Flight of the Earls

by Michael K. Reynolds

  “Disgusting,” she whispered.

  She began to shut the drawer, then stopped. She was being lazy. Clare pulled it out all of the way, having to jostle it at the end to fully free it from its frame. She carried the drawer over to the sunlight and cradled the drawer under her arm as she unlatched a rusty brass hook and pushed the window shutters outward.

  The breeze came in fresh and cool, and Clare stuck her head outside and looked at the world of activity below. Carriages hoofed by, pedestrians sauntered, hurried, and squabbled. Voices of children, merchants, and newsboys echoed through the dirty cobblestone roads.

  Clare waited patiently for there to be a clearing in the walkway three stories below, and then she turned the drawer upside down and drummed on it. As she did this, Clare noticed something peculiar attached to the upper right bottom of the drawer. It was a small gold key, attached to the wood by a small pool of hardened candle wax.

  What could this be? Should I leave it?

  Clare tugged on it gently and it snapped out of the dry wax with ease. There it was now, in her hands. She had no way of putting it back. At this point, she’d have to give it to Tressa or Uncle Tomas and hope they believed she wasn’t being meddlesome.

  She bent down and returned the drawer to its place, then stood. She examined the key closely in her cupped hand, using the sunlight from the window. The key seemed too small to fit a door, yet it was sturdy and finely crafted. Its purpose must be to open a lock of some importance.

  Clare went out to the main room to share her discovery with Seamus and Pierce, but instead felt angered when she saw the two of them sprawled out across the furniture. She slipped the key into her dress pocket and buttoned it.

  “We can’t stay here, you know.”

  Seamus released a slow exhale from his purloined pipe. “And why is that, dear sister?”

  “Leave? Why’s that?” Pierce said.

  “Must I waste words on this?” Clare’s pulse was starting to rise. “We’re in this place owned by a charlatan, a fraud, the very one who happens to be our uncle, the brother of our father.”

  Seamus sat up. “What will we gain by exposin’ him now?”

  “Some character,” she responded. “And what of Maggie? Don’t you have a heart for your family?”

  “Lower your voices,” Pierce said. “We’ll be heard.”

  “I’ll speak my mind clearly. I won’t be staying in this place. If it means I am on the streets by myself, so be it. I’ll be better off than here with the two of you, pandering to my aunt’s traitor.”

  Seamus stood and put his hands on Clare’s shoulders. “Don’t judge us so harshly. Yes. I want to hear all of the story. I want to find Margaret. But our uncle asked for us to hear him out. I suppose he is deserving of a little patience, and perhaps some grace. Even if he is all you fear he is, we have to sort through this properly.”

  “And how would that be?” She crossed her arms.

  “We can’t forget about our family. The ones back home. They’re needing us to be successful. If we can make our way with our uncle’s help, whether he’s the villain you believe, we shouldn’t be hasty to throw away our good fortune.”

  “We haven’t had much of that,” Pierce said.

  Clare grunted and gritted her teeth, but the wisdom of what her brother said made sense.

  “Let’s hear him out,” Seamus said. “And then we’ll decide what’s next. But let’s keep our senses about us.”

  Their conference was interrupted by a firm knock on the door. Before they had much chance to exchange glances, the handle turned and bursting through the door came Uncle Tomas, with the verve Clare recognized from her youth.

  Dandily dressed in dark brown pants, a taupe vest, and a black stovepipe hat, Uncle Tomas’s smile spread broadly across his reddened face, displaying more teeth than should properly fit a mouth.

  “How do you fancy your lodgings?” he said. “Come now. Gather yer boots, hats, and dresses. I have much to show you today. Found you work as well, I did. But we’ll discuss all that later. Let’s be gone. Time to see the city and pluck her fruits.”

  Clare tried to be angry, in loyalty to her aunt and as a guard against compromise. But, she found herself slipping into the grasps of her uncle’s charm and this disgusted her. They gathered themselves and soon they were heading out with their merry guide.

  As she followed behind, Clare fumbled with the key in her pocket.

  Chapter 24

  Of the City

  They walked through the crowded streets of the Five Points, and though Clare’s emotions were churning with confusion and guilt, there was also a surging exhilaration.

  Clare relented, fascinated and enraptured with the sights and activity of the village. The world rose around her in fresh vibrancy. As Clare and the boys struggled to keep up with her uncle’s pace, something else soon became evident to her: The city was parting around the man.

  “Hello, Mr. Feagles,” said a man in a tattered jacket.

  “Good day to you, sir,” another bellowed from the doorway as they passed.

  “Well to see you,” said one of two women who passed carrying brightly colored parasols.

  “Pleasure, sir,” said a tall man with a scraggly beard as he bowed almost painfully.

  In between these greetings there were those who would wave, lift a hat, smile warmly, and curtsy. Uncle Tomas would do his best to acknowledge each and every one of them with a nod, a wink, and at times a pithy greeting. He stopped a few to inquire about the health of their family or how their jobs were going. With a few he touched on politics or discussed whether the dark clouds on the horizon were going to make their way inland.

  Clare watched with amazement, even though this all seemed more in character with the man she adored through her youth.

  In between his interactions with the people of his neighborhood, he would share intimate details about those he had greeted, point out the most reputable merchants, and offered stories on the history and happenstances of the buildings. He would show them his favorite places for meals and libations.

  Uncle Tomas stopped at nearly every food vendor they would pass, picking carefully through the offerings before tossing to the three of them the choicest of crisp apples, warm bread, buttered rolls, sweet pastries, and exotic fruit. So much so, they began to fill their pockets with the excess.

  Her uncle didn’t pay coin nor bill, and the merchants never offered a hint of protest. He floated through these streets scattered with rubbish, beggars, and thieves as if he landlorded the entire city, owning not only the buildings and the stores but the people themselves. With guilty delight she experienced a sense of entitlement and even a touch of royalty as she followed behind him.

  When they paused at a tobacconist stand, Clare took the opportunity to drift off a slight distance as Uncle Tomas outfitted Pierce and Seamus with pipes. Clasping her hands behind her back, she meandered over to a merchant’s window and gazed inside.

  Through the glass she could see it was a women’s clothier, and although the shop was empty of patrons, it was full of a variety of colorful and well-crafted garments, each meticulously displayed. There before her eyes, posturing on a wooden mannequin, was a delicate yet tastefully subdued dress. It was woven from cotton fabric with broad vertical stripes alternating in light blue and off-white shades, with floral patterns along the seams. Draped over the shoulders was a hand-sewn lace scarf, which was secured with a gold and pearl brooch.

  Clare looked back and saw the three men laughing as Tomas lit their pipes. When she turned to look at the dress again, she noticed her own reflection in the window and she stumbled backward. In contrast to the dresses in the store, hers was plain and ill fitting. She looked foolish with her brother’s hat on her head, and when she lifted it, her hair was still much too short to her liking. Lowering her h
ead, she wanted the image before her to go away.

  “Do you fancy the dress?”

  Clare felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see her uncle’s reddened face brimming with cheer. She shook her head.

  “Come, I’ve sent the lads to the pub across the street, and they’ll be busying themselves with a few pints. What say you and I do some shopping?”

  She wanted to say no, but she found herself without a reason to explain why. Uncle Tomas opened the door and a bell hanging from the frame rattled. He waved her inside.

  Clare glanced back at the tavern where Seamus and Pierce must have gone, and she was angered they were so easily drawn away from her. Nodding to her uncle, she entered the doorway and onto the uneven floorboards of the store.

  Rising from a chair in the back of the room, as if from slumber, a rounded woman in a canary-hued silk dress greeted them in a loud voice laced with laughter.

  “Well, strain me eyes. Patrick, where did you find this beauty? They get younger and prettier each . . .”

  Uncle Tomas halted her abruptly. “Molly. This one is like kin to me. Family. Not long from home.”

  She paused and tilted her head at him. “Well, that doesn’t make her a wee bit less enticing. Will you look at those eyes?” Molly cupped her hand under her double chin, and narrowing one eye, she surveyed Clare intently. “Hmmm . . . well. We’ll need to get her out of those worn threads. Much to do here, I’ll say.”

  Clare’s uncle gave her a worried glance, as if to see if she was insulted, and then he turned back to the woman. “I’m not certain, but I believe the young lady favors the dress in the window.”

  “Certainly she does.” Molly continued to analyze Clare, as a painter would stare down a canvas prior to pressing toward it with a moist brush. The woman twirled her finger in the air and, awkwardly, Clare gyrated in a full circle. This all made her uneasy, but there was also a sense of pampering that gave her a pleasant chill through her spine.

  “Hmmm. Yes. Uh-huh.” Molly contorted her face as she stared down at her subject, and then after several moments she clasped her hands together with resolution. “First, we must take care of something. Follow me.”

  With this Molly turned, revealing a rose colored bow, which was formed from the sash around the woman’s bountiful waist.

  Clare looked over to Uncle Tomas and couldn’t help but spill out a girlish smile, and he raised an encouraging eyebrow in return. They followed Molly to the far corner of the store, where she was climbing a stool and then reaching up toward a row of wigs displayed on a row of hooks against the wall.

  She pulled one down and started descending before pausing and reaching for another. When she climbed down, she held one in each hand and looked back and forth repeatedly until she said succinctly, “It’s this one here.”

  Clare questioned her uncle with her eyes.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Try ’er on. Molly doesn’t miss often.”

  “Missed have I once?” Molly grimaced. She held the wig out to Clare. “Here you are, precious. You’ll love this one. I’m quite certain.”

  Reluctantly, Clare held her hand out and took the long, black hair from Molly. It was shorter than her hair was in Ireland, but it was nearly exact in color and style. She held it up for a few moments and then looked at Molly meekly.

  “Oh, poor dear.” The woman chuckled. “It won’t bite you. Let me put it on for you. Come sit in this chair before the mirror.”

  Clare followed her directions and watched in the looking glass as Molly came from behind her and placed the wig over her head, adjusting it before pulling out a brush and tending to the stray hairs. “There you are dear. What do you think?”

  It was as if Clare were looking at a lost friend, one she feared would never return. She had forgotten her beauty and, in fact, resolved herself to never seeing it again. But there before her was the woman who had beguiled the men in her village back in Branlow. Until now, until this very moment, she had treated her allure as a burden. It bothered her to draw the gaze of boys and men and have them babble in her presence.

  Yet she was pleased with the face staring back at her. She welcomed it. Having been unnoticed, ignored for the past three months, she realized the gift she once had. Clare yearned to see the heads turn in her direction, men to pause and lift their hats. Was this wrong to feel this way?

  “Are you okay, dear?”

  Clare snapped out of her thoughts. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  “Well?”

  “It’s lovely. I like it quite well.”

  Molly leaned in over Clare’s shoulder and peered into the mirror. “Yes. That will suit you fine indeed.”

  Clare smiled and turned her head from side to side, thrilled at what she was seeing. “Ma’am?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Do you think I might try on that dress?”

  Chapter 25

  The Irish Society

  The wind swept up as Clare walked out of Molly’s store, and had she not raised her hands to her new hat, it would have blown off her head. If the breeze had its way, it might have taken her new wig as well.

  Glancing back into the glass of the storefront, pretending to be adjusting her hat, she admired her reflection, hardly remembering the frumpy woman who entered the shop less than an hour earlier. Off to her side, her uncle was grinning broadly, his arms full of boxes of other items he had purchased on her behalf. He had told her, “A lady needs more than one dress.”

  For a moment, the thought came upon her, What have I done? But she brushed it aside as quickly as it came. Not today. She was tired and felt entitled to one day of reprieve from poverty, oppression, and sickness. Clare felt new, clean, alive, and she liked the way it felt.

  “Really, this is much too much,” she said to Uncle Tomas as she turned.

  “What good is hard work if it doesn’t allow an old man to experience joy on occasion?”

  Clare felt an impulse to hug him, but something inside held her back. They looked at each other awkwardly.

  The cheer on his face faded to one of more seriousness, a touch of melancholy. “Clare, dear. I know you have questions of me. Concerns. Rightly so. Shall we talk?”

  Clare peered into his eyes and saw sincerity. “I’d like that very much.”

  “Then come with me.” He held his arm out to her and she received it. “I have a place I’d like to share with you. It means a great deal to me.”

  She began walking with him but then stopped. “What about Seamus and Pierce?”

  Her uncle laughed as he looked toward the tavern across the street. “I believe the boys will be content. Don’t you?”

  “I suppose,” she said, with a hint of disappointment. But then with all of the months of difficulty they endured, there shouldn’t be anything wrong with Seamus and Pierce having a time of it.

  They started moving again, stepping out of the way of a woman who passed them with a crying baby in each arm.

  “Margaret?” Uncle Tomas watched her closely as he spoke her name.

  “Yes,” Clare said, her body tightening. “Tell me about Maggie.”

  He glanced up as if he was searching for the proper words. “You must first understand how much I loved your sister. Both of you girls. But if I’m speaking honestly to you, and I am, Maggie had a spirit in her as no other.” He chuckled to himself.

  “What happened? We heard your ship was lost.”

  “No. The ship made it here just fine. Just the usual hardships of voyage. It was when we arrived that the real troubles occurred.”

  Tomas shook his head. “Ahh, your sister Margaret, she was so full of life when we arrived here. She was dancing in the streets, breathing in this new place as if she was to take it all as her own. And she would of. Maggie would of. I’m quite sure of that.”


  An elderly woman wearing rags and with one eye missing from its socket came up to them as they walked. “Mister?”

  Uncle Tomas dipped into his breast pocket, pulled out a few coins, and placed them in the woman’s cup. He turned a corner on the road and gently tugged on Clare’s arm. They stepped past a couple of pigs rummaging for food.

  “But we struggled,” Uncle Tomas said. “It was a hard life, it ’twas. We found a place in the Old Brewery building. We slept with the rats and the filth and with the dregs of the city. Some of us were just off a ship with no place to go, but many were thieves, murderers, and miscreants of society. If one ate, we all ate. But most of the time, none of us ate. We didn’t have any fuel for the fire, and on snowy nights the only warmth we had would be from sleeping tightly together.”

  Uncle Tomas crossed the street with Clare on his arm, and they waited as a carriage passed by before dodging the mud holes in the street on the way to the other side.

  “Good day, Patrick,” said a man pushing a cart full of manure.

  “Lovely day,” Tomas said with a lift of his hat.

  “It was Maggie’s spirit that kept us all from giving up, I’m sure it was. She labored harder than all of us. While I’d try to scare up jobs at the harbor or in the streets, she did all she could. At one point she was even gathering hair from grates in the street for the wig makers.” He looked up toward Clare’s wig. “Yes. Imagine that.”

  The thought brought Clare shame, and she wished he wouldn’t have shared that detail. “Your story is quite sad. I pray it ends happily.”

  “I’m afraid not, dear.” He pointed her to a bench outside of a sundries store. When they sat, he placed the boxes down carefully and pulled out a pipe and lit it. As he exhaled, the cool air filled with smoke and mist.

  A chill came over Clare and she shuddered.

  “At one point, Maggie was even down to begging.” He looked to Clare and nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid it’s so. It made me ill to see her lower her pride to such a level.” His voice began to waver. “I suppose I shouldn’t have let her. We tried, we did. But she said it was a far better outcome than starving, and on this we could muster no argument.