by BJ Hoff
Jack continued to study the boy for a moment more, then pushed away from the desk. When he stood, Sheridan also drew quickly to his feet. “There’s nothing else, then?” Jack said. “Just this business with the church?”
“There’s nothing else, sir, and that’s the truth.”
“Well, what you do with your religion is your own business, Sheridan. As I’m sure anyone would tell you, I’d be a most unlikely man to give you spiritual counsel.” He came around the desk. “We’ll try you for a month to see how it works out. I warn you, my schedule is often erratic—I’ll expect you to be ready at a moment’s notice and with no complaining.”
“You’ll hear no grumbling from me, I promise you, sir.” The lad seemed to be debating with himself over something. Finally, he said, “Mr. Kane? There is one other thing perhaps I ought to mention.”
So the boy was in trouble after all. The disappointment that rose in Jack was probably unreasonable, but he had responded to Sheridan’s unmistakable intelligence, his eagerness, and his straightforwardness. Clenching his jaw, he waited.
“I feel I ought to be honest with you, sir.” The youth stood wadding his cap between his big hands. “Grateful as I am for the job, it’s not the sort of position I’ll be wanting forever.”
“And what exactly does that mean?” Jack growled around the cheroot.
“It means, sir, that in time I hope to gain a place for myself at the newspaper. Your paper, that is,” he added quickly. “Once I’m better prepared, of course.”
Jack frowned. “I think you’d best explain yourself. If you wanted a job on the paper, why didn’t you apply at the Vanguard’s office to begin with?”
Sheridan’s features tightened. “I did, sir. But I was told there was no place for the likes of me, my not having the book learning or experience required. Your manager wouldn’t even let me into his office, you see. Said I was too young, too shabby, and too ignorant.”
Jack suppressed a smile. Walter Goff had never been a man to mince words. “No doubt he was right,” he quipped. “So, you thought you’d work your way into my good graces by hiring on as my driver and then wangle a place for yourself on the newspaper?” Though he deliberately roughened his voice, he regarded the youth with growing interest. “And what makes you think you’d want to work on a newspaper in any event?”
“Not just any newspaper, sir,” Sheridan corrected. “Your newspaper. The Vanguard. ’Tis the best of the lot.”
“Well, thank you very much for the vote of confidence, Mr. Sheridan,” Jack said, his tone dry. “But that doesn’t quite answer my question.”
The young man—for by now Jack found it strangely difficult to think of Sheridan as a boy—appeared to frame his reply with great care. Once again, his answer was surprising—and obviously fired by a deep-seated conviction.
“Most men seem to believe there’s power in guns or in great wealth—or in politics,” Sheridan said. His tone was studied, his expression thoughtful, yet Jack could sense the passion behind his words. “It seems to me, though, that the real power of a people—of an entire country, if you will—is in what they read. Books. The press. These are the things that change people’s minds…even their lives. You of all people must know what I mean, Mr. Kane. You and your newspaper, you can make people look at things the way you want them to, make them believe what you want them to believe—even move them to act the way you think they should act. That’s real power, it seems to me, and the only kind worth having.”
Jack expelled a long breath. What Sheridan said was the truth, and he couldn’t have stated it better himself, though he had never thought of it in quite that way. For some reason, Sheridan’s insight made him both curious and somewhat uncomfortable. “And that’s what you want, then, is it, Cavan Sheridan? Power? For what purpose do you want this power, if you don’t mind my asking?”
The level blue gaze never wavered. “I don’t actually want it for myself, sir. At least, not entirely.”
No, he wouldn’t, Jack thought. There was more to this one than a narrow selfish streak. Much more, he’d warrant.
“What, then?” He couldn’t resist probing a bit further.
For the first time since their meeting, young Sheridan smiled. It was a peculiar smile, and though it eased the good-looking, taut features somewhat, it nevertheless seemed far too grim for a youth of Sheridan’s years. It was a smile that failed to conceal the haunted look in the eyes, the hint of old, unhealed sorrows—and unless Jack was badly mistaken, a low-burning but ever present anger.
“For our people,” Sheridan said quietly.
“Ah, for our people,” Jack repeated, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice as he extinguished his cigar. “On which side of the ocean in particular?”
Cavan Sheridan regarded him with a steady, oddly unsettling stare. “It seems to me,” he said slowly, “that things are pretty much the same for the Irish on both sides. Wouldn’t you say so, Mr. Kane?”
Jack said nothing, other than to indicate to Cavan Sheridan that he was hired and could assume his duties at once.
He reached to seal their agreement with a handshake, strangely moved when his new employee, as if out of long habit, wiped his hand quickly down the side of his leg before responding.
8
TOO LONG APART
Bitter is your trouble—and I am far from you.
DORA SIGERSON SHORTER
A week later, Cavan sat in the kitchen of the Kane mansion, having his breakfast and taking in the morning prattle of Mrs. Flynn, the cook, and Nancy Lynch, the young Irish day maid.
The latter was a bold sort, plump and pretty enough with her laughing eyes, high color, and shiny chestnut curls that invariably resisted the confines of a dust cap. From Cavan’s first day on the job, the girl had made it clear that she would not be averse to his attentions. Cavan, however, was not interested. Even if the girl hadn’t been a bit too coarse for his liking, he had more important things on his docket than dallying with the maids.
Besides, Jack Kane made it known to all his employees that he would not tolerate such goings-on among members of the staff, and Cavan had no intention of getting off to a bad start with his employer. This job was too important to him. So while he endured the maid’s coquetry with good humor, he made no pretense of encouraging her. Despite his indifference, though, the girl did not seem easily daunted. Already this morning she had been eyeing him, taking what seemed an excessive length of time to collect the previous day’s soiled tea towels and napkins for the laundry.
Aware of her scrutiny, Cavan made a determined effort to avoid her gaze as he ate his oatmeal and picked at the plate of bacon Mrs. Flynn had set before him. A fine cook, Mrs. Flynn, and she seemed to have taken a liking to Cavan right away. Every morning when he entered the house he found a generous breakfast waiting for him.
“So, then, Mr. Sheridan, how are you faring in your new job with Black Jack?” Nancy Lynch asked, watching Cavan as she pressed the linens down into the basket.
“Ach, girl, hush with such talk!” Mrs. Flynn swept the kitchen with a furtive glance, as if she expected their employer to suddenly appear from one of the dim corners. “Don’t be repeating that vulgar nickname. He is ‘Mr. Kane’ to you and all the rest of us.”
“As if he doesn’t know what he’s called behind his back,” the girl countered with a shrug. She shot Cavan a smile as she snapped another towel into the laundry basket.
“His knowing it and liking it aren’t the same thing, now are they? You’d do well to keep a civil tongue, miss, if you value your position here.”
The maid wrinkled her nose. “Well, I wasn’t talking to you, now was I?” She angled another look at Cavan. “So, what does Mr. Kane have you doing when you’re not squiring him about town or cleaning out the stables?”
Cavan set his spoon carefully beside his bowl. “I keep busy,” he replied, “looking after the horses and doing odd jobs about the newspaper.”
“From the looks of that woodpi
le out back,” put in Mrs. Flynn, “you’ve been busy with the ax as well. And, sure, aren’t we going to need it this day? ’Tis bitter cold out. With snow on the way again by evening, I’ll wager.”
“I’ll bring in more wood if you like,” Cavan offered, pushing away from the table. “There’s time before we leave for the office.”
The good-natured cook waved a hand, then reached to tuck a strand of gray hair back under her cap. Her face was flushed from the heat of the cookstove, her crisp apron beginning to wilt, even at this early hour. “No, there’ll be more than enough until later this evening. See here, Cavan Sheridan, you’ve scarcely eaten anything. You don’t take in enough to keep a wee boy fit, much less a big strapping lad like yourself.” Ignoring Cavan’s protests, she scooted a plate of buttered scones closer to him.
Cavan’s lack of appetite was nothing new. He supposed the idea of sitting down twice a day to the bountiful fare of the Kane household should have seemed like a gift from heaven itself after so long a time of going without. Yet Cavan could never quite bring himself to enjoy the variety of dishes from Mrs. Flynn’s kitchen. Too often the savory morsels brought a bitter image of his mother and sisters, turned out in the cold and dying hungry and homeless by the sea. Those times the food sat on his tongue like so many dry, tasteless kernels of grain.
From the hallway just then, a tuneful whistle heralded the approach of their employer. As Jack Kane entered the kitchen, it seemed to Cavan that the man didn’t so much walk into a room as appear in it. Kane moved with the silent, lithe grace of a mountain cat, often creeping up on a body with no warning except his soft, melodic whistling.
He had already donned his well-tailored black overcoat and, as always, appeared jaunty and brisk. “As soon as you’ve finished your breakfast, lad, we’ll be leaving. I need to go in a bit early this morning.”
Cavan was already on his feet. “The carriage is ready, sir.”
Nancy Lynch slipped out the door behind Kane, darting one last look at Cavan. Mrs. Flynn turned around from the sink, wiping her hands on her apron. “Has there been any word from Mr. Brady yet, sir?”
Kane’s features darkened. “I’m afraid not. I expect I’ll be sending a man across to see what’s become of him, once the weather eases.”
Mrs. Flynn wrung her apron with hands red and work roughened. “Sure, he’ll be perfectly fine, sir. It would take more than an old windstorm to foil Mr. Brady.”
Kane’s smile appeared slightly forced. “No doubt you’re right, Mary. But I’d feel better if I knew where he was.”
In the entryway, Cavan waited while Kane snapped a white carnation from a vase and slipped it into his lapel. On the way outside, his employer seemed inclined to conversation, which wasn’t always the case; most mornings, Kane had little to say until they reached the Vanguard’s offices.
Today, though, he peppered Cavan with questions. “You told me you still had family in Ireland. A sister, I believe?”
Cavan nodded, his throat tightening. “Aye, sir. My sister, Terese.”
“There are just the two of you?”
“That’s right, sir. Terese has been staying with our aunt, but I hope to bring her across soon.”
They took the walkway with care. A light coating of freezing rain had fallen during the night, leaving the grounds glazed and slippery. Cavan shrugged his aching shoulder a couple of times against the chill; the pain from the injury always seemed to worsen as temperatures dropped.
He felt his employer’s eyes on him, as if the other were expecting more in the way of information. After a moment, Kane again took up the conversation. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard how your sister fared in the storm yet?” he said, slowing his pace as they approached the carriage.
Cavan stopped, looking at him.
Kane frowned. “Sorry, I thought you knew or I’d have said something before now. There was a bad windstorm, it seems. From all accounts, I’d say it must have been nothing less than a hurricane.”
“When—when exactly was this, sir?”
Kane smoothed his gloves. “Right after the first of the year, on Epiphany Sunday. Swept over most of Ireland, apparently—just about blew the country to pieces. Terrible destruction. Trees uprooted, houses leveled, fires—” He paused, then added, “I’m afraid the reports indicate great numbers of people dead or missing.” He stopped. “You’ve had no word at all from your sister?”
Cavan shook his head. He felt suddenly chilled, and the ache in his shoulder escalated. “I wrote her with my whereabouts, but that was only a few days ago. The last letter I had from her was before I left Pennsylvania.”
“How old is she, your sister?”
Cavan had to think. “She must be close on seventeen by now, I expect.” He swallowed. Terese had not even been eleven years old when he and Da left Ireland. “Do you know, sir—did this storm strike the islands as well? Inishmore and the others?”
Kane nodded, his expression sympathetic. “I’m afraid so.” He climbed into the carriage then, saying, “As I told Mrs. Flynn, I’ll be sending a man over to see about my brother when the weather breaks. We’ll have him stop at the islands to ask after your sister as well, if you like.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir,” said Cavan. “Sure, I’d appreciate it.”
“Yes, well, that may be a few weeks yet. Perhaps in the meantime you’ll hear something from her.”
Kane ducked his head back inside the carriage then, and Cavan climbed up to the driver’s bench, trying not to think about Terese on her own in the terrible storm. He knew she was no longer a child, yet he could not think of her as anything else. The image of the way she had looked that last day in the harbor, the day he and Da had left for America, was frozen on the frame of his memory. She had not aged in his mind since then but had remained a thin, awkward little girl with slightly wild hair and eyes red and swollen from crying after himself and their father.
She had clung to him, her arms locked about him as if to physically bind him to her. “Take us with you! Please, Cavan! You mustn’t leave us here! Take us, too!”
They had made promises that day, he and Da. They would send for the others soon, they vowed. In no time at all, they would all be together again. “As soon as we find jobs for us both, we’ll arrange for a flat. Or perhaps even a house. The time will pass before you know it; you’ll see.”
Their mother had stood by, oddly silent, holding Baby Mada, while Honor, the oldest of the girls, hovered near. Terese would not let go of Cavan but instead begged him not to leave without her and the others. At the end, Cavan had practically shoved her away and run for the ship, hiding his own sobs from his father.
Even now when he thought of that day, his eyes stung with unshed tears of grief—and guilt. They had failed, he and Da. Failed his mother and the little sisters…and the babe. They were all dead, and so was Da. No one was left except for Terese and himself.
And now, with word of this storm, who could say that he hadn’t lost her as well?
He tried to console himself with the reminder that Terese had always been strong. From the time she was small, she had possessed an uncommon nerve and a will of iron. Indeed, she had always been the boldest and most resourceful of them all. Fiery, clever, and stubborn to the point of their mother’s despair at times. Terese would be fine. She could take care of herself. Besides, she wasn’t entirely alone after all. She had Aunt Una and Uncle Felim.
Small comfort, that. Those two had been more children themselves than a man and woman grown, he thought uneasily.
But Terese would manage, he assured himself. She would be all right.
All the same, he spent the rest of the drive praying for his sister, beseeching God to guard her until the day he could finally bring her across. Just as fervently, he implored—and not for the first time—divine forgiveness for having left her behind in the first place.
As was his custom, Jack Kane perused a number of rival newspapers during the morning ride to his office. The Herald
presently lay open on his lap, but his attempt to read Bennett’s latest splash of sensationalism was halfhearted at best. For some reason, he couldn’t keep his mind off Cavan Sheridan.
Jack had seen guilt often enough in his life to recognize the signs of it in his young driver. The look on Sheridan’s face when he’d learned about the storm had been one of unmistakable shock mixed with fear—and guilt.
No doubt the boy had left Ireland, like thousands of other Irish males, with the intention and expectation of bringing the rest of his family across within a few months at most. As was often the case, months had turned into years, with still no means of sending for the others.
Young Sheridan talked sparingly of himself. He had spoken but once of his parents and two younger sisters, all deceased. This morning’s conversation had been only the second allusion to the surviving sister. Jack thought it highly possible that the lad blamed himself for not being able to save his family.
He put the Herald aside, slid his feet closer to the warming bricks, and gave the lap robe a tug against the early-morning chill. He didn’t know the facts, of course, but something told him that his new driver was the sort who tended to be excessively hard on himself. He appeared to own a keen conscience and an equally keen sensitivity.
If Sheridan had a sense of humor—and Jack suspected that he did—he kept it under wraps in the presence of his employer. He seemed to look at all things soberly and seriously, which made Jack speculate as to just how much the lad might be blaming himself for something completely beyond his control.
Odd, the difference in men when they lost control of their circumstances. He had seen it more than once. Some seemed to take on a kind of fierce resolve, a strength of purpose that eventually turned out to be either the making or the breaking of them. Others allowed guilt to oppress them to the point that it completely distorted their sense of reality. The latter very often ended up believing themselves to be less than the men they actually were. Some managed to shake off the guilt completely, either through their religion or by sheer force of will. Others, however, let it eventually destroy them.