These Tangled Threads

by Tracie Peterson

  Daughtie wagged her head back and forth, as though the movement might somehow clear the invisible cobwebs gathering in her mind. “I thought you were against slavery and segregation.”

  “Of course I’m against slavery. What has slavery to do with the Irish? They’re free men and women, paid for their work, and able to come and go at will.”

  “Are they? If we don’t want them anywhere but the Acre, are they truly free? Isn’t the blood that runs through the veins of an Irishman the same as ours?”

  “Oh, Daughtie, let’s do not get into one of your philosophical discussions. Sometimes I think those Shakers filled your head with extremely odd ideas.”

  “I don’t see anything odd about believing in the equality of all people—men and women, black and white . . .”

  “Irish and Chinese,” Ruth said with a giggle.

  Daughtie nodded enthusiastically. “Absolutely!”

  Ruth eyed her with obvious curiosity. “You’ve developed an interest in this Liam Donohue, haven’t you? I can see it in your eyes when you talk about him.”

  “Don’t be foolish. I’ve seen him on only two occasions. That’s hardly enough time to develop an interest in someone. Although I shall be seeing more of him since he has employed me.”

  Ruth’s eyebrows arched high on her forehead. “What? Employed you? To do what? And exactly how is it an Irishman has money to employ anyone?”

  “He’s an extremely talented man, Ruth, specifically chosen and brought to Lowell in order to design and lay the stonework at St. Patrick’s. His talent has taken him into the finest homes in Boston and Lowell—and other cities in Ireland, I suspect. He’s built a home and has asked for assistance with the interior decorations. He offered to employ me and I agreed, although I don’t intend to take pay for the service. The opportunity to be creative will be payment enough.”

  “I can’t believe my ears. I think you’ve lost your senses, Daughtie Winfield.”

  “And your attitude is small-minded and downright annoying,” Daughtie replied, unable to keep her mouth closed. “I’ve invited Liam to attend the antislavery meeting with me,” she added with a note of defiance.

  Ruth was stunned into momentary silence. When she opened her mouth to speak, her lips quivered as though she would cry. “I don’t believe you. Do you realize that if you’re seen in public with an Irishman, no respectable man will ever call on you? Your reputation will be completely ruined. You absolutely must reconsider. Don’t do it, Daughtie!”

  “If it helps to assuage your fears, Liam refused to call for me at the boardinghouse. He seems to share your concern about my reputation.”

  “Well, at least he has a modicum of common sense, even if you don’t,” Ruth rebutted.

  Daughtie chose to ignore the remark, returning to the desk with her paper work in hand. “I found you a book. I’ve already signed it out in your name,” she said, handing Ruth the volume. “It will be a while before I finish my work. You needn’t wait for me.”

  “Remember what I’ve said, Daughtie. That Irishman will be your ruination—stay away from him.” Faint red stains accentuated Ruth’s pronounced cheekbones. Other than her blushing cheeks, there was no indication she considered her words ignoble in the least. With her head tilted upward in a haughty position, she tucked the book beneath her arm and walked out.

  The reverberating jingle of the bell above the door permeated the stillness of the room long after Ruth’s departure. The echoing sound seemed to quietly repeat Ruth’s admonition: Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Defiantly, Daughtie slapped the book she was holding upon the thick wooden desktop and murmured, “I will do it. He’s a good man who happens to be Irish. I don’t care what anyone thinks—especially Ruth Wilson!”

  Liam washed his hands and glanced for the fifth time at the clock. It wouldn’t be long before Miss Winfield would be coming. He could still see her dark eyes staring up at him in wonder, her dark curls dancing soft on her shoulders. She was a fine figure of a woman—delicate in appearance, yet sturdy in design. And it was clear she wasn’t afraid of hard work.

  With Daughtie on his mind, Liam put water on for tea and forced himself to think of something other than the petite woman. He thought of his homeland and all that he’d left behind. His family . . . his mother. He missed Ireland sometimes; missed the rich green hills and stone fences, missed the thatched cottages and the lively music that spilled out from the pubs.

  He’d lived differently than most Irishmen. He’d trained early as a stoneworker, learning the skills and designs of setting stone and creating a masterpiece. His skills were famous in his homeland. Why, he’d even been approached by a traveling English architect to come work in London— something he’d not even considered for a moment. He’d never do anything to aid the English. They were harsh masters— landowners who came where they weren’t invited and stole what was never theirs to own.

  It was this rage toward the injustices heaped upon his people that had caused Liam to come to America in the first place. He knew he could never make the kind of money in Ireland that was possible in America. Here, stonemasons were fewer and whether Irish, English, or something else, they were afforded a bit of respect.

  Daughtie had told him she’d been taught to respect all mankind, regardless of race or gender. How could it be that a handful of . . . what did she call them? Ah, yes, Shakers. How could it be that a handful of Shakers could understand the need to give respect and value to each human life, but it somehow eluded the rest of the English-speaking race?

  The kettle whistled, steam pouring from its spout. Liam glanced at the clock again and smiled. She’d be here soon and she would share his company—share his tea. The thought brought a liveliness to his step and a hope to his heart.

  The tower bell dutifully tolled the dismissive clangs releasing the mill workers for another day. Daughtie pushed her straight-backed wooden chair away from the drawing in frame and stood up. Setting aside the long metal hook used to draw warp threads through the harness and reed, she donned her indigo blue Shaker cape and tied her bonnet strings in place before scurrying down the circular stairwell taking her out of the mill.

  She’d barely made it to the edge of the mill yard when Ruth’s words sliced through the crisp air. “Daughtie! Wait for me.”

  Daughtie hesitated. Much as she desired to hurry on and ignore Ruth’s request, she came to a halt. Half of the girls in the mill yard had turned in Ruth’s direction. Daughtie could scarcely claim that she alone had been unable to hear Ruth calling out her name.

  “Where are you hurrying off to? Why didn’t you wait for me?” Ruth panted, the words spurting out in short, explosive puffs.

  The wind whipped at Daughtie’s cloak and swept across her body, chilling her to the bone. “I have an errand and won’t be going directly to the boardinghouse,” she said, pulling her woolen cape more tightly around her body and beginning to walk away.

  “I’m in no hurry to get home,” Ruth said, quickening her pace to match Daughtie’s stride. “I’ll walk along with you.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.” Daughtie’s words were simple and to the point.

  Ruth stopped midstride. “Why!” It was more accusation than question.

  “Because I prefer to be alone.” Daughtie continued walking.

  “Oh, now I remember,” Ruth called after her. “You’re going to meet him, aren’t you?” she quizzed, hastening her steps until she came alongside Daughtie. “Aren’t you?” She seized Daughtie’s arm and pulled her to a stop. “Answer me!” she demanded.

  Daughtie yanked free of Ruth’s grasp. “Quit acting like an overly protective parent, Ruth. What I do is not your concern. Go home,” she exclaimed with a note of finality in her voice.

  “Don’t go there. You’re making a mistake,” Ruth cautioned. “It’s not proper that you should be alone with any man, much less someone like him!”

  Daughtie turned and walked away, though Ruth’s disdainful attitude served to dampen her spir
its. She glanced toward the sky. The air had now turned cold and appeared to be threatening snow showers. Likely a dismal forecast of things to come, she decided. Trudging onward through the shopping district and then toward the outskirts of town, Daughtie turned at the fork in the road but then stopped short, her gaze suddenly focused upon the house that surely must belong to Liam Donohue. Surrounded by trees and perched alone on a small rise, the house was centered by a gabled flagstone entry with an extension on each side. The structure appeared to rise up and lengthen itself in a welcoming gesture, much like an open-armed lover awaiting the return of his sweetheart. There was an inviting warmth about the dwelling that seemed to beckon her forward.

  Hurrying up the steps leading to the front door, Daughtie lifted the iron knocker and waited, a smile now on her face. The door opened, and the hallway lamp cast a dim light behind Liam, haloing his raven hair with an auburn hue. Daughtie’s breath caught at the sight of him. “Good evening,” she croaked, her voice sounding foreign to her ears.

  “Good evening,” he greeted, stepping aside to permit her entry. “Please come in.” He pushed the door closed behind her and then gave it an extra thump with his broad hand. “It sometimes doesn’t latch well. I’ll be needin’ to plane it just a trace,” he explained. “May I take your cape?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Daughtie replied, thankful her voice had returned to its normal pitch. A crackling fire burned in the Rumford fireplace. She moved into the parlor, her gaze locked on the granite mantelpiece.

  “Your fireplace—it’s, it’s . . .” she stammered, unable to think of words to express herself.

  “Granite.”

  “No. Beautiful,” she contradicted in a soft, contemplative tone. “Honestly. It’s more than beautiful, but just now I can’t think of a word to adequately describe the workmanship.”

  His head tilted at an angle, and he gave a hearty laugh. “Thank you. I’m quite fond of it myself. However, it is granite.”

  She moved closer and, drawing near, ran her hand across the smooth, charcoal-black facade. Tracing one finger around the outline of the etched eagle in flight that embellished the center of the arch, she whispered, “It’s lovely. Your carving shows such strength, yet the delicate wings make the bird appear almost vulnerable. Why did you choose an eagle?” she inquired, looking up into his dark eyes.

  “The eagle is a part of the Donohue family coat of arms. I didn’t want to carve the entire coat of arms, so I decided to extract one portion for the fireplace.”

  “You have a family coat of arms? How impressive.”

  “My people were once powerful and influential. At least in Ireland.”

  “What happened?”

  Liam gave her a sad smile. “The British happened.”

  She hated having led him into sad memories. “So you carved only part of the coat of arms. Still, it seems quite perfect.”

  “I doubt my mother would approve of the idea. She’d be tellin’ me I’ve disgraced our heritage.”

  “You might be surprised. I don’t see how she could find this carving anything other than compelling artistry.”

  Liam pushed the dark curls off his forehead and grinned. “You do have a way with words, Miss Winfield. Still, I believe my mother would take one look at this fireplace and ask when I was going to carve the greyhounds.”

  “Greyhounds? Dogs?”

  Liam nodded his head. “Aye. There are two of them that make up a portion of the Donohue coat of arms. Now, if the beasts were lying there peaceful and cozy, I might ’ave considered adding them. But the greyhounds that are pictured in the Donohue coat of arms are standin’ on their hind legs and appear to be dancin’ with each other more than anythin’ else.”

  Daughtie giggled. “Well, I think you’ve made a wonderful choice,” she replied, finally looking away from the fireplace and permitting herself to observe more of the house.

  “I told the truth—I’ve done little to fix up the inside. Would you like to see the rest of the house?”

  “Yes, of course. But you must tell me which rooms you want adorned.”

  He glanced over his shoulder and gave her a grin. “All of them.”

  “All?”

  He nodded his head. “As my mother used to say, ‘No need in doin’ anything halfway.’ ”

  “I see. Well, that may take a little more time than I anticipated—and money,” she added.

  “Money’s not an issue. As I said, just tell the merchants to keep a tally. And if it’s yar own wage that’s causing concern, I’ll be glad to pay ya whenever ya say—right now, if that’s what ya prefer.”

  Daughtie could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. “No, I’m not worried about myself. I consider it a privilege to have this opportunity. I expect no payment, but we’ll need to discuss how much you’re willing to spend.”

  “Right you are. But for now, ya needn’t worry about the money issue. Just go ahead and buy what ya need to make the inside of this place look as respectable as the outside,” he instructed while walking her through the dining room, kitchen, and the room he referred to as his office. “I’ll not need ya fixing up my office, I don’t suppose,” he added. “So there’s at least one room you can take off the list. Oh, and not too many lacy frills—except in the guest bedroom. Ya can use ruffles and the like in that one, I suppose.”

  The mention of the bedrooms caused her to swallow hard. She knew she was risking her reputation simply by being alone with a man—much less an Irishman. And now he was talking about bedrooms and showing her around his house . . . all alone. Daughtie quickly covered her nervousness with a chuckle. “I’ll attempt to keep the lacy frills to a minimum, but I hope you won’t object to some color—not overly bright,” she quickly added.

  They made their way downstairs, returning to the parlor. Liam stood before her, his feet planted a short distance apart and arms folded across his chest. “As ya can see, I’ve not purchased any furniture, except the wood pieces I had specially made. You can choose any colors ya like for the overstuffed furniture. Except for bright pink. I’m thinkin’ that would be a little too womanly for a single man. ’Course, I don’t plan on stayin’ single all my life, but until then, I think it might be best to use another color.”

  Daughtie gave him a solemn nod of agreement. “I agree. Pink won’t even be considered. Unless I should find something absolutely irresistible, that is.”

  Liam turned back in her direction, nearly snapping his neck. He stood before her in stunned silence, gazing down into her eyes.

  Daughtie giggled at him. “I was teasing, Mr. Dono-hue.”

  “Please don’t address me as Mr. Donohue. Liam. My name is Liam,” he cordially replied. “And I certainly hope you were teasing.”

  A clock chimed in the hallway, signaling nine o’clock. “I really must be going. It’s getting late, and your house is quite a distance from where I live.”

  “Oh, I’ll be takin’ ya in the wagon. I wouldn’t consider letting you walk home alone after dark. Besides, I’m sure it’s gotten a mite colder since you arrived. I’ll deliver you close to the boardinghouse and then watch until you get to your doorway. Probably best we’re not seen together, especially after dark.”

  “I believe you worry overmuch, Mr. Dono—Liam.”

  “Trust me. Living in the Shaker village has left you inexperienced in the ways people think,” he said while fetching her cloak. He slipped the woolen wrap over her shoulders. “I’ll only be a moment. I’ll bring the wagon around front. The horses are still hitched.”

  As soon as Daughtie heard the rear door close, she moved to the front porch and waited until the team of horses came clopping and snorting around the side of the house. Once the wagon came to a halt, she hurried down the steps. “No need to get down, Liam. I can make it up by myself.”

  “Not likely I’d permit such a thing,” he said, jumping down from the wagon and hurrying to the other side.

  “Thank you,” she said as he handed her up. “I see you’ve al
ready delivered all of the goods to the Acre.”

  Liam flicked the reins and the horses moved off toward the lane. “Indeed. And Father Rooney was more than a little happy to receive every last article. He was still busy sifting through the lot of it when I finally left ’im the other night.”

  “I’m glad he was pleased.”

  “Not nearly as pleased as the folks that’ll be keeping warm under those quilts this winter,” he said with a smile. “It’s a fine thing you ladies have done.”

  “Not nearly enough, I’m sure,” she whispered. “There’s always someone needing help. The children, those are the ones we need to be helping the most.”

  “True enough, but remember you’re only one person; you can’t lend a hand to everyone.”

  “I suppose, but I believe the Bible commands us to do our utmost to help those in need, to share our bounty, so to speak.”

  “You’ve a good heart, Miss Daughtie Winfield. So do ya think I should be givin’ away my money to the poor instead of livin’ in a big house and fixin’ it up with nice furniture and the like?”

  Daughtie gave him a pensive look. “I think you should do whatever your heart tells you to do.”

  Liam leaned back against the wooden seat of the wagon and gave a hearty laugh. The moon reflected down upon them while his gaze moved from her eyes and then settled upon her lips. “If I did what my heart’s telling me to do at this very moment, I’m afraid I’d find myself in more trouble than an Irishman could handle.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Thaddeus Arnold looked down into the Merrimack Valley as the rickety old wagon in which he was riding rumbled down the dirt road nearing the outskirts of Lowell. “Stop here, if you don’t mind,” he requested pensively.

  The wagon driver complied and Thaddeus thanked him before donning his black beaver hat. He patiently waited until the wagon was out of sight, a malicious grin playing upon his lips. He’d had no difficulty convincing the old man to give him a ride. A simple lie about a dying child was all that had been necessary. The gullible old fool had even refused the paltry few coins Thaddeus had offered. His stupidity is my gain, he thought while walking briskly down the road toward the house occupied by Naomi Arnold.