by J. F. Collen
“And you, I,” she said. “Especially with this enchanting brooch you cleverly hid in my stocking!” She touched it lovingly with the fingers of her free hand as she spoke. “You must imagine my delight upon discovering it, Christmas morning, along with your bewitching words.”
“I have lost my heart to you.” He leaned in and frowned in mock consternation. “Treat it well, and tenderly, for it is a fragile thing.”
Nellie smiled. “One more I shall add to my collection!” she replied with a blithe and saucy toss of her head.
Obadiah’s grip tightened on her hand and a frown hopped over his eyebrows. “No!” he whispered, with such intensity Nellie frowned back. “I thought I made myself clear at the caroling. I will not allow my heart to join an ever-elongating string of hearts.”
“Why of course not! I merely jest.” Nellie realized with a pang that it was of paramount importance to ensure she had not inadvertently hurt his feelings. “I did not intend to make light of your feelings or trespass upon your emotions. I did not realize my quip was at your expense. Please forgive me,” she added, bobbing another curtsey.
Obadiah nodded, but the smile did not return to his face.
Nellie tried some pleasant chatter to help him regain his jovial mood. It fell on deaf ears. The band struck up a Strauss waltz, one of Nellie’s favorite, and she looked at Obadiah and inclined her head toward the dance floor. He merely frowned again. Nellie began to tap her feet, scanning for another partner.
“See here, then,” Obadiah suddenly said. “I am giving my heart to you, but only if you duly cherish it, above all others.”
Somewhat taken aback, Nellie thought for a moment. She offered, “My dalliances with other suitors were a progression, a necessity of searching for ‘Mr. Right,’ Mr. Wright! I do concede, my pace was rather leisurely. Howsoever, I found discerning my heart’s desire quite the arduous task. But I must confess to you—I have found its promise in you. I pray my foolishness has not placed this sentiment in jeopardy....” she looked him in the eye with such tenderness and compassion that Obadiah was placated.
He stepped closer and took her hand. Nellie gazed at him with eager anticipation... when her father interrupted their conversation. She took a step back.
“Good evening beautiful colleen ‘o mine,” he said in his usual effusive way. “‘Tis a joy to a fadder’s heart to see ye shimmering along with t’ candlelight!”
“Good fellow,” Mr. Entwhistle nodded as he turned to Obadiah.
“If I might have a word with you, sir?” Obadiah said, dropping Nellie’s hand, and turning toward her father.
Mercy me! Nellie thought. What occupies his thoughts now? She smiled at her father and then at Obadiah, curious to hear what he had to say.
“Cornelia, perhaps you would be so kind as to fetch us some punch?” Obadiah asked.
Mercy me! Nellie again said to herself. Why am I again excluded from their conversation? But obediently she nodded and waltzed, in time to the music, to the punch bowl. She poured some punch, calming her fluttering heart by inhaling the pine fragrance of the festive bowers decorating the bowl.
“Sir,” Obadiah continued, as soon as Nellie was out of earshot. “I know it is improbable that this is an optimum time, nor is this a likely or favorable place, but I would like to make an appointment to speak to you at a later date.”
“‘Tis a bit irregular to be sure, to don a serious visage and refer to a mysterious conversation to be scheduled for t’ future, right in t’ middle o’ our Twelfth Night of Christmas celebration. Might I inquire as to t’ purpose of this conversation, before I grant you an appointment? In anticipation o’ yer inquiry, I must warn you, Yale man or not, I am no longer recruiting men for me shipyard, nor for t’ maintenance of the Aqueduct. My engineers have t’ daily operations of t’ water supply well under control with no need for further personnel, and t’ plans for expansion of t’ operation have currently been curtailed...But yer right, this is hardly t’ time or place....” Mr. Entwhistle frowned.
“I beg pardon for my interruption, sir, but I fear I have given the wrong impression entirely. I am well employed. I studied law as well as military maneuvers at both Saint John’s Academy and Yale, and I am apprenticed to one of our village’s finest judges, Mr. Justice Urmy, Esquire, whilst I complete the final semester at Ya... er, my study of the law.”
“No doubt your late fadder’s antics in t’ Senate, his time as Governor of our illustrious state, and the nod for t’ office of Vice-President has kept the powerful sway o’ his name over local judges and politicians,” Mr. Entwhistle said, a trifle dismissively. He passed his hand over his hair, ending in scratching his head, and adopted a different tone. “Politics aside, I was saddened to hear o’ your fadder’s passing. He was a fine man. And anyone‘ll tell ye I do not dispense this moniker lightly. Taking a stand against t’ abomination of slavery—earning respect as Secretary of State. I doff me cap to him.”
“Thank you kindly, sir. I was fortunate to have him as my father and blessed to have his guidance for as long as I did,” said Obadiah, his face elongated with sadness, his right eye twitching. Momentarily, he forgot his mission.
Mr. Entwhistle cleared his throat.
At Obadiah’s continued silence, James Entwhistle resumed his own train of thought. “A fine and honorable gentleman such as Silas Wright will continue to command a powerful legacy. I’m sure his reputation at t’ bar of Attorneys is still sterling, not to mention his Senate connections in Washington or his gubernatorial pull in Albany.” Mr. Entwhistle chuckled. “Though he musta had a whole mess o’ clout to get a Whig-loving judge to even entertain t’ idea of the son of a Jacksonian present in his own office, much less than to be strong-armed into having that scallywag work for him.”
Obadiah’s lips twisted into a polite smile. He said, “Whilst I wager that is usually the situation, sir, without blowing my own horn, I do believe my apprenticeship was given to me based on my own merits and scholarship. Judge Urmy indicated to my former headmaster he was looking to take on a young man, appropriately schooled and meeting his strict criteria. Headmaster Churchill remembered me from my days at his Military Academy and sent word to Yale of the opportunity.”
Obadiah’s smile broadened as he continued his story. “The old coot judge has a bit of a sense of humor about himself. Judge Urmy allegedly told Churchill, ‘I’m a prejudice son of a gun, and I want to prove a theory. Give me the last semester’s proofs of your three best graduates now studying law, without any names or indicia of origin, and I’ll pick my man blind. I’ll be a three-legged toad if the best qualified be not a Whig.’
“The old judge guaranteed that he would pick a Whig or forever punish himself with a Jacksonian apprentice. When he selected me, we all had a good laugh; the judge laughing hardest of all. And that, sir, is how the son of a Jacksonian is working for a Whig.”
Mr. Entwhistle threw back his head and laughed. Obadiah joined him. The portly Irishman scratched his head. Nellie looked over from the punch bowl at the sound of her father’s laughter, but she could not hear their conversation. Dare I edge closer?
At that moment, Cadet Lawrence Simmons Baker materialized from nowhere, swept a low bow before her and asked her for the honor of this dance.
Nellie hesitated. What to my wondering eyes hath appeared? ‘Tis too strange a twist of events to not have had my mother’s hand in it! I must see what is afoot. I have my demeanor firmly in hand. I will mind my comportment. She blushed. Surely it is acceptable, nay merely compliant with Mutter’s wishes, to attempt another dance?
She so loved dancing. She had unconsciously been tapping her foot to the music, even after the rebuff from Obadiah. The young man eagerly held out his hand.
It was too tempting. With a backward glance at her father and Obadiah, Nellie allowed herself to be lead to the dance floor. Baker jumped into conversation as easily as he executed the dance steps. He swung her to the music as he drawled softly in her ear, “Cornelia Rose,
can you find it within your heart to forgive my oversteppin’? For that’s all it was, plain and simple, merely gettin’ ahead of myself.”
Nellie laughed, “That is water under the bridge. I am pleased to continue a cordial friendship with you.”
Baker frowned. “I had a more intimate relationship in mind than mere friendship,” he drawled.
Nellie hesitated a moment. Baker and the music suddenly turned her, permitting an unobstructed view of Obadiah and her father conversing. Obadiah’s eyes found hers across the room, and she suddenly knew her answer. “I am afraid that, based on our history, we must discard that possibility.”
Baker frowned again, but said nothing. Thrusting his chin forward over her shoulder so she could not see his expression, he turned on his magical dancing. Nellie frowned in turn, but allowed herself to succumb to Baker’s dancing charm. Lawrence twirled her with ease and grace, and she floated to her favorite waltz, Sträusschen. The magic of the movement, her passion for dancing, induced her to soften her words. “At least for the time being, this is the optimum arrangement,” she said. With a furtive glance in Obadiah’s direction she added a whispered, “But I suppose one never knows what the future will hold.”
Baker pulled his chin back. His entire face was lit with a grin. “I am smitten with you Miss Cornelia Rose. I will prove my undying love for you. You will soon understand how deep a man’s passion runs and the many benefits for its recipient.” Baker pulled her closer and spun her quickly and adroitly.
A girl could quite lose her head with such piquant treatment. Is this mad passionate feeling Baker elicits from me true love? Or is love the sweet but heady attention of Obadiah?
As Cornelia and Baker waltzed past her father and Obadiah, both pairs of eyes followed her. Nellie caught Obadiah’s gaze. She was a bit taken aback to see jealousy written all over his face. But before she could react, Obadiah crossed the dance floor and cut in on Baker.
Surprised, but gallant, Baker bowed out, managing to whisper in Cornelia’s ear, “Never fear, I will not be dissuaded.”
Obadiah steered her around the floor, his dancing competent but methodical. “I could not abide that cotton-picking Southerner monopolizing all your time. Certainly not at the precise moment you are the very subject of our discussion,” he said. Obadiah did not look at her as he spoke, and it was difficult for Nellie to tell his mood.
“Pray tell, do enlighten me as to the specifics of this discussion,” she said. Cornelia decided to maintain her light and airy good humor, engendered by the thrill of the dance with Baker, and carry on the conversation in a joking, flirting tone.
“Well... um... the specifics....” Obadiah hemmed and hawed a bit, and then stopped making sounds completely as he concentrated on turning Nellie around the dance floor. The music stopped.
“In point of fact, I haven’t actually spoken to your father about any subject, I am still trying to work the conversation around to that point.” With those puzzling words Obadiah left her standing in front of the orchestra, in the middle of the floor and went back to stand next to her father.
Nellie played with a strand of hair straying on to her cheek. Before she could speculate as to Obadiah’s mission and motives, Lawrence Baker appeared at her side again. In seconds, the orchestra launched into a minuet. As they floated among the dancers, Baker began to sing a parody of Stephen Foster’s popular song in her ear, strangely in tune with the music the orchestra played. “Nelly is a lady, what a lucky man am I, toll the bell for lovely Nell, I’ll win her as my bride.”
Nellie looked into Baker’s attractive face and laughed.
Surely a charming man, this Southerner, Nellie thought. One who will not be deterred from his purpose. I once told him if I had but the opportunity to know him better, I would not be so averse to his advances.... Mayhap I should give him a second chance.... So blatant in his forward overtures... yet he elicits in me a strange passion.
Nellie closed her eyes and yielded to the music and the romance of the evening.
Baker, sensing his advantage, backed Nellie near where Obadiah stood waiting to speak to her father again, then whisked her to the other side of the room. Nellie, floating on a cloud, did not notice Baker twirl them past his rival.
Obadiah patiently waited for Mr. Entwhistle to finish his exchange of pleasantries with two of the guests. Entwhistle granted him an audience after the couple danced away. Obadiah frowned and cleared his throat. “To return to the subject at hand, sir, seeking employment is not the focus of my request for an interview.”
“A bit o’ enlightenment then, son. What will be t’ topic o’ our discourse?” Mr. Entwhistle’s face resumed its usual jovial demeanor. Cheered by that affability, Obadiah cleared his throat, tore his gaze from Cornelia’s whirling figure and looked Mr. Entwhistle in the eye.
“I did not want to broach it in this manner,” Obadiah said uncertainly. “It seems a bit unseemly.”
“Now son, I don’t know what they learned ye in that fine Military establishment, nor that college, but I never go into battle unarmed. I won’t allow my adversary knowing the scope o’ the battle, and me in t’ dark.” Mr. Entwhistle softened his words with his broad Irish grin.
“Oh no, sir. I hope never to be your adversary,” said Obadiah. He nervously wiped his brow and his blue eyes flickered in dismay at the turn in the conversation.
“Then spit ‘er out son, what is t’ topic at hand?” asked Mr. Entwhistle as his voice rose just a half octave.
“Ahem. Yes, hand—unwittingly appropriate.” Obadiah’s words only further obfuscated his meaning. Mr. Entwhistle raised his eyebrows impatiently.
“Ahem, the subject at hand will be the hand of your fine daughter Cornelia Rose, sir,” said Obadiah, eyes searching the room for the sight of Nellie, seeking visual reassurance.
As if by magic, Nellie danced past him, turned her head, and smiled into Obadiah’s gaze, catching his eye.
Startled, Mr. Entwhistle took a step back and asked, “Have ye discussed this with me daughter now?”
Obadiah looked startled in return. “Oh no, sir. That would be most forward of me, sir. I had consulted with my own father before he passed away of course, but as to Cornelia....”
Mr. Entwhistle drew his eyebrows together. Obadiah detected subtle disapproval. “Of course, sir, I have ventured to converse about weighty matters with your daughter upon occasion, and I do enjoy her intelligent conversation and sparkling wit. If I may say sir, she appears to inherit these charms from you,” he said.
Mr. Entwhistle clapped the boy on the back and gave a hearty laugh. “Aye, flattery and a bit o’ blarney never hurt a conversation none, did it? Ye’r all right lad. I right admire ye’r gumption to make advances to me and me daughter. And I know, we’ll have a proper airing o’ the situation, we will. Come by Thursday next, a mite after t’ supper hour and me and me wife will be happy to receive ye.
“Not a word to me daughter about this now, eh?”
“But sir, then how will I persuade her to be my bride?” Obadiah asked. His agitation so great, he rubbed the hilt of his sword with one hand and twirled his mustache with the other.
“My approval is all that’s needed, ye must know,” said Mr. Entwhistle. “I’ll not abide t’ opinion o’ a woman trumpin’ a man, even me if it be me own daughter. No woman need make big decisions—Nell don’t know better than one as wise as me. Have ye not t’ manly sense God gave to ye lad?” Mr. Entwhistle shook his head and went off muttering. “T’ lad may be good at learn’ ‘n soldiering, but me faith in his judgment might a been misguided.”
“I will employ the utmost caution of utterance,” Obadiah called to his retreating figure. Mr. Entwhistle did not turn around.
Obadiah hung his head, chagrined—worried that he may have ruined his chances of obtaining the older man’s permission. Fretfully he grasped and released the hilt of his sword, staring over the heads of the dancers, reviewing each word of their conversation. At last he got a hold of himself
, and muttered, “Whatsoever enterprise must be undertaken to achieve this goal, that girl is truly for me! I will make it transpire.” He returned his gaze to the dancers, boisterously prancing past him, and frowned at the sight of Nellie, still swooning in the arms of Lawrence S. Baker.
Chapter 28 – Stuck in Colder Weather
Sing Sing, February 1851
“We will have a grrrrrand Church for our parish, if we all participate. My announcement today serves as a parish-wide call to arms. We must join in a concerted effort to raise funds,” said Father O’Flaherty. He looked around the Brandreth warehouse and his stocky body almost ran over to a stack of boxes. He climbed on top of two, balancing precariously, in spite of the audible gasps of the ladies seated in the front. His large frame teetering, the ladies vocalized their opinions on the boxes’ stability.
“We grow weary of saying Mass in this warehouse and in stray buildings which have outlived their purpose,” he announced from his box pulpit. “And in our parishioner’s homes.... Thank you, Bridget O’Brien.” The priest interrupted himself to give Mrs. O’Brien a nod. She stood up and made a theatrical curtsy. “Yes, well, we must redouble our efforts to garner money for the building fund. As generous as my parishioners are....” He paused, beaming affectionately at the assembly. “...We must augment our weekly collections if we are to build a church in this century! I believe it is time to widen our purview beyond our own pockets, and seek funds from the village at large.”
The minute the last strains of Hail, Redeemer, King Divine, the recessional hymn faded, the parishioners gathered in excited clusters, whispering fund-raising ideas. The excitement grew so strong, voices escalated from whisper, to conversation level, to shouting. Father O’Flaherty was incensed. “This is our house of worship!” he admonished. “Need I remind ye t’ keep quiet and respectful?”
“‘T isn’t that just t’ point of yer sermon Fadder?” asked Mr. Entwhistle. “This is not a proper house of worship at all, it is a warehouse.”