The Incredibly Irritating Irishman: Book Three of the Conn-Mann Chronicles

by Rie Sheridan Rose

  I frowned, wanting to kick him in the shins and run, but I had no idea where I was, or time to think about it either. This was a matter of life and death.

  I lifted my skirts and picked my way down the fire escape as quickly as I could. The iron was hot enough to seep through the soles of my boots.

  I planned on running as soon as I hit the bottom, but there were dozens, if not hundreds of people milling about watching the fire. I tried to push through them, but Seamus clattered down the steps much more quickly than I had done—darn my skirts!

  He caught my wrist and pulled me away from the scene of the fire into the shadows surrounding the tenement.

  “Help! Help me please!” I screamed.

  No one seemed to notice in the chaos. There was the clanging of a fire engine arriving, and people shouting as they tried to organize a bucket brigade. One voice was lost in the cacophony.

  Seamus growled, and jerked me further into the darkness.

  Still, I had to try.

  “Please, someone! I’m being abducted against my will!”

  “If ya don’t be quiet, ya git,” he growled, “I’ll make ye. No one will blink an eye about a man with an unconscious woman over his shoulder in this madness! In fact, they’ll prob’ly consider me a bleedin’ hero.”

  He was right.

  “In fact,” he muttered... “That sounds like a fine idea!” He put his hands around my waist and lifted me from the ground, throwing me over his shoulder and fading into the crowd.

  He moved much more quickly than we could have if he were dragging me by the wrist. The further we went from the fire, the darker it got. It was impossible to keep any sense of direction looking down at Seamus’s backside. How ignoble!

  I could’ve screamed with frustration, but it wouldn’t do any good. I had to get free of him. I beat against his back with both fists, kicking my feet as well.

  Once we were quite clear of the scene of the fire, he dumped me unceremoniously to the ground. “Yer heavier than ya look,” he grunted, panting with exertion.

  I landed rather painfully on my unmentionable asset. Thank goodness, I had a bit more bustle behind than usual. Still, it hurt.

  “Yer more trouble than yer worth, y’know. Mebbe I should just shoot ya and be dun wit’ you. Then I could go tell tha lawyers ya died—after we wed. There’d be no one tha wiser. If it weren’t fer tha fact Colin will git ev’rthing if we don’t show up together t’ make nice fer tha lawyers, I’d do it now. But if y’ don’t quit yer nonsense, I’ll take me chances!”

  I gulped. If he were angry enough, he just might do it!

  Opal stared at the gun in Thomas’s hand, her heart pounding in terror. “I still can’t believe you did this!” She had to keep him distracted until Victor returned. “Why would you?”

  “I just told you, you stupid cow. Perhaps it’s a sign of mental as well as moral deficiency to work in such a place.”

  Opal felt compelled to defend her mistress and her friends. “What gives you the right to decide what’s good and decent?”

  Thomas barked laughter. “Any decent, church-going human being would feel the same. You should be applauding me for my initiative—if you’re the goody two shoes you pretend to be…” He leered. “Or have you joined the night crew after all?”

  — Garrett Goldthwaite

  Old-Fashioned Opal and the House of Ill-Repute

  Chapter 23

  I imagine there was much consternation at the boarding house as the hours wore on. Fred says they were terribly worried, but apart from a door to door search of Five Points in the dark, there was nothing they could do about it. Fred did conclude correctly I must be in those terrible environs, because it was only logical.

  It left me on my own again, however.

  The streets were black as pitch as Seamus dragged me through them. I stumbled often, but his grip was iron. I feared the revolver in his waistband, or I would have twisted free. The blue cotton of my dress would be invisible if I got away from him...but I must admit I was a bit curious as to where we would go now. Twice his kidnapping attempts had been thwarted—by chance or circumstance. Would he finally give up?

  I don’t know how long he forced me through the dark streets before he stopped at another wooden structure much like Martha’s tenement and rapped upon the door. I do know there was a bit of light in the east—a gray just a shade lighter than the surrounding air.

  The door cracked open. I could see a figure lit from behind by the flickers of candlelight. “Whaddya want?”

  “Is tha’ anyway to treat a potential customer? C’mon, Annie, me girl—let us in,” Seamus purred, his voice warm and persuasive. “I’ve missed ya, darlin’.” He really could be charming when he wanted to be.

  The woman behind the door cocked her head. “Who’s this then?”

  “This’s me betrothed. I told ya about her.”

  “You told me she was an ugly cow and the only reason you planned to marry her was to get your grandfather’s money,” she growled. “She’s no cow.”

  “But she ain’t me type either, Annie...ya know I’ve only got eyes for ye.”

  If there had been anything in my stomach, I would have lost it at the outrageous flirtation. Hoping he was distracted, I pulled as hard as I could against his grip, more determined than ever to procure some sort of weapon I could conceal in my clothing on an everyday basis. Perhaps a boot dagger...

  He tugged me closer to him, redolent with smoke, sweat, and dirt under the vile stench of Five Points. “She’s a feisty one. I really need a place to put her, Annie. Somewhere she’ll be watched by someone I trust. Will ya keep her under lock and key fer me? I’ll pay ya, o’ course…” He pulled out a twenty-dollar gold piece and flipped it in the light coming through from the doorway. It glittered invitingly.

  Annie broke out a wicked smile. “This little tart? You want to leave her here with my girls?”

  “There’s no place safer,” Seamus answered, with a grin of his own.

  He shoved me through the door as Annie stepped back, opening it wider. “Come in, then.”

  He flipped her the coin, and she caught it in mid-air.

  The door opened into an open parlor-type room with several red velvet sofas and chaise lounges scattered about. In the brighter light of the interior, Annie was revealed as a blowsy woman about forty with an unbelievable mass of auburn curls piled into a mussed heap upon her head, and a corset laced painfully tight under disproportionate breasts. I wondered if the stays were to help her back, because those couldn’t be comfortable to carry around.

  She had an open robe draped haphazardly around her shoulders, as if she had been roused from her bed by the knocking. But no one wore their corset to sleep in. All that she worse besides the corset and robe were a pair of lacy pantaloons and black thigh-high stockings.

  I gasped, as it occurred to me where exactly it was he had brought me. The cur!

  Glancing around the room, I saw several other women in a similar state of dishabille scattered about it. All of them watched us with avid interest.

  I straightened my back. They might not be ladies, but I—at least—had been raised one.

  “Thank you for your offer of hospitality, my good woman. I assure you I’m in no need of it. If someone could call me a cab—this man abducted me from my home, and I wish to return there.”

  Annie threw back her head with a laugh. “Listen to the pigeon. She’s a funny little thing, Seamus, I give you that.” She gestured to one of the other ladies. “Dahlia, take Miss Priss here to your room and give her a wash. She looks like a chimney sweep. Make sure you lock the door behind you. You can use my bed if you get any late customers this evening.”

  Dahlia, a tiny blonde girl hardly older than Gertie, looked pleased at being singled out. She sashayed over to me, winked at Seamus, and took my arm in hers. She was deceptively dainty, because her grip on my arm made Seamus look like an invalid. She led me up two flights of stairs to a room at the rear of the house. N
o windows graced the tiny space, which looked as if it might’ve been partitioned from a larger room. Such a move would allow them to get around the city ordinance requiring such features, I guessed.

  The room had no space for anything but a single bed with a domed trunk at its base and a tiny table with ewer and bowl. She shoved me into the room, and I barked my shins on the trunk. When she stepped in behind me, I felt almost claustrophobic. I backed around the side of the bed next to the table to give the girl room to stand.

  “Lookit you, all fancy like,” she cooed. “Annie has a likin’ for that man o’ yours. You best stay here out of her way.”

  “I assure you, he’s no man of mine!” I retorted angrily. “I’d just as soon see him consigned to the pits of Hell than look at him.”

  “That so?” She seemed taken aback. “That ain’t the tale he’s been tellin’ Annie. He tol’ her you were crazy in love with him, but a little teched as well—that’s why he wants you watched, I guess.”

  “I’m not surprised he’s been lying.”

  “Lookee here, miss. I’ll go and fetch you a nice cup of tea and a bite to eat. You look a might peckish.”

  “That would be lovely,” I acknowledged grudgingly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. It was actually quite comfortable.

  While Dahlia was out of the room, I took the opportunity to search the tiny enclosure. The trunk held half a dozen tawdry dresses and three sets of lacy underthings. The only other thing in it was a worn tintype of a stern-faced couple with a blonde toddler on the woman’s knee. It was so similar to the one I had of my parents that my heart went out to the girl. Was she also an orphan? What had driven her to this life?

  I shuddered just to think of selling my body to men. I might not be a regular churchgoer, but I was a devout Catholic in my own way, and the thought was absolutely abhorrent to me.

  The events of the night began to catch up with me. My eyes began to droop as I rifled carefully through the drawer of the little table. A few dollars in cash, a bar of chocolate, and a dime novel I hadn’t read yet were all that resided there.

  At least it was my favorite author. It was hard to believe there was a Garrett Goldthwaite novel I had missed.

  I lay back on the pillows, opened the book, and began to read by the light of the guttering candle beside the wash basin. I only got a few pages into the book—despite its gripping narrative—before my eyes closed.

  I woke, groggy and starving, when the door opened again.

  “You didn’t eat my chocolate, did you?” Dahlia said, with a little screech of anger.

  “No! Of course not.”

  Only because it hadn’t occurred to me.

  She picked up the book and thrust it back into its proper place. “I ain’t done with that yet...but you can borrow it when I’m through. Here’s yer tea and a bit of buttered bread. Sorry it ain’t more, but business has been a bit light o’ late.”

  “Thank you,” I told her sincerely.

  Her delicate skin flushed in the candlelight. “Better eat quickly, miss. The candle’s nigh out.”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll bring you another when my shift’s over—and…you can finish the book first,” she said breathlessly.

  Impulsively, I rose and hugged her. It was a very generous offer for a child who had little by way of comforts.

  Dahlia gasped in surprise...and then her arms came around me as she hugged me back.

  Her blood began to boil. How dare he? He had destroyed the lives of all the girls because he didn’t believe in their lifestyle? Because he felt morally superior? It wasn’t his call to make!

  Surging to her feet, she charged the villain, heedless of the consequences. She barreled into him, sending him sprawling.

  Thomas’s hand twitched, and the gun went off, the bullet flying wild. Her ears rang with the sound of the report.

  Opal slugged him in the jaw with all her strength—then shook her hand in pain.

  “That’ll learn you!” she cried.

  She grabbed the gun from his slack fingers and trained it on his recumbent form, stamping out the flames from the guttering torch.

  “We’ll just see who lands in trouble now!”

  — Garrett Goldthwaite

  Old-Fashioned Opal and the House of Ill-Repute

  Chapter 24

  Despite the strangeness of my surroundings, I slept well after the candle was spent. It was a comfortable bed, as I said, and there was nothing else to do in the dark. At least for me.

  Annie’s was a place straight out of one of Garrett Goldthwaite’s dime novels. In fact, the novel Dahlia was lending me was about an establishment quite like it. I rather identified with “Opal,” the heroine of that book—a good girl thrown into the middle of a bawdy house. But, like Opal, I was discovering Annie’s wasn’t at all what I’d imagined such a place to be.

  Dahlia had come and gone while I slept, apparently, as there was a plate with a hunk of bread, cheese, and an apple on the bedside table, as well as a lamp with a goodly reservoir of oil.

  I was grateful for the light, as candles are very difficult to read by for any decent length of time, and—as I said—no daylight could make its way into the cramped little room.

  I found the chocolate bar gone, but two more of Goldthwaite’s books taking its place. Of course, I had read these, but Dahlia had no way of knowing. I appreciated the gesture.

  I ate something and found my place in the book. It was a most thrilling story, and I got quite lost in it.

  I almost forgot where I was for a time—until I began to hear the most peculiar noises from the next room. It sounded like someone was in acute physical distress. Then a frightful bang on the wall made me fear it might give way.

  I got to my feet to see if someone was in need of assistance, and then the door to my prison flew open.

  Annie stood framed in the opening, wearing much the same attire as when last I had seen her. She glanced uneasily at the wall from which the noises emanated.

  “Dahlia needs her...beauty rest,” she told me. “You’d better come down to the kitchen for a bit. I imagine you’re pretty hungry by now.”

  Now that she mentioned it, I was rather. I wondered how much time had passed while I had my nose in the book. I really must start wearing a watch...

  The earlier bread and cheese had long since worn off. I gathered my book and followed her down a back staircase. Windows pierced the landings of the stair, and I saw that night was nearly upon us once more.

  The house was beginning to come alive around me. Laughter reverberated throughout, and someone was banging on a piano somewhere—not the staid compositions I was familiar with, but a vibrant, ringing tune that seemed to radiate life. It was most pleasing to my ear.

  Annie took me into a warm kitchen with a round table in the center of the room. It was dressed with a cheery gingham cloth in red and white, and held service for one. She gestured for me to sit.

  “The girls and I have already eaten,” she explained, “but I had Mama Leoni make up a plate for ya.” She jerked her head toward the cook, who nodded and smiled. “You take your time eating, and I’ll be back for you when Dahlia’s done...resting.” With that, she swept from the room, leaving behind a cloud of rose water.

  I took the indicated chair and looked at the plate with interest. The meal was as good as Ma ever offered—a thick slab of roast beef with mashed potatoes and creamy brown gravy. Two biscuits sat on a smaller plate, with a little dish of butter beside.

  It smelled delicious. I hadn’t realized how ravenous I was until the aroma of the beef wafted to my nostrils. This certainly put paid to the impression Dahlia had given me the night before. Nothing was skimpy about this meal. I wondered if it was just that the girls didn’t eat as well as they might…

  It made no difference to me. I began to eat with a will, glancing around the kitchen curiously as I did so.

  It was a large room, with another long table pushed out of the way against the wall. That mu
st be where the girls ate—and Annie had given me her own table. The walls were a crisp white, and the appointments were spotless. Gingham curtains that matched the tablecloth masked a window overlooking whatever back yard there might be.

  Mama Leoni, standing over her stove carefully stirring some concoction, was a stout woman about Ma Stark’s age with black hair pulled back tightly from her face. Her olive complexion and hooked nose proclaimed her heritage as clearly as her name. She sang softly in Italian as she added a pinch of this and that to the pot she stirred, occasionally tasting it and nodding in satisfaction.

  Since she was obviously busy, and there was no one else to talk to, I was incredibly vulgar and read my book as I ate. The story quite had me in its spell. I was reliving the fire in the tenement as Opal sought to save her companions from the destruction of her bawdy house.

  It wasn’t until Mama Leoni came to clear the table that I realized how long I’d been sitting there.

  “You new girl, yes?” she asked pleasantly, setting a large piece of cake before me.

  I felt a rush of heat. I wasn’t sure how I felt to be taken for one of the residents.

  On the other hand...

  “Yes,” I said. “I must admit, it’s different than I expected.”

  She chuckled. “You get used to it, bambina.”

  I decided to chance it. “It’s awfully overwhelming. If I could just get a bit of air, I think I would feel ever so much better.”

  She shook her head, clucking her tongue. “Is no good air in Five Points, but maybe you stand outside for a bit, you will feel better.”

  Just as I had hoped, Annie had not told her everything. Probably didn’t trust her with something so potentially dangerous. Mama Leoni could make a lot of trouble if she told the police someone was being held against their will in a fancy house, I bet...then again, this was Five Points.

  Still, I wasn’t looking a gift horse in the mouth. Where did that expression come from anyway?