by Rhys Bowen
“The answer to that is simple. You won't be any use to me—not beyond what you're already doing. Clean up and run errands, that I can tolerate, I suppose, but I'm not sharing my cases with you. You'd have me out of business in a week. Women can't keep their mouths shut to save their souls.”
“You have a very poor opinion of women,” I said. “Is that why you've never married?”
“Who said I'd never married?” He walked past me and slammed the open file drawer shut. “I was married once. Pretty little thing. Actress. She ran off with another guy.”
“Aha. So that's it!” I smiled triumphantly. “That's why you're down on all women—because you couldn't trust one of them. Well, I've had bad enough experiences with certain men, but it doesn't make me think that all men are scoundrels.”
“Hmmph.” This seemed to be his standard expression when I'd gotten the better of him. “I'd be obliged if you'd stay out of this room.” He motioned me to the door. “This is my inner sanctum, so to speak. Tidy up the outer office all you like, but leave my inner sanctum alone.”
“You had a weeks-old pork pie in here,” I commented over my shoulder as I swept out. “You'll be attracting mice.”
“Speaking of pork pies”—he reached into his vest pocket—”You can go to the delicatessen on Broadway and bring me a liverwurst sandwich for lunch. Get yourself something too. And while you're out, find a locksmith and tell him to come round this afternoon. I'll have a lock put on that filing cabinet, for my own peace of mind. Go on, move them plates of meat.”
I looked around, confused. “What plates of meat?”
“Plates of meat—feet. Cockney rhyming slang,” he said, grinning at my discomfort. “Blimey, you'd never have lasted two minutes in London if you didn't speak the language.”
“Since I've never been to London, the matter has never arisen,” I said haughtily, “and I would have made sure I only mixed with higher-class people who didn't have to use slang.”
Instead of being annoyed, he laughed out loud. “You're a rum one, I'll say that for you. Plenty of spunk. Go on then. Take them plates of meat down the apples and pears.”
I smiled too as I went down the stairs. I had the feeling that Paddy might even learn to like me someday.
I was coming out of Katz's Delicatessen with liverwurst for Riley and cold roast beef for myself when I stood aside to let an automobile go past. I swear they were becoming more common in the city every day, making crossing the streets even more hazardous. As if streetcars and galloping hansom cabs weren't hazards enough! But instead of roaring past, this automobile screeched to a halt and Daniel jumped from the driver's seat. He was wearing a cap and motoring goggles and I didn't recognize him until he yelled out my name.
I thought about running, but there was no point in it. I had to face him sometime, and maybe a busy street was better than at home.
“Where on earth have you got to these past days?” he demanded, removing the goggles as he approached me. “I've been worried about you. All Mrs. O'Hallaran would say was that you were out, and Miss Van Woekem told me you'd changed your mind and no longer worked for her. And you didn't answer the notes I left for you. What is going on?”
“Maybe I misunderstood the nature of our friendship, sir,” I said, “but in the circumstances I feel it wiser that we should have no further communication with each other.”
“What are you talking about? What have I done to offend you?”
“Maybe I found the small matter of an undisclosed fiancee somewhat offensive,” I said. “I am sure Miss Norton would not wish you to waste any more of your time with me. Now I must return to work or my employer will wonder what has happened to me. Good day.”
I started to walk away.
“Molly, wait, don't go, please,” he called after me. “Let me explain.”
“What do you think I might not understand about the word fiancee?” I asked. I had been so controlled until now and was shocked to hear my voice crack. If I stayed here any longer I would let myself down and start to cry. “There is only one meaning to it, as far as I know. I may be a common peasant girl, but I was educated in French.”
I started to run.
“Molly, please!” I heard him call after me.
“Go away and stop following me,” I shouted back. “I wish never to see you again.”
He didn't attempt to pursue me any further.
I worked like a crazy woman for the rest of the day. I thought Paddy would be pleased with the way his place was looking, but he didn't respond with anything more than a grunt until late in the afternoon he finally exploded. “Will you stop for a moment, woman, you're exhausting me just looking at you. If you polish that floor any harder you'll have us both going arse over tip every time we cross the room.”
“I need to be busy,” I said.
“Well, you're in my way. I have to get myself dressed for my appointment at Delmonico's.”
“Delmonico's, eh? You do move in elevated circles.”
“I'm not planning to eat there,” he said. “A certain gentleman will be dining there tonight in one of the private dining rooms. Delmonico's will have an extra waiter on duty. You can watch me transform myself. Wait here.”
He disappeared into the back room and reappeared wearing a waiter's tuxedo and white apron. “Now all it needs is the application of the finishing touches.”
He opened a box and took out a neat black toupee, parted in the middle, which he placed on his head.
“Now for some facial hair,” he muttered and held up a waxed black mustache. “Trick of the trade, my dear, is to have one distinguishing feature—a beard, a mustache, a monocle, an unusual hat, even a flower in the buttonhole. That is all that people will remember about you. He squeezed out a ribbon of spirit gum and applied the mustache. The transformation was most impressive. He had gone from a colorless old man to a rather flamboyant and younger waiter.
“How can you get away with something like this? Surely they know all their waiters?”
He grinned—that cheeky Cockney grin. “Those poor devils are so run off their feet that they haven't got time to notice a new face. I've done it enough times to know how to make myself unobtrusive. The secret is to look busy. Look as if you're supposed to be there and you've got an important job to do. I pick up something like a candle, or a vase of flowers, or a couple of glasses, cross the floor with them, into the private room. Diners never ndtice what the waiter is doing, especially not these diners. They'll be too engrossed in each other. I'll fiddle about in one corner, take a picture if I can, and then depart.”
“How exciting. I'd like to try that.”
“They don't have women waiters.”
“They have slim young men and you've just shown me how to apply facial hair.”
“Over my dead body.” He looked up and glanced at me from the mirror. “Now go on, clear off home. I've got work to do.”
On the way home the despair I had been keeping at bay since my afternoon encounter with Daniel finally threatened to engulf me. I would not be seeing Daniel ever again. I suppose until that moment I had hoped that the whole thing was a ghastly mistake. At the back of my mind was a fragile hope that I had somehow misunderstood, that Daniel would laugh and say, “What fiancee? I have no fiancee.” But he hadn't.
All I wanted to do now was to crawl into my bed, pull the covers over my head and escape into sleep. I opened the front door, tiptoed up the stairs without attracting the attention of Mrs. O'Hallaran and was about to open the door to my room when I froze on the landing. Someone was moving around inside my room.
I flung open the door. Two guilty faces looked up, holding my pillows with which they had obviously just been fighting.
“Seamus, Bridie, what is going on here?” I demanded. “What do you think you're doing in my room?”
“Auntie Nuala told us to come in here,” Bridie said in a small voice. “She said we had to stay with you cos Daddy can't take care of us.”
“What's wron
g with your father?”
“He got buried,” young Seamus said matter-of-factly.
At that moment the door to the O'Connors' room opened and Nuala herself came out, putting her finger to her lips. “Not so much noise over here. Can't the poor man rest in peace?”
“Seamus is dead?” I gasped.
“Not yet, but he will be if he's not allowed his rest.” She stood there, meaty hands on her big hips. “Did the children not tell you then? The tunnel caved in and the poor man was buried alive. He was lucky—they saw his hand sticking out of the muck and they got to him in time. Any longer and it would have been too late. As it is the doctors don't know. He's got a nasty concussion and they say his lungs are full of dirt. If he doesn't get pneumonia it will be a miracle. He's in the hands of the Blessed Virgin now.”
“Oh, no. That's terrible. Why is he home here and not in the hospital?”
She was still looking at me with that offensive sneer. “Hospitals cost money, so unless you've got yourself a fancy man on the side and you're offering to pay, it's home here the poor man will be staying. The doctor says there's nothing they can do for him anyway. Either he gets better or he doesn't. But it's no concern of yours. He's our responsibility. That's why I've come over to look after him myself. I've left Finbar to take care of my boys and I'll stay here until poor Seamus is on the mend.”
“Oh, but you really don't have to,” I exclaimed, trying to disguise my look of horror. “I'm sure between myself and Mrs. O'Hallaran we can take care of him.”
“What else are families for?” she said. “We take care of our own.”
“But your boys will be needing you. And what about your job at the fish market?”
“Family troubles come first,” she said. “Always have. And it's slack season at the market. So I'll be moving in for a while, until the poor man recovers, God and all his saints willing.”
“It's very good of you,” I said with a sinking heart.
She gave me a condescending smile. “He'll be needing someone with experience to nurse him. But he must have absolute quiet, the doctor says, so the little ones will have to stay in there with you.”
“Yes, of course.” I could hardly say no without seeming completely hard-hearted.
“They'll be wanting their tea.” Nuala turned to go back into Seamus's room.
So it seemed I was to be mother to two small children again. Not that I objected. In fact, now I saw them as a blessing in disguise. I would be too busy to have time to sit around and mope. That night I made up beds for them on the floor in my room, but in the middle of the night Bridie crawled into bed beside me, just as she used to do on the ship. “I don't want my daddy to die,” she whispered.
“Of course he won't die, sweetheart,” I said, stroking back her soft hair. “He'll be as right as rain before you know it.”
“Aunt Nuala says he might die.”
“Your Aunt Nuala says a lot of stupid things,” I said. “We'll say a little prayer for him together and put him in the Blessed Mother's hands, all right?”
We were in the middle of our prayer when Shamus crawled into bed with us. “I want to pray for my daddy too,” he said.
I fell asleep with an arm around each of them. In the morning I gave them bread and jam and tea and left for work with strict instructions that they weren't to make noise, they weren't to touch anything and they weren't to try cooking on my gas ring. Actually I was more concerned about Nuala. I didn't doubt for a moment that she'd be going through my possessions, if she hadn't done so already. Fine. Let her. It wasn't as if I had anything of any value, except for some letters Daniel had written me—I would have to burn them as soon as I got a chance.
As soon as I reached Riley's place I explained that I might need to be spending more time at home because someone had to care for the children. I had expected that he'd see this as an opportunity to point out another reason why women were no use to him in business, but he merely nodded distractedly. “Go on then. Clear off.”
I stood there, staring at him. He hadn't looked up from a notebook on his desk in which he was doodling a lot of angry black spikes.
“Hold on a minute. This doesn't mean you're firing me, does it?” I asked. “I mean, I've done a good job for you here. This place looks clean as a whistle and I've run your errands … and I didn't mean I wasn't coming to work at all. Just that I'd like to check in on the little ones from time to time.”
“Yes, I suppose you haven't done too badly, considering,” he said grudgingly, “but I've got some serious work to do. I don't need someone hanging around me, polishing and scrubbing around my feet. Things have taken a very unexpected turn.”
He started thumbing through the small black notebook, scowling in concentration. “You found out something last night at Delmonico's?” I asked excitedly.
“Not Delmonico's. Afterward. In the saloon. They didn't recognize me, see, because I was still in my waiter's gear. They didn't think anyone could overhear them.” He was clearly rattled, otherwise he'd never have babbled on to me like this. “I can't really believe… I mean, him of all people, and I never took it seriously.” He looked up, almost surprised to see me still standing there. “Look, why don't you clear off. I've got work to do. This is no time to have a woman around die place.”
“Should I pop in later to see if there are any errands you want run?”
“I won't need errands run. I'll be out and about.”
“I could keep an eye on the office for you and greet potential clients.”
“I don't want you poking around when I'm not here. Go on. Hop it. Oh, and if you see your friend Captain Sullivan, you might tell him that Paddy would like a word with him, on the quiet, so to speak. I'll be at the usual place this evening.”
I was dismissed. The thought of going back to the room with two lively children and Nuala next door was not appealing, but I had nowhere else to go. The weather didn't encourage strolling the boulevards. If I'd had my way, I'd have been swimming in the East River with the boys, but the only swimming ladies were allowed to do was out at Coney Island, where Daniel had taken me one Sunday. And that wasn't what I'd call swimming—a little discreet bobbing at the edge of the waves in bathing suits with so many frills that they weighed a ton.
Little boys were splashing one another with water from a horse trough on Broadway. A few drops came in my direction. “Whoops. Sorry, miss,” the boys called, grinning. I smiled back.
It seemed that boys were allowed to get away with anything. My mind went back to my adventure in boy's costume and the way I had passed through the streets as if invisible. I liked that. Sometime I'd use it again, when Paddy Riley finally trusted me enough to send me out on a job. He obviously didn't trust me with anything yet, though, or he'd have wanted me around today when he had important work to do. I wondered exactly what he had overheard last night that had disturbed him so.
I checked on Seamus when I got home. He was still drifting in and out of consciousness while Nuala applied cold flannels to his forehead, his face ashen-gray. What on earth would happen to those children if he died? Would it be better to send them back to Ireland to a mother who was dying of consumption, or leave them here with that dragon of a cousin? I tried not to think about it as I took the children to St. Patrick's Cathedral to light a candle for their da, then we rode the trolley up to Central Park, where they had a grand old time for the rest of the day. I had quite a grand old time myself. There is something about grass and trees and water that makes the world seem all right again.
The next day Seamus was awake but still looking as pale as a ghost. Nuala asked me to run some errands for her. Calves'-foot jelly and marrow-bone soup would be nourishing, she said. This brought up the matter of money. I was down to almost nothing myself, except for the pittance Paddy was paying me and Miss Van Woekem's two dollars. I was willing to spend that, but what would happen if Seamus was out of work for a while? I certainly couldn't afford to support a whole family.
My head was
filled with troubled thoughts as I bought the calves' feet and barley for barley water, started a good soup cooking and set the children some lessons to keep them occupied. They seemed to like playing at school and told me I wasn't strict enough to be the schoolmistress and that I needed a cane. I left them practicing their penmanship on their slates and decided to go and see whether Paddy Riley was back in his office and in need of my services.
It was late afternoon and the August heat was intense. The poor horses were flecked with foam as they dragged their delivery wagons and hansom cabs. One was lying in the gutter, cut free of its shafts, dying. People walked past, unconcerned. The horse's owner stood by the wagon looking bewildered. I hurried on by, wanting to do something but knowing there was nothing that could be done. Dying horses were too frequent a sight in this city.
My white blouse was sticking to my back as I reached the mews. The alleyway was cooler, nestled in the shadow of taller buildings, and I dragged myself wearily up Paddy's steps, praying he was there, and looking forward to a drink of water. It seemed I was in luck. The door swung open to my touch. Paddy himself was taking a snooze at the table.
“So this is how you've been working hard…” I began. Then I stopped. The room was in complete disarray. In fact, it looked as if a whirlwind had been through it—papers strewn all over the floor, wastebasket tipped upside down.
“Paddy? What on earth's been—” I broke off as I heard a noise in the back room. I didn't stop to think. I went over and opened the door. This room was in equal disarray and someone was crouched on the floor, bent over the toppled file cabinet. It was a man, dressed head to toe in black. He looked up, startled. For a second our eyes met, then, before I could say anything sensible or let out any sort of sound, he leaped at me. A fist came flying at my face. I went reeling backward and collapsed on the floor, darkness singing in my head, as the dark shape leaped over me, ran to the open back window and jumped out. Still dizzy and feeling I was about to vomit, I staggered to my feet and made it to the window. I couldn't call out—my jaw hurt to move. I could only watch helplessly as an agile dark shadow dodged between garages and out of sight.
