He referred to a snide remark she had once made to him. Her face hot, she kept silent for the rest of the journey.
Owen felt like kicking himself. Grace hadn’t deserved to be the target of his frustration. How was she to know that he had been struggling between spending time with her and keeping his mind on his duties?
Owen eased his large frame down onto his bed. His legs throbbed. The slug he’d received in that Canal Street alley had bruised him up good. He was ecstatic to see his bed.
He rubbed both hands over his face and stared at the ceiling medallion. He rolled to one side.
Is this worth it, God? Did you make a mistake sending the rich boy to do this job? Who am I?
He knew who he wanted to be. A decent man with a wife and children. A family man. Someone worthy of the confidence Reverend Clarke put in him to show Christ to the downtrodden. He pulled his tightly woven blanket, the one his long-departed granny had brought from Ireland, over his head.
He reached for the watch chain on the bedside table and brought it close. Sighing, he put it back, wondering if he’d get any sleep.
And whose are you, Owen?
The question came to him in a jolt like a cold slap of wind.
He got out of bed and wandered over to the window. The elevated train stood demon-like. When the weather was better, he could lean out and get a view of the steeple on Trinity Church. But now only steel, steam, and black train rails rose stoic against gray structures. He had not been born here, hadn’t lived here out of necessity like everyone else around him. Owen had come to the bowels of the city by choice. And at times it seemed to swallow him alive. Logic said he should get out, save himself. Go help his father with the business. But he still felt burdened by a desire to stay, to help, to do what Officer O’Toole no longer could.
Frustrated by the fact that Grace McCaffery and others like her still shut him out, he picked up the watch and flung it against the wall. He never should have insinuated that he was too busy for her.
The watch bounced and slid underneath his bed. Regretting his outburst, he retrieved it. The watch survived his temper.
He had no other direction for his life. Just one. The one the streetcar accident had pointed to.
The sound of screeching metal brought him back to the window. A train had stopped on the tracks. As though cloaked in disguise, black shadows of men slid from the train and moved back and forth on the elevated platform.
Owen went back to his bed, derailed, stuck, and in desperate need of One to drive his life for him. He drifted off to sleep in a cloud of prayer.
16
AFTER CHURCH ON SUNDAY, Grace requested a meeting with Reverend Clarke.
“An escort, you say?” He rubbed his watery blue eyes as he leaned on the desk in his study.
“Aye. To ease the mind of my employer, who does not want me traveling alone after dark.”
“That’s right. I suggested it. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I know you cannot see me home every night, Reverend, although I did enjoy your company.”
He laughed. “As did I yours, child. And you say the New York police will not be sufficient for this job?”
She shifted on her chair. “I do appreciate your recommendation, Reverend.” She inhaled before continuing. “I just think they are so busy doing more important work keeping the city safe.”
“You are probably right about that. Hmm. Let me see. There is Mr. Crawley. He’s a widower, quite lonely but respectable of course. He’s an octogenarian but very ambulatory for his age.”
“Perfect.”
The reverend stood, steadying himself with his palms on the surface of his desk. “He should be in the sanctuary trimming the Advent candles. I’ll go check with him.”
“Thank you.”
“Wait here, dear. I won’t be a moment.”
She helped herself to tea while she waited. Sipping the rich dark liquid, she gazed about the study. The man with the kind blue eyes had told her he didn’t understand God completely. They had that in common. But he still professed a faith, like her mother’s, that was foreign to Grace. She needed to be with people like that, draw from their strength. She wondered if she might someday take Reverend Clarke’s photograph, the way she’d seen Mr. Sherman do with the minister at St. John’s.
When Reverend Clarke returned, he brought an older gentleman with him. “Miss Grace McCaffery, this is Mr. Crawley.”
He was tall and thin and wore wide black shoes. Despite his furrowed face, he had a smile that seemed to light the dark corners of the room.
“Pleased to meet you.” She held out her hand.
Mr. Crawley had blue eyes like the reverend, although a bit more faded with age.
He patted her hand. “I’m the one to be pleased to be escorting such a pretty young girl.” He bowed, indeed limber for his age as Reverend Clarke had said. “I vow to keep all ill-intentioned young men from your presence, my dear.”
She laughed. “Lovely. When can you start? I can promise you a muffin most every evening when you pick me up and scones when I’ve time to make them.”
He glanced to the reverend. “What a deal that is, Reverend. I’ll be glad to help, once I finish the Christmas preparations here at the church.”
The reverend gripped the man’s shoulder. “And I do appreciate your help with that, Mr. Crawley. I’ll escort Grace tomorrow. Then you can take over after Christmas. That all right, Grace?”
“Aye. Yes. But, Reverend, so close to your special services. Will you have time?” She should have realized how much she was imposing.
“Oh, I will have time, I expect. Deliver just about the same message every Christmas.” He laughed. “I think I know it well enough.”
“Are you sure?”
“Indeed. I am happy to oblige.” His face lit up with sincerity not unlike the wee lad she looked after, Linden.
“Thank you both.”
Right after the midday Sunday meal, Grace planned to spend some time outside with her camera. Remembering that daylight was limited, and because photo taking was nearly impossible indoors, Grace took her camera on a stroll through the neighborhood. “I won’t be gone long,” she called to Mrs. Hawkins.
“Take someone with you,” she answered back. “Annie?”
Annie stared at her from behind a mound of dirty dishes. Grace realized she shouldn’t run off and leave Annie with all the chores. “I should help you.”
“I can manage. I’ll let you scrub the bathtub later.” She winked. “Taking your camera out?”
“I hoped to.”
“Go along, but stay on our street and don’t go more than three houses down. If you’re not back in twenty minutes, she’ll have my head.”
“I’ll hurry.” Leaving her satchel behind so she could manage better, Grace slipped out the kitchen door. She had gone no more than five paces when a couple stopped her.
“Look at that, Charles.”
The man tilted his head to examine Grace’s camera. “I do believe that’s one of those Brownie cameras. Am I right, miss?”
“’Tis. Excuse me. I have to—”
“May I see it?” The man reached for the camera.
Grace sighed and allowed him to hold it. Tapping her foot impatiently, she looked up and tried to determine how much daylight was left, but the towering tenements hid most of the sky. In Ireland she could tell time by the sun even without the workhouse clock ticking away the hours.
Annie had said to hurry.
“I must be going,” she said, reaching for her camera.
The man handed it back. Turning to his wife, he said, “Cameras right on the street, dear. Imagine that. We could end up on the front page of the evening World just for walking down Broadway.”
“Don’t be foolish, Charles.”
Grace hurried on. There was a druggist on the corner that Mrs. Hawkins had said sold film for her camera.
Once she purchased the film, she carefully loaded the camera and then returned outs
ide. When she passed by an open door, the whooping and shouting erupting from inside made her pause and think of the games the workhouse master and the cook played in the master’s office. Cards of some sort. She caught a glimpse of some men seated around a table. Was this American game anything like the Irish one? Curiosity killed the cat. She remembered Mrs. Hawkins telling her Mr. Hawkins used to say that. But Grace had no time to be cautious. She’d just take a quick peek.
She glanced at the box camera in her hands. A photograph allowed time to study the subject. Perhaps she could capture the scene on film and study it later. If she could do that, she might understand the Americans a wee bit better and lose the label of outsider all the sooner.
Standing out on the sidewalk, where there was more light, she hoped would bring her subject into focus. She didn’t really know if it would work, of course, but if she didn’t start experimenting with her Brownie, she’d never learn.
She nearly dropped the camera when a fellow plopped down from his seat in the open window. The sound of his feet hitting the floor inside the room rattled around in her head for a moment. She glanced around, holding her camera to her chest. No one seemed to notice her. People continued to stomp up and down the street and walkway, providing her a sense of anonymity. She looked around for something to stand on to give her a better perspective. A milk crate rested near the curb. She turned it over, and by perching atop, she achieved a clear view over the tops of the heads of the hoards of people passing by.
She aimed.
When she clicked the shutter, a bawl rang out from the room.
“Did you see that outside the window?” someone shouted.
They pointed in her direction, but had they meant her? She was sure she had been discreet, but if she could see over the heads of the passersby, then the people in the house could see her.
“Was that a camera? A nose from papers! Smokey, I warned ya they’d be looking to ruin me. Not even Tammany Hall can silence that.”
“Not the papers, Mr. Middleton. Just a ragbag urchin girl.”
What kind of English did these card players speak?
A scrambling sound came from the room, and although they could not have been talking about her, a desire to flee launched her from her perch. Her petticoat snagged on a fence post as she tried to rush away. She pulled at it, leaving some red threads behind before she scrambled to a trolley car and hopped on.
She thought she heard someone cry out the name Rosie, but there was so much commotion, so many people. Probably just in her head.
Sucking in breaths, Grace tilted her head against the back of the wooden seat.
“Sneaking up on a stuss game, miss?”
Grace bolted upright. A man on the seat across from her scowled.
“Are you speaking to me, sir?” Grace asked.
“I am indeed.” He raised a thick brow and turned his head to one side. “Looked as though you were playing police detective with your Brownie camera.”
Although Grace didn’t understand what this man was implying, she knew she had to object. “I was not. I was just curious, and I thought I might—”
The man turned to the woman seated next to him. He crossed his gloved hands over the top of a cane that he repeatedly tapped against the trolley floor.
“Uh-huh,” the woman said in answer to the man’s stares.
The man puffed out his jowls. “Just as I predicted, Harriet. The advent of those little box cameras will mean that every John—or in this case, Jane—Doe on the street will be taking our photographs. There will be no privacy. Not just for lawbreakers, but for the gentlemen and women who wish to maintain their due right to privacy.”
The woman nodded and smacked her lips, and then he pounded his cane harder.
Grace squeezed her eyes tight. Had everyone seen her blunder?
17
OWEN SAT IN THE DEPARTMENT MEETING, but his mind was not on the scheduling Captain Nicholson was speaking about. He was thinking about the Dusters and how he might find their leader. When Nicholson took a break to light a fresh cigar, Feeny, seated to his right, leaned over to whisper.
“Word on the street is Middleton was caught in a stuss game yesterday.”
“The reformer?”
“That’s the one. You know, the novelist, one of those fellas folks like to think know more than the rest of us so they’re always quoted in the papers.”
“Yeah, well, can’t always trust someone’s who they appear to be.”
Feeny rounded his eyes like a cartoon character. “Someone took his picture. He don’t like it much, I don’t suppose. And to think he done it on the Lord’s Day. Not good for his image, that.”
“Suppose not. When did they bring him in?”
“Not an arrest, I’m speaking about, man. A civilian took his picture, all Jacob Riis–like. Just a wee lass, so I hear, with one of those newfangled box cameras. They say even a child can use those things.”
“Well, I suppose a lot of people will be carrying those cameras around in the future.”
Feeny always seemed to have something to jabber on about. Owen didn’t much care about reformers who only wrote about the plight of immigrants but never worked in the trenches, and he certainly did not care to hear about those who demanded reform and yet still participated in the illicit activities the police were trying to clean up. Jacob Riis was an exception. He went out on the streets with Roosevelt and documented how miserable things were down here. But that was a few years past. Without the folks who did the real work out there now, things would be worse than they are. Kudos to the girl who took that hypocrite’s photograph.
“I hear he’s even sent thugs out after the photographer.”
Owen turned back to watch the captain, sending a message to Feeny that he wasn’t interested in the gossip.
Feeny tugged on his shirtsleeve. “’Tis the truth, I tell ya.”
“Really, Feeny, where do you hear this stuff?”
“I know people. Important folks.”
“Right.”
During Linden’s nap and while the girls attended to some needlework they were practicing in the kitchen, Grace decided to try to find out why the mistress of the house was so unhappy. Mrs. Parker sat in the parlor, a Burpee Seed catalog balanced on the top of her pregnant belly.
“Mrs. Parker?”
“What is it, Grace?” Alice Parker turned her shadowy eyes from the paper.
“I was just wondering, if you don’t mind me asking, is there anything wrong, ma’am? Anything I can do to help you?”
“Wrong? What do you mean?”
“You are so . . . quiet . . . and you hardly want the children around you. Are you ill?”
Mrs. Parker slapped the arm of her chair with the catalog. “You are too nosy. I’m with child, if you didn’t notice. George always says I’m grumpy when I’m with child. Well, so be it.” She turned to look out the front window. “Nosy. This is what I get for hiring a biddy.”
“I only wish to help. For the children’s sake.” Grace really wanted to slap sense into the woman. What was wrong with her?
“Don’t be complaining to him about me, Grace. I’ll have you fired.”
“Oh, I would never.” She thought about the money in her bag, money she would give back at the first opportunity.
Alice Parker rose and poured herself a sherry from her husband’s decanter. “I despise my life, Grace.” She twirled around and lifted her glass in Grace’s direction. “And now you know. George thinks I’m not good for much else but birthing babies and growing flowers. He might not say so out loud, but I know that’s what he thinks.” She laughed. “What a life that is, huh?”
Grace retrieved the glass from the woman’s hand. “The baby. You should not—”
Mrs. Parker collapsed on the sofa. “I suppose you are right, but don’t get the idea you can tell me what to do.” She mumbled under her breath. “Irish biddy.”
The woman clearly had no fight in her. Grace urged her to recline and covered
her with a blanket.
She lifted a finger. “I don’t care any longer. Not about anything.”
“Nonsense.” Grace pointed to the catalog. “You care about gardening, now don’t you?”
Alice Parker smiled. “Coralbells. I think I’ll plant coralbells in the spring. The south side of the house. Don’t you think, Grace?”
“Lovely.”
When the woman had relaxed, Grace asked again. “Why don’t you show the children more affection, Mrs. Parker? Children need it.”
“Affection? Who showed me affection?”
“Your mother?”
She huffed. “I grew up in an orphanage.”
“No, this is your family home. Your people go to church near here. Mr. Parker said.”
“That’s what he wants everyone to think, Grace. The nuns raised me.” A stern look came over her face. “Irish nuns. And as you can see—” she waved her hand in the air—“as you can see, they didn’t do a very good job.” She pushed herself up on her elbows. “My biddy mentions this to no one, hear me? Do and I’ll see you get no work on the entire west side.” She whimpered. “He would not like that. Not at all. A miracle he even allowed me a maid.”
“Not a word,” Grace promised. “Are you crying?”
The woman wiped her eyes with her thumbs. “George says tears are a sign of weakness. You never saw me crying, understand me?”
“Aye. Yes.” Grace instantly thought about what Linden had said.
Later in the day Grace busied herself in the kitchen. Grace understood Alice Parker. The woman felt worthless, not unlike the way Linden felt. Mr. Parker had them under his thumb. Grace did not have her father around anymore and still he sometimes controlled her. She did not want to become defeated and depressed like her employer and certainly did not want wee Linden to be like his mother as a result of living with such a demanding and restrictive man.
Grace straightened the dishes in the pantry, folded some towels, and swept the floor—each task stirring up anger. Mr. Parker was a fake, pretending he had a happy life and hiding away among the immigrants probably because he liked how lofty and important he felt around them. Reverend Clarke did not know the man as well as he thought he did, but Grace had experience with his kind. George Parker might not be a violent man like her father was when he was drunk, but he was no good just the same. No wonder he didn’t want his wife in church with him. It was probably bad enough that his nanny saw what was going on.
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