Flight of the Earls (34 page)

A turkey, which had been roasted to a perfect brown, surrendered to the blade in carefully sliced piles of juicy white and dark meat. Corn, not served on a cob, but stripped and piled high with fresh creamery butter lay beside mashed potatoes, which were served with gravy and accompanied by warm, fluffy rolls.

Clare sipped water cooled with chips of ice from a crystal glass so intricately designed she feared breaking it. As she set it down carefully, her eyes rose up across the table to see Andrew gazing at her in amusement, acknowledging the tension at the table.

At one end of the long table was seated the matriarch, Mrs. Royce, who with a long neck perched between a painfully slender body and a sharp, angled face, drew circles in her plate of food with her fork when she wasn't looking up to scowl at their guest.

Opposite her was a perfectly rotund man, who more than made up for a lack of breadth with an extensive width. As if unwilling to embrace his shape, he wore a fine silk suit, gray with a large red tie, which was easily two sizes too small, and Clare worried that at any moment buttons from his jacket would break loose and shoot across the dinner table.

His gray hair extended broadly from the sides of his head, and only a few long strands remained atop his barren pate but were proudly groomed and displayed nonetheless. His unusually reddened cheeks softened his demeanor as did a broad toothy smile, which appeared frequently and without much prompting.

His desire this evening seemed only to keep the conversation pleasant, just as his wife appeared equally committed to draw the air out of the room. Mrs. Royce had a spirit of disenchantment Clare found disarming.

Andrew, on the other hand, although apologetic by his gestures, seemed entertained and, much to Clare's horror, quite willing to prick the tigress.

“So, Mother. You might be pleased to know that Clare is a writer of some skill.”

Clare disapproved with her brows.

“Is this true?” Mrs. Royce shifted in her seat. “I'm surprised a woman of your . . . profession would choose to ignore those talents.”

“Well . . . I . . .” Clare tried to decipher those comments.

“Perhaps she could teach you something about writing, hmmm?” Charles held up a turkey leg in his fist in emphasis before biting into it.

“My father believes I lack discipline in the craft of his choosing.”

“Andrew is a fine journalist,” Charles said with his cheeks protruding with food. “He'll make an exceptional publisher. If we can spare him from his unfortunate distractions.”

“My parents don't approve of my ministries in the Five Points.”

“That's not the case, Andrew,” his mother said, raising her nose. “We've always supported the work of the church. It's just there are some tasks that should not be borne by a man of your . . . stature. We can help people most if we keep a certain distance. Just for proper perspective, that is.”

Andrew glanced toward Clare with a look seeking forgiveness.

Mrs. Royce patted her napkin against her lips and raised her chin. “There is nothing wrong with a mother not wanting her only son to gather . . . strays.”

As if on cue, Cassie emerged through the doorway and started to pile up empty plates. “It sounds like we might be readying for dessert. Oooh my. Miss Holmes be preparing rhubarb pie. I can taste it myself. Not that I dipped my fork in it, but then again someone's gots to make certain it's cooked through.”

Andrew grinned at Clare and shrugged. “Cassie believes the cure to any ailment is a full stomach. She nearly fed me to death as a child.”

“Poor child you is. The missus and master spoiling you with kindness and you don't thank them for nothin'. Ain't that right, missus?”

Mrs. Royce rolled her eyes and pushed her plate from her. “Can you bring in our tea, Cassie? And quietly if at all possible as we were enjoying our conversation.”

“Yes, missus. Enjoying? That's strange word to describe it. Not that I was hearing nothin'. But you carry on. I'm a gonna quietly clear this table and tell Miss Holmes we's ready for rhubarb.”

“So, Miss, uh . . . ?” Mr. Royce said.

“Hanley, sir. Clare Hanley. Just Clare is fine.”

Charles leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands. “So, Miss Hanley. What do you think of the news from back home?”

Cassie had returned from the kitchen again and removed some more plates, including Clare's. “What news is that?” Clare asked.

“The crops. They've failed again this spring.”

“In Ireland?” He had her attention. It would be one thing to have a season of the rot, but if the farms struggled again it would starve her people.

“Terrible development. Terrible indeed. Especially with so much of the land committed to potato.”

“Was yours a potato farm, Clare?” asked Andrew.

Clare nodded at him, still digesting the news.

“Perhaps, son . . .” Charles put his finger to his chin and tapped. “What do you think of having Clare here help you with a story on the plight of her people? The perspective from one so recently arrived would be intriguing.”

“That would be delightful.” Andrew smiled. “What do you think, Clare?”

Cassie came in with a platter of tea and put it in the center of the table. She nearly toppled it as she was watching to see how Clare would respond.

“Good graces, Cassie!” Mrs. Royce said. “Do watch what you're doing.”

“We've been hoping to get better circulation in the Points,” Charles said. “Maybe getting more of an Irish angle on our stories is what we're missing.”

Andrew's demeanor brightened. “Say yes, Clare, won't you? It would bring wind to my sails. Take some of the drudgery out of the business.”

“The Irish perspective,” Mrs. Royce scoffed. “Shall you write feature stories about drunks and brothels? The inside, untold stories?”

“Mother!” Andrew's gaze darted to Clare. “Sometimes you are intolerable.”

“I've never written for a newspaper,” Clare said.

“Neither has my son hardly,” Charles said. “Maybe this will give him some focus. Whatever it takes, I'm willing to try.”

Cassie came in with a pie, ruby red peering through a cross-hatched crust. She started to slice it and pass it out on plates.

Mrs. Royce appeared discomforted. “Perhaps we should just attend to Miss Hanley's recovery so she can return to her people.”

Charles hardly looked at his plate as his fork shoveled in the pie. “You should visit the dock tomorrow. Talk to those coming from the ships. The stories have grown cruel. You've crossed recently, Miss Hanley?”

Clare nodded, beginning to feel overrun.

“Ha!” Mrs. Royce waved off the slice of pie when Cassie tried to hand it to her. “You're sending your son to the docks?”

Charles began to grow irritated. “I didn't ask him to go swim in the harbor. Is it your intention to humiliate our son in front of his guest?”

“Don't be bothered by it one bit, son.” Cassie poured tea into Clare's cup. “No shame in that. On account of him nearly drowning as a boy, anybody's gonna fear the water some.”

Clare couldn't shake the news of the crop failure. It infused uncertainty in her mind. Although she had been sending support and letters from the Irish Society faithfully every week, she had yet to receive a letter in return. Perhaps she could hear some news from some of the immigrants arriving by ship.

“Could you take me there, Andrew?” she asked, startling the others.

“Andrew, please,” his mother said, softening her tone. “Don't embarrass yourself, son. When's the last time you were at the shoreline?”

“Poor boy,” Cassie said. “Wouldn't even take baths. We needs to wash him while he was sleeping.”

“Now I'm embarrassed,” Andrew said, “and I'll need to remind you all that I'm still present in the room. I prefer if I'm a target of scandal and gossip, you'll have the decency to do it behind my back.”

Clare laughed and then quickly covered her mouth and pretended she was coughing.

He looked at her with warm, sweet eyes. “And I believe our greenhorn journalist would benefit from a full evening's rest.”

As he wiped his mouth and then rose from the table, they all did as well.

“Shall we declare a toast?” Charles lifted his glass.

“We most certainly must.” Andrew lifted his as well.

“To the Irish,” Charles said. “May their land heal and their people prosper.”

“Hear, hear,” echoed Andrew.

“And to our young Miss Hanley,” Charles continued. “May her words be true, bearing pain to the enemies of justice and freedom to the oppressed.”

As the glasses clinked, Clare smiled at Andrew's kindness.

She was a fraud to have anything to do with writing at a newspaper. But in that moment, she determined to try with all of her will.

Clare didn't know why it mattered so, but she didn't want to disappoint Andrew Royce.

Chapter 34

New York Daily

A couple of days had passed before Andrew granted Clare a visit to the
New York Daily
. He insisted she get her rest before going back outside, and she was too exhausted and emotionally wounded to fight his recommendation. Although she spent much of these days worrying about her brother and thought of searching for him. But where would she go and would her efforts to find him only lead his pursuers to his hideaway?

So when Andrew and Clare finally approached the building that housed the
New York Daily
, excitement was welling inside her. For a farm girl who loved books, the idea of being within the walls of a place where history was written and shared everyday was beyond fathom.

A massive stone structure, it was on what Andrew described as Newspaper Row. Once inside, although functionally plain, Clare was impressed with the grandeur of activity.

The mixture of shouts and conversations blended with the clanking of machinery. There was a buzz about them in the main floor of the facility, and people flashed by her in a frenzy.

“Is there something wrong?” she asked, leaning into his sturdy frame.

“Yes,” he answered smugly. “They are on deadline.”

“Deadline?”

“The paper goes out every day, with or without our story. If a story isn't ready, in most cases that means it will die on the floor and you'll have an irate editor.”

Clare's eyes widened. They had spent the entire day interviewing Irish passengers as they came staggering off the ships. Few even had the energy to talk, and it saddened her to realize her horrifying experience crossing the ocean was commonplace. The news back home was dismal as well. The Black Death had spread and few territories had been spared.

The thought of her family suffering from such hardship without her being there to comfort them was unbearable, but she needed to know more. What about Branlow? How bad was it there?

Clare had hoped to stay longer to track down someone closer to home, but Andrew did seem affected by being close to the water, and she relented when he asked her to leave.

“Don't worry. Our story isn't due until tomorrow. One of the benefits of being the owner's son.” He pointed in the direction of the presses. “Shall we give the lady a tour?”

“I would thoroughly enjoy that.” Clare put her hand to the hat Cassie had found for her. Although she still felt naked without her wig, the bonnet provided some level of comfort and her hair had grown quickly, now several inches in length.

As they approached the churning presses, Clare embraced the joyful awe of a child, watching the paper rolls being cranked through the moving type. Several men worked the machine, applying oil, feeding in paper, and dragging the stacks away to be folded. Clare had grown accustomed to hearing the newsboys call out the headlines from the street corners, but seeing how it was wrought was fascinating.

“This room over there.” Andrew waved at one of the men who had looked up. “That is where they sell the ads. Quite uninteresting if you ask me. But there is something over there.”

They burrowed through the crowd and stopped to peer over the shoulders of the artists drawing various images and caricatures in ink on canvas.

Finally, they climbed up a winding wooden staircase that led to the second floor, which was more of an oversized loft.

“This is where the writers and editors roost, those enlightened souls who exploit and corrupt the freedom of the press.”

“You speak of it so favorably,” Clare said. “I think this is all wonderful. Perhaps Cassie is right and you are spoiled.”

“Who is this pretty one?” said a woman perched on a stool tucked under a clerk's desk. She was dipping a pen into a well of ink.

“This is Clare. Our new writer.”

“Is that so?” The woman had a face so plain she almost looked like a man. “She doesn't look the part.”

“Is my father in?”

“He's with the mayor.”