“I ain’t seen ’em. I ain’t seen nobody.”
“And I believe you, boy,” said Hickox. “But if you get some word about them, you have to speak the truth.” He produced a leather pouch, and after some fiddling, he pulled out two large golden coins and rubbed them together between his thumb and index finger. “You ever seen a Spanish doubloon, Fishmonger?”
Horace watched the coins circle each other. “No sir.”
“Isn’t having $150 weighing down your purse better than owing five hundred and being thrown in jail—for a couple of strangers?”
Horace’s throat tightened. Just for a moment, he allowed himself to think of what $150 would buy, like a sparkling window for his shack that would allow in the sun and replace the drafty plug he had now. He’d buy a new overcoat before the winter freeze and a pair of boots that didn’t leak. But mostly he thought about the glorious sign he would hang over his new shop: Horace’s Fresh Fish.
“I have such confidence in you,” said Hickox, “that I’m giving you this now.” He flipped the coins one by one toward Horace. “An advance of eight dollars on that $150.”
The doubloons glowed in Horace’s palm.
“Don’t stand in my way, Fishmonger,” said Hickox. “Others who traveled that path have found nothing but woe.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
PRYCE ANWELL BURST OUT of the watchhouse and into the sun a free man. He smoothed the nap of his long-tailed jacket. Since its dunking in the canal, the garment had shrunk and wrinkled. Amazingly enough, his tall beaver-skin hat appeared to be undamaged by its time in the water, but the leather sweatband had tightened enough to leave a red mark across his forehead. His shirt collar was still damp, but at least it was passably clean, thanks to Mrs. Osborn’s insistence that she “give it a good scrubbing.” Sheriff Osborn said that Pryce “better obey” the summons to Mr. Galway’s house if he did not want to anger his new benefactor—a man, the sheriff assured him, “terribly ticklish about insults.”
Following the sheriff’s directions, Pryce proceeded across Bleecker and began to take in the newness and apparent prosperity of the neighborhood. Perhaps someday, he thought, he might settle in just such a place. Really, anywhere in Utica would work, as long as it was nowhere near the canal. He made himself happy thinking of coming home in the evening to one of the fine houses along the street. What kind of work would he be doing? he wondered. The earnest face of his father burst into his thoughts, dissipating the vison. Settling here was crazy. He’d had nothing but trouble since his less-than-glorious arrival. All he could do now was fulfill his promise to thank Mr. Galway, beg him for a few more dollars (to be paid back at some future date), and resume his tiresome journey out to Buffalo and back to Little Falls. He prayed that his father never got word of the ordeal.
As he proceeded, he brightened. Perhaps his luggage might still be on board the boat or waiting to be retrieved at Utica’s canal house. Wait, he thought suddenly, they wouldn’t have written to his father, would they? A wave of anxiety crushed his mood. A picture flashed through his mind: a letter—detailing his idiotic belly flop—arriving in Little Falls that very morning. Shaking his head as if to dislodge the idea, he remembered that the boat hadn’t even slowed down for him. He couldn’t imagine the captain putting quill to paper, much less paying for the postage.
How disappointed the old man would be if he heard about the fiasco. Pryce turned his mind to solving his immediate problems. First: borrow more money. Second: catch up with the packet and find out if a letter had been sent. If so, write and deny everything. If not, write and say that things were going along as planned.
He approached the Galway residence. It was very fine with white clapboard siding, five windows across the second story, four chimneys, an elliptical window in its triangular pediment, and tall pilasters with arches attached to the front wall. The decorative fanlight over the solid oak door matched the pane design of the sidelight windows. The man must be quite prosperous indeed.
Pryce decided that if his father’s assessment was correct, Mr. Galway would be happy to help. But Father was too trusting sometimes.
Because the elder Anwell was so nice, people often underestimated him. But he seemed to recognize successful projects, ones that brought profit, as if they sparkled, while the failures rarely caught his fancy. His father floated along, lighting on one idea after another. A steep drop in the riverbed, ignored by most, produced the vision of a water-powered sawmill that his father designed and had built. The tall pines nearby could be rolled to the very edge of the construction area. There they were fed into one end of the building and sliced their length by giant whirring blades. The wood emerging ready to use from the other, thereby eliminating the cost of transporting the lumber to the canal’s work site.
When Anwell senior had studied the turgid waters of the Mohawk, he imagined a new mountain of stone arranged into an arched bridge that held the canal in a straight line, an aqueduct that would carry people and freight in total calm and comfort thirty feet above the anarchy of the raging spring melt that could wash away another engineer’s set of locks. The structure became a part of the landscape as if it had always been there, just waiting for someone to place the stone blocks in the right order. The money poured in as his father flitted on to another idea, another problem whose solution would come to life, as if it had sprung from the head of Zeus.
Pryce felt that if he had inherited the old man’s vision he would see his future with that same luminosity and know which way to go. But to him rocks were rocks and trees stood until someone else cut them down. And planks were produced with noise and sweat and violence.
He lifted the heavy brass knocker on Galway’s front door, banging it against the strike plate. A face peeped at him from the sidelight window. With a start, he recognized Miss O’Connell. He blinked as if he might clear this improbability. She stared at him with a look of alarm.
He suddenly realized the frightening impression he must be making—a strange man who had followed her and was filthy enough to have spent the night in jail.
Regaining his composure, he tried to pull his hat off his head, but the shrunken band gripped his forehead until he applied such force that, for a moment, it felt as if the leather had ripped away some of his skin. He touched his brow to check for blood, remembered where he stood, and bowed abruptly.
“I found you,” he called through the glass.
Her brow crinkled. She opened the door and pushed her head out, glancing nervously behind her as if her employer might be angry to have her lollygagging around the entranceway. A sharp red blush climbed up her cheeks. “What are you doing here?” she said.
Pryce bowed again, slowly and with a smile of satisfaction at her blush. “I’m here to thank Mr. Galway.”
“You know Mr. Galway?”
“No, he … helped me out with a difficulty.”
“So, this,” she said, her finger wagging back and forth between them, “is just some coincidence?”
“Helen, who the devil is it?” called a voice from inside. “It had better be Dr. McCooke.”
Helen stepped aside, allowing Pryce into the foyer. A pleading look came into her eyes. “Don’t mention the canal,” she whispered. “I’ll ask Mr. Galway if he can see you now,” she said louder and with a formal tone.
The moment she disappeared, Pryce revised his mission. First: forget engineering. Second: ask for an additional loan and suggest that he work off his debt as Mr. Galway’s clerk. That would give him plenty of time to smite the girl’s first and second impressions and properly present himself as a suitor. If Mr. Galway didn’t hire him, surely such a successful man could suggest another place.
Pryce shook himself. This notion was ridiculous. The logical thing would be to get back on the packet boat. Later, if he was still interested in pursuing Miss O’Connell, he could write to her and press his suit on paper.
Helen returned to the hallway and indicated that he should enter the room. He straightened his b
ack and nipped quickly in. Their eyes met as he passed. Forget about Father, he mused. She was worth any risk. He would stay and woo her, even if it meant working somewhere as horrid as King’s Victualing House.
Helen followed Pryce into the library.
“Well,” said Augustin, gripping the arms of his chair and looking pleased. “So you’re Llewelyn Anwell’s son.”
“At your service,” said Pryce.
“It seems to me that I’ve been at your service,” said Augustin. No one moved until he broke the awkward silence: “I’m jesting. Sit down, sit down.”
“I will leave you to your business,” Helen said, swiftly gathering up some needlework from the sofa.
“No, Helen, stay,” Augustin said.
She nodded to him, shut the door, and went to an overstuffed chair by the window. In her lap, she knit her fingers, rubbing knuckle by knuckle.
As Pryce took a seat on the couch, he thought it curious that the maid, or housekeeper, or governess, or whoever she was, be asked to stay.
Augustin shifted. A groan sounded deep in his throat. He gripped his thigh, massaging it with the heel of his palm. “As you can see, I’m indisposed.”
“I’m sorry that you’re not well,” said Pryce, noticing that his own hands were subtly smoothing the short fur of his hat. He put the hat aside and tried to fold his fingers together, but even that felt awkward. “I won’t prevail upon you for long. First, I’m grateful for your kind help during my recent crisis.”
Pryce glanced at Helen. Confusion darkened her face.
“Your predicament wasn’t all that grave,” said Augustin. “But why was it I who had to save you? Did someone finally swindle your father into bankruptcy?”
“Both his finances and physical health are excellent. He mentioned you before I left. He prayed for your continued good health.”
“A lot of good that did me,” said Augustin with a tight smile. Helen scowled.
“Yes, I suppose it didn’t—or I mean did—I mean,” said Pryce. “I’m sure he will be unhappy when he hears that you’re unwell.”
“And I’m sure he’ll get over the upset in a matter of moments.” Augustin studied the young man.
Pryce felt his face brighten in embarrassment. “I must ask you the favor of not letting my father know,” he said, looking at his nervous fingers. He glanced at Helen.
“Know about what?” said Augustin
Pryce’s head swung back to Galway. “About the unjustified situation with Mr. King. It would be … inconvenient.”
“A secret, eh?” said Augustin, a playful gleam in his eye. “I bet you’ve more secrets than a son of Llewelyn Anwell ought. Well, he is a kind man. When it comes to fathers, you’re one of the lucky ones.”
The front door banged open and Dr. McCooke hustled into the room as if to announce that Napoleon had risen from his grave. He stopped and stared at Pryce.
Augustin focused all his energy on the doctor. “What the devil took you so long?”
McCooke lifted his chin and smiled broadly. “Success on a mission of medical necessity sometimes takes longer than anticipated.” He crossed to the liquor table and opened his medical bag. “But,” he said, focusing on Augustin, “success I did have.”
“Helen,” said Augustin, “take Mr. Anwell into the parlor and entertain him for a moment.”
As she closed the library door, she noticed the doctor slap his hands together and rub them up and down before withdrawing a vial of opium from his medicine bag. Something about the gesture troubled her, but she shut her husband and the doctor in and crossed the foyer to a double set of French doors and opened them wide.
The room had not been used since the first Mrs. Galway had been consigned to the earth. Though a fire had been laid in the fieldstone fireplace, it had not been lit. Helen pulled open the brocade drapes and sunlight streamed through the windows, revealing the swirl of dust stirred up by her presence.
“I tried to find you,” said Pryce in a low murmur, moving toward her. “You just disappeared.”
“Then how did you follow me here?” she asked, glancing toward the hall.
“Miss O’Connell …”
Helen stiffened. “It’s Mrs. Galway.”
Pryce froze, his face slack. “Mrs. Galway? What? … You said …”
“I know what I said,” she snapped. Sighing, she straightened her left hand. The gold of her wedding band glinted in the sun. Why had she brought this humiliation upon herself? She was Mrs. Galway until death. The weight of it sank into her. “I misspoke—that is, I’m still getting used to it. I’m sorry to have confused you.”
He stood straight-backed, hands at his sides. “I want to apologize. My behavior’s been abominable. Had I known you were married …” He trailed off. “But I didn’t follow you.”
“I’m sorry I misled you.”
“I tried to follow you,” he said, shrugging. “You were too quick, or I too slow.” He smiled at her warmly.
Her eyes went damp. “I’m sorry, Mr. Anwell. Truly.” She egded toward the foyer. “But I must go. Mr. Galway will have the doctor call you.” She stepped to the threshold of the room.
“It’s just that you were so adorably serious with your sketchbook,” he said.
She stopped, suspended for a moment. “Please, don’t continue. I’ll be in trouble if anyone hears this kind of talk,” she said, turning, a softness on her face.
Pryce focused on the floor. “I should be the one to go.” He glanced up, resolute. “Give your husband my thanks. I’ll repay his kindness as soon as I’m able.”
The door to the library swung open and Dr. McCooke’s head appeared. “Mr. Galway says he needs to see you both.”
Helen and Pryce stole a fleeting glance at one another.
“Mr. Anwell, Helen,” called Augustin from his seat, “the doctor has told me the most interesting thing.” He put his hands on the arms of his chair and began to lift himself.
“No, no,” said McCooke as he rushed to Augustin’s side, “you mustn’t stand.”
Helen moved quickly to him and kneeled by his chair. “Please, don’t injure yourself further.”
Augustin turned to her with bright eyes, “The doctor tells me that tonight a telescope is being brought from Hamilton College and set up in Chancellor Square. We’ll all be able to see Halley’s comet, as if it has been brought down from the heavens to blaze before our eyes.” Again, he tried to lift himself.
The doctor laid his hand on Augustin’s shoulder. “Stay seated, sir.”
Helen looked at McCooke. “What does he mean? Surely he can’t go anywhere.”
“Your leg will be further damaged.” McCooke’s voice was steady and low. “Try to get some sleep.”
“Sleep?” said Augustin, agitated. “While the heavens are opening their mysteries and revealing themselves?” He made another attempt to stand before collapsing into the chair.
“Let yourself heal,” said McCooke. “I’m here to see to you.”
The doctor’s calming words had taken some effect and Augustin’s head relaxed against the chair’s tall back, cradled by the curve of its wing. “Forgive me. I am rather tired.” He placed his hand over Helen’s. “God is inviting us to marvel at His work. My dear, you can’t miss the summons.”
“I’m not missing anything,” she murmured.
“The doctor says I can’t go,” he whispered. “But you must.”
“I will stay by your side,” Helen insisted.
“I’d be happy—” started the doctor.
“Tell her,” called Augustin to Pryce as he lingered in the doorway, “this happens only once in a lifetime.”
“Mr. Galway is correct,” said Pryce, quietly. “Halley’s comet hasn’t been seen since 1759 and won’t return for another seventy-five years.”
“You must take her, Mr. Anwell,” Augustin pressed, a patina of sweat polishing his brow. “Mrs. Galway cannot be alone on the street after dark.”
Helen leaned back on her heel
s.
The doctor looked at Galway, frustration evident on his face.
Pryce stepped forward, animated. “I’d be honored to take Mrs. Galway anywhere you please,” he said. “But I have no place to stay. It pains me to remind you that all my money was lost in the canal.”
“Of course,” said Augustin. He inhaled as if starting a new thought, but his eyes closed. A few silent seconds passed and everyone in the room bent toward him. His head drooped. He caught himself and resumed as if he had not paused: “Go to the National Hotel, it’s just below the canal on Genesee Street. Speak to Richard Sanger, he’s the proprietor. Tell him to charge your food and lodgings to my account.”
“Sir, I thank you for your kindness, but I’m already in your debt.”
“Yes, you certainly are. But you see, I insist …” Augustin trailed off, his eyes fluttering until the lids quieted and he seemed to fall asleep.
McCooke led them out of the library. “As you can see, Mr….?”
“Pryce Anwell.”
“Oh, the convict?” said McCooke with a chuckle. Helen’s head spun in Pryce’s direction. He looked aggrieved. “You can see that Mr. Galway is having some difficulties,” continued the doctor, his focus shifting to Helen. “Mrs. Galway, it’s not prudent to go out to view the comet.”
She broke away. “My husband made himself quite clear. Once in a lifetime, he said.” She turned to Pryce. “Mr. Anwell, I’ll expect you at sunset. Perhaps Mr. Galway will be able to sustain himself for a longer visit after a nap.”
“I’ll be here promptly,” said Pryce. He nodded to McCooke. Helen and the doctor watched as he let himself out.
“Sounds like fun,” smiled the doctor. “We three shall attend together.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE SHED WAS A DISMAL PLACE. Over their months of travel, Imari had slept in swamps, in hidey-holes, on the bare ground, in attics, under chicken coops, on cots, in the holds of ships, in dusty cellars, and once, on a feather mattress. But the thought of spending another night on the dirt floor filled her with despair.
The Third Mrs. Galway Page 12