Flight of the Earls (39 page)

Some of those in the tavern broke out in a jig, spun, whistled, and swung each other from arm to arm.

Seamus realized Ireland was in every town.

Chapter 37

The Drawings

Clare examined herself in the looking glass as her hair was being brushed by her roommate, Daphne. She was a middle-aged, single woman who was raised in the Carolinas before spiriting to Manhattan to become an actress. But as fate would have it, she discovered her true calling to be penning theater reviews and became famous for it in her position with the
New York Daily
.

It was Andrew's idea for Clare to move out of his home as soon as she was well, since his intentions for her had been declared. Her departure was met with cheers by Mrs. Royce, who made no secret of her disappointment in her son's affections toward Clare.

On the other hand, Clare's surprising talents in journalism brought the gushing favor of Mr. Royce, which only exacerbated his wife's disquietude. In some ways, Clare's passion and ability in contributing to the newspaper freed Andrew of the burden of performing well for his father. Clare, in many ways, became the surrogate of Mr. Royce's succession plans.

And as things turned out, Daphne—of good cheer, strength of character, full of verve, and with unswerving loyalty—became both a dear friend and mentor to Clare. They walked the short two blocks to work together every day even in this sweltering month of July. They shared deep secrets and served as unfailing advocates and shields for one another in a patriarchal and often hostile work environment.

“You look charming, my dear.” Daphne hugged Clare around her shoulders. She stroked Clare's hair, which was now shoulder length. “Me with my tired, gray-speckled, drooping locks. I would sacrifice everything for just one day with this beautiful hair.”

Clare laughed. “There wasn't a hair to be counted on this head just ten months ago. Seems like years ago.”

“I'll say it has returned in full glory. And this dress is simply divine.”

“Do you really think so?” Clare adjusted the shoulders and admired the embroidered neckline garnitures of the fuchsia evening gown. She barely agreed to Andrew's spoiling her with this gift. And only because he insisted it would honor him at his milestone event. Clare turned her head side to side and pursed her lips. “You wouldn't tell me otherwise anyway? What a sweet liar you are.”

Daphne gave Clare a nudge. “Believe me, I'm working hard to find a flaw. Something, anything, to quench my jealousy.”

“I just want everything to be perfect for Andrew tonight,” Clare said.

“Of course, my love. But I'd say there's something to celebrate in this as well.” Daphne picked up the newspaper sitting on the cabinet. She read from it in dramatic fashion, “
The Terrifying and Fragile Victory of the Slave Underground.
By our own Clare Hanley. On the front page, no less.”

“Oh, please do stop it!” Clare waved her hand in the mirror.

“‘Accompanying the relentless pursuit of that elusive prize of freedom is the ever-present hounds of oppression bearing down upon them: the unquenchable bloodthirst of the vengeful slave owner. Sensing the moist muzzles and warm breath of their pursuers at every bend, every turn, there is no lasting reprieve. So while free of their shackles, they remain imprisoned by the cruelty of their trepidation.'” Daphne fanned herself as if she was to faint.

“Enough, dear sister.” Clare watched her cheeks color of rose. “You're intolerable.”

“You deserve it and more. You're changing lives, Clare. You know that, don't you?” Daphne's expression changed. “So, have you any news from back home yet?”

Clare grimaced. “Unchanged, I'm afraid. Every week I go to the Irish Society to send my letters, and every week they shake their heads. I don't know why they haven't written back. It does concern me greatly.”

“Any news about your sister . . . what was her name, dear?”

“Margaret.” The very mention of the name made Clare sad. “Andrew has been researching records for me, but we've come up empty. There's no sign she ever made it here, after all.”

Clare stood up from her chair. She felt stiff and uncomfortable with all of the layers of clothing. “Do women
really
wear this?”

“They do. The ladies, that is.”

“I'll be glad when the evening is over and I can climb out of all of this. How does one even fit out the door?” Clare gave a half spin in front of the mirror.

Daphne handed Clare her gloves.

Three short knocks came from the door, and Clare nearly jumped. “Be honest. Do I look foolish? Please tell me the truth or I'll never forgive you for the remainder of my life.”

“Well in that case. Hmmm. There's much at stake here, give me time.” Daphne smiled and kissed Clare on the cheek. “Now let's not keep him waiting.” She walked over to the brass handle and opened the door to Andrew, dressed in full tails and top hat. When he saw Clare, he removed his hat and pressed it to his chest.

“Who is this princess that stands before me? And what have you done with my handmaid Clare?”

“Your princess will be selling this dress tomorrow,” said Clare. “How many meals—?”

Before she could finish her sentence he leaned over and kissed her to silence.

“Willful waste makes woeful want,” she whispered with a smile.

“I know,” he said. “Your grandmother is absolutely correct. But she is not coming tonight.”

Andrew insisted Clare keep away from the building during its renovation in order to allow the transformation to be a surprise. Even with her travels through the Five Points in her role as a journalist, she had been purposeful about honoring his request. So as their carriage slowed to a full stop and with the full advantage of the summer light, she was awestruck by what towered before her.

There, in the place of that abandoned breeding ground of vermin, was a sublimely handsome building, with fresh paint, ornate shutters, and new glass windows. Proudly displayed was a large sign with a blue background, which read in raised gold lettering: The House of Refuge.

“Why Andrew . . . my goodness, Andrew.”

He glowed as he helped Clare out of the carriage, and then they joined a long line of dignitaries waiting to gain entrance. Through the windows she could see many had already been welcomed inside. As Clare gaped at the conversion before her, a stately woman in a flamboyant pink hat waved them to the front of the line by the doorway.

“Make way for the architect of this grand vision,” she said with authority. “This is our dear Mr. Andrew Royce.” She led the polite applause. “To save the decrepit souls of the Five Points.”

Andrew tried to show his appreciation of the comments, but Clare could tell he was miserable with the attention. He mouthed the words, “I'm sorry.”

Clare giggled. She enjoyed seeing him shrink under the platitudes, which in her mind were well earned. He had labored for months, raising the funds, formulating the plans, and directing the work crew.

They entered the building, which was eloquently decorated with azure ribbons swooping from the rafters, dozens of intricately designed wreaths hanging on the walls, and the entire area lit with hundreds of candles. The chamber music of Bach performed by a string quartet of somber musicians rose above the clatter of high-society pretense and gossip of guests who sipped from crystal champagne flutes.

As Andrew and Clare entered, handsomely attired attendees turned and expressed delight in seeing them, opening a pathway as if they were royalty.

Though the night belonged to Andrew, he never swayed in his attention to Clare, proudly presenting her with a “This is my inspiration,” or “She endured each challenge at my side,” or “Who faithfully supported such foolish notions.”

Clare on her part would counter with genuine humility. “I can claim no part in any of this.”

Although the intention of the event was to provide a tour of the new building to their guests followed by a brief speech, the attendance had overwhelmed these plans. Instead, with barely room to move, Andrew did his best to try to personally thank each and every person who had come.

And it was these crowded conditions that made it possible for Clare to be caught completely by surprise when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

“Will you look what my little Clare has done,” she heard in a voice both familiar and frightening.

Patrick Feagles.

Both he and Tressa were dressed in a way that showed their strains to fit in this evening but which betrayed they were well above their class.

Clare stood stunned.

Andrew turned and put his arm around her protectively.

“Andrew, this is . . .” Clare began.

“Yes, I know. Patrick Feagles.”

Patrick held out a hand, but Andrew didn't reciprocate.

“Well . . . I see.” Patrick withdrew his hand. He tried to wear a smile. “This is good. Good thing you're doing here. Just wanted you to know we were proud of you, Clare. And you, sir, as well.”

Clare bit her lip but didn't speak. Not in protest, but because she could hardly breathe. It wasn't easy for her to avoid such a prominent figure in the Five Points, but she had managed to evade him for months.

“Did you hear of John Barden?”

“No,” Clare said, lying.

“He made it through. You know. From his . . . run-in with a knife.”

“The fighter?” Andrew asked.

“The one indeed. Well. Anyways. He left town a few weeks back. But not before wanting me to thank you for providing for his daughter. You know. The money and all.”

Clare nodded.

“Patrick,” Tressa said, wearing a clash of colors as if the paint had been spilled on the canvas. “They have many guests to greet. Let's leave them be.”

“All right, then. We'll do just that.” He tipped his green plug hat. “Congratulations to you. The both of yous.”

Clare wondered why she felt sympathy for them, but as the couple turned, she fought the desire to reach out and call them back. In some ways, it was unthinkable to ever speak to them again after their part in virtually selling her off to Mr. O'Riley. She shuddered at the memory of that evening. Yet, there was something pitiful about her uncle and Tressa that eased her toward forgiveness. But before she could consider it further, they disappeared into the crowd.

“Oh no,” Andrew said. “No. No. No.”

Clare looked at Andrew, following his gaze to a commotion out front of the building. He pressed his way through the gathering with firmness and many apologies, and Clare trailed in his wake.

Outside, a few of the stewards were trying to shoo away what was a growing gathering of ragamuffin onlookers, pressing their faces against the front windows to catch a glimpse of the revelry inside.

“What exactly is going on here?” he asked his men with restrained anger.

“Why, Mr. Royce,” answered one of them. “We are trying to explain to these people that tonight is not for them.”

Andrew let out a deep sigh. “I must correct you, sir, but tonight is precisely for them.” He turned toward the downtrodden. “Come. All of you inside. Out of the cold. There's food and drink. It's a time of celebration and we want you to be part.”

“But sir,” the steward protested, but there was no stopping the procession now, and they entered to shrieks and horror of the guests inside.

Andrew was clearly amused by the whole idea, and Clare started to laugh, covering her mouth as soon as she did.

Sensing there was someone behind her, Clare turned and was startled to see before her the very same elderly woman who had been following her months ago. She was dressed in the blue hat and worn black coat she had on when Clare first saw her in the lamplight.

“Are you all right?” Andrew asked her.

“Do you recognize her?” Clare said with a nod toward the woman.

“Yes, of course. It's Greta. She lives in the streets mostly. Perfectly harmless although a bit batty, I'm afraid. Why? What is it, Clare?”