Reverend Clarke tapped a pencil on his ledger. “Can you do laundry?”
“It was done for us in the workhouse.”
“Cooking?”
“I did none.”
“Well, then, sweeping up?”
“Aye. I can do that. I’m sure I can learn the rest, Reverend Clarke. I do a lot of watching; then I can do it. Like my drawing. I watched a lass and soon I was sketching with my own pencil.”
“I suppose the tasks aren’t too complicated to catch on to. I’m afraid drawing won’t employ you adequately, though. We will focus on housekeeping.”
Mrs. Reilly brought in the snack, and Grace and the reverend ate. The man had not asked why she’d been in a workhouse. Plenty of people on the ship had been as well, so it was likely he’d heard of it before. Neither did he ask about relatives back home, and she was glad she didn’t have to relive the eviction after her father’s death. He did, however, ask about the condition of her soul.
“Don’t tell me if you’re Catholic or Protestant,” he said, waving a chunk of apple in the air. “Just tell me whether or not Jesus is your Lord and Savior.”
His jolly manner made Grace feel more at ease, and that surprised her. “My mother was quite religious.”
“Your mother.” He nodded. “Well, if you have any spiritual concerns for yourself, I want you to feel free to come to me. We want you to feel at home here, Miss McCaffery.”
Home? “Thank you.”
She did want to ask a question, although it wouldn’t change things. “I confess, Reverend, I do not understand why God allows misery in this world.”
The man stood. “I confess the same.”
She nearly dropped her china cup. “You’re a man of the cloth.” It might have been rude to point that out, but she could not help herself.
He turned to an overstuffed bookcase and withdrew a volume. He held it against his chest like a shield. “I’ve studied all the philosophers and read the Bible cover to cover. Many times.” He shoved the book back in. “I have come to a conclusion, Grace. You don’t mind me calling you by your Christian name, child?”
“I do not mind.”
“Good, good. We’re family here.”
She swiveled in her chair to watch him as he strolled around his office.
He paused and held up a finger. “My conclusion is this: God does not reveal all. My mind couldn’t comprehend it if he did.”
“I don’t understand.”
He slipped two fingers between the buttons on his vest. “I don’t either. Here is what I do know. In the book of 1 John—” He did not pick up a book. He was reciting from memory. “The Scripture says, ‘We love him, because he first loved us.’ And I ask myself, is there more love in the world because of what I’m doing? If not, I need to change that.”
Well, as jolly nice as this man was, it seemed he was no genius. But so long as he could set her up with a place to stay and a job, Grace could take it from there. She prayed he would not now ask about her life in Ireland.
He picked up his fountain pen. “Therefore, since I know you will need a bit of help, here we are to serve. Now, I am sure we have a family who would love to employ you in their household.” He studied the ledger again. “I’ll get to work on it while you take these things back to the kitchen.”
She stood and collected the dishes and tray that Mrs. Reilly had brought. “Thank you. If you don’t mind me asking, Reverend, how many girls do you do this for?”
“Oh, dozens, a hundred perhaps. I’m not quite sure.”
She thought about the size of the houses they’d passed on the way there. Nothing like the workhouse. “Surely not all at one time?”
“Oh no. Only a few at a time. Then they move on and others come.”
Move on. Grace looked forward to that.
When she got to the kitchen, she found Mrs. Hawkins there sipping tea. “Did you have a good chat, love?”
“Aye. Yes.” She stood there with the tray in her hands, unable to form words. These people astounded her. She’d thought Ma was the only person God had found favor with.
Mrs. Hawkins rose and took the tray from her. “You’re weary, and that’s no surprise. We’ll be on our way. I’ve a warm meal and a soft bed for you, love.”
Hawkins House was lovely with a wide entry, carpets on the floor, and even a piano in the parlor. The staircase of polished mahogany was magnificent.
The reverend had escorted the women to the boardinghouse, and now that they’d arrived, he did not remove his hat. “I’ll let you get settled in, child. I will see you at services.”
“You’re leaving now?”
“You’ll be fine here, child. I’ll inquire on how you’re faring later.”
Grace tried to hold his gaze but he turned away. A hollow spot opened in her soul. People always walking in and out. She hated that. Things changed more swiftly in America than a swollen spring river, and she would have to get used to it.
After he’d gone, Grace rubbed her hand over the staircase spindles as she passed by, following the proprietor back to the kitchen. They paused halfway down the hall, where someone waited.
“This is Annie. Annie, Grace, our new boarder,” Mrs. Hawkins said.
“Pleased to meet you,” Annie said. “You’re very welcome.”
The lass spoke with a brogue. Grace held out a hand. “You’re Irish.”
“I am. Don’t be thinking we’re all as British as our gracious hostess.” Annie winked.
The British built the workhouses. Grace was puzzled by Annie’s nonchalant remark just as much as she was by Mrs. Hawkins’s generosity. If this place was truly as nice as it seemed, why was Grace chosen to come here? There were others more friendly, smarter, more capable. Ma was praying for her. That had to be the reason.
Mrs. Hawkins turned toward the middle of the kitchen. “You and I will take turns with the chores, particularly the evening meal, until you are otherwise employed, love.” She inclined her head toward a large gas stove. “And we still use coal for heat.” Another stove stood in the corner.
“I shoveled coal in Ireland,” Grace offered. The kitchen was incredibly huge, nearly as large as the one in the workhouse that served hundreds of people. Along one wall stood a table for informal meals. She had a peek into the scullery. It appeared well stocked.
The woman opened the back door, letting in a rush of cold air. “Out here is the washroom, love. There is a bathtub upstairs.”
Grace took a quick glimpse at the washroom, which contained a toilet and sink.
The woman chuckled. “It’s a bit dark in there some days. Take a lantern with you when you go.”
Hawkins House, as beautiful as it was, had no electric lights. But that didn’t bother Grace a bit. She had never lived with electricity before.
They doubled back to the entry and passed Annie polishing the banister.
Mrs. Hawkins pointed to a wee table in the foyer. “Mail, if we don’t hand it to you personally, can be found here.”
They moved toward one front room. “The parlor is for your enjoyment anytime you’d like.”
The room was generous with a fine piece of furniture the woman called a breakfront cabinet at one end and a piano near the front window.
“We’ve passed the dining room. Evening meals are taken there, but otherwise you can be seated in the kitchen.”
Grace followed Mrs. Hawkins up the magnificent staircase and then down the hall to a back bedroom. “Eventually you will share this room with another new arrival. But for now, you’re the only boarder the Benevolents have.”
“Who?”
“Just a group of friends who banded together to establish Hawkins House. We seek to answer the question ‘Is what I’m doing making life better for others?’ That’s what we want to do, Grace. Help young immigrant girls like you.”
“The reverend said something like that.”
“Quite right. I expect we’ll have another girl soon, but until then, you’ll have the room to yo
urself. I hope you’ll be comfortable here.”
Grace could barely reply. Like the others in the house, this room was expansive. “Oh, aye. Extremely generous. Thank you.”
The woman pointed to a door inside the room. “We use this for storage, and there is no wardrobe in here. But you can use this old trunk here at the end of your bed.”
“Thank you, but I don’t have many things.”
“You won’t need much. We have everything you’ll need right here.”
The room seemed chilly, being the upstairs corner bedroom, but Grace was not about to complain. The two beds were plump with quilts. Inviting. And decorated in pastel shades. Such an improvement over the lack of color she’d seen thus far.
“Let me instruct you about the bath, love.”
Grace followed the woman out and into the room directly across the hall.
“So long as the weather’s not too cold for the pipes, you can warm the water downstairs by the coal stove and turn it on here. That will take a few moments, however. It does not happen quickly, but a hot bath is worth it.”
She watched as Mrs. Hawkins turned one side of the tub faucet and called it hot and the other cold. “Best to leave the cold one alone. Long as I’ve been here, it’s never gotten too hot to need to cool it down.”
“You haven’t always lived here, Mrs. Hawkins? I mean, since you came from England?”
“Bought the place after my Harold passed away.” She stood and clasped her hands together. “Hawkins House is a little project of mine, love, with help from my friends.”
“The Benevolents.”
“Correct.”
When they joined Annie in the parlor, Grace sat on the sofa and admired a portrait hanging on the opposite wall. The man in the painting sported a long beard, darker than his hair, and was dressed in a military uniform. Grace pointed. “A handsome man.”
Mrs. Hawkins rose and crossed the room to the wall where the photograph hung. “My late husband, Harold. He fought bravely for the Union.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “He was a good provider. It’s his prosperity that helps afford us this comfort today, love.”
“You mean to say he worked to provide for your needs?”
“Indeed, love. Like most good husbands.”
“My father drank his earnings at the pub.”
“Pity. I’m so sorry. Thank the good Lord there are men who take their roles seriously.”
“Like your Harold?”
“Like my Harold, love.”
“’Tis an enchanting photograph. Was that the war where the South fought to secede?”
“That’s correct. He fought to preserve the Union, love.”
“Was he . . . ?” She wasn’t sure how to ask.
“Killed in battle? My, no, thank the good Lord. He passed on a few years back. He was all I had until the Benevolents were formed. That and my girls here are my family now.”
Grace could not believe her fortune. Never could she have imagined such people existed. She wanted to believe this was real, but it all felt like a dream.
Grace examined the photographic image again. Just a bit of shadow on the right side of his face added depth, and the backdrop was soft enough to bring focus to the man’s face. Exactly as it should be. This man, Mr. Hawkins, had the look of a kind, gentle person. And Mrs. Hawkins had apparently loved him deeply. Grace studied his face again, wondering if she could detect an element of compassion somewhere in his appearance. She turned back to the woman. “A man took a photograph of me on Ellis Island. I have his address.”
“You should go see it, love. I bet it’s handsome. I’d be happy to accompany you sometime and inquire.”
This woman was very accommodating. “Thank you.” She turned back to the picture of Harold Hawkins. “Who took this photograph, if I may ask?”
The woman raised a finger. “A man who works tirelessly for social reform. Maybe you’ve heard of him. Jacob Riis. He doesn’t usually take portraits like this one.”
“Mr. Riis is famous?”
“Well, he is certainly well-known.”
“Why did he take this one? Is he a friend?”
“Not a friend exactly. Just someone who shares the convictions of the Benevolents. We met him at an event and he admired Harold’s service to his country and offered to take the portrait. I haven’t seen him since that time.”
Later, after Grace retired to her bedroom, she collapsed on the bed, exhausted but pleased. She had a warm bed and a full belly. She was on her way.
With her head on her pillow, she should have dropped into a deep sleep after the tension of waiting at Ellis Island and then meeting all these strangers. But instead of sleep, thoughts pounded her consciousness. She was not sure she could let Reverend Clarke, as nice as he was, plan her prospects for her. The idea of handing over her future again, haunted her until she rose from her bed. She’d seen a newspaper in the parlor. Maybe it was still there.
Wrapping a thin blanket around her shoulders, she crept quietly down the stairs and let herself into the front room. A window faced the street, where the gas lamps still burned, allowing enough light to help her find what she was looking for. Tucking the paper under her arm, she wandered to the window. On the way here, she hadn’t taken the time to properly observe her surroundings. She gazed out at the night. People still up, walking about. What were they doing? She leaned in until her nose touched the wavy glass panel. A large presence in a dark coat and hat lumbered by, something like a stick dangling from its arm. Seemed familiar somehow. She squinted her eyes. The man from the trolley.
He turned and stared right at her. She gasped and stepped back. Tugging her blanket tighter, she headed for the hall. A light rapping on the door made her freeze. It came again. If he woke the household, how would she explain herself?
She took a step toward the stairs. If Mrs. Hawkins woke, Grace would tell her she had gotten hungry and gone looking for a bite to eat.
Two quick knuckle thuds resounded louder. She darted to the door and peeked out the side window. It was him, all right. She cracked the door open. “What do you want?”
“Is everything all right, Miss . . . Miss Grace? That’s it, right? I saw you on the trolley.”
“Everything’s fine, Officer.”
“I saw you at the window. Are you sure nothing’s up?”
“Just getting my bearings. I’m going to bed now.”
“Good night, Grace.”
“McCaffery’s the name. Good night, Officer.”
“Lock the door, then. I’ll check again on my rounds.”
“No need to come back. I am sure you have to be catching some robbers or some such villains, aye?”
He turned away, stopped, and then turned toward her. “Oh, and it’s Owen. You can call me Owen.”
She sighed, closed the door, and turned the lock. No one had told her that Americans were so . . . nosy. With the newspaper gripped securely in one hand, she took the steps two at a time. Grace tossed the paper to her bed, removed her blanket-robe, and whispered into the dark. “Can’t leave my fate to others. I’m looking for employment.” Grace turned up the oil lamp on the table by the window.
The stories in the newspaper were confusing. Where was Queens? The Brooklyn Bridge?
And the positions listed. She knew what a seamstress was, but she’d never sewn. A piece maker? A typographer? What strange factory names she saw. She wouldn’t know what to do in a factory.
By the time Grace turned out the lamp, she had resigned herself to accepting whatever the reverend drummed up for her after all. Lots of people needed maids, it seemed. And since that’s what the reverend had in mind, she might as well get some experience with whatever he found. Later perhaps she could expand her possibilities, but she had to get started somewhere. She could cook, or at least she imagined she could. The cooks at the workhouse just stirred watered-down buttermilk into gruel and baked bricks of black bread. How hard could that be? Sweeping wasn’t hard either. She could do that.
&nbs
p; She was determined to. Becoming a maid instead of a workhouse inmate would mean she could leave her old self behind and become something different altogether. Someone much better, much more important.
She slipped beneath the cool bedsheets. As she settled down to sleep, she prayed, desperately hoping God would hear her, for Ma’s sake. God, change me. The past eight years rotting away in a workhouse would not steal her hope.
She rolled over and thought about Ma again. Grace had gotten away to America like Ma wanted, though at a great cost to Ma since she had to marry a peeler to get Grace out. Feeny might not have been there the day Grace and her mother were evicted, but he was still one of them, and Grace had not an ounce of affection for any policeman.
The next two days were spent getting an acceptable work outfit together for Grace.
“Where did you get your clothes? If you don’t mind me asking.” Mrs. Hawkins was altering some donated clothing for Grace.
“My mother. The only proper skirt and petticoat I ever had. They were in better shape when I left. Not new, but they suited me fine.” Grace flinched when the woman tapped pointed pins against her skin.
“The journey takes a toll. Even so, Grace, those clothes seem a bit old-fashioned to me, like what my Irish granny wore.”
Mrs. Hawkins was perhaps a bit past middle age, sixty or thereabouts. Grace didn’t see how her clothes could have been that old. “Well, I like the color, even a bit faded.”
“Hmm.” With pins sticking between her teeth, the woman kept working on the replacement dress that was the very shade of New York’s pavement.
Although the reverend had not mentioned it, Grace felt disapproval from people on the street. Obviously Americans didn’t like color. There was little of it on anyone’s frame.
On Sunday, wearing the rather ordinary gunmetal-colored dress, Grace attended services at First Church.
“Did you have a pastor at home, Grace?” Mrs. Hawkins spoke from underneath her large-brimmed hat.
Cindy Thomson - [Ellis Island 01] Page 3