A New York Christmas by Anne Perry Page B

intention whatever of being beholden to him for the rest of her life.
    Celia was nodding. “They would do. She had a considerable charm.”
    What did that mean? Was “charm” a way of saying Maria was manipulative? Even dishonest?
    “Did you know her well?” Jemima asked. What had she to lose? The police were going to charge her if they didn’t have anyone else, no matter what Patrick did.
    “I believed so,” Celia answered. Now she was smiling sadly, her thoughts clearly turned inward.
    Jemima could not afford diplomacy. “But you had cause to reverse your opinion?”
    Celia gave a slight shrug of her thin shoulders. “I was surprised that she abandoned her husband and child. But I never had the opportunity to ask her why. How well does one ever know another person? You have to love without knowing, don’t you think?” She looked at Jemima very directly, her gaze probing. “There are always things that are private, and should remain so.” She was waiting for a reply.
    “Yes, I suppose there are,” Jemima agreed.
    “When you are older, you will have secrets,” Celia promised her. “That is one of the great burdens of a public life. Too many people know too much. One lives like a fish in an ornamental bowl.”
    “Goldfish …” Jemima was struggling to understand the obliqueness of the conversation. She took another sandwich to give herself time to think.
    Celia moved the plate a little nearer her.
    “It is the great drawback to political office, I think,” she remarked.
    Jemima was lost. “Political office? Has that something to do with Maria Cardew’s death?”
    Celia’s eyes widened. “Oh my goodness, I hope not. I was merely making conversation. I wish I could offer you greater comfort. You came all this way from your own family, and now you seem to be caught up in our troubles, and I confess, I see no way out for you.”
    Jemima felt the panic well up inside her. She was stupid to have imagined Celia was going to be any help. The poor woman was facing the end of her own manner of living.
    Jemima controlled herself with an effort. “I did not know Mrs. Cardew,” she said levelly. “And she was already dead when I found her.”
    “Poor Maria,” Celia murmured, pain quite naked in her voice. “She always struggled, but mostly for other people.”
    Jemima leaned forward. “Other people? What do you mean?”
    “So very idealistic,” Celia said, not looking at Jemima but at some indefinable point on the far wall.
    “What kind of ideals?” Maybe if she pressed hard enough, Celia might tell her something useful. “It sounds like she was … admirable. Could she have angered someone, do you think? One person’s ideals sometimes endanger someone else’s privileges.” She was grasping desperately at straws.
    “Oh, indeed,” Celia said heavily. “Harley, for example, would not agree with her ideals. But of course he was not yet born when she was fighting her big battles.”
    “What battles?” Jemima said a little huskily. Was this something real at last?
    “Thirty years ago.” Celia avoided Jemima’s eyes.
    Jemima’s heart sank. For a moment she had felt hope surge up.
    “Freedom for the slaves,” Celia continued. “Real freedom, not just on a piece of paper. Even in the seventies and early eighties it was very hard for them. Therewas so much bitterness here in New York. Never knew what it was like farther south, except that it was so much worse.”
    “But surely Maria didn’t ever have slaves!” Jemima protested.
    “Oh, no, of course not,” Celia agreed. “But she fought on their behalf. Ran herself into quite a lot of danger. I don’t know a great deal about it, because my father was always very stern over such things. Just as my brother is, and Harley, of course. But you’ll know that because of his political stance.”
    “Political?” Jemima was lost again.
    “Oh! Has he not told you?” Celia seemed surprised. “Harley is expecting that President Roosevelt will