Flight of the Earls (27 page)

When the final bell rang that evening, Clare was relieved she still had a job. Not that she really believed it was possible for her to be fired. But a pall had come across the factory floor as the news of the dismissals brought palpable tension throughout the building.

The darkness of the evening was upon them, and in the sparse gas lighting hanging from poles in the street, a flurry of white drifting snow was visible, although it had yet to collect on the ground.

Amidst the exodus of tired seamstresses into the flow of the streets, Clare locked arms with Magdalene and Sara. They had a couple of blocks in common before they scattered in separate directions, and it was their ritual to sojourn together. Even Sara's rattling was preferable to the eerie sounds of Clare's shadowy Five Points commute.

The first time she had taken the journey home by herself, Clare was stricken with fear. Most of the streets she traveled were well populated with men who glared as she passed, drunks, prostitutes, beggars, as well as groves of stragglers from labor ending.

She felt comforted in these crowds, as malcontented were many of the faces she passed. What chilled her to the core were those patches in her journey where there was an uneasy quiet, and she was alone except for those whose presence could be felt, but not seen, peering out from alleyways and dark crevices.

This was why she cherished having companionship for at least the beginning of her nightly trek home.

“Is misery the snow and wind,” Sara said.

“Yes, it's biting.” Magdalene wrapped her dark wool jacket tightly around her. “I hope it eases or we'll be trudging through it in the morning. What about you, Clare, poor dear?”

“Oh, I'm fine,” she said, although the bright red coat Patrick had bought her offered more style than warmth.

Sara tugged on the two of them and they stopped in the middle of the road as they were crossing the street. “Is that . . . ?”

“Why it certainly is!” Magdalene said in a startled whisper.

Clare traced the direction of Sara's finger and saw standing on the corner, leaning against the gaslight with his arms crossed, none other than John Barden. When he saw he was recognized, John stood alert and tipped his high black hat, which was brimmed with snow.

What business could he have in ill weather at this time of night? Surely John couldn't be waiting for her? Clare glanced to her left and right on the chance there was someone else beside her who could be drawing his gaze.

“I suppose there is more to the story,” Sara cackled.

“Come, Sara. Let's not be two old meddlesome ladies.”

“There's only one old lady here, Magdalene. But go, go.” Sara pushed Clare in his direction.

Clare tried to resist but stumbled forward. She had a terrible thought that her wig might be askew, but a quick survey with her hands seemed to confirm it was properly placed.
How presumptuous. What if he isn't even here to meet me?
There was no other choice now, as her two friends had abandoned her with trailing laughter.

Clare tried to recover her dignity and approached him with a trimmed gait. “Are you following me?” She tried her best to sound bothered by the notion.

He appeared amused. He stepped into the brightness of the lamp, and a glint of charm peered through the rough granite of his face. “If I say no, you'd be disappointed. Wouldn't you?” He spoke in a slow, deep, and measured voice.

“Not short on confidence, are you?”

“Lacking confidence is a liability in my profession.” He smiled smugly. “Here.” He unwrapped his coal black wool scarf from his neck and then put it around hers with a gentleness unusual for such a large man.

It made her uneasy for this relative stranger to be doing this for her, yet it was comforting as well. She tightened the scarf, which smelled of a masculine blend of tobacco smoke and sweat and was flecked with snow.

“Shall we?” He held out his arm.

Clare took his arm and then struggled to keep up with his lengthy steps as they moved forward. She glanced behind her to see Magdalene and Sara giggling and waving at her. She grimaced.

“And what exactly is your profession?” she asked as her free hand felt again to see if her wig was aligned.

“That would depend on who's asking, I suppose. To my employer, I serve as what you might call a peacemaker.”

“A peacemaker?” she said with sarcasm.

“Yes. When I'm around, people seem to quiet their spirits.”

“I thought you were a prizefighter.”

He raised an eyebrow and smiled with mischief. “Now, Miss Hanley. Sport fighting is not legal in the city. Do I seem like someone who would venture outside of the law?”

“Then do you work for my uncle?” As soon as the words spilled from her lips, she tensed.

“Your uncle?” He frowned.

“Not my uncle.” Clare stumbled. “I don't know what I was saying. I meant Patrick Feagles.”

John met her eyes with a knowing glance, which made her wonder if he knew she wasn't telling the truth.

“Patrick? No. He is not my employer.” He laughed. “I work for the man Patrick works for.”

Clare was puzzled and now curious. “Patrick. Mr. Feagles. He works for another?”

“We all work for someone.”

A strange chill swept through her body, and Clare stopped and glanced back toward an alleyway they had passed.

“What is it?”

At first Clare didn't answer. She just stared into the darkness, hoping for an answer, but fearful of discerning a shape. “It's . . . it's nothing.”

“Did you see something?” His face showed concern for her, but there was a confidence as well that reminded Clare of how little she had to fear.

“Come.” She pulled him forward to continue on their way back home. She waited several steps before she glanced back over her shoulder. Tonight wasn't the first time. All this week she had the strangest sensation she was being followed. Could it be a jealous Pierce? No. He made clear his affection for her and had been clinging of late, but certainly Pierce was above this type of behavior.

“These streets aren't safe for you to be walking alone at night. I think I'll escort you from here on out.”

Clare started to protest, but then she relented. “That would be lovely. I would like that.”

They progressed with few words and Clare felt comfortable in the silence. Occasionally she would glance over and admire his stature, his sense of strength.

As they approached their neighborhood, there were loud voices ahead. Men and women were shouting. No. Not shouting, but chanting.

“Oh no.”

“What?” Clare could see up in the distance the shadowy figures of a few dozen people in front of her building, holding torches and gesturing with their hands at the rooms above.

“It's the do-gooders,” John said. “They take issue with Patrick's . . . ladies.”

“What are they going to do?”

John laughed. “They might hurl a Bible. Just a cloister of rich, old crabby ladies too bored with their husbands to stay at home.”

“Set the captives free, set the captives free,” the group chanted loudly and not perfectly in step. A few offered their own refrains, such as “Come to Jesus,” or “Repent of your sins.” Others hummed melodies.

As Clare came closer she could see it was indeed mostly older women, many wearing fur jackets and fanciful hats. Some had their eyes closed as they fervently issued their petitions, pointed fingers, and held open hands in the air at the windows of the second floor of Patrick Feagles's building.

A couple of the prostitutes peered down at the gathering below, and Clare glanced up just in time to see one of them hurl an object at the group. The sound of glass shattering didn't seem to phase the gathering.

“Come.” John began to walk her toward the front of the tavern.

As he did, a man stepped in front of Clare, startling her. It was the tall, blond man with rounded spectacles she had seen outside of the Irish Society.

“Here, take this.” The man handed Clare a small printed booklet.

She took it from his gloved hand, mesmerized by the compassion in his face.

“Out of her way.” John gave the man a shove.

“John Barden,” said the tall man. “You know better than to stir trouble with me.”

Clare was amazed at the sense of calm in his eyes. Her father and the other men in her life were never ones to back down from a challenge. But they always did so with anger and bluster. The quiet confidence in the stranger's posture was unlike any she had seen and she found it alluring.

The prizefighter pressed his chest against the man. “It won't be stirring I'll be doing.”

“Tell me what your boss will say when he makes the headline tomorrow morning.”

“You have nothing on us, Royce. Never will.”

A couple of the women who were singing came up to them. “What's happening, Andrew? Shall we summon the police?”

John Barden stepped back. “Won't be necessary, ladies. We were just conversing about politics.”

The man they called Andrew held out a tract to John. “There's news in here for you.”

John nodded to Clare and they turned toward the tavern. She joined him but looked over her shoulder at the blond man and tried to resolve her curiosity in his striking demeanor. What was it about this man? Certainly, he was handsome. But there was something more profound. Something that aired a sweet fragrance hidden deep in her past.

When John opened the door to the tavern, the music of her homeland emanated from inside, and she spotted a fiddler and a wooden flute player accompanying a man leading the crowded tavern in song.

There was such a noticeable contrast to the earnest chanting outside and drunken frivolity inside that Clare found herself unsettled.

“Can you believe that?” John said, almost at a shout so he could be heard.

“What?” Clare's thoughts drifted to the ladies who reminded her of Grandma Ella and the man who handed her the pamphlet that she had placed in her coat pocket.

“They thought you were a whore.”

“A what?” What could she have possibly done to conjure this image in their minds? Was it the way she was dressed? Her appearance? Clare's joy drained and queasiness crawled through her skin and into her gut.

“Clare!”

She looked up to see Seamus flagging her as he worked his way through the crowd. John's words were boring into her conscious, yet Clare found relief in seeing her brother. The busyness of her life and her brother's odd hours had made it difficult for the two of them to connect, even though they lived in the same home.

Seamus, wearing his tweed wool cap, which covered some of his curly black hair, took a calloused look at the fighter but gave him a nod of respect. “John.”

Then he grabbed Clare by the shoulders and wove his charm, his blue eyes sparkling. “Can you spare a moment with us, sister?”

She didn't answer, but Seamus didn't wait for a reply. He took her by the hand and walked her through the dancing, drinking, and laughing toward Patrick's table in the far corner. Clare glanced back and was comforted to see John was following as well.

As they approached, Patrick stood and greeted them warmly. “There's the man we were discussing just now.” He turned toward a squat, balding man who was seated beside him. “This is John Barden.”

The man who looked decidedly overdressed for the tavern stood with gracefulness and flair and held out his hand. “That would be the great John Barden.” He spoke with a drawl, one that Clare had never heard before.

“Have a seat, John, and join us for a wee pour.” Patrick flagged one of the barmaids who arrived shortly with a bottle of Irish whiskey.

“There is something I've got to tell you,” Seamus spoke as quietly as he could in Clare's ear.

She nodded but found herself distracted by the presence of this new stranger. John dragged a chair from the neighboring table for Clare before retrieving one for himself.

“This is Reginald Sanders,” Patrick said. “He's managing affairs for Billy Tunnel. They've both come all the way up from Atlanta, Georgia.”

“Mr. Tunnel sends his regards,” Reginald said. “He's anticipating a fine challenge based on all he's heard about you, Mr. Barden.”

“Is that so?” John's gaze met Patrick's. “I hope there weren't exaggerations.”

“Not so, Mr. Barden.” Reginald reached into the chest pocket of his vest and pulled out a piece of paper, which he unfolded carefully. “This is our Atlanta newspaper. This here is on the front page from just last week. It's talking about Mr. Tunnel's visit to New York, and I think you'll see some flattering words about his opponent.” He slid the paper over toward John, who gave it only a casual glance.

“Everything is in place for this Saturday,” Patrick said. “We've made the proper arrangements with the authorities.”

Clare looked into the eyes of John Barden and struggled to read his dark brown eyes. There was a strength, an air of pride, but melancholy as well. She sensed he was trying to cover up the fact that he didn't want to fight.

As Patrick and the man from Georgia continued to discuss the details of the fight with John, Clare felt a tap on her knee and turned to see Seamus trying to get her attention discreetly.

“This is for you.” Seamus's eyes directed her to look beneath the table where he was handing her an envelope. He put his hand over hers, as if to signal for her to keep it safe.

“What is this?” she said quietly, turning to confirm that their conversation was being ignored.

“It's everything I lost. And then some.”

She opened the envelope a crack and could see it was filled with American bills. Clare closed it quickly and pushed it back toward him.

“Take it,” he said. “Save it for someday important.”

“Where did you . . . ?”

“We're doing good work for Patrick. There will be much more where this came from.”