The Celtic Key

by Barbara Best

  The ride for Jane and her initial impressions of Boston, Massachusetts fill the billet of every history buff’s dream. Undulating cast iron railings and border fences, protruding balconies, granite and brick structures, gargoyles, columns, triangular pediments, and towers form an eclectic blend of stately homes and ostentatious public buildings along grand boulevards. As one might expect, the city of great American heroes and birthplace of four presidents touts an America The Beautiful spirit. Many businesses and dwellings display the nation’s colors and are festooned with flags and patriotic bunting. The sight of it makes one ponder how such a terrible split and fight to the death in a Civil War could exist in such a place.

  Their carriage rolls at an uneven crawl through wide, cobbled thoroughfares, by railroad depots, horse-drawn streetcars and squares. It is stop and go, as the streets are congested with a blend of carriages and commercial wagons, civilian and military pedestrians, and meandering animals that cross whenever and wherever they choose. There is a funny amalgamation of odors. The more pleasant aroma comes from a small metal cart. A street vendor on the corner is roasting chestnuts for sale. Mr. Paddy lightly comments, it has been known to snow in October.

  Mr. Paddy sits erect on his bench seat across from Jane, facing backward. His dominating stovepipe hat with its shining luster is doing a good job in adding to his height and grandiose demeanor. It reminds Jane of the hat her dad brought home from an estate sale. It came with a yellowed paper clipping that told of a near-riot incident in the late 1700s when the first top hat was worn in public. It reported, “Passersby panicked, women fainted, children screamed, and dogs barked wildly in a mob that assembled at the sight.” The gentleman who dared to challenge convention was fined an astronomical sum for the period.

  With both hands propped on his cane, Mr. Paddy’s posture is interrupted by a drippy red nose. He sneezes into his hankie and blots his face. A blast of air comically moves the tips of his mustache and he twists the ends back into shape. Pointing out an occasional landmark and making polite small talk on their way to his family residence, Jane can tell he is in his element. They continue on to an area Mr. Paddy calls Dorchester. As promised, his residence grants a fine view of Boston Harbor and is part of a new wave of development on the waterfront that started in the ’40s.

  It is obvious Mr. Paddy’s colorful choice in occupations has been more than lucrative. His family’s Georgian colonial-style residence is located in what appears to be an upscale neighborhood.

  “Your home is lovely,” Jane says in admiration. A well-dressed groom with white gloves offers his hand to help her down. She straightens her skirt and firmly takes hold with one fist of fabric to keep it from being swept up indecently in a gust.

  While Mr. Paddy speaks with the groom, Jane points out her trunk to a boy in his teens who easily hoists it up on one shoulder.

  “Let’s see you comfortably to your room, my dear,” Mr. Paddy motions to the stoop trimmed in black iron and winding ivy that creates a welcoming entrance to the black shuttered brick home with its rigid symmetry. “You must be tired from our journey and chilled to the bone. This is Wednesday and my mother has her social obligations. She regrets she is not here to greet you.”

  The excuse is formal and somewhat disingenuous. Mr. Paddy seems rather flustered, but Jane does not give it a second thought. Although he had telegraphed their coming before they boarded the steamer, it is not like the man can call to let Mrs. Paddy know they have arrived.

  A servant who says little leads Jane to her room on the second floor. Her trunk, swiftly delivered, sits against one wall next to an ornate vanity with brass teardrop-style pulls. She imagines her belongings had been brought up discreetly through a servants’ entrance in the house.

  “This is perfect, thank you,” Jane smiles.

  “Is there anything else, miss?”

  “Not that I know of. Oh, do they have a dinner hour?” Jane cringes inside at the thought of having to dress for dinner when she would rather have a hot bath and read a book in the armchair near the fire that is crackling warmth.

  She likes her room. A small mahogany pie crust table sits to one side, where a beautiful, ruby red cut-glass kerosene lamp is perched on a crocheted doily. Jane is pretty sure it is made by Boston and Sandwich Glass Company. Automatically, she goes to take a closer look. In the antique business and having immersed herself in artifacts most of her life, she has seen examples of the highly sought after works a few times. A quick mind-search tells her the glass factory was established in Cape Cod in the early part of this century.

  “Miz Paddy should be back soon, miss.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Jane had completely forgotten she is not alone.

  The servant dips a quick curtsy. “Most times, dinner’s at six. Mr. Paddy likes to start his evenin’ early.”

  Jane guesses Mr. Paddy has a card game lined up somewhere. It seems to be more of a career than an addictive pastime.

  “Is there anything else, miss?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine. Oh. Would you please bring me a snack, um, something leftover from lunch perhaps?” It is a few hours until the next meal. “I would also like to wash up and rest awhile, if that’s okay?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “It’s Jane.”

  “Yes, Miss Jane.”

  The young woman, about Jane’s age, does not offer her name in return. She bobs again and exits the room.

  Before the door is pulled to, Jane is already stripping off her cape, bonnet and gloves that she refused to turn over upon entering the house. She is drawn like a magnet to the lace curtains at her window. She hopes it will give her a nice view of the outside.

  The ceaseless stream of life that ebbs and flows in the street below is mesmerizing to her. She rests her forehead on a cold windowpane, absorbing her new surroundings. On a whim, she huffs her warm breath onto the glass and draws a happy face with one finger in the patch of condensation formed on the surface.

  Being a newcomer to the city, Jane, at first, was sure something exceptional must be afoot with all the activity in the streets. But now she realizes it is just everyday traffic. Faded sensations, the disjunct melody of high-tech innovations ripple through her thoughts. There are no cars, rumbling gas and diesel engines, honking horns, squealing brakes and the sound of sirens, yet the throng and flurry are just as vibrant. In fact, it is just as noisy.

  Jane wonders how her brain has aligned itself with all the changes. She tugs at the window, lifting the sash a little. Rubbing her arms vigorously, the rush of crisp air off Boston Harbor is energizing. She breathes in deeply and decides it is time to wash up and get settled.

  Chapter 57

  READY TO STRIKE

  “Bitch,” Jane says through clamped teeth when she is finally out of earshot. It is the only word to describe the woman with the white, center-parted hair, perfectly coiffed into a large bun wound as tight as her pursed mouth and obvious disdain. Jane counts her first dinner and acquaintance with Mrs. Edna Seymour Paddy among the most uncomfortable times in her life.

  She cannot understand why the woman will not give her the benefit of the doubt. Jane blows a large puff of air to release the pent-up misery she has been forced to endure and quietly shuts the door to her room. With her hand still on the crystal knob, she backs slightly and slumps, closing her eyes. The solid wood panels are cool against her back and help her gather her wits. It has been a long day and disheartening end to her long journey. Whatever will she do now?

  Mr. Paddy’s mother is as sweet as honey to her venerated son. She is a model of Victorian seemliness — regal, proper, practiced, and cold-blooded. A coiled viper ready to strike.

  Jane is sure any female who comes in proximity of the woman’s son is subject to her poisonous venom. Mrs. Paddy’s scathing disposition is antagonized further by Jane’s unavoidable Georgia twang. It is obvious she hates Southerners, all Southerners. And especially one who has a traitorous Confederate husband sitting in Federal prison at t
his very moment.

  Her calculated stories at dinner about their brave soldiers cut right to the chase and positively killed any appetite Jane might have had.

  Mrs. Paddy expounded on the unnecessary bloodshed and tremendous sacrifice they suffered to preserve the Union. Cruelly and with eyes brimming with crocodile tears, she bemoaned the loss of four beloved family members and three dear friends who had died horrible deaths. All because of the “appalling unpleasantness brought on by an unruly and perfidious people who assaulted the very peace and welfare of the country.”

  Contrary to Mr. Paddy’s passive, empathetic nature, Edna Paddy’s beliefs are as rigid as her fault-finding posture. The sharp strikes and brittle silence while she fed her three yappy, ill-behaved terriers from the table were deliberately hurtful. This and the woman’s discrete way of looking down her nose at Jane discourages any thought of remaining a guest at the Paddy residence for any length of time.

  Mrs. Paddy had decided, almost immediately, Jane should be with her family. She inquired outright about the length of Jane’s stay. Behind the brash insinuations it became obvious that even though Jane is married she is still a menace. Mrs. Paddy wants her son all to herself and woe be it to anyone who interferes with her livelihood.

  No wonder the poor man has never married. Any intuitive woman can plainly see the old snake would be the mother-in-law from hell. Mrs. Paddy’s comments about the earthiness of her red hair and how her extraordinary height must tax a skilled seamstress were insufferable. The stream of acidic rudeness almost made Jane choke on a mouthful of greens more than once.

  By the time Mrs. Paddy moved them to the parlor after dinner, Jane was so completely numbed by the onslaught she could hardly think. She vaguely remembers Mrs. Paddy questioning her about her faith and stressing her primary duty as a good Christian wife is to make a home and beget a child.

  Biting back a nasty retort that procreation and the relationship between her and her husband are none of Mrs. Paddy’s damn business, Jane was cleverly cut off. Immediately, the woman turned and aimed a barrage of gushing remarks at Mr. Paddy who showed all the outward signs he is quite accustomed to it.

  Edna Paddy lovingly scolded her son for being away from home so often. She breathlessly fretted about her grandson, Mr. Paddy’s adopted child, saying the boy missed the firm hand of a father. She fanned herself dramatically, telling him he worries her too much and is making her old beyond her years.

  The woman also chattered on like a magpie about a Miss Tate as if she were God’s gift to man and their family.

  While the venom sprayed, Mr. Paddy pressed his quizzing glass to one eye and buried his head deeper into the most recent issue of the Boston Herald. He clearly would not involve himself and kept his beaker of sherry, which he gulped more than sipped, filled to the brim. It did not take rocket science for Jane to understand the snake is not one to be swayed or pried away from her intentions.

  Chapter 58

  PERSONAL PROGRESSION

  It is good to be back on solid ground again. If Sophie closes her eyes, she can still detect the pull of the current and constant rocking motion of the Nannie Dee during their transatlantic crossing — up and down and side to side. She wonders how long the odd sensation will stay with her.

  Breathing in the air of a crisp Boston day, she wanders over to a small patch of blue-white snow spread round like whipped icing on a cupcake. Sophie loves her morning strolls in the park with Clayton. Denuded forms of knotty trees with ashen trunks, old enough to have witnessed the birth of a nation, line up like sentinels. She especially enjoys the beautiful ornamental fountain whose steady spray at the top has managed to keep the water from completely freezing over. The fountain and others like it are possible because of a citywide water system of underground aqueducts.

  “Of course I would like to go home one day,” Sophie says. Clayton’s inquisitiveness has become more fervent lately.

  Pulling off her glove, she pokes her finger in interest. Finding the snow frozen to a crusty sheen, she scratches any plans of making a trial snowball. The early season’s icy precipitation that fell overnight has stuck to the ground in spots where it is shadowed from the morning’s rays.

  “It will melt by noon,” Clayton smiles, trying not to look long at her and averting his eyes to the sparkling silhouettes of seagulls crossing a sun-kissed sky.

  “I hear Fort Warren across the bay makes a habit of recording daily weather observations,” he says. Clayton stomps his boots and cups his hands over his mouth to fight the penetrating morning chill. He is glad for his wool scarf and favorite black hat with the flat crown and wide brim. “I pray God spares us the hardship of another severe winter.”

  “That’s something I don’t look forward to.” Sophie has already heard talk about the brutal winters in Boston. “Winters are much milder in Georgia.”

  “Your family is there.” Clayton makes his question a statement. Sophie had mentioned Georgia before on the Nannie Dee.

  “No, not really,” Sophie says plainly. Perhaps she will return to Georgia after the war. When enough time passes, she might even take Colette’s advice and consider looking for Jane and Bryce. With the baby coming, she feels a need to bond with her own kind. Those who know her for who she is.

  “Your husband. God rest his soul.”

  “Well yes. I’ve told you we’re both from Georgia.”

  “His family then.”

  “Please. Let’s not ruin the moment, okay?” Sophie warns mildly.

  She assesses her hand a moment and carefully tugs her glove back on. The drying effect of colder weather on her body has been remedied by salves to rejuvenate the skin. Methods combining mixtures of waxy substances from white candles and the heads of sperm whales, common oils and grease are used.

  Sophie suddenly feels the reverend studying her. There are awkward gaps in their conversation today. Her mind is working on overdrive and not on their walk. She smiles, “Snow is fascinating to me.”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” Clayton chuckles, not wanting to trouble her. “You will see plenty of snow here.”

  Sophie remembers her first trip to the Swiss Alps with her family growing up in Europe. Her head is full of thoughts and memories she would like to share. Yet, she continues her mysterious facade. It is hard living a lie, especially with someone she cares about. Maybe one day she will tell her real story.

  She and Colette have vigorously debated the consequences of telling a chosen few they are time travelers. Sophie frets there is no moral compass to guide them. There are no rules on whether to tell or not to tell in this sordid affair. Now that the portal is closed and Father Cambrio is dead, what ties they have to the Highland Gaelic Rite and Salva Society are severed for good. She, Colette and Lord knows how many other unsuspecting souls who play this evil game are cut adrift and left to fend as best they can.

  Sophie and Clayton take up their slow meandering stroll again in unison. They follow several feet behind a woman holding the hand of a little girl who is heavily bundled from head to toe for a cold winter day. The little girl pulls lose and runs to a fountain. Like Sophie, she pokes at a sheet of thin ice and squeals when it breaks and her fingers get wet.

  “You must have family somewhere,” Clayton pursues, allowing asperity to creep into his tone.

  “No, actually.” Sophie steps over an icy spot on the walk and appends, “My husband’s gone,” killed himself saving me, “My mother and father are gone,” died in a car accident, “I am an only child,” and a military brat, at that. She sighs.

  “No doting uncle? A persnickety aunt perhaps?”

  “Cute. Can we talk about something else? Trust me, there’s no one.”

  “You have me.” Clayton’s features thaw in spite of the cold and his heart does a thrilling flip. Discomfort from his sudden forwardness causes him to stiffly cough into his fist before continuing.

  “I have never been to Georgia,” Clayton ponders. Washington is the furthest poi
nt south he has traveled. “I imagine there are many souls to tend.”

  “Plenty of lost souls, I’m sure,” Sophie grins at her emphasis.

  The reverend always measures places by the number of people he can lead to Christ. Sophie glances over at him. Unloading her incredible plight and great secret on this poor man is so tempting. Clayton is an insightful and compassionate people-person who attracts his fellow man like moths to a candle. His brilliant instincts match his ambitions, yet he is surprisingly humble, always genuine and ready to listen.

  “So, what will you do this beautiful day?” Clayton enjoys their strolls immensely and makes time in his busy day for their exercise. The responsibilities of clergy and community service demand his arrant devotion. He makes himself available to his parishioners and the many political powers that be. Many who know him well claim he never sleeps. He has a God-given talent to promote not only his church during a time when there is intense conflict, but also the advancement of state. Side-by-side, he fervently performs his duties with church elder Bishop Walker in bringing leaders and groups together.

  “Well, I should like to find something to occupy my time. Mrs. Finch says there is a need at the hospital.”

  Bernice Finch is Sophie and Colette’s landlady. A stick of a woman with a triangular face, large eyes and raptorial arms clasped close to her body, Mrs. Finch has the uncanny resemblance to a praying mantis. Colette kidded, “with her looks, one might think she ate the heads off her dearly departed husbands.”

  Sophie enjoys her friend’s outrageous humor. Mrs. Finch, in fact, is twice widowed, giving her a tough exterior and smart sense of business. She has learned how to survive in a man’s world. However, to be fair, her character is hardly rapacious.