If a writer took cold, hard facts and added the human element, the story would carry weight and impact. She could do it. She knew she could. Would Byrch give her a chance? Not likely. Convention stood in her way. Women were simply not hired as newspaper reporters; the female contribution to journalism was relegated to the poetry corner on the last page or the society column. Besides, it was obvious that Byrch considered her only talents to be those of the oldest profession, and when their arrangement came to an end, she would be out of his life forever. His house and his newspaper would be off limits.
Callie dressed with great care, hurrying to be ready before Byrch came home from the paper. She brushed her hair to a sheen, lifting it from the back of her neck the way he liked, looping it into a loose knot, while allowing wispy curls to escape onto her brow and in front of her ears. From the cherry armoire she selected one of the dresses Byrch had commissioned for her. This one was a lightweight fabric of lilac silk organza with a fitted bodice and sheer puffed sleeves. The neckline was inset with ivory lace, which was repeated into an apron effect in the front and gathered into tiered ruffles in back. She’d never worn it, but when she first showed it to him, she’d seen the glow in his eyes. Ivory slippers, white hose held with pale blue garters, and a thin ribbon tied at her throat. She diminished the glow on her face by a sparing application of rice powder and touched pomade to her lips.
When Byrch arrived home, she met him at the door, and he caught her up in his arms. “You’re a breath of fresh air,” he told her, making her twirl to show off her dress. “You’re beautiful, and I want to show you off. Why don’t I take you out for dinner?”
Callie’s spirits soared. She was well-aware of the difficulties down at the paper, and he must be exhausted with worry and outrage, but he wanted to take her out and show her off. It seemed so long since she’d been out of the house that she was eager for it.
While Byrch was upstairs cleaning up, Callie went into the kitchen to break the news to Edward. The man would have every right to be angry that his carefully prepared dinner would go unappreciated. Instead Edward broke into a wide, toothy grin. “Don’t you worry, Miss Callie, there’s nothing that won’t keep for tomorrow. And you look so pretty, it’s no wonder Mr. Kenyon wants to show you off.”
Callie glowed with Edward’s praise. “At least let me help you clear the kitchen,” she told him apologetically. “It’s the least I can do.”
“Not at all. I won’t hear of you chancing a spill on your dress,” he told her. “I’ve already had my dinner, so I think I’ll go over to Dr. Jameson’s and see if Anatole is busy tonight. I think I’ve got a new chess move that’ll set his teeth on edge.” Edward winked. “Now you just go out and sit in the parlor, and I’ll go upstairs and hurry Mr. Kenyon.”
Byrch came downstairs resplendent in light gray slacks and coat, set off by an emerald-green waistcoat and sparkling white stock. Edward had shined his boots to a gleam, and the modest diamond cuff links winked in the early evening light. He almost took her breath away as he held the shawl Edward had handed him and wrapped it around her shoulders, bending his head to nip at the tender flesh where her neck met shoulder. For an instant she allowed herself to lean back against him, reveling in the feel of his lean, hard length against her. It had been nearly a week since he’d come to her room, and she missed him terribly in spite of herself.
The carriage waited outside, and Byrch sat beside Callie while they drove through the city’s streets. “I’ve been in New York nearly two years, and I’ve yet to see the city,” Callie said. “It’s so big and so busy, and I’m always amazed at your familiarity with it.”
“I’ve lived here most of my life,” he told her, “I should know it.” His answer was terse, a direct contradiction in mood to what it had been when he’d arrived home. “I’m sorry, Callie. I didn’t mean to be sharp. You must have read about what’s happening to my newsboys. Forgive me?”
“Forgiven. Where are we going?”
“To a little place I know where there’s music and candlelight, and I think you’ll like it. The cuisine is French, and their wines are superb.”
The little restaurant was just as Byrch described it, and the service was impeccable. Throughout dinner, Byrch and Callie kept to the terms of their truce, talking about ideas and events and never letting the subject become personal. Feelings and emotions were too guarded and too vulnerable to discuss openly.
Over dessert, Callie sensed that Byrch was becoming more and more distracted. She put her elbows on the table and leaned toward him. “You’re thinking about the boys, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he answered somberly, pushing his plate away. “I’m sorry, Callie. I wanted to make this evening especially pleasant for you.”
“Don’t apologize, Byrch. I read the paper today; I know what you’re up against.”
“Wait until you read tomorrow’s paper,” he said harshly. “Three more boys attacked early this morning, and one of them is in critical condition. Seven years old. Seven goddamned years old! I have every man I can spare out looking for some lead, some clue. I’d give anything if I didn’t have to go off to Cincinnati day after tomorrow, but there’s no help for it. I’m one of three representatives from the New York Association selected to attend the National Typographical Convention. This could be a breakthrough for labor unions throughout the country, and I believe in it. Politically it could be quite advantageous to me when I launch my campaign. Still I wish to blazes I didn’t have to go and leave the paper just now.”
“Won’t Kevin Darcy look after things for you?”
“Kevin Darcy is a fool! I’d sooner trust Jimmy Riley’s baby brother with the Clarion than trust Kevin. But he does own a share of the paper, and my hands are tied. Kevin sees the Clarion as a hobby, a distraction from his social activities rather than a responsibility. I go away, he plays publisher, I come back and clean up after him.” Byrch scowled.
“Is there anything I can do?”
Byrch smiled, his eyes softening, “Yes,” he told her, reaching to touch her hand, “just be here when I get back.”
Callie’s eyes widened in surprise, and she was about to ask him why he thought she might not be, but the waiter arrived at that moment, and the opportunity was lost.
It was quite late when Byrch and Callie left the little restaurant, and although she knew he must be tired from his long and troubled day at the Clarion, he suggested a ride through the city along the river drive. The streets were blanketed with that thin, early summer haze that drifts in low swirls near the pavement and creates haloes around the lamplights. The sound of the horse’s hoofs on the cobbles seemed muffled as they wended through the quiet avenues. They felt a sense of isolation, far from other people and their busy lives, and it drew them closer.
Byrch wrapped his arm around Callie, tipping her head to rest against his shoulder. He breathed the fragrance of her hair and relished the feel of her against him. He regretted that he had given voice to his concerns for the paperboys and Kevin Darcy. He hadn’t wanted to spoil this evening for her. He should have been more attentive, more courtly. Next time, he promised himself. He would do better next time.
Callie rested her head against Byrch’s shoulder, aware of the way their thighs were pressed close together. She was glad he’d confided his problems at the paper; it made her feel closer to him, more involved in his life. They had been themselves tonight, talking about things that mattered instead of light, meaningless subjects. Sighing, she pressed her cheek against the fabric of his coat. He would come to her tonight and take her into his arms to make love to her. And she would be there, waiting for him.
The horse clopped along Riverside Drive in the still, early morning hours. Byrch tapped on the bulkhead above him and signaled for the driver to stop in the lane that followed the river’s edge. “Would you like to walk, Callie?”
Smiling her acceptance, he helped her out of the carriage and took her hand, leading her along the path under the trees that lined
the parkway. Benches lined the path overlooking the water. The wispy mists hung close to the water’s edge, but the moon high overhead cast its silvery radiance to light their way.
“I remember that park in Dublin where you took your brothers and sisters,” he murmured. “It overlooked the water too. I remember thinking you were like a little fairy godmother looking after the little ones.”
Callie laughed softly, deep and throaty, so different from the lilting, girlish sound she’d made when she was just sixteen. Byrch wondered if she knew how enthralling the sound of her laughter could be. “That was Florham Park,” she told him. “And I wasn’t much of a fairy godmother to let little Billy get away from me that way. If you hadn’t come along, the Lord only knows how I’d have gotten him out through that cellar window.”
“You would have gotten him out. You were quite an enterprising young lady, if I remember correctly.” He punctuated his statement with a squeeze of his hand.
“Enterprising, perhaps, but a young lady? I doubt it. I was hardly more than a street urchin, brash and willful. Little wonder Mum sent me off to America. It took Mrs. Powers and all her strength to make a lady out of me. At times I wondered if it was more painful and frustrating to her or to me.”
“You really were a little rapscallion,” Byrch agreed, laughing softly, some part of himself melancholy for that little lost girl with the wide summer-blue eyes and defiant, upturned nose. “It seems so long ago, doesn’t it? So much has happened since then.”
“Hmmm. A lifetime,” Callie agreed.
They walked almost to the end of the parkway before turning back toward the carriage. They reminisced and laughed and shared those silly little things that are the joy of long-time friends. They felt connected to one another, whole and complete. It was like old times, before the talk of debts and strange arrangements and uncertainties.
Callie sighed with contentment as Byrch climbed into the carriage beside her. This evening had been perfect. Especially this quiet walk along the river. She had no apprehension about enjoying this time between them. They had been as old friends, enjoying one another. That kind of happiness was allowed to her, she decided. It was the other, the commitment, that she feared. The fates that directed her life had never been so kind or forgiving that she could risk reaching out for happiness with Byrch. For now, she would live with the arrangement, and if she secretly treasured each little memory of this time with him, knowing it must come to an inevitable end, she could not be blamed.
On the ride home, the carriage turned onto lower Broadway, only blocks away from the Clarion. Callie was nestled in Byrch’s arms, luxuriating in her contentment, feeling his lips brush occasionally across her brow. Suddenly, she became aware of a change in his relaxed posture. There was a tightening of the muscles in his shoulder and a contraction in the hardness of his thigh. Taking his arm from around her, he jolted forward and rapped on the bulkhead above him to alert the driver. “Stop at the next corner, George!”
Puzzled, Callie peered out the window through the mists to what had caught his attention. Beneath a lamppost a young boy was hunkered down, working with a bundle of the morning edition of newspapers. One of Byrch’s newsboys? “What time is it?” she asked. “What’s that boy doing out on the corner this time of night?”
“Shhh!” Byrch cautioned. “It’s not that time of night. It’s closer to morning. There are only so many delivery wagons, and the boys have to be out early to meet their delivery of papers. Right now he’s setting up for the early trade of vendors and factory workers,” he whispered.
“But what’s wrong?” Callie asked, alarmed.
“I think I saw something, and I only want to check on it. You stay here in the carriage. George will watch over you.”
By the time the carriage had pulled over to the next corner, Byrch was in the street, hugging the walls of the buildings, keeping to the shadows. Callie watched him move, sensing his alertness. She knew there was danger. Unable to sit in the safety of the carriage a minute longer, she slid cautiously down to the street, following the course Byrch had set for himself. Ahead of her, Byrch had reached the corner, and she saw him press himself against the brick wall of a building, standing frozen and alert. When she was almost beside him, he turned, gesturing for her to go back, anger glittering in his eyes.
Callie shook her head, ignoring his command. She could hear voices from just around the corner. The mists swirled close to the street, making it wet and reflective. “This ain’t your corner anymore, kid! Get moving unless you wanna end up like some of your friends!” It was a man’s voice, thick with an Irish brogue and somehow distantly familiar to Callie.
“This here’s my corner,” a child’s voice protested bravely. “Whyn’t cha leave me alone? I didn’t do nothin’.”
“That’s right, and you ain’t gonna do nothin’. Not here, anyhow,” a second man’s voice challenged. “Now get on with you, or somebody’s gonna get hurt! Show your face here again, and it’ll be the last time. Understand?”
Callie heard the sound of papers rustling, and an instant later she saw the bundle thrown into the street, scattering about like leaves before an autumn wind. Her first thought was for the newsboy. Feisty as he was, he had to be frightened being muscled by two grown men.
“Empty your pockets, lad, and get on your way!”
It was then that Byrch moved. He was around the side of the building as though he’d been shot from a cannon. His fists were raised and ready.
The next few minutes seemed the longest of Callie’s life as she watched in astonishment: fists were flying, grunts of pain filled the still night air as Byrch met his adversaries in the darkness. The newsboy cowered against the building, watching wide-eyed. Callie reached for him, bringing him out of harm’s way. She told him to run for a policeman, fast as he could run. Without a word, the boy was off, quicker than lightning; Callie hoped he would get back in time. Byrch might be fighting for his life. These men were criminals.
Byrch had hold of one of the men, grabbing him by the shirtfront, bloodying his nose with his other fist. The other thug was lifting himself from the ground, coming around behind Byrch.
“Behind you!” Callie shouted, lurching forward ready to defend the rear. She threw herself at the man, fists pummeling ineffectively, but buying Byrch the time he needed. As one man tumbled to the ground, Byrch swung on the other, but not before Callie was thrown against the brick wall, sliding to the ground in a daze.
The fight continued. Callie skittered away from advancing feet and grunting men. Byrch’s face was bloodied, and his coat was torn. The fighting was terrible. The men’s movements were slowing, becoming sluggish, yet still they battled, landing blows, dodging others. Callie wanted to cover her eyes, block her ears, but she stared in fascination, feeling each blow that landed on Byrch as though she’d suffered it herself. Where was the boy? Where were the police? Was that a whistle she heard in the distance?
Behind her, footsteps. Quickly Callie turned, expecting another thug coming to help his friends. It was George, Byrch’s driver. The old man immediately sized up the situation and went to the downed man who was just lifting himself from the ground. Something glinted in the lamplight, and George stepped hard on the man’s arm. Callie heard a curse of pain. She saw that George was holding a pistol that he’d taken from the man.
“Help him, George!” she pleaded. “Help Byrch!”
“Mr. Kenyon’s doing all right, miss. Give him a chance to finish the job.”
True to George’s word, Byrch backed the man against the wall, sending a final blow to his gut and another to his jaw. Callie saw him crumple like dead wood, sliding against the wall to fall to the ground. Byrch stopped to catch his breath, taking huge gulps of air, his chest heaving with the effort. His face was bloody, his knuckles raw. He staggered over to George and hauled the man he was holding to his feet, mercilessly dragging him alongside his cohort and pinning him to the wall. Police whistles sounded in the distance, coming closer now.
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Callie went to Byrch, her first thought to inspect his injuries, but the familiar face of the man pinned to the wall stopped her.
“Patrick!” Callie gasped hoarsely. “Patrick Thatcher!”
Byrch glanced at Callie, one eye already swollen, his lip cut and bleeding. “Know him, Callie?” he gasped, still breathless.
“Byrch, this is Patrick Thatcher, or at least that’s who he was when I first met him and his family in Liverpool. Remember Beth, my friend who jumped off the pier with her baby rather than deny her husband a chance at his dream? This is the man she did it for.” Callie’s eyes measured Patrick, clear and level, watching him squirm under her scrutiny. “He was going to shoot you, Byrch. George took the pistol away from him.”
For a long, sad moment, Callie stared at Patrick. He was still handsome, but there was cruelty in his eyes and about his mouth that hadn’t been there when Beth was alive. “Tell me, Patrick, was this your dream? Was this why Beth and Paddy died? My God, some of those newsboys are no older than Paddy would be.”
Patrick turned his head, unwilling to face her. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. I wasn’t doin’ nothin’.” He issued a gasp when Byrch bounced him against the wall.
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