Sons of an Ancient Glory (29 page)

The cellar closet was now completely dark. Billy knew his uncle Sorley would not be coming to let him out. At least not soon. For the first time, he would have to spend the night alone in the inky blackness of the cellar.

Billy bit his lip to the point of pain, squeezed his eyes tightly shut to stop the tears. A boy his age shouldn't be crying, shouldn't be afraid of the dark. He was nine years old, after all. He shouldn't be afraid of
anything.

“I'm not afraid,” he said to the darkness. He heard the trembling in his voice, and said it again, this time louder. “I'm not afraid of
anything
.”

As the minutes passed and he heard nothing more, Billy wondered if he could have imagined the sounds. He wished he had a lantern. Or even a candle. Anything that would enable him to see what was in the corner.

In truth, he wasn't at all sure he
wanted
to see. Still, if he had a light, perhaps they wouldn't bother him and…

Something tugged at his thoughts. Unexpectedly, the memory of one of his recent reading lessons came squeezing through his fear. Because he was reading ahead of the other boys, Mr. Whittaker had assigned him an additional lesson to study: some Bible verses from the book of Psalms.

Once Billy had mastered the verses, Mr. Whittaker had given him a big smile and said the word that all the boys worked hard to hear:
“Splendid!”
he said.
“Splendid
job, Mr. Hogan!”

With his eyes still closed, Billy groped to remember the words, trying to see them just as they had appeared on the printed page:

“For thou wilt light my candle: the Lord my God will enlighten my darkness…even the darkness will not hide from thee…the night shines as the day…the darkness and the light are both alike to thee.…”

Slowly Billy opened his eyes. The pounding of his heart eased a bit, and he sat up straight. At last—his voice clear, and stronger this time—he spoke again to the darkness. “I'm not afraid,” he said. “I'm not.”

Mr. Whittaker often reminded them that God was everywhere, that those who belonged to the Lord could never be out of His sight. “Even in the blackest night,” he once explained during the practice of a hymn tune, “He sees you. He is with you. His love is your shelter in the daylight or in the dark.”

That being the case, God was right here, in the cellar closet. And the dark wouldn't be a bit of a bother to God, none at all. He could see everything that was going on, even in the hidden corners.

So Billy kept his eyes closed and asked God to stand watch over him in the darkness. And after a time, he truly was no longer afraid, for he realized he was no longer alone.

Father in Heaven, give us bread;
(God, make us want to live, instead.)
May we be clothed by charity;
(Oh, give us back our faith in Thee.)
For our sick bodies, give us care;
(God, save our souls from this despair.)
Shelter us from the wind and rain;
(Oh, help us learn to smile again.)
Grant that our babies may be fed;
(But what of hopes forever dead?)
Father in Heaven, give us bread—
(Oh, give us back our dreams instead!)

A
UTHOR
U
NKNOWN

(Y
OUNG
W
OMAN
R
EFERRED TO
N
EW
Y
ORK'S
C
HURCH
M
ISSION OF
H
ELP
)

A
nd what sort of a day will you be having, sweetheart?” asked Michael. He frowned at his reflection in the vanity mirror as he struggled with the top button of his shirt.

Still in her dressing gown, Sara crossed the room to help. “A busy one, more than likely. I'm visiting Nora this morning, then coming back to tour one of the women's shelters in the Bowery. Helen asked me to help out during Emily Deshler's illness.”

He turned, locking his arms around her waist as she conquered the stubborn button. “Which shelter would that be?”

“I believe it's on Chatham Street.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “The one run by Ethelda Crane?”

“Yes, I think so. Have you been there?” she asked, smoothing the front of his shirt.

“No, but I've met Miss Crane. The subcommission interviewed her when we first began to set up our committees.”

“She serves on one of the committees?”

He shook his head. “No. The general consensus was that Miss Crane might be a bit…difficult to work with.” He grinned, pulling her closer. “You'd be wise to approach that one with caution, sure,” he said, grinning at her.

“The shelter or Miss Crane?”

“I believe Miss Crane
is
the shelter. It was my observation that she takes her work very, ah…seriously. I got the feeling she might also take a dim view of anything that could be interpreted as interference.”

Sara looked at him. “Is she really all that formidable?”

“Terrifying,” he said, still smiling. Lifting her hand, he brought her fingers to his lips for a moment. “But no match for my Sara, of course. Still, you'd best have a care. You're not going over to Brooklyn alone, I hope?”

“No, Robert's going to drive me to the ferry, then go across with me.”

He made a face. “Robert is practically doddering, Sara. Not much of a protector, I'd say.”

“We'll be fine, Michael. Don't hover.”

He gave her a look, but said nothing.

“Will you be home for dinner?”

“Not tonight. I've a meeting at seven.”

“The subcommission?”

“Aye, we're finally getting down to the reason I agreed to serve in the first place.”

He turned back to the mirror, and Sara watched him. “The crime bosses, you mean?”

“And the pirates who work for them, that's right.”

“You'll be investigating Patrick Walsh?”

He met her gaze in the mirror. “Among others.”

“Michael…you know what a dangerous man he is. You'll be careful?”

He ran a brush through his hair, then turned to her. “I can be a dangerous man, too, sweetheart, if need be. You're not to worry.”

“He terrifies me! I wish—”

He took her by the shoulders. “What, Sara?”

Sara searched his eyes. She knew the hard glint reflected there wasn't for her. “I wish…you'd let someone else see to Patrick Walsh.”

His jaw tightened as he turned away to shrug into his jacket. “Walsh is mine,” he said flatly, his tone clearly leaving no room for argument. “Come along, now,” he said, taking her arm, “or I'll not have time for breakfast. And you'd best be looking to your own welfare instead of fretting about mine. You'll need all your defenses in place to brave the formidable Miss Crane.”

“Good heavens, Michael, you make the woman sound positively intimidating.”

He opened the bedroom door, stopping just long enough to plant a quick kiss on her cheek. “Well, now, and wouldn't I know a terrible, fierce woman when I see one, being married to you?”

Sara had hoped to find Nora improved from their last visit, but there seemed little change, if any.

Although the baby appeared to be thriving, Nora was another matter altogether. She was too thin by far, almost as gaunt as when she had first arrived in America, ill and devastated by the famine. Even her hair seemed to be graying more quickly than was reasonable. Indeed, to Sara's eyes, Nora simply did not look
well.

When questioned, though, Nora continued to insist that she felt “perfectly fine.”

“Oh, I'm a bit tired, perhaps,” she admitted. “A baby does take work, though Teddy is so good I scarcely know he's about.”

Sara studied her across the kitchen table. “I think you could do with some help, Nora,” she suggested. “At least for a while, until you're stronger. Especially now that Johanna has gone back to her lessons with Miss Summer.”

“Oh, I'm managing fine, Sara—truly!” Nora insisted. “Johanna is here in the evenings, and Aunt Winnie still comes often to help.”

“But you've told me yourself that Johanna seems reluctant to handle the baby,” Sara reminded her. “And Aunt Winnie will soon have her hands full, looking after her own home again. If Father has his way—and he almost always does—they'll be married before year's end.”

Nora nodded and smiled. “Aunt Winnie is positively glowing, isn't she? I think it's quite wonderful about her and your father.”

“I couldn't be more pleased,” Sara agreed, her enthusiasm genuine. “Father's been alone long enough, and Winifred is an absolute delight. I think they'll be wonderfully happy. But don't go changing the subject. Promise me you'll give some thought to this,” she urged, leaning forward to clasp Nora's hand across the table. “If there's a problem with finances, you know Father or I would be more than happy to help. For that matter, we could send one of the day girls over for a few weeks.”

Nora had a certain strength, a quiet dignity about her that often went unnoticed because of her retiring nature. But there was no mistaking it now. “You and your father have done far too much for us as it is, Sara,” she said firmly. “Please don't think me ungrateful—I can't think what would have become of us without you and Mr. Farmington. But Evan and I want to make our own way from now on, don't you see? Besides, one day, when Evan can send for his money in England, things will be easier for us.”

“What money in England?” Sara stopped, embarrassed by her own bluntness. “I'm sorry—that's none of my business, of course.”

Nora waved off her apology. “When Evan was employed in London, he managed to accumulate some savings. But after going against his employer's instructions and helping us get away—well, he fears some sort of retaliation if his whereabouts were to be discovered. That's why he's made no attempt to contact the bank before now.”

“But couldn't Evan's father get the money and send it to you?”

Nora's expression clouded. “Evan thought of that as well. In fact, he wrote to his father about it some months past. But Mr. Whittaker has been too poorly to manage the trip to London.”

Not wanting to press, Sara said nothing further. But she had already decided to take the subject up with her father at the first opportunity. He was fond of declaring that he couldn't get along without his British assistant, that the man was invaluable to him. Sara thought this might be a good time to remind him of Evan's usefulness—and suggest a raise in salary. A
generous
raise. Perhaps then Nora would be more open to taking on help.

In the meantime, she would ask Nicholas Grafton to make a call. He could drop by on the pretense of checking baby Teddy, but surely when he got a look at Nora, he'd insist on examing
her
, too.