Cindy Thomson - [Ellis Island 01]

by Grace's Pictures

  They stood just inside the kitchen door, rubbing their chilled limbs. Linden’s cheeks bore damp tears of frustration, while the two girls stared wide-eyed at her under veils of stringy hair. Grace put one hand on Linden’s shoulder and the other on Hazel’s as Holly stood between them. “If you sit quietly at the kitchen table and don’t speak a word while I’m serving tea, I’ll find cause to bring you each one of those biscuits when I get back.”

  Linden gasped and bounced from foot to foot.

  “I said sit, though. I’ll not be tricked by the likes of fairies impersonating children.”

  They giggled at that and hurriedly plopped onto the wooden chairs around the table.

  “Good, so.” Grace whisked the tray away to the parlor. Right before she stepped into the room where her new employer sat with her landlady, she halted, their conversation bringing her up short.

  “I did not want an Irish biddy, Mrs. Hawkins.”

  “Oh, I assure you Grace will be—”

  “I know; I know. George told me he quizzed her thoroughly. I must be confident that her morals are beyond reproach. You know, the children . . .”

  The teacups began to rattle on the tray.

  “Grace McCaffery attends my very own church. She came highly recommended by Reverend Clarke himself.”

  Grace felt her shoulders relax. Glancing back down the hall, she noticed the children’s faces staring at her, waiting in anticipation. She sighed, licked her lips, and took one step into the parlor. Then she heard Mrs. Parker’s voice again.

  “Doesn’t that policeman attend there . . . McNulty, is it?”

  “Indeed. Why do you ask?”

  “George has mentioned him. He’s not like the other . . . uh, the average immigrant congregant over there, now is he?”

  “I suppose not. He’s from a prosperous family.”

  The mistress huffed. “Charity is one thing, Mrs. Hawkins, but why do some men feel like they have to devote their entire lives to it?”

  “Are you speaking of Officer McNulty, love, or your own husband?”

  No response.

  The sound of the Hawk’s taffeta silk–lined skirt ruffling filled a momentary silence. “Your husband attends to the tithes every Sunday. That right, love?”

  “Yes. The children and I don’t accompany him, though. They are too young to visit the immigrant sector.”

  Mrs. Parker’s back was turned. Mrs. Hawkins’s face bore worry lines when she glanced up at Grace.

  Grace wanted to drop the tray right then and there. Her new employer despised transplants from Ireland and was only grudgingly accepting her. The woman was depressed and upset that her husband attended First Church. With the filthy condition of the home and the unruliness of the children, this bigoted woman had probably had great difficulty finding help.

  But Grace mustn’t drop the tea tray. As though she was tethered to the spot, she remained there, a smile glued to her face. She needed this job. She could not run away from the Parkers’ house and their bramble lot of children no matter how badly she longed to.

  Mrs. Hawkins waved her hand and Mrs. Parker turned. “Come in, Grace,” Mrs. Parker said. “Show me how you serve tea. I do hope you’ve done it before.”

  “Oh, Grace is wonderful—”

  “I will see for myself.” Mrs. Parker interrupted Mrs. Hawkins.

  Grace didn’t know how she managed it, but she set a teacup in front of the lady of the house and poured without spilling a drop. Then she repeated the action for the Hawk, who kept twisting her handkerchief into a cloth snake. Grace offered sugar and biscuits and laid a cloth napkin in each lady’s lap as though she were serving the Queen of England.

  By the time she got back to the kitchen though, her hands trembled. To her surprise, the children were still in place, waiting.

  “Not one word,” wee Linden said, grinning.

  If she hadn’t understood before, she did now. These children. They were the reason she had to serve the family, not their mother. Grace couldn’t bear not helping them, because no one had come to her aid when she was their age.

  Grace returned to the scullery tin where she’d found the treats and removed three more. She placed each one on a small plate and then returned to the table, delicately balancing them all in her hands.

  The children gobbled the biscuits down as though they’d missed breakfast. She was about to go looking for eggs to feed them when a gasp came from the kitchen door.

  “What are you doing?” Mrs. Parker lunged toward Holly, who was putting the last bite in her mouth. “Spit it out!”

  Horrified, Grace jumped to her defense. “’Twas only one. They were so well behaved. I just thought—”

  “Foolish biddy!” Mrs. Parker glared at her until the Hawk stepped between them.

  “Now, Alice. She’s only trying to get along.” She folded her hands as if in prayer. “The two of you will just simply have to come to terms. You need a housekeeper; Grace needs a job. You, dear Alice, are persnickety, and Grace here is . . . well . . . at times, impulsive. This can be worked out, and the way I see it, it’s essential that it be.”

  Mrs. Parker narrowed her eyes, and the children darted away from the table toward the front room. “I will not have my children corrupted with sugar or any of this modern insensibility of coddling them.”

  The Hawk bounced her chin in agreement. “And Grace promises to abide by your wishes, don’t you, Grace?”

  “I don’t see why I—”

  “Good. She agrees. But, Alice, you must concur and show Grace kindness and not treat her as a common . . . well, you know, the way the upper class puts on airs with their servants. You must remember your place, dear woman. You are from the hardworking class, not too far removed from those like Grace.”

  “I protest, Mrs. Hawkins. My people are much further removed from the boat.”

  Grace huffed loudly. She should not endure such treatment. After her time at Hawkins House, she’d realized that people should be treated with respect, even herself.

  Mrs. Hawkins patted Alice Parker’s arm. “Be that as it may, Grace here is a child of God. Treat her as you would want to be treated.”

  Mrs. Parker bent her blonde head low. “I understand. I would never mistreat her, and I would like her to work for me, under my instructions.”

  The Hawk gave Grace a stern look. “And you accept, don’t you, love?”

  “Aye.”

  “And she certainly did an exemplary job of serving tea.”

  Alice Parker kept her gaze low. “She did well, I admit.”

  Grace caught a glimpse of Hazel in the hall. The lass stuck out her tongue and then vanished up the stairs. Grace guessed Hazel felt much the same way as she had, abandoned and angry. Hazel’s mother was present in body but was likely absent just the same when it came to matters of the heart.

  Grace bit her lip, wondering if she was up to the task. Of all the households in this enormous city, here she was, where complications grew like the mildew in the bathroom. This would be work—and plenty.

  9

  WHEN THURSDAY CAME, Owen had a sick feeling. He gripped the watch in his palm. Dan O’Toole had never married, so his parents had passed the watch on to the man who had probably, for them, become Dan’s replacement. He should never have taken on another man’s life mission. Especially one who had died before Owen could get to know him. Who could possibly expect to succeed at something so onerous?

  He shoved the watch back in his pocket.

  He licked his dry lips and drew in a breath as he rounded the corner to Miss Amelia’s impressive house. He wasn’t so sure he had the gumption to do this, pretend that he still had a place at these kinds of parties. He often didn’t know where he belonged, caught between two worlds. He would keep reminding himself what he was called to do even while socializing within the circle he’d been born into.

  He approached the door. “Evening, Ansel.”

  Miss Amelia’s butler scrutinized him as though he could not m
ake up his mind whether Owen was a common man like him or a rich guest he had to serve. The man bowed slightly and took Owen’s hat and coat.

  Inside, Owen smiled at two ladies and then found the hostess. “You are lovely as ever, Miss Amelia.”

  The woman’s paper-thin flesh pinked. “Always the charmer, Owen McNulty.”

  “A charmer, you say?”

  She patted his hand. “I meant it only in the most complimentary way. All the people from Tullamore are amiable, you know.” She squeezed his fingers. “Oh, Owen, please come in. My niece is in desperate need of company from someone in her own generation.”

  He let himself be led away to the piano, where Miss Pierpont, dressed in canary yellow, a splendid contrast to her ebony hair, played a melody. He and Miss Amelia stood politely and listened. Soon Owen’s mother joined them. He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “You look lovely tonight, Mother.”

  “Oh, pshaw. What about her? Isn’t she exquisite?” She inclined her head toward the piano player.

  “Mother, please. No matchmaking tonight.”

  “I have to look out for you, Owen. You are not doing that for yourself. I cannot take the chance my son will marry some gypsy on the street.”

  “Where is the smoking room?”

  His mother glanced at the ceiling. “Your father is not here.”

  “Why not?”

  “The man is positively exhausted. If you would just come and help out with the business . . .”

  “I have a job, Mother.”

  “Oh, phooey. You don’t need that job.”

  “I want the job.”

  She sighed loudly. “You can’t fix things down there. There will always be disparity between the rich and the poor. Has been since the beginning of civilization, I suppose.”

  “I’m not trying to fix that. I’m doing what God wants me to do.”

  “What God wants is for families to stick together. Your father needs you.”

  “Is he that sick?”

  “Sick and tired, I suppose.” She wiggled her powdered chin. “But if your mind is made up, I suppose we will have to manage.”

  He excused himself and found a fellow serving canapés on a silver tray. He popped two in his mouth and intentionally looked toward the hall rather than the music.

  But his mother found him. “Owen, I thought you’d enjoy meeting some people your own age and station.”

  He looked down at the top of her head as she greeted entering celebrants and attempted to hide the disagreement with her son.

  “My current station? That would be someone who lives on the Lower East Side.”

  “Shush.” She gritted her teeth and tipped her head in the direction of a councilman and his silver-headed wife. “You know very well what I meant. Stop trying to make it sound so callous.”

  How could he color it otherwise? “Is that the entire reason you invited me, Mother?”

  She pulled a caviar delight from his hand and returned it to a waiter’s serving tray. “Well, I did not invite you just for the canapés.”

  He might have argued with her about that, had she not drifted off to speak with some new arrivals about a masked ball they were planning. He drifted among the people, taking in a mix of scents—cologne water, sherry, and licorice. He had grown used to the earthy smells of horses, soot, and vegetable vendors. The sweet, refined aroma of Miss Amelia’s party seemed a bit sterile.

  Near the crowded corner of the parlor, he found an unoccupied chair and sat, but when an elderly lady made her way across the room, hobbling with the aid of a cane, he offered his seat.

  The sound of stringed instruments replaced the piano music, coming from the direction of the large open area Miss Amelia liked to call her ballroom.

  “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson.” He nodded toward friends of his mother’s and then shook hands with a stockbroker his father dealt with, along with the executive of a chain of department stores.

  The night dragged. He chose to stay in the front room, as did many others who apparently held no fondness for dancing.

  “Excuse me.” A woman pulled her arm away even though she had barely brushed against him.

  He caught a glimpse of yellow fabric as she wove her way through black suits. He trailed behind. When he caught up and captured her attention, he tipped his chin. “Lovely piano playing, Miss Pierpont.”

  Her ruby lips turned into a smile. “Why, thank you.” She reached out her hand.

  Owen spent the next hour chatting with the young lady and was delighted to find they shared an interest in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle novels and Southern pecan pie. He supposed he had been lonely and bored. His mother found them engaging in conversation on the parlor sofa.

  “Come along, darlings. Come dance with us in the ballroom.” She pulled Owen to his feet and, with a shrug of her eyebrows, suggested he help Miss Pierpont rise.

  Thankfully, once they entered the ballroom, his mother disappeared. He took Miss Pierpont’s gentle hand and led her to the dance floor.

  “I must warn you that my mother plays matchmaker.”

  “Oh? And I suppose this does not please you.”

  “It does not. Uh . . . don’t misunderstand. It’s been lovely spending time with you, Miss Pierpont, and I’ve enjoyed our conversation. But let me be clear about something.”

  “Please.”

  She frowned, but he thought it would be better to set things straight. “I have a demanding job chasing down thieves and gangsters. I work most nights. I live in Lower Manhattan . . .”

  He felt her sink back slightly.

  “I am not suitable courting material, I’m afraid.”

  “I see.” She pinched a smile. “I’m sure you are being too hard on yourself, Officer.”

  “Realistic. I don’t mean to be rude. I truly have enjoyed your company this night.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  They waltzed to the edge of the crowd, and he released her. He coughed. The thickly populated house seemed to close in on him.

  His mother appeared by his side. “Here come the O’Tooles. Say hello, darling, before they make their speech.”

  He turned to find the smiling faces of Mr. and Mrs. O’Toole. He had not seen them since the funeral. Mr. O’Toole shook his hand firmly, and Mrs. O’Toole leaned forward while he kissed her cheek.

  “So happy you’re here, Owen,” Mrs. O’Toole said. “The night would not be complete without you.”

  “You are too kind.”

  “We are grateful for your service to the citizens, son.” Mr. O’Toole thumped Owen’s back.

  “Well, I . . .”

  The orchestra ceased playing, and Miss Amelia led the man and his wife to the center of the room.

  Mr. O’Toole, dressed in an ordinary black suit, and his wife, wearing an unadorned navy dress and no hat, stood in the middle of the crowd, an island of ordinariness surrounded by wealthy patrons, the finest New York could attire. The contrast was more than just visible. It was palpable.

  Mr. O’Toole began by talking about his deceased son and the plight of the poor in the city. The crowd nodded as though they understood. Owen knew none of them really did. Throwing money at a problem never solved it. The only way to make change was to roll up your sleeves and—

  Suddenly the room erupted in applause, and the couple in the center waved to him. He drew closer. Mr. O’Toole continued on. “With the dedication of officers like Owen McNulty, much good is being done. This fine young man, who traded a life of comfort for one of service, utilizing good morals and avoiding the corruption of Tammany Hall, represents the spirit of servitude our own son possessed. We now award him the first annual Dan O’Toole Award for Excellence.”

  Had his mother and Miss Amelia only invited Tammany opposition, Mother might have endured this better. She stood at the edge of the crowd, fanning her pale face. She had been caught off guard just like Owen. As people congratulated him and asked to look at the silver-plated plaque he had been handed, he saw his mothe
r and the hostess engaged in animated conversation near the swinging door the domestics used to bring in trays of champagne flutes. His mother waved her arms as she spoke. She never would have allowed the O’Tooles to give that speech if she’d known they were going to refer to her son as a servant. If Miss Amelia had previous knowledge of it, she must not have mentioned it to Mother.

  Mr. O’Toole pulled him aside. “Did we surprise you, son?”

  “Uh, yes, you did. This was very kind but not necessary.”

  “Of course it was necessary. I admire what you are doing out there.” He glanced down at the plaque. “Besides, you’ll pass the honor on to someone else next year and hopefully this will help encourage the honest cops out there.”

  Owen smiled. “I’m sure it will. It’s a fine honor.” He shifted his feet. “Sir, please know that I cannot replace your son. He was a great man.”

  “He was indeed. But you are your own man, Owen McNulty, and a good one too. Still got the watch?”

  Owen pulled it out to show him.

  “Good, good.”

  Owen pushed it toward him. “I think this should stay with the family.”

  “Absolutely not.” Mr. O’Toole placed his hand on Owen’s arm the way a father should, the way his father never did. “Not many men would walk into the path of an out-of-control trolley to save a wee child, even if such an opportunity arises again. You might, but whether or not you do is irrelevant. It’s the spirit you have, lad. You may have been born into the upper crust, but make no mistake, you were meant to be a policeman in the immigrant wards. And thank the good Lord you’ve found what you were born for. Know what I mean?”

  “I think I do.”

  He winked. “Now I’m off to lose this monkey jacket and get a pint at the pub.”

  Owen was leaving too. With his award and his watch and the confirmation he’d needed. He might be caught between two worlds as far as courtship was concerned. But he was in the right place, doing the job he’d been called to do.

  When he stepped outside, a familiar face met him. Owen, being a tall man himself, stood nose to nose with New York City’s police chief, Big Bill Devery.