A Fragile Design (33 page)
Bella swallowed hard before answering. ‘‘I’m sure there are any number of girls who would be pleased to deliver your note to Taylor. Why don’t I ask one of them?’’
Miss Addie wagged her head back and forth. ‘‘No. I don’t want all the girls chattering about my personal business. I know you wouldn’t breach my confidence. I can’t be sure about the other girls. I’m worried, Bella. Won’t you do this small thing for me?’’
Bella’s lips formed a tight line. ‘‘You know I would do almost anything for you, Miss Addie. However, I must refuse this request. I can’t deliver your note.’’ Her shoulders drooped. She couldn’t meet Miss Addie’s gaze.
‘‘Something has happened between the two of you, hasn’t it?’’ Miss Addie asked, placing the palm of her hand under Bella’s chin and lifting her head until their eyes met.
‘‘Yes.’’ Her voice was a hoarse whisper.
‘‘Tell me, child.’’
‘‘You remember we went on a picnic?’’
‘‘Yes, of course,’’ Miss Addie replied, her eyes filled with concern.
‘‘Taylor’s behavior was less than gentlemanly. He kissed me and then laughed, saying I’d fallen prey to his charms. I was so angered by his behavior that I ran from him and walked home alone, and I haven’t seen him since. If I go and deliver your note, he’s sure to think it’s merely a ploy so that I can see him.’’
Miss Addie’s face had gone ashen. She appeared horror-struck by the revelation. ‘‘I do believe that young man needs to be taken down a peg or two. Don’t you give the delivery of my note another thought! I believe I’ll pay our young Mr. Manning a visit tomorrow evening.’’
William Thurston hunkered down in a rickety chair near the rear of Neil’s Pub. His gaze remained fixed on the door as he hoisted a tankard aloft. The barkeep nodded and sent a buxom waitress in his direction. The woman leaned forward in order to reveal a bit more of her bosom and gave Thurston an exaggerated wink. She shoved a full tankard in front of him. ‘‘See anything else you’d like?’’
‘‘No. Get out of the way. I can’t see the door.’’
She leveled a steely glare at him before walking away. He knew she was intentionally obstructing his view of the entrance as she undulated her hips in suggestive movements and sauntered back to the bar. William Thurston knew her type. She wanted him to lose his temper and create a scene, some sort of confrontation that would make her the center of attention. But he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. Instead, he took a drink of his ale and silently seethed.
Jake Wilson and Rafe Walton walked into the pub a few minutes later. They stopped and picked up their drinks before joining William at his table. Jake had already downed half of the dark, stout ale before seating himself.
Rafe pulled a chair away from the table and seated himself. ‘‘Your message sounded urgent.’’
Thurston kept his gaze fixed on Rafe as he leaned forward and rested his arms on the pockmarked wooden table. ‘‘Is everything arranged?’’
Rafe nodded. ‘‘Just as you instructed. Is there a problem?’’
‘‘No. I merely wanted affirmation. Let’s go over the plan one last time,’’ Thurston insisted. ‘‘I worry about him,’’ he continued while pointing his extended thumb toward Jake.
‘‘No need. He’ll do as he’s told. Come this evening, the Yanks’ll be storming the church, all of ’em hoping to walk away with gold lining their pockets or at the very least enough dead Irishmen to assure themselves jobs.’’
Thurston rubbed his hands together. ‘‘This is going to be delightful. If this ruckus doesn’t make the Associates take a long, hard look at Kirk Boott and his inability to manage the Irish, nothing will,’’ he said before emitting a malicious laugh. He glanced to his left, where an old Irishman sat staring out the dingy window and nursing a half-empty mug of ale. ‘‘Lowell will be better off without the likes of him,’’ Thurston said as he pointed to the old man.
Pushing away from the table, Rafe looked at William. ‘‘Are we through?’’
‘‘As far as I’m concerned, we’re through,’’ Thurston replied. He stood up and edged his way between the tables, the other two men following close behind. Thurston turned toward the two men once they were outside the pub. ‘‘I expect you to be merciless. Destroy that church if you must! Do you understand me?’’
‘‘Yeah. Now quit your worrying. Everything will go as planned,’’ Rafe replied.
Thurston nodded, turned, and walked off. ‘‘It better,’’ he muttered when he was out of earshot.
Liam cleaned and packed his tools into his old wooden toolbox. He’d worked later than usual, but there was no reason to hurry. The Flynns were in Boston for a funeral and wouldn’t return until tomorrow. He decided to eat supper at the pub, drink a mug of ale or two, and have a quiet evening at home. He examined the stones he’d laid in the form of a cross only a short time ago and gave a quick nod of satisfaction. The pattern had turned out better than he’d expected.
Ominous-appearing clouds were rolling in, darkening the early evening sky as Liam walked out of the church. For a moment he thought his eyes were deceiving him. An old man was perched atop a pile of granite stacked alongside the church. Liam lifted his arm and hollered, ‘‘Good evenin’ to ya. How are ya on this fine night?’’
The old man hoisted a gnarly walking stick into the air and brandished it about. ‘‘Good as can be expected, better’n most,’’ he replied, giving Liam a toothless grin. ‘‘Best be gettin’ away from that church,’’ he warned.
‘‘And why would that be?’’ Liam inquired, walking toward the hunched-over figure.
‘‘It’s not gonna be safe in there much longer,’’ he replied simply.
Liam flashed him a smile. ‘‘I think it’s probably safer inside the church than atop that pile o’ stone.’’
The old man shook his head back and forth, wisps of white hair forming a billowy cloud above his head. ‘‘There’s gonna be a battle happenin’ any time now.’’
No doubt the old man was feebleminded. Yet something forced Liam to continue talking. ‘‘What kind of battle?’’
‘‘ ’Tween the Yanks and us,’’ he replied. ‘‘Irish are better at fightin’, so it shouldn’t take long to finish them off,’’ he cackled in a gleeful voice. ‘‘And I’m gonna have the best view.’’
Liam drew closer. ‘‘How’d you come by this piece of information?’’
‘‘Some fancy-pants Yank and a couple of his lackeys talking down at the tavern earlier today. Said the Yanks was gonna storm the church and steal the rifles and gold this evenin’.’’
A shockwave coursed down Liam’s spine. He bounded up the pile of rocks and stood towering over the ancient Irishman. ‘‘Have you told anyone else about this?’’
The old man cowered at Liam’s approach. ‘‘I told the barkeep once the Yanks left the pub. He spread the word among the rest of his customers. Did I do wrong?’’
‘‘No, ya did just fine. Did the men talk as though they were comin’ to defend the church?’’
‘‘They talked like they was gonna defend the church with every man and boy who could hold a weapon—said they’d be here afore the Yanks arrived. They’re gonna hide and surprise ’em,’’ he said in a hushed voice. ‘‘Fer all I know, some of ’em may already be hiding in there,’’ he said, pointing his stick toward the church. ‘‘I told the barkeep those Yanks might just be talkin’ big—might not even show up, but he said we should be prepared.’’
Liam feared the story was true. After all, it hadn’t been so long ago that he’d heard similar talk in the tavern. He glanced over his shoulder at the impressive stone edifice. Only yesterday he’d helped mortar two stained-glass windows into place—gorgeous works of art from a Boston benefactor. The thought of those windows being pelted by stones or bullets struck horror in Liam’s creative soul.
He would not stand by and do nothing. ‘‘A battle will not serve the Irish well. ’Tis our church and homes that will be pummeled. I’m going to find someone with a voice of reason.
Perhaps we can halt this madness before anyone is injured. It would be best to keep the fight away from the church. Tell our men to stand firm at the old stone bridge. They must stop the Yanks before they come into the Acre. With a bit o’ luck, I’ll be back before the Yanks,’’ Liam told the old man.
‘‘Ya’ll need more than the luck of the Irish, me boy. I’ll say a quick prayer for ya,’’ the old man replied. He shoved a thin, knobbed hand into the depths of his pants pocket and pulled out a string of wooden beads. The strand dangled from his finger momentarily before the old man took hold of one bead and automatically began his rhythmic litany.
Liam quickly descended the heap of rocks and hurried off toward town. By the time he reached the edge of the Acre, he had only one thought in mind: he must locate Matthew Cheever. Although it was well past the last bell, he would go to the mill first. He hoped Matthew was working late, for it would take five additional minutes to reach Matthew’s home. As he neared Jackson Street, he glanced in both directions. There were small clusters of men gathering, moving toward each other as if to join forces. Liam’s breath was coming hard; he gasped, inhaling as much fresh air as his strained lungs would permit without slowing his pace.
The iron gate to the Appleton was tightly closed. Liam reached up and pulled the dangling rope hanging from the gate bell. He clanged it hard and waited, his face pressed against the cool metal gate, willing Matthew to appear. Again he clanged the bell, long and hard. He continued yanking the rope, determined to stir Matthew to attention if he was nearby.
‘‘What’s going on?’’ Matthew shouted as he rounded the corner of the countinghouse and hurried toward the gate. ‘‘Liam?’’
‘‘Aye. There’s a problem, Mr. Cheever! Hurry!’’ Matthew shoved a key into the gate and pulled open the cumbersome barrier. ‘‘Ya’ve got to come with me,’’ Liam commanded, grasping Matthew’s arm. ‘‘There’s an uprisin’ between the Yanks and Irish. I fear it will already have begun by the time we reach the Acre.’’
Matthew’s forehead furrowed into deep creases, causing his eyebrows to settle into parallel strips of concern. ‘‘Settle yourself, Liam, and tell me exactly what has happened.’’
‘‘I’ll explain while we walk,’’ Liam insisted. ‘‘There’s no time to waste.’’ Unwilling to stand idle, he continued tugging on Matthew’s arm, pulling him along as he explained the old man’s warning. ‘‘Should Mr. Boott be informed?’’
Matthew shook his head back and forth. ‘‘He’s in Boston,’’ he explained. ‘‘And you think the battle is imminent?’’
‘‘I’ve never seen groups of men gatherin’ together with their weapons in Lowell until today,’’ Liam replied. ‘‘I fear they’ll destroy the church, or worse yet, there will be deaths and injury on both sides.’’
‘‘You believe your people are ready to fight?’’
‘‘I don’t know. I’m hopeful Hugh is aware of what’s happenin’ and has called for level-headedness among the Irish. I left word that if the Irish arrived first, they should attempt to hold the Yanks at the bridge.’’
Before Matthew could respond, a volley of shots rang out. The men glanced at each other and immediately increased their pace, the street dust billowing from under their pounding feet. They rushed onward until the church was finally in sight. Yanks armed with weapons stood at each corner of the building. One of them yelled out a warning and leveled his rifle as Matthew and Liam approached.
Liam’s face was lined with concern. ‘‘It appears the Yanks crossed the bridge and took siege of the church before the Irish even arrived.’’
Matthew nodded. ‘‘It would appear that way,’’ he said as they neared the church. ‘‘Thomas Lambert, you’d best aim that weapon somewhere besides my belly,’’ Matthew shouted.
‘‘Don’t you get in the middle of this, Matthew!’’ the man hollered back.
Liam and Matthew slowed their pace but continued moving closer to the church. ‘‘What’s going on here?’’ Matthew asked.
‘‘Nothin’ that we can’t handle without interference by the Corporation,’’ Lambert replied.
In front of the church, men’s voices mingled with the sound of breaking stone. ‘‘I’m going in there,’’ Matthew defiantly announced. ‘‘And you’d best not attempt to stop me, Thomas.’’
Immediately Thomas moved to block the door. ‘‘I wouldn’t . . .’’
Matthew pushed him aside. ‘‘Quit acting like a fool, Thomas,’’ he growled. ‘‘Come with me, Liam.’’
Liam followed, his shoulders squared and head high. He wondered if Thomas Lambert would shoot him in the back. ‘‘What are we doin’?’’ Liam whispered.
‘‘Getting these men out of the Acre before there’s a bloody battle,’’ Matthew replied.
It took a silver tongue, along with several threats, to finally convince the men to leave. Liam wasn’t certain whether it was Matthew’s words or the realization there was nothing of value hidden in the church that dislodged the men, but at last they began filing out of the building. Unfortunately, at that same time the inhabitants of the Acre began to descend upon the church with picks, shovels, rocks, and rifles in hand.
‘‘Matthew!’’ Liam shouted. He pointed in the direction of the crowd.
‘‘Do you see Hugh among them?’’
‘‘Not yet, but I’ll try and stop them,’’ Liam replied. He rushed toward the crowd, waving his arms above his head. ‘‘Hold up! I need to talk to ya!’’ he shouted as he drew closer.
‘‘Out of the way or we’ll trample ya,’’ a voice in the crowd cried out.
‘‘Hugh! Hugh Cummiskey! Are you among these men?’’ Liam shouted.
‘‘Right here,’’ Hugh replied, waving a rifle in the air.
Liam rushed alongside Hugh, explaining Matthew was with the Yanks. ‘‘It appears everything is under control,’’ Liam said. ‘‘Ya need to stop the men before they confront the Yanks, or there may be bloodshed. I know ya don’t want that to happen, Hugh.’’
Hugh held up his arm and halted the men not far from the church. ‘‘If they’ve damaged our church, and I suspect they have, the Yanks had best get busy with repairs,’’ Hugh told Liam. ‘‘What’s your stake in this matter? You sidin’ with the Yanks?’’
Liam held his anger in check. ‘‘Ya’d be knowin’ better than that, Hugh. I’d rather see this resolved peaceably. Surely ya feel the same.’’
Hugh nodded. ‘‘I do, but the Yanks started this fight, and they need to pay for their actions.’’