Flight of the Earls

by Michael K. Reynolds

  Andrew glanced toward Clare with a look seeking forgiveness.

  Mrs. Royce patted her napkin against her lips and raised her chin. “There is nothing wrong with a mother not wanting her only son to gather . . . strays.”

  As if on cue, Cassie emerged through the doorway and started to pile up empty plates. “It sounds like we might be readying for dessert. Oooh my. Miss Holmes be preparing rhubarb pie. I can taste it myself. Not that I dipped my fork in it, but then again someone’s gots to make certain it’s cooked through.”

  Andrew grinned at Clare and shrugged. “Cassie believes the cure to any ailment is a full stomach. She nearly fed me to death as a child.”

  “Poor child you is. The missus and master spoiling you with kindness and you don’t thank them for nothin’. Ain’t that right, missus?”

  Mrs. Royce rolled her eyes and pushed her plate from her. “Can you bring in our tea, Cassie? And quietly if at all possible as we were enjoying our conversation.”

  “Yes, missus. Enjoying? That’s strange word to describe it. Not that I was hearing nothin’. But you carry on. I’m a gonna quietly clear this table and tell Miss Holmes we’s ready for rhubarb.”

  “So, Miss, uh . . . ?” Mr. Royce said.

  “Hanley, sir. Clare Hanley. Just Clare is fine.”

  Charles leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands. “So, Miss Hanley. What do you think of the news from back home?”

  Cassie had returned from the kitchen again and removed some more plates, including Clare’s. “What news is that?” Clare asked.

  “The crops. They’ve failed again this spring.”

  “In Ireland?” He had her attention. It would be one thing to have a season of the rot, but if the farms struggled again it would starve her people.

  “Terrible development. Terrible indeed. Especially with so much of the land committed to potato.”

  “Was yours a potato farm, Clare?” asked Andrew.

  Clare nodded at him, still digesting the news.

  “Perhaps, son . . .” Charles put his finger to his chin and tapped. “What do you think of having Clare here help you with a story on the plight of her people? The perspective from one so recently arrived would be intriguing.”

  “That would be delightful.” Andrew smiled. “What do you think, Clare?”

  Cassie came in with a platter of tea and put it in the center of the table. She nearly toppled it as she was watching to see how Clare would respond.

  “Good graces, Cassie!” Mrs. Royce said. “Do watch what you’re doing.”

  “We’ve been hoping to get better circulation in the Points,” Charles said. “Maybe getting more of an Irish angle on our stories is what we’re missing.”

  Andrew’s demeanor brightened. “Say yes, Clare, won’t you? It would bring wind to my sails. Take some of the drudgery out of the business.”

  “The Irish perspective,” Mrs. Royce scoffed. “Shall you write feature stories about drunks and brothels? The inside, untold stories?”

  “Mother!” Andrew’s gaze darted to Clare. “Sometimes you are intolerable.”

  “I’ve never written for a newspaper,” Clare said.

  “Neither has my son hardly,” Charles said. “Maybe this will give him some focus. Whatever it takes, I’m willing to try.”

  Cassie came in with a pie, ruby red peering through a cross-hatched crust. She started to slice it and pass it out on plates.

  Mrs. Royce appeared discomforted. “Perhaps we should just attend to Miss Hanley’s recovery so she can return to her people.”

  Charles hardly looked at his plate as his fork shoveled in the pie. “You should visit the dock tomorrow. Talk to those coming from the ships. The stories have grown cruel. You’ve crossed recently, Miss Hanley?”

  Clare nodded, beginning to feel overrun.

  “Ha!” Mrs. Royce waved off the slice of pie when Cassie tried to hand it to her. “You’re sending your son to the docks?”

  Charles began to grow irritated. “I didn’t ask him to go swim in the harbor. Is it your intention to humiliate our son in front of his guest?”

  “Don’t be bothered by it one bit, son.” Cassie poured tea into Clare’s cup. “No shame in that. On account of him nearly drowning as a boy, anybody’s gonna fear the water some.”

  Clare couldn’t shake the news of the crop failure. It infused uncertainty in her mind. Although she had been sending support and letters from the Irish Society faithfully every week, she had yet to receive a letter in return. Perhaps she could hear some news from some of the immigrants arriving by ship.

  “Could you take me there, Andrew?” she asked, startling the others.

  “Andrew, please,” his mother said, softening her tone. “Don’t embarrass yourself, son. When’s the last time you were at the shoreline?”

  “Poor boy,” Cassie said. “Wouldn’t even take baths. We needs to wash him while he was sleeping.”

  “Now I’m embarrassed,” Andrew said, “and I’ll need to remind you all that I’m still present in the room. I prefer if I’m a target of scandal and gossip, you’ll have the decency to do it behind my back.”

  Clare laughed and then quickly covered her mouth and pretended she was coughing.

  He looked at her with warm, sweet eyes. “And I believe our greenhorn journalist would benefit from a full evening’s rest.”

  As he wiped his mouth and then rose from the table, they all did as well.

  “Shall we declare a toast?” Charles lifted his glass.

  “We most certainly must.” Andrew lifted his as well.

  “To the Irish,” Charles said. “May their land heal and their people prosper.”

  “Hear, hear,” echoed Andrew.

  “And to our young Miss Hanley,” Charles continued. “May her words be true, bearing pain to the enemies of justice and freedom to the oppressed.”

  As the glasses clinked, Clare smiled at Andrew’s kindness.

  She was a fraud to have anything to do with writing at a newspaper. But in that moment, she determined to try with all of her will.

  Clare didn’t know why it mattered so, but she didn’t want to disappoint Andrew Royce.

  Chapter 34

  New York Daily

  A couple of days had passed before Andrew granted Clare a visit to the New York Daily. He insisted she get her rest before going back outside, and she was too exhausted and emotionally wounded to fight his recommendation. Although she spent much of these days worrying about her brother and thought of searching for him. But where would she go and would her efforts to find him only lead his pursuers to his hideaway?

  So when Andrew and Clare finally approached the building that housed the New York Daily, excitement was welling inside her. For a farm girl who loved books, the idea of being within the walls of a place where history was written and shared everyday was beyond fathom.

  A massive stone structure, it was on what Andrew described as Newspaper Row. Once inside, although functionally plain, Clare was impressed with the grandeur of activity.

  The mixture of shouts and conversations blended with the clanking of machinery. There was a buzz about them in the main floor of the facility, and people flashed by her in a frenzy.

  “Is there something wrong?” she asked, leaning into his sturdy frame.

  “Yes,” he answered smugly. “They are on deadline.”

  “Deadline?”

  “The paper goes out every day, with or without our story. If a story isn’t ready, in most cases that means it will die on the floor and you’ll have an irate editor.”

  Clare’s eyes widened. They had spent the entire day interviewing Irish passengers as they came staggering off the ships. Few even had the energy to talk, and it saddened her to realize her horrifying experience cross
ing the ocean was commonplace. The news back home was dismal as well. The Black Death had spread and few territories had been spared.

  The thought of her family suffering from such hardship without her being there to comfort them was unbearable, but she needed to know more. What about Branlow? How bad was it there?

  Clare had hoped to stay longer to track down someone closer to home, but Andrew did seem affected by being close to the water, and she relented when he asked her to leave.

  “Don’t worry. Our story isn’t due until tomorrow. One of the benefits of being the owner’s son.” He pointed in the direction of the presses. “Shall we give the lady a tour?”

  “I would thoroughly enjoy that.” Clare put her hand to the hat Cassie had found for her. Although she still felt naked without her wig, the bonnet provided some level of comfort and her hair had grown quickly, now several inches in length.

  As they approached the churning presses, Clare embraced the joyful awe of a child, watching the paper rolls being cranked through the moving type. Several men worked the machine, applying oil, feeding in paper, and dragging the stacks away to be folded. Clare had grown accustomed to hearing the newsboys call out the headlines from the street corners, but seeing how it was wrought was fascinating.

  “This room over there.” Andrew waved at one of the men who had looked up. “That is where they sell the ads. Quite uninteresting if you ask me. But there is something over there.”

  They burrowed through the crowd and stopped to peer over the shoulders of the artists drawing various images and caricatures in ink on canvas.

  Finally, they climbed up a winding wooden staircase that led to the second floor, which was more of an oversized loft.

  “This is where the writers and editors roost, those enlightened souls who exploit and corrupt the freedom of the press.”

  “You speak of it so favorably,” Clare said. “I think this is all wonderful. Perhaps Cassie is right and you are spoiled.”

  “Who is this pretty one?” said a woman perched on a stool tucked under a clerk’s desk. She was dipping a pen into a well of ink.

  “This is Clare. Our new writer.”

  “Is that so?” The woman had a face so plain she almost looked like a man. “She doesn’t look the part.”

  “Is my father in?”

  “He’s with the mayor.”

  There were muffled shouts coming through a closed door behind the woman.

  Andrew turned to Clare. “It may surprise you, but not everyone appreciates our stories. Come, let me show you our desk.”

  “You might as well give it to her,” the woman said wryly, “seeing as you aren’t fit to use it yourself.”

  “One thing you’ll learn,” Andrew said to Clare but loud enough for the other woman’s benefit, “is that the fumes from the ink turn good people into crabby ogres.”

  Clare’s face warmed. “Andrew!” she said as he whisked her away. “Perhaps Cassie is right. You might be terribly spoiled and impertinent as well.”

  “That’s the spirit, Clare, but save your eloquent cynicism for print. That’s the gold we mine.” He stopped at a nearby table. “Wait a moment. I haven’t seen yesterday’s paper yet.” He pulled up a newspaper, and after he opened it, her eyes widened with the headline: MEXICO CALLS NEW YORK’S FINEST.

  “What is that story about?” she said.

  He turned the paper. “The ship sailed yesterday with the New York regiment.”

  “Did they list names?”

  “That’s inside.” He fumbled through the pages and then opened it up. “It’s right here.”

  He laid it on the table and her fingers slid through the alphabetical listing, and there it was, beautiful to her eyes, the name “Seamus Hanley.” And again she looked and there was “Pierce Brady.”

  “Thank You, Lord!” she said loudly. “They’re off to war.”

  He seemed puzzled. “You must really not like somebody.”

  “Oh.” She gave a half smile. “It’s rather complicated. My brother and his friend. Let’s just say they needed to leave town in a hurry.”

  “That does sound complicated. Intriguing as well. I’ll pry it from you later. In the meanwhile, here it is.” He swept his hand to point to the small desk in the corner of the room. “Have a seat.”

  She looked to see if anyone was watching. Convinced she was unnoticed, Clare seated herself and he pushed her in her chair under the desk as she beamed. The thought of people actually getting to write for their means of wages was invigorating.

  “What a perfect fit you are Clare Hanley. As if you were meant to write of the heavens.”

  “You haven’t even seen a word from me yet.”

  “It’s unnecessary. My instincts are without blemish.” He pulled out the papers where they had drawn their notes and laid them on the desk before her. “Besides, if you can write my stories for me, I can do what God has called me to do.”

  “God calls people?”

  Andrew’s face brightened. “Why yes, of course He does. He calls each of us to serve Him in our own distinct ways.”

  “You believe that?”

  “I do. The problem is so few people are willing to listen to what He has to say.”

  “I suppose He just speaks to you.”

  He smiled at her. “He’s got a calling for you, Clare Hanley, of that I’m certain. And He’s got a calling for me.”

  “Really?” She still wasn’t sure whether or not he was speaking in jest. What divine purpose could she have? It reminded her of conversations Grandma Ella would share with her in their walks down village roads. “And what would your calling be, Andrew?”

  He spun her chair around to face him and knelt beside her, locking gazes with deep sincerity. “Let me show you.”

  As the horse clapped against the street pavers, Clare peered out from the window of the carriage, her emotions surging. The buildings of the Five Points were rising around her and the memories of her last night here lapped up like flames.

  Andrew, who was sitting beside her in the leather-studded seat, held on to her hand. “Was this a mistake in bringing you back here so soon?”

  She turned and her nerves melted with the compassion in his eyes, peering at her through the round frames of his spectacles. “I’ll be fine.” She managed to smile.

  The light of day was subsiding and the evening shuffling of laborers returning from work were being greeted by street merchants and peddlers. Having witnessed the grandeur of the neighborhood where the Royce home was located, the Five Points appeared more poverty stricken and dirty to her than ever.

  So many times she had seen the carriages driving by with their wealthy passengers glaring at the occupants outside, and now she was on the inside looking out. What a strange turn of fate it was for her, and one in which she didn’t feel entirely comfortable.

  “Driver ho!” Andrew shouted, and the carriage soon came to a halt. Shortly, the door opened and a hand reached up to Clare, and as she stepped to the ground, her boots sank into the mud of the streets. A pig nearly ran her over as it grunted past.

  Andrew gave the driver some coins, who nodded in gratitude, climbed the perch, and with the sound of a whip was off and heading away through the traffic. Was she back in a place where she more suitably belonged?

  He held her hand and she felt safer. Andrew drew her off of the street and away from the clattering of passing carts, wagons, and carriages. They worked their way up through the flow of pedestrians and turned into an alleyway alongside a dilapidated three-story stone building.

  “We need to go in through the back entrance,” he said, excitement in his voice.

  Clare felt unease as she feared seeing someone she knew, someone she had met through Patrick Feagles’s world. Although only a couple of days had passed, she felt as an intru
der in his neighborhood.

  Up ahead there was a group of men gathered in a half circle, shouting and clamoring about as they focused on something on the ground before them.

  “Just keep your eyes down and we’ll pass them quietly,” Andrew said in her ear.

  They were mostly unnoticed as they approached, but one man with a grizzled beard looked up and glared at Clare hungrily. He tilted up a bottle of drink and nodded at her as she went by him.

  Clare pressed closer to Andrew and they walked past the men without incident. As she glanced back, she could see through a gap in the group that there were two roosters facing off, held back by their owners as the men shouted out wagers and flashed bills.

  In a moment, the cocks screamed in battle and shouts lifted. Clare increased her pace to a trot.

  “Right here,” Andrew said as he turned the corner and they came to stairs leading to the rear entranceway of the building. Glass was on the floor where windows had been busted out, and they crunched as they ground it with their boots.

  Andrew halted abruptly and Clare realized there was a small shape visible in the encroaching darkness.

  Letting go of Clare’s hand, Andrew knelt beside the child sitting on the first step.

  The boy was no more than eight years of age, with knotted curly hair and a deep black face, skinny to the point of illness.

  “What’s your name little man?” Andrew said.

  The boy, whose hands were tucked in the sleeves of his jacket, glared back with distrust. Finally, he said, “Saturday.”

  “Saturday?”

  “Yes. My mammy done born me on Saturday.”

  “I see.” Andrew smiled. “And where is your mammy?”

  The boy shrugged.

  Andrew reached into his pocket and pulled out some money. “Would you do me the kindness of seeing she gets this? It’s been owed to her and I’m grateful for your service.”