“To continue with your story,” I reminded her. “You have told me that you are an orphan and have been raised by distant relatives who felt they were doing their duty but showed you little affection.”
She nodded. “So now I am alone in the world. I had accepted that and was prepared to make the best of my situation when a strange thing happened. A few weeks ago I served a couple at the drugstore. The wife’s face was badly scarred, poor thing, and she wondered if there was some kind of cream or preparation that would make the scars fade. Well, it happens that Ned has been experimenting with ladies’ cosmetics. He’s been copying some of the recipes from Paris and he’s actually getting rather good at it. In fact he plans to open his own business someday, if he can save up enough money for capital.”
“An ambitious young man then,” I commented.
She nodded. “He is. Very ambitious. Anyway, I called Ned out of the dispensary and while we were chatting it transpired that the cause of the wife’s disfiguration was smallpox that she had contracted while they were serving as missionaries in China. They had only recently returned home.” She looked up at me. “Of course, when I heard that, I asked them immediately if they had been in China long and had known my parents. They had, indeed, been in China for twenty years but could not recall meeting a Mr. and Mrs. Boswell.”
She paused, studying her hands for a moment before continuing, “Naturally I was disappointed at the time, but China is a big country and I expect that missionaries work in comparative isolation. So I thought no more about it. Afterward, however, I began to wonder: had I been told the truth about my parents? I recalled that even my sweet Aunt Lydia had changed the subject when I wanted to know details about my mother and father. And why had there been no photographs, no mementos, even from frugal missionaries? Was there in fact some kind of scandal about them—had they somehow disgraced the family name, which was why Uncle Horace wanted nothing to do with me? And then an even more disturbing thought crept into my mind—was it possible that I had been left money and Uncle Horace had cheated me out of my inheritance?” She looked up at me with that keen, fierce gaze. “So you see Miss Murphy, Molly, I have to know the truth, however unpleasant it is.”
“Could you not approach your uncle and demand to be told?”
“My uncle refuses to see me again. I have been to the house a couple of times but on each occasion I was informed that he was away from home, seeing to his business affairs. I left him notes on both occasions but received no reply.”
“Which only reinforced your suspicions that all was not right,” I suggested.
She nodded vehemently. “So now I have to know. Can you help me, Molly? Can you tell me who I am?”
“I’ll do my best,” I said. “Although I have to say that I don’t have the resources to go to China on your behalf.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” she said. “But there are missionary societies headquartered here in the United States.”
“Of course,” I said. “I will certainly approach them. I know little of Protestants or missionaries but I am willing to learn.”
“Thank you. Thank you.” She reached forward and clasped my hands in hers. “I can’t tell you what this will mean to me to finally know the truth.”
“I can’t guarantee that I will come to the truth,” I said, “and I can’t guarantee that you will be happy with the news.”
“I understand that. But I have to know. It is even more important right now. If Ned asks me to marry him, as I suspect he soon will, then I need to accept with no reservations. I can’t have him marrying someone whose parent committed some kind of crime, for example.”
“Oh come on, Emily,” I said. “I’m sure Ned loves you for yourself, and you are not responsible for the behavior of your parents.”
“But what about the sins of the fathers being visited on the children? If, for example, I had a murderer for a father? Would that trait not have a chance of coming out in me someday?”
“Then perhaps I should have tested the chicken soup first,” I said, and we both laughed.
“Really, Emily, I think you are worrying too much about this,” I said. “I’m sure the explanation will be a simple one—most likely your Uncle Horace taking your inheritance for himself, by the sound of it.”
Emily got to her feet. “I should leave you now. I have taken too much of your time when you should be resting. Let us talk again when you are fully recovered.”
“Where can I contact you?” I asked.
“Here is my address.” She handed me a card on which her name and address were written in a neat, sloping hand, as well as the name and address of her drugstore.
“My room is on West Seventy-seventh,” she said, as I examined it. “It is around the corner from my place of employment on Columbus Avenue. Highly convenient, as Mr. McPherson can’t abide tardiness. He docks money from our pay packets if we are but one minute late.”