To keep up with the increased workload, Michael now employed one hundred and fifty men and a fleet of horses and wagons. He also increased the number of skilled craftsmen, stonemasons, finish carpenters, and artists who worked for him. As a result, Ranahan Construction had become one of the biggest contractors in the city.
Michael looked forward to Sunday morning breakfast with his family because it was the only time he got to see all his children at the same time. Now, as he sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper, Emily was making breakfast. She cracked an egg into the skillet. “Call the children, Michael. We’re about ready.”
He went to the foot of the stairs and shouted, “Breakfast. Come and get it.”
At thirteen, Eleanor was on her way to becoming an attractive young lady and she was looking more and more like her mother. She took her usual place next to her father.
Michael bowed. “Good morning, Eleanor.”
She bowed back. “Good morning, Father.”
Michael and Emily exchanged amused grins. All the other children called them Da and Ma. Only Eleanor called them Father and Mother and had done so since she’d learned to talk.
Peter came in next and as usual he was carrying a book. He was twelve now and the most studious of the children. Emily often told Michael that Peter looked just like him, but he didn’t see the resemblance.
“What are you reading now?” Emily asked.
“Ragged Dick.”
Emily nodded approvingly. “Horatio Alger Jr. is a very good author, isn’t he?”
Peter nodded, sliding into a chair opposite his sister.
“What’s it about?” Eleanor asked.
“A poor bootblack in New York City. I haven’t gotten very far into it, but so far I like it.”
Next came little Claire. Michael and Emily had hoped that over time she would gain a little more vigor and a decent appetite, but at eleven, she was still pale and delicate.
She sat down next to her sister. “Ma, I’m not hungry. I don’t want bacon and eggs.”
Emily shot a troubled glance at Michael, who nodded in understanding. “What will you eat?”
“Maybe a little toast.”
Michael was about to call out to Dermot, who was always the last one to come to the table, but he appeared and sullenly slid into a chair.
Halfway through breakfast, Michael said, “I have some exciting news.”
Eleanor, who always enjoyed hearing about her father’s business, said, “What is it, Father?”
“Has anyone ever heard of a Mrs. Winifred Eldridge?”
“Isn’t she a very wealthy and eccentric woman who lives downtown?” Emily asked.
“She is. And I may be building her new home.”
“Where?” Peter asked.
“Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Seventh Street.”
Peter frowned. “But that area is filled with shantytowns and slaughterhouses and—”
“The unfinished cathedral,” Dermot interjected, smirking at his father.
Michael didn’t know why, but Dermot never passed up the opportunity to be sarcastic with him. It was as though he believed that the unfinished cathedral was his father’s fault.
“It’s true the cathedral is incomplete, but construction will resume soon,” Michael explained patiently.
“Then why don’t you go back to working there instead of building a stupid house for some old lady?”
Michael forced himself to remain calm. “Because this project is more prestigious and it will pay a lot better. Instead of being just one of several construction companies working on the cathedral, I will be the sole contractor on this project.”
“Your father has developed quite a reputation as a builder in this city.”
“That’s because you do good work,” said Eleanor with the conviction of an admiring daughter.
“Thank you for your vote of confidence, young lady.”
“When will you start?” Emily asked.
“The architect, Robert Mercer, and I are going to meet with Mrs. Eldridge at her home tomorrow.”
“Where did you meet Mr. Mercer?”
“Funny thing is, I haven’t. I received a letter from his office briefly outlining what he was planning and asking me to meet him at Mrs. Eldridge’s home.”
Emily patted her husband’s hand. “We’re all very proud of you, aren’t we, children?”
Everyone nodded in the affirmative, except Dermot.
The next morning was colder than usual for April. Michael waited outside Mrs. Eldridge’s elegant Italianate façade brownstone on Waverly Place in Greenwich Village for the architect to arrive. His shivering was not from the cold wind whipping off the Hudson River, but from excitement and apprehension. On one hand, landing such a prestigious project would be a real feather in his cap. On the other hand, what if he didn’t meet with the approval of Mrs. Eldridge?
Just then, the architect pulled up in a hansom cab. Alighting from the cab and carrying a large canvas portfolio, he said to the driver in a commanding voice, “Wait here for me.”
The driver tipped his hat. “Yes, sir.”
Robert Mercer, a tall, trim man in his fifties, exuded an air of confidence, no doubt due to him being one of the most sought-after architects in the city.
He put out his hand. “Mr. Ranahan, I presume?”
Michael shook his hand. “Yes, sir.”
“Do you have any questions before we go in?”
“Just one. Why did you select me?”
“I’ve seen your work, Ranahan. Nothing shoddy. First-rate,” he said in a clipped tone. “Furthermore, I have not heard a whisper questioning your honesty or integrity. That’s the only kind of man I can work with. Shall we go in?”
The expansive, high-ceiling foyer was clad in tessellated marble and lined with mirrors. A liveried maid dressed in black and purple led them into a drawing room filled with expensive French furniture and florid tapestries. In the style of the day, the room was crammed with a bewildering array of chairs, couches, tables, and assorted priceless pieces. An ornate mahogany cabinet against a far wall was jam-packed with what Michael assumed was very expensive porcelain China.
A moment later, an imperious woman swept into the room. Heavy-set with black hair plastered down and parted in the middle, Mrs. Winifred Eldridge appeared to Michael to be in her mid-sixties.
“Gentlemen, thank you for coming,” she said in a deep, throaty voice. She studied Michael through a pair of pince-nez glasses perched at the tip of her nose. “Before we begin, Mr. Mercer, please introduce me to this young man.”
“Mrs. Eldridge, may I present Michael Ranahan of Ranahan Construction. Subject to your approval, of course, I propose to use him as my contractor.”
“Young man, what are your credentials?”
An intimidated Michael swallowed hard. This was the first time he had ever met the person for whom a house was to be built. Usually, he dealt with architects and contractors. He’d worn his best suit, but it looked positively shoddy compared to Mr. Mercer’s tailored suit and Mrs. Eldridge’s elaborate gown.
“Ma’am, I’ve been in the construction business for seven years now. The last four as sole proprietor. I worked on the Astor project back in ‘52 and—”
“Ah, Willy Astor. A delightful man. Do you know him?”
“Not personally, ma’am. I’ve also worked on St. Patrick’s Cathedral before the war interrupted construction. Then—”
“That’s quite enough,” she said, silencing him with a raised gloved hand. “If Robert recommends you, that’s good enough for me. Do you have any questions for me?”
“I understand the house will be built on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Sixth Street.”
“That’s correct. Robert, have you made your renderings?”
“I have, ma’am.” The architect pulled several renderings from his portfolio and spread them out on the floor.
Michael was flabbergasted. He was expecting the usual renderings of a typical drab brownstone ma
nsion with a high stoop. But Mercer’s sketches showed something very different—a magnificent house clad in white marble with a two-story mansard roof covered in gray slate with green copper trim. The rendering of the house was like something he’d never seen before in New York City and he wondered if he and his men had the skill to build such an extraordinary structure.
Mrs. Eldridge, closely studying the renderings, clapped her hands in delight. “Robert, you have captured my wishes on paper.”
The architect nodded in appreciation. “Well, you did suggest I look at the residential designs of Paris and the French country palaces for inspiration.” He swept his hand across the renderings. “This is the result. As you can see, the mansard roof is in the style of France’s Fontainebleau.”
Her eyes glistened. “It will be magnificent. When can you start?”
The architect gathered up his renderings. “First, I have to draw up a complete set of blueprints. That process should be completed by May. I estimate construction can begin in early June.”
“Splendid. How long will it take to build?”
Mercer looked at Michael. “Two years at the most.”
Michael solemnly nodded in agreement. He wasn’t quite as certain as the architect that it was enough time to build such an edifice, but he wasn’t about to disagree with him.
Seated around the Sunday dinner table, the family, Gaylord, and Henrietta listened as Michael described the building he was going to construct.
A doubtful Gaylord shook his head. “I don’t know, Michael. There are some who are already calling Mrs. Winifred Eldridge’s project ‘the wasteland.’”
“Why would they say that?” Eleanor asked.
“Because of where it’s to be built. So far uptown.”
“Isn’t that what I said, Da?” Peter chimed in. “There’s just shantytowns and slaughterhouses up there.”
“It’s not as bad as all that,” Michael said. “It’s only a couple of blocks away from St. Patrick’s Cathedral.”
“The unfinished cathedral,” Dermot muttered with a smirk.
“It’s true the area is quite desolate now,” Henrietta said firmly. “But Mrs. Eldridge is a woman of vision and great wealth. If she moves there, others will follow. Mark my words.”
“She is a most remarkable and adventuresome woman,” Gaylord conceded.
While the others were speaking, Michael studied his eldest son with a look of concern. The children were growing up. For some time now, he and Emily had been discussing their children’s future. They’d come to accept that Claire would always be of a delicate disposition. Fortunately, she’d become completely enamored of poetry and spent countless hours reading the books of poetry that Gaylord gave her.
Unlike Peter and Eleanor, who excelled at academics, Dermot was a poor student. With no prospects of a college education in his future, they agreed it was time for Dermot to seek gainful employment.
“Dermot, there’s going to be plenty of work on this site,” Michael said hopefully. “Would you like to come work with me?”
Dermot shook his head emphatically. “No. I don’t want to work for you,” he mumbled.
Michael felt the blood rising in him, but he also saw Emily’s warning glance and checked himself. “Son,” he said patiently, “you’re eighteen. It’s time you found real employment, not the odd jobs you pick up here and there.”
Before Dermot could respond, Eleanor interjected. “I’ll do it. I’ll work for you, Father.”
Michael smiled. His daughter’s unbounded enthusiasm always delighted him. “Thank you for the offer, Eleanor, but construction work is not suitable work for women.”
“Why not? I’m strong. I can do it.”
Emily patted her daughter’s hand. “For one thing, Eleanor, you’re only fifteen. And your father is right. Construction is no work for a young lady. You’re bright and intelligent. You’ll be going off college in a couple of years.”
“Where will she be going?” Henrietta asked.
“We’re thinking Vassar.”
Eleanor made a face. “Mother, that’s way up in Poughkeepsie!”
“It’s not that far away. Besides, there aren’t many colleges for young ladies.”
“It is a fine college,” Gaylord said.
Henrietta raised her eyebrows. “And expensive.”
“We can afford it,” Emily said. “Michael’s business has been very good and we’ve been able to put some money aside for the children’s education.”
Changing the subject, Gaylord said, “When do you start construction?”
“Mr. Mercer thinks early June.”
“That’s just a couple of months away. Pity. I suppose this means you won’t be able to take part in Mr. Roebling’s huge undertaking.”
“Who’s Mr. Roebling?” Eleanor asked.
“He’s a bridge builder,” Peter piped in. He’s built suspension bridges over the Ohio River and the Delaware River.”
“How do you know so much about it?” an amused Michael asked.
“I read the newspapers,” he answered as though that should have been perfectly obvious.
Emily beamed at her son. “Our future newspaper reporter. She looked at Gaylord with mock sternness. “You know you’re to blame for that.”
“Guilty as charged. Newspaper reporting is an honorable profession and I believe young Peter here will make an excellent reporter.”
“He certainly is nosy enough,” Michael said.
“Inquisitive, Da” Peter corrected. “Inquisitive.”
“I stand corrected.”
“What kind of bridge does Mr. Roebling propose to build?” Emily asked.
“A suspension bridge over the East River connecting the cities of Brooklyn and New York,” Gaylord answered.
“My God,” Emily exclaimed. “It would have to be a very high bridge indeed to allow ships with tall masks to sail under it.”
“It appears he’s taken that into consideration. I’ve heard it will be two hundred and seventy-seven feet above mean high water. The tallest sailing ship should be able to pass underneath without any trouble.”
“It’s going to be interesting to watch it constructed,” Peter said with a gleam in his eye.
Gaylord nudged Peter. “Maybe you and I can report on it together.”
Peter nodded solemnly. “I would like that, Uncle Gaylord.
Claire, who had been silent all through dinner, said quietly, “Maybe one day Mr. Whitman will write a poem about the bridge.”
There was a stunned silence. All the adults sitting around the table were aware that critics had berated the poet for being too descriptive in writing about the delights of sensual pleasures.
Henrietta raised her eyebrows. “Child, what do you know about Walt Whitman?”
“I’ve read Leaves of Grass, Aunt Henrietta. I didn’t understand all of it, but most of it was beautiful.”
Henrietta was scandalized. “Wherever did you get hold of that book?”
“Uncle Gaylord gave it to me.”
Gaylord reddened. “Despite what you may have heard, Henrietta, Mr. Whitman is a splendid poet.”
“Be that as it may, I question the suitability of a child reading such … ‘poems.’”
“I think he’s a fine poet,” Claire said quietly.
“Then it’s settled,” Emily said, trying not to smile. “He is a fine poet.”
That night, as Michael climbed into bed, he said, “I know I’ve said it before, but I ask the question again—what are we to do with Dermot? He’s eighteen. When I was his age I’d been working for eight years.”
Emily touched her husband’s cheek and smiled. “Michael, he’s not the son of a tenant farmer.”
“True enough. But he’s not the son of a landlord either. It’s high time he earns his keep.”
Emily sighed. “He does worry me. I don’t like the young men he’s consorting with.”
“Young men? They’re hooligans, Emily. Pure and simple.”
&
nbsp; “I guess they are. One of his friends was arrested last week for pick-pocketing.”
“And will Dermot be next? Will we be bailing him out of a police court?”
“God, I hope not. Have you tried talking to him?”
“You know that does no good. The slightest criticism and he becomes a wild man. There are times I thought I would have to physically restrain him.”
As Emily slipped into bed, tears welled up in her eyes. “We can’t lean on him too hard. I’m afraid we’ll drive him away. He’ll leave the house and we may never see him again. I can’t bear the thought of him wandering the streets like some… street ruffian.”
Michael kissed his wife. “Neither can I.”
For a long time, they both lay awake unable to sleep and unable to decide what to do with their troubled son.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Work began on the Eldridge site in mid-June. In preparation for such a huge undertaking, Michael hired more men and bought more wagons. The weather cooperated and he was able to clear the site of rock outcroppings by the middle of August.
One day towards the end of the month, at Eleanor’s insistence, Michael brought her to the site. She was full of questions about costs, timelines, and why wood was used instead of stone.
Just then, Flynn approached. “Michael, do you have a minute?” He rolled his eyes. “You’re needed to settle a dispute between the stonemasons and the carpenters.”
“Again?”
“Aye. Again.”
“Eleanor, you stay here and don’t get into trouble. I’ll be right back.”
When Michael returned, he saw that his daughter was deeply engrossed in watching a carpenter cutting wood. “What are you looking at, Eleanor?”
“That man. The one cutting wood. Do you see what he’s doing?”
Michael nodded. “He’s cutting wood.”
“Yes, but watch what he does. He picks up a piece of lumber from the lumber pile. Then he walks all the way over there and cuts the wood. Then he brings the pieces back to the pile of lumber.”
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