“Good morning, Em.” He plunked himself down in a chair next to her.
“Will you be taking breakfast here?” I asked, and he said he would. Lately he’d been at the Homestead so often I wondered was he spending any time with his own family? Emily got plates from the pantry and went to set the dining room table.
“Is Ned feeling better?” I asked Austin. The boy had taken sick with another fever the day before. “And Mattie—is she well?”
“Fit as a fiddle,” Austin said. “And I’m sure Ned will pull through after a few days in bed.” He didn’t seem worried.
“A lad was here yesterday asking for your father,” I said. “Came all the way from the Hoosac Tunnel.”
“The tunnel?” Austin looked surprised. “What did he want?”
The hairs on my neck prickled. Didn’t have to turn around to know Emily was standing in the doorway watching me.
“He wouldn’t say,” I said, stirring onions in the skillet, watching them sizzle in the melted butter.
“Probably to do with legislation.” Austin picked up one of the scraps Emily had been writing on, turned it over, dropped it. “Father’s going to be giving a speech next week. I hope the man didn’t come to make trouble. Was he Irish?”
“He’s American as myself,” I said.
I heard Emily laugh, but when I turned to look, she was gone.
Chapter Eleven
The Squire came back to Amherst on the afternoon train. Settled himself in the library with Mother Dickinson and I brought them lemonade and slices of the coconut cake Emily made. He was grumbling about the other legislators when I came in, but he looked wrung out with the heat. He’d been frail all last winter, sick with one thing and another. By spring he’d been able to go back to work, but he still wasn’t strong and all that misery left him tetchy.
“Welcome home, sir,” I said, handing around the lemonade and cake. “How was your journey?”
“Barely tolerable.” He glanced at me but didn’t smile. I was used to that, to be sure. I wanted to tell him about Patrick Quinn, but with Mother Dickinson looking on, it was plainly not the time.
“That will be all, Maggie,” she said. “Close the door behind you.” I didn’t have a choice but to leave.
I was uneasy all that day and night. Feeling as if dark clouds were rising and changing the light before a dreadful storm.
All weekend long I watched for a chance to ask the Squire if Patrick had talked with him. But the only time we were alone was Saturday night when he paid my wages and gave me a scolding for putting too much salt in the gravy. I knew he’d not welcome me prying into what wasn’t my business after all.
Just before I left for Mass the next morning, Sue Dickinson walked into the kitchen with Mattie. Emily came down right off. Must have been watching from her bedroom window and seen them coming along the path between the houses. It seemed the child wanted to spend the morning with her aunt instead of going to church. And wasn’t Emily smiling, like she’d just been given the loveliest gift? She whisked the girl off to her room soon as Sue left. It made me think maybe Sue was after pleasing Emily as much as Mattie.
It surprised me, though, for the Dickinsons always made a grand show of getting dressed in their best clothes and trooping off to the Congregational church together. All except Emily. I did wonder why she never once went to church, not in all the years I knew her. A few times I asked, but she never gave a satisfactory answer. Instead, she’d laugh and tell me some silly thing—that she’d rather find God in her garden, or that any bird in the yard could deliver a grand sermon. All I could think of was the trembly holy feeling that came over me when the Communion wafer melted on my tongue. I thanked God I was Catholic.
* * *
On Sunday afternoons all the Kelleys ate dinner together, in one house or the other. Whether the food was ample or meager, we always had a grand time of it, trading tales and jests. That day we were gathering at James and Ellen’s. Mary caught me up on news as we walked across the yard together. Seems Maureen O’Donnell gave birth to twins, and both of them girls. A long, hard labor, it was, but the babbies were healthy as piglets in spite of sharing the one belly. Mary said Maureen was so pleased with herself for finally birthing daughters the tears were just running down her face. But her poor husband, Martin—he was beside himself, worrying how he was going to be putting food in the mouths of so many on a hod carrier’s pay.
I had my arm linked through Mary’s and my head bent to be hearing her over the children’s noise, so I didn’t look up till we stepped into Ellen’s big kitchen. And there, sitting at the table with his chair pushed back and his arm slung over the rail of it, was Patrick Quinn himself. Talking with James, he was, and the two of them could have been long-lost brothers from the way they were going at it, such a fierce chinwag they were having. A little sound came out of me, like a squeak, for I’d reckoned he was long gone back to North Adams. I unhooked my arm from my sister’s and smoothed my skirts. But before I had a chance to speak, Ellen came over and set a bowl of boiled potatoes in my hands.
“Would you be a love and take these into the dining room?” Ellen was a hardworking woman with a kind face, but she didn’t abide lollygagging. Not much taller than myself but every inch of her all business. So off I went to the dining room, where two long tables were set together. They were already laid with Ellen’s Sunday china and her daughter was putting out the flatware.
“I see you have a new boarder talking with your da,” I said. “Do you know how long he’ll be staying?”
But she didn’t get a chance to answer, for Mary came in that minute, carrying the beef brisket. And didn’t everybody follow till the room was stuffed with Kelleys and boarders? There was a great tapping of feet and scraping of chairs. When we were all sitting down, James said the grace, we blessed ourselves, and the eating began. Patrick was at the far end of the table next to James, with my nephew Michael squeezed between himself and Ellen. I tried not to stare but I did glance his way more than once. He didn’t look at me, though, and there was too much uproar to be getting his attention. In truth, there was enough laughter in that room to raise the dead. The little ones couldn’t sit still and slid off their benches soon as they filled their bellies, while the older ones were making such a racket with their blather, I could scarcely hear what folks next to me were saying.
When the eating was done, I helped clear the table, thinking I could speak to Patrick where he sat. But before I got there, all the lads stood up and went outside, leaving the women and girls to the washing up. But on his way out the door Patrick glanced my way and gave me a nod. A little spark went from my head to my legs, knowing he recognized me. I was itching to go after him, but knew there’d be no end of teasing if I did. So I followed the women into the kitchen and busied myself scraping plates and heating water for washing. I was at the sink with suds up to my elbows when I finally got the chance to ask Ellen about him.
“How long will he be boarding?” I asked.
“He just paid for a few days,” Ellen said. “Had some business in town. He’s leaving tomorrow.” She took the plate I just washed out of the rinse bucket and wiped it dry. “How did you come to be knowing him?”
“Sure, I’m not knowing him at all,” I told her. “He stopped by the Homestead Thursday looking for the Squire. Did he mention me?” I dropped the last plate into the rinse water and pushed the potato bowl deep into the water.
“Now I can’t remember, to tell you the truth.” Ellen stacked the dinner plates and carried them to the shelf. She looked tired. “Seems like a friendly lad. James likes him.”
“I saw that,” I said.
One of the children started howling and Ellen went to settle the commotion. Mary took up the dish towel and commenced drying as she was telling me about a property Tom was looking to buy in Turners Falls. It was an investment, she said, and would soon be making all of them rich.
“It sounds promising.” I was hoping she’d get around to telling me what she thought of Patrick. But she went on and on about Tom’s ventures, and after a bit, I straight out asked.
“I only laid eyes on him two days ago.” Mary wiped the bowl dry. “What should I be thinking?” She gave me a sideways look. “Don’t be telling me you’re sweet on him, Margaret.”
“Don’t be an eejit,” I said. “How could I be sweet on him when I just saw him once?” But I was keeping my eyes on the washbasin.
“Happens all the time,” Mary said. “I was taken with Tom the first day I set eyes on him, though we didn’t speak for weeks. Patrick’s a good-looking lad. I’ll give you that.” She finished her drying, snapped the towel in the air a few times, and hung it back on the rack over the stove.
“I amn’t taken with anybody.” I wrung out the dishcloth more forceful than usual. “I’m set on staying single.” What I wanted to be saying was single and free but it would likely lead to a quarrel we’d had before. Ever since I got George Garrett out of my system, I’d resolved not to be getting myself tied down. I’d watched Mary bear one babby after another and had seen how they stole her sleep and wore away her liveliness. She had no money of her own, only what Tom provided. So whenever folks started in on how I should be finding a lad to wed, saying it was the duty of every Irish girl to marry and have children, I paid them no mind. Just because I liked the look of a lad didn’t mean I wanted anything to come of it. I’m American, not Irish, I’d say, making them laugh and shake their heads. Besides, Patrick Quinn was leaving tomorrow and I’d likely never see him again.
I carried the basin across the kitchen and flung the water out the back door. I stood a minute, listening to the dishwater dripping off the bushes. I could hear the children calling and the men’s rumbly voices from the porch out front. Kelley Square was never quiet, but it was a comforting place. No matter what happened other places, when I came here I felt safe and content.
With the washing up done, Mary and Ellen and myself headed for the porch. Patrick was sitting on the rail listening to Tom and James and drinking a pint. I sat on the steps with Mary and Ellen, but I was so twitchy Mary said something must be ailing me.
“I’m grand,” I said. “Just need to move around a bit to settle that brisket.” And up I got and took a walk—past the depot and across the tracks to the Crossing, where most of the Irish in Amherst lived. The houses were small, but well kept up. Nothing folks could be calling a shanty. Took my time going back but when I did Patrick was still sitting where I’d left him.
I went up the porch steps. “I see you’re still in Amherst, Patrick Quinn,” I called out. Made him turn and look. A smile came over his face.
“That I am, Miss Margaret,” he said. “That I am.” And I felt my color rising again. Sure, I was pleased he remembered my name.
We talked a minute, Patrick and myself. He thanked me for pointing him to Kelley Square and for sending the message that the Squire would be at his office on Saturday.
“Sure, I’m trusting your business here was a success,” I said, hoping he’d say what it was about. But he just nodded and smiled some more and by then I was mindful of everybody watching the two of us.
“Ellen says you’re leaving,” I said. “Going back to the tunnel.”
“I am, though I wish I could be staying longer. ’Tis grand spending time with Tipperary folk.” He tipped his glass back and finished his pint. I was turning away when he said, “But don’t you worry, lass. I won’t be forgetting this place.” He gave me a wink.
And didn’t my heart commence banging away like a girl with nothing but fluff in her head?
* * *
It was almost dark when I got back to the Homestead that Sunday evening. The air was steamy and wet the way it gets when there’s a summer storm brewing, the kind makes your sleeves stick to your arms. But the weather didn’t trouble me. I was thinking of Patrick, wondering if he’d be coming back to Amherst soon. I turned in at the Homestead gate and shut it behind me. The Squire was particular about keeping the gate closed. When I first came, I thought it was himself being haughty and unsociable but later I learned he was doing it for Emily.
Walking up the drive, I glanced to my left and didn’t I see the Squire himself coming along the path from the Evergreens? His head was hanging down and he looked like the oldest man alive, he was so slow and bent. I was about to call out, asking if he needed my arm to lean on, when a little wind came up, swirling the leaves around and tugging at his hat. He clapped his hand on it and the wind died the same minute.
God’s truth, I knew a Faery Blast when I saw one. As far back as I could remember, I’d recognized those little gusts of wind the Faeries make to warn the doomed. Rattled me, it did, though I didn’t say anything, knowing the Dickinsons would think it a foolish superstition. Fretted about it all night, though, fearing the Squire would be sick by morning or even die in his sleep.
But on Monday he was his usual self—ate a good breakfast and went off to his office. I was busy with washing the bed linens and fixing the meals and didn’t have time to be worrying about why the Squire would be having a Faery Blast or what Patrick talked with him about. It had rained overnight and cleared the air, so it was a grand day for drying. Emily baked a custard and Vinnie helped me hang out the sheets.
After dinner Mother Dickinson went off to call on Mrs. Jenkins and Vinnie went up to her room to take a nap. The Squire sat reading in the parlor. I did the washing up and took in the laundry. When I came back in, I heard Emily playing the piano, a quare thing for her to be doing in the afternoon. Going past the parlor on my way to sweep the front walk, I could see the Squire sitting in his chair with his eyes shut, listening. Must have done him some good, for he was uncommonly kind at supper and there was no lecturing or quarreling over the cold beef and cheese.
The Squire left right after breakfast in the morning, heading off to the depot to catch the milk train to Boston. In truth, I was glad to have him out of the house, for I worked better when I wasn’t worrying about displeasing him. And I had a lot to do—Tuesday, it was, and laundry-starching day for me.
* * *
Mother Dickinson and Emily and Vinnie lingered over their supper that evening. The air coming in the windows was warm and sweet, smelling of roses. Mother Dickinson was livelier than usual, going on about supporting the cleanup from the Mill River flood. Vinnie said she’d take some old clothes to Northampton for relief. It was after six o’clock and I was biding my time in the kitchen, waiting for them to shift themselves so I could do the clearing, when in came Austin. He burst through the back door, his hair flying in all directions and eyes black as Satan. Holding a scrap of paper, he was, waving it like a flag at a parade.
“Where’s Mother?” he shouted. I waved in the direction of the dining room and followed him in.
“Whatever’s the matter?” Vinnie asked.
Mother Dickinson touched her throat.
“A telegram,” Austin said, his voice breaking all to pieces in his throat. “Father’s ill. Very ill.” He handed the telegram to Vinnie. “We must go to Boston.” He looked at his mother, at Emily. “Now. We must leave at once.”
“Leave?” Mother Dickinson started to stand but sank back. She looked so pale I thought she was fainting.
“Father,” I heard Emily whisper. “He’s dying.”
Austin touched his mother’s shoulder. It was meant to calm her, surely, but it seemed a stiff and awkward gesture. “You and Emily will stay here. Vinnie and I shall go.”
Vinnie stood up. I could see her hands shaking. “But hasn’t the train already left?”
He frowned and then turned to me. “Maggie, go tell Tim to harness the horses. Immediately.” His look told me to run and so I did, fast as I could, and heard no more of the family’s talk.
Tim wasn’t in the barn but I soon found him at the far end o
f the lawn by the vegetable garden, smoking a pipe. He sprang up the minute I told him the news, running as if to a fire and the scowl on him could have killed a demon. But when I got back to the house, he met me at the door and said word just came the Squire was dead.
The dining room was empty, the plates sitting on the table with food bits stuck to them. Sue came while I was clearing and the family clustered together in the back parlor. When I went in to offer tea, Mother Dickinson was rolling her head on Austin’s shoulder, while Sue patted her hand. Poor Vinnie was wiping her eyes but it was doing no good, for the tears were gushing down her face.
Emily wasn’t with them. Vinnie said soon as she heard the news Emily went straight upstairs and closed herself in her room.
She didn’t come out for two weeks.
Chapter Twelve
Death is a terrible trouble for any family, but the Squire’s dying was pure ruin for the Dickinsons. It threw them into a misery and confusion so wretched they couldn’t think. Vinnie was the only one whose mind was at all sound. It was herself making funeral arrangements and writing letters and bearing the sympathy of visitors knocking at the door. And there were dozens, for it seemed all the Protestants in Massachusetts were grieving for the Squire. I didn’t know how famous he was till I read his obituary in the papers.
Americans mourn different than the Irish. In Ireland the way folks talk about their dead is sweet with memories for laughing and sighing. In America they act like death is a thief instead of a friend. To my thinking, the pity of it wasn’t the Squire’s dying itself but the way he died—alone, without a soul to be holding his hand and pressing a cool cloth to his head or even saying a prayer.
It was Austin went to Boston and brought his father’s body home on the train. At the depot lads from the hat factory and Kelley Square loaded the Squire’s coffin onto a wagon and trundled it up Main Street to the Homestead. They heaved it up the front steps and into the hall, all polished and shining. Then Austin told them to open the lid. It was a solemn moment, to be sure, for looking on the face of death is no easy thing. But the Squire’s body looked exactly like himself—stiff and solemn and grand.
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