Peters nodded his head emphatically. "It's settled, then," he said, starting for the door. He stopped and looked back at them. "Molly, take the child to sleep with you tonight. I'm goin' down to the saloon and get sivral of the boys to help me move her tonight. Father Nolan said he'd send Mr. Collins over to fix her up. He told me the church would pay for it."
"Oh, the good Father," Mary said.
"Bless him," Annie said, crossing herself.
"Can I have some more ice cream?" Rina asked.
There was a knock at the door and Molly opened it quickly. "Oh, it's you, mum," she exclaimed in a whisper.
"I came to see if the child was all right," Geraldine Marlowe said.
The girl stepped back. "Won't you come in, mum?"
Mrs. Marlowe looked over at the bed. Rina was sleeping soundly, her dolls, Susie and Mary, on either side of her. Her white-blond hair hung in tiny ringlets around her head. "How is she?"
"Fine, mum." The girl bobbed her head. "The poor darlin' was so exhausted with the excitement, she dropped off like that. Mercifully she doesn't understand. She's too young."
Geraldine Marlowe looked at the child again. For a moment, she thought of how it would be if she were the one to go, leaving her Laddie alone and motherless. Though, in a way, that was different, for Laddie would still have his father.
She remembered the day she had hired Rina's mother. Her references were very good although she had not worked for several years. "I have a child, ma'am," she'd said in her peculiarly precise schoolbook English. "A little girl, two years old."
"What about your husband, Mrs. Osterlaag?"
"He went down with his ship. He and the child never saw each other." She'd looked down at the floor for a moment. "We had the child late in life, ma'am. We Finns don't marry young; we wait until we can afford it. I lived on our savings as long as I could. I must go back to work."
Mrs. Marlowe had hesitated. A two-year-old child might turn out to be an annoyance.
"Rina would be no problem, ma'am. She's a good child and very quiet. She can sleep in my room and I'd be willing to have you take out of my wages for her board."
Mrs. Marlowe had always wanted a little girl but after Laddie was born, the doctor had told her there would be no more children. It would be good for Laddie to have someone to play with. He was getting entirely too spoiled.
She'd smiled suddenly. "There will be no deduction from your wages, Mrs. Osterlaag. After all, how much can a little girl eat?"
That had been almost three years ago. And Rina's mother had been right. Rina had been no trouble at all.
"What will happen to the child, mum?" Molly whispered.
Mrs. Marlowe turned to the servant girl. "I don't know," she said, thinking about it for the first time. "Mr. Marlowe is going to inquire in town tomorrow about her relatives."
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. But now, twice in less than a week. Perhaps it was true.
If it was, it was all right with him. He loved his wife. That was the only reason he went down to that house on South Street. To spare her the humiliation of having to endure him more than she wanted. He lifted his drink again.
"Did you find out anything about Bertha's family today?" she asked.
Harrison Marlowe shook his head. "There's no family anywhere. Perhaps in Europe, but we don't even know what town she came from."
Geraldine looked down at her drink. Its pale golden color glowed in the glass. "How terrible," she said quietly. "What will happen to the child now?"
Harrison shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. I suppose I'll have to notify the authorities. She'll probably go to the county orphanage."
"We can't let that happen!" The words burst from Geraldine's lips involuntarily.
Harrison stared at her in surprise. "Why not?" he asked. "I don't see what else we can do."
"Why can't we just keep her?"
"You just can't," he said. "There are certain legalities involved. An orphaned child isn't like a chattel. You can't keep her because she happens to be left at your house."
"You can speak to the authorities," Geraldine said. "I'm sure they would prefer to
leave her with us rather than have her become a public charge."
"I don't know," Harrison said. "They might want us to adopt her to make sure that she doesn't become a charge."
"Harry, what a wonderful idea!" Geraldine smiled and got out of her chair, then walked to her husband. "Now, why didn't I think of that?"
"Think of what?"
"Adopting Rina," Geraldine said. "I’m so proud of you. You have such a wonderful mind. You think of everything."
He stared at her speechlessly.
She placed her arms around his neck. "But then you always wanted a little girl around the house, didn't you? And Laddie would be so happy to have a little sister."
He felt the soft press of her body against him and the answering surge of warmth well up inside him.
She kissed him quickly on the lips, then, as quickly, turned her face away from him almost shyly as she felt his immediate response.
"Suddenly, I'm so excited," she whispered meaningfully, her face half hidden against his shoulder. "Do you think it would be all right if we had another Martini?"
* * *
Dandy Jim Callahan stood in the middle of his office, looking at them. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I don't know," he said slowly. "It's a difficult thing you ask."
"But, surely, Mr. Mayor," Geraldine Marlowe said quickly, "you can do it."
The mayor shook his head. "It's not so easy as you think, my dear lady. You forget the church has something to say about this, too. After all, the mother was Catholic and you just can't take a Catholic child and turn it over to a Protestant family. At least, not in Boston. They'd never stand for it."
Geraldine turned away, the disappointment showing clearly in her face. It was then for the first time that she saw her husband as something other than the nice young Harvard boy she had married.
He stepped forward and there appeared in his voice a quality of strength that she had never heard before. "The church would like it even less if I were to prove that the mother was never a Catholic. They'd look pretty foolish then, wouldn't they?"
The mayor turned to him. "You have such proof?"
"I have," Marlowe said. He took a sheet of paper out of his pocket. "The mother's passport and the child's birth certificate. Both clearly state they were Protestant."
Dandy Jim took the papers from him and studied them. "If you had these, why didn't you stop them?"
"How could I?" Marlowe asked. "I didn't receive them until today. The servants and Father Nolan made all the arrangements last night. Besides, what difference does it make to the poor woman? She's getting a Christian burial."
Dandy Jim nodded and gave the papers back. "This will be very embarrassing to Father Nolan," he said. "A young priest with his first church making a mistake like that. The Bishop won't like it at all."
"The Bishop need never know," Marlowe said.
Dandy Jim stared at him thoughtfully but didn't speak.
Marlowe pressed. "There's an election coming up next year."
Dandy Jim nodded, "There's always an election."
"That's true," Marlowe said. "There will be other elections and campaigns. A candidate needs contributions almost as much as he needs votes."
Dandy Jim smiled. "Did I ever tell you I met your father?"
Marlowe smiled back. "No, you didn't. But my father often mentioned it. He told me many times how he threw you out of his office."
Dandy Jim nodded. "That's true. Your father has a wild temper. One would almost take him for an Irishman. And all I did was ask him for a small campaign contribution. That was about twenty years ago. I was running for City Council then. Do you know what he said to me then?"
Marlowe shook his head.
"He swore that if ever I was so much as elected to the post of dog-catcher, he'd take his family and move out." Dandy Jim was smiling. "He won't like it when he hears you've contributed to my campaign fund."
Marlowe stood his ground. "My father is my father and I respect him very much," he said, "but what I do with my money and my politics is my concern, not his."
"You have other children?" Dandy Jim asked.
"A boy," Geraldine answered quickly. "Laddie is eight."
Dandy Jim smiled. "I don't know," he said. "Someday women will have the vote and if that little girl is brought up on the hill, that's one vote I may never get."
"I promise you this, Mr. Mayor," Geraldine said quickly. "If that day ever comes, the women of my household will always vote for you!"
Dandy Jim's smile grew broader. He made a courtly bow. "It is a weakness of politicians to always be making deals."
The next day, Timothy Kelly, the mayor's secretary, appeared at Marlowe's office in the bank and picked up a check for five hundred dollars. He suggested that Marlowe talk to a certain judge in the municipal court.
It was there the adoption was made. Quickly, quietly and legally. When Marlowe departed the judge's chambers, he left with the judge a birth certificate for one white female child named Katrina Osterlaag.
In his pocket was a birth certificate in the name of his daughter, Rina Marlowe.
4
UNDERNEATH THE OVERSIZED UMBRELLA PLANTED in the sand, Geraldine Marlowe sat in a canvas chair, her parasol at her side. Slowly she moved her fan back and forth.
"I can't remember a summer as hot as this," she said breathlessly. "It must be over ninety here in the shade."
Her husband grunted from the chair next to hers, his head still immersed in the Boston newspaper, which arrived on the Cape one day late.
"What did you say. Harry?"
He folded his paper and looked at his wife. "That Wilson's a damn fool!"
Geraldine was still looking at the ocean. "What makes you say that, dear?"
He tapped the paper vigorously. "That League of Nations thing. Now he says he's going to Europe and see to it that peace is insured."
Geraldine looked at him. "I think that's a wonderful idea," she said mildly. "After all, we were lucky this time. Laddie was too young to go. The next time, it may be different."
He snorted again. "There won't be a next time. Germany is through forever. Besides, what can they do to us? They're on the other side of the ocean. We can just sit back and let them kill each other off if they want to start another war."
Geraldine shrugged her shoulders. "You better move in closer under the umbrella, dear," she said. "You know how red you get in the sun."
Harrison Marlowe got up and moved his chair farther under the umbrella. He settled back in the chair with a sigh and buried himself in the newspaper once more.
Rina appeared suddenly in front of her mother. "It's been an hour since I had lunch, Mother," she said. "Can I go into the water now?"
"May I," Geraldine corrected automatically. She looked at Rina. She had grown up this summer. It was hard to believe she was only thirteen.
She was tall for her age, almost five three, only one inch shorter than Laddie, who was three years older. Her hair was bleached completely white from the sun and her skin was deeply tanned, so dark that her almond-shaped eyes seemed light by comparison. Her legs were long and graceful, her hips just beginning to round a little and her breasts came full and round against her little girl's bathing suit, more like a sixteen-year-old's.
"May I, Mother?" Rina asked.
"You may," Geraldine nodded. "But be careful, dear, don't swim too far out. I don't want you to tire yourself."
But Rina was already gone. Geraldine Marlowe half smiled to herself. Rina was like that; she was like none of the other girls Geraldine knew. Rina didn't play like a girl. She could swim and outrun any of the boys that Laddie played with and they knew it. She didn't pretend to be afraid of the water or hide from the sun. She just didn't care whether her skin was soft and white.
Harrison Marlowe looked up from his paper. "I have to go up to the city tomorrow. We're closing the Standish loan."
"Yes, dear." The faint, shrill voices of the children floated lazily back toward them. "We'll h
ave to do something about Rina," she said thoughtfully.
"Rina?" he questioned. "What about Rina?"
She turned to him. "Haven't you noticed? Our little girl's growing up."
He cleared his throat. "Umm — yes. But she's still a baby."
Geraldine Marlowe smiled. It was true what they said about fathers. They spoke more about their sons but secretly they delighted in their daughters. "She's become a woman in the past year," she said.
His face flushed and he looked down at his paper. In a vague way, he had realized it, but this was the first time they had spoken about it openly. He looked toward the water, trying to find Rina in the screaming, splashing crowd. "Don't you think we ought to call her back? It's dangerous for her to be so far out in the deep water."
Geraldine smiled at him. Poor Harrison. She could read him like a book. It wasn't the water he was afraid of, it was the boys. She shook her head. "No. She's perfectly safe out there. She can swim like a fish."
His embarrassed gaze met her own. "Don't you think you ought to have a little talk with her? Maybe explain some things to her. You know, like I did with Laddie two years ago?"
Geraldine's smile turned mischievous. She loved to see her husband, who was usually so sure of himself, positive about his tiniest conviction, flounder around like this. "Don't be silly, Harry." She laughed. "There's nothing I have to explain to her now. When a thing like that happens, it's just natural to tell her everything she should know."
"Oh," he said in a relieved voice.
She turned thoughtful again. "I think Rina's going to be one of those lucky children who make the transition from adolescence without any of the embarrassing stages," she said. "There's not the slightest trace of gawkiness about her and her skin is as clear as a bell. Not a sign of a blemish or a pimple. Not like Laddie at all."
She turned back toward the ocean. "Just the same, I think we'd better do something about Rina. I’d better get her some brassières."
Marlowe didn't speak.
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