Annie's Stories (25 page)

34

S
TEPHEN RUBBED HIS HANDS
over his face as he sat in Davis’s office. “We can’t use the stories if she won’t give permission. I’m afraid I’ve mucked it all up. She’s angry with me.”

Someone knocked on the office door.

“Come in,” Davis hollered.

Stephen turned to see a tall man in a navy overcoat. The man removed his hat. “Mr. Alan Davis?”

“That’s right. How can I help you?”

“I am sorry to intrude.”

Stephen stood. “Not at all. I was just leaving. I have to get to work.” He pointed to Davis. “We will talk about this tonight.” He had his hand on the doorknob but halted when he heard the visitor say Annie’s name.

“I am Barton Barrows from Dublin. I represent Blackton House Publishing. I was expecting to meet Miss Gallagher here this morning.”

Stephen decided to stay.

“You just missed her. Maybe you can tell me what this is all about, Mr. Barrows. Please, sit down.” Davis began twiddling his cold cigar.

When the man finished speaking, Stephen realized he and Davis had been trying to play chess with masters when they
hadn’t even understood the rules. “But Annie needs the money,” he blurted.

Mr. Barrows tapped the end of his umbrella on the floor as he spoke. “Indeed, money is an issue. That is the reason Mr. Gallagher wanted to protect his daughter from all this business. It had been his hope that she would enjoy his earnings and not deal with these kinds of complicated matters.”

Davis slumped in his wheeled office chair. “I will be ruined.”

Mr. Barrows stood. “I suspect you have the stories since Miss Gallagher does not.”

“In my safe.”

“Give them to me, if you would.”

“I don’t think I better do that just yet.”

The man tapped his fingers on the handle of his black umbrella. “I will have to appeal to the courts then. I warn you, Mr. Davis, this could be a long affair.” He studied the confines of the office a moment. “One that I do not believe you can afford. I will be in touch.” He exited the room, leaving Stephen and Davis stunned.

Stephen glanced down at Davis’s desk at a ledger where the man was keeping track of what Stephen owed him. Then he stepped out of the room.

Perhaps there was no solution to this matter. Perhaps all his trying to be righteous had not been enough for God.

He continued on his route whistling no tune, taking no quick steps, and mumbling to himself. He’d tried to be a good son, a good person, a good friend. And still things were falling apart as though he hadn’t even made an effort. He’d awakened that day with sore joints and hoped he’d have time soon to retrieve his belongings. Sleeping on the floor was for dogs. He’d feel the consequences all day, not to mention the misery of failure. Annie had no reason to appreciate why he’d taken her stories now.

I require obedience, son.

True, it had been wrong to take those stories. Stephen had been impatient and tried to work things out in a way that would benefit his own situation. He needed to forget about whether or not he could impress Annie and instead do what was right for her. He seemed to have lost sight of his original intent.

Put others before yourself.

Stephen could not deny God was instructing him.

The sky was dreary and gray. If it weren’t for a few autumn chrysanthemums planted in front of some of the residences, the day would have no color at all. The chill in the air made his knuckles ache. Turning down an alley to take a shortcut, he noted several people gathered around a burning trash bin, warming their hands. He fingered the few pennies he had left in his pocket, planning to offer them.

He stopped before he got too close. A large man wearing a fine coat stood in the middle. There were some encounters a man should avoid. He planned to back out the way he’d come when someone yelled to him.

“Hey, mister! Got a penny for a fellow who just lost his job?”

He turned and nodded, and three of the men trotted toward him, leaving the larger man. When he’d given them what they wanted, they scurried away like rats.

Stephen saw the man was not alone. “Annie Gallagher? Is everything all right?” He hurried toward them.

Annie drew in her breath, as though irritated by his arrival.

“I . . . uh, I needed to make sure . . . I mean, I wanted to know if everything’s all right here.”

“It is, Mr. Adams.” She turned her hand palm up and indicated the large man. “This is Kirsten Wagner’s brother, Jonas. I’ve just invited him to come by sometime after the wedding this week and try to resolve things with his sister.”

“Oh, I see.” He grunted, then offered his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

The man did not return the greeting. “You know my sister?”

“Well, not in a manner of speaking. I deliver the mail and I know she lived at Hawkins House.” He turned to Annie. “It’s about to rain. Perhaps I should walk you home now.”

“Really, Mr. Adams. I am fine on my own. You do not have to hover over me as though I am a new hatchling.”

“I meant no offense, Miss Gallagher.” Stephen stood facing Annie, intentionally ignoring the man.

The large man briskly pulled Stephen’s shoulder back toward him. Stephen gripped the strap of his mailbag with both hands. If only the postal inspectors were there to apprehend him.

Kirsten’s brother glared. “Postman
 
—my sister. I am looking for her. If she is not at Hawkins House, where? Miss Gallagher tells me she was in a hospital, but she left and no one knows where she is now. Do you maybe deliver mail for her somewhere else in this neighborhood?”

“I do not believe I have.”

The man acknowledged this with a nod of his chin, but Stephen felt as though he was not satisfied. Thugs on the streets got what they wanted with force. If this fellow got a notion that he and Annie were withholding information, he might get violent. What had she been thinking, speaking to this man in the shadows of a Lower Manhattan alley?

Stephen turned back toward Annie. “Perhaps you are right. You know your way home. You go on.” He gave her as urgent a look as he could, hoping she’d get the hint. If this man meant them harm, Stephen would take the brunt of it and be satisfied that Annie got off all right.

But Annie wrinkled her nose and didn’t step away. “This man is worried about his sister.”

Stephen exhaled. “I see that. I will speak to him. You go on.”

When she didn’t take his advice, Stephen turned his back on her, standing between them. “I delivered something you sent your sister, though. When she was still at Hawkins House. You deposited it in a letter box. That right?”

Annie patted Stephen’s shoulder. When he twisted his neck to look at her, she wriggled her chin as though he should not have mentioned it. He tried to recover. “At least I believe I did. I deliver a lot of mail. And I should inform you . . .”

The man grabbed Stephen by the lapels, heavy mailbag and all. “
Ja.
Do you have it?”

“Of course not.” He whispered toward Annie. “Go now.” He heard the patter of her steps and waited until the echo sounded far enough away. Then he spoke as loudly as he could. “I tell you, sir, that when you send something illegal by the US mail, you may suffer extreme consequences.”

Jonas pushed Stephen away, causing Stephen to trip over a discarded produce crate.

“I warn you, sir, the postal inspectors are on to you!”

The man hurried away. Stephen hefted his bag and started to move on. At the end of the alley, he saw Annie Gallagher staring at him.

She frowned. “There was no need to speak so harshly to him.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I don’t.” Annie bolted across the street and disappeared in the midst of a group of pedestrians. He’d been trying to help. Why did she glower at him so?

35

“B
UT,
M
RS.
H
AWKINS
, Mr. Wagner meant no harm. Stephen Adams threatened him.”

“You don’t know that, Annie. He’s likely mixed up in something sordid. What were you thinking, speaking alone to him? We should thank Mr. Adams for interceding. I’m sure you misunderstood.”

“I did not. Stephen was going to get something called a finder’s fee because of my stories. Mr. Davis was already preparing to publish the book of stories without my final consent. Their motives are questionable, to say the least. And after what he said to Jonas . . . you have misjudged his character, Mrs. Hawkins.” She should have gathered up her stories when she found them in the workroom.

“Before you tell me about the stories, let me warn you. You must be more careful out there, love. After what our dear Grace went through, you cannot blame me for handing out this advice. Be friendly, of course, but ever cautious if you must speak to men out on the streets.”

“I know. And I will be. ’Tis just that when I talked to Mr. Wagner, I discovered how concerned he is about Kirsten. Mr. Adams did not bother to ask any questions before he threatened him.”

“I see. Like I said, he was right to be concerned.”

Annie blew out a breath.

“Now then, it seems you did not work out the business with Mr. Barrows.”

“I did not see him, but ’tis hopeless if he had an agreement with my father. And I understand now that my father was writing under the name of Luther Redmond to spare me all this, but . . .” She could not control the quiver in her voice. “He wasn’t able to protect me from any of it.”

“Now, now, love. This will all work out. And don’t forget you have my full support.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hawkins.”

“What did Mr. Davis say about your stories?”

“He has them in his office. It seems Mr. Adams thought he should take them from me and deliver them.”

“Ah, well. Good that they are safe. At least you know they were not truly stolen.”

“Just taken without permission, if there is a difference.”

“There is, love. The postman was trying to help. I agree he should not have stepped in that way, but he did not mean harm.”

“I don’t know what to believe, Mrs. Hawkins. In any case, Mr. Barrows said he owns the rights to my father’s stories. I can’t allow anyone else to publish them.”

“Is he going to do it, then? Surely now that he has found you, you’ll receive some portion of your father’s earnings.”

“I cannot imagine there were any more earnings than what my father carried with him, and my uncle has that. Mr. Barrows seemed adamant about the stories not being published, I’m afraid.”

“Annie, you have the entire committee of the Benevolents at your disposal.” She handed her a cup of tea.

“Thank you. I just wanted to do this, Mrs. Hawkins. I wanted to prove I could.”

“Of course you can, love. You rest a bit. And think about this. I will tend to the baking.”

“Think? I have done nothing but. My father’s tales of talking mice and learned rabbits represented home to me, Mrs. Hawkins. A joyful place I had to leave when they closed my father’s coffin.”

“Oh, dear child. Storms, like the one we had the other night, for example, don’t last forever. I believe the Irish have a saying about it: ‘There’s no flood that doesn’t subside.’ Sorrows last for the moment, but joy comes in the morning. Remember these wise words. My Harold used to repeat them whenever I fretted about something.”

This was more than simple fretting. There was no way back to that happier time. Her childhood didn’t exist anymore. Those days were lost like ashes rising up a chimney, impossible to retrieve. The thought sat on her shoulders like a twenty-pound sack of potatoes.

Seeing the stories in print might have brought some measure of it back, but now that could not happen. She would never be able to publish them, never make money from them, never open her father’s library or start a storytellers’ academy. Or find anyone as kind as her father, as she’d thought Stephen Adams was. When she’d realized God didn’t want her, she’d dared to hope she could still find happiness. A witless idea that had been.

“I will keep that in mind, Mrs. Hawkins.” Although she knew it wouldn’t help, it was thoughtful of the woman to try.

Annie returned to her room and held a hand to her chest. How she wished for a heart of stone that could not be wounded. Or to be like the Tin Woodman and believe that she had no heart at all. The continual ache from not finding a place to call home made Annie fully aware that she did indeed have a heart.

She mindlessly flipped through the pages of the Bible lying on her desk.

“For his anger endureth but a moment; in his favour is life: weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.”

She slammed the book shut and covered her mouth with her hand. Some kind of demon must have possessed her. She’d imagined Mrs. Hawkins had just said the same thing to her.

As she sat at her desk, willing the storm in her soul to subside, a sunbeam bathed her face and she lifted her head toward it. “Oh, God, am I going crazy? I want to be with you in the light and not under these black clouds.” She lay her head down on the desk and emptied her thoughts until she dozed off.

The next thing she knew, Mrs. Hawkins was tapping on her shoulder, holding out a plate of warm scones topped with honey. The sun still came in through her curtains, and a feeling of peace drifted to her senses along with the scents of mint tea and yeasty bread.

Mrs. Hawkins set the plate on the desk in front of her. “Are you feeling better now?”

“I am.” She kissed the woman on the cheek, making her chuckle.

“Take your time. We have all evening to finish our preparations for the wedding.” Mrs. Hawkins handed her a napkin.

Annie licked the honey from her fingers. Something about sweets always seemed to help her think more clearly.

“I was thinking about you running into Jonas. You said he has not found Kirsten yet?”

“He has not, although he is desperate to find her.”

“I assume he has been in the city all along.”

“Oh, aye.” She tasted the warm scone. “But how would you know that?”

“A few things. One, the telegram he sent from New York. That could have been explained, but when coupled with something else, I suspected as much.”

“What else?”

“Remember I had a boardinghouse for him? He left that day without asking the address or name. He obviously already had a place to stay.”

“Oh, that’s right, so.”

“Also, those letters arrived so quickly. Letters take a while to get here, even from upstate New York, so I suspected they were mailed locally. A package takes a bit longer. He probably did not know that, and that’s what prompted his worry and kept him asking about it.”

Mrs. Hawkins’s keen senses were a result of careful observation. Annie could learn from that.

“I don’t know why he decided to confide in me when he saw me on the street, Mrs. Hawkins. But I’m glad I heard his story.”

“Me as well. Sometimes folks have to have nowhere to turn before they’ll reach out. Men, especially, let their pride keep them from accepting help. But when they are at the bottom of a well, they reach for whatever hand is there. I believe God placed you in his path at that time because he knew you’d give Jonas a sympathetic ear. Won’t you tell me what he told you? Perhaps we can find a way to help.”

Annie blew out a breath before continuing. “Aye, of course. He met the Pinkerton at some pub called McSorley’s.”

“I’ve heard of it. Women aren’t permitted.” She rolled her eyes, making Annie laugh. In America those public houses were rowdy places, not the cozy establishments entire families visited in Ireland. Mrs. Hawkins would not have gone to McSorley’s if they’d welcomed her with arms wide.

“It was an untruth that he was ever up north working.”

“Why were they not honest about that? I would have tried to help him find a job. What has he been doing?”

“He said he picked up odd jobs here and there and ate at various charity soup suppers. He’s slept in different shelters and alleys. Anyway, feeling down on his luck and embarrassed that his sister was the only wage earner, he’d dropped in to drown his worries in a mug of dark ale. ’Twas there he overheard some men talking about a financial scheme.”

“And he became involved. If only we could speak sense into these young people. I’m always seeing advertisements about how quick money can supposedly be made. There are swindlers everywhere. Too many people think that in America money can be picked off trees like leaves.”

“Not exactly like that, Mrs. Hawkins. He was interested, aye, but the men moved away from him to another table. One was balancing his full mug, some envelopes, and whatnot, when he left behind a ledger. Jonas picked it up and looked at it. Suddenly they charged at him, as though he meant them harm. He dashed out of there and managed to escape. They were German like him, and the details in the book were written in his native tongue. He said there was a draft of a letter and addresses. He didn’t know what to make of it, but he did know he’d looked at it and that made him a target
 
—and soon Kirsten, also, because they followed him somehow and learned where she worked.”

“Oh, dear. I guess the Pinkertons are effective at what they do. Those men must have hired Mr. Cooper.”

“That would seem to make sense, Mrs. Hawkins.”

“So Jonas put her here to be safe.”

“It seems so. Some people take a long time to put their trust in anyone, especially immigrants like the Wagners, who have escaped unpleasantries in their homelands.”

The woman crossed her arms across her bosom. “Is that so?”

“I’m not speaking about myself.”

“Um-hum.”

“He never would have given the ledger to Kirsten if they hadn’t been watching him so closely. To escape his pursuer, presumably the Pinkerton, Jonas wrapped up the ledger, wrote Kirsten’s name and Hawkins House on the outside, and dropped it into a letter box just in time.”

Mrs. Hawkins pinched her hands together in her lap. “I don’t suppose he thought the police would help him. I wish more people knew our Owen.”

Annie agreed.

The Hawk clicked her tongue. “Kirsten hid to protect them both. I understand that now. She probably thinks keeping the ledger hidden is their only safeguard. Without it, those bad men would have no reason not to assassinate them like the poor president.”

“I’m afraid so. Jonas said Kirsten feared for his life. Not being able to read, she might not have known what to believe. I’m sure she thought Jonas’s involvement might cause him to be deported at the very least.”

“She is right to be concerned about that, Annie.”

“He says he doesn’t care about that now. He only wants to find his sister and make sure she is safe.” Annie popped a morsel of the scone into her mouth.

“So the Pinkerton thought he could force Kirsten to hand it over. The poor dear was probably so confused.”

“I asked Jonas to come here after the wedding, Mrs. Hawkins. I don’t know how we can help, but I thought perhaps we’d come up with something.”

“Good thinking, my dear girl. You certainly have God’s heart for the downtrodden.”

God’s heart?
She wanted to do something, not sit by while others suffered, never again after the misery she’d been put through. She smiled. “I may never get my library or my storytelling school, but if we can do something to help those poor people get a new start . . . it would mean so much.”

Mrs. Hawkins sighed, looking out the window. “I would like to help, and maybe there is yet something we can do for Jonas, but Kirsten may be far away from here by now.”

While she waited for Mrs. Hawkins to finish her tea, Annie pulled the
Wizard
book out from under the Bible. Thumbing aimlessly through the pages, she stopped at the illustration of Dorothy sitting in a field surrounded by attentive black mice as the Tin Woodman introduced her to the Queen of Mice. If fairy tales were true, there would be a mouse queen who would make things right. If the Bible were true, calling on God, as Annie had, would pull her into the light.

Mrs. Hawkins’s teacup clinked as she abruptly stood and gathered up the things she’d brought to Annie’s room, including Annie’s half-eaten scone.

Annie snatched back her snack. “What are you doing?”

“You and I are going somewhere, right now. I was just contemplating something, and I believe the best illustration would be to take you there.”

“Where?”

“No questions. Let’s go.”

After they had gotten on the Ninth Avenue el and Annie could see the treetops of Central Park, she asked again. “Please, Mrs. Hawkins. Where are we going?” She had only been as far as Central Park, and only on one occasion, when Grace had insisted she go skating there with her.

“It will become clear, love. Patience.”

She was still baffled, so she sat quietly. When they got off
the train, she thought perhaps they were going to the park, but Mrs. Hawkins hired a cab.

“To Trinity Church Cemetery,” she said.

“What are we doing?”

The Hawk said nothing.

They entered through an iron gate. Towering obelisks stretched toward the treetops and multiple tombs. Marble statues and more lushly green bushes than were found in Battery Park spoke to the affluence of the place. “Who is buried here?”

“The wealthy, love. The Astors, Audubon, mayors, statesmen . . .”

She followed the woman down a path between graves until she stopped suddenly in front of a limestone set of stairs guarded on each side by two massive stone urns. A weary rosebush sprang toward the steps on the left. The stairs led to a framed lot of graves where a handful of tombstones rested. Mrs. Hawkins leaned against the wall. “This is the Hawkins family plot.”

Annie’s heart began to ache. She knew the pain of loss as much as anyone. Standing there where surely numerous tears had been shed over many generations, it seemed as though the sorrow might seep right into her. “Your Harold is buried here, so.”

“That’s right. Among the wealthy, love. The extremely wealthy.” Mrs. Hawkins turned to her. “I brought you here to show you that the Hawkinses have a place in high-society Manhattan, but this cemetery is the only part of that I’m willing to showcase. I have inherited, through my Harold, a great sum of money.” She laughed nervously. “Me, without electricity. You must find that amusing.”