Page 66 of Road Trip
Right now, I am renting a room in a boardinghouse here in Geneva, but I don’t know if I can continue to live here, in this town where we made so many happy memories. I am working as housekeeper and cook in return for room and board and am presently nearly penniless.
Pray for me, dear Tommy, that I will find a way out of this heartache, and write me at this new address, I beg you.
Your loving sister, Kathleen
Maeve’s eyes widened. “He died of a burst appendix? This is like something out of Dickens. They were only married, what? Maybe six months?”
“Something like that,” Therese said. She selected another letter from the pile and handed it to her sister. “Now this.”
August 1929
Dearest Tommy:
Thank you so much for your letters of support and encouragement. I keep your picture on my nightstand, and every night, say a prayer for you and the Boylans.
It seems God has more in store for me than I knew. While working here in the boardinghouse I made the acquaintance of another boarder. His name is Patrick John Murphy, but everyone calls him “PJ” or Murph. You’ll not be surprised to learn that Patrick is from Ireland also, from Armagh, and a tiny speck of a village called Birr. He came here to the States the year before I arrived, and even traveled on the same ship, theCedric.
After a bit of a whirlwind courtship, Patrick and I married two months ago. His family ran a pub back in Ireland, and it was his ambition to establish a tavern here in Geneva. As luck would have it, the owner of the tavern where Patrick was working passed away recently, and his widow agreed to sell the tavern to us.
Since I arrived here in the States, I have sold off most of the jewelry that Lady Delia gave me the night I left for Cobh, in order to keep body and soul together, but I had been holding tight to a beautiful brooch and bracelet that she gave me. I showed the bracelet to Patrick, and he immediately suggested we sell it, to raise the funds to buy the tavern. I realized I would never be the person to wear such an expensive, showy piece of jewelry. And so, with no hesitation at all, I did sell Lady Geraldine’s bracelet, the one she was wearing in the portrait of her, which Lady Delia insisted I should have. I did not show Patrick the sapphire brooch, which brings me shame, but I did want to keep that one object that reminds me of Delia, whenever I look at it. Of course, I would never sell the painting, because it is a reminder to me, which is what she intended, of who I came from, and also, of the love our dear mum had for me, that she would sacrifice her own happiness, in order that I should have a better life.
So now we have a new tavern, Patrick and I, called PJ Murphy’s, and a new home, a nice apartment on the top floor of our building.I am the cook, and Patrick is the barkeep. And wonder of wonder, blessed be God, I am in the family way. In only two months I will hold my little bundle of joy in my own two arms.
When next I write, I will have a new name, “Mum,” and you will be Uncle Tommy, and my happiness will be complete. Until then, I am your loving sister, Kathleen.
“You’re right,” Maevesaid, folding the letter and handing it back. “There really is a book here.”
“They got busy, Patrick and Kathleen. She must have gotten knocked up on their wedding night,” Therese commented. “Doing her duty as a good Catholic girl.”
“That’s one way to think of it,” Maeve said. “But you can see from the letters, she did desperately want to have children.” She reached for their aunt’s family tree and traced a finger over the chart.
“Julia Mary Murphy, our grandmother, was born in 1930, and then came a son, Thomas Alloysius, born in January 1932. And then, four years later, the caboose, Bernadette Mary Murphy. Wonder why they didn’t have more children after that?”
“I can answer that,” Therese said, picking another letter from the stack and waving it in the air. “Patrick died of influenza in 1937. So he left Kathleen with three babies and a tavern to run on her own. Goddamn, Maeve, if nothing else, we know we’ve got the DNA of generations of kickass strong women.”
Maeve nodded. “You know, this letter reinforces the provenance of our painting of Lady G. And it’s also proof that Kathleen didn’t steal the painting. Because it was a gift from Delia, who was her benefactor.”
“But…” Therese said, “I suppose the Rossingtons could say the letter proves nothing—because Delia was murdered that night. And I still don’t get how the family can claim that painting—which disappeared over a hundred years ago—how can they say thatsamepainting was stolen—again, in the ’70s?”
“The IRA thing definitely complicates things if we ever try to sellour painting,” Maeve said with a sigh. “We really have to find out if the portrait they reported as stolen was recovered with the rest of the stolen art from that IRA raid at Tarrymore.”
“But how do we do that?”
“I guess we do as our friend in Cobh suggested. Try the local historical society, or maybe local newspaper archives. I can ask Liam. Maybe he’ll have some ideas. But in the meantime, Kathleen’s letters really have me intrigued. I need to know more.”
Therese picked up her empty Guinness bottle. “I think we’re both gonna need a little fortification before you read these next few letters. How about I run downstairs to the lounge and grab a couple more beers?”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather have a Tarrymore, on the rocks, water back,” Maeve said.
“Righhhhht. The boyfriend’s bourbon,” Therese teased.
“It’s technically only bourbon if it’s distilled in Kentucky. Over here, it’s whiskey.”
“Either way. BRB.”
CHAPTER 30
Maeve continued sifting through Kathleen’s letters to her little brother. At the top of the stack Therese had arranged in roughly chronological order was a brief note, describing the arrival of Kathleen’s firstborn, Julia Mary, the grandmother the Dunagin sisters had never met.
