The Bachelor’s Bride: The Thompsons of Locust Street

by Holly Bush

  “And one I’d like to have in my hand,” another said just above a whisper.

  The vested man cuffed him on the back of the head. “Fool! You want James Thompson bearing down on you for talking about his sister in such a way?”

  The crowd of young men dispersed, and Alexander glanced back at the stoop of the bawdy house. A glimmer of beadwork caught his eye and he retraced his steps, bending down and picking up a cloth drawstring bag decorated with shiny thread. He looked up to see if he could catch Thompson and his sister, but they were long gone. Schmitt called his name and the time of their appointment at the councilman’s office. The big man flung his body into the open carriage and glanced back at Alexander as he hurried to join him, stuffing the cloth bag into his coat pocket as he did.

  It had taken some inquiries and a small favor to acquire the Thompson address on Locust Street. It was a quiet neighborhood on the very edge of Society Hill, mostly families, Irish, Scottish, a few Jewish, and many Blacks, some who’d been living there for years and some who had escaped the South early on in the War Between the States, drawn to the Quaker roots of the city. The men and some of the women from these families worked at one of the dozens of textile factories in the city or the breweries or for the gas company that lit the city and ran the politics of Philadelphia, the Gas Trust. The Trust certainly ran Schmitt. And Alexander worked for Schmitt.

  It had not been his choice, but rather his father’s insistence, that had him working for Henry Schmitt. Alexander found Schmitt to be a crude bore, dangerously susceptible to flattery and not terribly bright, but there was something in Schmitt’s approach to voters, whether it was fear or awe, that sent him back to the Philadelphia City Council time and again. He imagined that politicians of Schmitt’s ilk had inserted themselves into governance since the beginning of time and would continue in the future too.

  He read the numbers painted on the bricks or in the transoms above the lintels or fashioned in metal and attached to the wooden doors of the row homes. Seventy-five, he read above the door as he glanced upward to the three-story brick front that was six full windows wide, three on each side of the stoop he now stood on, larger than most of the other homes. He straightened his tie, tapped his hat on his head, and lifted the brass knocker.

  A woman in a dark dress with a voluminous white apron opened the door. “Yes, sir. May I help you?”

  “Yes. I’d like to speak to Miss Thompson, if she is at home.”

  “Miss Thompson? And which Miss Thompson are you asking after?” the woman asked with a faint Scottish lilt. She took him in with a glance over his coat and down to his polished shoes.

  “Miss Elspeth Thompson.”

  “And whom shall I say is asking?”

  “Mr. Alexander Pendergast,” he said and pulled his bowler from his head.

  “An Irishman, be you?”

  The door opened wider, and he could see a young woman standing behind the housekeeper. “Who is it, Mrs. McClintok?”

  The housekeeper turned her head slightly, her eyes never leaving his face, as if he would be taking off with the silver from his spot on the stoop. “A Mr. Pendergast, here to see Miss Elspeth. You’d best fetch her and your aunt. I’ll see this young man into the parlor.”

  Alexander found himself following the woman, her black skirts swaying below the massive white bow of her apron, down a well-lit hallway to a room where she opened pocket doors and proceeded him inside.

  She straightened a lace doily under a painted lamp and took a thorough and approving look around. “Someone will be with you in a moment,” she said and pulled the doors closed as she left.

  Alexander wandered around the large and well-appointed room, noting the thick rug on the floor and the large paintings on the walls. The burgundy brocade sofa sat facing a marble fireplace with two wing chairs on either side set at an angle for a comfortable seating area. Near two of the tall front windows sat a large chair in dark leather with brass nails and a matching hassock, the floor-to-ceiling shelves behind it filled with books. He turned when he heard the doors slide on their rollers.

  An older woman came through, her back bent, her gray hair in a bun on top of her head, and her cane tapping a rhythm as she made her way into the room. With one glance, he knew she was the type of woman who’d seen much in her years and survived to tell about all of it. He doubted he would find an ally in her. He barely glanced at Miss Thompson, Elspeth, behind the old woman for fear of giving himself away, only noting her blushing cheeks as he did.

  “Alexander Pendergast, ma’am,” he said and dipped his head courteously.

  “Mr. Pendergast, I am Mrs. Murdoch. This is my niece Miss Thompson,” she said with a wave behind her and all the hauteur an elderly woman could produce.

  “Mrs. Murdoch. Miss Thompson,” he said with a nod, finally allowing himself to take a closer look at the younger woman. Her heavy auburn hair was in the new “turned up” style, making a thick roll around her head. She wore a plain dark blue dress, but it was her eyes that once again drew his gaze. Their green-brown depths were on fire!

  “And what reason could you possibly have for visiting us, a respectable family, Mr. Pendergast?” she said in a voice laden with derision.

  Mrs. Murdoch glanced back at her. “Fetch Mrs. McClintok for some coffee and cakes. Have a seat, Mr. Pendergast. We will conduct a civil conversation about the lovely spring weather.”

  The older woman seated herself on the end of the sofa and stared straight ahead while her niece made clear her feelings.

  “This is the man who was coming out of the bawdy house with his father,” she said, her voice rising on every word. She looked at him as if daring him to interrupt her. “The other man cuffed the woman, and they refused to pay her.”

  “The coffee, Elspeth?”

  The young woman whirled and marched through the door, calling for the woman in a none-too-soft voice.

  “Sit down, Mr. Pendergast,” Mrs. Murdoch said. “Sit down or I will get a crick in my neck looking up at you more than I already have.”

  Alexander made his way around the sofa and sat down in one of the chairs closest to the fireplace. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  The old woman stared at him and raised her brows. “And the weather, Mr. Pendergast?”

  “Oh yes,” he said, remembering her early command and realizing that he was not showing himself to be a confident man of twenty-eight years but rather a timid boy. “This spring weather has been a welcome relief after a cold winter, has it not, ma’am?”

  “I don’t hear a hint of the Emerald Isle in your language, young man. When did your people come over?”

  “My people?”

  “Your family, Mr. Pendergast. If you arrived here as a result of the potato famine, then your lack of accent is quite remarkable.”

  “My grandfather came here as an adjunct to a British commander prior to the Revolution. He stayed,” Alexander said with some finality. As if he was required to give some sort of justification for his lack of accent.

  “And how does an Irishman become an adjunct to an Englishman? Likely a member of the British aristocracy, a second son of some noble house. Your family didn’t starve to death like so many Irish families as their foodstuffs were conscripted for the British army?”

  “We did not,” he said, recognizing that she would not give up this line of inquiry until she had his history. “My grandfather, through some largesse, was able to attend the University of Oxford and became friends with the British commander’s younger brother. When the elder brother, second son of a marquess, left for his command here on this continent, he was told my grandfather had not yet found useful employment and hired him to be his secretary. He was never in the British Army per se.”

  “Well connected, then, the Pendergasts of Philadelphia?”

  This old woman was abominably rude, but if she realized it, she was in no way shameful of it, almost as if his history was her right to know. “My parents are Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Pendergast.”r />
  “How convenient for you,” she said without a trace of recognition.

  There were many Pendergasts in the city, as many Irish had landed here during the last hundred years, but her father’s name did carry some influence as the owner of one of the largest mills on the entire East Coast, as well as being brother-in-law to one of Philadelphia’s mayors, Robert Conrad. His mother was a leading lady in Philadelphia society as well, and her affairs and charities were often mentioned in The Philadelphia Inquirer. He wondered if this lady knew that but was toying with him. His thoughts were interrupted by the housekeeper, and he stood.

  “Bring the tray here on the low table, Mrs. McClintok,” Mrs. Murdoch said. “Come sit, Elspeth. You can pour and pass the cakes. I am overdue for something sweet today.”

  He was still here! Talking to Aunt Murdoch as if he were someone worthy of their acquaintance. She would give him the foot of the cake, where it might be dry and would surely be hard, as she’d defied Mrs. McClintok and put the three-day old cake destined for the rubbish bin on the plate beside the coffee. Elspeth sat on the sofa near the low table, poured her aunt coffee and handed it to her, and then looked up at their guest.

  “Mr. Pendergast? Since I’m sure you’re a very busy man, perhaps you’d prefer to make your visit brief, or would you like some coffee?” she asked.

  He looked at her with some amusement. “One sugar and just a bit of cream. Thank you.”

  “I suppose you’d like cake too,” she said as she poured cream in her own coffee and felt Aunt Murdoch’s eyes boring into her.

  “I would,” he said, now openly smiling at her.

  “I’m not sure why you’re smiling, Mr. Pendergast,” she said as she handed him a slice of the lemon cake. “Unless, of course, you’re nervous or uncomfortable. Some people react inappropriately to those sorts of feelings.”

  Aunt Murdoch cleared her throat. “What brings you here today, Mr. Pendergast?”

  He reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out the little bag that matched her blue plaid jacket. She knew she’d lost it somewhere but had no idea where and had no intentions of retracing her steps, even if James had not had a very firm hold on her elbow.

  “I found this . . . the day we met, Miss Thompson,” he said and handed it to her. “I wanted to return it to you.”

  She stared at him, accepting the bag, warm in her hand, no doubt from being in his coat. He wore his dark hair back from his forehead, and he was hardly more than an inch or two taller than her, but he was broad-shouldered, thickly built, with perfectly aligned features, including a pair of bright blue eyes, and exuded charm, money, and confidence. His suit was finely made with a dark red satin vest underneath and a matching red plaid tie, held together with a twinkling gold stick pin.

  She opened her bag, wondering if the blue thread and the lace were still there.

  “I’ve not opened your bag,” he said. “It should all be there, just as you left it that day.”

  “Excepting the handkerchief I gave to the woman with the bloody nose,” she said and looked him in the eye.

  The smile had disappeared. “I was not inside that house.”

  “Why were you on those steps, then? Helping your father escape without paying her for her services?”

  “That is not my father. He’s my employer. Councilman Henry Schmitt,” he said, rather tersely in Elspeth’s opinion.

  “You work for a man who frequents bawdy houses? One of our esteemed city councilmen? Maybe he should marry, and then he wouldn’t have the desire to visit one of those women.”

  “Henry Schmitt is married,” Aunt Murdoch said and sipped her coffee.

  Elspeth smiled. “His wife must be so proud that he frequents prostitutes, refuses to pay them, and hits them when they are reduced to begging for their earnings.”

  “I just work for the man. I don’t get to approve or disapprove of how he conducts himself,” he said.

  “How did you come to work for the councilman?” Aunt Murdoch asked.

  His answer was cut short when James came into the room. “What is he doing here?” he asked.

  “James,” Aunt Murdoch said with a steely voice, “he is a guest at the moment, sharing some cake and a cup of coffee as he has returned Elspeth’s bag. Mr. Alexander Pendergast of the Philadelphia Pendergasts, this is my nephew Mr. James Thompson.”

  Mr. Pendergast stood as Aunt Murdoch made the introductions. He nodded his head. “Mr. Thompson.”

  Elspeth watched his hand, his right hand, hanging by his side, twitch and move forward. She imagined he was prepared to shake James’s hand and thought better of it. James was staring at Pendergast with a deadly expression, completely neutral, with not a hint of raised brows or down-turned lips or squinted eyes, but menacing nonetheless. It was the face men saw when they challenged James Thompson. James lifted his hand, and Pendergast stared at it.

  The two men clasped hands, bringing them both a step closer to the other, framed on either side by the fireplace behind them. But after the typical few moments, neither released the other’s hand. She could see James’s fingers go white and glanced up at Mr. Pendergast. Raised eyebrows were the only indication that James was squeezing his hand, squeezing it with all the might and power that her brother clearly possessed, standing at least six inches taller than their guest.

  But Mr. Pendergast must have returned the grip, she thought, for she noticed his shoulders hunch forward and the fabric around his upper arm tighten. The two men were staring at each other, neither looking away or withdrawing from the handshake. Pendergast was staring up at James with much the same intense look as her brother until he raised one dark eyebrow.

  “What brings you to our parlor?” he asked as he released Pendergast’s hand.

  Pendergast smiled, a genuine one, Elspeth thought. Surprising, as she was certain both men were doing their best not to shake out their hands after being crushed.

  “I found Miss Thompson’s bag and came to return it to her. Mrs. Murdoch kindly asked me to stay for coffee and cake,” he replied.

  “If you think my aunt asked you out of kindness—”

  “Don’t you have a delivery to see to, James? I think I heard a wagon pull into the back. You’d best go and check,” Aunt Murdoch said.

  James smiled at his aunt and her dismissal. “Won’t want to keep the beets waiting.”

  Elspeth heard the parlor door close and her brother’s shout to Mrs. McClintok’s son, Robert, the all-about boy.

  “The beets?” Pendergast said with a glance to her.

  “We jar and sell all varieties of vegetables in the newest methods. That is our family business,” she replied. “It is very early in the growing season here, but these beets came by train from farther south.”

  “A canning business?” he repeated.

  “Yes,” she said. “A canning business.”

  “Have you been in business long?”

  “A little over three years,” she said. “We sell to our neighbors and small grocers.”

  He took a quick glance around the room. “You must be very successful.”

  “We’ve really just—” she began.

  “It has been lovely chatting with you,” Aunt Murdoch said and rose slowly from the sofa, “but I’m sure you’re a very busy man. We don’t want to keep you from the important work you do for Councilman Schmitt.”

  Mr. Pendergast had stood as soon as Aunt Murdoch began to rise. He put his coffee cup down on the tray and picked up his hat.

  “Of course, Mrs. Murdoch. Thank you for the cake and for the hospitality.”

  “See Mr. Pendergast out,” Aunt Murdoch said to Mrs. McClintok, who happened to open the sliding doors at just the moment she was called for.

  “This way, sir,” Mrs. McClintok said.

  Chapter 3

  “What do you want, Kirsty?” Elspeth said as she rolled over and pulled her quilt over her head. “It is barely light out. Let me sleep!”

  Eighteen-year-old Ki
rsty Thompson bounced as she sat down on the unoccupied side of Elspeth’s bed. “We’ve got to get downstairs soon and start cleaning the beets, but I want to know more about the man who called on you yesterday. He was short but very handsome.”

  “He was taller than me, so therefore he’s taller than you. And what difference does it make how tall a man is?”

  “Who wants a short husband? I don’t! I want to reach up to a broad set of shoulders,” Kirsty said and held her hands under her chin as if in prayer.

  Elspeth rolled over and stared out the window. Alexander Pendergast had broad shoulders and muscled arms. And lovely blue eyes. “Who said anything about a husband?” she whispered.

  “You must want to get married, Elspeth.” Kirsty stretched out beside her on top of the covers. “You don’t want to end up like Muireall, do you?”

  “What a horrible thing to say.” She turned her head to look over her shoulder at her younger sister.

  “Why is it horrible? It’s the truth! She’s twenty-five, going to be twenty-six soon, and she never steps outs with any man, and even when one does show some interest, she’s mean to him.”

  Elspeth got out of bed and pulled on a thick wool robe. “Did it not ever occur to you that she’s so busy taking care of this family that she doesn’t have time for herself? And James is the same way. We are lucky to have them with mother and father gone.”

  Kirsty sat up and pulled her knees to her chest. “I can’t picture them anymore,” she said quietly. “For years, I would picture them in my head before I went to bed. Both smiling. I think it was at that big table where we sat together back in Tavistown.”

  “The table in the great hall,” Elspeth said and leaned against her bedpost. “The fireplace was so big that I could walk inside of it.”

  “No one will talk about them anymore either.” Kirsty sat up. “I wish they would. I don’t want to forget them.”

  Elspeth walked around the bed, leaned over, and kissed the top of her sister’s head. She sat down beside her and picked up her hand, holding it in hers and lightly scratching Kirsty’s palm. Thoughts of her family and their tragedies and triumphs whirled in her head. And their future too.