“You can depend on me, Mr. Boott,” Matthew reiterated, his palms growing moist.
Boott ignored the assurance. “Let me give you a bit of background about Bishop Fenwick. Before his assignment to Boston, he held an appointment in New York. Fenwick’s not as popular as his predecessor, at least not among the Protestant elite of Boston. However, he does understand his need for assistance from them if the Catholic Church is to continue prospering in his diocese. Right now they’re struggling, with Holy Cross being their only strong parish.”
“Then you think he’ll be pleased with the prospect of offering religious instruction to the Irish in Lowell?”
“I’m told he has only five priests for the entire diocese. I don’t know what will or will not please him, but I do know he’s a shrewd man. The last thing I want to do is appear vulnerable. He would consider us easy prey.”
Matthew stared across the coach and met Boott’s steely gaze. “Prey? How could a man of the cloth victimize the Corporation? And why would Bishop Fenwick even entertain such a notion?”
“Don’t underestimate the clergy, Matthew—especially the papists! There’s nothing they covet more highly than a nice piece of acreage. Always in the name of the church, of course. I’m willing to donate to their cause when a favor is needed, but the amount and kind of donation will be on my terms, not those of Bishop Fenwick. Or any other clergyman, for that matter.”
The messages were clear. Keep your mouth shut, keep your ears open, keep your mind sharp, and be careful where you place your trust.
And by all means, be punctual.
Impressed with Boott’s knowledge of Bishop Fenwick and the Catholic Church, Matthew, at the same time, was thankful that Boott hadn’t inquired if he had gathered any information for their meeting with the bishop. Leaning back against the leather-upholstered carriage seat, Matthew wondered if Bishop Fenwick had been carefully preparing for their arrival, scrutinizing Kirk Boott’s heritage and business acumen. If so, this meeting could prove even more interesting than he had anticipated.
Chapter 8
Several carriages lined the drive in front of the Cheever house on Pawtucket Street. Lilly determined it fitting that there should be a street named after Pawtucket Falls and that the Cheever home should be located on that particular street. Of course, the Cheever family truly belonged on their acreage adjacent to Pawtucket Falls, just as she belonged on the Armbruster farmstead. If only the Boston Associates had begun their fancy manufacturing dreams in some other place—New Hampshire or perhaps Vermont, she thought as she approached the house.
There was still time to turn and go back to her room on Jackson Street, and she hesitated a moment. Would Matthew be in attendance after all? Surely not—she could trust Julia Cheever’s statement that he was out of town. Besides, the thought of Randolph Cheever appearing at the front door of the boardinghouse to fetch her would give rise to questions from the other girls.
Straightening her back and taking a deep breath, Lilly walked up the front steps and knocked. Her heart began to race when the door opened and a man stood beside Mrs. Cheever, his back toward her as he talked with a group of guests. When he turned, she felt a rush of relief—or was it disappointment? Before her, extending his hand in greeting, stood Matthew’s older brother, Jonas.
“Well, if this isn’t quite the surprise,” Jonas exclaimed. “How good to see you, Lilly. So this is our surprise guest. Mother has been taunting us all afternoon.”
“Us?” It was all Lilly could manage for the moment. All eyes were turned in her direction.
“Father and me,” Jonas replied. “We’ve suffered an afternoon of pure torment, both of us guessing until we’d exhausted everyone we could possibly think of. Won’t Matthew regret that he couldn’t attend this evening?”
“Didn’t I say you would be surprised? I was right, wasn’t I?” Julia questioned. Her eyes were dancing with delight as she pulled at her husband’s arm.
“Absolutely correct,” Mr. Cheever replied.
“How nice to see you again, Lilly,” greeted Sarah, Jonas’s wife.
“Lilly, it’s been too long,” continued Mr. Cheever. “Hopefully your arrival means my wife will now serve supper.” He grasped her hands in greeting and bent down to whisper, “I’m famished.”
Lilly smiled at the remark. She remembered that Mr. Cheever’s favorite greeting when coming home from the fields had been, “I’m famished—when do we eat?”
“You couldn’t possibly be famished, Randolph. You’ve been in the kitchen sampling food all afternoon,” Julia countered. “Come along, Lilly. I’m going to seat you next to Jonas and Sarah.”
The meal consisted of a multitude of courses, beginning with a delectable lobster bisque, and all were served with an expert ease and graciousness that caused Lilly to marvel. Julia Cheever was no longer the farm wife serving dozens of workers during harvest season; she was now the accomplished society hostess entertaining refined guests. How had the transition been exacted in such a short time, she wondered.
“Do tell us what’s going on in your life since moving from the farm, Lilly. Where are you living?” Jonas inquired as a server offered Lilly a heaping platter of mutton.
Prying questions. She had known they would be asked. Why had she placed herself in this prickly situation? “On Jackson Street,” she replied, offering nothing further.
“Jackson? I thought Jackson was nothing but boardinghouses for the mills,” Sarah stated. She grimaced ever so slightly and shuddered.
“So it is,” Jonas remarked. “Are you certain it’s Jackson Street?” he asked, turning back toward Lilly.
Had the question not been so insulting, Lilly would have laughed aloud. She wasn’t sure what bothered her more, the fact that Jonas was actually questioning if she knew her own address or that she was being confronted with the realization that working in the mills diminished her social acceptability. She remained silent. All eyes were turned in her direction, a sense of discomfort suddenly permeating the room.
“Sometimes Jonas doesn’t think before he speaks,” Julia finally said, breaking the silence. “Nor does Sarah,” she quickly added. “But they meant no harm, dearest Lilly. Hasn’t the weather been unseasonably warm for this time of the year?”
With the expert ease of a perfect hostess, Julia had changed the conversation and set her guests at ease. Once again the room was abuzz with meaningless small talk as Lilly attempted to devise some plan of escape.
“Come along, everyone,” Julia instructed. “We’re going to play charades, and I don’t want any of you men sneaking off to smoke cigars or talk business.”
Randolph laughed as he and two of his colleagues turned in their tracks and returned to the parlor. “We wouldn’t think of running out on a game of charades,” he teased.
“I really must be leaving,” Lilly whispered to her hostess. “We have a curfew.”
“Nonsense. Randolph will escort you home and explain that you were with us. I’ll not hear of you running off this early in the evening,” Julia replied, her voice growing louder and more insistent when Lilly began to shake her head in disagreement. “I absolutely refuse to permit your departure!”
Lilly winced as the other guests began to look in their direction. “Fine. I’ll stay for a little while. But I really must leave within the hour.”
“We’ll see,” the unrelenting woman replied, giving her a smile. “All right, let’s number off into teams. You begin, Randolph. You’re team one,” she instructed as she continued around the room assigning each guest a number.
In spite of her misgivings, Lilly joined the others, shouting out possible answers as guests performed their antics, laughing and cheering for several hours, forgetting the drudgery of her life and the tiny, airless bedroom she shared with seven other girls.
The Cheevers were standing at the doorway bidding their guests farewell as Lilly approached. “Ready, my dear?” Randolph inquired as he offered his arm.
“I can walk ho
me alone. I don’t want to take you away from your remaining guests,” Lilly replied.
Randolph shook his head. “I’ll hear of no such thing. It’s a beautiful night, and the fresh air will do me good. Besides, I’ll be back home before Julia has an opportunity to miss me,” he quipped as he winked at his wife.
Lilly didn’t argue. It would be wasted breath and she knew it. “Thank you once again for a lovely evening,” she said, kissing Julia’s cheek.
“You must promise you’ll return to see us soon.”
Lilly merely nodded, knowing she wouldn’t soon return to socialize among the elite of Lowell.
“I’ve missed you, Lilly,” Randolph stated. “I’m genuinely sorry things didn’t work out between you and Matthew.”
“And I’ve missed you and Mrs. Cheever, but time goes on and our lives change,” she replied in a feeble attempt to appear philosophical about her station in life.
Mr. Cheever patted the hand she had tucked inside his crooked arm. “It’s true our lives change, Lilly, but sometimes I think we do better to look at life in smaller slices, a change at a time, perhaps. Sweeping generalities sometimes tend to diminish those minor changes. We need to take time and realize that sometimes good comes along with bad.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Mr. Cheever. My life has been turned upside down—nothing is the same. East Chelmsford no longer exists. Lowell has overpowered and smothered the life out of East Chelmsford.”
He smiled and shook his head. “I disagree. The name has changed and the town has grown, but East Chelmsford and her people are still alive and vibrant. Lowell didn’t smother us. We’ve been cultivated and nurtured so that we could change and grow into a larger, more productive community. Sometimes I think we humans just don’t want to give in and think that any good can come from change. Could you agree with me on that?”
“I suppose. But it’s difficult to find good that has come from all of this so-called industrialization. Our beautiful farmlands are now ugly brick buildings and canals. I miss the tranquility of the countryside, the pride of orchards producing bountiful crops, and the pleasure of seeing herds of woolly sheep roaming about.”
“I see. And do you miss the years of drought when we broke our backs attempting to eke out a living on the few crops we could produce? Don’t forget the bad as you remember the good, child. Otherwise, you paint yourself a false picture. There were good things about those days, but there were just as many hard times. One must keep events in perspective. Change is always going to be a part of our lives. If we don’t grow and change, we stagnate and die. Perhaps you should attempt to see Lowell with the unbridled enthusiasm of a newcomer. I believe you would find it exciting and, dare I say, quite lovely.”
Lilly looked up at Mr. Cheever and was instantly reminded of Matthew. Although Jonas was marginally handsome and well spoken, it was Matthew who had inherited not only his father’s good looks but his gift of persuasion. It was indeed a formidable combination. She feared she still hadn’t succeeded in obliterating Matthew from her memory after all.
Chapter 9
Boston, Massachusetts
Matthew tugged at his waistcoat as he and Kirk Boott followed closely behind a tranquil, black-clad priest. After traversing several hallways, the cleric rapped on a carved oak door, waited for a response, then opened the door to Bishop Benedict Fenwick’s private office.
The rotund man rose from a cushioned red velvet chair and came out from behind his desk, his dark-eyed gaze fixed on Boott. His upturned lips and the dark curly locks that surrounded his forehead and cheeks gave the bishop a youthful appearance. A stiff gold braid trim surrounded the edge of his unbuttoned collar, thus permitting his sizable double chin to rest upon a layer of soft white fabric. Matthew noted that the row of black buttons aligned down the front of the bishop’s jacket strained against the man’s expansive bulk.
“Good to see you once again, Mr. Boott,” Bishop Fenwick greeted, stretching his arm in welcome.
Kirk grasped the proffered hand and then turned to Matthew. “May I introduce Matthew Cheever, Your Excellency. He has recently been hired by the Boston Associates to assist me with my duties in Lowell. I decided to reward his hard work with a trip to Boston.”
“A pleasure,” the bishop replied, extending his ring-adorned hand to Matthew. “Always good to meet with men who have the best interests of our citizenry at heart. Sit down, sit down,” he offered, gesturing toward two dark blue brocade chairs opposite the large walnut desk.
Matthew and Kirk seated themselves, remaining silent as the bishop circled the desk and lowered his expansive body into the velvet-upholstered chair. The walls behind the desk were lined with matching walnut bookcases, each shelf crowded with volumes of leather-bound books. Across the room, an ornate silver tea service rested upon a marble-topped serving table. At the ring of a small gold handbell, a priest entered the room. He carried a tray of small cakes that he placed on the table before silently pouring tea into three china cups and exiting the room as noiselessly as he had entered.
“Tea, gentlemen?” The words were formed as a question, but both men knew what was expected.
They drank the spiced tea with lemon and ate the layered cakes Bishop Fenwick offered. They exchanged pleasantries, discussed the weather, and inquired into one another’s health. It was the way of genteel, well-bred people. It was also the way of far-reaching men hoping to gain advantage and power.
When Bishop Fenwick had finally eaten his fill, he leaned back in his chair, reaching his arms across the expansive girth of his belly. His thick fingers barely met. Boott leaned forward ever so slightly, obviously awaiting some signal that the cleric was ready to move their conversation into a more serious vein.
“I assume you gentlemen haven’t made an appointment to see me merely to inquire about my health,” the bishop stated. He leaned deeper into the chair, his eyes hooded by thick black lashes.
Matthew remained silent as Boott leaned forward, a look of concern now crossing his face. “Indeed, we do have a matter of importance to bring before you, Your Excellency. Not a matter that will be easily resolved, but a problem I believe we can eventually solve if we work together. Reasonable men can always benefit each other. Don’t you agree?”
The bishop’s eyelids opened wider. Matthew noticed an obvious spark of interest in the cleric’s dark eyes. “Unreasonable men have been known to become quite reasonable when the stakes are high enough, Mr. Boott. Just what is it that you perceive as our mutual problem?”
“Simply stated, the growing Irish population in Lowell,” Kirk replied. “Not that the Irish themselves are a problem,” he quickly added when the bishop unfolded his hands and gave him a look of obvious displeasure. “I take responsibility for this whole situation. It’s my lack of planning—not giving thought to the permanency of our Irish brothers in the community. To be honest with you, Bishop, I didn’t expect they would want to remain in Lowell. I always assumed they’d want to return to Boston and live among—”
“Their own?”
“Well, yes, if you want to put it that way. However, we have an ever-increasing number of Irish in Lowell who appear to be setting down roots. I don’t want to sound disparaging, but the Irish tend to be a clannish sort of people. You’d agree with that, wouldn’t you?”
The bishop nodded and stroked his plump red cheek. “They find comfort in that which is familiar. Not unlike most of us, Mr. Boott. However, the Irish do bring with them a deep sense of loyalty to the clans of their homeland and align themselves accordingly. In that regard they are somewhat different from other immigrants.”
“Right,” Boott chimed in, vigorously nodding his head up and down. “Well stated, Your Excellency.” He hesitated for a moment before continuing. “Another thing that I’ve observed about the Irish is their deep regard for the church.”
“For a moment there, I thought you were going to say their deep regard for a pitcher of ale.” The bishop gave Kirk a serious stare
but then snorted as he attempted to hold back his own laughter. “It was a joke, good fellow—you’re permitted to laugh.”
Kirk’s nervous laughter mingled with Bishop Fenwick’s snorting noises for what seemed several minutes. Matthew sat quietly, observing the interchange, a smile emerging on his lips when the bishop finally gazed in his direction. “And what do you think of our Irish brothers, Mr. Cheever?” The bishop’s question brought the laughter to a startling halt.
Matthew glanced toward Boott, who nodded his head ever so slightly. “I agree with Mr. Boott’s assessment, sir.”
“Not much of an independent thinker? I’m surprised Mr. Boott would hold you in such high esteem,” the bishop rebutted.
Matthew knew he was being baited. His words must be carefully chosen. He dared not fail a second test in one day. “I don’t believe the fact that I agree with Mr. Boott’s assessment gives credence to your judgment of my ability to evaluate a given situation. It merely affirms the intelligence of my employer’s evaluation of this particular circumstance. I, too, believe the Irish hold the church in deep regard,” he replied in a measured voice.
The bishop laughed aloud. “Well put, my boy. Don’t know if I could have done better myself in such formidable circumstances. Isn’t that right, Mr. Boott?”
A forced smile formed upon his mentor’s lips. “That’s exactly right, Excellency.”
“Well, then, we all agree the Irish hold the church in high regard. So what is your problem?”
“They have no church in Lowell, no place to worship, no church leader to marry or bury them, no priest to hear their problems or direct them down the path of righteousness,” Boott replied.
The bishop’s face was stoic, unreadable. “I’m going to guess that since you’ve determined there is a problem, you’ve also devised some type of solution.”
Daughter of the Loom (Bells of Lowell Book #1) Page 10
