by Rhys Bowen
I waited a few moments and then cleared my throat. “You rang, madam?” I asked.
She glanced up, then went back to the letter. “When I am ready to talk to you, I will,” she said, her voice matching the coldness of her expression. Then she looked up again. “You’re new.”
“Yes, madam.” I hoped my own expression looked suitably chastened.
“And your name is?”
“Molly, madam.”
“In which case, Molly, the first thing you should learn is that servants are here to wait on their masters. When I am ready to give you an order, I will do so. Is that clear?”
“Yes, madam, only I thought that perhaps you hadn’t heard me come in. I just wanted you to know I was there.”
Her delicate cheeks flushed. “And you do not answer back. Servants in this house speak when they are spoken to.”
I hung my head, not sure whether saying I was sorry might constitute speaking out of turn again, and tried to look like a mortified parlor maid.
“It’s all right. I’ll overlook it this once, seeing that you’re new and haven’t had a chance to be properly instructed yet.” She gave me an enchanting smile. “Please tell cook that the dressmaker will be arriving at four for a final fitting for tonight’s dress. We will have tea and suitable cakes in my dressing room at four fifteen.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I hope you’ll be happy with us, Molly. You may bring the tray up to my dressing room at four fifteen. Make sure you don’t spill anything.”
I was getting good at curtsys. Humility was going to take a little longer.
Mrs. O’Leary sniffed when I passed on the instructions. “Tea and cakes. As if I haven’t got enough to do with cooking seven courses for sixteen. If she doesn’t watch what she eats she’ll lose that lovely figure and then the master will lose interest. It wasn’t for her brains he married her.”
“Have they been married long?”
She leaned toward me confidentially. “Only a year. His former wife died suddenly and he married this flibbertigibbet before the poor woman was cold in her grave. She was one of the original Floradora Six.”
I had heard enough about the Plumbridge Nine, but the Floradora Six? She saw the surprised look on my face. “You know, the Broadway show, ‘Floradora.’ They say all the girls in that original sextet married millionaires. We’re in the wrong job, girl. But then I never did have Mrs. McCormack’s figure, even when I was young.” She chuckled, ran her hands over her ample stomach, and went to check something in the oven.
I had even more to think about. If the alderman was the monster I thought him to be, then maybe his wife’s sudden death was no accident, either.
At four fifteen on the dot I carried the mistress’s tray upstairs to her dressing room and I made sure I knocked. Loudly. Her personal maid took the tray from me at the door. “Zay are busy and do not wish to be interrupted,” she said in a very French accent. Even so I managed to catch a glimpse of the most gorgeous burgundy velvet gown that clung to her figure like a second skin. As the door was closed behind me I heard her say, “And I think the rubies tonight, don’t you, Francine?”
Back in the kitchen, tea had been laid on the table for us. Loaves of bread, slabs of butter, pots of jam and honey, and two different cakes. Was it only yesterday that I had wondered whether I would die of starvation? Now I was worried about whether the tight waist of my uniform dress would stand yet another meal.
Mr. Holmes and Mrs. Brennan joined us for tea.
“Final instructions, everybody,” Mr. Holmes said. “George and Hamish, you have clean white gloves ready for tonight? Bring them to me for inspection. Daisy, you will be positioned in the anteroom before the guests take their places, ready to take each course from the lift and place it on the hot plates. You will then take the dirty plates from George and Hamish and send them down in the lift for Ruby to wash up. You girl—what’s your name? Yes, Molly. You will act as go-between. You will be available at all times to take messages to the kitchen as necessary, bring up items that didn’t make it into the lift. You will use the servant’s staircase and make sure you are, at no time, seen by the master’s guests. Is that clear? Good. And I don’t need to remind you that any dish dropped and broken will be paid for from your wages—and we are using the best Wedgwood tonight.”
So I was going to be occupied, after all. At everyone’s beck and call all evening with little chance to explore the alderman’s study. If I disappeared for more than a moment, I’d be missed. I reminded myself there would be other occasions. I didn’t have to accomplish everything in one day. But I felt a terrible sense of urgency, a nagging voice in my head that if I didn’t act now it would be too late. Maybe it was that Celtic sixth sense working again, because I also sensed the presense of danger.
At six thirty the first guests started arriving. Mrs. Brennan and George were in the hallway to take coats and hats. Holmes was in the drawing room, stationed at the drinks table. Daisy was to take the trays of hot hors d’oeuvres upstairs as they came from the oven. And I found myself jobless for a moment. Suddenly I realized that this was my big chance. The alderman would be in the drawing room with his guests. The butler and housekeeper were otherwise occupied. There was nobody to see me flit into the alderman’s study.
My pulse was racing so violently that I found it hard to breathe as I came out of the servants’ door on the first floor. I could hear the sound of voices and laughter floating up from the floor below. There was a knock at the front door, a gust of cold air wafted up to me, and voices echoed from the marble tiled hallway. More guests were arriving. I waited until I heard Mrs. Brennan escort them to the living room before I tiptoed down the hall and tried the study door. It was unlocked. I opened it and went inside. I wished that I had a torch, like Daniel Sullivan had used that night in the photography studio. The electric light, after I located the wall switch, was so very bright and visible. But the window faced the side of the house and I doubted if anyone would have need to go around there tonight.
I scanned the room quickly, not sure of what I wanted to look at first. There were several framed diplomas on the wall. One was a proclamation bestowing the keys of the city to the alderman for his outstanding leadership and philanthropic works. One was likewise the keys to the city of Dublin, for the alderman’s great contributions to the Irish cause. Another was a diploma from Dublin University. Joseph William McCormack, of Waterford, had graduated with a B.A. in theology in the year 1873. And lastly a certificate of citizenship of the United States, dated 1885.
That changed a lot—unless the diploma was a forgery, Joseph McCormack really was from the far southern part of Ireland. And he had already been residing in the United States when the Plumbridge Nine were attacking the land agent in Northern Ireland. It looked as if I had been following the wrong man. No wonder he hadn’t recognized me. But there was still that little matter of the secret drawer. What secret was he sharing with someone called Bertie? Why did Bertie think he might not want to show his face at the St. Patrick’s Day parade? And what secret could be important enough to make Bertie think of disposing of a newspaperman? I had to know. My mother had always maintained that if my big mouth didn’t kill me, my curiosity would.
I crossed to the desk, opened the front, and took out the drawer. The long, slim drawer behind it slid out easily. I started looking at the papers, not knowing what I was expecting to find. They all seemed harmless enough—receipt for a donation to the Irish Home Rule Fund from a wealthy benefactor in Boston. Letters of gratitude for donations made to various Irish freedom-fighting organizations. So the alderman was acting as middleman, taking in donations and forwarding them to freedom fighters. Obviously not very popular with the English if they found out, but what Irishman would not approve? It wasn’t until I stopped reading the words and started doing the math that I got an inkling of why all these letters were kept in the secret drawer. There were too many examples of ten thousand coming in from donors and five thousand go
ing out to freedom fighters. The alderman was taking a nice cut from every single donation. No wonder he could afford such an extravagant lifestyle!
I refolded the papers exactly as I had found them, slid the drawer back into place, and was just replacing the outer drawer when I heard footsteps outside the door. I shut the desk but had no time to hide before the door was hurled open and the alderman stood there, his eyes blazing.
“What the devil are you doing, girl?” He demanded, and his voice was, indeed, big and booming. “I happened to look out of the window and I saw the light shining on the building next door. Do you mind telling me what you’re doing in this room?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I stammered. “I meant no harm.”
“Meant no harm? Sneaking into my private room and you meant no harm? Come on, out with it. Did you think you’d find something worth stealing?”
“Oh no, sir. I promise you I wasn’t thinking of stealing anything.”
“Then what?” He came closer and closer until I could feel his hot, alcohol-laden breath on my forehead. He grabbed my wrist and twisted it backward, making me cry out in pain. “Come on, tell me. Who sent you? Who’s paying you?’
“Nobody, sir. I’ve just arrived from Ireland. I know nobody in this city. I meant no harm, I tell you.”
My eyes scanned the room, trying to come up with a plausible answer. Could I have left something there this afternoon? Dropped a key? Left my mop in the corner? My eyes fell upon the diplomas. “All right, I’ll tell you,” I said, and he dropped my wrist. “I saw your diploma this afternoon, when I brought you your lunch. I wanted to sneak another look at it, to see—to see if you came from the same part of Ireland as me. I thought I caught the same accent that I have, sir, so I just wondered . . . I’m sorry. It was stupid of me, but I’m new here, sir, and I’m feeling homesick.”
It was the weakest of excuses. He was staring so hard at me that I could feel his eyes boring into my head. And my mother always said I was a terrible liar. He’d only have to look at me long enough and he’d know. And then what? Daniel had told me that he was a ruthless man. He couldn’t risk my staying alive, knowing what I knew.
He grabbed my chin and forced it up, so that he was staring straight into my eyes. “There is no place for snoops in this household, young woman,” he said. “I don’t care how innocent your motives were, I don’t like servants I can’t trust. I won’t fire you tonight, because I want my wife’s dinner party to go smoothly, but first thing in the morning you pack your bags and you are out of here! Do you understand me?”
“Oh yes, sir. I’m so very sorry, sir.” I hung my head and played the role of the penitent. At least he had decided I was merely stupid and not dangerous.
“Now get back to your duties!” he thundered and waited until I was in the hallway before shutting the door behind me.
A blast of cold air announced the arrival of yet another guest. The alderman left me and headed down the stairs. “Daniel, my dear boy. How good of you to come!”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Alderman. So good of you to ask me.”
I tiptoed to the top of the stairs and peeked down. Daniel Sullivan had just arrived at the party.
Twenty-two
Somehow I made it back to the kitchen. How could I have been so stupid, so naive? He must have known about the alderman all along! Since the moment I arrived here I had heard that the police were in the pay of Tammany Hall, but I had never thought to include Daniel. Of course, considering I had been smitten with him from the beginning, I had only seen what I wanted to see. And to be fair, Daniel had tried to warn me off enough times. He had tried to keep me from getting into a situation I could not handle.
Now I saw that I had got it all wrong—the newspaper article about the Plumbridge Nine had nothing to do with the reason O’Malley was coming to New York. O’Malley was a known blackmailer. Obviously he had caught wind of Alderman McCormack’s skimming the cream off donations intended for the freedom fighters in Ireland. What a plum for a blackmailer—the darling of the Irish in New York, the great philanthropist, robbing the very people he claimed to champion? He must have contacted the alderman to make his demands and then he was stupid or presumptuous enough to come to New York in person. Of course he had to be silenced instantly. The alderman couldn’t risk his coming ashore to New York. He couldn’t risk delegating the job. He had to take on the task himself.
In which case—I went one step further—it was he that I saw that night. If he hadn’t already recognized me, he soon would. I must get out while I still had a chance. And go where? I asked myself. A man as powerful as Alderman McCormack could hunt me down wherever I went. And I could no longer rely on Daniel Sullivan to protect me. I felt tears stinging in my eyes and I wasn’t sure whether they were tears of anger or disappointment. I had no choice but to bluff it out. There was the smallest chance he hadn’t put my face to the woman with the child he had encountered on Ellis Island. There was also the smallest chance that he hadn’t suspected me of finding the secret drawer. In which case I could disappear in the morning and go as far away as possible—which wasn’t very far, seeing the amount of money I had.
“You, girl. Look lively!” The cook’s voice jarred me back to reality. “The entrée is ready to be put into the dumbwaiter. Carry it carefully.”
I carried the platter of smoked salmon, caviar on tiny triangles of toast, deviled eggs, and kidneys wrapped in bacon across to the lift without mishap, no small feat given my trembling hand. Cook was already ladling soup into two tureens. It took all my concentration to carry them successfully to the lift. After that I was so busy I didn’t have time to think. Plates came down and had to be ferried to the sink in the scullery. Warm plates were sent up for the fish course. Covered silver salvers with fillets of sole followed them. Then Cook grabbed my arm.
“Here, girl. This is the caper sauce. Run it up to them and keep stirring all the time. I don’t want a skin to form. Go on, up you go.”
I ran up the back stairs, stirring the sauce as I went. There was loud conversation coming from the dining room. As I reached the serving room and handed the sauce boat to George I heard the alderman tap his knife against his glass. “If I might have your attention, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I think it’s time to propose a toast to our distinguished guests. Looking at you all, I can see that we’ve garnered the flower of the Irish in America at this table. I want to tell you how proud I am of you all. All of us came from humble backgrounds with no prospects in the old country and each one of us has made our mark on society in the New World. This just goes to prove there is no stopping the Irish!”
A loud cheer from the table.
“And to you, Daniel, my boy, on behalf of New York’s finest, a special toast. You all know Daniel Sullivan, don’t you? Ted Sullivan’s boy—finest cop to ever walk the beat. Daniel hasn’t even turned thirty yet and he’s already a captain. We expect great things of you, Daniel. And you can tell your men that there will be a special bonus for working the St. Patrick’s Day Parade. And drinks all around from me for the officers on duty that day.”
“Thank you, Alderman. You’re very generous, as usual.”
I tried to spot Daniel through the crack in the door. Instead I caught a glimpse of other faces I recognized. The famous Irish tenor who had sung on Ellis Island, and Billy Brady, the comedian, too. They were sitting on either side of Mrs. McCormack, who looked like royalty in her velvet gown and rubies. On any other occasion I would have loved to witness such a grand festivity. Instead I crept back down the stairs to the safety of the kitchen.
I didn’t have to go up again during the rest of the meal. I obeyed orders in a daze. It was better not to think, because I couldn’t come up with a good solution, anyway. I helped Daisy put away the clean dishes as Ruby finished washing them. Then Daisy was sent up with the coffee, which Mr. Holmes would serve in the drawing room. I heard the sound of a piano, then the famous tenor started singing. So the two vaudevilli
ans had been invited to provide the entertainment! Then a female voice joined in—Mrs. McCormack, the former toast of Broadway! She had a lovely voice. We stood in the servants’ hallway, listening.
Then Mrs. Brennan appeared. “They must have finished their coffee by now. You, Molly. Go up and see if the cups have been returned to the tray. If they have, you may bring them down. Make sure you are not obtrusive. Hug the walls and only move when you are not being observed.”
“Couldn’t Daisy—” I began. I didn’t want to give the alderman another chance to notice me.
“Daisy has other duties. Get a move on.”
I had no choice. I went up the stairs, through the swing door, and along the grand hallway. The Greek statues stared down at me with disapproving looks. The drawing room door was half open. A huge fire roared in the marble fireplace at the far end of the room. The heavy velvet drapes were closed. In spite of the room’s enormous size it gave the impression of being overfull. Little tables of knickknacks, more potted palms, stuffed birds under glass domes were dotted between the heavy velvet sofas and armchairs. The alderman was sprawled in one of the armchairs. Daniel was perched on one end of a sofa, next to a pale young woman and the tenor. He had his back to me as he concentrated on the entertainment. In one corner stood a grand piano, at which Mrs. McCormack was seated. At the moment she wasn’t in the spotlight, but playing light background chords for another performer. Billy Brady was standing at the piano. He had a rich, stirring voice and he was reciting the famous Irish ballad, “The Wearing of the Green.” It was one that I knew and I stood in the shadows against the wall and listened, as enraptured as the rest of his audience.
