Bicycle Built for Two (25 page)

“Thank you, Katie, darling.”

Mrs. Finney took Kate’s arm and together
they walked up the stairs. From out of nowhere, or so it seemed to
Kate, a man appeared, lifted Kate’s shabby carpetbag—without even
sneering at it—and trotted up the staircase before them.

“I’ll unpack for the two of you,” Louise
said brightly. “You can decide which rooms you want. They’re both
all made up. The Missus has been so excited about your visit.”

“She has?” Kate would have shaken her head
and maybe batted at her ears a couple of times if she’d been alone.
She couldn’t account for Louise’s state of excitement. Maybe Mrs.
English really did want them here.

“This is so kind of Mr. English and his
mother,” Mrs. Finney said, gasping only slightly.

“Take it easy, Ma. You can talk once we get
upstairs.”

“Mr. English was quite crippled towards the
end of his life,” the chatty Louise informed them. “He talked about
installing one of them electrical lift things that they have in
grand hotels, but he died before they could have one
installed.”

“My goodness,” said Kate, genuinely
surprised. “I didn’t know that.” Mr. English being crippled didn’t
fit with her image of a member of the English family.

“Oh, my, yes.” Kate had slowed her pace so
as not to outstrip the ladies she was guiding. “He was all bent
over with the lumbago. His joints hurt something terrible. He used
to be such an active man, too. Why, he plowed the fields until he
was in his late sixties. Until the lumbago took over.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Indeed,” assented Mrs. Finney, who’d
stopped walking at the top of the staircase so that she could catch
as much of her breath as her lungs would allow. “I’m sorry to hear
about his infirmity.”

“Yes, well, I guess the good Lord works in
mysterious ways. As you should know, ma’am, if you’ll forgive me
for saying so. Mr. Alex speaks so highly of the both of you. It’s a
crying shame that you came down with the consumption, Mrs.
Finney.”

Mrs. Finney smiled. “I think so, too,
Louise. Thank you.”

“Me, too,” added Kate, not quite sure what
was going on here. Everybody was so darned friendly. Shouldn’t they
be looking down their collective noses at her and her mother? And
had Alex—Mr. Alex, indeed—actually, honestly and truly, said nice
things about them? Her mother deserved them. Kate feared she
didn’t. She’d actually been sort of mean to Alex since they met.
Not that he hadn’t deserved her rancor—at first.

“My uncle Harry caught the consumption. He
worked in the mines in Pittsburgh. They say that black coal dust
kills more men than accidents.”

“My goodness.”

As much as Kate appreciated Louise’s
friendliness, she wished the girl hadn’t mentioned her uncle’s
death from black lung. The reference didn’t seem exactly diplomatic
to Kate. On the other hand, she could forgive verbal missteps as
long as the intent behind them wasn’t malicious. “Yeah,” she said,
hoping to turn the conversational topic. “I hear black lung is
really bad. Say, are these the rooms?”

“What?” Louise looked startled. “Oh, I see.
Yes. Mrs. English had us prepare the two rooms closest to the
staircase. She said it’ll cut down on the number of steps you have
to take and all.”

“She’s very considerate,” Kate’s mother
said.

“She sure is,” Kate agreed. Louise pushed
the door of the first room open, and Kate’s heart executed another
flip. “Oh, my!”

The room was gorgeous. The pretty
yellow-trimmed chintz curtains had been drawn aside and the windows
had been thrown open to the bright summer afternoon sun. Forgetting
for once that her mother was more important than she was, Kate went
to the open window and gazed outdoors in something as close to awe
as she could get. “Oh, Ma, it’s a room with a view!” She felt
stupid as soon as the words popped out.

“Isn’t it grand?”

When Kate turned at Louise’s comment, she
saw the house maid standing in the open doorway, her hands clasped
together at her waist, and a huge smile on her face. “It sure is.
Can you walk over here, Ma? Do you need help?”

“I’m fine, Katie.” But it didn’t escape
Kate’s attention that her mother was slipping the flask into her
skirt pocket.

Her heart quailed as she watched her mother
walk to the window. She was so frail, she scared Kate. The notion
of life without her mother filled Kate with a hurt so deep, she was
pretty sure it would never heal. In spite of that, or perhaps
because of it, she pasted on a jolly smile for both their sakes.
“Look. You can see all the trees and flowers blooming, Ma. It’s so
pretty.”

Mrs. Finney put her hand on Kate’s shoulder
and looked out the window. “Oh, Katie, it reminds me of home.”

“Home?” Kate hadn’t heard that wistful
quality in her mother’s voice before. “You mean Ireland?”

Hazel Finney nodded. “Aye, Katie. It’s green
in Ireland. Just like this. The green just rolls on forever.”

Kate gazed out, trying to see the
countryside from her mother’s point of view. Couldn’t be done. She
saw great beauty, but the only thing she could relate it to was
pictures in fairy-tale books. The nuns had never allowed the
children to read fairy-tale books, but Kate had cleaned house for a
rich lady with children, and she’d looked in her children’s books
sometimes. Those books with their pictures had been one of Kate’s
guilty pleasures, moments of joy stolen from a life of drudgery. As
she stared upon the view, the same feeling of doing something she
shouldn’t be doing washed over her.

“Jeepers.” Although she knew she was being
irrationally uneasy, Kate eyed the scene with renewed appreciation,
not that she hadn’t appreciated it before, for her heritage’s sake.
“Does it really looks like Ireland?”

“Very much. In spots.” Mrs. Finney laughed
softly. Kate held her breath, but her mother didn’t start
coughing.

“I’m so glad you like the room and the
view.”

Kate had forgotten about Louise. With a
sigh, she turned away from the window, only to find Louise opening
her carpetbag. At once, all of her feelings of insecurity attacked
her. “What are you doing?”

Startled, Louise jerked upright. “Why, I was
going to unpack for you. I assumed your mother would stay in this
room since it’s the closest to the staircase.”

Mrs. Finney, close on Kate’s heels, again
put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Thank you so much, Louise.
That’s a good idea. I’ll be very happy in this room. But Katie
packed clothes for both of us in that bag. Perhaps it would be
better if you left the unpacking to her. May we see the other
room?”

“Of course.”

Louise looked a trifle put out, and Kate
wished she’d held her tongue. Again. Sometimes she despaired of
ever leaving the slums behind. Even when she had opportunities,
like this one, the slums seemed to travel with her and spoil
everything. In an effort to redeem herself in Louise’s eyes, she
smiled hard and decided to tell the truth. Might as well, since it
always managed to catch up with her anyhow. “Thanks, Louise. I’m
not used to people doing things for me.”

Louise relaxed instantly. “Oh, I know
exactly what you mean, Miss Finney! I’m the same way myself. Come
along. Miss Finney’s room is right next door. It’s done all in
pink. Miss Mary Jo decorated it.”

Thank God they’d got over that one. Kate
vowed she’d watch herself and not step in any more mud of her own
making than she could help. Vigilance was what was needed here.
She’d just be vigilant. She was always vigilant, for that matter,
but this weekend, instead of watching out for her father, she’d be
watching out for herself.

It was an odd and uncomfortable concept, but
Kate feared it was about right.

Chapter Twelve

Alex couldn’t remember ever fussing over
guest accommodations at the farm before. His mother was a supremely
capable woman, she loved to have visitors, and she never, ever
allowed the least little attention to go wanting where her guests
were concerned. He fussed anyway.

“Are you sure the tea will stay hot until
they get downstairs? I don’t want to serve tepid tea to Mrs.
Finney.” Frowning, Alex gazed at the table in front of the
comfortable, slightly worn parlor sofa. Mrs. Gossett had set out
gingerbread, frosted fairy cakes—she said the recipe had come from
some Irish ancestor or other, and she thought Mrs. Finney might
enjoy them—little tea sandwiches, and a flowery teapot accompanied
by flowery cups and saucers. He hoped to heaven the Finney ladies
wouldn’t be intimidated by all the finery; he was sure they’d
consider matching cups, saucers, and plates finery.

“Mrs. Gossett covered the pot with a cozy,
Alex.” Mrs. English smiled as she arranged teacups on the table.
Alex got the feeling her smile wasn’t for him, but for something
private that she found amusing and didn’t intend to share.

Alex gave up on his mother’s smile and
frowned down on the covered teapot. “Is that what that thing is?
What did you call it? A cozy?” Ridiculous name for a piece of
quilted fabric.

“Yes, dear.” Mrs. English began rolling
napkins and fitting them in some brass holders Alex’s father had
brought to her from a trip to New York. “Everything will be lovely,
dear. You’ll see.”

“I hope so.” No longer was Alex able to
disparage Kate for her upbringing; not since he’d met her mother
and father and had come to understand exactly what her
circumstances had been. Now his only aspiration was to make Kate
and Mrs. Finney’s lives more comfortable, however he could. In the
attempt, he especially didn’t want to make them feel inferior.

He jumped slightly when Mrs. English patted
him on the arm. “Sit down, Alex. Everything will be fine.”

When he turned around and saw her watching
him, catlike, as if she suspected him of caring more about Kate and
her mother than he actually did, he frowned again. “Of course. I
just don’t want to serve them cold tea. Mrs. Finney’s health makes
her movements rather slow.”

“Of course.” Mrs. English’s scrutiny didn’t
fade appreciably.

“I like them,” Mary Jo said, snatching a
frosted cake before her brother could stop her and popping it into
her mouth. “I can’t wait to talk to Miss Finney about the
Exposition.”

Alex turned on his sister, his glower
feeling more comfortable than it had felt when he’d directed it at
his mother. “I won’t have you pestering the Finneys, Mary Jo. Mrs.
Finney is deathly ill, and Kate has enough to worry about without
you annoying them.”

Mary Jo spoke with her mouth full, she was
so indignant. “I’d never! I would never pester them!”

“See that you don’t.”

“I think,” said Mrs. English with a hint of a
laugh in her voice, “that your brother is worried about making an
impression, Mary Jo.”

“Nonsense,” Alex barked, self-conscious and
with his ire climbing. “I only want to make sure this weekend is
pleasant for them both. The two of them haven’t had much pleasure
in their lives.”

“Really?” Mary Jo’s eyes went huge, and Alex
wished he’d kept silent on the subject of the Finneys’ relative
absence of pleasure.

“Their circumstances have been unfortunate,
Mary Jo,” her mother explained. “Alex doesn’t want anyone to
embarrass them by bringing them up.”

“Really?” Mary Jo repeated. She had to
swallow twice in order to get the cake down. “What kind of
circumstances do they have?”

“Straitened circumstances, dear. They have
very little money and no family support, evidently. I was poor when
I was a child, too, so I know how uncomfortable it can be.”

“Oh.” Mary Jo pondered the nature of
impoverished childhoods. “I guess we’re lucky, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” said Alex firmly. “We’re very lucky.”
It occurred to him that before Kate Finney and her atrocious father
had been thrust into his face by Gil MacIntosh, he’d pooh-poohed
the notion of luck having anything to do with his own position in
life. What an ass he’d been.

“And here they are!” cried Mrs. English
loudly.

Alex presumed she wanted to make sure her
children didn’t continue the conversation regarding the Finneys and
luck, thereby causing the newcomers social discomfort. He walked to
the door, smiling up a storm. “Come in, come in, ladies. I hope you
found your rooms adequate.”

“Adequate?” Kate stared at him as if she
suspected him of irony. Alex could get lost in those heavenly blue
eyes if he didn’t watch himself. “Both rooms are exquisite. Thank
you very much.”

“Indeed, yes,” said Mrs. Finney. She held
onto Kate’s arm and walked slowly.

Both ladies had on the same gowns they’d
worn for traveling, an indication, had Alex needed one, that they
were both of limited means and scant wardrobes. They both looked
neat and trim, and Kate had tidied her hair. Poor they undoubtedly
were, but neither Finney lady allowed her poverty to interfere with
cleanliness or resourcefulness.

That being the case, Alex wondered if Kate
had sewn her mother’s outfit, as well as her own. It wouldn’t have
surprised him to find out she had, necessity being the mother of
invention and all that. Or poverty being a prod to personal
industry. Alex knew poverty didn’t always breed industry; some
folks floundered and sank under the weight of it. The Kate Finneys
of the world overleaped their circumstances, or tried to. He knew
it was presumptuous of him, but he was proud of Kate.

His heart hurt as he accompanied the pair
over to the parlor sofa. Kate looked so damnably exhausted, and her
mother looked so damnably sick. If he knew a magic spell that would
cure both of them, he’d use it in a minute. Unfortunately, unlike
Madame Esmeralda, Alex didn’t know any charms or curses. Which
reminded him of something he’d been meaning to ask Kate.

After he’d deposited her on a comfortable
chair and her mother on the sofa, and his mother had started
pouring out cups of tea—which still steamed, verifying his mother’s
prediction on the subject—he said, “Say, Kate, does Madame really
believe in fortune-telling? I’ve wondered about that for the
longest time.”