by Holly Bush
“We’ve got to stop gawking. We’ll look as though we don’t belong here.”
“We don’t belong here,” Elspeth said. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this. Muireall will be furious.”
“Why would she be furious? She’s never discouraged us from having friends.”
“She doesn’t trust Mr. Pendergast. She made that very clear.”
“Well, it’s too late now. I’ve already told Aunt Murdoch, and she will be happy to tell Muireall when it is most convenient for her and most inconvenient for us.”
“You told Aunt?”
Kirsty shrugged. “Here it is.”
Elspeth turned and stared. The Pendergast home was a massive three-story tan stone structure behind an ivy-covered gated brick wall with what looked like formal gardens to one side and a curved cobblestone drive leading to wide marble steps. A fountain shot water high in the air in the grassy area in the front of the house, surrounded by flower beds blooming the first of the season. It was beautiful and stately and everything Elspeth expected from a family that had set down roots during the Revolution, according to Aunt Murdoch, and done extremely well for themselves since.
She straightened her back, pulled her gloves tight, and stepped through the open gate. Her sister was still staring at the Pendergast mansion. “Come along, Kirsty. We’re here, against my better judgment, and shouldn’t be late.”
The double front door opened before they mounted the last of the marble steps. Annabelle Pendergast rushed outside.
“Heavens, it feels like I’ve been waiting forever for you to arrive,” she said with a smile. “Come in! Come in!”
Elspeth handed her coat and hat to a waiting servant, as did Kirsty. Annabelle slipped a hand through both sisters’ arms and led them down a broad hallway with a shining black-and-white tiled floor and massive flower displays on marble-topped chests under framed and lit artwork, chattering as she did.
“I am so happy you accepted my invitation,” she said as they came to a room with glass-paned doors, soon opened by a servant. “Thank you, Jones.”
Elspeth followed their hostess and her sister into a room with floor-to-ceiling windows completely filling two sides of the room, broken only by double doors leading onto a large brick patio. The opposite walls were painted a soft green and the furniture covered in vibrant flower patterns.
“The Garden Salon. I’ve always loved this room and asked Mrs. Nelson to have our luncheon served here.” She pointed to a small table set for three with gleaming crystal and silver.
“How beautiful,” Kirsty said softly.
Elspeth walked to the doors leading to the patio. “I’m guessing this is even more lovely when all of those roses are blooming.”
“It is,” Annabelle said. “My mother entertains here quite a bit with her reading club and her women’s group, and the two of us sit here in the evenings, especially in the summer, with the doors open. But this is my first time having my own guests here.”
“We are honored!” Kirsty smiled.
Annabelle laughed and walked to a sideboard where drinks were cooling in silver pitchers. “I thought we might sit on the sofa before we sit down for our luncheon. Lemonade? Coffee? Tea?”
They were seated, and Kirsty and Annabelle talked about the latest fashions. Elspeth was content to listen and contribute occasionally as she could not quite stop herself from imagining Mr. Pendergast at home here. Where he’d eaten so many of his meals and most likely read a book and taken a nap, maybe right here on this beautiful sofa, with the birds trilling loud enough to hear. She was being ridiculous and was also very thankful that no one could read her thoughts.
An older woman opened the door. “Miss Annabelle? Are you ready for luncheon?”
“Oh yes, Mrs. Nelson,” she said and turned to her guests. “Let’s be seated, ladies.”
The vegetable consommé was served, and Elspeth had just spread her napkin on her lap and picked up her soup spoon when the door opened. An older woman swept in with a broad smile on her face. She leaned down and kissed Annabelle on the cheek.
“Ah, your friends have arrived. I’m sorry to interrupt, but won’t you introduce me?” she said.
“These are the friends I was telling you about, Mother,” Annabelle said and introduced each of them.
Mrs. Pendergast was everything any woman with two children grown would want to be. Tall and beautiful with an open, smiling countenance. Her daughter looked up at her with affection.
Mrs. Pendergast shook hands with Kirsty and then turned to Elspeth. She held Elspeth’s hand in both of hers. “What lovely hair you have, Miss Thompson. Annabelle said you were both beautiful young ladies and accomplished businesswomen! We’re so glad you’ve come to see us.”
Elspeth smiled up at the woman, comfortable in her warm glow and how she regarded her with attention and approval.
“Mother? Mother?” they heard from the hallway.
“In here, Alexander.”
And then there he was, staring down at a paper in his hand, not bothering to look up until he was almost upon them. Elspeth jumped up from her seat and took an uneasy breath. He’d made clear he had more important persons in his life, and here she was, in his parents’ home, tittering on about hats and gloves and other nonsense. It was then she noticed that neither her sister nor her hostess had risen from their chairs.
“Miss Thompson!” he said. “Whatever are you doing here?”
“Oh, oh,” she said, knowing her words were breathy and jumbled. “We must be going. Come, Kirsty! Where are our coats?”
“We’ve not eaten yet, Elspeth!” her sister exclaimed.
“Alexander!” his mother hissed. “These are your sister’s guests.”
What had he just said to her? He couldn’t for his life remember what he’d spoken and what was only in his mind. He did know that he’d embarrassed her and that they were staring at each other.
“Miss Thompson,” he hurried around the table to where she stood, “I’m so terribly sorry. Please don’t leave.”
“I don’t want to be where I’m not wanted, sir,” she whispered and looked at him steadily.
He reached for her hand, now trembling and cold. “I spoke without thinking. Please accept my apologies.”
They stood, her small hand in his, staring at each other until she turned her head with a shaky jerk to Annabelle, his mother, and her sister. He stepped away and looked down at his sister.
“I’m sorry to have interrupted your luncheon, Annabelle.”
“And insulted my guests,” she said and arched her brow to Kirsty Thompson.
His mother was watching him closely and glancing at Elspeth. She’d always had a way of knowing what was going through her children’s heads, especially when they were planning mischief or not quite telling the entire truth.
“Mother, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so abrupt. I’ll be going,” he said and turned to the door. He hurried down the hallway but stopped when he heard his mother’s voice.
“Alexander,” his mother said as she walked up beside him. He kept a steady gaze on the doors. “You’ve met Miss Thompson before, I gather.”
He nodded. “I have.”
“Alexander,” she said and waited until he looked at her. “What is going on?”
“I met her a few weeks ago when Schmitt was causing a scene in front of a . . . a house of ill repute.”
“A brothel?”
“Yes.”
“You met Miss Thompson at a brothel?”
“No! No, Mother. I was dragging Schmitt out of one and the wh . . . woman said he refused to pay her. Schmitt cuffed her hard enough to draw blood.”
“And Miss Thompson?”
“She came to the woman’s rescue and insisted Schmitt pay her. Her brother showed up and escorted her through a rather unruly crowd that had gathered. She left her little bag on the stoop in front of the brothel. I returned it to her a few days later.”
“Ah. She left an impression o
n you, then.”
“She came charging through the crowd without a second thought for her own safety or that the woman she tended with her own handkerchief was a working woman.”
“Impressive,” his mother said. “And quite beautiful.”
Alexander shrugged. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Oh, my dear boy,” she said with a smile and kissed his cheek. “This must be serious.”
He took his hat from Webster’s hands and went quickly out the door.
“Maybe we should go,” Elspeth said.
“We’ve not had our meal yet,” Kirsty said again.
“And the dessert Cook made is so beautiful and so delicious that I’d hate for you to miss it,” Annabelle said.
Elspeth dropped into her chair and looked up at both women with a cheerful smile. “What were we discussing? Oh yes, the shrinking crinolette! How glad I would be to not have to wear one at all!”
Both women stared at her until she picked up her spoon and began to eat the cooling consommé. Slowly, conversation resumed and she was able to compliment the wonderful food without truly tasting a thing and admire the sugar-glazed petits fours and the marzipan strawberries that decorated them without really seeing them. Kirsty chattered merrily on the trolley ride home about the beautiful house and the lovely table and food and how much she liked and admired Annabelle Pendergast.
“We’re to go shopping next week,” Kirsty said. “What day is best for you?”
Elspeth looked at her sister for the first time since boarding the trolley. “No,” she said, perhaps too loudly as several riders turned to them. “No. I am not going. Don’t ask again.”
Kirsty stared at her. “What has he done or said to you, Elspeth? What?”
She shook her head and fought tears. “Nothing. He is nothing to me.”
“You lie, Sister,” Kirsty whispered and stood. “Here is our stop.”
“Aunt tells me that you and Kirsty were guests of Annabelle Pendergast today. She is the sister of the Mr. Pendergast that escorted you home a few weeks ago?” Muireall said to Elspeth once grace had been said before their evening meal.
Elspeth glanced around the table. Muireall was at the head, looking pointedly at her and Aunt Murdoch at the foot of the table, concentrating on slicing the lamb on her plate. James was across from her, looking at her from under hooded brows, his empty plate in front of him. Kirsty was to her right and Payden beside James.
“Why aren’t you eating?” she asked and nodded at James’s plate.
“I’ve a bout tonight. You know I don’t eat before a fight.”
“It isn’t healthy, James,” Aunt Murdoch rumbled as she eyed a turnip on her fork.
“Why did you go to the Pendergasts’?” Muireall asked.
Elspeth turned her head and looked her sister in the eye. “Because we were invited by the daughter of the house. Because Kirsty and she seemed to get along so well, even on short acquaintance. Because there was no reason to not attend. We are not prisoners here, and we have all the social graces we’ve been raised with to fend for ourselves during a meal when there are several forks and spoons at a setting, all real silver, of course, and Wedgewood china and Waterford crystal.”
“Damn Irish,” Murdoch said.
“Aunt said a swear word, James,” Payden said. “Why is she allowed and I am not?”
“Because I’m one hundred years old, and when you get to that age, you can say anything you damn well please.”
“You are not one hundred, Aunt.” Kirsty laughed. “Don’t believe her, Payden!”
“How old do you have to be to use swear words?” he asked.
Muireall still stared at Elspeth. “Of course you have the manners of a young woman raised properly. I never said you did not. But yet you continue to defy me, defy the family, and nurture a relationship with these people who we know nothing about.”
“Why do you believe there is something sinister about them, Muireall? You must have reasons for your arguments. Tell me. Tell us. What is it about that family that makes you unreasonable?” Elspeth asked.
Muireall sputtered, her face bright red.
“That is enough of that conversation,” Aunt Murdoch said. “It is not suitable for the dinner table. Ring the bell, Payden. Mrs. McClintok will be clearing our dishes and serving us dessert.”
“No dessert for me. I’ll be on my way to the match soon. Ladies? Payden?” James said as he stood.
“Please be careful, James,” Muireall said steadily. “If you’d like, I’ll have Robert wake me when you come home. Hopefully, you won’t need a stitch or three.”
James kissed her cheek and smiled down at her. “I’ll be fine, Muireall. I’m not one of your chicks. Anyway, I’ll have MacAvoy with me. He’ll make sure I’m well taken care of.”
“That man,” Aunt said. “Who are his people, James? What county did he come from? He never says!”
“No one cares much about that sort of thing these days,” James replied and kissed her cheek.
“Of course they care. What a ridiculous thing to say. How is anyone to know what sort of upbringing a person had? Who their parents and grandparents were? You mustn’t be stringing along with just any potato hoer, James. You’re a Mac—a Thompson and worthy.”
Muireall stood quickly. “Come now. Let’s clear these dishes for Mrs. McClintok.”
“Good luck, James!” Payden shouted to his brother’s retreating figure and punched the air, one fist after another. “He won’t need luck, though! He’s the best boxer in Philadelphia!”
“What are you doing?” Elspeth hissed at Kirsty as she stepped out of the water closet under the steps to the attic near eleven that evening. Kirsty jumped.
“You scared me,” Kirsty whispered.
“Where are you going? Why are you wearing a pair of pants?”
Kirsty looked around and pulled her sister into her room. “I’m going to watch James’s fight.”
“What?”
“Keep your voice down. Muireall would have a fit if she knew.”
“Of course she would and rightfully so. Take those pants off and get into bed.”
Kirsty shook her head. “No. I’m going to see James fight. I decided a while ago I wanted to see our brother win a bout, and this one is close by. I’m going down the steps and out the kitchen door. Don’t lock it behind me. I’ll be home in two hours if I time this right. I just have to pull my hair up and pin it, and I’ll be gone.”
Elspeth hurried to her room to pull on her robe and wake Aunt and Muireall. They would be able to talk some sense into Kirsty or just forbid her to leave. And then what would they do to keep her at home? Tie her to her bed? She took a deep breath and resigned herself to the role she’d taken on years ago when everyone else was focused on arriving and setting up a household and left a grieving and confused five-year old to Elspeth’s care. She quickly dug in the back of her clothes press for the pair of trousers that she wore under her skirts in lieu of petticoats when cleaning or doing other dirty jobs.
Once in a plain dark shirt, old boots, and a short jacket, she crept into Payden’s room and took his flat cap, then hurried down the stairs to the canning kitchen and pulled the door closed behind her. On the street, she could faintly see her sister ahead. “Kirsty,” she hissed, and the figure stopped.
“What are you doing, Elspeth? Muireall will be furious with you.”
“And not you?” she said and hurried to keep up with her sister’s pace.
“You’re the responsible one. I’m the one always in trouble. It’s expected of me, you know.”
Elspeth laughed. “Where is the fight being held?”
“Not more than two more blocks away at the warehouse on the corner across from the veterans’ home.”
Chapter 8
Alexander paid his fee and stepped into the warehouse, now teeming with men of all ages. He was hatless, with no waistcoat, just an old jacket he’d borrowed from his stable master over a plain shirt and dark pants. He bl
ended in perfectly with this crowd of mostly working men. He saw the stakes were written in chalk on a slate board as he shouldered his way to the betting table. Odds were twenty to one in Thompson’s favor, and paper money was changing hands faster than he could follow. He put twenty dollars on the favorite, slipped his chit in his inside pocket, and moved toward the ring.
A warm-up fight had just finished, and that crowd was now up and moving around, stretching their legs in preparation for the main event. He went around the ring to the side facing the door and found an empty spot on the next to the top tier of seats. Alexander had never been to a bare-knuckle fight before, had only heard about them from Bert Kleinfeld. Bert was convinced this would be a great fight, memorable and evenly matched, but Alexander wasn’t so certain, considering the odds. Still, he wanted to see James Thompson fight.
The crowd was boisterous and half-drunk if the number of flasks that were visible in coat pockets were any indication. Plus he’d watched a loud drunken man thrown out a side door. The two who did the throwing did not look or act like random bystanders but more like paid henchmen for the promoter. There was going to be no side fights or bets at this event from the looks of things. Men, and even young boys, were still piling into the warehouse, and it was clear that by the time the fight started it would be standing room only.
Alexander’s eyes stopped briefly on two boys who’d just come through the door, their eyes down, their hats pulled tight on their heads. There was something familiar about them, even though he could not see them clearly through the smoke and only caught an occasional glimpse of them as others stepped in front of them. They were inching around the perimeter of the room, hoping for a vantage point, he imagined.
Where do I know them from? But he had no longer to think on those two boys as James Thompson’s opponent came through a side door to the roar of boos and jeers from the crowd. The seats were filling in all around Alexander, and he was assailed with the strong odors of cheap liquor, filthy clothes, sweat, and cabbage, of all things. Tony Padino was the opponent’s name, he heard from the bear of a man to his left, now leaning over and crowding him in his seat. Padino walked around the crudely built ring, spectators hanging over the ropes taunting the pugilist, laughing and swigging from flasks.
