Cinders to Satin

by Fern Michaels

  “It’s already poured,” Lena said, busy with the raisin scones and spattering bacon. “You’re a bit late this morning, girl. Didn’t you sleep well last night?”

  “Well enough.” Callie accepted a strip of crisp fried bacon. “I just had a hard time finding the courage to put my feet on the floor.”

  “What did I tell you, MacDuff? That room of Callie’s is smaller than a rabbit hutch and colder than a well-digger’s backside in winter. Do you think you’ll find a spare piece of carpet somewhere to lay next to her bed?”

  “Aye. That I will,” Hugh growled as was his way in the early morning. Callie suspected he romanced an occasional bottle in his room over the carriage house. But she genuinely liked this tall, bony man whose face was square and sharp with an everpresent growth of grizzled stubble on his chin. “As soon as her highness takes off for Boston, I’ll poke around in the attic and find you something.” Hugh always referred to Mrs. Powers as “her highness” when she was out of earshot, and it never failed to make Callie giggle.

  “Sit down, child, Mary’s eggs will take a minute yet. Have you done everything Mrs. Powers told you? Did you be certain to pack only Mary’s very best dresses? She’ll be wanting to make the best impression on her famous family, I can tell you.” Lena talked as she buttered several hot scones. “You’ve made such a change in that little one in the short time you’ve been here. I don’t think Mrs. Powers has had to take the hairbrush to her once!”

  “Aye!” Hugh smiled. “She’s a good lassie and only needed a bit of loving, I says. I’d like to see how they make out with her without you along, lass.”

  Callie, too, was worried about Mary. What if someone noticed that she was hard of hearing?

  “It will be a well-deserved holiday for us, though, the family going to Boston.” Hugh took a swallow of coffee and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his heavy workshirt. “I’ve even got a little tree in the woods picked out for us. And through the goodness of Mr. Powers’s heart, there’s a goose to cook for Christmas Day.”

  “Another Christmas,” Lena sighed. Callie knew she was thinking of her daughters who lived with their families somewhere in New Jersey.

  “Can’t you go to see your grandchildren, Lena? I know how much you’d like to.”

  “Argh! Much as I would, it won’t happen this year. I’ve postponed my Christmas holiday for sometime in March when my youngest girl has her fist child. I’ll be going out there to help out.” Lena brightened, patted Callie’s hand, and smiled. “Don’t you worry, girl, we’ll make Christmas right here, just the three of us. And maybe you can talk that grumpy old man over there into going to church with us. It couldn’t hurt his black soul to pray to his Maker for once.”

  “And what do you know of my black soul? Have ye seen it?”

  “Lena,” Callie interrupted before they got started on one of their arguments, “can you hurry with Mary’s breakfast? There’s still so much to do to get her ready.”

  “Aye, Lena, get on with the child’s breakfast. For certain that good for nothing Tilly won’t be giving our Callie a hand with what needs to be done!” Tilly was the day worker who came in each morning to do housework and laundry. Possessing an inflated opinion of herself and her station in the Powers’s household, she was resentful of the fact that Callie had been appointed to the more important position of Mary’s companion. Tilly had said to Hugh that if it was a playmate for their brat the Powerses were looking for, they’d have done better to pick a guttersnipe from the streets than an Irish girl and a greenhorn at that! Tilly had forgotten for the moment that Hugh himself had been born outside the country and hated the term ‘greenhorn.’ Since that day, Hugh had become Callie’s staunch defender.

  “Finish up that coffee, MacDuff. Mrs. Powers has those trunks ready to take down to the wagon. And don’t forget to dress warm,” Lena added. “It’s a long, cold ride to the ferry and colder even going across.”

  Hugh MacDuff was to drive the Powerses to the ferry and take them across to South Street where they would meet Mr. Powers, who had stayed in the city the night before. From there, they were taking a steamship up the coast to Boston Harbor.

  “Callie,” Lena directed, placing another sweel roll on Mary’s tray, “you can take this up to Miss Mary now. There’s an extra sweet roll for you, and since you haven’t time for a proper breakfast this morning, you’ll take your lunch down here with MacDuff and me.”

  Callie carried the tray up the backstairs to Mary’s nursery on the third floor. Her shoes were soundless on the carpeted stairs and hallway. As she passed the second floor where Mrs. Powers’s bedroom was, she heard Miss Anne speaking with her mother.

  “Mamán! How can you be so cruel? I’m seventeen, nearly eighteen, and I don’t see why I must share a cabin with that little monster! Really, Mamán,” she continued to whine, “that little brat is always poking into my things, and she has such dirty little habits. Mamán! You’re not listening to me!”

  “Anne,” Mrs. Powers said crisply, “I am listening and I don’t care for what I hear, The arrangements have already been made for our accommodations aboard the steamship, and you will share a cabin with your sister whether you like it or not! Cabin space is at a premium this time of year with the holidays upon us, and it was the best we could do.”

  “Mamán!” came another whine.

  “If you will please attend to your packing, Anne, I will be most grateful. Don’t forget to pack your new dancing slippers to go with your ball gown. And I don’t want to hear another word about Mary. You will just have to make do.”

  “Ugh! It just makes me ill the way everyone fawns over that little brat. And I suppose when Rossiter joins us at Grandfather’s house, he’ll just dote on her and spoil her even more than she already is.”

  “Hmmm? Yes, I suppose. But what harm can it do? And Rossiter always was such a generous-natured boy.” There was a softening of Mrs. Powers’s tone when she mentioned her son.

  “You always favor Ross over me,” Anne continued to whine.

  Callie continued up to the third floor, deciding she had heard enough. Usually Mrs. Powers cossetted her oldest daughter, but this morning she evidently had little patience for her whining and wheedling. And Callie believed she knew the reason. Rossiter. Mrs. Powers had been talking about this trip to Boston and her eagerness to be reunited with her son ever since Callie had come to work.

  Sometimes it seemed to Callie that the world loved Rossiter Powers. Faces seemed to brighten whenever his name was mentioned, and his exploits and virtues were common discussion. Over the mantle in the parlor was an artist’s rendering of him standing beside his favorite horse. Callie had peered deeply into that handsome young face, and she thought him to be the most beautiful young man she had ever seen. His eyes were a soft gray, or so Mary had told her, and Callie could see from the portrait that his hair was the stuff of spun gold. He was possessed of an engaging smile that made you want to smile back at him. If asked to describe him, Callie would have said he looked exactly like the golden-haired guardian angel in the sacristy of St. John’s Church in Dublin.

  “Hurry up now, Mary,” Callie said as she put the tray down on the little table near the high window. “We’ve got to be quicker than two greased pigs to get you ready in time.”

  Mary was sitting on the edge of her bed, and from the expression on her face, she was sulking. “I want you to come with us,” she pouted.

  Callie went to sit beside her, touching her gently. “I can’t come with you, little one, I’m to stay here. I know you’re thinking you’ll get yourself into some kind of trouble if I’m not there with you—”

  “No!” Mary threw herself into Callie’s arms. “That’s not it at all. I’ll . . . I’ll miss you!”

  Burying her face into the sweet warmth at the back of Mary’s neck, Callie clucked just the way Peggy used to do. “But I’ll be here when you come back. You know I will. Think of it, you’ll be celebrating Christmas in Boston the way you’ve done every y
ear since you were born. And you’ll see Rossiter after all these months. You’ve been telling me how special he is and how he pays you special attention. Come on, be a good girl now. Let’s get ready so we don’t make your Mamán angry.”

  Mary released herself from Callie’s embrace and moved to the little table to eat her breakfast. “I’m going to tell Rossiter all about you, Callie. I’m going to tell him how pretty you are and how you take such good care of me, and how Papá thinks you’re the best thing to happen to this house since gas lighting.”

  Callie laughed. “And if you tell him all that, do you think you’ll have breath enough left to tell him how pleased Mr. Reader is with your lessons? Or whisper to him how you used your Mamán’s petticoat for a kite in the churchyard?”

  Mary giggled, nibbling on her scone. “Rossiter is so much fun, Callie. He likes to dance and sing, and he knows the funniest stories you’ll ever hear. And he’s so-ooo pretty,” Mary sighed, rolling her eyes. “Callie, can I tell him that your real name is Callandre and that you’re named for a lovely lady your Da knew in London?”

  “My father, not Da. Don’t let your Mamán catch you talking like an Irishman. She’d banish me from the house forever! And if you spend all your time with Rossiter talking about me, you’ll find he’s soon bored!” Callie was folding Mary’s nightdress and putting it in the basket of laundry she would wash later that day.

  “You never get bored hearing about Rossiter, do you, Callie?”

  “No, I enjoy listening about him. But most of all, I like to see the way your eyes dance with pleasure every time you think of him.”

  “You know what, Callie?” Mary asked between bites of crisp bacon. “I think Rossiter’s eyes are going to dance too when he finally meets you this summer.”

  “Don’t be a goose! Hurry, finish your breakfast.” Callie felt a surge of excitement that stirred her blood and freshened her cheeks. It was silly, of course. Why should a young man as wonderful as Rossiter Powers even give a thought to a skinny little girl from Ireland who cleaned his mother’s house and played with his little sister. Still, the tingle would not leave her.

  Callie was standing on the wide porch that ran along three sides of the house, watching MacDuff toss the last of the baggage into the wagon. In the hackney cab that Mr. Powers had sent for his wife and daughters, Mary was leaning far out the window, waving to Callie.

  “Callie!” MacDuff called. “Miss Anne wants to tell you something!”

  Callie skipped out to the hackney and around to the opposite side. Miss Anne was leaning out the door. “I nearly forgot to tell you; there’s a packet for you on my dressing table. Papá gave it to me several days ago to bring home to you. It’s from Mr. Kenyon,” she turned to explain to her mother whose finely drawn brows were raised in surprise.

  A package! From Byrch Kenyon! Callie’s curiosity made her feet itch to run up the stairs to see what it was.

  The Powers family was on their way, and they would not return until after the New Year. Callie stood on the porch waving until the hackney was out of sight. She saw Mrs. Powers pull Mary away from the window, shaking a scolding finger under the child’s nose. “Mary, Mary,” Callie whispered, “please be a good child and don’t cause trouble or sorrow for yourself.”

  “Well, they’re gone at last,” Lena breathed with relief, taking Callie back indoors with her. “Every year it’s the same thing! Rush, rush, rush. You’d think by now Mrs. Powers would have the sense to get everything ready days ahead of time to avoid this last minute lunacy. Where’re you going, Callie? Won’t you come have a cuppa tea with me? We’ll toast our feet near the stove.”

  Callie was already half way up the front stairs. “In a minute, Lena. Miss Anne said there was a package for me from Mr. Kenyon!”

  “And so I heard,” Lena muttered. “What I’d like to know is why she didn’t give it to you right away?”

  When Callie came back down to the kitchen, eyes bright with tears and a solmen expression around her pouting mouth, she carried brown wrapping paper and several newspapers, copies of the Clarion-Observer.

  “What’s the trouble, girl? Did you get a Christmas present you don’t care for?” Lena asked quietly, seeing Callie’s lower lip tremble with emotion. “Come here now, it can’t be that bad, can it?”

  “Bad, no, it’s not bad,” Callie whispered, laying the papers on the table for Lena to see. There, on the front page of each of them were long columns, feature articles, complete with drawings of the hospital at Tompkinsville. Reading the columns, Callie recognized the words as her own. There was a note included from Byrch.

  Dear Sweeting,

  Before I posted the letters you gave me, I took the liberty of reading them. I felt I could not say it better myself, and I hope you forgive me for using them in the Clarion. I’ve kept your name a secret, but your story is here, Callie, all the pain, the suffering. I only had the power, Sweeting, you had the words. There have already been several inquiries, and an investigation of the quarantine practices is planned. Because of you, I am certain conditions will improve for others coming so far from their homes to find their futures in America.

  Your friend,

  Byrch Kenyon

  “What a grand man he is, your Mr. Kenyon,” Lena told her, wiping a tear from her eyes after she read the articles, “and it’s a grand girl you are, Callie James!”

  Chapter Eleven

  The weeks passed quickly, racing into months, and one day Callie realized she had been in service to the Powerses for more than a year. It was April, and in two weeks she would have a birthday, her eighteenth.

  The friendship between Mary and Callie had deepened into devotion. Because of Callie’s patient understanding and love, Mary was coping very well with her hearing problem, which miraculously was still undetected by the family. Nearly ten years old, Mary had learned to be alert and aware, becoming quite adept at watching their lips to augment her diminishing hearing. Under Callie’s undivided attention, she had grown from a frustrated little hellion into a long-legged, graceful child, both watchful and reserved.

  Mr. Harrison Reader still came in twice a week to teach Mary. And Callie, in constant attendance at these lessons, benefited from them. Her own speech patterns had been refined, her vocabulary broadened, and her instinctive gift for mimicry and natural intelligence placed her in the good graces of Mrs. Powers, who was glad to hear that Callie’s heavy brogue and predilection for homilies and colloquialisms had all but vanished. She was a good example for Mary with her quiet, thrifty ways, and Anne Powers was forced to admit that Byrch Kenyon and Jasper had done her a real service by bringing her Callie James.

  While social conditions as well as the potato crop had not improved in Ireland, the James family was faring pretty well, thanks to Callie’s prompt letters and the monthly bank draft, which had increased from twelve to fourteen dollars because of Jasper’s insistence that Callie had proved herself invaluable.

  That past Christmas, the second spent away from home, Callie had received a letter from Ireland. Peggy’s handwriting leaped out from the thin paper.

  Our Own Callie,

  It has been a year and several months since you left us, and we sorely miss you, especially at this time of year. The twins have sent along drawings they made for you. Billy drew one of our little Joseph, but don’t be thinking your sweet baby brother is as hairless as Billy shows him to be. Our Joseph’s hair is as fine and as gold as Georgie’s at the same age.

  Our Georgie is attending school full-time, thanks to your generous help each month. He still works as a delivery boy for the shops on Bayard Street. He’ll be twelve soon, and a fine strapping lad he is, tall and serious and gifted with numbers and letters. Father Brisard at the Holy Mother Church says our Georgie is a bright lad. Your brother still talks about going off to sea, but your Da tells him to stick to his studies and wait until he can go as a midshipman rather than a common swabbie. So far Georgie is listening to your Da. Oftentimes the lad speaks of going o
ff to America as you did. We are all so proud of you, Callie, you are such a good daughter. I know Georgie admires you and would like to do as much for the family as you are.

  Bridget and Billy are looking fat and sassy, thanks to the money you send. They will be six on their next birthday. Granda is as fit as a fiddle, but his eyesight is going, and our Hallie has taken it upon herself to walk him about. You should see them, Hallie young and tender as a new sapling and Granda old and bent as an oak, wandering down McIver Street and onto Bayard to pick up a bit of news and watch the passersby.

  Your Da sends his love to you. He misses you and never a day goes by that he doesn’t speak of you or ask if a letter came. You would be so proud of your Da. He works regular in the tinsmith shop, and though the pay is not much, it keeps him busy and he feels like he is doing something for his family. I would be lying if I said he never went near the Melrose Tavern, but more often he sends Georgie out for a growler of ale and tosses it down here at home. Your Aunt Sara says the man is finally getting some sense about him. It was hard for others to see, but I always knew he was a good man, and I have loved him for it.

  Your cousin Colleen is expecting another babe in a few months’ time, but her gentleman officer husband was recalled to England. Something fishy is going on there because my sister breaks into tears every time she mentions Colleen, and your Uncle Jack has a look in his eye that’s harder than a loan shark’s, and you know how Jack was always laughing and merry. Da said he heard at Melrose’s Tavern that Colleen’s husband already had a wife in England when he married your cousin. Sara sometimes says she wishes she’d never given away Owen Gallagher’s ticket to America, and I know she’s thinking that her own daughter could be doing as well as you are. I’ve told her about those letters you sent telling us about the hardships to be suffered in getting to America, but Sara just sighs. Even if she doesn’t know that Colleen isn’t half as strong and smart as you are, I know it. Colleen could never have gotten as far as you have, Callie.