“Is there a missus Coyle?”
“He and his wife ran this boardinghouse for fifteen years, but she died a couple of years ago. As you can see he’s let the place go. Still, it’s cheap lodgings and it’s reasonably clean.”
“Well in that case, let’s go. Michael should be coming home from his work soon.”
“So, he got a job?”
“I hope so,” she said, sitting down on a lumpy settee. “He’s been gone all day.”
Shoveling a scoop of coal onto the dying fire, Gaylord said, “It’s a shame Mrs. Winslow didn’t join us. She spends entirely too much time alone.”
“She does seem rather distant. Why is that?”
“She’s had a tragic life, the poor woman. Do you know anything about the financial panic of ‘37?”
“No, I don’t.”
“There were many and complicated reasons for it, but the upshot was that hundreds of banks collapsed, businesses failed, prices declined, and thousands of workers lost their jobs. One of those banks was owned by Mr. Winslow. Three days later, he committed suicide.”
“Oh, my goodness ...”
“Mrs. Winslow was left almost penniless. She lost her mansion on Union Square and almost everything else she owned. She’s been living here ever since.”
“What a tragic story.”
“It is, but from what Michael has told me, you suffered a similar fate.”
“True. We lost our estates in the famine, but my father didn’t commit suicide, he was murdered.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It was a difficult time in famine Ireland.” Changing the subject, she said, “Were you born in Manhattan?”
Gaylord flopped down on an old chair badly in need of reupholstering. “No. I was born and bred in Boston.”
“That’s in Massachusetts, is it not?”
“Correct. My father is a preacher. He wanted me to go into the church so I could follow in his footsteps, but that would have been quite impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m an atheist.” He gave her a sly smile. “Does that shock you, Emily?”
“No, it does not. It’s funny, I haven’t given it much thought, but I suppose I’m an atheist as well.”
“Because of the things you saw in the famine?”
“Exactly.” She looked into the fire and watched the glowing red coals. “I can’t believe in a God who could allow that kind of death and misery for so many people.” She turned her gaze away from the fire. “So, what brought you to Manhattan?”
“When I was in college, I got the grandiose idea that I would become a writer of novels. And New York seemed the obvious place to begin my illustrious career.”
“But you work for a newspaper.”
He grinned. “Much to my chagrin I soon discovered that a writer of novels without any monetary support will starve to death very quickly.”
“So, you went to work for the ...”
“The New York Tribune. Although the paper is a daily, it’s highly influential nationally through its weekly edition, which is circulated in rural areas and small towns. Mr. Horace Greeley, the editor and chief of the newspaper, is probably most famous for his admonition that all young men should go west.”
“Are you keeping company with anyone?”
“Lord, no. I am forty-five years old and a confirmed bachelor, if for no other reason than I can barely support myself.”
“I am sorry for all the questions. You must think me a meddlesome person.”
“Not at all. How else do you get to know someone? Besides, I spend my day asking questions.”
Just then, the front door opened and Michael came in.
Emily jumped up when he came into the parlor. “You look exhausted.”
“I am that. It’s been a long day, but at least I’m gainfully employed.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Let’s get you upstairs. You have a good evening, Gaylord.”
“You, too. I’m about ready to turn in myself.”
As soon as they got to their room, Michael fell onto the lumpy bed and groaned. “Every bone in my body is sore. I thought working on the road gangs back in Ireland was tough. This is much worse. At least in Ireland there were no stairs to climb.”
“Have you eaten today?”
“No.”
“I’ll go downstairs and see if Mr. Coyle has something for you to eat.”
“Don’t bother. I’m too tired to eat.”
She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. “Nonsense. I’ll just be a minute. You must ...” She stopped talking when she saw that Michael was sound asleep.
Chapter Seven
When Emily awoke the next morning, she was surprised to see that Michael had already gone. He’d looked so tired yesterday, she wasn’t sure he would make it to work today. When she went down to the dining room for breakfast, Mrs. Winslow was already there.
“Good morning, Mrs. Winslow.”
“Good morning, Emily. Are you off to your tutoring job?”
“I am.”
“And how is that going?”
“Very well. Of course, I’ve only just met my student. She seems quite shy, but, if I’m not mistaken, I think she will be a quick learner. I’m confident she’ll be able to converse in French by the time the Ingersolls go on their holiday to France. And you, Mrs. Winslow, have you been to France?
“I have. Several times. When Mr. Winslow was alive we went to France every year.”
“France is a beautiful country, is it not?
“Indeed, it is. Certainly better than this odoriferous excuse for a city.”
“If you feel that way, why do you stay here?”
“I have my reasons,” she said.
“I see.” The way she said it, Emily thought it prudent not to pursue the matter further. She looked at the clock. “Well, I must be on my way.”
She walked to the corner of Broadway and Grand to wait for an omnibus, which was Manhattan’s main form of public transportation. Essentially an oversized stagecoach, it carried twelve to twenty people. The driver had no fixed stops. If one wanted a ride, one simply waved at the driver to stop. In winter, the carriage wheels were removed and replaced with runners.
She waved one down and climbed aboard. Most of the omnibuses heading north were not crowded this time of the day. But the ones heading south were often so full that people climbed up on the roof or clung to the sides of the vehicle.
When she saw that the omnibus was nearing Twenty-First Street, she pulled on a leather strap that was connected to the driver’s ankle to let him know she wanted to get off.
When Letta opened the door, she whispered to Emily in a low, fearful voice, “Mr. Ingersoll is home and he wishes to see you.”
Emily waited in the parlor for almost fifteen minutes and gpt more nervous by the minute. It had been relatively easy to fool Mrs. Ingersoll into thinking that she was English, but it might be another matter entirely when it came to an experienced businessman like Mr. Ingersoll.
Finally, Thaddeus Ingersoll came into the room. He was an imposing man with a full white beard and muttonchops. He was wearing a loosely cut waistcoat that did not hide his rather large stomach. His high and pointed shirt collar seemed to be strangling him. Emily judged him to be in his early sixties, which surprised her. She expected him to be nearer the age of Mrs. Ingersoll.
He fixed her with piercing gray eyes. “Miss Somerville?” he asked with a dour expression.
“Yes.”
“Be seated.” He pointed to a chair near the fireplace. “Mrs. Ingersoll tells me you’re English.”
“That’s correct.”
“I’ve been to England many times myself and know it well. Where did you live in England?
“Actually, my family lived in Ireland.”
His busy eyebrows shot up in disdain. “Ireland? Whatever for?”
Emily suddenly realized that this snobbish man was just like so many wealthy American men of common birth she�
�d met in England. They were so much in awe of England and titles that it was laughable. It was ironic that these American men, so extremely wealthy, should revere penniless dukes and earls. And it wasn’t just the men. She’d met more than a few rich American women who went abroad with the express purpose of marrying a title. It was often a marriage of convenience for both. She got a title, and the title got the money.
Now she understood the reason for those courtesy books. The Ingersoll’s were not to the manor born. Despite their money, they were, as Gaylord had said, nouveau riche, and as such they were unsure of their social status. Now that she had taken the measure of the man, she decided to lay it on thick.
“My father, Lord Somerville, was the eighth Earl of Devonshire, Mr. Ingersoll. My family has had estates in Ireland since the time of the Norman Invasion.”
His eyes widened. “Oh… I see. Yes, of course.” Immediately, his whole demeanor changed. He slapped his hands on his knees. “Well, then.” He stood up. “It was a pleasure talking to you, Miss Somerville.” His façade of intimidation in ruins, he practically slinked out of the parlor.
A minute later, Mrs. Ingersoll came with a look of surprise on her face. Mr. Ingersoll was very impressed with you, Miss Somerville.”
“And I with him,” Emily said.
“Oh… yes, of course.” Momentarily befuddled by Emily’s unexpected self-assurance, she shouted, “Letta—”, but stopped, suddenly remembering what the little bell on the table was for. When Letta appeared, Mrs. Ingersoll said, “Please bring Lucy in here. It’s time for her lesson.”
As Emily surmised from her earlier introduction, Lucy was a painfully shy child. Emily had no doubt she would be able to teach her French, but first she would have to find a way to penetrate the child’s wall of isolation. When they were alone, Emily said, “Lucy, where would you like to begin?”
The child shrugged. “I don’t know,” she mumbled.”
Emily picked up a book. “Lucy, ceci est un livre.”
Lucy shook her head in confusion.
“It’s a book. Livre. Can you say livre?”
“ ...Livre…”
“Very good. Très bon. That means very good.”
Emily studied the child. She appeared to be a quick learner, but she seemed to be afraid of something, even going so far as to flinch when she heard a noise in the house or out in the street. If she was going to successfully teach Lucy French, she was going to have to get to the bottom of that puzzling issue.
Emily began to roam about the room picking up objects and naming them in French and asking Lucy to repeat the names in French. Then she began to put those words into sentences. Despite her shyness, Lucy was a quick learner and the two hours went by quickly.
Chapter Eight
Michael had been working for Cullinane for almost three months and in that time, he had fallen into a familiar, if boring, routine; get to the warehouse by seven and work till six—if nothing unforeseen came up. Go home to the boardinghouse eat and fall into bed exhausted. And in that time, he’d also mastered the art of weaving a heavy-laden wagon through the insane traffic of downtown Manhattan.
It was early November and the weather had gone from the hot, humid days of September to the biting cold of oncoming winter. If there was anything good about the cold, it was that the pervasive putrid odors of the city were not quite as bad.
He and Flynn were heading north on the Bowery to deliver a load of bricks and lumber to a building site on Fifth Avenue and Twentieth Street. A cold wind sweeping off the East River made both men pull the collars up around their necks.
“They call it Kleindeutschland—Little Germany,” Flynn said.
On these long, tedious trips Flynn had fallen into the habit of taking this time to enlighten Michael on his newly adopted city. With a sweep of his arm, Flynn said, “Kleindeutschland starts on Division Street all the way up to Fourteenth Street. And it goes from the Bowery all the way to the East River.”
“Are there many Germans there?”
“Thousands, but not as many as us. They’re a different breed of animal altogether. They didn’t come here fleeing a famine. Many of them are farmers, shopkeepers, and bakers. And they do love their beer.” Flynn poked Michael. “Truth be told I like it well enough meself. There are dozens of breweries in Kleindeutschland and they all make good beer.”
After they unloaded the wagon-load of bricks and lumber, Flynn said, “I’m feeling a powerful thirst. I think we need to stop off at the Volksgarten for a beer.”
When they got below Fourteenth Street, he directed Michael to turn east to Avenue B, or as he called it, “German Broadway.” The avenue, running from Houston Street to Fourteenth Street, was lined with beer halls, oyster saloons, and assorted grocery stores.
At Seventh Street, he told Michael to pull up in front of a building with the name Volksgarten printed in large Gothic German script over the door. Across the street was a park surrounded by a high wrought iron fence. It was similar to Washington Square Park, but not as well maintained. “What’s that?” Michael asked Flynn.
“That would be Tompkins Square Park.”
“It looks a little shabby.”
“Aye, that it is. When it opened in ‘37, the city had great plans for it, but then the panic hit and all work stopped. Maybe someday they’ll get back to it. Now it’s used mostly as an assembly spot for assorted protest rallies. Come on,” Flynn said, climbing down from the wagon, “I’m dying of the thirst.”
Inside the Volksgarten, Michael was surprised at how large the interior was. He’d only been in that one dingy grog shop in the Five Points, but he’d passed by numerous other saloons and grog shops and they all looked pretty much the same. But unlike those grog shops, this spacious interior had room for rows and rows of rough wooden tables and benches. And the walls were covered with brightly painted frescoes of young women and men dancing in fields.
“It’s quiet this time of day,” Flynn explained, “but you should see this place on Sunday. Men and women of all ages drinking and dancing. In the summer, they open the back yards and turn the space into a beer garden. I come here quite often meself.”
“So, the Irish come here as well?”
“No, not a’tall. I wager I’m the only Irishman who does. But I like it. The Germans are a good lot. Hard workers and hard drinkers.”
He stepped up to the bar and slammed his hand down. “Can I get some service here?”
Michael was taken aback by the rude tone in Flynn’s voice, but the bartender, a portly man with an enormous handlebar mustache grinned. “Flynn, my old friend,” he said with a heavy
German accent, “ver have you been?”
“Working. What else? Say hello to Michael Ranahan.”
The bartender wiped his hands on a white apron that was almost up to his chest and shook Michael’s hand. “A friend of Flynn is a friend of mine. What will you boys have?”
“How about two glasses of your fine beer?”
As Otto poured the beer, Flynn said, “So, Otto, have you saved enough to buy your own beer garden yet?”
The bartender made a face and shook his head. “I save what I can, but the wages are poor and”—he looked around furtively and lowered his voice— “old man Beyersdorf is a skinflint, I can tell you that.”
“Ah, you’ll get there, me bucko. Chin up.”
“Will I get there before you own your own construction business?” Otto asked with an impish grin.
It was Flynn’s turn to frown. “My wages are worse than yours, my friend. But I’m not discouraged. I’ll manage it somehow.”
Just then an obese man came out of the back. “Otto,” he bellowed, “did you get that barrel from the cellar yet?
Otto jumped. “Not yet, Mr. Beyersdorf. I was just on my way.”
Flynn took a slug of his beer. “Well, what do you think of it?”
Michael sniffed at his glass warily. “I don’t know. I’m used to the poteen at home.”
“Well, you w
on’t find poteen here. Go on. Give it a go.”
Michael took a sip and made a face. It was better than the beer he’d had in the Five Points grog shop, but that wasn’t saying much. “It’s very bitter.”
“That’s what good German beer tastes like.”
“Is Otto really saving to open his own beer garden?”
“Aye. It’s the only thing to do. A workingman in this city doesn’t stand a chance. They work you to death for starvation wages and when you’re worn out they toss you aside like the carcass of a dead dog.”
“Is that why you want your own construction business?”
“It is. I want to be my own man. Control my own life. I’ve learned a lot about the construction business from my time working for Cully. I could do this on my own. I see more and more building going on in this city. There’s great opportunity here, but…” His voice trailed off.
“You need money to start a business.”
“Aye.” He shook his head to clear away the daydreams. “And what about you?”
Michael was taken aback by the question. When he’d left Ireland, he’d had only a vague idea of what he would do once he got to America. And now that he was here, he realized that the prospects were not good for a barely literate Irishman. He was grateful for the job that Cullinane had given him, but he didn’t see himself hauling bricks and lumber for the rest of his life. “I don’t know, Flynn. I don’t know what I’ll do.”
Flynn drained his glass. “Come on, we’d best be getting back or Cully will have a conniption.”
When they pulled into the warehouse, Michael was surprised at how eerily silent it was. There was none of the usual shouting, sawing, or hammering. And then Michael realized why; it was late and all the workers had gone home for the day. All except for Cully, who was standing at his office door with an irritated look on his face. Michael’s stomach turned. They were in trouble. They shouldn’t have stopped for that beer. He was certain he was going to lose his job.
“Flynn, Ranahan,” Cully called out. “In my office, right now.”
Manhattan Page 7
