“You are?” Callie perked up. “And you want me to tell you what goes on there, and you’ll be printing it in the paper?” She suddenly felt very important and began to give him a first-hand account of the inner workings of the Magdalene. “I don’t want to go back there,” she told him. “I’d rather take my chances with Madge!”
“You won’t be going back to either place. I’ll think of something.” He was angry that Callie had no conception of her own worth. Each time she mentioned Madge, Byrch wanted to gnash his teeth. His irritation was communicated to Callie, doubling her shame and increasing her defenses. Only through anger could she maintain her pride.
“You should have had all this thought out before you snatched me,” Callie said, feeling more and more unwanted by the moment. She hadn’t asked him to rescue her, and she hadn’t asked him to help her escape the grocer in Dublin the first time she’d met him. If he didn’t want her here, then she didn’t want to be here!
“Whatever you think of, I hope it’ll include me earning a wage. I’ve been gone from home since September 19, and I’ve yet to send a farthing home to my Mum! Which brings me to another matter, Mr. Kenyon. Everything I owned in this world is at that house on Bleecker Street, including letters to my mother that I never had the chance nor the postage to send her. Can you do anything about that, Mr. Kenyon? I’d really like to have my own things!”
“Quit wailing like a banshee!” he ordered. “If you want those things, I’ll see about getting them for you. For the time being, though, I want you to tell me everything, everything that’s happened to you since you left Dublin. I want to smell the smells, hear the sounds—understand?” He stood up from his chair and went over to the little desk in the corner, taking out paper and quill. “Begin!” he commanded.
Long into the night Callie told him her story and the stories of so many others like her. She mentioned Beth and Patrick Thatcher, telling him that she’d made the crossing with them but omitting Beth’s death. Somehow that was too personal, too painful to recount, even to Byrch. She relived how they’d cut her hair and what a devastating effect it had had on Beth. “She was never the same after that, poor love,” Callie mourned.
Byrch was stricken by Callie’s description of events. He’d traveled by steamship, cabin class, and the number of immigrants sailing with him had been few, owing to the price of the tickets. He’d known about quarantine, but like other Americans, he had thought it to be a necessary evil, dealt out humanely. Others must know about these atrocities, and if they didn’t, they would soon find out when they read the Clarion.
Callie’s eyes were heavy with drowsiness, and Byrch could see the delicate blue lines that hemmed her lashes. “Go to bed, Callie. We’ll finish this discussion another time.”
“Have you made up your mind what to do with me?”
Byrch sighed wearily. “What do you want me to do with you, Callie? I’ll be damned if I have the solution.”
Callie was exasperated, humiliated. This wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She hated to be a burden to him. He’d been good and kind to her, and she had nothing to offer him in return. Lifting her chin obstinately, she said, “I can’t be hanging about here, regaling you with stories of my life, Mr. Kenyon. I’m grateful for what you’ve done for me, but it’s time for me to get on with my business, if you don’t mind. I’ll be leaving in the morning.”
Byrch was agitated with Callie’s impatience and angry with himself for not having a solution to the problem. He was bone tired, exhausted from listening to the profound tragedies Callie had recounted. His mind was already directed to the task of putting it all down on paper. He hoped he could capture the essence of her bravery and the pathos of her tale.
Misunderstanding, thinking Byrch’s weariness and frown were a direct result of his not knowing what to do with her, Callie insisted, “You’re supposed to be a smart man. You’re supposed to have all the answers. Oh, why can’t you leave me alone, just let me be on my way? I’m not addlewitted, and I’m used to hard work; I’ll make my own way here in America!”
“If you don’t shut that mouth of yours, I’m going to whack you where it’ll do the most good! Perhaps I was a busybody back in Dublin, but I like to think I saved that neck of yours. I didn’t like the idea of a child being hanged for stealing!” He ran a finger under his chin and then made a loud cracking sound that made Callie shiver. “One snap and it’s all over. Your mum would’ve cried for at least two days.”
“A child, is it!” Callie challenged, fully awake now. “And I suppose you’re older than Moses!” The expression in her eyes changed to inquiry. “Just how old are you anyway, Mr. Kenyon?”
“Twenty-eight and ten times smarter than you are! At least I know when to shut my mouth!” He stood up from the desk suddenly, his green eyes flaring with anger, advancing on her one step at a time, rolling up his shirt sleeves in a manner that suggested she had gone too far and was going to get a spanking for it.
Yelping like a scalded puppy, Callie ran for the bed, leaping under the mound of feather comforters and pulling them over her head.
Long after the lights were out and Byrch had left the room, Callie lay awake pondering her predicament. It was only right that she leave. Byrch Kenyon didn’t owe her anything. The scales were thrown to the other side; she owed him her safety and her life. Still, she sighed, turning her face into the pillow, it would be nice to be a little girl again and climb into his lap as she’d done that first night and feel him wrap her in tenderness and security.
Byrch sat in his bed-sitting room into the long hours before dawn, outlining and composing the articles for the Clarion. He would leave other news to his staff of reporters; this he would handle himself. It felt good to get back to writing again, finding the words to express himself and his beliefs. Too long he’d been working the business end of the Clarion-Observer; telling a story was like a breath of fresh air. Editorials were something else entirely; they were points of view, opinions. This was something he could get his teeth into; it was about people, life.
He thought about the girl in the room across the hall. She’d lived a lifetime in the short span of a few years. She’d watched her family come to ruin because of the Potato Blight, had felt the responsibility for them weigh heavily on her. She’d seen the intolerable and inhumane conditions at Tompkinsville, been thrown into a brothel, and been saved by a greed-ridden society that garnished her wages. And still there was spirit in her, something that would not be vanquished. He admired her resiliency. But now, what to do with her?
Byrch considered several alternatives, discarding them all as unfeasible. He had to be careful not to overstep his bounds or else she’d become resentful, and then Lord only knew what she’d do. What Callie needed, he decided at last, was to be in a family situation, preferably in a household where there were young people. He considered asking Kevin and Bridget to employ her but disregarded the notion. Bridget wouldn’t hear of it, he knew; her standards for household help were most rigid. And she would never consider Callie as a companion for the children, nor would she want a constant reminder of her faux pas with the Magdalene Society. Callie couldn’t remain here with him; she needed a woman’s guidance. What to do with her?
His eyes ached and his temples throbbed, but he put pen to paper and began to write a list of his friends and acquaintances, evaluating each name as a possible place for Callie. The list was long and tiresome, and each name, except one, was vetoed for being unsuitable. Jasper Powers was the only name he could consider. Jasper himself would pose no problem; he was a soft-hearted man with great empathy for his fellow Irishmen. It was his wife, Anne, who would be the problem. He knew he shouldn’t allow his personal dislike for Anne Powers to influence his decision; even though Anne was a self-righteous, social-climbing bitch like Bridget, she was nevertheless a fine mother and ran a good Christian household. Callie could learn the duties of a domestic servant under her eye. He would have liked to do so much more for Callie but was afraid to injure th
at raw, yet delicate, pride of hers.
Byrch rubbed his fist against his chin, feeling the stubble of beard. He thought about what he knew of the Powerses. Anne Powers was what her own husband called Lace Curtain Irish, with aspirations to have her origins forgotten and to be thought of as a regal Bostonian. Once Jasper had grumbled in a rare moment of confidence that his wife’s one ambition was to marry the children off “well.” After another drink of whiskey Jasper said that Anne didn’t care for bedroom antics and suffered silently, occasionally being known to mutter, “Just do it and get it over with!” Yet Jasper loved his wife, regardless of the fact that he was constantly being reminded that she had married beneath herself.
At the time the Powerses were married, Jasper was a clerk in the Manhattan City Bank, and in spite of the fact that he was now president, Anne never let him forget his humble beginnings. In retaliation, or perhaps just for the warmth and caring of a woman, Jasper had taken a mistress, although he continued to live at home and pay the bills. Jasper was essentially a family man, and he loved his children. Rossiter, his only son and the eldest, had the same tall, golden, handsome looks of his mother’s family. Little Annie, as he called his oldest daughter, was the mirror image of his wife, and although he knew her to be selfish and demanding, he was so beguiled by her slender elegance and quick mind that he usually acceded to her wishes. But it was Mary he adored. Her freckled face and auburn hair reminded him of his own sister back in Ireland. She was a child close to his heart’, and she returned his love.
How would Callie fare in this household? Byrch’s mind drifted back to the Powers children. It was because of the youngest child, Mary, that he decided to ask Jasper to hire Callie. Perhaps Callie could be Mary’s companion. The Powerses lived out on Staten Island, away from the city and all its evils.
In a very few hours it would be dawn—Saturday and the banks were closed. Jasper would be enjoying a late morning at home. Never one to drag his feet once his mind had been made up, Byrch decided to catch a few hours’ sleep before taking the ferry out to the island.
Before nine o’clock that morning Byrch took the ferry, along with his rented hackney cab and driver, across the Upper Bay to the town of St. George, which was just north of Tompkinsville and the quarantine station. In the cold of mid-December he looked out over the gray waters at the sailing ships and small boats either at anchor or sailing to and from the city. He’d seen this sight many times before, but now, after Callie’s account of her experiences, he saw the whole scene from a different point of view. Quarantine, while necessary to the health of the city at large, was nonetheless a scourge on those subjected to it, he realized.
He traveled over the part of Staten Island he was familiar with: rolling hills, sandy beaches, good farm land, and rich top soil. Many of the city’s elite kept summer homes out here, and Staten Island also harbored a society all its own in the section of the island where the Powerses lived—Todt Hill, almost three miles inland. Here on the craggy redstone rock, the wealthy erected their homes which, from this vantage, had a magnificent view of the Narrows and both bays. Tompkinsville, nestled beneath the shelter of the bluffs, was obscured from their view.
The hackney turned off Todt Hill Road onto a cinder-paved drive leading to the Powers’s house, which perched on the highest outcropping of land. The house was impressive—three stories high, of clapboard and brick. A wide porch skirted three sides of the first floor, and several of the upstairs rooms opened onto balconies with ornamental railings and cone-shaped shingled roofs. Here the wind was a mighty adversary, rushing down upon the hilltop in cold, blustery breaths. Anne Powers’s artistic hand could be seen in the careful placement of shrubs and trees, and Byrch knew that from early spring to late autumn a myriad of bright and fragrant flowers grew in gay abundance. Now, with the onset of winter, the grass was that sleeping shade of brown and the trees, except for the evergreens, were bare, reaching to scrape the sky with bony fingers.
Alighting from the hackney, Byrch said to the driver, “Go around back and tell them you drove Mr. Kenyon out. You’ll warm yourself and have one of the best cups of coffee you’ve ever tasted.”
Byrch bounded up the front porch; using the brass clapper to knock on the door. There was a shuffling from within, and Jasper Powers himself opened the door. “Byrch, you son-of-a-gun! Come in, come in!”
Jasper was a tall, heavily built, white-haired Irishman with intelligent blue eyes that twinkled merrily. He was the stuff leprechauns were made of, Byrch had thought on many occasions. He greeted Jasper with enthusiasm and warmth, feeling himself pulled into a bear hug.
“What brings you out to the island?” Jasper asked. “Don’t tell me you had a hankering for a ferry ride on this miserable day. You didn’t receive bad news from Ireland, did you?”
“No.” Byrch put Jasper’s mind at rest. “Da is doing fine, or so he said in his last letter. He’s talking about making a trip out this summer, but we both know he says that every year. Why don’t you write and encourage him? He mentioned a letter from you not too long ago.”
“There’s nothing I’d like better than to see my old friend Seamus. But I fear he’s far too happy over there on the ‘auld sod.’ He complains that when he’s here in the States he’s only a displaced Irishman.”
“Like so many others these days,” Byrch said sourly, thinking of Callie and following Jasper into his library, which he liked to refer to as his “inner sanctum.” Here Anne Powers was forbidden to enter with either dust cloth or broom. The room had the aroma of Jasper’s cigars and aged leather. The long, multipaned windows looked out over the side lawn and beyond into the valley leading to the bay. It was a good, manly room, where a body could put his feet up and undo his cravat and engage in lengthy conversation about politics while sipping Jasper’s finest Irish whiskey.
“If you’d been an hour later, Byrch, you would have missed me. I intended to go out to Kreischerville to check on the summerhouse and farm. But I’d rather spend the day with you, if you’re amicable?”
“Sorry, Jasper. I must get back to the city.” It suddenly seemed to Byrch that almost every moment’s thought was devoted to the girl; it was exhausting.
“Pity. Anne is having a shoulder of pork for dinner, complete with applesauce from our own trees. Can’t I tempt you?” Jasper moved over to a large, impressively carved desk and a silver coffee service from which he poured Byrch a mug of brew. None of Anne’s delicate porcelain for his study; these mugs were thick-handled and large. “Then you’ve come here for a reason, and I take it it’s rather important, considering I’ll be back in the city on Monday morning.” Jasper settled himself in a cracked leather chair behind his desk, propping his feet up on the newspapers and journals that littered its top. “Talk to me, Byrch, and don’t leave anything out. Details, the kind you put in your newspaper. Makes for a good story.”
“All in good time. First, appease my curiosity. Tell me about the children. How’s Rossiter? The girls are all but young ladies by now—I wonder if I’ll know them when I see them next.”
“You’d know them,” Jasper said sourly. “It’s the same old story. Anne dotes on Rossiter as though he’s the second coming of Christ! Although, to the boy’s credit, he does balk under her influence. I suppose there’s hope for him yet. And Little Anne is the picture of her mother, growing prettier and more elegant by the day.”
“And Mary? How’s Mary doing?” Byrch asked softly, watching the expression on his friend’s face soften to a paternal glow.
“Mary’s becoming a handful,” Jasper broke into a wide grin. “She’s giving Anne a difficult time of it. That one takes after my side of the family, a renegade, sure and delightful! Anne is giving some thought to sending her off to boarding school where they’ll teach her to become a lady. Do you know what that little rascal did last week? She took her mother’s best petticoat and made a kite!” Jasper guffawed with amusement. “If that wasn’t bad enough, she was caught flying the damn thing in the churchyar
d and some of Anne’s friends happened to be there. When Little Annie squealed to their mother, Mary retaliated by putting burrs in Annie’s bloomers. Needless to say, Mary is confined to her room. That little one is too bright and intelligent for the namby-pamby rules Anne sets. She needs to use her mind, to be creative.”
Byrch roared with laughter, more at the imagined expression on haughty Anne Powers’s face than at what Mary had done. He also saw this as the perfect opportunity to introduce the subject of Callie.
“Jasper, I think I may have the answer to your problems with Mary.” Quickly Byrch related Callie’s story. All the while he watched Jasper’s face, praying the man would agree to take Callie into his household.
“An Irish lass, you say. Sounds as though she’s had a tough time of it.”
“Tougher than you’d imagine, but to her credit, her spirit isn’t broken. And she’s young. But she’s got a good head on her shoulders. I neglected to say I had the occasion to make her acquaintance in Dublin; I’ve seen her first-hand with her little brothers and sisters, and she’s very conscientious. She’d be good for Mary, and Mary would be good for her. What do you say, Jasper? It would be a great favor to me and one to yourself as well.”
“She sounds perfect to me. I suppose I should talk it over with Anne, but if I do, I run the risk of her refusal. Our best bet would be for you to bring the girl out here when she’s fully recovered from her cold. When I tell Anne how fashionable it would be for Mary to have her own companion, she’ll see the light.”
Callie was curled up in the Queen Anne chair near the fireplace. Edward had just finished clearing away the lunch tray and had brought her several copies of the Clarion-Observer to peruse. He had told her how impressed he was that she could read and write, and Callie preened beneath his compliments. “Aunt Sara and my mother went to formal school,” she informed him. “I went too, for a few years, before things got so bad and we moved to Dublin. Then I had to work in the mill, but Mum made me keep up with my studies. Then I was able to help her with Georgie and Hallie. The twins were still too little.”
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