The Crimson Thread (8 page)

            “And he’s angry at you?” she asked.

            “He’s in a towering rage,” he replied. “I stormed out of his study, but I couldn’t think of anywhere to go that he wouldn’t find me, except here. Mind if I wait with you here until the coast is clear?”

            “I don’t think it’s quite proper. I could be fired.”

            “I won’t let them fire you.”

            “I have my reputation to think of.”

            He smiled at her wolfishly.

            She knew she should be worried, even offended, but she found him so charming. “You can stay a few more minutes, and then you must go. Please,” she said.

            “Thank you,” he said, taking her hand.

            She knew she should pull it away, but his hand was large and strong. Her tough, work-worn palm felt delicate when he held it.

            He lifted her hand to his lips and bent his head to it, placing a long, warm kiss just above her knuckles. Then, raising his head slightly, he gazed into her eyes/ “You have saved my,” he said, without a trace of mockery. “I am in your debt.”

The Secret Room
 

The image of James Wellington took up permanent residence inside Bertie’s head. She forced herself to wash the hand he had kissed but found it consoling to think that he had left an indelible if invisible mark there that no amount of scrubbing could ever remove.

            She didn’t daydream about marrying him in a grand ceremony or even of eloping with him on the sly. No future together would be possible for them – he was a prince of industry, the heir apparent, sure to inherit his father’s company and wealth. They lived in different worlds that would never meet – so she did not imagine a future with hi,.

            He was simply there in her mind every second that some task did not divert her form thinking of him. She was helpless to control it., even if she had wanted to. And part of her very much wanted to stop thinking of him. It made her feel like a silly girl, this unbridled, senseless mooning over a handsome, educated, gentleman son of a millionaire whom she could never make her own.

            It was ridiculous!

            But there it was, just the same. She could find no way to make it stop.

            So she spent the next week learning the fine points of making tissue-paper patterns, cutting, pinning, and sewing them with greater refinement than she had known even existed. Margaret began teaching her to use a sewing machine, a thing she relished learning and took to quickly.

            The parts of her mind not bent on learning what Margaret had to teach were spent worrying about Eileen, who was still coughing and weak.

            Finn had not been laid off from the firehouse entirely. “Last hired, first fired,” he explained. “They’re cutting the number of firehouses, supposedly to save taxpayers money.” The good news was that he was able to stay home with Eileen and took adequate care of her. At least, that’s what Bertie had though as first, but in actuality he spent most of his days poring through the newspapers in search of a new job and in teaching Liam to read and write. Bertie worried that Eileen was not getting the attention she needed. Sometimes when she came home in the evening, the little girl seemed listless and the place was a mess.

            At home in the evenings, Bertie ripped out the seams of most of the cast-off dresses and refashioned them into vests, shirts, and underwear for her father and the boys. She used on of them to make Eileen’s smocks and saved the three gowns she liked best for herself. the remaining gowns she used to make extra bows and trim to add to the other three in order to make them fit. With her new sewing skills, she was gratified to see that the workmanship in these garments was better than anything she had ever previously produced.

            And all the while she was doing these things, like a subterranean spring running below all her surface thoughts. James Wellington was there: his handsome face, his wolfish grin, his shining, mirthful eyes, and his woodsy cologne. The picture she savored most strongly consisted of no more than the memory of a fleeting moment, the swiftest glance. The moment had come just as he was leaving her room. He had turned to say good-bye, and their eyes had met. She saw then how attracted he was to her.

            It had taken her breath away to think that he – so handsome, so desirable – could be attracted to her.

            When Saturday morning finally arrived, Finn went out to talk to a friend and came back elated. “They have a spot for me in a firehouse in Boston,” he announced. “I have to leave right away.”

            “That’s great, Finn,” she said. Neither of them was sure where Boston was, but Finn would be traveling with his friend.

            “I’m sorry to leave you here with the kids. How much longer will you be staying in the apartment?”

            “I’m going to try to keep it going. Da wants me to give it up, but the Wellingtons won’t want Eileen and Liam living in the carriage house, and my room is too small.”

            “I could take Liam with me, but then who would watch Eileen?”

            “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s not fair to Liam, though, he should be in school.”

            Finn shrugged. “I’ve taught him some of what I know.”

            “I envy him that,” Bertie admitted. “Someday maybe you’ll teach me to read. Or maybe Liam will.”

            A silence fell between them for a moment. “I hate to see you go,” she said, breaking it.

            “I know,” he said. “I hate leaving you here to deal with everything. There’s a lot on you these days. I know that, even if Da doesn’t.”

            Emotional tears jumped unexpectedly into the corners of her eyes. It made her happy that he saw all she was doing. She didn’t expect praise, but his appreciative words touched her just the same. She wrapped him in a hug, squeezing tight. “I’ll miss you,” she said.

            “We’ll be together again,” he replied, a catch in his throat as he held on to her another moment.

            Finn left late that night. After saying good-bye to him, she went to bed and lay listening to Eileen’s heavy wheeze. Had this illness left the child permanently frail? As Eileen slept in the moonlight, her porcelain skin seemed nearly transparent, with lines of blue veins at her temples. The illness had turned her into a whisper of her former self.

            In the morning Bertie rose early and got a bucket of water from the hall sink. She washed her hair with the same bar of soap she used for the dishes, sticking her head out the window and rinsing it by pouring the water over her head.

            Toweling her hair dry, she put on one of the second-hand dresses, the blue and green striped. It would take too long to wait for the mass of curls to dry, so she twisted it into a knot, pinning it into place.

            Today she would go to church and pray for Eileen. It was the only thing she could think of to do. She would be back before Eileen and Liam even awoke.

            She knew where to find the church, it was higher and grander than any she’d known back in Ireland.

            Bertie found it comforting to hear the words of the Mass spoken in Latin. It was a language she did not understand, but the sounds were familiar from her childhood, when she’d attended Mass every Sunday. All the while she kept her thoughts on Eileen, begging God and his other, Mary, to help her get better. Once or twice James Wellington came unbidden into her mind, but he was quickly banished.

            After Mass she placed a penny in the tin collection box to light a candle for Eileen and knelt to say one more prayer. By the time she was done, most of the other had left the church. She went out of the dark, cool, silent building and once more returned to the bustle of the street.

            She was heading toward home when Ray Stalls fell into step with her. “You are looking quite the lady today,” he complimented her.

            Since the day he had gotten Eileen to the doctor, she had dropped her wary suspicion of him. How could she be anything but cordial to him after all he’d done for her and her family? “Thank you,” she said.

            “How is the little girl?” he asked. That night, in the hallway outside the doctor’s office, after she had finished crying on his shoulder, he had excused himself, saying he had an appointment he could not moss. She had not seen him since.

            “She is better but not much,” Bertie reported. “I’m worried about her.”

            “So many little children get sick,” he commented sympathetically. “Children cannot stay healthy in these filthy conditions, without proper water of food.”

            “She wouldn’t be as healthy as she is if you hadn’t helped us,” she declared.

            “Ach!” he said, waving his hand dismissively.

            “You know, we have never been introduced,” she pointed out.

            “My name is Ray Stalls,” he said, extending his hand to shake.

            “Mine is Bertie Miller,” she replied, shaking.

            “Is that your real name?” they both asked at the same time, their voices overlapping.

            “It depends what you mean by real,” Ray considered. “Here, in America, this is really my name. Is it the name I was born with? No.”

            “The same for me,” she admitted. “What is your real name?”    

            “It’s a secret.”

            “I was born Bridget O’Malley,” she offered.

            “That is a lovely name, as is Bertie Miller. My real name is not as lovely, and so I will keep it to myself.”

            “That’s not fair,” she argued.

            “Nothing is fair.”

            “But America is the land of equality for all, is it not?” she stated.

            “It is a lofty goal, yes. It is certainly better than the places we came from, where no on even thinks equality is something to strive for.”

            “But don’t you think everyone is equal?” she questioned.

            “Does it look like that it true to you?” he countered.

            She thought of life at the Wellington home and her life in her Five Points tenement. Clearly they were not equal. “Everyone is equal in the eyes of God,” she remarked.

            He smiled. “All right. Maybe there.”

            She stopped at a narrow building, where wire chicken coops were stacked atop one another and hens laid eggs that went instantly on sale. She wanted to buy three for breakfast. Ray took out a leather wallet. “Can I help?” he offered.

            Bertie waved him off. “You’ve already helped more than I can repay. What do you do that you always have so much money?”

            He grinned. “I’m a burglar, remember?”

            “I’m sorry I said that.”

            “You are forgiven. I am a tailor by day, and by night I am excellent at cards and so increase my day’s wage.”

            “Aren’t you afraid you’ll
lose
your day’s wage instead?” she asked, talking the paper bag of eggs from the vendor.

            “Not meaning to boast, but…I never lose.”

            She laughed at his bravado. “Is that so?”

            “It’s true,” he confirmed.

            “And how did you learn to be a tailor?” she asked, continuing to walk on toward home.

            A distant look swept across his face for a moment before he spoke. “It is a long and pitiful story,” he said with a bitter laugh. “Are you sure you want to hear it?”

            “I’m sure.”

            He told her that as a young boy of about seven he had been sold to a traveling carnival show by his parents, who were so poor that they could not feed him. At the carnival he had worked as an acrobat, a juggler, and a tightrope walker.

            “That’s why you can swing around on the fire escape like that,” she realized.

            He nodded. “We traveled all through Europe and Russia. I worked with a magician, too. I know lots of magic. I became better than the magician I assisted, so one night he knocked me out and left me behind on the side of the road. It was in Moscow, I think, I was nine.”

            “How terrible,” she said with a gasp. “What did you do?”

            “the only thing I could,” he replied. “I stood on corners and juggled and walked on my hands and flipped in the air for what coins people would throw at me. Those coins were enough for me to buy a piece of bread and sometimes a blanket so I wouldn’t freeze to death on the park benches where I slept.”

            “How did you get to America?”

            “I stowed away on a steamer. I was doing my usual tricks in the park – ”

            “The one with the torch?” she interrupted.

            “Yes, but the torch wasn’t there then. I was dirty and raggedy and not too many people wanted to stop to see me in that condition, so I wasn’t doing too well. Then, one day, a tailor who I had seen watching me for about a week came along and took me by the filthy shirt collar and said, “You will work with me. I will teach you to be a tailor.”

            “He adopted you, then?”

            “Yes and no. His wife cleaned me up and fed me. But I lived and worked in the shop. It was my whole life. A funny thing happened too. As I learned, I began to remember my life as a child when I was very young. I recalled things that I had forgotten, such as that my grandmother was a spinner and I would help her spin the wool in the barn behind where we once lived. And I remembered my parents sewing inside our small home.”

            “And now you’re a tailor,” she said.

            “Yes, it was as though I was meant to be in the garment trade, ad no amount of strange turns on life’s path could change the fact.”

            “Life is strange,” Bertie remarked.

            “It is, indeed,” he agreed thoughtfully.

            “Do you still live at the tailor shop?”

            “No, that shop closed when the man died, and I worked for several other tailors after that. I was back on the street again, but this time I at least had money in my pocket; plus, I was older by then and it became easier to make my own way.”