All She Ever Wanted (40 page)

“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.”

“No, that’s too Irish—no offense, darling. I’ve always liked the name Leonard.”

“Could Patrick be his middle name?”

“If you’d like. Leonard Bartlett. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

She nodded bravely, fighting tears at the thought that her child’s name was Bartlett and hers wasn’t. “Thank you for giving him your name, Arthur.”

“He’s my son—of course he’ll have my name. And I’ll always provide for him, Fiona—for you and for him.”

“Will… will your wife divorce you now that we have a child?” She was so afraid to push, so afraid she would anger him and he’d abandon her. It would be very easy for him to do. She longed for security, especially for her son. “I hate it that he’s… illegitimate,” she said when Arthur didn’t reply. “I want to make things right before he’s old enough to know about… us.”

“I want that, too—believe me, I do. But Evelyn has asked to postpone the divorce until our daughter has her coming-out party. It will be very difficult for Ruth to meet a suitable husband if her parents are divorced.”

“Yes, I understand.” But Fiona knew that the stigma of illegitimacy was even worse than the stigma of divorce, and she longed to fight for her child’s rights as hard as Evelyn was fighting for hers.

“The nurses tell me that you can come home in a week,” Arthur said, kissing her forehead. “I’ll be back to take you and the baby home as soon as I’m done at the office that day.”

“I won’t see you until then?”

“I hate hospitals,” he said, making a face. He slowly edged toward the door. “But I’ll make it up to you, Fiona, I promise. When you get home, I’ll come to the apartment every night until you’re sick of me.”

Chapter
28

T
wo years later Fiona gave birth to Arthur’s daughter in the same maternity hospital where Leonard had been born. Once again, she took a taxi there and endured her labor and delivery alone. She was holding her two-day-old daughter in her arms, studying her perfect face and tiny hands, when she looked up and saw Arthur standing in the doorway with a bouquet of roses in his hand, watching her.

“Oh. How long have you been there?” she asked in surprise. She hadn’t put on her makeup yet, and she hoped she looked presentable. She ran her free hand through her hair to untangle it.

“No, don’t,” he said, striding toward her with a smile. “I love your hair when it’s all tousled that way.” She smelled his after-shave mingled with the rich scent of the roses as he bent to kiss her. He laid the flowers on her nightstand, then sat down in the chair beside the bed, never taking his eyes off her. “You look beautiful, Fiona. These roses will wilt from envy if they have to be in the same room with you.”

She felt tears filling her eyes, not because of the loving way Arthur was gazing at her, but because he never so much as glanced at their daughter. He never showed interest in two-year-old Leonard, either, and whenever Arthur came to the apartment it was clearly to see her. It would probably be the same with this child.

“Thank you for the flowers,” she said, hoping he’d mistake her tears for joy. “Did they tell you we had a daughter?” She lifted the baby higher in her arms and pulled back the receiving blanket so he could see her face. Arthur looked at her for mere seconds, then back at Fiona.

“When can you come home, darling?”

“The doctor said Friday. He wanted to sign the birth certificate today, but I didn’t know what you wanted to name her. I didn’t know when I would see you—” she paused to wipe away the tear that had rolled down her cheek—“so I was going to call her Brigid.”

Arthur shook his head, making a face. Fiona hoped he wouldn’t say “too Irish,” like he had the last time. She wiped another tear. Nothing had changed since Leonard had been born. Arthur had promised two years ago that they would be married “soon,” that Fiona’s name would be Bartlett like her child’s. Instead, her name was still Fiona Quinn, and the only thing that had changed was that she’d had a second illegitimate baby.

“Why are you crying?” he asked softly.

“B-because our daughter doesn’t have a name… and neither do I.”

Arthur pulled his chair closer and took Fiona’s hand in his.

“How about Eleanor? Do you like that name? Eleanor Bartlett?”

“What about m-me?”

“Don’t you have a happy life with me? Don’t I give you more than enough money to meet all your needs?”

“You’ve always been very generous, but—”

“You know the live-in nurse I hired to take care of Leonard while you’re in the hospital? I’m going to ask her to stay on for a few months to help you with the baby when you come home.”

“Thank you. But, Arthur…? ” She sniffed back another tear. “When is Evelyn going to give you a divorce?” He looked startled, as if Fiona had brought his wife into the room by referring to her by name.

“Fiona, our time together is always so short. Why do you make things difficult by pressuring me?”

She heard the hint of warning in his voice and wondered if she’d pushed too hard. She wanted to stop living in sin, to gain self-respect for herself and a future for her children. But she decided to appeal to his vanity, instead.

“I’m tired of sharing you,” she said. “I want you all to myself.”

Arthur smiled, and his dark, sad eyes looked hopeful. “Every day I’m amazed that a woman as young and as beautiful as you would love me. You know that I want to make you my wife. But Evelyn has money of her own—family money. She’s willing to give a great deal of it to her lawyers in order to fight the divorce. I’m sorry.”

Fiona nodded, but she didn’t really believe him. Not anymore. Nor was she sure that she could continue loving a man who continued to lie to her. She wished she could find a way out of her predicament, but as she looked down at her fragile, helpless daughter—Eleanor, he’d named her—Fiona knew that she would stay with Arthur whether he ever married her or not, for her children’s sakes.

They became her life, filling the lonely hours when Arthur was away and giving her a fuller measure of love than she’d ever dreamed of knowing. She spent hours playing with them and teaching them things, taking them on walks to the park, proudly pushing little Eleanor in her pram.

The doorman was helping Fiona maneuver the carriage through the front door one sunny morning when he suddenly said, “Oh, by the way, ma’am. Mr. Quinn never picked up the envelope you left for him yesterday. What would you like me to do with it?”

She felt a prickle of worry. It wasn’t like her father to be late retrieving his money. When they’d lived in Ireland, he’d always arrived at Wickham Hall promptly on payday to collect Fiona’s wages. And he’d never missed one of her paydays since.

“Hold on to it for another day or two,” she told Charles. “Something must have delayed my father, but I’m certain he’ll come for it soon.”

Two days later, Charles showed her the envelope again. “He still hasn’t come, ma’am. You still want me to hold on to it?”

“No… I guess not.” Fiona took the envelope back, wondering what had happened to him. Was her father sick? This wasn’t like him at all.

“If he comes,” she told the doorman, “please ring for me right away.”

Rory didn’t come the following week, either. By the time he missed the third pay envelope, she was deeply worried. She left the children with their cleaning lady and rode the subway to his apartment on the Lower East Side to look for him. Fiona hadn’t returned to the neighborhood since before Leonard was born more than two years ago, but the narrow, crowded streets and ramshackle buildings looked unchanged. She saw the same filth and despair, the same hopeless stares on the immigrants’faces. Gratitude flooded through her at having escaped from this life.

She found the building where Rory lived and climbed the steep stairs to his apartment. A woman opened the door a crack when Fiona knocked, peering out at her suspiciously. She had a red-faced baby in her arms, and Fiona saw a ragged toddler clinging to her skirts. They could have been Fiona’s children. She whispered a prayer of thanks that Leonard and Eleanor were well-fed and warm and safe.

“I’m looking for Mr. Quinn—Rory Quinn. Is he here?”

The woman spoke very little English, but she finally made Fiona understand that he didn’t live there anymore; the landlord had rented the apartment to her family two weeks ago. Fiona knocked on several neighboring doors, shouting, at times to try to make herself understood, but no one seemed to know Rory Quinn or what had become of him. Fiona practically ran the two blocks to Cousin Darby’s apartment, her fear for her father barely contained. Thankfully, Darby still lived in the same squalid rooms.

“Fiona, come in, come in. I’ve been hoping you would—”

“I’m looking for my father. Do you know where he is?” Cousin Darby’s expression changed. He looked so somber that she immediately felt alarmed. “What’s wrong, Darby? Did something happen? Just tell me!”

He rested his hand on her shoulder. “I didn’t know how to reach you, lass. I didn’t know where you were living.” He paused, unable to speak. “I’m sorry, Fiona. Your father has passed away.”

Her heart lurched. It couldn’t be true. She didn’t want to believe that Rory was dead, but she saw the truth of it in Darby’s eyes. She felt as if all the blood had suddenly drained from her body.

“How?” she whispered.

“’Twas an accident at work. There was a loading crane—” He stopped. “Sit down, girl. You look as pale as a ghost. I’ll get you some water.” He ladled a cupful from a bucket, but Fiona’s hands trembled so badly she could barely lift the cup to her lips. She was too shocked to weep. She knew that would come later.

“Perhaps it’s best if you don’t know all the details,” Darby said gently. “But it was quick—he didn’t suffer, thank the Lord. I went through his apartment, and I have all his things if you want them. There wasn’t much.”

“Keep them,” she said. “Or give them to a family who needs them.” She drew a deep breath to compose herself. “Dad was saving money so my mother and sisters could come over. Did you find any of it?”

“Nay, there was no money.” Darby turned to rummage through a burlap sack that was lying with several others in a corner of the room, and he pulled out Rory’s well-worn wallet. He opened it to show her a couple of dollars. “This was all he had on him. He must have been sending the rest home week by week.” He handed her the wallet. She stared at it, unable to comprehend what she saw.

“Are… are you sure this is all there was?”

“I’m sorry, Fiona.”

What had happened to all the money that she’d given Rory over the years? Had someone stolen it? Had he spent it all on himself? Maybe Darby was right and Rory had been sending it home all along. Whatever the truth was, she realized that Mam and the girls were her responsibility now—along with Leonard and Eleanor.

“I don’t understand why he never sent for them, Darby. There should have been enough money by now. Dad and I came to America more than four years ago. I’ve been giving him money all along. I don’t understand why the others never came over.”

“Neither do I. Your father didn’t confide in me, lass.”

Grief began to well up inside Fiona on the way back to her apartment. She sat on the swaying subway car, remembering the closeness she’d shared with her father onboard the ship, the rush of excitement they’d felt each time they’d gotten away with yet another theft. He had chosen Arthur for her mark that night at the theater; she never would have looked twice at him, thinking him too old. If not for Rory, she would have missed meeting Arthur and having two beautiful children.

She wished now that she hadn’t argued with her father that last time. She wished she had gone downstairs to meet him in the lobby once in a while instead of refusing to see him, instead of coldly leaving an envelope of money for him with the doorman. She could have gone for a walk in the park with him and let Leonard and little Eleanor meet their grandfather. Now it was too late.

Why had he never sent for Mam and the girls? Fiona couldn’t understand it. But she would make it up to them, somehow. She would find out how much it cost for nine tickets to America. She would begin looking for a place where they could live. She couldn’t ask Arthur to support them, but maybe he could help the older girls find jobs as maids or nannies with one of his wealthy friends. Or maybe they could work for her.

Fiona wept as she composed a letter to her mother, telling her about Rory’s death. She promised Mam that she would send nine tickets for her and the girls as soon as she was able. She gave Mam her apartment address and begged her to write back soon. Then Fiona waited, watching for the mail every day.

A month passed and no reply came. She wrote again, worried that her letter had become lost in the mail. She sent another letter, and another, but it was as if they were sinking to the bottom of the vast ocean that stood between New York and Ireland. Desperate, Fiona sent a letter to her sister Sheila in care of Wickham Hall. Again, there was no reply. Finally, Fiona wrote to the parish priest at St. Brigid’s church. His reply came nearly four months after Rory’s death.

Dear Miss Quinn,

I am sorry to say that your mother and sisters are no longer living in this parish. Things went hard for your family after your father abandoned them, and a typhus epidemic took your mother and the three youngest girls. The two oldest girls have married and have homes of their own now. Your three remaining sisters had to be sent to the convent since no one was able to care for them. God willing, the nuns have found places for them by now.

I am sorry to be the bearer of such sad news, but I hope you’ll find comfort in the love and will of our Lord and Savior.

Their father had
abandoned
his family? Fiona read the letter over and over, unable to grasp it. Rory had
never
contacted them after leaving Ireland? He’d sent no money at all to support them? Fiona couldn’t believe it. The priest must be mistaken. He must have confused Fiona’s family with a different one. She had given Rory money every week for four years, first from her job at the hat shop, then from the allowance Arthur gave her. Had someone stolen it from the mail before it reached Ireland?