Read Somebody Wonderful Online
Authors: Kate Rothwell
Somebody Wonderful (22 page)
“Maybe. Probably I just don’t like this place,” said Mick.
“Give it a chance,” urged Travis. “I love it here. It’s a good, peaceful area, this Minnesota. Oh, I long for a quiet life again.”
They talked about crime, mobs, homesickness, and beer. At last Mick fell asleep, making plans. If his suspicions were correct he could use some help.
Early in the morning, Blenheim opened the door to the bunkhouse and called out.
“Is there a McNally in this group?”
Interesting that he would pick the name of the possible criminal. Mick sat up and looked around.
No one else stirred.
“I will see McNally in the main house. After breakfast. Without fail.”
Blenheim slammed the door in disgust.
Mick spoke then. “If there is a McNally here, might I have a word with him before he goes to see that thundering pain in the ass Blenheim?”
Breakfast was served in another converted barn. Everyone sat at long wooden benches to eat.
Mick went to breakfast with the laborers, and sent a reluctant Eddy to the main house kitchen, with his apologies for Araminta and Timmy.
Over the bowls of thick porridge, he turned to his new friend, Travis. “Do you think, for some spare cash, you could lend me a hand? It might require a bit of risk, though.”
Chapter 21
That morning, while Timona went over lists with her father, Mick went into town with Araminta, ostensibly to help her haul back supplies. When they finished, he asked her to stop at the station so he could send a telegraph.
The message cost almost two dollars, and Mick, who hadn’t expected it to be so expensive, had to borrow 25 cents from Araminta.
Araminta uncrumpled one of copies Mick had started, then discarded.
“‘Look into job offer to me,’” she read aloud and looked up. “Are you and Timona leaving us?”
“Nah. See? It’s to Griffin Calverson.”
Her whole face wrinkled, as if she smelled something gone bad. “That man. I have absolutely no patience with him. I do hope you are not expecting him to find you a job?”
“Of course not.” Mick couldn’t help sounding indignant.
She nodded approvingly. “I knew I was right to like you, McCann.”
They walked out of the train station. Mick helped Araminta into the wagon, then vaulted into the seat next to her.
Before he picked up the reins, Mick hesitated and rubbed his nose. “Er, Miss Araminta. I wanted to ask you. You know Timona well. D’ye think she is doing the right thing? Marrying me I mean? Will I make her happy?”
“That’s a good question.”
“Ah, damn. You have your doubts, then?”
“Not at all, McCann. The answer is of course it is the right thing for her to do. I merely meant that it is a good question because you are not worrying about your happiness, you are worrying about hers. Keep that up, and you’ll do fine.”
Araminta patted his arm. “You can’t do any worse than that blasted father and brother of hers. Timona needs a home, and she tells me you are it.”
He snorted. “There’s the pity of it. I can’t provide her with much of a home.”
“She doesn’t think of home like most people, McCann. She once told me she has traveled so much, home has come to mean the people she is with, not the place she lays her head.”
Mick sighed. “She is a rare wonder of woman, isn’t she. I do not understand how I managed the luck to—”
“Mick, I have grown tired of our bot of sentiment. I will force you to walk home if you start waxing poetical about Timona. She is my dearest friend, but I warn you, a person can bear only so much.”
He laughed. “Shall I grow lyrical about my love’s friend and her cookery?”
“Certainly I can listen to that kind of lyricism all day.”
The next two days passed far more pleasantly than Mick expected. Mr. Kendall, her usual assistant, was still on holiday, so he and Eddy helped Timona carry and set up her bulky equipment and tripod when she decided to take photos of a cliff, and when she took pictures for her father of the work site. She gave them lessons on photography, and allowed a delighted Eddy to look through the camera at the upside down images.
Sir Kenneth spent much of his time on his hands and knees, crawling around the two pits. While he crawled, the men ceased their work and picked up decks of cards.
“An easy job,” Morrison told Mick. “I would not mind if the old gent stayed in the area for years. Maybe I’ll follow along with his band for the next dig.”
Morrison and Eddy had become unlikely buddies. Mick could only hope that Eddy wouldn’t pick up Morrison’s way with slurs. At least Morrison insulted everyone equally. Poles, Yanks, Swedes, Africans, English—name a nationality or race and Morrison knew and used the nastiest possible name and reputation for it. Other than that, he seemed to be a amiable soul.
While Sir Kenneth roamed the site and Timona waited to take pictures for him, Mick squatted on his haunches to show Timona and Eddy how to play the penny whistle he’d bought in town.
They were interrupted when Blenheim came out to the dig to summon Timona.
“I have the receipts you asked me about, Miss Timona.”
She frowned and then nodded. “Oh, yes, last month. The strange entries in the household books.”
Timona turned towards Mick. “Perhaps you might be interested in seeing them,” she said. “After—”
Mick gave her a warning frown. “No, I thank you, Timona. I will take a walk with Eddy.”
Mick had discovered a river, and took Eddy to a shallow sandy edge to teach the boy to swim. Botty stood on the mossy bank and wheezed at them. Eddy whooped and screamed with delight. Next, Mick coaxed him to use some soap. And when they rested, Mick whipped out a pair of scissors from the satchel he carried and gave Eddy a hair cut.
“Now when we get back you’ll see, lad, how beautifully you clean up. Miss Timona will barely recognize you.”
Eddy squinted thoughtfully at the handfuls of curling dark hair lying on the grass. “Suppose I might be a gentleman when I grow up, Mr. Mick?”
“If that’s what you want, sure enough,” Mick said solemnly.
“Then I could marry Miss Timona.”
“Ah, there you will be out of luck, I’m afraid.”
Eddy took the news philosophically. “Then I can marry Miss Araminta. Yeah, that would be good. She cooks better anyway.”
The next afternoon, Mick and gain returned to the slow moving, shaded river. Mick cut branches and with some string and hooks from his pocket they made fishing lines. Eddy watched as Mick dig in the cool, soft earth on the river bank for worms to use for bait.
The sheer joy of doing nothing much, and being outside as he did it, filled Mick with surprising and unfamiliar joy. Even as a young boy he had spent his daylight hours toiling at work. Too bad Blenheim and Sir Kenneth seemed determined to take Timona away from the lazy fun. He would love to see her naked and splashing in the river. She likely swam like a fish.
Mick and Eddy lay on their backs with their bare feet dangling in the cold water. A shadow passed over the sun that warmed Mick’s face.
He opened his eyes and looked up into the serious faces of three of the laborers.
“McCann,” one of them said. “There’s a slight problem.”
Mick stretched, and slowly got to his feet. Eddy had fallen asleep, so Mick and the other men ambled a few feet away to keep from bothering him.
“Fact is,” said another one. “We’ve been hired to beat the crap out of you.”
“Oh?” Mick wasn’t terribly surprised.
The three men nodded.
“Blenheim?”
They nodded again. Surprising only that the man was stupid enough to be so direct.
“Bloody fool,” one of them offered.
Everyone nodded this time.
“Well,” said Mick. “Let me take Eddy back to the house first. He doesn’t care for brawling. After that, I’ll see what I can do to accommodate you lads.”
Mick woke Eddy. They collected their shoes and fishing poles. Then Mick and the men walked Eddy to the house. Mick went into the kitchen with Eddy. The scent of warm gingerbread filled the air. The boy’s eyes opened wide at the wondrous spicy scent.
“What is that smell?” he whispered.
“Food fit for the gods, if I know Miss Araminta. Save me a piece, please,” Mick said to Araminta. “I’ll be back soon.”
He went out to join the three men who waited by the kitchen door.
“Come on then.” Mick led them to a spot out of sight of the house. He turned to face them, his hands clasped tight behind his back. “I think it best if you do some obvious damage to my face. You’ll get your pay and I’ll be able to walk. Oh. I’d appreciate it if we leave the nose alone.”
One of the men laughed nervously. “Ah, well, after I watched that dustup the other night, I’m glad to hear you’re not going to fight.”
The largest of the group took a couple of well-aimed punches. They all agreed it did the trick. Mick’s face looked very decorative.
Mick pulled out a handkerchief and held it to his bleeding mouth.
“If only I could be sure that this is the worst Blenheim’ll want to do,” he mumbled indistinctly. “But I fear there’s even worse to come.”
The three men stood around uneasily watching as Mick gingerly probed the inside of his mouth with a finger.
“Any loose teeth?” the puncher asked.
“Nah. Just a hell of a cut. It’ll be a day or two before I’ll eat.”
“Sorry, McCann,” the man said. “There’s anything we can do to make it up to you?”
“Don’t you worry, there will be. And you can be sure I’ll ask it of you. Don’t fret yourself a moment about this.” He waved at his face and the eye that was fast swelling shut. “But please don’t let me forget that when this nonsense with Blenheim is over, I owe you all pints.”
He started to smile at the man who’d hit him, but the pain in his mouth turned the expression into a grimace. ”And maybe we can see how you and I do in a fair tussle, hey, lad?”
Chapter 22
Mick sh
owed up at dinner with a black eye and bloodied swollen lip but refused to discuss the matter.
owed up at dinner with a black eye and bloodied swollen lip but refused to discuss the matter.
“A disagreement,” was all he said, when Timona pressed him.
Eddy was not feeling well either; Araminta said that she suspected he had probably eaten too many pieces of gingerbread that afternoon.
“What with my injuries and the lad’s belly, I think we’ll call it an early day.” Mick excused himself right after dinner, and took himself and the boy over to the bunkhouse.
Timona wandered about the farmhouse for a few minutes after they left, feeling the absence of Mick and Eddy. She worried about Mick’s battered face. And she missed him. The air was thinner when Mick’s large, warmhearted presence left the house.
Then she remembered a stack of photographs her friend had just sent from Colorado, along with an article deriding a new photo plate made of paper.
She took her riches into the bedroom. She had got out a magnifying glass, and was just examining the details of a landscape before a thunderstorm, when there was a knock at the door.
Mr. Blenheim stood in the doorway, very properly staring at the wall and not looking at her sprawled across the bed.
“May I speak to you in the library?” he asked in a respectful tone.
“Where’s Papa?” asked Timona. The slightly shabby room Blenheim called the library was her father’s favorite room in the house.
“I believe he is visiting the digs.” Mr. Blenheim waited and Timona realized he wanted her to follow him down the stairs immediately. She sighed and rose from her bed.
She hoped that he did not want to discuss the receipts again. He had apparently misplaced quite a few and she did not wish to hear another long-winded explanation about the complexities of debits and credits and interest. Mr. Blenheim tended to use long words for simple concepts that she had dealt with since Griffin had left her father’s entourage. She feared Mr. Blenheim attempted to impress or bamboozle her. She did not particularly care either way. The sums in question were not worth squabbling over.
Mr. Blenheim offered Timona a glass of wine. She sat back on the library’s sofa, and waited for him to begin.
He didn’t speak. Instead, he drank his glass of wine and watched her solemnly. Just as Timona was about to ask why he had summoned her, Eddy’s friend, the gray-haired Mr. Morrison, knocked and entered the library, his shapeless hat in his hand.
Mr. Blenheim straightened up. He cleared his throat delicately. “When Mr. McCann showed signs of having been in an altercation this evening, I was worried there might be a problem with the work crew. I wanted to know what had happened to your, ah, guest.
“So I have been asking a few questions.” He waved a hand at Mr. Morrison. “This worker here says that it is not the first tim Mr. McCann has been assaulted.”
Morrison nodded glumly then said, “I’m right surprised Mick, Mr. McCann, I mean, looks so bloodied, sir. Last time he was the one who did the knocking about. As I told Mr. Blenheim a couple a days ago, I saw that brush up. But I don’t know nothing about this ’un.”
“Tell Miss Calverson the cause of the earlier dispute.” Blenheim ordered.
Morrison twisted his hat and drew his mouth up tight.
“Please go on,” said Timona, filled with dread. She sipped some wine to steady herself, and recalled Mick’s sore mouth of a few days earlier. He claimed he’d walked into a tree while exploring in the dark.
“It was yourself, ma’am. Rather what Mr. McCann is to you if you’ll pardon me. Lies, I’m sure.”
“And what names did the men call him?”
“Umm, I think ’tis not proper to repeat.”
“Morrison. Miss Calverson should know the truth.”
Timona wished Mr. Blenheim did not sound quite so pleased.
“Umm. They call him a fancy man.”
“Is that the worst of it?”
“Ah. They called him, ah, whore.”
Mr. Morrison stared at the rug by his feet.
Then he looked up for a brief second. “But the thing is, I thought for sure the lads liked him now, ma’am. He’s not afraid of real work. And that night he knocked the man down, most o’ us come to think he’s a not a—”
“That is all. Thank you, Morrison.”
Morrison nodded miserably. He shuffled from the room. In the silence, Timona could hear the slam of the front door as he left the house.
“Do you understand? Miss Calverson?”
“It is bad. Dreadful,” she said faintly. She sipped the wine, and wondered why Mick had not told her.
But maybe he had. Didn’t he say he loved her, but was scared of all the rest? Perhaps this was what he meant. The problems that would plague him when he became part of her life. Why else wouldn’t he tell her this evening about the black eye?
Her fault. It was entirely her fault he was called a kept man, but she could only pray the name-calling would cease when they were married. Two more days. Or was it one now? She was so upset, she couldn’t think clearly.
“Mr. Blenheim. I thank you for looking into the problem. But I believe the situation will improve when I am married to Mi—”
“Pardon? What did you say?”
She blinked. Mr. Blenheim had shouted, very unlike his usual correct self.
“I will marry Mr. McCann. Soon.”
He looked positively ill. He gulped down the rest of his wine. Then looked at her glass.
“Please excuse me. I will get both of us more wine,” he said. The decanter was empty, so he had to go to the kitchen to refill it.
Mr. Blenheim must be very upset to be willing to venture into Araminta’s territory. Perhaps there was some truth to what Mick said—that Mr. Blenheim wanted Timona for himself.
“I will fetch it,” Timona volunteered, dully.
Araminta sat at the kitchen table, readingd te looked up and frowned at Timona.
“What ever is the matter?”
“It is just that . . . Mick. Oh, it is hard for him to be with me, Araminta. People despise him. I want nothing in the world but his happiness, but perhaps that can not include me.”
“If that Blenheim louse has—” began Araminta.
Timona shook her head. “Not just him. It’s not fair, and oh it is so complicated, isn’t it?”
“No, it isn’t,” said Araminta crossly. “Are you coming down with something, Timona? You seem remarkably maudlin.”
Timona heaved a sigh. She filled the decanter and trailed out of the kitchen.
Blenheim was waiting by the kitchen door. Cooperative and contrite, he escorted Timona back to her chair and took the decanter from her hands.
“I apologize for startling you when you spoke of your engagement,” he said as he handed her the refilled glass. “The news is a complete surprise to me. And, if you will forgive me for speaking the plain truth, perhaps I exclaimed a few minutes ago because it so inappropriate a match.”
She started to get up. This talk was not what she wanted to listen to just now.
“Please. I beg of you to sit down, Miss Calverson. I promise not to insult your future husband. But might I just share a few thoughts?”
She sank down again, still hot with sorrow and guilt. She drank half the glass in one gulp. Poor Mick. Beaten because he dared to care about her. She should have married him in New York. She drank some more wine.
Mr. Blenheim was talking. “A fellow like McCann is not bad, per se. But he has lived all of his life in a simple style. He is not used to riches and the complications of prosperity. Now I’m not saying he will succumb, but many men thrown into affluence, without the right upbringing, without discipline . . . they allow themselves to become lax creatures.”
Timona felt thickheaded. She remembered something that nagged at her. “Mr. Blenheim, I am sure I heard you just promise that you would not insult Mr. McCann.”
Blenheim looked surprised. “I am simply stating facts. He will lose what might be termed his natural dignity. His figure, already large—though, I admit, well-proportioned—will undoubtedly grow soft, even fat. It is a well-known problem with men who are not bred to the life of luxury.”
Timona gave a tiny groan. Mr. Blenheim was off on his speech about rank and class, subjects dear to his heart. Very well. She supposed she could put up with it. She drank her wine and half listened.
Was he telling the truth about Mick? She did not think so. But then again she found it hard to imagine people would want to attack a person just because he loved the boss’s daughter.
She was not sure she understood people as well as she had assumed. The thought made her profoundly sad for some reason. The wine contributed to her sorrow, no doubt. She tended to grow melancholy when she drank wine.
And this was very strong wine.
Mr. Blenheim poured more into her glass.
Oh, her heart ached profoundly, for if she didn’t understand people, perhaps she didn’t understand Mick.
He had never said the words aloud, but she was almost certain he loved her. Perhaps love wouldn’t be enough to overiv>
Well, she thought drowsily. They could give it away. The money. Buy houses and beds in New York for people. Better beds. That seemed like a fine solution. And beautiful quilts that would flap on the clotheslines, brightening that dark sky in the tenements.
And if that wasn’t enough . . . She could slit the throat of anyone who hurt her Mick. That would work, too.
Blenheim was still talking. She wondered why he sounded so very far away now.
“Miss Calverson?” he was saying, “Timona?”
She opened her mouth to tell him she was listening, and to please continue his lecture, but nothing came out. She was suddenly too tired to speak. She leaned her head on the arm of the chair. How had she managed to slide down that far? It didn’t matter. She was glad for a place to put her head while she took a short rest. It would serve the purpose though the spot was not nearly as comfortable as Mick’s broad chest.
Before she fell asleep, or maybe later when she woke for a moment, she groggily wondered why Mr. Blenheim told her, “Thank goodness you’ve arrived. You were absolutely right. And there is not a moment to lose.”
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