The Unknown Beloved(27)

“And which are you? Catholic or Protestant?” Lenka asked.

“I was raised Catholic,” Malone said.

“And do you still practice?” Lenka pressed.

“I suppose I do.”

“Thank goodness for small mercies,” Zuzana sniffed.

“We are—or were—a house divided between the Catholics and the freethinkers,” Dani interjected, trying to move them from the sensitive subject.

“I can’t be both?” Malone asked.

“No.” Zuzana snorted. “You cannot. You clearly do not know Bohemian politics.”

“No. But my parents were Irish. I understand familial divides well enough.”

“Tell us more about your parents,” Dani pleaded, dancing away from the topic before Zuzana gave Malone a very hostile primer.

“My father was from Belfast. My mother from Dublin. They came to America on the same ship when they were still in their teens. My father’s accent was so thick you could hardly understand him. It never faded either.”

“And your mother?” Dani asked. “Did she have an accent too?”

“The accents in Ireland vary, depending on where you’re at. Dublin and Belfast aren’t even one hundred miles apart, but the accents are distinct. Belfast sounds like Scotland. Dublin, more like England.”

“I don’t know about that. All Irishmen sound the same to me,” Zuzana said.

Malone repeated what she’d said, his impersonation of her accent exact, his look sardonic. He even spoke with the same expressionless face, the barely moving mouth, and the sound at the back of his throat.

Zuzana gaped at him, her pale jowls quivering with outrage. “Do you think you are comical, Mr. Malone?”

“No, ma’am. I was just demonstrating my skill,” he responded, dropping the eastern European accent, though he kept his gaze lifted to hers. “Accents are a hobby of mine.” Dani guessed he’d grown weary of her gibes.

“He sounded just like you, Zuzana,” Lenka snickered, waving her handkerchief in the air like she was surrendering. “Do it again, Mr. Malone.”

“I’m going to bed,” Zuzana said, pushing herself to her feet. She reached for her cane, her chin high and her nostrils flared.

“Good night, Tetka,” Dani said.

“Good night, Miss Kos,” Malone echoed.

“Good night, Zuzana dear,” Lenka said cheerfully, but as soon as Zuzana had exited the room, she rose and made to depart as well. As she walked past Dani, she laid a hand on her bowed head.

“I’m going too, Daniela. Don’t wear out your eyes, now. The work will keep until tomorrow.” Lenka looked over at Malone and winked, as if the two of them had a secret. “Good night, Mr. Malone,” she simpered.

“Good night, Miss Kos.”

“Oh, please call me Lenka,” she said, conspiratorial. “I am not a girl anymore.”

“Good night, Lenka,” he said dutifully.

He shifted, as if he too should leave, but he remained in front of the fire, his hands in his pockets, his expression thoughtful. Dani laid her mending aside and exhaled. It came out with more feeling than she’d planned, and Malone raised his eyes to hers.

“They are quite the pair,” he said.

“Yes, they are. I love them dearly, but they wear me thin sometimes. Vera—the middle sister—balanced them out a little. She was the bridge between them. That role has now fallen to me, and I can’t say I like being tread upon.”

“None of you have talked about her. Not in detail.”

“No . . . I guess we haven’t. It is painful for us, I guess. It hasn’t been very long. She died in October.”

“So it is her room I am occupying.” It was not a question but a statement.

“No. It is mine. I moved upstairs to Vera’s room after she died. I wanted to be closer to my aunts. They are growing increasingly . . . frail. More obnoxious and more frail.” She smiled to show she spoke in jest. “And it made more sense to rent out the room downstairs.”

“I took your room?” he gasped.

“I have hardly been inconvenienced, Mr. Malone. I have a perfectly lovely room just down the hall,” she soothed, but he did not seem reassured. He rubbed at his jaw, ill at ease.

“But surely . . . it is hard . . . to stay in her—your aunt’s—room.”

“No. Not really. I switched out the linens and the drapes—those are in your room—so I wouldn’t be bombarded with her memories.” She waved her hand in the air like it was just a small detail.

“Would you be? Bombarded, I mean.”

“Yes. I would. And some distance, even from those you love, is good. You know the story of King Midas?”

“He turned everything to gold?”

“Yes. That is what my sense”—she emphasized the word—“feels like most of the time. As lovely as gold is . . . as lovely as memories are . . . both become much less so without moderation.”

He folded his arms like he was trying to take that in. He didn’t ask her to expound, though she sensed he wanted her to.

“Lenka said it was a family trait . . . the thing with the cloth.”

“That’s what I’ve been told, though my mother didn’t have it. She was a capable seamstress and could mend and make alterations. She made our clothes, but she had no wish to dress the rich and famous. She had no wish to move among royalty.” She could do a decent imitation of Zuzana too.