All of his life he’d known he had the charm and looks to captivate the girls. He’d used it to his advantage over and over. His mother’s warnings aside, Taylor simply didn’t see that it caused that much harm. Of course, there was that whole matter back in England. What a jolly time that had been.
But even as Taylor considered the women of his past, it was Bella’s face that came to mind. She wasn’t going to be easily swayed. He smiled. Maybe not, he reasoned, but the game will be only that much more challenging. Winning Bella—bringing her to a place where she’s captive to my charm—will give me something to do. He snuffed out the candle beside his bed and smiled again. ‘‘Ah, Miss Newberry, if you only knew the plans I have for you.’’
CHAPTER 12
Liam hunkered down in a corner of Noreen’s shanty. He longed for the peace and privacy the quiet room in Boston had afforded him. Noreen’s place was filled with a constant din that she seemed to enjoy. If the room began to grow quiet, she would break the silence with her yammering until she stirred the others into a frenzy of noise and activity. Worse yet, he didn’t trust the woman. Her frizzy auburn hair spiraled upward in wiry coils while her green-eyed gaze flitted about the room like the beacon in a lighthouse searching for trouble. It was obvious nothing in the house escaped her scrutiny. Moreover, she’d been obsessed with his belongings since the day he arrived, constantly encouraging him to leave them behind when he left for work in the morning.
His eyelids were growing heavy and he’d just begun to doze off when Noreen edged to his side and dropped to the floor. The odor of her body mixed with the smell of the cheap liquor she’d obviously been drinking all afternoon. The smell was dreadful. Liam leaned aside, hoping to avoid the stench. ‘‘And what would ya be wantin’, Noreen?’’ he muttered.
‘‘Just lookin’ for some friendly conversation, Liam. I get lonely stayin’ in the ’ouse all day with nothing but my cookin’ and cleanin’ to keep me occupied.’’
Liam emitted a loud guffaw. ‘‘For sure ya must be keepin’ yourself occupied with something other than cookin’ or cleanin’, woman. This place is filthy, and the food isn’t fit to slop hogs.’’
‘‘Now ya’ve gone and insulted me again. Why is that? For sure I’m just wantin’ a little company. Used to be I could go and visit with me sister, Kathryn. Did I tell ya she died?’’ The words were slurred yet laced with an edge of melancholy.
‘‘Several times,’’ Liam replied.
She ignored his comment. ‘‘I loved Kathryn and the wee babe—little Cullan. Kathryn let me name him, did I tell ya that?’’ She didn’t wait for an answer before continuing with her recitation. ‘‘Cullan was a sweet one, always smilin’ and cooin’. He’d just begun to talk when Kathryn died. How I wish I coulda kept him. But I promised Kathryn that if anythin’ ever happened to ’er, I’d see the boy was protected,’’ she said, her voice trailing off.
Liam knew he’d regret asking, but his curiosity got the best of him. ‘‘What of the boy’s father? Couldn’t he care for ’im?’’
Noreen turned a hate-filled stare in his direction. ‘‘Cullan’s father is a well-to-do Yank. The child was born out o’ wedlock. You can be bettin’ yar life that the Yank would prefer the child ’ad never been born. I took Cullan away from Lowell because I feared for him.’’
Liam straightened a bit. ‘‘Ya think the Yank would have done the child harm?’’
Noreen shrugged. ‘‘Who knows? But certain I am ’e worried his wife would find out about Kathryn and the child. He didn’t want his powerful friends to be findin’ out, either. It woulda been an embarrassment for ’im, now, wouldn’t it? I told Kathryn he was takin’ advantage of her, but she wouldn’t listen. Ha! Tweren’t nothin’ lovable about that man,’’ she spat.
‘‘So you knew ’im?’’ Liam asked.
‘‘I wasn’t never formally introduced, but Kathryn told me his name, and I know how ’e treated her. He never worried about her welfare or the child’s, for that matter. All he worried about was a warm bed where ’e could be takin’ his pleasures. I couldn’t have kept the child safe here in the Acre if the Yank had decided to do ’im harm. And I’d rather go the rest of my life without seeing Cullan than have harm come to him at his father’s hand.’’
‘‘If I was in your shoes, I’d be watchin’ me tongue. Those are mighty strong accusations to be makin’ against a Yank,’’ Liam warned.
‘‘I ain’t worried. The Yanks don’t care what some Irishwoman has to be sayin’ about them. Besides, I’m speakin’ the truth. The Yanks take advantage at every turn, treat us worse than animals, they do. Them highfalutin’ Boston Associates never give one thought to the livin’ conditions in the Acre. The only time thar thinkin’ about us is when there’s some canal to be dug out or stone to be hauled. It’s not fair,’’ she said, her eyes bleary from the ale.
‘‘You’d best be gettin’ some sleep, Noreen,’’ Liam said.
He watched as Noreen moved off to the area she referred to as her room, which was merely a small space cordoned off by a blanket hanging across a piece of rope. Most likely everything she’d said was true. Distaste for the Irish was prevalent everywhere, not just in Lowell. Yet he wondered about Noreen and how she reconciled the mistreatment she doled out to her kinsmen. Did she not believe it grievous to furnish only putrid gruel and liceinfested bedding to her fellow Irishmen in exchange for their hard-earned coins? She constantly derided the Yanks for their misbehavior while nosing about to steal from one of her Irish boarders. She wasn’t, Liam decided, much different from the Yanks whom she abhorred. Her behavior only confirmed what he already knew: he must locate another place to live, but until then, he needed a place to store his belongings. Leaving his satchel unattended in Noreen’s shack was an invitation to disaster.
The next morning Liam bypassed the gruel bubbling in Noreen’s fireplace. He decided he’d rather pay for a decent meal at the pub.
‘‘You can leave your satchel here while ya’re at work,’’ Noreen said while grabbing at the sleeve of his jacket. ‘‘I’ll watch after it for ya.’’ She gave him a crooked smile and held out her hand. She recited the same litany each time he prepared to leave.
Liam pulled away. ‘‘I’ll be takin’ it with me,’’ he said without meeting her gaze. Noreen’s actions only served to confirm what Liam already knew—given any opportunity, Noreen would steal him blind.
It was a short distance from Noreen’s hovel to the church; that was the only positive thing Liam could say about boarding with her. As usual, he was the first of the small crew to arrive at the church, even after stopping at the pub for breakfast. After lighting one of the whale-oil lamps inside the front door, he found a candle, held it to the flame of the lamp, and then located an opening in the foundation permitting entry into a crawl space under the church. The space was higher than he could have hoped, which allowed him easy movement on his hands and knees. Pulling a chisel from his coat pocket, Liam began to carefully loosen the mortar surrounding an interior stone. He dug until his fingers could finally grasp a tight hold on the piece of granite that abutted the outer wall of the foundation. Methodically, he wiggled the stone back and forth until he felt it release and then slid it forward, finally placing it on the dirt floor.
He placed the candle close at hand, removed a few belongings from the satchel, and carefully counted the money. He placed enough for a few meals in his jacket pocket and returned the remainder of the money to the satchel, along with some letters from home and a few personal items from Ireland.
The sheaf of papers he’d retrieved from J. P. Green’s fireplace lay scattered before him. Liam gathered the pages, glancing from time to time at the long rows of figures—some sort of business accounts, he decided. He ruffled through the papers, hoping to find at least one sheet that was clean on both sides. Two weeks had passed since he’d written home, and his parents would be concerned if they didn’t hear from him soon. He knew his parents well. Each letter would be bandied abou
t the village for all to know that the Donohues’ dutiful son was writing home and thriving in America. Permitting his parents a scrap of prominence among their neighbors was the least he could do for them, but he dare not waste any more time. Grabbing several sheets, he shoved them into the box with his tools and then returned the remainder of the pages to his bag. Wedging the satchel into the existing hole, Liam pushed the piece of granite back into place. The stone didn’t fit tightly, but at least his satchel was out of Noreen’s grasp.
Several men were arriving to work as Liam made his way back to the entryway of the church. ‘‘Did ya fall on yar way in to work, Liam?’’ one of the men asked while looking at Liam’s trousers.
Liam glanced down and brushed off the dirt. ‘‘No, for sure I was doin’ a few chores before startin’ work,’’ he replied.
‘‘Ain’t ya the industrious one,’’ Thomas O’Malley commented with a boisterous laugh before heading off with several other men to work on the roof.
Liam gave him a broad smile in return. ‘‘Will ya be goin’ to the pub for dinner, Thomas?’’
‘‘Sure! I’ll be needin’ a glass of ale come noon. If ya want to join me and some o’ the boys, just meet us out front when the noon bell sounds.’’
‘‘Aye, I’ll do that,’’ Liam replied, waving a hand before walking into the sanctuary to begin carving on a large block of limestone.
The morning hours passed quickly for Liam. The creativity of stonemasonry excited him, especially when he was given a bit of freedom. Unlike J. P. Green, who had insisted there be no deviation from his prepared sketches, Hugh Cummiskey had given Liam free rein in designing the stonework. It was a level of trust that Liam had never before experienced, and he was determined to excel.
When the noonday bell sounded, Liam’s stomach was growling with hunger. Removing the coins from his toolbox, he placed them in his jacket pocket before joining the group of men in front of the church.
They made their way to the bar and found Michael Neil standing behind his makeshift bar, obviously awaiting the crowd. ‘‘Ales all around?’’ he asked as the group entered the doorway.
The men gave their hearty approval to his question and soon were downing their mugs. Mrs. Neil appeared with crockery bowls filled with fish chowder and placed a bowl in front of each man. A young boy followed behind carrying loaves of soda bread. Liam tore off a chunk of the bread, dipping it into the creamy chowder before stuffing it into his mouth. It was the best food he’d eaten since leaving Boston.
‘‘So what do you think of our church, Liam?’’ one of the men called from the end of the table. Beckoning to Mrs. Neil, he pointed toward his empty bowl. She refilled it and moved on to the next man. Liam wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and swallowed hard. ‘‘It’s goin’ to be a beauty, and I’m goin’ to do my best to make sure o’ that,’’ he shouted back as he held up his mug of ale in salute. ‘‘It’s a well-built church of good outward design. Any town would be proud to ’ave it in their midst.’’
‘‘For once I think the Yanks are doin’ right by us,’’ O’Malley agreed.
Liam nodded. ‘‘I’ve looked that buildin’ over, and it’s a fine piece of architecture. Looks a bit out o’ place among all the shanties, but you can be sure it’ll stand the test of time. It’s good and tight—secure! You could hide a king’s ransom in that buildin’ and it would be safe and sound.’’
‘‘Probably a lot safer than those banks the Yanks are sayin’ we should use. I can tell you that the Yanks and their fancy banks won’t ever see a coin outta my pocket,’’ O’Malley replied.
A middle-aged Irishman sitting at the bar turned and lifted his glass in the air. ‘‘If any of us had the good sense God gave the Irish, we’d hide our money and maybe even some rifles in the church. With the help of the good Lord, we could come together and overtake the Yanks and their fancy banks. I’m not about to mix any o’ my money with the Yanks’. They’d steal us blind for sure. And there ain’t a man here who doesn’t believe we could run those mills better than the Yanks, but they ain’t never gonna give us the chance. Only way we’ll ever get outta the Acre is to take the town by force,’’ he said in a slurred voice that seemed to quell the anger flashing in his eyes.
All gazes were fixed on the man as the barkeep snapped his fingers. ‘‘Settle yarself, Robert,’’ he warned while glancing nervously about the room.
‘‘I know there’s them that don’t belong in this pub that sit around snooping,’’ the man slurred, turning to look toward a table in the corner. ‘‘That fancy pants from Boston comes to the Acre and noses about our business. I wonder how it would set if some of us went to the bar in the Wareham House and hid out in a corner listenin’ to them Associates discuss their business. And ya don’t suppose they’d mind if we were to take up with their women, do ya? After all, we’ve got the likes of ’im and his friends doin’ just that,’’ he continued while pointing toward the well-dressed man.
Liam leaned toward O’Malley. ‘‘Who is that Yank over there, and why’s ’e in this place?’’
‘‘His name is William Thurston, and Robert’s speakin’ the truth. Thurston is one of the Boston Associates and he spends far too much time in the Acre. He had him an Irishwoman for quite a while, but then she died. . . .’’
‘‘Not Noreen Gallagher’s sister?’’ Liam asked.
‘‘Yeah, that’s exactly who she was—Noreen’s sister, Kathryn. Some folks say she had a baby by Thurston, but I’m not certain. She was married to a fellow named O’Hanrahan, but I don’t know what ever happened to ’im. Might have been his whelp. Who knows? Come to think of it, I don’t know what happened to the child. Seems as though I recall it was only Kathryn that died.’’
Liam hunched forward and glanced over his shoulder. The fellow known as Thurston seemed oblivious to the comments circulating the room. He continued drinking his ale, acting as though his presence among the Irish was desired and welcome. ‘‘Noreen says the child is alive, but for some reason she feared for ’is life—thought perhaps the child would come to some harm at his father’s hand. Anyway, she took him away.’’
‘‘Did she now? Seems as though Noreen has taken you into her confidence, Liam. Best watch yarself, or she’ll be settin’ her cap for ya,’’ O’Malley said with a loud guffaw.
Liam shook his head in disbelief. ‘‘Noreen’s enough to make any man want to remain single. There’s nothing comely about her, not her appearance or her words—and worst of all, she can’t even cook.’’
O’Malley gave Liam a sly look. ‘‘So cooking’s where your heart is? In that case, why don’t you come to my place for supper? I’ve got a sister I’d like you to meet. She prepares a tasty pot of stew.’’
Liam slapped O’Malley on the shoulder. ‘‘What I’m truly looking for is a decent place to room and board. Nothing would please me more than to move out o’ Noreen’s place. Can you help me find a place to live?’’
O’Malley shook his head. ‘‘Don’t know of anything offhand, but if my sister took a likin’ to ya and you two was to marry, you could live with her. She’s got two rooms in the back of our place.’’
‘‘I think I’ll turn you down on that offer—at least for the time being. I’ll be sure and let you know if I change my mind.’’
‘‘Suit yourself, but she ain’t half bad to look at neither,’’ O’Malley urged as the group pushed away from the table.
Before Liam rose to leave he turned for one final glance over his shoulder. William Thurston met his stare, and a chill rushed down Liam’s spine. Even at a distance the man emanated evil.
William Thurston stared after the group of men as they walked out of the pub and then lifted his empty mug into the air. ‘‘Another!’’ he shouted when the barkeep glanced in his direction. He pulled an engraved silver watch from his pocket, clicked open the case, and stared at the time.
‘‘Here you are, Mr. Thurston,’’ Mr. Neil said, placing a full mug of ale on the table. �
��‘Anythin’ else? Something to eat, perhaps?’’
‘‘No, not now,’’ he replied without looking up. His thoughts weren’t on food. Instead, he was mulling over the ramblings of the drunken man the barkeep had referred to as Robert, wondering how much of what he’d said was fact and how much was fiction.
A short time later two shabby men approached William’s table, interrupting his thoughts. ‘‘Sorry we’re late. I thought you said we would meet at the Wareham. We been waiting outside of there for half an hour,’’ Jake Wilson said.
‘‘I told him you said we was meeting here at the pub, but he wouldn’t listen,’’ Rafe Walton rebutted.
Thurston gave them a look of disgust. ‘‘Why would I ever consider meeting you two at a place like the Wareham? Do you ever use your brain to think, Jake?’’ he sneered. ‘‘Sit down,’’ he commanded. ‘‘Bring them each an ale,’’ he shouted to the barkeep.
‘‘Thanks, Mr. Thurston. I’m mighty thirsty,’’ Jake said.
‘‘Your thirst is the last thing I’m concerned with, Jake,’’ William said as he turned his attention toward Rafe. ‘‘You heard anything about money or rifles being stockpiled in that Catholic church that’s being built down the street?’’
‘‘Where’d you ever get such an idea?’’ Rafe fired back.
Thurston noted Rafe’s startled countenance. ‘‘Why are you answering my question with one of your own?’’
Rafe shrugged. ‘‘I was surprised, that’s all. I don’t know anything about rifles or money.’’
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