“I should think you have plenty of opportunity here, in Boston,” I replied. “With family and friends nearby.”
“Why should you be content in the place you were born? Shouldn’t you want to see more of the world than that?” he asked.
“You sound like Colin,” I said. “He’s always talking of adventure, doing something new and different. I should be happy to stay here forever.”
“You say that now, but you never know what could induce you to travel, miss.”
“It’s hard to imagine what that would be, sir,” I replied, anxiety filling me at the thought of any leave taking.
He nodded again, seeming to sense my anxiety. “Well, then, Miss Sullivan, I will bid you good day. I will see you tomorrow. Good afternoon,” he said, smiling and nodding toward me. He turned and left, leaving my thoughts and emotions in disarray.
***
THE FOLLOWING DAY, after school, I set out for the workshop after trying unsuccessfully to convince Florence to accompany me. Although I knew I took a risk visiting his shop alone, I owed it to Uncle Martin not to ruin his wedding gift surprise for Savannah. And, if I were truthful, I wanted to have a few moments alone with him.
I enjoyed the now familiar walk to the workshop, cataloging spring’s arrival. The trees were finally in bud, and a few hardy birds braved the city environs. I smiled at the faint birdsong I could hear over the clip-clop of hooves on the cobblestones and the rattle of streetcars as they roared by. I turned my face toward the sun, thankful I did not have to ride a streetcar today but could walk.
I approached the workshop, enjoying watching the busy activity of the street, noting today’s fruit du jour in the pushcart was oranges. After a slow climb to the third floor, I saw that the workshop door was once again ajar, and I poked my head in to see if I could catch a glimpse of Gabriel working. Instead, I saw Gabriel and an older woman glaring at each other in a tense silence. I remained mesmerized in a shadow near the doorway, silently watching the exchange. They were leaning toward each other with fists clenched, as though they were merely pausing in the middle of a heated argument. Both breathed heavily, and they seemed to be conducting a battle of wits, daring the other to look away first.
I must have leaned against the door or stepped on a squeaky floorboard, because a loud creaking noise rent the air. I flinched guiltily at being caught witnessing such a scene.
The short, rail-thin woman whirled to look at me. Her fashionable clothes were hanging off her like a scarecrow, and she had piercing, almost turquoise-blue, eyes, with her dull, limp brown hair pulled back severely in a bun and a slightly hooked nose. Her eyes lit on me.
“And who do we have here, Gabriel? She seems a little fancy for you,” she taunted, her thin lips pulled back into a sneer. “Or maybe you think you’ve moved up in the world?” she jeered as she looked again toward Gabriel. “Don’t be thinking you’re better than you are. You’ll always be gutter scum.”
Then she addressed me in a sinister, low voice, “You’d better find out exactly what you’re getting into with this one, young lady. He’s a good-for-nothing, just like his father. He’ll bring you nothing but pain, disgrace and an early death.”
“Get out!” Gabriel roared, marching to the door and pointing at the stairway. “I have heard enough about my family from you. If I never heard another word, it would be too soon. Leave.” He hissed out a long breath, waiting for her to depart. They shared a long glaring look, icy-blue eyes clashing.
Finally the older woman left, looking over her shoulder toward me, but addressing Gabriel. She spoke with a slight smirk on her lips, stating, “Nothing good will come of your association with the Russells. I’ll see to that.” She then walked past me, slipped out the door, and I could hear the clatter of her heels down the stairs.
“Argh!” groaned Gabriel, walking toward his workbench where he picked up a piece of wood and threw it across the room where it splintered into fragments against the brick wall.
I stood still, transfixed, as I had never seen such displays of anger before. It was as though I were frozen in place, unsure if to run or to stay. Gabriel continued to breathe forcefully but finally began to calm after a few moments. He leaned heavily on the workbench, bent over at the waist, gripping the edge of the table so hard I thought it would break in his strong hands.
After a few moments he looked up at me, with his piercing blue eyes starker today than I had ever seen them, and said, “I’d ask you to forget these past few minutes, but that won’t be possible, will it?” He now appeared weary, as though the emotional exertions of a few moments ago had drained him.
I stared at him dumbfounded. “How could I forget what I have just seen? Who was that woman? Why is there such animosity between the two of you?”
“Ah, Miss Sullivan, you of the thousand questions.” His deep baritone had dropped to a gentle tone and was laced with wry humor. He shook his head ruefully and said, “I won’t be getting much more work done today. Will you walk with me, and I’ll tell you a story?”
I noted that he did not meet my eyes, one of the first times that had happened in our acquaintance.
I agreed and, as I had yet to take off my coat, was ready to leave. Gabriel carefully extinguished the gaslights and locked the door. We descended the stairs quietly, and then turned down Canal Street toward Causeway Street. He appeared to be gathering his thoughts.
Finally after a few blocks of silently walking side by side, I asked, “Penny for your thoughts?”
He said with a dry laugh, “Ah, Miss Sullivan, I thought they’d be worth more than that to you. However, you are right. I have a long story to tell you. I just hope you don’t tire of the telling.”
“I don’t wish to intrude,” I whispered.
“I want you to know who I am,” Gabriel said, determination lacing his voice. “And after witnessing that scene, you can only have doubts.”
I nodded in silent agreement, thinking of Florence.
We walked to an overlook of the harbor where we could see ships coming and going. The bustling port was filled with ships, many now with steam engines, although there were still quite a few sailboats traversing the harbor. Across the waterway in East Boston, large passenger ships were docked, recently arrived from Europe. Small ferries skirted the larger ships, bringing passengers to and from the different areas surrounding the harbor. Bunker Hill Monument gleamed in the late afternoon sunlight. This overlook was a beautiful place for we could see the harbor, watch men unloading ships and still have a sense of privacy while remaining in public.
“I had a good childhood,” Gabriel began in a low tone, carefully choosing his words. “My parents were strict, yet there was no doubt that we were all cherished. We didn’t have much money, but I think we were too young to notice. Or else my mum did a wonderful job of hiding our poverty from us. Either way, Jeremy, my youngest brother, Richard and I grew up creating harmless mischief and learning from our mistakes. My da believed in schooling, since he hadn’t had much himself and was barely able to write his own name. My mum was very educated, a well-read woman. She read to us every night and taught us our letters at an early age.
“It was expected of us to go to school, to learn and to make something of ourselves when we grew up. I wanted to be a lawyer, learn fancy words and be paid to argue. That was one of my favorite things to do when I was young—try to outargue my da. I never won, but I enjoyed the challenge. Richard wanted to be a doctor. Jeremy didn’t know what he wanted to do, but he figured he had time to decide, being the youngest. We lived in a protected cocoon, in our tenement in the West End, with sporadic visits from my da’s traveling brother, Uncle Aidan.”
He paused, sighing, and seemed to brace himself, not looking at me, but out to sea. As he continued, his voice hardened. “One night—a cold early fall night in November when the chill had just hit—I heard screaming and woke up. I was twelve and knew waking up and smelling smoke meant something was wrong. I shook Richard and Jeremy, grabbed them, someh
ow moved us in the right direction, and we escaped the house. We stood huddled together, in front of the house, waiting for Da and Mum to come out. I remember calling out, over and over again until I was hoarse, for my mum and da. But they never came.”
“What had happened?” I whispered.
“A neighbor’s lantern had tipped over, and the fire had spread to the back of the house first, killing my folks, but giving us time to escape.” His bleak eyes reflected the torment of reliving that long-ago night and the loss of his parents. He shook his head, as though trying to shake free of the memories.
“We just continued to stand huddled together in the street, not knowing what to do. We didn’t understand death, the finality of it. This was our home. We had nowhere else to go. Thankfully a neighbor across the way took us in for the rest of the night, rocked Jeremy to sleep and consoled us as best she could. But she had five little ones herself, and she couldn’t take us on. I remember watching the door all that first night, waiting for Mum or Da to come in to tell us everything would be fine, it had been a mistake, but they never did.” He paused, staring out at the harbor as though lost in thought. He shook his head, continuing to speak in a low, flat, emotionless voice.
“Finally the next afternoon, Aunt Masterson, my mum’s sister, came around looking much imposed upon that she had to see to her sister’s children, horrified she had to set foot in the West End. However, her idea of appearances and social standing had to be kept up, and she didn’t want the apparent social disgrace of forcing her parentless nephews into an orphanage. So she took us.
“Am I boring you?” he turned to me, addressing me for the first time during the retelling of his childhood nightmare. Torment lit his eyes. “I can stop at any moment.”
“No! No, I’d wish to hear more, if you’d like to speak of it,” I replied, reaching out to touch his arm, unable to hide the eagerness in my voice.
He smiled wistfully and looked out to sea again. A slight breeze blew, ruffling his black hair.
“We rode to the Mastersons’ home in a carriage—the first time I had ever been in one—and were introduced to cousins we had never met. Nicholas and Henry.” His voice was laced with disgust as he said their names. “They disliked us immediately. They were dandies. All dressed up in proper clothes, though a bit too fine, if you know what I mean? And using proper words and no rough accents. They looked at us like we were beggars, come to live in their home, and they treated us as such. We learned quickly that there was no love to be spared on us—no hug when we scraped our knees, no extra help with our studies.”
He closed his eyes for a few moments.
“I dreamt of escape from that house, almost from the moment I entered it, and Old Mr. Smithers helped provide that escape. He had no sons and was looking for an apprentice. He had caught me a few times in his shop, skulking around, hiding from Aunt Masterson. We struck a bargain. He’d teach me his craft, and I’d behave for my aunt and uncle. In the beginning, I often wondered who got the better part of the bargain.” With that, he let out a long sigh and turned to me. “Well, that’s enough of the past for one day. I’ll walk you home.”
I frowned, startled at the abrupt ending of the story. There was so much more I wanted to know, especially why the woman I had met, who I assumed to be his aunt Masterson, disliked him so greatly. However, as I glanced toward the harbor and East Boston, I noted that night was quickly falling. I knew I needed to hurry home to forestall any unwanted questions from my family.
“I would not want to put you to the trouble of walking me home, Mr. McLeod. I am used to making my own way, and I can ride a streetcar.”
“No, I’ll see you home. It’s best not to wander these areas at this time of day alone, miss.” He smiled at me, almost shyly, and offered me his arm as we walked toward the streetcar stop.
I was pensive, thinking through what he had told me, and what had not been relayed. I hoped he would tell me more as we walked, but, instead, we fell into a quiet camaraderie. We arrived at the streetcar kiosk after a short, brisk walk.
“Richard worries about you, you know,” Gabriel said, breaking the silence between us.
“Richard?” I asked perplexed. I couldn’t imagine Richard, who had only met me once, worrying about me. “Why?”
“He heard a rumor at the smithy that an old friend is looking you up,” he said, watching me intently.
I felt my eyes go round, surprise flitting through me. “And they say women are the worst gossips,” I muttered.
Gabriel laughed. “Men say that of course. Though we’re just as curious as the next about the latest news.” He continued to watch me. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
“I hadn’t realized you’d asked one,” I said primly.
“Who’s the man, and what does he want from you?” Gabriel asked, leaning down to fully meet my eyes, daring me to prevaricate.
“A ghost from the past.”
“A welcome one?” he inquired, studying me.
“Unexpected.”
Gabriel leaned away, sighing. “I apologize, miss. It’s not my place,” he said with a hint of regret.
I nodded, feeling sadness course through me. “We all have pasts that haunt us, Mr. McLeod,” I whispered before clearing my throat. I worried I had revealed too much with that simple comment. “Thank you for sharing part of yours with me. I’d like…” I closed my eyes, breaking off any further comments, feeling foolish.
“You’d like what, miss?” Gabriel asked, intensity in his voice again.
I met his eyes. “I’d like you to know that I enjoy the time I spend with you.”
His eyes flashed momentarily, as though in triumph, then focused on the approaching streetcar. “I should let you arrive home without me in tow,” he stated. “I bid you a good evening, Miss Clarissa.”
I looked up at him sharply, at his use of my first name, pleasure flooding me. I could not hide a smile and nodded a few times before hastily boarding the streetcar.
“Come see me again, so we can discuss the project,” he called into the open streetcar door, just as it began to move. I watched him shove his hands into his pockets, happiness filling me as he continued to watch me until the car disappeared around a bend.
CHAPTER 11
I ASCENDED THE STEPS, finding the workshop door closed, although I thought I could detect a hint of light below the door. I knocked on the door, hoping for a response. Unable to find an acceptable chaperone, I visited alone. The compulsion to see him again outweighed any concern I had at being seen by a member of the school committee.
After a few moments, the door creaked opened to a frowning Gabriel. He looked at me, shrugged his shoulders as though to ease tension and let me pass into the room. He firmly shut the door, and I realized why as soon as I entered: the warmth of the room enveloped me after the cool dampness of the walk. The pile of wood in the corner appeared smaller and more drawings were tacked up behind his workbench. The small stove set on bricks on the far side of the room was the source of the heat.
“Hello, Mr. McLeod. I’ve come by to help with the project,” I said. Gabriel raked a hand through his short ebony hair, his dark blue eyes shuttered of any emotion. I glanced around the workroom, but I could make neither heads nor tails of any of the pieces of wood on the workbench, uncertain if they even pertained to the sideboard.
“So, you finally decided to come back. It’s been a week. Your absence has delayed my work,” he grumbled. He moved toward the workbench, not watching me, emanating frustration.
“This is the earliest I could return, sir.”
He nodded, studying something on the workbench. “Of course.” He turned toward me with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, nodding repeatedly as though trying to talk himself into something.
“I need your opinion on the sideboard, Miss Sullivan,” he said. He turned again toward the workbench, and I construed that as an invitation to approach him. I nodded, nearing the workbench, waiting for him to continue. “Whi
ch do you like better?” he said, pointing to two small pieces of wood. “That carving or this one?” he asked.
I studied both pieces. One an ornate curved molding with flowers along the edge, whereas the other was simpler with fine lines and a geometric pattern.
“I know what I like,” I replied. “I’m trying to determine what Miss Russell would like.”
“Which one do you like?”
“I like the simple one,” I replied. “I like the clean lines and the graceful beauty of it.”
“Then that’s the one I’ll use,” he said.
“But the piece isn’t for me,” I protested, turning my head to look at him with alarm.
He shook his head, a smile twisting the corner of his lips. “No,” he said, “it’s not for you. Thankfully.”
I felt breathless and confused, and turned away from the workbench. “If that is all, Mr. McLeod,” I stammered out, “I should head home.”
“Would you like a cup of tea on this cold day?” he asked, moving toward the small stove. I noted the pot of water already warming on the grate. He reached for the teapot, watching me expectantly.
Even in the warm room, I still felt chilled after the damp walk. I had just begun to feel my toes again and did not relish the thought of returning to the cold so soon. I nodded my agreement, happy for a reason to linger. “I brought a new book,” I called out, as I turned away to further study his workshop.
“Did you, now?” he asked, a smile evident in his voice. “Which one?”
“It’s by Mark Twain. A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court,” I replied, reaching for my bag. “The librarian told me it was entertaining, and I think Colin liked it when he read it.”
“Hmm…Twain’s always a good read,” Gabriel said.
“If you’ve already read it…” I began.
“I’d love to hear you read it, miss,” he said, forestalling any further protestations. I watched as he continued to prepare the tea, enjoying the domestic scene. I sighed with contentment, relishing the thought of a quiet cup of tea with no formalities.
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