I thanked her profusely, went to the bathroom down the hall to wash and change and gave Liam a bath at the same time. His clothes were soiled but they would have to do until… I broke off that sentence. Until what? It was frightening to realize, for the first time since I fled from Ireland and arrived, penniless and a fugitive in this country, that I couldn’t envision a future. But when I emerged—washed, dressed in clean clothes, and with a relatively clean baby in my arms—I was determined not to let Mrs. Goodwin see my worry. My family had been though hell and survived. It would work out one way or another.

Chapter 6

Six

“You stay here,” Mrs. Goodwin said as we prepared to leave. “I’ll go and hail a hansom cab for us. I don’t want you to be seen loitering on the street. We might be followed.”

I did as she said, waiting in the shadows of the foyer beside a large potted palm until she returned and swept us rapidly into a waiting cab. As we crossed Washington Square I called out suddenly, “Wait. I must see my house first.”

“My dear, do you think that’s wise?” Mrs. Goodwin put a warning hand on my arm.

I nodded. “I have to see for myself. I have to know.”

“Very well. Driver,” she leaned up to him, “take us first to Patchin Place.”

“I can’t get a cab up there. Too narrow for the horse and he don’t like backin’ up,” the driver said testily.

“Then go as far as you can,” she said. He looked at her police uniform and didn’t argue. There was a police constable standing guard at the entrance to Patchin Place. He was about to stop us but recognized either me or Mrs. Goodwin. The rest of the backwater was deserted except for another constable standing guard over what must have once been my home.

“I have to see for myself. I won’t be a moment,” I said. “Nobody’s around.”

Mrs. Goodwin sighed. “Then be quick. Your husband wouldn’t want you risking your life again, you know that.”

I handed Liam to Mrs. Goodwin. He promptly squalled and reached for me. Hardly an unobtrusive visit then. I swung myself down quickly and hurried toward my house. The brick façade still stood but there were black gaping holes where windows had been. The front door was burned and blistered and hung open and beyond it nothing that I could recognize as mine—just a pile of blackened rubble, still smoking in places. I tried not to picture Aggie’s charred body.

The constable put out a hand. “You can’t go in there, Mrs. Sullivan. It’s not safe.”

“What if there are some of my things that can be salvaged?” I asked. “My jewelry? Crockery? Anything?”