by Ann Moore
Wakefield set down his coffee cup, shocked. “That’s terrible.”
“Oh, aye. But she wanted to learn, so I took her to the nuns, where they think better of the Irish.” Grace paused. “Though we’re Protestant, you see, and Mary Kate found herself standing in corners again for asking questions no good Catholic child would dream of asking. After she got her hands welted up, we quit the place, and I began teaching her at home.”
“Well, that’s understandable, but—”
“Oh, there’s more,” Grace interrupted. “In Kansas, we started up with Miss Woodruff, a brittle thing who—for reasons I never could understand—disliked little girls. Especially foreign little girls. Mary Kate had learned by now not to ask questions, so she wasn’t whipped like the others, but she didn’t learn anything either. ’Twas a long year, but then come a young man who was happy to teach, and they all adored him, Mary Kate included.”
“Well!” Wakefield picked up his cup again to drink. “There you have it!”
“But then we left Kansas to come here.”
“Oh.” His hand paused midair, and then he set his coffee aside once again. “I see. I really do see what you mean.” He leaned forward earnestly. “She’s reluctant to try it again, but perhaps there is a way to educate this child outside of a school building, at least for now.” He paused, thinking, and then his face brightened. “What would you say to a tutor? One who came here, say, three or four mornings each week?”
“A tutor? Here? Well, that’s a fine idea, Doctor, but …” She hesitated.
Wakefield stood up now, excited. “I would, of course, assume all cost for this enterprise,” he insisted. “And we might even launch Jack in the bargain.”
Grace shook her head. “Thank you, sir, but I don’t see our Jack sitting still for copying out letters and numbers of a morning when he could be out in the stable jabbering away at poor Mister Litton. Maybe when he’s a bit older, we’ll give it a go.”
Wakefield laughed. “Don’t underestimate your young son, Missus Donnelly. He also shows signs of intelligence.”
“Well, of course he does, but …”
“It’s all in the approach with that boy,” Wakefield continued, warming to the challenge. “If we tell him that Mary Kate is to receive her lessons with a tutor here in the study, and that he is not—under any circumstances—to disturb them, because he is too young to go to school …” He grinned. “I do believe he’ll expend considerable energy insisting quite the opposite. It’s all a matter of pride with him.”
“I see you’ve made a study of our Jack.” Grace laughed, but then became serious again. “’Tis very kind of you, Doctor, and I don’t know what to say to you. I wouldn’t want to be further obligated”—she hesitated—“under the circumstances, you know.”
“Oh.” Wakefield crossed to the fire and stood with his back to it. “I see. And I say to you again, Missus Donnelly, that when Captain Reinders returns from Panama, you are under no obligation to remain here. None. Though I shall be very sorry to see you go. But in the meantime,” he added, “why not give the children something useful with which to occupy their time?”
He’s right, Grace thought, but still she felt reluctant. “I’ll have to think about it—”
“What on earth is there to think about?” the doctor retorted. “Unless you’re raising your children up to be kitchen help and stable masters? Is that all you want for them?”
Grace bristled. “I want them to be happy, whatever their station in life.”
“But education will give them more choices; don’t you see, Missus Donnelly?”
“I know that, Doctor. Of course I know that.” She sighed. “I don’t know why I’m getting upset, here.”
“I don’t know either. It’s not as if I suggested sending them into a factory or out to the docks.”
They looked at each other then, and laughed.
“Ah, forgive me, sir. I’m used to looking out for my family all by myself, I guess.” Grace smoothed her skirt. “But I’d be happy for the chance to school Jack and Mary Kate, and I’m grateful to you. Again.”
“Good!” Wakefield rubbed his hands together briskly. “Excellent! I think I know just the man, met him the other night at Kemble’s dinner party—Hewitt’s his name. Came out to write a book about the city but needs gainful employment in the meantime. I shall call upon him this very day!”
Grace smiled at his enthusiasm. “Thank you, sir. But could I ask—why would you do this for us, for the children of your servant?”
Wakefield considered the question. “Well, I guess I don’t think of you as my servant, Missus Donnelly. You’re a bit too formidable for that.” He winked. “I think of you as a partner of sorts, and I appreciate all you’ve done around here. This house is warm and comfortable for the first time since Abigail and I arrived. The lamps are lit when I come home at night, and waiting for me is a warm dinner better than I could get in any restaurant.” He nodded. “Even Abigail seems a bit improved; Hopkins says her appetite is better and her manner is less … anxious.”
“Oh, sir,” Grace warned, not wanting his hopes to be too high, “I’ve nothing to do with that.”
“Don’t underestimate the power of your presence, madam. When you set a tray in front of a person, believe me, that person feels compelled to eat!” He laughed. “And I’m grateful to you for weathering the storm that is Hopkins,” he added wryly. “It is a relief to have a balance in the atmosphere. Better for Abigail, too.”
“I wonder sometimes, sir, if it wouldn’t be better to hire a proper nurse for your sister?”
Wakefield shook his head. “Abigail won’t hear of it, though I’ve asked her to at least consider a lady’s maid. Someone like the girl she had when we first arrived. If only for a … lighter presence in her daily life.”
“She had another maid in the beginning?” Grace was surprised.
“A sweet girl,” he replied. “Abigail had two slaves at home, whom—much to my father’s chagrin—she freed before leaving, so she hired this girl when we got here. Untrained, of course, and Hopkins didn’t like her, so she didn’t last long, but a cheerful girl nevertheless. Listen.” The doctor leaned forward. “I want to get Abigail a special present for Christmas. What would you suggest?”
“Oh, sir, I don’t know your sister at all.” Grace bit her lip, considering the request. “Before her troubles at home, what gave her the most pleasure?”
Wakefield hesitated only a moment. “Her pianoforte. She loved that instrument. Played and sang for hours at a time. She had a beautiful voice,” he added wistfully. “I’d forgotten that.”
“Would that be something you could do for her, then?”
“I suppose so. But I have to say, Missus Donnelly, I don’t think Abigail will ever make music again. It’s just not in her anymore.”
“You know best, sir. But perhaps a diversion will help turn her mind to other things than that which causes her sadness.”
“Her sadness,” Wakefield repeated. “Growing up, Abigail was not the delicate, nervous creature you see upstairs—she was headstrong and demanding, and our father adored her. After our mother died, he perhaps indulged her too greatly.” Wakefield looked down at his hands, laced the fingers together in his lap. “She was quite publicly engaged to a very powerful man in our circle, who later changed his mind in favor of another woman. His cousin, I believe.”
“And for this she was cast out by her family?”
“Indeed, you have been on the receiving end of gossip.” Wakefield’s voice was suddenly weary. “Do you know the story, then, Missus Donnelly?”
“No, sir. Not the truth of it, at any rate.”
“Then let me clear it up for you. There were other … circumstances, of course, and Abigail was humiliated. It broke her spirit completely, and by the time I returned from my studies in the North, she was not the sister I remembered. Father could not control her erratic behavior and planned to have her committed.” He closed his eyes briefly, then
opened them again but did not look at Grace. “I persuaded him to let me bring her here instead. I had wanted to come for some time, but needed money, which involved the dissolution of property—never a good thing as far as planters are concerned. However, for this, Father did what he had to.” He smiled ruefully. “So, you see, I have benefited from my sister’s tragedy, while she continues to decline.” He stopped now, embarrassed perhaps, or contemplative; Grace wasn’t sure.
“You did what you thought was right,” she offered gently. “You didn’t abandon her to the care of strangers. Whatever she suffers, at least she’s not alone.”
Wakefield nodded, his eyes searching her face.
“And she may yet come to peace, though it take years. You can give her that, can you not?”
“I can give her all the time in the world. The rest of her life.”
“Then have faith that the great physician Himself is at work, and don’t despair. And in the meantime,” Grace continued, reiterating his earlier advice, “why not provide something useful with which to occupy that time?”
Wakefield smiled then, and some of the gloom fell away from his face. “Wise counsel, Missus Donnelly. Quite right. In the name of gainful occupation, the children shall have their tutor, and Abigail shall have her piano.”
“It’ll be a very happy Christmas around here, Doctor, with all that. The children will be so pleased.”
“Thank you, Missus Donnelly. For your discretion. And for your kindness. You have again reinforced my earlier opinion regarding your status in this household.”
“We do what we can, sir. As our friend Sister Joseph is always quoting, ‘Worry adds not a single hour to the length of your days.’”
Wakefield laughed. “I could almost convert because of that woman.”
“She’s a treasure,” Grace agreed. “And now you’d best let me pour out a fresh cup of coffee as I’m sure that one’s stone cold.”
“I’ll do it myself. I’ve kept you long enough. And here”—Wakefield opened a desk drawer and rummaged through it until he found an envelope, which he handed to her—“I’ve included a little extra in the housekeeping money this month. We’ve never had a proper Christmas here,” he explained. “And I thought, especially with children in the house, we might establish a new tradition.”
“Wonderful, sir.” Grace slipped the thick envelope into her apron pocket. “But I don’t know how you do it in the South.”
“And I don’t know how you do it in Ireland,” the doctor replied. “But what does it matter? Do it anyway you like, as long as we have good food, good drink, Christmas trees and caroling, friends calling, presents …”
“Goodwill toward man,” Grace added with a smile.
“That most of all, Missus Donnelly,” he said and looked out the window. “That most of all.”
Nineteen
“You look awful.” Lars Darmstadt leaned against the mantel, puffing on one of his favorite Chilean cigars. “You’re half the man you were before you left. Must’ve been a terrible bout.”
“It was.” Reinders sat in the big comfortable chair near the fireplace, a brandy at hand. “I had to take a cab from the wharf, and even that short ride has done me in.”
“Where’s Liam? Up in his room?”
Reinders shook his head. “Stayed on the ship with Mack. They’re off-loading and seeing to repairs.”
“How’s the old girl holding up?” Darmstadt moved away from the fire and sat down across from his old friend and partner. “I know you’re dying to tell me.”
“I’ll give you the blow-by-blow another time, Lars. It’s all I can do to keep my eyes open.”
“Another time? You mean you don’t want to review every hoist of the sail, every knot she picked up, how well she weathered the voyage? Dear boy! You have been ill!”
“Who’s been ill?” Darmstadt’s wife, Detra, sailed into the room, and then the smile on her face evaporated. “Good Lord, Peter! You look simply dreadful.”
“Thank you.” Reinders smiled wearily. “It’s now official. If you’d seen me a month ago, however, you’d be raving about my glowing good health.”
Detra inspected him more closely. “Malaria?”
Reinders lifted his glass.
“You’ve lost a lot of weight,” she appraised. “And I suppose you’re weak as a kitten. How on earth did you make the trip back up?”
“Mack and Liam saw to everything. They made sure I stayed in my cabin, and—to tell you the truth—I didn’t put up any kind of fight. Liam’s going to make a fine captain one day,” Reinders added proudly. “He navigated that ship beautifully.”
“Well, all I can say is that I’m glad you’re home safely. And you’re staying home for a while now, aren’t you? Isn’t he, Lars?” She looked to her husband for confirmation.
Darmstadt laughed. “I hope so, my dear, but you know Peter. He does whatever he wishes. What do you say, Captain? Home for the Christmas holidays, then?”
“Yes.” Reinders leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes.
The smiles on their faces faltered, and Lars and Detra exchanged a worried glance, unused to seeing their old friend so complacent.
“Oh.” Peter’s eyes struggled back open and found Detra. “Have you seen the mail? Is there anything from Grace?”
“I haven’t had a look at anything yet; we’ve only just gotten back ourselves, and the household is in a bit of disarray.”
She went out into the hall and spoke with the housekeeper, who returned a moment later, bearing a basket full of newspapers, magazines, and envelopes. With a word of thanks, Detra set the lot on her writing desk and began sorting through.
“Ah!” She held up an envelope with Peter’s name scrawled across the front. “Here’s something,” she announced, bringing it to him.
He recognized Grace’s handwriting and opened it immediately, reading it quickly while Lars pretended to be busy with his pipe and Detra feigned interest in a new magazine.
Reinders turned it over, saw there was nothing on the back, and then the hand with the letter fell into his lap. He looked up at his friends, who had stopped all activity in order to hear the news.
“She’s in San Francisco!”
“Here?” Lars leaned forward. “When did she arrive? Where is she staying?”
“Going by the date on this, she got here in September.” The captain’s forehead creased with concern. “She says only that Mary Kate is ill—was ill, I guess now—and is in the hospital, and that she’ll leave word again once they’ve found a place to live.” He turned to Detra. “Is there anything else from her?”
She looked through the pile again, then shook her head.
“Lars, call Arnott. Ask him if she’s been here.” Then she turned to Reinders and whispered, “I don’t like that butler. He’s off-putting.”
“He’s a snob,” Reinders said bluntly.
“Hush, the two of you.” Darmstadt rose from his chair. “I like a man who’s off-putting—such a benefit when creditors come to call.” He headed toward the hall. “Arnott!”
The butler appeared so quickly he might well have been standing behind the door. Peter and Detra nodded at one another knowingly, their suspicions confirmed.
“Ah, good, there you are.” Drawing himself up to his full height, Lars was still inches shorter than the hulking butler. “Arnott, has a Missus Donnelly stopped here in the past months? She would have asked to see Captain Reinders.”
The butler frowned and looked at the tips of his shoes, as if trying to recall such an incident.
“A number of women called for the captain, sir. I don’t remember a Missus Donnelly in particular.”
“A lovely young woman,” Darmstadt prodded. “Perhaps with a child alongside? Irish?”
“Ah, yes. Irish.” Arnott looked up, his tight lips betraying a certain disdain. “A beggar woman, sir, extremely dirty. Wearing trousers. I suspected a claim upon the captain and did not encourage her further.”
“But you took her letter?” Detra asked.
“Yes, madam. I put it with the others.”
“And there has been no further word from her?” Darmstadt resumed control of the interrogation.
“Yes, sir. She wished to report her living arrangements with another man.” Arnott darted a quick glance at Reinders. “Wakefield is the name she gave, sir.”
“Doctor Wakefield?” Darmstadt clarified.
“I believe so, sir. She may be a domestic in that household. It was difficult to understand her manner of speech, sir.”
Darmstadt eyed him warily, acknowledging the slight. “That’s enough, Arnott. You may go.”
“Very good, sir.” The butler bowed. “Excuse me, sir, but Cook wonders how many for dinner.”
“Three most definitely.” Detra spoke up. “Possibly five, if Master Kelley and Mister Mackley join us.”
“Very good, madam.” Arnott bowed again and left the room.
“Blast him,” Reinders cursed, smacking the arm of the chair with his fist. “Arrogant, sniveling little ball—”
Darmstadt cleared his throat noisily.
“Excuse me, Detra. Too long at sea,” Reinders apologized. “Who is this Wakefield, Lars? Do you know anything about him?”
“Rowen Wakefield.” Darmstadt crossed the room and stood before the fire. “Old money from the South. Good man, though, is my understanding. Excellent doctor. Set up the cholera clinic down by the waterfront; saved thousands during the epidemic. Runs it as a general ward now, and he’s on the board for the new Marine Hospital out on Rincon Point.”
“So she met him in the clinic, most likely,” Reinders surmised. “Had no idea where I was or when I might get back, so she took a place in his house. The children must be with her.”
“He’s a very reputable man,” Darmstadt reassured him. “Highly thought of in every quarter. I’m sure she’s in good hands.”
“That may be the cause of his anxiety, dear,” Detra informed her husband. “We must send word to Missus Donnelly that Peter has returned. Get the writing box, Lars.”