Flight of the Earls (22 page)

He was disarming them with his hospitality, and Clare hated herself for not protesting, but exhaustion found its grip on her will. After a few scurrying moments, the room was fashioned with blankets and throw pillows on the floor. Tomas stoked the fire, and the bright dance of airy embers was accompanied by a comforting gust of warm air. Then with a nod he retired to the bedroom to join Tressa and closed the door on its squeaky hinges.

Immediately Clare sought out Seamus's eyes, her heart burdened with troubling questions, but he responded with a finger pressed over his lips. “Tomorrow we'll get answers, Clare. You must sleep.”

His callousness frustrated Clare, but she relented to the wisdom in what he was saying. She was angry, frustrated, frightened, and confused, but most of all she was spent.

Undressing to her slip in the darkness, she slid under the blankets and fisted them. Within a few moments, she was the only one still awake, abandoned to the snores and heavy breathing of her brother and Pierce.

Turning her head, her thoughts traced the mesmerizing dance of the flames in the coal fire, which was strangely in sync with the anxious pulsing of her heart.

She yearned to wake up to the Uncle Tomas of her youth with his warmth, laughter, and energy. The gifts, the adoration, and the way he lit up a room. This Patrick Feagles bore semblances of the man of her memory, but he was an imposter, dark and ruined. This she knew.

Was this what America did to an Irishman, and was this to be her fate as well? Into what strange country had she arrived? New York appeared rich and vibrant, yet it lacked the civility and character of the land on which she was raised.

And what of Margaret? Was Maggie alive? Would Clare get to see her again? Perhaps tomorrow?

The clock ticked fervently from above, and crackling arose from the hearth. Muffled voices of frivolity seeped through the floorboards—emanating from the rooms below.

Finally, Clare was able to console herself and surrender to the calming waves of sleep by meditating on the words of her brother:
“Tomorrow we'll get answers.”

Chapter 23

A Better Life

Clare awoke to the sounds and smells of sizzling rashers and eggs.

She opened her eyes slowly, surprised to see the sunlight already drenching the room with warmth. What time was it? Where was she? As she sat up, the drama of the night before returned painfully to her mind, creating a tightness to her stomach. The anxiety she felt awakened her senses.

Next to her Seamus slumbered, and Pierce was curled tightly in a blanket. Craning her head back, she saw the clock on the mantel read half past ten.

Clare took advantage of this time alone to put her dress on and then bent over her brother.

“Wake up, Seamus.” She tugged on his quilted blanket. “It's nearly midday.”

He mumbled protests about having been disturbed, but her words and the light must have saturated his thoughts and Seamus rose. “Did we sleep that late?” Without waiting for an answer, he gave Pierce a sharp elbow.

“What's wrong?” the redhead said with a start. Then he rubbed his eyes and stretched his arms.

As the boys crept to their feet, Clare folded her blanket, laid it on the ground, and placed her pillow neatly on top. Despite the sun's strong influence, a chill passed through a crack in one of the windows, causing her to shudder. Clare crouched in front of the fire and rubbed her hands together, noticing how the coal glowed, crackled, and smelled differently from the turf used at home. She stood and found herself drawn toward the iron clanks of cookery and joined her hostess in the kitchen.

“Oh my.” Tressa jerked, then slapped her hand to her chest. “You shouldn't creep up on an old woman, you know. But good morning to you, Miss Blue Eyes.”

Clare smiled, but it seemed ingenious. Did this woman know about her uncle's past? But what if Tressa was just another unknowing victim of his fraudulent ways? How cruel it would be of Clare to add to Tressa's pain.

“How wondrous.” Clare admired the bacon in the iron skillet as the last hints of bubbling pink turned brown before her eyes. Eggs gurgled in a separate frying pan, dancing on a pool of grease, their yolks perfectly domed with a sheen of yellow.

“Paddy instructed me to treat our guests royally.” Tressa waved a spatula at Clare. “I must say, your arrival has moved the man to great cheer. ‘Whatever the boys want. Whatever the lass desires.' Those were his very words to me this morning. Usually he's not much for welcoming visitors in his home. Grouchy about it, even. As he likes to say, ‘Hospitality has the misfortune of causing folks to linger.'”

Tressa blurted out a laugh before glancing at Clare, then sobering. “Not that I'm opposed to your lingering at all. I'm a lonely woman, I am. Young ones like you brighten the day. It's just Patrick dotes on his privacy, what little he gets.”

Tressa flipped the eggs clumsily, and she cursed as yellow rivulets escaped the transparent encasements of a yolk. Clare noticed a large eggshell in the pan, and as much as she wished to pluck it out of the pan herself, she decided not to even mention it for fear of being impolite.

“It's not that Paddy doesn't have friends. People love him, they do.” Tressa looked up at the ceiling. “Rough. Too fond of drink. And a poor wagerer at that. But he'll make you smile and laugh. He's got his gentle side as well.”

She coughed. “The smokes have it in for me.” She turned to Clare. “You do like eggs and bacon?”

“Most definitely,” Clare said without restraint before gathering her manners. “I mean, you shouldn't feed us. It was overly kind of you to let us bed here for the night.”

“Bah.” Tressa waved away her protest. “You wouldn't shame us by refusing our graces, would you?”

“Of course not, mam.” Clare stared into the pan for a few moments before asking, “Will Mr. Feagles be joining us for breakie?”

“Oh no. Paddy is always out before sunrise. Matters not what time he goes down.”

Clare tried to mask her disappointment but could tell she failed by Tressa's expression.

“Don't worry, dear. He'll be back before noon, which will be soon upon us. He told me as he was leaving this morn that he's got plenty to talk about with the three of you. As a matter of fact, he said to make sure you didn't leave before he got back. Grab those plates for me, would you?”

Clare nodded and retrieved a stack of dishes from a high black shelf braced against a wall covered with faux marble paper. The china was white, encircled by a wreath of painted blue roses. One plate at a time, Tressa slapped on large portions of eggs and bacon.

As she did, Clare asked the question she had been afraid to ask. “And what exactly does Mr. Feagles do, may I ask?”

Tressa looked at her askance, and Clare worried she had crossed some line of propriety. Swallowing deeply as she held her breath, Clare was relieved to see the woman's momentary odd expression replaced with a warm smile.

“Oh, I suppose you wouldn't know,” Tressa said. “Why you're newly on the island. Still with salt water in your hair and barnacles on your feet.” She laughed heartedly and snorted before covering her mouth. “Why, everyone knows Patrick is a sporting man.”

“A sporting man?”

“Oh, dear, you really are a fresh one, aren't you? Yes. A sporting man. Although, in truth, he's not much of a sporting man as fighting isn't his suit. It's more he caters to the sporting men and their ilk.”

Clare shook her head. “I don't . . . I don't understand.”

“Of course you wouldn't. Let's see. Well, most make a living by laboring on the streets or the docks or as a merchant or in the factories. But the sporting man doesn't believe in all this. He drinks, fights, gambles, frolics with the women, and then drinks again. In the Five Points you're High Society if you can live this kind of life.”

“Sounds like proper living to me,” Seamus said, entering the room.

“It is, if you can get it, young man,” Tressa said. “Now these sporting men and all who wish they could be, need places for entertainment. You know, with the hard times comes a greater need for pleasure. A place to cool your heels and wet your mouth. Some ladies to soothe your nerves. And gambling. Oh, do they like their gambling. They'll wager on cards, the numbers game, man fights, dog fights, cock fights, and cockroach fights if they can.”

“And Patrick provides these services?” Seamus asked.

“He does,” Tressa said with some pride. “And a few more . . . that are probably not proper to mention. That would, of course, be Paddy and his partner.”

“Seems a far distance from working a farm,” Clare said.

Tressa grimaced. “Paddy? A farm? That's a fine notion.” She laughed. “No. Can't vision that. But he's a fine businessman.”

“You say he has a partner?” Seamus said.

Tressa's mood changed suddenly. “Well. Not so much a partner as the one man Paddy answers to. Although few know of him, and he's rarely seen. I've only seen him once or so meself. A rather strange man, but it's all worked well for Paddy. They have some type of arrangement that came to be not long after Patrick first arrived in the city. That was even before I met Paddy.”

She handed the plates to them. “But enough of this talk. I've told you more than I probably should have. What blathering! Be kind and don't mention to Paddy I've been prating about his business. Come now. Let's eat. The food will taste better warm.”

Clare had even more questions to ask than before, but guilt already plagued her for pressing the woman. They carried their breakfast out to the main room, where Clare was pleased to see Pierce had packed up their belongings and prepared the table in anticipation of the meal.

Within a few moments, they were seated and enjoying their breakfast, the only sound the clanking of the cutlery against the china.

As Clare ate her eggs and bacon, she felt almost giddy with the luxury of having two such meals back to back. But she kept her composure. She questioned whether it was proper to accept this hospitality at all until she understood the depths of her uncle's treachery.

She didn't dwell there for long. Instead, Clare surrendered to the sweet lure of indulgence.

After breakfast, Tressa took them down the hallway to an adjoining apartment, and with a rattle of iron, she chose a key from her ring and inserted it into the lock on the door. Before she could turn it, the oak-slatted door swung open.

Out sprung a man, tall and slender, with a pregnant woman trailing behind him. They were carrying bulging luggage and appeared to be harried and distraught.

“Ah, Mr. Bainsworth,” said Tressa. “My apologies. I thought you had already cleared out.”

The man, whose thin mustache appeared a bit crooked and hastily waxed, let out a deep sigh as he shifted the heavy bags to try to bear them more comfortably. “Well, as you know, our new arrangements were shared with us just this morning.”

“You've been lovely tenants. You'll be missed.” Tressa turned to the woman. “And you, dear. Take care of that little one.”

“Come, Gladys.” The man scowled as he allowed his wife to waddle before him and then they headed down the hall.

Tressa watched them disappear from the hallway into the stairwell. “Poor dears.” She turned back toward Clare and the boys and tried to restore her smile. “I think you'll find this to your suiting.” She entered as Clare looked back at the dejected couple and felt her guilt rise, but she couldn't think quick enough of what could be done.

With their packs and belongings slung over their shoulders, the three of them followed behind as Tressa moved about, opening shutters in the main room and the bedroom and lighting candles in the kitchen. The apartment had the same floor plan as that of Uncle Tomas, and though pedestrian in style it was completely furnished with tables, chairs, a bed, shelves bearing books, and pots hanging from the kitchen walls.

“This place has meaning for me,” Tressa said as she opened some of the cupboards in the kitchen. “Oh, dear, we'll need to get some food in here.”