Charlotte just looked at him as though still too astonished to speak.
“It’s Gaelic, and means courageous, a man of valor, and by extension, a man of honor. Always remember that, Miss Charlotte. You have ancestors to be proud of; ancestors who have lived up to their name.”
Charlotte sat gazing at her lap as though trying to take it all in. Kate, on the other hand, stared boldly at Joshua, her heart swelling with gratitude. Oh how they needed this! They were all sinners in the sight of God; not one good. No not one. Not the Winthrops or Waldos or Gaylords, nor any of the prominent families who ruled the world. Not even the Farrells. All were splattered with shame. How was it that she had forgotten this? As her gaze continued to rest on the handsome detective, she hoped her eyes conveyed what was in her heart as she mouthed the words, “thank you.” Something had happened. Something wonderful. God had used Joshua—his words, his story—like the balm of Gilead, to set Kate free; to utterly erase the shame of her father’s hanging, and bring healing to her heart.
“Please forgive this unseemly display,” Charlotte finally said, looking up, her face tear-streaked. “I now understand how foolishly I’ve behaved in being so enamored with the Gaylords, in worrying about offending them, and in my concern about their thoughts on every matter. It has exposed my deep pride, and I’m thoroughly ashamed. Mr. Adams, you must continue your investigation. And thank you for your candor.”
Joshua rose. “Then I shall waste no time in seeing Mr. Baxter.”
Kate rose too, feeling strangely lighthearted. “And I’ll accompany you. I would very much like to hear what he has to say.”
For a moment it looked as if Joshua was going to argue, but then he smiled as he tugged on the edge of his rumbled vest. “I think I’ve come to know you Farrells well enough to understand when arguing is futile. I must go now and attend to other business. But first thing in the morning I will pay him a visit, and you may come, Kate, provided you let me do the talking.”
Kate returned his smile. “It shall be as you say, Joshua.”
“‘Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall,’” Charlotte muttered under her breath. Wasn’t that what Proverbs 16:18 said? And oh how prideful she had been! She was on her knees now, digging through the small trunk where she kept her childhood treasures. When she found her old wooden hand mirror and comb—the ones Father had given her when she was five—she pulled them out and rose to her feet. She couldn’t stop thinking of Joshua’s words. Like darts, they had pierced her heart, made her see her great deficiencies and how she had become so like Mrs. Gaylord and Hester Roach, the two women she feared most, but least admired.
This in turn made her think about that woman she had seen at the Home. Even now she recalled that sad, sweet smile. And the shame, too, that covered her face as she tried fixing her hair. Had she been fastidious once? Taken pride in her appearance? That is, before life had stripped her of everything, even the most basic necessities such as a comb and looking glass?
But it seemed the woman still had some pride left, even in her dire circumstances. It showed what a hard thing pride was to overcome. What would it take for Charlotte to overcome hers? Would she have to lose everything, too? For some reason the thought of losing all didn’t seem as frightening as it once did.
Charlotte turned the mirror over in her hand. The large flat wood made a good surface for a painting. But what should she paint? Flowers? Butterflies? Birds? She closed her eyes and pictured the woman again. What would she like? Had she loved sitting in her garden, like Charlotte did? Had she owned a cat that delighted her when it curled up on her lap? Or was it music that had thrilled her heart? Charlotte thought a minute. Yes, a butterfly . . . perhaps in a bed of tulips. That should make her happy.
She thought of Father and wondered if he’d mind her giving away his gift? Then remembering his generous nature, concluded he’d be rather pleased by her gesture. And it would please Charlotte, too. For some reason, one she didn’t quite understand, she wanted this woman to have something nice. Something to delight her and remind her that she was still valued; that she still mattered.
Was that pride, too? Wanting to matter? And be valued? She didn’t think so. At least not the same kind of pride she had felt around Mrs. Gaylord and Hester Roach. The kind of pride that made her think she was superior. Made her want to look down on everyone else. Made her afraid that others were looking down at her, too. The kind of pride she now saw as ugly.
She tucked the mirror and comb under her arm. It had been ages since she had painted anything. She quickly gathered her box of paints, then dashed out the bedroom door, feeling more excitement than she had in a very long time.
Kate hadn’t expected this. The small house that was once as rundown as the shacks in Higgins Patch now looked bright and perky with a new shingled roof, a fresh coat of white paint, and new green shutters. It was obvious that here is where Samuel Baxter had spent some of his new found money.
She had always considered Baxter an enigma. Coopers normally made a good living since they were skilled and important to a community; after all, barrels were always in demand. But Samuel Baxter had a reputation for shoddy workmanship, and this kept him from being prosperous. It was well known he was only given jobs calling for “slack cooperage,” barrels that were used for non-liquids such as grains, and didn’t require tight fitting staves. Because of this, the Baxters were always in want. But all that appeared to have changed.
Kate followed Joshua past the side of the house, then down a dirt footpath leading to the back. Even the path seemed freshly cleaned, and was lined with stones. The surrounding yard had also been cleared of dead brush and debris, and now chickens and pigs could be clearly seen roaming about.
She and Joshua made their way to the workshop which was part enclosed shack and part lean-to, and where a stocky, broad-shouldered man stood pounding staves into an iron hoop. It seemed business had picked up. Kate noticed that various size barrels lined one wall and a pile of saplings, for additional staves, filled a nearby corner. And his collection of tools had increased, too. Last time she was here he only had a handful. Now the long wooden workbench was cluttered with hoop drivers, hammers, a broadax, drawknife, different sized planes and other tools she didn’t recognize, while three saws, a compass and two adzes hung on nails in the wall boards. But the biggest surprise was the pile of oak shavings nesting around Samuel Baxter’s feet, indicating he was working on a whiskey or wine barrel. Her father had once told her, after ordering a wine barrel from Pottsville for a large holiday party, how oak was the preferred wood for such casks due to its fine grain and ease at which it could be waterproofed. As she approached she wondered who would be foolish enough to hire Mr. Baxter to do a “tight cooperage.”
The steady tapping increased as she and Joshua drew closer. Kate was certain Samuel Baxter had seen them coming, but he neither looked up nor acknowledged their presence. Even so, Joshua was not put off, and over the noise of the hammer, told Baxter what he had learned from the colliery owners.
“So, what I need to know,” Joshua said, as he finished, “is why you hired two thugs to scare the owners into selling, then had them claim to be Mollies?”
At last, the broad shouldered Baxter stopped his pounding. “You have some nerve coming here and accusing me. Whoever told you I hired men to threaten anyone is a liar.”
“I can get sworn statements if I have to,” Joshua returned, looking as calm as the duck floating in the nearby pond.
“Go ahead. Get anything you like. It wasn’t me that hired them.” Baxter’s muscular arms glistened with sweat as he smacked the hammer against the palm of one hand, making Kate fear he might use it on Joshua. “Now, get off my property. Both of you. And don’t come back!”
“This is not over,” Joshua said, returning his glare.
“I haven’t heard any complaints from the railroad. If they’re content with t
he way everything was handled what’s it to you how that business got done? Just who do you think you are, going around accusing people?” He raised his hammer and this time Kate was sure he planned to use it. But when he moved around the partially formed barrel, he dropped his hand, and Kate wondered if it wasn’t because he saw that Joshua had him by a foot or more.
“This is all your doing, Missy.” Baxter turned to Kate. “Calling in your no-account kin to bother respectable folks. Well, just send him back to his cow pasture or there’s going to be plenty of trouble.”
“It would go easier on you if you cooperated,” Kate answered, no longer feeling the need to defend herself. Justice was the only thing she wanted now. “Because sooner or later we will get to the bottom of this, and sooner or later your involvement will be exposed.”
When she turned to leave, Joshua took her arm and smiled. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
Virginia was glad that the cemetery was less weedy today. Someone had put a sickle to the taller growth but left the cuttings on the ground where they remained like matted straw. Still, it made navigating the tombstones easier. She worked her way toward Patrick O’Brien who stood tall and straight in his black suit, holding another clump of wilting honeysuckles, and smiling.
This time she knew the meeting was not about her articles. Two more had been sent to Patrick through Michael O’Malley, and both had already been published in the Monitor. But once again, his note had caused her untold anxiety, for it simply said he had information about her father. But what information? All morning she had wondered about it. Had Patrick found the two thugs? If so, what had he learned? Did they continue to insist that Father had hired them? These questions had eaten her like a cankerworm, making her unable to touch a morsel of her Sunday lunch, though Sunday lunches were always special at their boardinghouse.
But why should she worry? Kate had told her about Joshua’s findings. There was no reason to believe Father had had anything to do with the bullying of Roger Blakely. But Virginia always needed double proof before she let a matter drop. Kate said it was the newspaper woman in her while Virginia wondered if it was simply a lack of faith.
“‘Tis a lovely sight you are,” Patrick said, still sporting his grin.
Virginia ignored the compliment, though she had taken pains to look her best. “Please, give me your news quickly. I don’t think I can stand another minute of not knowing what you’ve learned.”
Patrick handed her the flowers. “No, Jenny. You won’t be rushin’ me. For as soon as I tell you, you’ll be leavin’ quick as the wind. And I’m in sore need of your company. I’ve been longin’ to see you these past many weeks, but I honored your wishes and didn’t send for you, though it took all me willpower, I can tell you.”
Virginia accepted the honeysuckles and brought them to her nose. The fragrance was as sweet as the feelings she had at seeing him again. She could hardly admit it to herself, but she had missed him, too.
“Will you walk with me, then?” Patrick took her arm even before she could respond and led her out of the church cemetery. Then his large, rough hand guided her to a path she had never walked before but one she knew led to a deserted saw mill nestled deep in the woods.
“Why bother asking if you’re not going to wait for an answer?” she said, suddenly noticing the nasty-looking cut over his right eye.
“Well, truth is I wasn’t willin’ to have you say ‘no’. People from Donegal tend to be superstitious. We believe in fairies and curses and holy wells, don’t you know, though the Church frowns on it. Some priests have even threatened our people with excommunication.” His large muscular frame bent closer to her. “I guess I didn’t wait for an answer for fear of jinxin’ things.”
“Then am I to assume I’m walking with a pagan?”
“Oh, no, Jenny. I have the fear of God in me, to be sure. You need not worry on that account. But though I’m a prayin’ man and partake of the sacraments, I’m a wretched example of Jesus, for sure. The blood of Donegal is in me and besides bein’ superstitious, we can be a contentious lot.
“But enough of that talk, now. I need to be tellin’ you how much I liked your articles, especially the one about the outhouses being too close to the wells. ‘Twas a good one, and maybe answers the question of why so many of our wee ones get the flux durin’ the rainy season. You did a grand job on it. Maybe it will stir up the new owners into doin’ somethin’, though I won’t be holdin’ me breath.”
“Patrick, you are such a contradiction. A man who reads and writes and picks flowers for a woman, but prefers to use his fists is a man I cannot hope to understand.”
“And who’d be sayin’ I use me fists?”
“Your right eye.”
“He pulled her to a stop. “Ah, Jenny, you are a delight. And I might as well tell you all about it, for there’s no holdin’ back now. You see, it was like this. Me and Powderkeg Kelly . . . .”
“Powderkeg Kelly? Who is that?”
“Ah darlin’, he’s a man down on his luck, don’t you know. Sometimes I give him a few coins to do an odd job for me here and there, though I know he’ll just be spendin’ it on the drink. He used to be fire boss at the Mattson Colliery. Before the workday began he’d inspect the breasts and crosscuts and gangways for gas and other hazards. But his whiskey drinkin’ made him sloppy, and that made him dangerous to himself and others. He was finally let go. But he’s right handy with blastin’ powder, too, so for awhile he was still able to earn a livin’ by goin’ from colliery to colliery takin’ on the most dangerous blastin’ jobs that others didn’t want. But even that he lost by showin’ up drunk one too many times. Some say it was Powderkeg who blew up Mattson’s culm bank and timber mound out of pure revenge for bein’ fired. It’s possible, for to be sure the man can be spiteful, and I still resent that the blame fell on the Mollies when they had no part in it at all.”
“Then why would you go anywhere with such a man?”
“Because, darlin’, when you set out to break heads, you need someone who’s not afraid of doin’ it. And Powderkeg’s such a man. Some say he’s crazy, and maybe he is but . . . .”
“Oh, Patrick, what did you do?”
Patrick slipped a strong muscular arm around her waist and pulled her closer. “I see your concern, lass. And I appreciate it.” His face was intense, his eyes so full of love that Virginia stood unable to move as he quickly shared how he and Powderkeg found the men who had tried to hire him, and how after several minutes of persuasion, when more than a nose was broken, the men gave up that name.
“Martin Roach?” Virginia repeated in disbelief. “And not Samuel Baxter?”
“No, ‘twas the name Martin Roach that we shook out of ‘em, and no mistakin’ the matter.”
Virginia frowned. How could that be when both Kate and Joshua Adams suspected Samuel Baxter and told her how belligerent he had been at his cooperage? Could Patrick be wrong? One look at his injured eye told her no. Who would lie to such a man and face the threat of Patrick returning to extract punishment? She would just have to let detective Adams sort it all out. And as she stood looking at Patrick, at his earnest face, at the large gash over his eye that was still red and swollen, she couldn’t stop herself from touching his wound with her fingertips.
“So, you got this for me.”
“Jenny, don’t you know that I’d get a hundred such wounds for you, if I had to?”
She felt the warmth of his arm around her as he drew her even closer, felt the steady movement of his chest, saw the searing look in his eyes, and knew that if he tried now, right this moment, to kiss her, she’d let him. But he just ran his large thumb down her cheek, his eyes telling her that he knew it, too.
“Best we be gettin’ back, now,” he said with a sigh as he let his arm drop from her waist.” And the moment passed.
Kate was stunned by Virginia’s news. Could Martin Roac
h really be behind all their troubles? She just had to find out. But when she went to Joshua and told him, and insisted they revisit Samuel Baxter, he convinced her they should wait a few days until he could gather more information.
Now, as her feet kicked up dust from the path, she felt like a fool for waiting. Three days had passed and Joshua had come up with absolutely nothing. That was three days wasted, and she wasn’t about to waste a minute more.
“Kate, will you listen to reason? This is rash,” Joshua said, trailing behind her.
“Let me finish investigating Martin Roach and collect some evidence.”
Without answering, she continued toward the cooperage.
“It’s never wise to reveal what you know, or think you know, too early. If your sister’s information is credible, we could tip our hand prematurely and end up warning Mr. Roach before we’re ready.”
Kate quickened her pace.
“Will you at least slow down! I’m eating your dust back here!”
Kate stopped and turned to squint at the detective as he traversed the few yards separating them. “Joshua, I respect you and your abilities as a Pinkerton,” she said when he finally reached her. “But since we don’t know how reliable Virginia’s source is, we must use other means to verify it. Human nature always betrays itself. If we confront him, we will learn the truth by his reaction. My instincts tell me that no matter what, Samuel Baxter knows more than he’s telling.”
Joshua fingered the brim of his dusty farmer’s hat. “Did you really mean it? About respecting me and my abilities?”
The Daughters of Jim Farrell Page 13