Patrick winked at Clare. “Why, of course, Mr. Howell. Her talents were well celebrated back in Ireland. It was a dear blow to her colleagues when they discovered she stowed away to America.”
“I see,” the man said, unpersuaded but apparently unwilling to challenge her uncle. “Follow me, young lady, and we’ll get you your own station.”
Clare’s shifts began before sunrise and ended long after the darkness settled. Six days a week, with only fifteen minutes of breaks per shift. Her pay was a nickel per article of clothing, and as the floor stewards often reminded her, if she didn’t hit her quota, there were many others begging to take her chair. Clare suspected the job would be hers until Patrick said otherwise, but she never pressed matters. Though thankful for her uncle’s part in the matter, she was intent on keeping the job on her own merit.
Which was why, on this particular morning, Clare was so concerned about being late. She took one last look at the mirror and glanced at the clock. “Oh, dear.”
As she went downstairs, she saw Patrick playing cards with Seamus, Pierce, and another man whose back was turned to her.
She considered trying to bolt quietly for the door due to her tardiness and her uncle’s tendency toward long-windedness. But before she took two more steps, Patrick spotted her and beckoned her with a maudlin wave of drunkenness.
With no other recourse, she approached the table and as she did, the man sitting opposite her uncle turned and then stood and nodded to her in greeting. He was broad shouldered, with a square chin, draping sideburns, and deep brown eyes, which lit up faintly as he looked at her, like a candle peering from a dark cave.
She held out her hand to him in an awkward gesture of greeting, and he kissed it gently, surprising her and making her face rush with warmth.
Patrick eyed the two of them with a knowing smile. He lifted a bottle of amber liquor and went to pour it in a short glass, missing wildly before it filled. He held the glass to her in salute.
“Here’s to the working woman.” Then he lifted the glass to his lips, emptied it with one movement, then slammed it on the table.
Clare looked nervously at Seamus and then Pierce, who was glaring at the stranger.
“My dear Clare,” Patrick said in a loud, slurring voice. “Is it time already for the good people to be laboring away? Have you no time for a game of chance?”
On the table were several empty bottles of, what appeared to be, whiskey, a pile of cards, and dollar bills scattered as if they were rubbish fluttering through the wind. Clare could only imagine how many shirts she would need to sew to make up for all of the money lying there in such slipshod fashion.
Pierce stood, leaned over, and gave her an awkward hug. “Off to work, are you?”
“Yes. And I mustn’t be late.”
“Mustn’t you?” Patrick garbled. “Have you met John Barden? The great John Barden. The savior of the Irish civilization.”
“I am new to his acquaintance.” Clare wondered why she was blushing.
“Let us be strangers no more,” John said in a deep voice without taking his eyes off of Clare.
“Do you know who John Barden is?” Patrick picked up his cards and reordered them.
“That is a champion fighter there before you,” Seamus said to Clare and he rocked back in his chair with glazed eyes.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Barden,” Clare said, trying to recapture her poise. “Now, I must be on my way. I surely will be late if I tarry further.”
“Will we get to see you tonight?” John raised an eyebrow.
“Perhaps,” Clare said in a flirtatious way so foreign to her. She turned and scurried for the door.
What a terrific fool!
Clare left the tavern into a wall of crisp air as the sun brought first light to the city. Her mind danced with both merriment and embarrassment and she replayed her encounter with John Barden as she ran almost the entire way to the factory.
Her efforts paid off, as she was one of several who entered through the large doors of William & Howell just prior to the hands of the large clock signaling it to be six o’clock in the morning.
Once inside she stood in line until reaching the desk where Diedre Turrell logged her in the attendance rolls with her large-plumed quill. “A bit tight, Miss Hanley, wouldn’t you say?” The woman, whose hair was as tightly wrapped in a bun as possible, barely looked up from her book. “Next time. Fifteen minutes early or that will be half a day’s wages.”
“What?” breathed Clare, whose mind was drifting. “Yes. Of course. It won’t happen again.”
Clare scampered to her desk and barely sat down before the morning bell rang loudly, signifying the start of day.
In one movement, the entire room was alive with rattling machinery.
“Good morning, Miss Clare,” Magdalene Beglan said cheerfully. She was a master seamstress with more than thirty years of experience and was tasked with teaching Clare the intricacies of the craft. Although her knuckles were gnarled like a tree’s knot, she was still able to outproduce most of those on the floor.
Magdalene’s rounded and cheerful face was squeezed into a bonnet that covered much of her gray hair. She had a kind disposition and was patient with Clare, whose skill level required it. However, under her mentor’s gentle tutelage, Clare’s development in the craft was admirably swift. But that didn’t protect her from the whispered gossip that blossomed across the factory floor.
The constant prattle among the women kept the job’s tedium at bay, and Clare’s preferential treatment was a subject of intrigue. One of the more scandalous versions of the rumors stipulated that Clare was a mistress of Patrick Feagles. She learned there was no defense against the wildfires of the tongue and was left to suffer the indignity of ogling and laughter.
Magdalene did her best to shield Clare from the roguery, but the woman who sat on the other side of her workstation offered no such relief. In fact, Sara Atwood, a short woman with protruding eyeballs and frazzled blonde hair, tormented Clare with inquiries concerning Patrick Feagles. He was a man, apparently, Sara found to be most fascinating.
And today would be no different.
“So what was your Mr. Feagles up to this morning?” Sara asked with a churlish grin.
Clare sighed and sought relief from Magdalene and then turned back to Sara. “If you have such a keen interest in Mr. Feagles’s character, you might question him directly.”
“No,” Sara said. “I much prefer asking you. It’s safer. After all, he’s a man of some mystery, wouldn’t you say? And what was it exactly he had hanging over Mr. Howell to get someone as green as you a job like this? Something thick I’d say.”
“Sara Atwood, have you no decency!” Magdalene snapped.
“Just being friendly with the girl.” Sara held up the shirt she was sewing. “Will you look at that?” One of the sleeves was askance.
“Fine work there.” Magdalene shook her head. “If you used your eyes more than your lips, you wouldn’t be making so many mistakes. If the foreman sees that, he’ll take your chair.”
Sara looked to the left several stations down where a sturdy man with a forward lean at his shoulders walked with an air of authority, his arms clasped behind his back.
“Carl?” Sara snickered. “He wouldn’t have a mean thought about me.”
“He’d have plenty if he bothered looking at your needlework,” Magdalene said.
“Ouch.” Clare shook her hand in response to the pain of the needle piercing her index finger. A bubble of blood formed on her fingertip.
“Be careful, child. You’re working with white fabric. Make sure you bandage it.”
Clare nodded at Magdalene. Looking at her hand, she could see the evidence of her learning miscues. They were scabbed and calloused and appeared to have aged many years in just her first few
weeks on the job.
“What have you learned about your cousin?” Sara asked. “Has he arrived at a decision about . . . you know?”
“I’m afraid so.” Magdalene sighed.
“Is he really going to go?” Sara’s eyes opened wide. “What does your sister think of all of this?”
“She’s devastated, she is.” Magdalene met Clare’s eyes as she glanced up from her task of wrapping the bandage around her finger. “They are mustering a new army regiment here to join the war.”
“The war?”
Sara giggled. “The war. Yes, the war. Dearest Clare haven’t you seen the posters all over the Five Points?”
Clare’s face heated. “Yes. Of course.” She had seen the recruiting signs on her way to and from the shop but hadn’t paid much attention to what they said.
“I don’t know why we’re down in Mexico in the first place,” Magdalene said with a huff.
“It’s Mr. Polk.” Sara folded the shirt she had repaired and stacked it with the others piled on the corner of her table. “I think he’s quite handsome . . . in a presidential way, of course.”
“Well, your man ought to get his own people to do his fighting,” Magdalene said. “I’ve heard it said more than half the army are Irish lads. With work so scarce, the boys will carry a rifle rather than go home penniless. And what a price for their families to pay. Oh, dear.”
“’Tis a shame, I’ll give you that,” Sara said. “But I must say, they do look smart in their uniforms, don’t they?”
“It must pay well, I suppose.”
“Not much, Clare,” Magdalene said. “Considering the risk. The boys will do it because they get food and tents to sleep in so they can send their full wages home.”
“Speaking of a battle,” Sara said, “have you heard of John Barden?”
“You know what I think about boxing.” Magdalene snorted. “Grown men bludgeoning each other as greater fools watch. What has society become?”
“What was that name?” Clare asked.
“I said John Barden,” Sara responded, scrutinizing Clare. “Do you know of the man?”
Blood rushed to her face again, and she instantly regretted her question. “I may have heard of him.”
“Did you see her face?” Sara smiled perversely. “I never seen it shining so.”
“Leave the girl be.” Magdalene waved her off.
“I will not. Our Clare not only likes him, she’s a bit smitten.”
“You’re m-making too much of it,” Clare stammered. “He’s a friend of Patrick’s, that’s all.”
“Of course he is. That’s how you know him. But that isn’t explaining the roses in your cheeks.”
“He’s a strapping man, that one.” Magdalene smiled. “There’s no shame in fancying him.”
“I never said I fancied him.” She raised her eyebrows at the old woman. “And I thought you were on my side.”
“Well, his face is pretty for now. But not much for long.”
“Really, Sara,” Magdalene said. “You are tiring.”
“What? Clare knows.”
“And what is it I know? I barely know the man.”
“Really. You haven’t heard?”
“Are you ladies enjoying yourselves today?” The foreman had snuck up on them, with his arms folded across his chest above his large belly, and Carl rocked back and forth on his heels with an air of authority. “I expect more from you, Magdalene.”
“Yes, Mr. Wallace.”
“We was just talking about John Barden,” Sara said. “Clare here is a dear friend.”
“Is that so?” Carl said, with genuine interest expressed in a face pockmarked and ruddy in complexion.
“To be honest—”
“Don’t listen to her,” Sara interrupted Clare. “She’s bashful about her love interests.”
“What says old John about the fight?” Carl asked. “That Billy Tunnel must have him cowering. I’m surprised he hasn’t left town.”
“That shows what you know about anything,” Sara said. “John is not afraid of nothing. He’ll send ol’ Billy back home, and he can take you with him.”
Carl seemed to savor Sara’s spunk. “Is that right? Well, I’m sure you’ll be willing to put up your earnings on a proper wager.”
“I just might.” Sara lifted her nose but with a voice that wasn’t as convincing.
“We’ll get back to our work, Carl,” Magdalene said. “I’ll keep the ladies on it.”
He nodded. “That would be a rightly notion. Mr. Howell has been disappointed with our quotas.” He leaned forward and whispered, “We’re supposed to let three go today, just to send a message.”
“Well, I will assure you,” Magdalene said, “we won’t give you further reason for it to be one of us.”
Carl fingered through the stack of shirts on Clare’s table, and as he looked at her, she lowered her eyes and started to weave her needle again. From the periphery she could see him tuck his arms behind his back and start walking away.
That was all she needed to hear. Despite Sara’s incessant blathering, Clare kept silent for the remainder of the day. But that wouldn’t keep her mind from being filled with unfettered musing. Try as she might, she couldn’t escape the brooding eyes of John Barden.
Chapter 27
The Escort
When the final bell rang that evening, Clare was relieved she still had a job. Not that she really believed it was possible for her to be fired. But a pall had come across the factory floor as the news of the dismissals brought palpable tension throughout the building.
The darkness of the evening was upon them, and in the sparse gas lighting hanging from poles in the street, a flurry of white drifting snow was visible, although it had yet to collect on the ground.
Amidst the exodus of tired seamstresses into the flow of the streets, Clare locked arms with Magdalene and Sara. They had a couple of blocks in common before they scattered in separate directions, and it was their ritual to sojourn together. Even Sara’s rattling was preferable to the eerie sounds of Clare’s shadowy Five Points commute.
The first time she had taken the journey home by herself, Clare was stricken with fear. Most of the streets she traveled were well populated with men who glared as she passed, drunks, prostitutes, beggars, as well as groves of stragglers from labor ending.
She felt comforted in these crowds, as malcontented were many of the faces she passed. What chilled her to the core were those patches in her journey where there was an uneasy quiet, and she was alone except for those whose presence could be felt, but not seen, peering out from alleyways and dark crevices.
This was why she cherished having companionship for at least the beginning of her nightly trek home.
“Is misery the snow and wind,” Sara said.
“Yes, it’s biting.” Magdalene wrapped her dark wool jacket tightly around her. “I hope it eases or we’ll be trudging through it in the morning. What about you, Clare, poor dear?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” she said, although the bright red coat Patrick had bought her offered more style than warmth.
Sara tugged on the two of them and they stopped in the middle of the road as they were crossing the street. “Is that . . . ?”
“Why it certainly is!” Magdalene said in a startled whisper.
Clare traced the direction of Sara’s finger and saw standing on the corner, leaning against the gaslight with his arms crossed, none other than John Barden. When he saw he was recognized, John stood alert and tipped his high black hat, which was brimmed with snow.
What business could he have in ill weather at this time of night? Surely John couldn’t be waiting for her? Clare glanced to her left and right on the chance there was someone else beside her who could be drawing his gaze.
“Come, Sara. Let’s not be two old meddlesome ladies.”
“There’s only one old lady here, Magdalene. But go, go.” Sara pushed Clare in his direction.
Clare tried to resist but stumbled forward. She had a terrible thought that her wig might be askew, but a quick survey with her hands seemed to confirm it was properly placed. How presumptuous. What if he isn’t even here to meet me? There was no other choice now, as her two friends had abandoned her with trailing laughter.
Clare tried to recover her dignity and approached him with a trimmed gait. “Are you following me?” She tried her best to sound bothered by the notion.
He appeared amused. He stepped into the brightness of the lamp, and a glint of charm peered through the rough granite of his face. “If I say no, you’d be disappointed. Wouldn’t you?” He spoke in a slow, deep, and measured voice.
“Not short on confidence, are you?”
“Lacking confidence is a liability in my profession.” He smiled smugly. “Here.” He unwrapped his coal black wool scarf from his neck and then put it around hers with a gentleness unusual for such a large man.
It made her uneasy for this relative stranger to be doing this for her, yet it was comforting as well. She tightened the scarf, which smelled of a masculine blend of tobacco smoke and sweat and was flecked with snow.
“Shall we?” He held out his arm.
Clare took his arm and then struggled to keep up with his lengthy steps as they moved forward. She glanced behind her to see Magdalene and Sara giggling and waving at her. She grimaced.
“And what exactly is your profession?” she asked as her free hand felt again to see if her wig was aligned.
“That would depend on who’s asking, I suppose. To my employer, I serve as what you might call a peacemaker.”
“A peacemaker?” she said with sarcasm.
“Yes. When I’m around, people seem to quiet their spirits.”
“I thought you were a prizefighter.”
Flight of the Earls Page 19