioned him to me,” Sophie said. “You translated for Anna, isn’t that right, Detective Sergeant?”
Anna knew that Sophie was willing to intervene on her behalf, but it was too much to ask and, moreover, doomed to failure. They would not be distracted, these old women to whom she belonged, heart and soul. She took hold of the conversation.
“Sister Mary Augustin wasn’t quite up to the challenge of so many dialects,” Anna said. “And the priest was away at—” She looked at Jack Mezzanotte directly. “The term escapes me.”