A New York Christmas by Anne Perry Page A

seen her for several weeks, and frankly, they assumed she had died.
    Jemima and Patrick arranged to meet next the morning at the coffee shop to which Ellie Shultz had taken Jemima the previous day. Then Jemima went back to the Albright house feeling both tired and disappointed.She had not said so to Patrick—she had learned rather too quickly to be comfortable using his name—but she was very much aware that they had little time before she would be arrested again, and tried for murder. Only the closeness of Christmas had allowed her even this reprieve.
    She hated going back to the Albright mansion, but she had nowhere else to stay. She certainly had not sufficient funds to find herself a room at a hotel of even modest comfort or safety. Added to which her bail was conditional upon her staying where the police could find her at any time.
    She had taken off her heavy outdoor coat and was walking across the hall when one of the maids told her that Miss Celia would like to speak with her.
    “Thank you,” Jemima said with a sinking heart. She had intended to speak with Celia anyway. She owed it to her to keep her apprised of what she had learned, little as it may be. When she went over it in her mind, the information she and Patrick had gathered amounted to nothing that would help. Rather the opposite! Maria Cardew seemed to have been a good woman who was well liked, even respected. Only the Albright family, and Phinnie, had any reason to fear her. And now it lookedas if Sara Godwin, the only person who might’ve been able to shed some light on the matter, was also dead.
    She went upstairs to her bedroom, washed, put on dry boots, and then presented herself at Celia’s sitting-room door.
    The room was warm, both literally from the fire in the hearth and figuratively from the rich colors, the sheen on the polished wood of the furniture, and the wealth of books on the shelves. At any other time, Jemima would have taken great pleasure in being there.
    Celia was sitting in one of the armchairs. A piece of embroidery, half finished, lay on top of a sewing basket next to her.
    Celia smiled and gestured for her to sit. Jemima accepted gratefully, glad of the warmth, and also very happy to be still at last.
    “How are you, Miss Pitt?” Celia said with apparent concern. “I hear from Farrell that you have been out all day. Is that so? The weather is bitter.”
    Jemima wanted to scream at the banality of the question, but she forced herself to keep calm and respond courteously. “Very well, thank you. I have been outside, but I am fine.”
    “Cold, tired, no doubt.” Celia smiled. “I have sent fortea. It should be here any moment. I shall not ask you where you went. It is possible I prefer not to know.”
    Jemima drew in her breath to say something, and no sensible answer occurred to her. She was saved from silence by the arrival of the maid with a heavy tray of tea, milk, hot water, and two plates of food: one of delicate savory sandwiches cut as fine as any she had seen in the high society of London; the other of little cakes of several sorts, some filled with whipped cream.
    Celia thanked the maid and dismissed her, then without asking poured the tea for each of them.
    Jemima accepted a sandwich, for the sake of good manners, and found it delicious. This whole performance was absurd, yet there was nothing remotely funny about it.
    “I still can’t believe Maria is gone,” Celia said conversationally. “I was very fond of her.”
    “People speak well of her,” Jemima replied. She wondered if Celia would tell her anything more about Maria, if she asked. Yet she could not work out if the woman had been completely honest with her or was playing some game of her own. Looking at her thin, intelligent face, with its almost hidden humor, she had an urgent feeling that it was the latter. But what was at the heartof it? Fear of losing her position in the Albright mansion? Jemima loved her brother, Daniel, but she had no