Mary was at her side in an instant. “Fiona, what’s wrong?” she asked.
Fiona looked at her through brimming eyes. “Nothing,” she said.
“Nothing? Is that why you’re crying?”
“Nick is supposed to be here, Mary,” she said, completely overwrought. “To help me with the dress. He was supposed to come. He even wrote it down in his calendar the last time we were here. He promised he would. How will I know if it looks right without him?”
“If he said he’d come, he will,” Mary said. “I’m sure he’s just running late.”
“No, that’s not it. He’s not late. He’s not coming. I haven’t seen him since we rowed. That was a week ago. He’s not coming today and he’s not coming to the wedding, either.”
Mary and Maddie exchanged worried glances. Fiona had told them about her horrible fight with Nick. They were very sympathetic. They’d taken her side and agreed that Nick was awful to say the things he’d said. She herself was still angry at the way he’d treated her. At the way he’d badgered her. Most of all, she was angry because he was right – though she couldn’t bear to admit it. She didn’t want to walk away from The Tea Rose. But she didn’t have any choice.
After her fight with Nick, she’d gone back to Will to question the necessity of a confinement and of raising their children upstate. She’d told him she’d much prefer to keep on as she was. Even after the babies came. He’d said it was out of the question. He’d explained, again, that women of his class were not seen in public with big bellies. Besides, if she wasn’t careful, she would exhaust herself and that’s how women lost babies. And really, how could she mother small children and run a business at the same time? He understood her drive to work, he’d said, understood what was behind it, but insisted that that part of her life was over. He was a wealthy man, more than able to look after her needs. He was adamant and she had not dared to bring up the subject again.
Confinement – how she hated the word. It sounded like a prison sentence. The women where she’d grown up hadn’t been confined during their pregnancies. Big bellies were nothing unusual in a neighborhood of large families. Where was the shame in a lovely big stomach, one as full and round as a billowing sail? People knew what was in there, and how it got there, too. A woman could be as coy as she liked; the evidence, squalling and undeniable, would appear in nine months regardless. Babies were everywhere on Montague Street – nursing in their mothers’ arms, lugged about by sisters, dandled on their fathers’ knees. They were a part of things, not an encumbrance. And no Whitechapel woman stopped working just because she was pregnant. They cleaned and cooked. They hawked goods from market stalls or mopped pub floors until their pains forced them to bed. And after, they returned to their work without a lot of fuss.
As she stood in Madame’s fitting room, she was suddenly furiously jealous of Nick and Nate and Maddie. They’d all followed their dreams and started their own businesses – just as she had. But they got to keep theirs. And she didn’t.
Madame Eugénie had provided tea and coffee and cakes. Mary poured a cup of tea for Fiona and handed it to her. After Fiona had sipped from it and put it down, Mary wiped her face tenderly, as she might’ve wiped Nell’s or Seamie’s. Then she took her hands in hers and said, “Nick will come to the wedding, Fiona. I know he will. He just needs to cool off.”
“He hates me,” Fiona said disconsolately.
“Oh, shush! He does not hate you. He adores you. Maybe you should just give him a little time. Did you ever think that maybe this is hard on him? Maybe he’s a little jealous?”
“Jealous? Mary, that’s ridiculous! You know he’s not interested in me in that way.”
“I meant jealous of losing you. You’re his dearest friend, Fiona.”
“His family,” Maddie added.
“And now you’re marrying and moving away and starting a whole new life. Maybe he thinks he’s losing you. Maybe that’s why he’s been so prickly.”
Fiona thought about this. “Do you think that’s it?”
“It might be. Just be patient. Give him a little time.”
Madame Eugénie bustled back into the room with a box in her hands. Simone followed with Fiona’s gown. Madame stopped in her tracks. She looked at the corset lying on the floor, at Fiona’s tear-stained face, and then at Mary.
“Nerves,” Mary whispered.
Madame gave her a knowing look, then turned to Fiona. “Look, chérie, what your future husband sent,” she said. She opened the jewel box she was carrying and held up a breathtaking pearl choker with a diamond medallion in its center. Fiona’s eyes widened. Mary and Maddie gasped. “From Paris. Cartier. To go with your dress,” Madame said. “It is exquisite, no? Try it.” She fastened the choker on Fiona. “A man who sends such things …” She shrugged, at a loss for words. “Well, a woman who has such a man has nothing to cry about.”
Fiona looked at the choker in the mirror. She touched it, entranced. Never in her life had she seen anything so beautiful. Will was so outrageously good to her, so kind, so thoughtful. She had admired Emily’s pearls when she’d met her and her brothers a few weeks ago at Hyde Park. He’d overheard her and now he’d given her her own pearls. He was sweet to her, Emily had been sweet to her, his whole family had been. Even Will Junior had gone out of his way to make her feel welcome. Madame was right. Most women would not be crying days away from marrying a man like Will. What was a stupid little tearoom compared to his love for her? To her love for him? And I do love him. I do, she insisted to herself. No matter what Nick thinks.
She turned to Madame, who was holding the dreaded corset, and dutifully held her arms out. When it was laced up again, Simone carefully removed her gown – also a gift from Will – from its hanger and helped her into it. It had been fitted once already. She was there today to make sure it needed no further alterations. Madame fastened the long row of buttons running up her back, smoothed the bodice, tugged on the skirt, then stepped back and smiled. “Perfect!” she declared. “I’ve always said it – the prettier the girl, the plainer the dress. It’s the homely ones who need all the decoration,” she added with Gallic bluntness. “For distraction.”
Fiona turned in the mirror. Since she’d met Will, she’d bought herself a handful of pretty dresses. They were rags in comparison to this gown. It was ivory and made of Belgian lace painstakingly stitched onto a silk sheath and embellished with thousands of tiny pearls. Madame had guided her away from the exaggerated leg-o’mutton sleeves, high neck, and fussy ornamentation currently in vogue toward a plainer silhouette just beginning to become fashionable. The dress had a squared décolletage that showed off her graceful neck, three-quarter sleeves, an ivory satin sash with a closure made of silk roses, and a train that swept prettily from the waist to the floor. She would wear an ivory tulle veil that stopped at her hem. Looking at herself in the gown and the jewelry, her hair piled on top of her head, Fiona saw a woman looking back at her, soon a wife. A girl no longer.
“My word, but you’re a looker, old shoe. I barely recognize you.”
She spun toward the doorway. “Nick!” she cried, smiling, truly smiling, for the first time in weeks. He was leaning against the door, hat in his hands, a wistful look in his eyes. She grabbed her skirts and ran to him, then stopped a few steps away. “I thought you weren’t coming … I thought …”
“Silly old toad. Of course I’d come,” he said.
They stood that way for a few more seconds, Fiona twisting the ring on her finger. Nick inspecting the rim of his hat.
“I didn’t mean …” he started to say.
“It’s all right,” she said, finishing the discussion.
Nick looked into her eyes. “Friends?” he asked hopefully.
“Always,” she said, hugging him tightly. They held each other for a long time before letting go.
Madame turned to Mary and Maddie. “Is this the husband? He should not see her yet!”
“No, he’s the jealous boyfriend,” Maddie sai
d.
“I heard that, Maddie!” Nick scolded.
“Quel dommage,” Madame said. “Such a handsome man. The wedding pictures would be stunning. And the children, too.”
Chapter 54
Joe woke with a start to see a small freckled face hanging over him. “I found her. I told you I would, didn’t I?” Eddie crowed, perched on the edge of his bed. “I said I would and I did!”
“Are you going to kill him or will I?” Brendan grumbled from across the room. It was six o’clock in the evening and he’d been napping, exhausted from swinging a pickax all day. Joe had been lying down, too, worn out from tramping the streets. He propped himself up on one elbow now, to hear what the boy had to say.
“Michael Charles Finnegan. Fifty-four Duane Street. He’s a flour merchant,” Eddie began. “I asked around down by the docks and a wagonman who moves goods from the river to warehouses told me about him. He’s Irish, but he came to New York from England just like you said. He has a niece, too! I asked the man was her name Fiona and he said it sounded right.”
Joe sat up instantly. “Eddie, where’d you say this man lives?”
“Duane Street. Number fifty-four. Off Broadway.”
“Good work, lad.” Joe reached under his bed for his boots.
“It’s her, isn’t it?” Brendan asked, blinking at him.
“It’s got to be,” Joe said.
“You going down there?”
“Aye.”
“Good luck, mate.”
“I’ve got another name, too,” Eddie said, as Joe was tying his laces. “In Chelsea. A beat cop who walks my street says he knows a Michael Finnegan from the Emerald Society. Says he had a grocery up there. He’s not sure he’s still there, though. Says the bank took his shop. I could go up there for you. See if he’s still around.”
“Won’t need ’im. I’m sure this Duane Street address is it,” Joe said. But then he saw Eddie’s eager face fall and realized the lad had been hopeful of another job. He flipped him a quarter and told him to go check it out. Eddie was off like a shot. He slammed the door on his way out, provoking a string of curses from Brendan.
Joe was only seconds behind Eddie, on fire with anticipation, certain that Michael Charles Finnegan was his man. Certain that within a matter of a half hour or so, he’d see her again. His lass.
His hands shook as he headed west on Canal Street, threading his way through a surge of people heading home for the evening. He was nervous. Scared, even. How would she react to seeing him? She wouldn’t expect him to be here, that’s for sure. What if she sent him away? Refused to talk to him? He had hurt her badly and he knew it. Would she even give him the time of day … much less forgive him?
If he could just see her, talk to her, he could make it right. He knew he could. This was his second chance. He’d fought for it and he was not going to lose it. If she sent him away, he’d come back. If she told him to go home, he’d stay. He’d write Jimmy to take over the business and he’d stay here and find a job and not give up until he’d convinced her he was sorry and he loved her. Until he’d convinced her to take him back.
At the top of Duane Street he stopped, clenched his fingers into fists, released them again, and started for number fifty-four.
Fiona read the headline of the London Times for the third time, hugged it to her chest, then read it again: “Dock Laborers Declare Victory,” it read. “Employers Concede Defeat.”
Happy tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed onto the paper. She let them fall. It was late in the evening and there was no one around to see her. She was alone in her uncle’s parlor, relishing the wonderful news.
It was a complete – and completely wonderful – surprise. The dock strike had delayed the arrival of the Times for weeks on end. It had been so long since she’d had a copy of the paper, she’d had no idea the strike was even near a resolution, much less a victory. Earlier in the day, she’d asked Michael, who was headed to the bank, to see if there were any copies at the newsstand. He’d come back with one and had tried to give it to her, but she’d been busy in the shop and had asked him to put it upstairs. She hadn’t even glanced at it until a few minutes ago. And now, after reading about the negotiations, the concessions, the declaration of victory, about labor leaders Ben Tillet and John Burns having their carriage unhooked from its horses and pulled through the streets by euphoric strikers, about the wild celebrations and marches, the women coming out onto the Commercial Road by the thousands to cheer their husbands and sons, she still couldn’t believe what had happened.
They’d done it. The dockers had won.
Against all odds, the rough-and-tumble men of the London river had banded together, held fast against poverty, and hunger and triumphed over those who would exploit them. Poor, often illiterate, unsophisticated in the ways of politics, they’d stood together and bloody well won.
Fiona’s heart was full of love for her father. He’d been a part of this strike, too, and its victory would’ve meant the world to him. “You should’ve been there, Da,” she whispered. “This was your fight. You should’ve been there to see it won.” She wiped her eyes. Mixed with her happiness she felt sorrow, too. And bitterness. As she always did when she thought of what had happened to her father … and why.
But now, about a year after his death, the complex mixture of emotion she felt had shifted and changed. Her feelings of pride and loss and grief were undiminished, her rage toward William Burton was still immense, but the fear she had felt the night she’d fled Whitechapel, the desperation, and the scalding impotence had faded.
She pictured Burton as he must’ve looked when he found out about the victory. Sitting at his desk in his office. Silent. Enraged. For once, powerless. He was no longer the omnipotent figure, the master of men, he thought he was. He had murdered to stop the union, he had destroyed her family for his own ends. But he had been shown that he could no more stop the forces of trade unionism than a child could stop the sea from washing away his sand castle. Justice would prevail. The dockers had theirs. And one day, she would have hers.
She felt it was a sign – a good omen – this victory. Her life had changed. And it would continue to change. For the better. She could feel it. She was no longer a frightened girl alone in the world with no one to turn to. She had her family. Her friends. And a week from now, she would have Will. He would be her husband, her protector, and he would keep her forever safe from the likes of Burton and Sheehan.
To think that the wedding was only a week away! Though it was going to be a small affair – only family and close friends – there was still so much to do. She was glad of an evening to herself. It was rare that the house was so quiet. Michael and Mary had gone to a show. Alec, Ian, and Nell were upstairs. Seamie was asleep. Even Will was away in Pittsburgh on subway business – his last trip before the wedding. Laying her newspaper down, she went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. She cut herself a slice of Mary’s lemon cake, brewed a pot of vanilla tea and carried it into the parlor on a tray. While the tea was steeping, she rummaged for a piece of paper and a pen, so she could make herself a list of all the things she still needed to do.
An hour later, she had finished her cake and her list, and was drowsing on the settee. A crisp autumn breeze blew in through the window, bringing with it a hint of falling leaves and coal smoke. The weather was turning. She pulled her shawl around her shoulders and snuggled down into the couch. Just as she was about to nod off completely, she heard a loud pounding on the downstairs door, and her name being shouted from the street. She sat up grog-gily.
“Helloooo! Is this the Finnegans? Is anybody home?”
A peaceful evening around here is just too much to ask for, she thought, going to the window. She raised the sash and stuck her head out. A boy was battering on the door.
“What is it?” she shouted, irritated.
He looked up. “Are you Fiona Finnegan?”
“Yes. What do you want?”
“Boy, am I glad I found yo
u, miss! Can you come downstairs?”
“Not till you tell me what this is about.”
“It’s real important, miss. I’ve got an urgent message for you. From a fella.”
Chapter 55
At eight in the morning, in a courthouse in lower Manhattan, an exhausted Fiona sat on a hard wooden bench. Her face was swollen from crying, her clothes were rumpled from the night she’d spent at the Tombs, the city jail on Centre Street. Next to her sat her attorney, Teddy Sissons, the man who’d handled her purchase of Miss Nicholson’s property, and Stephen Ambrose, a criminal lawyer Teddy had recommended. A few other people were scattered about the courtroom, sitting quietly, waiting for the judge to arrive and begin the day’s proceedings.
“This can’t be happening,” she said. “I knew he was in trouble when the boy came, but I thought it was his health.”
“It is happening,” Teddy said. “And he’s in serious trouble. What the hell was he doing at The Slide? It’s a den of vice. He shouldn’t have been within a mile of the place.”
“Well, he was!” Fiona snapped. “And he got himself arrested and now you have to get him out. You have to …” Her voice caught. She started to weep again. “Oh, Teddy, do something! What if they keep him in jail?”
“Most likely that won’t happen,” Stephen Ambrose said. “As long as the charges are misdemeanors, he’ll probably just have to pay a fine.”
“What if they’re not?” Fiona asked. “Will he go to prison?”
“No,” Teddy said grimly, rubbing his eyes under the horn-rimmed spectacles he wore. “He’s foreign. They’ll deport him.”
Fiona cried harder. Teddy gave her his handkerchief. Ambrose, well-dressed, well-groomed, and wearing a diamond ring, said, “The trouble is the judge who’s going to preside at the arraignment … Cameron Eames. He’s a hard man. He’s been running a campaign to clean up the city – closing down gaming dens, brothels, places like The Slide. One of the cops I talked to says Eames leaned on Malloy, the police captain, to carry out the raid. He’s tough on offenders. And the fact that he wouldn’t set bail doesn’t bode well.”
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