Chapter 23
Dearest Tommy:
Merry Christmas to you! By now I hope you will have received the woolen scarf and the bit of money I sent over by way of Dorothy Shea, a very kind lady who I met at church, who was going back home for a visit with her family.
My knitting is fearsome bad, nothing like the beautiful socks and mittens Mum used to turn out for us, but I hope the sentiment, and the scarf, though lumpy and full of dropped stitches, will keep you warm through these next cold winter months.
I do thank you for your last letter and was so sorry to hear about the passing of poor little Beatrice. The croup is a cruel plague. Such a shock it must have been to dear Mrs. Boylan. I will light a candle for her this Sunday and pray for her eternal soul.
I have happy news to report! Next week I leave the city and move to a place called Geneva, New York, because I have secured a position in the household of a nice family living in a fine house there.
My employer is named Mr. Kaufmann, and he is a lawyer of good reputation.
There are four young children in the family, and I will be helping take care of them, along with the housework, because their poor mother is unwell.
My salary will not be as much as what I earned at the shirt factory, but I will have my own room there and take meals with the rest of the household staff, which will be a great relief, since food is so expensive here in the city, and also, the conditions at the tenement building on Orchard Street were becoming quite dire, with typhus and cholera affecting our neighbors there.
My friend Maggy is the one who gave me a letter of recommendation to Mr. Kaufmann. Maggy took a job in Geneva working in the rectory at Our Lady of Peace church a few months ago, and I had missed her sorely.
Finally, I was so alarmed by your last letter with the news about Lady Delia.
I hope you know and believe that I had nothing to do with her demise, or with the thefts the Rossingtons have accused me of.
I can tell you that she must have died at the hands of her own wicked family.
That night when she was killed, I heard Lady Fiona, Teddy, and David arguing with Lady Delia.
I heard a scream, and then I ran, as fast as I could, from the house to the stables, where Lady Delia told me Mr. Donovan was to take me to the ship to come to America.
The items they accuse me of stealing were all given to me by Lady Delia, who assured me that they were, by all rights, something I was entitled to.
It was Lady Delia who arranged for my passage to the States, who gave me money for the trip, and a referral to the priest in New York City who helped me after I arrived.
I am so sorry for any shame or blame that has been placed upon you by the Rossingtons.
The pin that I gave you, the one you asked about, was given to me by Lady Delia, because it had belonged to her father, and she did not want her nephews to inherit it.
It’s probably wise not to let folks know you have it, only because of the hateful rumors you say are going round about me.
As for the painting, Lady Delia assured me that it should rightfully belong to me, because somehow, I am kin to Lady Geraldine. I told her that I didn’t understand how that could be, but she vowed that it was true, and that I should never question that.
I swear, on our dear mother’s grave, that I am neither a thief, nor a murderer. Someday, I hope to understand whatever secrets Mum kept from us. But in the meantime, dear Tommy, I hope that your respect and belief in me will never waver.
With love, K
Therese added the letter to the stack she’d already read.
Her eyes burned from the strain of trying to decipher the faded, blurry writing, but her mind was racing with the possibility of what that last letter from Kathleen could mean.
On one hand, she had proof that Lady Geraldine’s portrait had definitely come from Tarrymore, brought over to the States when Kathleen immigrated.
But the letter raised as many questions as it answered.
Why had Lady Delia Rossington decided Kathleen should have that painting?
And why ship her off to America with it?
And also, how had the IRA gunmen managed to steal a painting from Tarrymore that had vanished almost fifty years earlier?
Had Lady Geraldine’s portrait been among the ones recovered by the authorities after the bungled robbery?
Therese stood up, stretched, and reached for her purse. She was hungry and she knew just where to get some dinner, and hopefully, some answers.
It was a slow night at the Willow Tree. No pool players were present, but she found Esme at the same table where she’d encountered her the night before. Her billiards buddy sat nearby, at the bar, nursing a pint.
Tonight Esme was dressed in a maroon-and-navy-striped rugby shirt and baggy jeans. Her wild mane of silver hair was held back from her face with childish red plastic barrettes. Sinead O’Cocker was perched on her chair and she gave a short bark of recognition when Therese arrived at the table.
Esme was smoking a cigarette and studying a folded pamphlet of some sort. A half-empty pint of beer sat on the tabletop, along with a sodden paper plate of chips and the crusts of a sandwich.
“Mind if I join you?” Therese sank down into the other vacant chair at the table without waiting for permission.
Ignoring the question, Esme picked up a chip and tossed it to Sinead, who caught it in midair. She addressed the dog. “The American girl again.”
“Exactly.” Therese pointed at the pamphlet. “What’s that?”
“Racing form.”
A server materialized at the table and Therese ordered the ploughman’s special and a Guinness.
“I bet you know a lot about horses. Is there a track near here? I’ve never been to a horse race.”
“Leopardstown Racecourse isn’t so far away,” Esme said.
“Maybe I’ll talk my sister into going. Although Maeve isn’t much of a gambler.”
“And you?”
“I definitely enjoy a game of chance. I’ve played craps and blackjack at the tables in Atlantic City, up north, but casinos aren’t legal in Georgia where I live.
There are a few Indian gaming parlors in Florida, Mississippi, and Louisiana though.
Of course, Las Vegas is the biggest gambling mecca in the US. Have you ever been?”
Esme made a sour face. “I don’t care for crowds. I don’t like travel and I really don’t care for crowds of Americans.”
She blew a plume of smoke toward the ceiling and flicked ash onto the basket of fries. “No offense.”
“None taken.” Therese gave her a sunny smile. “Although I think you might enjoy Savannah, where I grew up. It’s really beautiful, and full of history.”
“Crossing the Atlantic at my age? No thank you. We’ve plenty of history right here in Ireland. Thousands and thousands of years of it.”
She really was a prickly old bitch, Therese thought appreciatively. No apologies, no pretense at fake manners. So very un-Southern. And so very refreshing.
“What d’ya want, then?”
Their server arrived and set her Guinness and dinner on the table. Therese sandwiched a slab of cheese between two slices of bread and took a bite. She chewed slowly, which she could tell irritated the older woman.
Finally, she dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a napkin.
“Maeve, that’s my sister’s name, and I visited a sort of cousin today.
She’s pretty elderly, lives in a nursing home, but she’s still got all her marbles.
Her father was my great-grandmother’s baby brother.
Tommy Connor. My great-grandmother’s name was Kathleen.
The rest of their family, both their parents and their two little sisters, died when their farmhouse burned down.
Somehow, Tommy escaped. After he was orphaned, he went to live with a family named Boylan on a nearby farm. ”
Therese nibbled at the end of a cornichon and sipped her beer. The pause was for dramatic effect.
“But my great-grandmother, Kathleen, didn’t live with her family. For some reason nobody can explain, she was sent, as a very young girl, to live with your people. At Tarrymore.”
“Fascinating,” Esme said. Her face telegraphed indifference, or maybe it was dishonesty. Therese wasn’t sure.
“What’d you say the girl’s name was?” Esme picked up the racing form and pretended to study it. She might be good at handicapping horses, Therese thought, but she had a lousy poker face.
“Kathleen Connor. According to our cousin, Kathleen had been informally adopted by one of your relatives, Lady Delia, who became her benefactress. I love that word, don’t you? It has such a Gothic ring to it. Like something out of Jane Eyre. Or maybe Jane Austen.”
Esme took another drag on the cigarette, then stubbed it out in the basket holding the remains of her dinner. “That’s why you’re here, then? Another American looking up your long-lost relatives in Ireland? I’m afraid I don’t have any useful information for you. Or your sister.”
“Hold on. Let me finish telling about Kathleen. She left Tarrymore, pretty abruptly, in 1926, when she was eighteen, and immigrated to the States, where she landed at Ellis Island. Can you imagine, leaving your home and family at that age, getting on a ship, and landing in a strange country where you don’t know a soul? ”
“Millions made the same trip,” Esme said with a careless shrug. “It was called the potato famine, in case you haven’t heard.”
“But the famine was long over by the time Kathleen left for the States,” Therese pointed out. “Anyway, when we visited our cousin Isabel, she gave us a really priceless gift.”
Esme looked up, waiting.
“Her dad, Tommy, saved all the letters Kathleen sent him from America. I’ve only gotten to read a few so far, but they’re fascinating. I’m just sorry my mother didn’t live long enough to make this trip and read these letters her grandmother wrote.”
“My condolences.”
Therese forged ahead with her narrative.
“As I said, Lady Delia had made all the arrangements. Paid for Kathleen’s passage, gave her instructions to go see a priest in New York City who’d help her.
So that’s what happened. This Father McInerney helped get her a room in a tenement building, where lots of other Irish immigrants lived.
She shared a room with a woman and her little daughter, whom she’d befriended on the ship.
At first she worked at a shirt factory, until her friend helped her get a job working as a maid for a family in Geneva, which is in upstate New York.
Which is where she apparently met my great-grandfather, Patrick John Murphy. ”
“I see,” Esme said, looking bored. “Is there a point to this long-winded family saga of yours?”
“There is, and that’s sort of where you come in,” Therese said. “Yesterday, I started to ask you about that IRA robbery that happened at Tarrymore back in the 1970s. Wow, talk about a story! Your parents must have been terrified.”
“My father and stepmother,” Esme corrected her.
Therese shook her head in sympathy. “Awful. According to my sister Maeve, the tour guide mentioned that ‘most’ of the stolen art was recovered shortly afterward. I did a quick online search and read several different accounts that said all the art was recovered.”
“Stupid journos. Can’t trust anything you read in those tabloid rags.”
“What about the portrait of Lady Geraldine Rossington? By Valerian DeJongh? I understand he was a pretty celebrated artist.”
Esme’s eyelids flickered rapidly. “No,” she said finally. “I think that was the only painting that wasn’t found. I remember my father was beside himself. That painting wasn’t nearly as valuable as the Turner or the Goya, but Lady Geraldine was a legend in our family. Very beloved.”
“Were the paintings insured?”
The older woman sat back in her chair and frowned. “What an extraordinary, impertinent question! Why on earth would you be interested in something that happened fifty years ago?”
She balled up the napkin that she’d been twisting between her hands, snatched up the racing form, and pushed up from her chair.
“Sinead. Come!”
The cocker spaniel perked up her ears and hopped down from her perch.
“Who d’ya think you are, young lady?” Esme said, shaking a finger in Therese’s face. “You’re not to come round here looking for me again. Understand?”
Drawn by her outburst, Esme’s pool-playing friend sauntered over to the table. “Who’s this then?”
Therese stuck out her hand, which the man ignored. “Therese Dunagin. I was just telling Lady Esme about my mother’s family being from here. She was actually raised at Tarrymore. Maybe you knew the Connors?”
“Never mind that. She’s just a cheeky American asking questions about things that are none of her concern,” Esme Rossington snapped.
The dog sat back on its haunches, looking longingly at Therese, who tossed her a bit of cheddar.
“Sinead! No!” Esme scooped the dog into her arms and stalked out the door.