Flight of the Earls

by Michael K. Reynolds

  “Yes. The Irish Society. It’s a place for our people they said. We ventured to a building that had the same exact clover symbol on its door. Once there, folks told us we had something in our possession that rightly belonged to a certain Patrick Feagles.”

  “There’s more,” Pierce whispered.

  “Well, there’s that.” Seamus lowered his voice as well. “The man we spoke to at the Irish Society seemed to believe this Mr. Feagles would be most grateful for the pendant’s proper return. That is, if he didn’t kill us for having it in the first place.”

  “He said that?” Clare gasped.

  “Aye,” her brother said. “But he was making more of it than there was, I am certain.”

  Clare was unconvinced and now more than a bit troubled. “And Tressa. How did you meet Tressa?”

  Seamus offered a bite of the apple to Clare, but she shook her head. “We were told we’d find Mr. Feagles in the tavern below, it being called . . .”

  “McKinney’s,” Pierce said. “When we got here and mentioned this Feagles’s name, they pointed us to Tressa, who was sitting at one of the far tables.”

  “At first, she was ill pleased,” Seamus said. “Until we showed her the necklace. One look at that and she was so sure Mr. Feagles would want to meet us she invited us to supper and even offered us her place to bed down.”

  “And here we are.” Pierce spread his arms wide.

  “So you know . . . nothing about this Patrick Feagles?”

  Seamus shrugged.

  Clare’s anger began to rise. “And do you think it wise not to tell me this man might intend us harm? Had you not the good wits to share this story with me before you brought me here?”

  “No,” Seamus said with a patronizing smile. “He’ll be so grateful to us for the return of his precious jewelry, he’ll treat us generously.”

  “And how do you know that, Seamus?”

  He glanced at Pierce and then turning back put a hand on her shoulder. “When we showed it to Tressa, she said it was a gift he gave his sister.”

  “Yes, I know. Tressa already told me Mr. Feagles was the keener’s brother. And what of it?” Clare’s head ached. She was preoccupied with wondering if they would be wise to flee the house while they still had the opportunity.

  “Don’t you see it?” Seamus said, in an incredulous tone. “For some reason the keener knew we would end up meeting up with her brother. It was a real gift she gave us. This Feagles is from back home. He’s one of us.”

  Just then a door opened. Startled, they turned to see Tressa emerging from her room. Her face displayed an artistry of makeup, which despite being a bit heavily applied, succeeded in making the old woman appear more youthful. Clare could imagine a young Tressa would have drawn the eyes of many a suitor.

  “Oh, how wonderful you’re here.” Clare worried that Tressa might have heard part of their conversation. “I . . . uh . . . I’m uncertain if the roast is cooked or not.”

  Tressa eyed them with suspicion. “Why are you muddling about? You all look as if you’re standing before the gallows.”

  “We’re just grateful, ma’am.” Seamus smiled. “Pleased to be here.”

  “Say nothing of it, dear. Patrick would be angry with me if I treated poorly friends of his sister. He dotes on that woman fiercely and will be cheered by any news you have about her. Just about broke the man when Rose went back to Ireland.”

  Clare gave Seamus an accusatory glance. “I hope it won’t dispirit Mr. Feagles once he knows we don’t know her too well.”

  “He’ll feast on the slightest detail. I told you he loves that woman. And speaking of feasting, that roast is done. Let’s pull her out and prepare the settings. What time is it?” Tressa glanced at the clock, which showed it was nearly eight in the evening. “Oh my. Paddy ought to be home soon. Let’s hurry ourselves so all will be ready.”

  Under Tressa’s direction, Clare gathered the food onto serving china while the boys pulled a table from the wall and placed it where not too long ago the brass tub set. Whether driven by the anticipation of the meal or the man who was on his way, they hurried at their tasks, and in not more than a few minutes, they were gathered around the table, admiring the spread in awe and silence.

  Before them, the meat sizzled atop a pool of gravy, as tiny rivulets of butter streamed down the curvatures of the corn on the cob. Beets, a brilliant purple and fresh from the market, brimmed to the edge of the dish, and further tempting their patience were the wheat aromas of oven-browned bread, which was still warm to the touch.

  Clare and the boys gazed expectantly at the woman, hoping and even pleading with their eyes that the words of grace would free them from the cruel bondage of politeness. But no such words spilled from Tressa’s lips. Instead, she spoke of everything else, intending apparently for not a single fork to be lifted until her Patrick Feagles came through the door.

  Then at last, with Tressa seemingly exhausting every possible word, she released a deep sigh and there was silence, except for the steady ticking of the clock, which seemed to grow in intensity as disappointment crept deeper into her face.

  “I’m sure he’ll be here soon.” Clare clasped her hands, which were sweaty.

  “Maybe we should begin . . .” Tressa looked at the clock again.

  “We should wait . . .” Clare said, but it was too late. Seamus and Pierce dug into the food like wolves over their prey. The chains were broken. Clare, who couldn’t remember how long it had been since her last full dinner, had no more will to restrain them or herself. With each bite, strength returned to Clare, flowing through her body.

  She barely noticed Tressa preserving a plate of food for Patrick, his chair ominously empty.

  In a short while, it was all over. The last of the food was scraped from the serving platter, and after Seamus and Pierce used the bread to sop up whatever gravies remained on their plates, they leaned back in their chairs and exchanged sighs and groans of contentment.

  Clare stared down with guilt at the food left on her plate. She abhorred the thought of wasting food, but her appetite was still fragile and she couldn’t force another bite without gagging.

  “Miss Tressa.” Seamus patted his mouth with his napkin. “You’ve made our little venture to America already worth every effort. Had I known what awaited me here, I would have beaten the captain for speed.”

  “’Twas fine.” Pierce smiled. “Fine indeed.”

  Tressa looked over to the plate of food she had set aside for Patrick and blushed. “I suppose his duties kept him. He’s been at it hard lately. Patrick is a very important man.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” Pierce said, “what exactly does Mr. Feagles do?”

  Before the question could be answered, a muffled sound came through the door. It was a man’s voice, deep and drunken, echoing through the hallway outside and drawing closer.

  “Jimmy, I’ll crack your head. See if I don’t come down there if I hear another word from ye.”

  The words and tone widened the eyes of those around the table, with the exception of Tressa who seemed to be oddly pleased with the approaching rancor. From Seamus’s worried expression, he must have been recalculating the wisdom of his latest plan. But, there was nothing they could do but let it play out now.

  “Don’t worry,” Tressa said. “He’s mostly harmless when he’s had a few.”

  They listened with heightened senses as the man’s shouting shifted to a drunken song as heavy steps moved up the creaking wooden floorboards of the stairs.

  Fair as a maiden, ever should be,

  The lies of a lady, looking at me,

  She brought down ships,

  And sails unfurled,

  Never seen beauty,

  Like Celia my girl.

  There was a fumbling at the door, the handle turned slowly,
and the door cracked open enough to show the shadow of a man dressed in dark pants and a checkered waistcoat, with a gray cravat spilling lazily out from his neck. He took off his overcoat and hung it on the rack by the door after a couple of failed attempts. Without noticing them he leaned back out into the hallway and bellowed again as he took off his plug hat.

  “Jimmy, I have a mind to come at you hard. Cheating me in my own place. I’ll break ye with me bare hands. See if I won’t.”

  Clare experienced both a terror . . . and a strange familiarity. There was something in the man’s voice she recognized.

  There wasn’t time to dwell on this as Patrick Feagles slammed the door shut and placed his hat on a hook while mumbling to himself. Then he turned to face them and became alarmed at the sight of the strangers in his home rising to greet him. He squinted to try to see in the dim light and seemed both confused and angry in his stupor.

  Just then as he leaned forward, his face became illuminated by the beams of light coming from the candles, like the moon would after bursting through a shroud of clouds. There, as Clare’s mouth went agape in horror, the apparition of her past became eerily visible. Tall, broad shouldered, slumping forward with age and wear, teeth of amber hue, and leaning on a walking stick, Clare could see in this man the eyes of her father, now suddenly sad and frightened.

  The sharp contours of his cheeks were undeniably of Hanley breeding and those bushy eyebrows and sideburns were ones so familiar and inviting to her during Clare’s ephemeral youth.

  For there standing before her, warmed as if risen from the bowels of the sea, was Patrick Feagles. No. Not him at all. Because clearly Patrick Feagles was a counterfeit. The man before her was Uncle Tomas, as alive to Clare now as the day she last saw him nearly four years ago.

  Chapter 22

  Uncle Tomas

  Clare felt on the verge of fainting and fought back the scream rising from her toes, through her body, and surging to her face. But with much restraint she let out only a gasp, a soft release of surprise, and her uncle’s eyes softened, relaxed.

  Fear receded from his disposition, his confidence replenished, and he lit up with his customary charm. In an instant he was once again her uncle Tomas, the one who spoiled Clare and her sister Maggie and who was capable of provoking so much jealousy in her father.

  Clare resented his arrogance returning so effortlessly. As a child she always admired her uncle’s verve, his playful aloofness. But now, with his ruse dangling so precariously in their hands, his behavior seemed reckless and offensive. Yet as she glanced toward Seamus to measure his reaction, she didn’t see a trace of disgust in her brother’s face. Rather, he was smiling broadly, almost gloating, as one would who had an opponent mated in chess. Clare realized her brother was about to seize the opportunity to profit from this unusual circumstance.

  “Mr. Feagles,” Seamus said, plunging into the awkwardness. “It is indeed a pleasure to meet you at last.”

  Uncle Tomas was disarmed by Seamus’s tone and he reeled backward. Then one of his eyebrows cocked, his head tilted, and Clare could sense he was on to Seamus and realized the ransom was set.

  “Your sister,” Seamus said without flinching. “She told us . . . so much about you. It’s almost as if you’re part of our family.”

  “Me sister?”

  “Yes. We know her as Madame O’Riley.”

  “Of course,” Uncle Tomas said warily. “You know Rose?”

  “She gave us a pendant. Or should I say she gave it to my sister Clare as a gift for our American Wake.”

  Seamus nodded to Clare and she reluntantly unfastened the necklace.

  Uncle Tomas reached out and took the necklace from Clare, and he brought the pendant close to his eyes. “I gave this to Rose,” he said, his voice wavering. “Is Rose here with you?” He cheered with hope and handed the jewelry back to Clare.

  “No,” Seamus said. “She’s back home. But she sent good tidings. We feared it would be a great imposition to come here uninvited, but your sister insisted we would . . .”

  “Not in the least so,” Uncle Tomas said. “Tressa, how thoughtful of you for welcoming these young people into our home.”

  Tressa’s face beamed. “I knew you’d be tart if you found out I shooed them off.”

  “No. You did well, dear.” Tomas leaned over and kissed Tressa on the cheek.

  Clare tracked closely with how they interacted. Her stomach knotted with the thought of Aunt Meara back home, still grieving Uncle Tomas’s supposed death. How tragic it would be for her to discover the fraud.

  “There’s dinner here for you,” Tressa said. “The heat’s gone, I’m afraid.”

  “Lovely, dear.” Tomas lowered himself slowly into the chair and motioned to the others to join him at the table. “Would you fetch us some of the good rye I’ve been sparing? Just for times such as these.”

  Uncomfortably, they settled into their chairs around the table. When Tressa left the room and the clattering of glasses could be heard from the kitchen, Tomas leaned in toward the three of them and spoke in a hush.

  “It would shatter poor Tressa’s heart to hear more than she can bear. Trust me on this. Allow me to do my explaining in privacy and beyond Tressa’s hearing.” He turned to Seamus. “There will be much to gain for all of you. That I can promise. And when I speak my words, it will be well received. But know one thing with certainty for now. I am and must be Patrick Feagles.”

  Clare felt her stomach grinding. Filled with disgust and confusion, she wanted nothing more than to flee this man, this place. But where would she go? Looking deep through the eyes and into the soul of her uncle, she struggled to reconcile the anger she now felt toward him. Had she been so blind to his wickedness all through her childhood?

  Oh. What she would give to restore her fond memories of him! Was it cowardice or grace to wish that she be driven toward forgiveness? Her mind sought out any possible justification of his behavior, but none could be found.

  Worst of all, there was a much greater inquiry looming, one she dare not speak now. But Clare would soon demand an answer and this twisted her mind with anger, fear . . . and hope: If this was Uncle Tomas, living, breathing, and speaking before her, then where was her sister Margaret?

  “So much to talk about.” Uncle Tomas forced a chuckle as Tressa returned from the kitchen and placed the glasses down. “What news of back home?”

  “Get to it, Patrick. He means to ask what have you to say of his sister,” Tressa said above the sound of pouring. She filled each of their glasses to the brim with the amber liquid, with the exception of Clare, who politely waved her off.

  Pierce picked up the bottle of whiskey and examined the label.

  “What brought you to leave home?” Tomas’s voice strained to be conversational.

  “The plague.” Pierce sipped slowly from his glass. “The taters.”

  “There’s been talk of this.” Tomas rubbed his chin. “And uh . . . where do you hail from?”

  “Branlow.” Seamus gave a wry grin.

  “Is that right? Didn’t know it reached County Roscommon.”

  “May I?” Pierce held up the bottle of whiskey.

  “Of course, of course,” Uncle Tomas said. “Have your fill.”

  Seamus slid his glass toward Pierce.

  “How badly has it hit?” Tomas asked.

  “Bad. Enough to bring us here,” responded Seamus coolly. “They’ll need our support soon enough. It’s why we’re a bit hasty about finding work.”

  “Jobs?” Tomas grunted. He took a large bite of his food and spoke as he ate noisily. “It’s not what they tell you, I’m afraid.”

  “About there being work in America?” Pierce said.

  “Should I warm that for you?” Tressa reached out for Tomas’s plate.

  He shook
his head without looking at her and pointed his fork at Pierce. “What did the charlatans tell you? So much work they’d be begging for your services before you had one foot landed on the docks?” He grimaced. “Anything to sell their precious passages. The ship owners are filling their pockets on the blood of the Irish. Aye. I’m afraid there’s no work to be given. Only what is taken.”

  “That can’t be.” Pierce frowned.

  “It ’tis.” Tomas took a swig of whiskey and motioned to Pierce for the bottle. “But not yours to be concerned about. Rose did you a fine favor by bringing you here.” He pointed a thumb toward himself. “Not many can help you, but I can. And I will.”

  “Paddy runs this town, he does,” Tressa said, beaming.

  Uncle Tomas seemed annoyed by her cloying manner. “That’s making too much of it, but we’ll get you landed proper. Food. A place to live.” He glanced up from his plate and met Clare’s gaze. “That is, if it suits you.”

  “If it’s honest work, yes,” Clare said.

  “I’m not as particular as me sister,” Seamus said. “Honesty is a fine enough principle, but I have a preference toward generosity when it comes to wages. It will spend the same back home whichever way it comes.”

  “There’s only two kinds of earnings here in the Five Points,” Uncle Tomas said. “That which comes easy and that which comes hard. It’s as you please.”

  Seamus nodded. “Be a fair change of circumstances for anything easy to come our way.”

  “Easy would be just fine,” Pierce said.

  “Aye.” Tomas toasted them with his glass. “Well then. The fates are favoring you now. Easy so happens to be me specialty.”

  “Have you not seen the blue eyes on this one?” Tressa nodded toward Clare.

  Clare felt Uncle Tomas eyeing her as a woman for the first time and it unsettled her. She bowed her head reflexively.

  “Tressa’s right,” Uncle Tomas said. “Beauty treads a gentler path. As it was back home. But even more so here. It will suit you well.” Then he paused and looked at her awkwardly. “What happened to you here?” He pointed to his head.