Why did she care so much what happened to Addy and Quinlin? Lucinda certainly didn’t approve of her meddling in others’ lives. She pictured the boy’s face and thought of her own baby, hoping her child would not have to face such illness and want. But there were other images as well: the starving family at the river crossing, the child who had died in his mother’s arms, the corpses along the road. She wanted to help. She cared about people even if she was an ocean away from her homeland.
She closed her eyes and immersed her head under the water. For a moment, she was at peace, hearing and smelling nothing, feeling only the comforting warm liquid washing over her skin. When she came up for air, she wondered whether Declan Coleman would be successful in his task.
* * *
Declan dropped off the medicine at the boarding house two days later as Briana was getting ready to look for work.
In her room, she opened the drawstring and peered inside. A clear glass vial marked in red with a skull and crossbones and the word Laudanum lay wrapped in the folds. A brown bottle marked as a mixture of sugar and salt rested next to a handwritten note in Irish.
Mr. Coleman: I wish I could attend to every sick child in this city, but I cannot. Please instruct the lady to give the patient two drops of laudanum on the tongue every four hours and to administer a sugar and salt mix in copious amounts. I have provided what I can of both. A teacup of burned rice mixed with water consumed frequently should help with diarrhea. If this is indeed cholera, the child is probably already dead. Dysentery can kill too. I wish them luck.
Yours, R. Furey
The note chilled her. What if Mr. Furey was right? If the boy had contracted cholera he might be dead.
She wasted no time in dressing but wondered if she should go to Addy Gallagher’s. Declan was at work and couldn’t help her; her sister would be furious if she found out. Lucinda had already left for an interview as a maid in a newly established Beacon Hill residence. The position had come up in the last two days of their search. Nothing could be done but to deliver the medicine herself.
She took a handkerchief from the nightstand and sprinkled a few granules of the sugar and salt mix on the fabric. At least it might help with the neighborhood’s bad smell.
Wrapped in her cloak, Briana struck off with the medicine in hand. The feeling that she had something to do—something useful and good—moved her forward with brisk steps. Warm, murky clouds hovered over the brick buildings and white church spires.
She retraced her steps to Addy’s and soon found the recessed doorway near the Christ Church steeple. This time no one was on the steps. Shuddering to think what she might find inside, she hesitated for a moment before knocking on the door.
Muted voices filtered through the door as she knocked again, this time with a firmer hand.
The door creaked open and a gray-haired woman peered around its edge. Years of worry and toil had taken their toll on the aged face. Her eyes were sunken and watery; her forehead lined with shadowy creases.
“I’ve come to see Addy Gallagher and her son,” Briana said to the woman.
“Who’s calling?” the old woman asked. “Are you the high-toned lady that Addy told me about?”
“Briana Caulfield.” She took out the bag from under the folds of her cloak. “I’ve come to deliver this to Quinlin.”
The woman sneered. “The lazy wretch. He’s feeling better—it’s all in his head.” She drew a circle around her right ear with her finger. “As loony as his mother.”
Briana disregarded the slight. “I’d like to see them, if I may.”
“Yes, your ladyship.” She beckoned her inside with a flourish of her hand.
Briana wrapped the handkerchief over her mouth.
The old woman pointed to a door at the end of the hall.
The dank, unmoving air smelled of unwashed flesh and human feces, enough so that she gagged while walking through the dim corridor despite the handkerchief. She pressed the cloth tighter over her mouth and nose to keep from retching. The damp heat in the hallway was insufferable. Four rooms, two to the left and two to the right, opened before her as she passed. She glanced in each, horrified by what she saw. Candles threw out a grim light because the two windows on the dim north side of the building were shuttered, clouded with dirt, and cracked from years of use. The gaps had been filled with old newspaper. Piles of soiled clothes served as makeshift beds. Children as emaciated and dirty as those she had left in Ireland sat atop these jumbled masses as their mothers gathered around flimsy wooden tables. Mounds of refuse—paper, glass bottles, cans—littered the corners. Briana noticed that there were few men in the house. Most were probably at work or out looking for jobs.
A sickly yellow light appeared behind her, casting shadows on the wall. She turned to find the old woman holding a candle.
“Here. You’ll need this,” the woman said. “She’s near the front of the house under the steps.”
Briana took the candle in her left hand, opened the door with her right while clutching the medicine, and moved down the rickety wooden staircase one step at a time. Ghostly faces stared at her as the light moved over them. The candle’s feeble rays extended no longer than an arm’s length and then dissipated in the vacuous murk of the pit. The faces that watched her were tight and grim with tangled hair. With sullen eyes, they followed her movements—apparitions rising from soiled bedding, or piles of rubbish and bits of straw. No light existed in the subterranean dwelling except for her candle. As she descended, the air thickened with sweat and body heat, smothering her as she walked.
She called out for Addy, and a meek voice answered in front of her. How far away it was she couldn’t tell, for, like the flame, the sound faltered in the heavy air.
She stepped on someone’s leg, but no one cried out. She called again for Addy and, out of the gloom, a beckoning hand appeared, made visible by the white sleeve of a blouse. Briana followed her under the low ceiling, which eventually transformed into the inverted shape of the steps. Quinlin lay on a bed of newspapers and straw, his face drawn and gray.
“You did come back,” Addy said, and sat on the bed next to her son.
“Is he any better?” Briana asked.
Addy shook her head and the candlelight reflected off her red hair. “I don’t know. He’s able to drink, but he doesn’t eat.” She grasped her son’s hand. “He seems weaker each day.”
Briana placed the candle on the floor and knelt next to Addy. “I’ve brought medicine. There’s a note attached from the gentleman who procured it—a man from Roscommon. Follow his instructions. I hope your son gets better.” She wanted to touch Quinlin but decided against it. “Is he feverish?”
Addy covered her son’s forehead with her palm. “His skin is cool and dry, but he doesn’t respond to me.” She lifted her hand and sat back on her heels. “Bless you for all you’ve done. You shouldn’t have come. It takes courage . . . to remember others.” In the candlelight, her eyes flickered with grateful appreciation.
“I hope someone would do the same for me if my child was sick.” Briana’s eyes had slowly adjusted to the dark. She looked at the women and children who peered out of the gloom. They reminded her of rats emerging at dusk in search of food. Somewhere in the room, water dripped down the wall.
“You have no light?” Briana asked.
“Candles aren’t allowed because of fire.”
“But above?” Briana protested.
“They have windows,” Addy said, gazing back at Quinlin. “They can get out. We can’t.”
Briana shuddered at the thought of a fire breaking out in this dismal cellar. The tragic picture that formed in her mind was too terrible to imagine. And what if a fire broke out above? Everyone in this room would be trapped. There was only one way out—up the stairs.
“You and Quinlin should leave as soon as you can,” Briana said.
“No,” Addy replied with a firmness that surprised Briana. “I have to stay.”
“Why?”
“That’s my business.” Addy turned away from her, and the distance between them suddenly grew cold. “Thank you for your kindness, but you should leave me to my business. It’s not good for you to be here.”
“All right.”
When Addy turned, her eyes sparkled with tears. “For your own good, you shouldn’t come here.” She paused. “Perhaps, I can visit you—and bring Quinlin with me—when he recovers.” She took the bag from Briana and held it close to her heart. “I’m not going to let this out of my sight. Let me walk you out.”
Briana said good-bye to Quinlin, who had never acknowledged her presence, and followed Addy up the stairs to the front door. She blew out the candle and handed it to the old woman, who stood near a crowded room. Addy opened the door, and the air flowed over them. Looking out on the dilapidated homes, muddy lane, and the thick overcast seemed like a blessing compared to the crypt below. Briana lowered her handkerchief, fanned the folds of her cloak, and breathed freely again, gulping air into her lungs.
She was about to wish Addy good-bye when a portly man appeared at the stoop as if by magic. Briana recognized him but couldn’t remember his name; she knew he was one of the brothers who had stopped her and Lucinda when they had disembarked from the Warton. His round face and ruddy complexion were burned into her memory. He had offered to escort them to a brothel until Declan had thrust himself into the conversation.
Addy ignored the man until he spoke.
“Where have you been?” he asked with all the authority of a master speaking to a slave. He paid no attention to Briana other than to give her a quick glance as he sidled up.
“My son’s been sick,” Addy replied with disdain.
The man scowled and then spat into the mud. “That’s no excuse. The boss won’t like to hear that one. There’s so many of you crammed in that house, somebody could care for the little swine.”
Addy bristled and straightened like an arrow. “No one touches my son except me. Let me make that clear.” Accenting her words, she added, “I’ll be back when he’s well.”
“Always full of spark, Gallagher,” the man replied. “That’s why the men like you.” He smacked his lips and pulled a fat cigar from his jacket pocket.
Addy’s face turned crimson underneath her red hair. She gave Briana an exasperated look and turned away.
“You owe money,” the man continued. “It’s only right, our fair share.” He struck a match and puffed heartily on the cigar until it was lit. “See that we get it, or we’ll have to come looking for it.” He reached up and tweaked Addy’s cheek. She spat on his hand as he pulled it away. The man laughed, shook the spittle off his fingers, and left.
Addy sighed and watched him trundle down the dirt lane, straddling one of the deep furrows carved by carriage traffic.
“I’m sorry you saw that,” Addy said. “He’s a pig.”
“I’ve met him before,” Briana said. “When my sister and I got off the boat, he was there, waiting to take us to . . .”
“No need to be coy about Mr. Carson,” Addy said. “It’s no secret to many people what he does. I work for him . . . well, I work for his boss, whom I never see.” She pushed back her hair and leaned against a ramshackle railing. “After my husband died, I had no choice. I couldn’t find work—none that paid well enough to support me, let alone my son.”
Briana nodded. “I understand.” She shuddered at the thought of doing the same if she had a son and no means of support. She was certain Addy had done everything she could before turning to that profession; however, if such was the choice, America was not a good place for any Irish immigrant to call home.
“I should be going,” Briana said. “I hope Quinlin gets better. Please let me know. You can always send a message to the Newton on Beacon.”
She left without offering an invitation to visit and doubted whether she would ever see the woman again. Sorrow bubbled up as she thought of the woman’s circumstances and her turn to prostitution to keep herself and her son alive. By the time she reached the end of the lane, she had decided to keep Addy’s profession a secret from Lucinda, who would probably look upon it with disdain.
She was about to cross Hanover Street when a man whistled at her. She spied him on the opposite corner and then turned away, not wanting to give him encouragement. He whistled again and then struck out after her on foot. Briana spun in a frantic search for a policeman, but there were none to be seen. However, pedestrians and peddlers crowded the sidewalks while carriages rattled down the street. She doubted anything serious could happen as long as she was so exposed to the public. She strode to the next corner, but he caught up with her there as she waited for the cabs to pass.
He was slim and wore a suit of Continental fashion and a rather high black hat in a style that Briana had never seen before. His face flushed pink from sprinting after her, and his eyes examined her as if he had something important to say. Like her first meeting with Declan, she had an immediate reaction to this man—but this time it wasn’t favorable.
The stranger was older, maybe a little less than twice her age, with a pleasing face but one she felt she couldn’t trust, like that of a fox. He padded next to her, his breathing forced from his exertions. Briana suspected that she could beat him to the top of the hill above Lear House even though she was carrying a baby.
He bowed stiffly and then spoke in Irish: “I saw you coming in a hurry from the neighborhood. Are you all right?”
“What business is it of yours?” Briana replied.
“County Mayo,” he said. “Do you speak English?”
Briana nodded, keeping an eye out for the nearby street vendor selling vegetables from a cart in case she needed help.
The man broke into English with a smile. “How wonderful. You’re what I’ve been looking for.”
His assertion drew her distrust; his clothes and manner of approach aroused her suspicions.
“I’m certain I’m not what you’re looking for,” she replied, turning her gaze once again to the street and the chance to weave through the carriages.
“Can you add and subtract?”
She tightened the drawstrings of her cloak. “Do I need to call for the police? I don’t even know your name.”
His brown eyes softened, and he bowed again. “Pardon me, but I’m rarely wrong about those whose demeanor has captured me. You look like an intelligent woman, confident and assured. You’re what I seek.” He took off his top hat and cradled it in his arms. “Again, pardon me. I am Romero Esperanza.”
The name certainly wasn’t Irish, and it was so foreign sounding she couldn’t imagine what a man called Romero Esperanza could want of her. Lucinda might have recalled such a name from reading one of her European novels. “Should I know you?” Briana countered, thinking back on her dismal luck with employment.
“Hardly. I’m certain we haven’t met, but I run a business near here and I’m looking for a woman who can run my office and keep books. I have a select clientele of Irish and English customers.” He looked down at her abdomen, which showed through the cloak’s fabric. “If you’ll pardon my frankness, you need a job off your feet.”
She thought of Addy and wondered if this was the same sort of misguided attempt to snare another woman. Not trusting the stranger, she said, “Thank you very much, Mr. Esperanza, but I’m sure whatever you have to offer isn’t for me.” She stepped into the street, waiting for a carriage to pass by.
“Please take my card . . . in case you change your mind,” the man called out after her. “I can pay you ten dollars a week.”
That offer stopped Briana. The man came up beside her, smiled, pressed his card into her palm, and disappeared down Hanover Street the way he’d come. She looked at the card. It gave his name, the business address, and a title, Purveyor of Fine Goods. She clutched the card in her hand and hurried back to the boarding house.
* * *
“Ten dollars a week?” Lucinda squealed at Briana’s tale of meeting Mr. Esperanza, even though Bria
na’s news had diverted attention away from her own.
“And I’m thrilled you got the job,” Briana said, “and, selfishly, for us both.”
Her sister looked at the business card and then placed it on the desk. “Ten dollars a week! I can’t believe it—that’s two dollars more than what I’ll be making, and I was thrilled to get it.”
“What’s the family’s name where you’ll be working?” Briana asked.
“The Carlisles. They have money.” Lucinda picked up the card again and studied it. “Purveyor of Fine Goods. I wonder what that means.”
Briana grabbed her hairbrush from the table. “I have no idea, but perhaps Declan knows who the man is. Let’s go down to supper.”
“Yes, let’s,” Lucinda said. “For the first time since we’ve arrived, I feel like I have an appetite. I’ll tell you all about my meeting.” She clasped her hands in a thoughtful manner. “If all works out, I may even have a place to live at the Carlisles’ home.”
“Really?” Briana brushed her hair, suddenly dispirited by the idea of not sharing a room with her sister, her only ally in the city.
“Never fear, dear sister. I would never leave you to suffer at the Newton on Beacon.”
“Perhaps I should look into Mr. Esperanza’s offer,” Briana said.
Her sister playfully swiped at her shoulder. “Perhaps you should. ‘Never look a gift horse in the mouth.’”
Laughing, Briana put down the brush and escorted Lucinda to the stairs, where they sauntered down together, feeling much like sisters again.
* * *
Declan Coleman arrived as they were eating breakfast the next morning. He was wearing his work clothes, as he always had except for their first meeting on the wharf. Briana escorted him into the dining room, after assuring the young woman on the desk that he was a friend, and offered him a seat at their table. When Lucinda spoke of her coming employment, Declan’s eyes shone with excitement only matched by the storyteller.
The Irishman's Daughter Page 31