The servant girl shook her head.
"He won't find any, mum," she said positively. "I often heard the mither say there was no family at all." Her eyes began to fill with tears. "Oh, the poor, poor darlin'. Now she'll have to go to the county home."
Mrs. Marlowe felt a lump come up in her throat.
She looked down at Rina, sleeping peacefully in the bed.
She could feel the tears stirring behind her own eyes.
"Stop your crying, Molly," she said sharply. "I'm sure she won't have to go to the county home.
Mr. Marlowe will locate her family."
"But what if he doesn't?"
"Then we’ll think of something," she said.
She crossed the room and stepped quickly out into the narrow hallway.
There was a scuffling sound behind her.
She turned around.
"Aisy now, boys!" She heard Peters' voice.
Then he appeared, backing through the doorway across the hall.
She pressed herself back to let them pass.
"Beggin' your pardon, mum," he said, his face flushed with exertion. "A sad, sad thing."
They went past with their shrouded burden, impregnating the still, warm air with a faint but unmistakable odor of beer.
She wondered if she had done the right thing when she'd persuaded her husband to allow them to use the apartment over the stables.
An Irish wake could well turn into a shambles.
She heard their heavy footsteps on the stairs as they carried Bertha Osterlaag, born in a small fishing village in Finland, down to her eventual funeral in a strange church, and her grave in a strange land.
3.
HARRISON MARLOWE COULD SEE HIS WIFE'S HEAD bent over her embroidery from the doorway.
He crossed the room quietly, and bending over the back of her chair, quickly kissed her cheek.
His wife's voice held the usual delightful shock.
"Oh, Harry!
What if the servants are watching?"
"Not tonight." He laughed. "They're all thinking about their party. I see Mary's all dressed up."
A tone of reproach came into his wife's voice. "You know it's not a party they're having."
He crossed in front of her, still smiling.
"That's not what they call it," he said. "But leave it to the Irish to make a party out of anything." He walked over to the sideboard. "A little sherry before dinner?"
"I think I’d like a Martini tonight, if you don't mind, dear," Geraldine said hesitantly.
He turned in half surprise.
When they had been in Europe on their honeymoon a bartender in Paris had introduced them to the new drink and ever since, it had served as a sort of signal between them.
"Of course, my dear," he said. He pulled at the bell rope. Mary appeared in the doorway. "Some cracked ice, please, Mary."
The girl curtseyed and disappeared.
He turned back to the sideboard and took down a bottle of gin, the French vermouth and a tiny bottle of orange bitters.
Using a measuring jigger, he carefully poured three jiggers of gin into the cocktail shaker and one of vermouth.
Then ceremoniously he allowed four drops of bitters to trickle into the shaker.
By this time, the ice was already on the sideboard beside him and he filled the shaker to the brim with ice. Carefully he put the top on the shaker and began to shake vigorously.
At last, the drink was cold enough.
He unscrewed the cap and carefully poured the contents into glasses.
The shaker empty, he dropped a green olive into each glass, then stood back and surveyed them with approval.
Each glass was filled to the brim – one more drop and it would overflow, one drop less and it would not be full.
Geraldine Marlowe lifted hers to her lips. She wrinkled her nose in approval.
"It's delicious."
"Thank you," he said, lifting his own glass. "Your good health, my dear."
He put his glass down wonderingly and looked at his wife.
Perhaps what he had heard was true – that women didn't really bloom until they were older, and then their desire increased.
He calculated swiftly. He was thirty-four; that made Geraldine thirty-one.
They had been married seven years and with the exception of their honeymoon, their life had assumed a pattern of regularity.