"You may step inside," Mr. Haversham announced in a stiff, disapproving tone.
As Jamie entered an office with a stunning view of the harbor, Mr. Tucker rose behind his desk. Anger flickered in his narrowed gaze.
"You had better have a damned good reason for bullying your way into my office, Mr. Kelly."
"I do, sir." Aware he was dripping mud and water on Mr. Tucker's carpet, he moved to stand before a massive polished desk. "I've come about the main bearing wall."
"What in hell are you talking about?" Mr. Tucker sat down behind his desk, but he did not invite Jamie to sit. Leaning back in his chair, he brushed back his lapels and hooked his thumbs beneath his suspenders. His thick steel-colored eyebrows knit in a line across his brow as Jamie explained the problem.
Mr. Tucker stared at him when he finished speaking. "Are you the foreman on the site?" Jamie admitted he was not. "I see. Does my foreman believe the bearing wall is positioned incorrectly?"
"Mr. Gustoffer disagrees with me. He's building the wall where the plan says it should be built."
Mr. Tucker's eyes narrowed. "So who the hell are you?"
"I work at the site."
"A laborer?" Mr. Tucker jumped to his feet and pointed angrily to the door. "Get out of my office. If Gustoffer hasn't fired you for wasting his time, I'm firing you for wasting mine!"
Jamie didn't budge. "Mr. Tucker, if you proceed without correction, the building will eventually crash." Mr. Tucker started around the desk, his face reddening in anger. Then Jamie spoke the magic words. "You will lose a lot of money."
The statement halted Mr. Tucker's progress. He stared at Jamie, trying to evaluate his expression. "What makes you think you're right about this and my architect is wrong?"
"I studied architecture with Goblin and Greene in Dublin. I've worked construction sites since I was wee. Mistakes can happen, Mr. Tucker, expensive mistakes. The question is, can you afford to take the risk that I'm wrong?"
Jonas Tucker turned on his heel and moved to the window.
He stroked his jaw. Finally he rang the brass bell next to an expensive crystal ink well.
"If you're wrong about this, Kelly, I'll have your hide for a lamp shade." When Mr. Haversham appeared in response to the bell, Tucker glared at him. "Send a message to Clem Whitesall. Tell him to meet me at the Broadway site at once."
"Shall I use the telephone, sir? I believe his firm has one." Having received permission, Haversham exited quietly.
"Thank you, Mr. Tucker." In spite of himself, Jamie was impressed that Jonas Tucker possessed a telephone. "You won't regret this."
"I regret it already," Tucker grumbled, reaching for his hat and umbrella. "No, you don't," he snapped when Jamie turned to leave. "You're coming, too. I want to hear you explain to Clem Whitesall how a hammer man knows more than the city's celebrated architect. The only reason I'm agreeing to this tomfoolery is the remote possibility that you may be right."
"I am." The conviction Jamie felt allowed him to meet Jonas Tucker's glare without a waver.
They didn't exchange further words inside Tucker's brougham during the ride to the site. The wheels of the brougham slipped and slid and once it appeared they would collide with a wagon, but Tucker's coachman was a skilled whip and managed to guide a matched set of blacks through the muddy streets without incident.
Still without speaking they stepped to the pavement in front of the site, and Mr. Tucker unfurled his umbrella and moved to scowl into the muddy pit. Jamie stood in the rain, aware that Gustoffer, Stefan and the others sheltering beneath the shed's overhang watched with silent interest, most of them anticipating his forthcoming comeuppance.
Gustoffer shot Jamie an irritated glance, then slogged through the diminishing rain to greet Mr. Tucker. When Stefan started to follow, Gustoffer waved him back to the shed with an angry gesture.
Tucker nodded his bowler toward the dripping forms at the bottom of the pit. "Well?"
"Those forms are spaced exactly as the plans show they ought. Mr. Kelly is dead wrong, sir."
They all turned toward the street as a hansom slid up on the curb and Mr. Clem Whitesall emerged, swearing and kicking at the carriage wheels. He was younger than Jonas Tucker but equally well dressed and equally furious at being called out on a fool's errand.
He charged forward, jabbing his umbrella at the sky. "What's this poppycock about a bearing wall being misaligned?" Advancing with long strides to the edge of the pit, he halted two steps in front of Jamie. "This is an outrage! How dare you question my plans!" He stared at the rain running down Jamie's face, plastering his hair to his skull and his clothing to his body.
In answer Jamie silently turned to face the pit and waved a hand to encompass the view below.
While everyone watched, Clem Whitesall directed his angry glare into the pit and onto the wet forms. His body jerked and his mouth fell open. Then his mouth closed. He stared, blinked, ran a shaking hand over his eyes and stared again. "Good God."
Jonas Tucker's eyebrows arched toward his hat brim. "What? Are you saying the Irishman is right?"
Whitesall rounded on Gustoffer. "You didn't follow my plans!"
"But I did, sir. I followed your plans to the letter!"
"That's not possible." Grim faced, Clem Whitesall stepped off the boards laid over the mud and strode toward the shed, oblivious of his boots and cuffs. The others followed and the pit crews moved backward to allow them inside the shed.
Whitesall went directly to the worktable and flipped through the prints until he found the one he sought. For a long silent moment he stared down at the page.
When he lifted his head his face was ashen. No one in the shed needed to be told what he had discovered on the plans. "I owe you an apology, Mr. Kelly," Clem Whitesall said in a strained voice. "I don't know how this happened. I would not have believed it possible. But if you had not noticed and if you had not insisted on this review, a terrible disaster would surely have occurred. I am in your debt, sir."
The shouting and cursing rising from the street outside sounded overloud within the silence of the shed.
Mr. Tucker was first to recover from the collective contemplation of the averted disaster. And the money that would have been lost. He aimed the tip of his umbrella at Gustoffer. "You are fired." The umbrella swung toward Jamie. "And you are hired as foreman of this site. Mr. Gustoffer will turn over the keys to the shed and the safe. Should further problems develop on this site," he added with a dark glance at Clem Whitesall, "I shall expect to find you in my office at once, Mr. Kelly."
"Yes, sir," Jamie said as Jonas Tucker ducked through the door of the shed and picked his way across the muddy boards toward his waiting brougham. There was opportunity here. Jamie could sense it, could smell it on the damp air. The question was, could he seize it? Stepping up to Clem Whitesall, he cleared his throat. "While I'm pleased by the position Mr. Tucker has granted me, my true interest is design. I trained with Goblin and"
"Not now, for God's sake," Whitesall hissed, keeping an eye on Tucker's retreat as he hastily rolled the erroneous print into a tube and stuffed it inside his coat. "New prints will be waiting when you arrive tomorrow morning." Before he dashed out the door, he gave Jamie a long stare. "You needn't fear that I shall forget Jamie Kelly. I'll remember you, all right."
But Whitesall's tone didn't encourage Jamie to think the remembrance would be pleasant. As he stood in the doorway watching Clem Whitesall dash through the drizzle to catch Jonas Tucker, he knew he was watching opportunity fly away.
When he turned back into the shed, Henry Gustoffer was standing beside the table, hands thrust deep in his pockets, his eyes on the floor.
"I'm sorry, Henry," he said in a low voice.
"Not your fault, son. These things happen. I should have known better than to bet against you." They stood in silence, aware the men outside had overheard everything. Then Gustoffer withdrew his hand from his pocket and placed his keys on the work table.
"Henry, if th
ere's anything I can"
"Don't make this no worse than it is, boyo." Gustoffer reached for his cap and dropped it on his head. He thrust out a callused palm and shook Jamie's hand. "I'll just be on my way."
"There may be work at the new University Club."
Gustoffer managed a grin before he ducked out of the shed door. "I started thinking about it the minute that architect looked into the pit." He waved, then hunched his shoulders against the drizzle and walked past the silent crew.
Jamie picked up the keys and held them in his palm. The opportunity he wanted had eluded him, but his situation had improved markedly since morning. He had received a promotion and, he assumed, the raise in pay that accompanied it. Things could be a whole lot worse. An hour ago he hadn't had a job. Now he was foreman of a major site. His future was his again.
Stepping to the door, he watched Henry Gustoffer march through the drizzle toward Broadway and regretted that his good fortune had come at Henry's expense. Henry had only done what he believed was right.
After a moment he sighed, then cleared his throat. "Martin?" Wilbur Martin stepped away from the overhang. "The drizzle doesn't appear to be letting up. Close down the site for today. The rest of you men line up for half pay."
He sat behind the worktable, opened the safety box and paid out wages without looking up at the men behind the outstretched palms. Already his mind leaped ahead, planning tomorrow and the changes he would make.
It wasn't until he was walking home, unaware the drizzle had stopped and a brilliant sunset had broken past the clouds, that he realized it was possible opportunity had not bypassed him after all. He was doing what he loved best, building a wonderful building. And he had moved a step up in the world.
His regret for Henry Gustoffer's altered fortunes had not allowed him to fully appreciate the change in his own. But as he gradually accepted there was nothing he could do to correct the injustices of the world, the realization of his altered circumstances brought an abrupt lift of his spirits. He couldn't wait to tell Lucie about this astonishing day.
Lucie pumped a pail of water and carried it upstairs, then changed out of her wet clothing while the water heated on the stove. Since her hair was already wet from the drizzle, this was a good time to wash it. Bending over the pan she dipped her head into the water, then worked a bar of Castilian soap into a lather and rubbed it into her hair. Then she leaned over the slop bucket and poured the water over her head, hoping all the soap rinsed out. It seldom did, but she always hoped.
After toweling and combing the waist-length strands, she placed a chair in front of the stove and sat with her back to the heat, her long hair falling over the rungs of the chair.
While she waited for her hair to dry, she composed a list of ingredients she would need to make her cream. Ointment of rose water, oil of sweet almonds, glycerine, boric acid, solution of soda and rose oil for the scent. The only item she worried about finding was the quince seed mucilage, and that was the only item she absolutely could not do without. Mucilage was the gummy adhesive that prevented the cream from separating over time. In her opinion, quince seed mucilage served the purpose best.
When Stefan came in the door and hung his cap and coat on the nails, she looked up with sparkling eyes. "You'll never guess what happened! Mrs. Roper requested a sample of my cream! Can you imagine? Mrs. Roper could buy any cream in the world, but she asked" The words died in her throat when Stefan turned and she saw his pale face. Her pencil and paper fell to the floor as she stood. "Stefan! What's wrong? What's happened?"
He dropped heavily onto a chair, then placed half a day's wage on the tabletop before he gave her a bleak expression.
"Gustoffer was fired today." He passed a hand over his eyes. "As sure as I'm sitting here, I'm next. Tomorrow I'll be out of a job." He told her what had occurred.
"But you supported Jamie Kelly," Lucie said, sitting across from him at the table. "He wouldn't fire you."
"Kelly knows I despise the very sight of him. I supported him because he was right in what he was saying. But that doesn't change how I feel, and he knows it. First thing tomorrow he'll tell me to take my shovel and hammer and go."
Lucie lowered her head and blinked at the coins on the table. A battle erupted in her heart. Pride in Jamie's success warred with fear for Stefan's future. Once again her loyalties were tugged from two sides. Heart aching, she realized there was nothing she could say.
* * *
Chapter Seven
For the all important occasion of delivering the cream to Mrs. Roper, Lucie dressed her hair with extra attention, taking care that no errant strands would escape the edges of her cap. Before she approached Mr. Grist, she ironed a freshly starched apron and replaced the damp apron she had worn all morning.
"I would prefer to deliver the cream myself, sir." The barest hint of a smile appeared on Mr. Grist's thin lips. "I'll discover if Mrs. Roper will receive you."
Lucie hoped Mrs. Roper would exclaim over the cream, her best batch ever. Also, she wanted another peek at the family's rooms. She and Greta had exhausted the recollections of her first visit. As she followed Mr. Grist upstairs she wished Greta could view the profusion of blooms in every room.
"Don't touch the bannister, miss. It's just been polished." She could smell the waxy lemon scent. One of the wonderful things about the Roper mansion was the abundance of good smells. The kitchen and garden always smelled wonderful, of course. But there was also the heavy sweet fragrance of fresh flowers in every room, the citrus scent of furniture polish. The faintly herbal drift that rose from the carpets as they passed, and traces of holly from the tall candles in silver brackets.
Inhaling deeply, Lucie wondered what it must be like to always breathe sweet air. Never to gasp and turn aside from the odor of rotting garbage or overflowing latrines. To open a window and breathe deeply instead of recoiling.
And the music. Pausing on the landing, she closed her eyes and smiled with pleasure at the sound of Miss Delfi's Gramophone. Today Miss Delfi was playing the new raggety-time music. Lucie recognized the piece "The Maple Leaf Rag." She had fallen in love with it last week when Stefan took her and Greta to the Bowery Street Music Hall. Standing on the landing, tapping her foot to Scott Joplin, Lucie decided it would be a fine, fine thing to have music anytime one wished.
When she stepped into Mrs. Roper's sitting room, taking a moment to dart a glance at the bric-a-brac and table scarves, Mrs. Roper glanced up from her embroidery frame and regarded her without a flicker of recognition. "Yes? What is it?"
"I" Lucie smoothed a hand over her apron. "It's the cream, ma'am," she explained in a rush.
Annoyed, Mrs. Roper looked at Mr. Grist before returning her gaze to Lucie. "Whatever are you talking about?"
"The day you visited the laundry, ma'am. You mentioned you would welcome a sample of my hand and face cream."
"I did? How extraordinary."
Lucie thrust out the twist of newspaper she had prepared. "I didn't know how much to bring. This should last a week or two."
Mrs. Roper shuddered as she inspected the greasy twist of newspaper. "Place it there, in the silver dish."
Lucie did as she was bid, then gave Mrs. Roper a shy smile. "I think you'll find the cream soothing and refreshing, ma'am."
"Indeed," Mrs. Roper said faintly. This time when she directed a glance at Mr. Grist, he stepped forward.
After bobbing her head, Lucie followed Mr. Grist into the hallway. "Imagine," she breathed, her cheeks glowing. "Mrs. Roper and my cream. This must be the proudest moment of my life!"
Mr. Grist touched a meticulously knotted cravat and released a sound resembling a sigh. "As you say, miss."
Dazed and smiling happily, she returned to the laundry room. It was only later that she remembered Miss Augusta standing red-eyed beside the parlor archway, peering at Lucie as if she wished to speak to her. Lucie had actually halted in expectation, but Miss Augusta turned away from Mr. Grist and waved them on. Lucie decided she and Mr. G
rist had misinterpreted Miss Augusta's intention. Still, the moment had been peculiar and puzzling.
But not significant enough to diminish her happiness. Jamie had been promoted, Greta was doing well and finally Lucie had something wonderful to share. She almost danced back to the laundry room.
"I'm telling you no the same as I told you last Saturday and the Saturday before and the Saturday before that." Stefan spread his hands and glared at Jamie before he hung his tool belt on the shed wall. "I will never permit you to call on my sister."
"May I inquire why not?"
"You know why not." Stefan strode to the door, then halted abruptly. On impulse he turned back into the shed. "There's a matter to clear between us and I don't want to do it here." He flicked a glanced toward Wilbur Martin.
Jamie's eyebrows rose. "The Bag and Boodle is nearby. Give me a moment to finish here, then I'll buy your thirst."
"I'll pay for my own beer," Stefan replied sharply.
After he finished locking the shed for the night, Jamie found Stefan waiting on the curb beside the horse trough. Without speaking they walked along Broadway to Canal Street, then turned into the Bag and Boodle and ordered a pail of German ale.
As Stefan still did not speak, Jamie accepted the free sausage and pickled eggs for them both, then glanced into the mirror above the back bar. "What's on your mind?"
"There's something I have to know." Frowning, Stefan studied Jamie's image in the glass. "Why didn't you fire me along with the others you sacked? Did you keep me on and give me a promotion because you thought I'd agree to let you call on Lucie?"
"No." After draining his glass, Jamie tipped the pail and poured another. "I'd never jeopardize the site for personal reasons." Stefan's gaslit image was fierce and defensive. "You thought I'd give you the sack, too?"
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