by BJ Hoff
He noticed that she kept her eyes averted as she sat down at the table across from him. He touched her hand once to get her attention, and she looked up, watching his lips closely as he began. “I saw you with Brady Kane at the market.”
A faint stain blotted her cheeks, and she glanced away for a second or two before looking back at him and nodding.
“ ’Tis not a good idea, Roweena. He is trouble, that one, don’t you understand?”
As always, she focused her full attention on his lips until he had finished speaking, then seemed to consider her reply with care.
“He came up to me,” she finally answered, signing with her fingers but speaking the words as well, as Gabriel insisted that she do. Her voice was halting, the words coming slowly but remarkably clearly, given her deafness. “What was I to do?”
He had always found her voice pleasant to the ear. Others no doubt thought it somewhat strange, since she spoke with the lack of inflection common to those who could not hear. Perhaps it was because he had worked so hard and so long with her, teaching her to speak. It had been a laborious, often frustrating process for them both—but a vastly rewarding one as well. She did not seem so locked out of his world once she could form words, and he no longer felt at such a disadvantage in trying to communicate with her.
At this moment, however, he almost dreaded what he might hear from her. He realized that she was studying him with an expression that hinted of anxiety, and he found himself suddenly impatient with her for being so careful with him.
“I’m not angry,” he said, reassuring her. “I simply don’t want you hurt, don’t you see? I don’t trust Brady Kane, and you shouldn’t either.”
He was surprised to see the look of sadness that crossed her delicate features. For a moment he thought she was about to weep.
Instead, she nodded as if to say she agreed, then lifted her gaze to his. “Please don’t…worry, Gabriel,” she said. “Perhaps I’m not as…foolish as you think.”
Dismayed, Gabriel reached to take her hand, then stopped himself. “I have never thought you foolish, Roweena,” he said, holding her gaze. “I mean only to protect you.”
Again she nodded, looking down.
“Roweena?” Gabriel leaned across the table and tipped her chin with one finger to get her attention. She looked up, but he was unable to read her expression. “Do you care for this man?”
She frowned as if she didn’t understand.
“Do you have—feelings—for him?” He heard the thickness of his own voice, felt apprehension spring up in him like a bitter weed when she deliberately looked away without making any response to his question.
His mouth dry, Gabriel again reached to turn her face toward his. “He is not the sort of man who can be trusted. You must see that.”
He felt himself shrink under the searching gaze she turned on him.
“You always say we are not to…judge others, that we…must try to see them as…the Savior sees them. With tolerance…and forgiveness.”
Her words seemed an indictment of sorts, and Gabriel found himself at a loss. “That’s so,” he said gruffly, fumbling for the words to explain himself. “But there will always be those who take advantage. I’m not suggesting that you judge Kane, simply that you be cautious.”
Her dark gray eyes never left his. “But…you are judging him, Gabriel. Are you not?”
He tensed still more. “Kane brought much trouble on the Sheridan girl with his lack of restraint. And he continues to sneak his way past me to you. That would seem to speak of a nature that cannot be trusted. I will ask you again to stay away from him. For your own good.”
Her mouth tightened, and for a moment Gabriel thought she was going to argue with him. But at last her features softened, and she gave a small nod of assent. “I will…try,” she said. “But what am I…to do when he happens upon me in the marketplace? Would you have me run away then, like a mindless child?”
Now it was Gabriel who turned away without an answer, even though he silently admitted to himself that indeed, that was exactly what he would have her do.
If only it could be that simple.
7
BETWEEN FRIENDS
Two are better than one…
ECCLESIASTES 4:9, NIV
That same evening Gabriel made a rare visit to an out-of-the-way tavern in Galway City. Although he wasn’t one to frequent such a place, the man he was looking for did.
He had no way of knowing whether Ulick was anywhere in the area, but he could leave word with Phelim Lynch, the owner, that he was looking for him. As soon as he entered, however, he spied the wild shock of silver hair and the drooping mustache of his old friend.
Ulick was sitting at the far end of the room in front of a cold fireplace with two other weathered seamen. The room was dim and uncrowded. It smelled of dampness and ale and cooked fish. Only a few men were seated at tables, their faces solemn as they huddled over their pints.
Ulick looked up and, seeing Gabriel, gave a one-sided grin. At the same time, he made a sharp jerk of the head as if to order his companions away. By the time Gabriel reached the table, the other two men had scraped their chairs back and, with nothing more than a brief nod in his direction, ambled off to a table near the bar.
Ulick motioned Gabriel to one of the recently vacated chairs. “Your gob would sour new milk, Gabriel Vaughan. Have Lynch fetch you a jar to lighten your load.”
“ ’Tis your poison, not mine, Ulick. I came to talk, not drink.”
“Sit down then, you great oaf. As you know, I take pleasure in both.”
They spoke in the Irish, in low tones: two men who had known each other too many years to count and whose conversation needed no embellishment.
“So then, Gabriel, what is on your mind? It would appear to be heavy, whatever the nature.”
Gabriel took the chair across from him, and Ulick waved the aproned owner away.
“You have some time, do you, Ulick?”
“I have nothing else,” the other said, watching Gabriel closely. In contrast to the brown, leathered face, Ulick’s eyes appeared so pale they might have been glazed with ice. “You have a reason for asking after my time, I expect.”
Gabriel gave a nod and got right to it. “I’m wanting some information on a man. He claims to have been born here, in the city, and I’m curious about his people—who they might have been, if he’s telling the truth. I thought that if anyone would know, you would, or, if not, you could find out.”
Ulick turned his glass around in his hand. “Who is this man?”
“Brady Kane,” said Gabriel.
Ulick lifted heavy brows. “The American who does the drawings? He was born here?”
“So he says.” Gabriel paused. “I wouldn’t stake much on his word, though.”
Ulick nodded. “I heard he brought trouble on one of the island girls.”
“He did that.” Gabriel’s mouth tightened.
“And then he packed her off to America.”
“There is quite a story in that. I didn’t get the whole truth, I expect, but what the Sheridan girl told Jane Connolly was that Kane had connections of some sort with a big newspaper in New York. Supposedly this newspaper was paying passage for some orphaned children to go across and offered to pay the girl’s way as well, if she would tend to the orphans during the voyage. That’s all I know about it, but I suspect there’s more.”
Ulick quirked one corner of his mouth, and the heavy mustache lifted. “The Yank’s connections must be good ones. You think the story was put-up?”
Gabriel shrugged. “I don’t know, and what’s done is done, so that part of it isn’t my concern.” He stopped, uncertain as to how much he wanted to tell his old friend.
Ulick set his glass on the table and waited.
“ ’Tis Roweena I’m thinking of,” Gabriel finally offered. “Kane won’t leave her alone, though I’ve done everything but threaten him to warn him off.”
“Then he is a fool as well as a rake,” sa
id Ulick with a laugh. “Few men would want to bump heads with you, had they their wits about them.”
“The coals of my temper have cooled considerably, man,” Gabriel said, his tone gruff. “I, too, was a fool in my youth.”
“Ah, and isn’t every man?”
“As for Kane,” Gabriel went on, “the boy is not an easy one to dislike. All the same, I’ve never trusted him. And less now, after the bad business with the Sheridan girl. I don’t want him anywhere near Roweena.”
Ulick’s expression turned thoughtful, and he nodded, slowly. “What is it, then, Gabriel? What are you thinking, that you might learn something to discourage him for once and all?”
In truth Gabriel didn’t know what, exactly, he was hoping for. “Kane keeps his silence about himself. Too much so, it seems to me. He tells little, other than that he lives in New York City, and he has an older brother. Supposedly, he earns his keep by making drawings for newspapers in the States. He claims to be in Ireland on some sort of ‘special assignment.’ I expect he told the Sheridan girl more, but if that’s the case, she kept it to herself.” Gabriel leaned across the table a little. “I don’t know quite what I’m looking for, but I intend to keep him away from Roweena by any means I can find. I’m wondering if there isn’t a reason for his telling so little about himself. You know the city better than any man and can find what I want faster than I could. Will you help me?”
Ulick traced his heavy mustache with one finger. His expression was dubious. “It seems to me you might accomplish more by simply knocking the laddie about some. If you’ve not the taste for it, I know a pair of lads who would do the job. A good thrashing ought to get the Yank’s attention, wouldn’t you think? Perhaps even persuade him to leave Galway altogether.”
The suggestion turned Gabriel’s stomach, and he shook his head. “That’s not my way, Ulick. For now, all I want is information.”
Ulick gave a shrug. “As you say, then. So this Kane—do we know if that’s his real name?”
“There’s no telling. But I’ve no reason to think otherwise.”
Ulick shifted his bony frame in the chair a little and cupped the back of his neck with one hand. “All right, then. We’ll start where we are. Kane…MacCathain or O Cein, that would be…let’s see, now…”
Ulick went on muttering to himself for a moment, then glanced up. “Has he by any chance mentioned when he went across? How old he might have been when he left Galway?”
“No, I told you, he has little to say about himself.”
They went on that way for a few more minutes, Ulick throwing out possibilities and more or less thinking aloud, with Gabriel unable to provide any real assistance.
Finally, Gabriel stood. “I must get back. Come to the house or send a message anytime. I’ll be waiting.”
Ulick seemed to scarcely notice his leaving, so engrossed was he in the puzzle Gabriel had presented him. “I’ll be going over to Dublin soon for a few days, to visit the boy and his wife,” he said after a moment. “Not for long, though. You’ll hear from me, sooner or later.”
Hoping it would be sooner rather than later, Gabriel turned and left the tavern.
8
ENCOUNTER WITH DARKNESS
Know thou the secret of a spirit
Bow’d from its wild pride into shame.
O yearning heart! I did inherit
Thy withering portion with the fame.
EDGAR ALLAN POE
PHILADELPHIA
Jack made no attempt to conceal his study of the man seated across the table from him. With some effort, however, he had managed to conceal his impatience with the self-important Mr. Poe, suppressing the inclination to suggest that the morose, albeit esteemed, writer grow up and cease his whining.
He had met Edgar Poe only once before, nearly two years ago while Poe was still staying in New York. He seemed to have changed little. Jack knew he was no more than thirty, though the writer had a haggard, discontented look about him that made him seem much older. Poe was a small man, a somber, delicate sort, with an unusually broad forehead and uncommonly sorrowful eyes. It occurred to Jack that Poe looked every bit the tortured genius he was rumored to be.
He also looked not altogether well. Poe’s complexion had an unhealthy pallor, emphasized by the man’s apparent proclivity for black: black frock coat, black cravat, black gloves. Poe’s hair was also dark, his gray eyes intense; taken together with his attire, the appearance of the man was strangely spectral.
They had met at the oyster house over an hour ago, and so far the writer had done little more than pick at his food, elaborate on his misfortunes, and undermine with a blistering tongue a number of his literary contemporaries—including Washington Irving, a personal favorite of Jack’s.
“Overrated,” Poe commented now, summarizing his poor opinion of Irving. “Greatly overrated.”
Jack said nothing. It had already occurred to him that Poe’s arrogant dismissal of his peers might be born of envy, perhaps even resentment. His own sales weren’t all that impressive; Poe was notorious for his financial woes and had, in fact, faced jail on more than one occasion for his bad debts.
Jack reminded himself that he had not come all the way to Philadelphia to let himself be provoked by a troublesome writer. Poe had distinctly expressed interest in publishing with the Vanguard or one of Jack’s other publishing interests, such as Perriman and Ware. Poe’s work was well-enough regarded that Jack had thought he ought to at least explore the possibilities.
So far this evening, however, Poe had exhibited little interest in a professional relationship with any of the Kane publishing enterprises. To the contrary, he seemed bent on conducting himself like some sort of a literary lion being pursued by a runny-nosed newsboy.
Jack was used to being patronized by the aristocrats in the literary community. Although he had become fairly adept at concealing his feelings, there had been a time when some of the more supercilious among the elite had managed to make him feel like a clumsy Irish peasant, out of his class and over his head.
These days, however, it took more than a pretentious author to put him at a disadvantage. His years in publishing had taught him that many of the brightest stars of the literary galaxy, no matter how eminent or highborn they might be, actually lived in dire financial straits. Indeed, some, like the notable Edgar Poe, seemed to exist in near poverty much of the time. So while the blue bloods might raise their eyebrows at his Irish commonness, they almost never turned up their noses at the smell of his money. He’d warrant that in that regard Poe was no different from the rest.
By the time dessert was served, he had grown impatient with the man’s posturing; in fact, he wasn’t at all sure he even wanted to bother with him.
With no further delay, he came to the point. “Well, Mr. Poe, let me just explain what I’m looking for, and you can give me a yes or a no as to whether you’re interested.”
Ignoring Poe’s somewhat huffy frown, Jack scooped up the last bite of his sugar-cream pie before going on. “I’m looking for material I can serialize in the Vanguard, preferably over a period of weeks. An adventure story, perhaps—something on the high seas, for example, with plenty of action and lots of excitement. Something to keep people buying the papers.”
Poe regarded Jack as if he had suddenly sprouted a horn in the middle of his forehead. “You’re not serious, of course.”
“I am entirely serious.”
Poe lifted a pale hand to finger his cravat. “I don’t write…serial fiction, Mr. Kane. I assumed you were familiar with my work.”
“Oh, I’m well acquainted with your work, Edgar—you don’t mind if I call you ‘Edgar’?—but tell me, how does your work sell?”
“I beg your pardon?” Poe’s mouth twisted downward, as though he had caught a hint of a bad odor.
“Your work,” Jack said. “Does it sell well for you?”
Poe’s features seemed to constrict. The fingers on the cravat trembled slightly. “I don’t write simply f
or profit, Mr. Kane.”
Jack saw the unsteadiness of the white hand, the uncertainty in Poe’s mournful eyes. “Be that as it may, Edgar, I am obliged to publish for profit. So, you see, I’m wondering if you wouldn’t like to try your hand at something different, perhaps a large adventure story, as I mentioned earlier. Something with a hero in jeopardy, a defenseless lady, and a great deal of excitement. And—” Jack deliberately emphasized his words—“a happy ending. In other words, a story that would have subscribers eager for the next edition. I’m willing to pay very generously for that kind of story if you can give it to me.”
Poe was still looking at him with something akin to distaste, but Jack thought he detected a glimmer of growing interest as well.
“As I said, I’ll pay well for the right material,” he pressed. “Are you interested?”
It was Jack’s observation that Poe was very interested, all right, but was unwilling to admit to it. His impatience with the man grew.
Poe crossed his arms, hugging them to himself, as he fastened his eyes on something just above Jack’s head. For his part, Jack took the opportunity to study the writer even more closely. For the first time, he noticed that, despite Poe’s distinct impression of breeding and Byronic airs, the man had a certain indefinable seediness that didn’t quite square with the image he obviously meant to project. There was a strange sense of interior decay about Edgar Poe that Jack found unsettling, to say the least.
“I find myself wondering if I should be insulted by your offer, Mr. Kane.”
Jack shrugged. “It’s not actually an offer, merely an idea. But I’m curious as to why you’d be insulted. As I recall, you contacted me. I’m simply trying to figure a way this might work for both of us and make you a bit of money in the process.”
Poe’s eyes flashed. “I do not hire myself out to the highest bidder, sir. I have a certain reputation to maintain in the literary world, as you must be aware.”
Jack placed his fork carefully on his plate and leaned back in his chair, looking Poe directly in the eye. “I can’t think your reputation would be impaired by getting your work out to a larger audience, Edgar. Certainly it wouldn’t hurt your bank account.”
