Mr. Rossi nodded. “Yes. We signed papers last week. And we move in only two days ago! Close to family. Close to my shop.”
“Mr. Rossi was a classics professor in northern Italy,” Ernie explained. “But there were no jobs. Lucy came over with him when she was only ten and studied while he worked as a tailor. Her husband died just after the twins were born, and the tailoring work didn’t bring in much money. Most of it came from Lucy. After she died, they were considering going back home.”
“Ritornati,” Mr. Rossi said, nodding.
“But now they can stay. The children can get a good American education. And Mr. Rossi’s hours are better, so he can care for Lucy’s children.”
Allene went silent. For a long while, she let Ernie and Mr. Rossi chat, their conversation flowing between Italian and Latin. Latin, of all languages! At one point, Mr. Rossi switched back to English to say something to Allene about murder.
She flushed red. “Pardon me?”
“I say, I knew you did not hurt anybody. In the newspapers. About your friend, the girl? Lucia says, not my Miss Allene.”
“Lucia? What did she say?”
“One day she come home with silver polish. A big can. She says she did not want police to think you did it. Because you like the chimica so much, and because she knew you not like that girl who died.”
Allene dropped her mouth in surprise. She remembered. Even then, Lucia protected her, even when she didn’t know the truth. Even when Allene thought her actions were suspicious.
She hung her head. “I don’t think I ever did a single thing to deserve having your sister in my life,” she said. “Everything she did for me—I can’t ever be thankful enough.”
“Acceptissima semper, munera sunt, auctor quae pretiosa facit.” Mr. Rossi turned to Ernie for a translation.
“It’s Ovid. The most acceptable gifts . . . are the ones made precious by our love of the giver.”
Allene nodded and dabbed at her eyes again. She could feel Mr. Rossi smiling at her with pity. Her heart ached for Lucia, and she wondered if the ache would ever abate. Ernie stood up, and Allene did too.
“It’s getting late. And you’ll be wanting dinner,” Ernie said. Allene looked longingly at the three children, who were chattering in English and laughing over a jumping jack of Catarina’s. Considering the age difference, they got along splendidly. And Holly hadn’t played with any children at all in months. Allene had to refrain from sweeping the twins into her arms somehow.
“Ah, please stay for dinner,” Mr. Rossi offered. “It’s too much for three people. Come, eat.” He waved toward the kitchen, from which came the savory scents of chicken and sauces bubbling.
“Oh, but . . . won’t it be too much trouble?” Allene asked.
“No, no. You two, sit.” Mr. Rossi left them to go to the kitchen. Allene turned quickly and pinned Ernie’s hand with her own.
“What is going on here? A trust? Did you set it up?”
“Yes.”
“And you told him I did it?”
“Yes.”
“Ernie Fielding? What are you up to?”
Ernie stood up and leaned against the mantel. The fire flickered and glowed against his skin. He frowned and clenched a fist as thoughts flitted across his forehead. “You know, I’m really terrible at this.”
“At what? Making secret financial plans and giving other people the credit?”
“Oh, at that I’m a whiz, no doubt.” He grinned, then frowned again. “But, ah, I’m terrible at . . . courting.”
Allene dropped her lower lip and stopped breathing for several seconds. “What?”
“I know. It’s awful to even bring this up, after everything with Andrew and . . . everything. See, I knew what Lucy meant to you. Lucia, I mean.” He fiddled with the andiron by the fireplace. Poor Ernie was talking so fast Allene could hardly keep up. “I just . . . wanted to help. I don’t want it to seem like I’m buying you favors. I swear that isn’t my intention. I would never disrespect her family in such a way. I just figured you’d have done the same thing, but you had so much on your hands these past few weeks. So I just made it happen a little faster.”
“How did you do it? Did you speak with my lawyers?”
“Oh, I used my own money.” He waved his hand like he was shooing away a fly. He cautiously stole a glance at Allene. “I’m good at money. And you can pay me back, of course.”
“Wait a second.” Allene stood up. She heard dishes clanking in the dining room but ignored them. Holly gave a whoop as she chased Catarina and Rafaele upstairs. Good. She needed to say this without a witness. “Ernest Fielding. What else have you done?” Allene whispered. When Ernie stayed silent, she took another step closer. “What else?”
“I . . . I was the one who helped out Jasper’s uncle. I was the one who approached your father and Fred Jones about the insurance policy. I made it seem like an investment, a five hundred percent return.”
“Why didn’t you do it yourself?”
“Well, my parents are very particular about my money. At least until my trust fund came to fruition, when I turned eighteen. Which I just did. They didn’t let me touch any of it before.” He shrugged. “But I knew how important your friends are. I remembered you mentioning Jasper’s suit, how he wasn’t so well off. So I tried to help him and his uncle, for you. I didn’t realize that at the time it made me—or rather, your father—look like a murderer.”
“All right. I can understand that, but was there something else?”
“Yes, but you won’t be happy about it.”
“I can take it.” She took another step closer and slipped her hand into Ernie’s. It was surprising how large and strong it was.
“I urged Andrew and his father to purchase a large share in the Ansonia Clock factory last year. I did some digging and found out that was where Birdie worked. I knew how close you two had been. It was so her job would never be in jeopardy. My father drew the line at an investment that large for his own money. So I asked Andrew, whose family was looking to expand their portfolio anyway. But I didn’t realize that they . . . if I had known that Andrew and Birdie would . . .”
“Ah. That explains a lot. So much, actually.” She tightened her hand on Ernie’s and smiled. “You know, that wasn’t your fault. That was an inevitability no one could have prevented.”
“Perhaps.”
“And all those times you showed up at the funerals . . . I didn’t know you even liked Florence.”
“I didn’t. But having someone our age, in our circle, just die like that—it was hard for me. I’ve no family in the war, no friends. My parents have never been ill or died. And then to have it happen over and over again—I just—” He shook his head. And Allene felt burning shame. For a while, they’d thought Ernie was the killer. He’d been mourning. Mourning, for God’s sake.