Flight of the Earls (25 page)

Clare offered no resistance, although her mind was a flurry of emotion. She didn't know what to believe at this point.

Just a short way farther, they arrived at the corner of the street where an impressive building rose out among all others. It appeared newly remodeled and had the semblance of a bank, with its walls freshly painted in dark green and with gold trim framing the ledges and windows. Carefully crafted oversized cherry doors gave the storefront a sense of richness and exclusivity.

Above the entranceway was a large sign with the words “The Irish Society” and underneath in smaller print was written “International Headquarters. Five Points, New York. America. Established 1843.” To the left of these words was the very symbol Clare first saw when the keener handed her the necklace, a clover of three leafs. Clare grasped for the pendant hanging around her neck.

Uncle Tomas grasped for the door handle, but it opened before he could reach it.

“Good day, Mr. Feagles.” The man who greeted them was short of stature, and although sharply dressed in a long coat with tails, he seemed hardened by life, full of years and out of his class in these surroundings. “Let me take these boxes from you. And your coat as well, sir?”

“Thank you, James,” Uncle Tomas said.

The inside of the building didn't match the appearance of its exterior, but still it was well kept with understated furnishings. There were tables against the walls, with several people seated writing on parchment with ink-quill pens. At the back of the room, a man sat behind a caged booth, and a short line of people were waiting to be served, in what fashion was unclear to Clare. Upon the walls hung gold-leaf framed portraits of men who she did not recognize but who posed in a way that made them seem important.

He smiled at her with yellowed teeth. “Go ahead. Sit yourself down, Clare, find a pen, and write home.”

Things became clear as Clare realized the others at the table were composing letters. Without hesitation and feeling her heart rise on the news, she found herself a seat at the end of the table, next to a man in a dark wool coat who smelled of soured ale and whose eyebrows sprouted like gray weeds. He slid his chair to the side to allow her more room and then gave her a second look, this one accompanied by a lusty grin.

As she settled in her seat, her uncle squeezed her shoulder. “Write what you wish, Clare. And if you find it in your heart to spare mention of me for now, I'll be grateful to you.”

Not knowing what to think of his request but overjoyed at the prospect of writing at last, she nodded and mutely smiled at him. But his attention was drawn toward the front of the room, and his face was etched with concern.

Clare turned to see the subject of his attention and locked gazes with a striking man, tall with blond hair and with circular wire-rimmed spectacles, which gave him an air of intelligence and refinement.

He was clothed with confidence and nobility, yet there was an underlying gentleness in his spirit Clare found powerfully alluring. The man bore a pure and gentle beauty.

Clare couldn't tell if he was staring back at her or toward her uncle, but she felt embarrassed enough to look down. She grabbed a blank parchment and drew a quill, gripping it firmly in her hand.

Unable to take her mind off of the stranger, she peered up briefly, yet often enough to see her uncle greet the man, then they went outside and spoke in animated fashion.

After a few nervous glimpses, Clare dipped her quill in the inkwell and lost herself in the fondest memories of those she had left behind.

Dearest family,

I write to you from a parish called Five Points, in the city of New York in the nation of America. Certainly on account of your prayers and God's favor, all three weary travelers—Seamus, Pierce, and myself—have safely arrived. Not to cause you concern and undue worry, but the travel across the sea was most difficult, and if not for the caring of my brother and Pierce, I surely would not have survived my fever.

After many months, and thousands of miles won by sea, we are now settling into our new lives. We have yet to secure full labors, but through good fortune appear to be on it soon. It is our earnest desire to share all of the harvest of our efforts we can spare. I pray it will come soon and steady, just like the rains I so miss from home. It seems, in fact, even things I once foolishly considered a burden in Branlow are now deeply longed for in my heart.

Most of all, we miss each and every one of you so dearly. I hope we can accomplish our great task soon and the land back there heals so we can be together, in laughter and, yes, I daresay . . . hard work. I miss the farm, the soil, and the green of the fields.

Davin and Ronan. Please mind your sister Cait. Such heavy burdens she carries now without me, more than you can imagine. I wish to hear stories of how you both were gentlemen to her and tended to your chores.

Ma, I pray you are feeling well, and Da, I appreciate you more each day we are parted.

I'll have much to share with each of you soon. You can expect many letters to follow as my adventure is yours as well. What great joy it would be to receive your correspondences, so don't delay so I know how to direct my prayers in your behalf.

Yours forever,

Clare

She blew gently on the letter to dry the ink, and as she held it up, she read it line by line. How dishonest it was of her to speak of prayer because in many ways, her faith was buried along with Grandma Ella years ago. Yet she allowed the words to remain because she saw it as a fresh and needed pledge.

“I miss you,” she whispered.

“Are you speaking to me?” the old man with the large eyebrows said.

“No. I'm sorry.” Clare was relieved to see her uncle entering the door. He paused and brushed his hair back, as if to clear his emotions, and then returned his hat to his head. Then the grin returned.

“Well? Is it ready?”

“It 'tis,” Clare said. “What happens now?”

“The very best part of it all, girl.”

She followed Tomas to the line formed at the cage, then lowered her head when she realized he was taking her to the front, despite glares shot at him when he passed.

The man behind the counter stepped to attention as Tomas approached, and a woman protested until she turned to see who it was. Thin to the bones with sunken cheeks, yet richly dressed in banker's clothing, the man fumbled with the curl of his waxed mustache. “Mr. Feagles, sir. How may I assist you?”

“Let me have the letter, Clare,” Uncle Tomas said, and she handed it to him. He folded it without reading it. “Benjamin, post this to . . . are you ready to write this down? The Hanleys, Branlow, County Roscommon. On my credit, include a thirty pound note.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Feagles.” The teller scribbled the information and then reached through the square opening in the brass bars of the cage to receive the folded parchment. “As the rest, sir?”

“Yes. That's right, Benjamin.” Uncle Tomas turned to Clare and raised his eyebrows.

“Thirty pounds?” breathed Clare.

He seemed disappointed in her response. “We'll send more the next time around. You and your brother will be employed.”

“No.” Clare was flabbergasted. “I mean. That's truly generous . . . um . . . Mr. Feagles.”

“Patrick.”

“Yes. Patrick. That's our . . . that's our full passage paid.” In Clare's mind she could imagine the surprised faces of her family as they opened the letter. “How long will it take to get there?”

“That's what this is all about. The Irish Society. We can't trust the thieving English with our money, so we charter our own ships. A little over three weeks by packet ship with good winds. Isn't that correct, Benjamin?”

“That's about right, sir. Twenty-five to thirty days.”

Clare beamed and gave her uncle a hug.

He laughed heartily. “Let's go, Clare. We shouldn't keep these people behind us waiting.”

She glanced behind her and saw the wrinkled brows of her audience. She was too happy to be bothered by their grumbling stares. She giggled and locked her arm in her uncle's. They were met by James, who handed them their boxes of Clare's clothing before opening the door for them with a bow.

Clare nodded at James with an air of royalty as she and Patrick Feagles exited the offices of the Irish Society.

Chapter 26

The American Dream

The oak clock on the mantel reminded Clare she needed to hurry. She was drained, but exhilaration also fueled in her step, carrying her through the exhaustion. A life of toil was all she knew, and in some sense it made her feel alive and at home in New York.

Clare was doing well in this burgeoning metropolis. It had only been four weeks since she arrived in America, and already she had comfortable shelter and a wage-earning job.

Even more important, Clare had settled into a weekly ritual of posting letters to her family at the Irish Society each Sunday afternoon. It was her one day of Sabbath on an otherwise grueling seventy-hour workweek. But her laborious schedule was well worth the joy she experienced each time she slid her letter and surplus earnings to Benjamin in his cage.

In her correspondences she provided many of the intimate details of her journey in America; however, there was one she chose to omit. There was no mention of the man named Patrick Feagles.

It was the least she could do in gratitude for his patronage. Not only did he provide their apartment free of rent, but Tressa purchased all of their food and stocked their cupboards whenever they were away. This gave Clare the freedom to put almost every dollar she earned into those envelopes heading across the Atlantic. In some way, Clare allowed it to serve as slow penance for her uncle's sins.

Besides, the news of Patrick Feagles would only exacerbate Aunt Meara's grief. No. Clare wasn't fully convinced of her uncle's version of his marital discord, but she could see little profit in challenging the truth. It was best for all if Uncle Tomas remained in his watery grave.

Clare sealed the tomb by deciding to refer to him now only by his adopted name. She didn't know the sordid story behind his new identity and didn't feel the need to pry further into his past. On this side of the ocean, Patrick Feagles he would be.

Not only was Patrick providing for their daily necessities, but he had been good on his word about getting them work. Both Seamus and Pierce worked “in the business” as Patrick described it, and she didn't request any specifics on their duties, although she was convinced it would take them in an unfavorable direction.

Her brother had no such reservations. Seamus and Pierce were happily absorbed into the world of Patrick Feagles and shadowed the man as much as was tolerated. They would be out to the early hours of the day and sometimes not come home at all. Occasionally, she would see them at the card tables, in the taverns, or on the streets making transactions with nebulous characters.

Clare did worry about her brother, but it was time to loosen her grip of stewardship on Seamus. He was too old to coddle and it was time for him to reap or suffer from his own choices without her interference. Besides, he had tasted the freedom that came from being an immigrant in another country and no longer recognized her authority. For better or worse, Seamus was on his own.

As for Clare, she wanted nothing to do with her uncle's daily activities, and although she appreciated his generosity, her instinct pressed her to keep a distance. When Patrick had offered to assist in finding her a job, Clare accepted on the condition that she was only interested in “honest work.”

“Honest work, eh?” He rubbed his chin and squinted as if he was thinking hard. “Not certain we have any of that here in the Five Points.”

“Come on, Patrick, you know what I mean.”

“All right. You want honest work. Then that's what we'll get for you.”

Clare paused for a moment. “What have you in mind?”

“Your mother was quite handy with a needle, was she not?”

“She was.”

“Did she learn you on any of it?”

“Some.”

“Well, there you have it. I know a man who operates a seamstress factory. I'll see that you start tomorrow.”

She laughed and then realized he was serious. “Just like that?”

Patrick flashed his yellowed teeth.

The next day, Patrick escorted Clare on the mile or so journey to the expansive four-story brick building of William & Howell Garment Manufacturers. As they entered the doorway, Clare was awestruck by the vastness of the factory. Machinery clattered as plumes of steam rose to the heights of the ceiling, and on endless rows of tables, mostly women were tasked with sewing and cutting fabric, while men tended to the equipment. It was unbearably hot inside, even in the cool of winter, yet Clare's senses were enlivened by the energy, voices, and diligence of those working the factory floors.

Patrick excused himself walking past a startled woman sitting at a front desk, and he headed to a side room, leaving Clare standing just inside the entranceway. The woman turned her glare toward Clare, who merely shrugged. It didn't take long until Patrick returned. He was accompanied by a nervous man wearing suspenders and sporting wire-rimmed spectacles who patted his moist forehead repeatedly with a handkerchief.