Chapter Forty-One
I barely sleep that night. In the morning, I am buzzing with nerves even before Matthew puts coffee in my hand. I sit with him on the couch, but I can’t relax. I get up and pace while he observes from his comfortable seat. By the early afternoon, I am a wreck.
“I wish she was coming,” I say for the dozenth time. He wisely doesn’t answer.
At the appointed hour, Louis meets us outside the residence, and the men nod at each other. Men always do that. There’s no hidden meaning behind a nod, because nothing has been decided upon yet. It’s a simple greeting, not reading into something. Women are far too complicated.
My nervous energy is taking over my thoughts, apparently.
“Does she know we’re coming?” Matthew asks him.
Louis replies that he called Summerhill, and he told Rosie Ryan’s caretaker that he would be bringing two friends to the interview. That’s all he told her.
“I thought I’d leave the rest up to you. How are you feeling about this?”
“I’m wired,” Matthew replies. “History in present day. It’s amazing.”
I don’t know how to answer. I can’t think. Matthew takes my hand to warm it, and I manage a soft “I can’t believe this is happening.”
We follow Louis up the centre’s shallow stairs and through the front door, and he signs us in at the front desk. A large, grey-haired woman with huge glasses and a gentle smile looks us over.
“I’m Sally Butterworth, the general manager. If there’s anything you need, please feel free to ask.”
“Thank you for having us,” I manage.
She smiles. “Miss Ryan is waiting for you in her room. I offered the meeting room, since I knew there would be more of you coming, but she likes her comfortable, familiar space. As you can imagine, she is extremely frail, so we basically give her whatever she wants. I’m sure you understand.”
She leads us down the hall, giving us an impromptu tour as we walk. “Here is the dining area, and here’s the community room, where we gather for games and other things. And over here…”
My entire body vibrates with nerves.
“You okay?” Matthew murmurs, squeezing my hand.
“I can’t breathe.”
Mrs. Butterworth stops and knocks on a door. “Rosie? It’s Sally, and I’ve brought some visitors. May we come in?”
There’s a soft croak from the other side of the door, which Sally takes as a yes.
She opens the door, and I am suddenly standing before my great-grandmother.
The tiny old woman is seated in a wheelchair, her face sallow and heavily lined, her eyes rheumy, her thin hair pinned back.
The important thing is that she is smiling.
“Come in, come in,” she says, clattering a bit with poorly fitting dentures. “ ’Tis a blessing to have so much handsome company at my door after all this time.” Her gaze drifts between the men, then to me. “And you. What a lovely face God’s given you.”
I am looking at my great-grandmother. I see Grandma in her eyes. I see me in her earlobes. I am terribly close to tears, but I suck it in. I refuse to wreck even a second of this.
I am a stranger to her, but not for long, I think with a tremor of anticipation.
Matthew and I spoke ahead of time about how this meeting should go, and we agreed to let her tell her story to Louis before we tell her who I am.
In my purse I have photographs of Grandma, Mom, and me, and my fingers itch to touch them.
“Thank you for letting us come,” Matthew says.
“If ’tis stories you’re after, I’ll do my best.”
I’m enchanted by her old Irish curl.
“I’ve lived a fair few years, but ’tis a quare thing, memory. Comes and goes like the tide, it does.”
We settle in, and Louis is ready with a list. He wants to talk about The Ward and her life in it.
Rosie listens closely to his questions, her eyes calm.
I scan the plain little bedroom where she lives, trying not to feel sad.
Behind her, neutral curtains hang over the window.
Her sparse furniture is at least a couple of decades old, and it has no personality.
There’s one framed photograph, but I can’t see what it is.
Usually, rooms like this are full of mismatched frames of all sizes, showing children and grandchildren, special times and places.
I don’t see any of those here. She has no family to remark on.
Realizing that hurts my heart. She’s so alone. Just like Grandma.
“Oh, yes,” she says to Louis. “My family lived there for a long time. Upstairs, above a wee shop. My people came from Cork, in Ireland, you see. My granny liked to tell me about their journey across the Atlantic aboard the Fortitude.” Her frail shoulders move when she chuckles, remembering.
“ ’Twas her favourite thing to talk about, how the divil sailed with them poor folk.
How sick they was, how there was so much carrying on no one heard a word of what was being said.
” She flaps a bony hand to dismiss the memory.
“I had to tell my granny to stop telling that story. The journey got more dreadful every time she told it.” She pats her cheek ever so softly, remembering something. “She had no patience for my back talk.”
“Can you tell me about some people you remember in The Ward?”
I can see it’s a stretch for her, but she manages to come up with a few names.
“The place was home to so many strange and wonderful souls, from all over the world. We hadn’t a penny, but we had each other, didn’t we?
I could walk through the Jewish quarter, then right away be in Chinatown.
” She thinks briefly. “I can still smell the old neighbourhood, you know. It stunk of filth and poverty, aye, but I remember that Chinatown smelled delicious sometimes. I had two Chinese friends. What were their names? Oh, my old mind is full of holes. Li! That’s right.
Li and Shang. I used to stand outside their house just to smell their suppers. ”
Her head turns slightly toward the table beside her, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m grabbing the glass of water from its surface and presenting it to her.
I wait for her to swallow, then she hands it back to me with a grateful little nod.
In that tiny movement, I clearly see Grandma.
It’s an astounding thing to see. I return to my seat, unable to stop searching for more glimpses.
“I’d two brothers, Martin and Owen, the rascals.
Two thieving pickpockets with enough charm to be princes.
I’ve no idea what happened to them, for I left the city quick when ’twas time.
My granny, well, she died of TB. Was only herself and me by then.
And Damien, of course. And Bianca. She was my best friend and a chambermaid with me.
” She sags. “Poor Bianca. I’ve not thought of that foolish girl in a long, long while. ”
Louis nudges Matthew. He checks with me, then he clears his throat.
“You worked at the Dominion Hotel, am I right?”
An expression of wonder fills her. “Saints above, so I did. ’Twas a castle, it was. I watched it being built from the start. As a girl, all I wanted was to work there. Then I met Mrs. Evans.” Her face falls. “She was grand.”
Matthew, on the other hand, has brightened. “I am a bit of a researcher,” he tells her humbly, “and I came across her name in some old newspapers. There was a murder, I understand, around the time you were there. Do you recall anything about that?”
I’m startled to see a sad shine in the old woman’s eyes. “As a matter of fact, I do. ’Twas the beginning of the end,” she says with a sigh.
The three of us exchange a glance. I’m unsure how to continue after a statement like that.
Fortunately, Louis is an experienced interviewer.
“As a chambermaid at one of the most famous hotels in the world, you must have met some interesting people.”
“Sure. There were some lovely people, and there were others.” Her eyes sharpen as she looks between us.
“It’s all right, Miss Ryan,” Louis says. “You can tell us anything.”
“You’re a reporter,” she says to him. “If you are writing about The Ward and the Dominion, you must have heard of Mr. Carboni. A bad, bad man.”
“He was questioned about that murder,” Matthew puts in.
“Aye, but sure he didn’t do it.”
We stare at her, surprised.
“No, not Mr. Carboni. But he pointed the police right at Damien and me.”
I remember that from the newspaper article Matthew had shared. “Damien,” I say quietly. My great-grandfather.
Her smile is soft. “Damien was the love of my life, God rest his soul.” Incredibly, her right hand rises on its own accord, settling on her chest, just under her throat. Right where the little silver locket would once have rested. I cannot look away.
“According to newspapers, Damien disappeared at the same time as you,” Louis says. “I’m assuming you went together.”
“Of course.”
“I’m sorry to have to ask, but I don’t want you to worry. The answer, whether it is yes or no, will not be printed in my article.” He observes her intently. “Did either you or Damien kill Mrs. Evans?”
Her reaction is immediate. “Oh, heavens above, no! I loved Mrs. Evans. She was the nearest thing I had to a mother. And Damien, well, he might have run errands for Mr. Carboni, but he couldn’t harm a fly.
Besides, he knew I loved her.” She fixes Louis with a sombre expression.
“No, ’twas Bianca pulled the trigger. She borrowed money from Mr. Carboni to save her father, and he treated her like dirt under his shoe.
Bianca was heartbroken, my dear girl. Just heartbroken.
She nicked Carboni’s gun and was bent on killing him. ”
She closes her eyes, and I am hanging on a thread, waiting.