Currents (21 page)

“Is that what they teach her in the fancy school she attends?” Da asked.

“That and many other things. She studies etiquette—that's a fancy word for nice manners—embroidery, painting, music, and how to pour tea and coffee. She practices the tea pouring for me some days. She's wonderful at it.

“She also learned that a lady never shows her ankles.” Mary Margaret thought about that for a moment. “But I don't care if anyone sees my ankles or not. I'd rather pick up my skirts than let them drag on the ground and get wet and dirty.”

“Very practical of you,” said Da.

“If I had the choice, I would rather attend Mrs. Lowe's school,” Mary Margaret offered.

Da could barely hide his surprise. “You joke! Old Mrs. Lowe? I doubt she is fond of us Irish, Mary Margaret.”

“Yes, I know. But I think she just may have a good heart under her bluster. Lucas is so kind, Da. She couldn't have a son like that and not have some kindness in her heart.”

“Aye,” Da agreed. “Lucas Lowe was always good to all of us.”

“And she teaches important things at that school. Louisa has told me all about it. Things that, between you and me,” Mary Margaret said, grinning at Da, “I think are more important than tea and ankles.”

“W
e need to be getting back,” Da said. “I don't like the looks of that sky, and if it snows again tonight, I'll have to be up in the dark to clear the Bennetts' walk and still get to the shipyard on time.”

“Oh Da, wait—stop. Down there. Look at that. What is it?” Mary Margaret stopped short, leaned over the wharf, and pointed down into the water at a small object bobbing against the pilings.

“There's a lot of trash floating around the docks, Mary Margaret,” Da said. “It's probably what's left of some sailor's evening ale.”

“No, it's like a genie bottle. The light is glinting off it. Can you see?” she said.

“Lord, Mary Margaret, your imagination.”

“I'm serious, Da. Can you fetch it for me?”

He looked down at the bottle floating along the surface. All manner of things collected around the wharves.

“Ah, Mary Margaret,” he groaned. “I don't really feel like retrieving a dirty old bottle from under the wharf.”

“It might have a genie in it—you can't be sure,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

“You don't believe in genies now, do you, lass?” he asked.

“Of course not. But it does look interesting. It looks special. Please, Da?”

“All right, all right,” he said. “Let's see if it will come up.”

Da borrowed a long pole with a hook at the end from one of the fishmongers and lowered it into the water. The first time he managed to snag the bottle, it fell off the hook. Again, his hook caught and slipped.

“I think, Mary Margaret, that it doesn't want to be caught.” He gave it one more try before Mary Margaret knew he would begin insisting they head back home. This time, dripping with saltwater and bits of wharf moss, the hook held. Bringing the bottle up gingerly, Da unhooked it, plucked off the weeds, and presented it to his daughter.

“That won't make much of a stew for you tonight,” the monger joked when Da returned the pole.

“Your ma will have my head for letting you bring that smelly old thing home,” Da said, frowning.

“I'll clean it up, Da. Can you open it for me? Please. It looks like there is something inside. Some paper and something that makes a little rattle and catches the light.”

He pulled his pocketknife out, carved away the wax seal, and carefully wiggled the top up until it gave way, spilling out the contents into the palm of his hand.

First came out an engraved gold cross with tiny pearls embedded in it. There was an empty spot in the middle where one pearl was missing. A rolled-up note had also fallen out. Mary Margaret's eyes lit up. She let out a whistle as she carefully unfolded it and then read aloud:

Agnes May Brewster
Born: July 1843. Colored slave.

Da let out his own low whistle and said, “Well, now, what do you know.”

“Can I keep it?” she asked.

“Well, I'm not of a mind to toss it back in the drink after working so hard to get it out. But let's take a closer look at it when we get home. Right now we need to get back.”

They hurried home, speculating what the contents might mean and what the cross might be worth. But first they stopped to drop the fish and books off at the Bennetts' kitchen door.

“Now wait a minute, Tomas.” Mrs. Bennett lifted a butcher knife and cut off a big chunk of the fresh fish. “Give this to Rose for your dinner tonight.”

“Oh, Mrs. Bennett, I couldn't—” Da said, politely refusing.

“You can and you will. Enjoy your dinner, Mr. Casey. Mary Margaret, I know you like fish stew.” She smiled as she closed the door behind her.

When Da and Mary Margaret appeared in their own kitchen, they called Ma and Bridget over to the table so they could show them their newfound treasures. Bridget was still in her nightdress, her face drawn and pale.
At least she's up and out of bed
, Mary Margaret thought.

“I think the cross is real gold, Tomas,” Ma said after a moment, her eyes shining. “But what would a colored slave and a gold and pearl necklace be doing in the same place?”

“There are initials on the back of the cross.” Mary Margaret squinted and held it up closer to the lantern. “D-S-S, J-K. I think. Aye. That's what they say.”

“Dissjik?” Bridget scrunched up her nose, pronouncing the initials as one word.

“No, you squirrel! That's not a word. I think they're initials—the first letters of a person's name,” said Mary Margaret. “I just can't imagine whose.”

“Sure I don't know. There's no way of telling such a thing,” Da mused. “I'm afraid that it's going to remain a mystery. One thing is certain—DSS J. K. does not stand for Agnes May Brewster.”

Mary Margaret sat up straight. “Someday soon I could be working in a Lowell mill, maybe even on the same cotton that this Agnes May had picked just months before.”

“It's possible,” Da said, nodding.

“I can take it with me the next time I go to Mr. Eaton's. He might know something about it. He's a wealth of information, he is,” Mary Margaret said. “I can keep the bottle and its contents, right Ma?”

“Aye, put it someplace safe, though,” Ma said. “I'd have you return it, but I don't know how you'd go about findin' the owners. We'll find out the value of the cross. We could use the money.”

“Oh, Ma, I don't want to sell it,” Mary Margaret pleaded. “I want to wear it. I think it must have meant a great deal to someone at one time. I can't imagine why it was tossed out to sea.”

“I can't see that would do any harm, Rose,” her father said. “At least for now.”

“Yes, yes,” her mother sighed. “But wash that bottle well so it won't smell up my house.”

“I will, Ma, and thank you,” Mary Margaret said.

But her mother was already storing the fish Mrs. Bennett had sent down before heading upstairs to prepare the Bennetts' dinner.

A
few days later, Mary Margaret bent over the dark, cherrywood desk that Mr. Bennett had installed in a sunny corner of Louisa's fourth-floor bedroom, and carefully read the articles and letters Louisa had written. Louisa propped up the November issue of
Merry's Museum Magazine
against the back of the desk as she tucked a curl behind her ear. Like her mother, she wore her dark hair pulled back in a bun, except for two long ringlets that hung down in front of each ear. Every month when the illustrated magazine arrived, she devoured its contents. She especially enjoyed that fashions of the season were discussed.

“I send in article after article and get back rejection after rejection.” Louisa dropped her head on her desk.

Mary Margaret looked around slowly. She'd never been to the fourth floor. Two enormous rooms faced each other and took up the entire floor, save for a small landing at the top of the stairs. Tall windows looking out onto Mt. Vernon Street were framed with heavily embroidered draperies that complemented a carpet woven with a swirly leaf pattern. A quilt decorated with roses covered Louisa's four-poster bed, and a coal-burning fireplace was on the opposite wall.

On top of a bookcase a dozen china dolls sat lined up by size, each dressed in fine garments trimmed with braid, fringe, cording, and tassels. Over the fireplace hung a framed sampler that read “Home Sweet Home,” which Mary Margaret knew Louisa had made herself when practicing her sewing skills.

All Mary Margaret could think was,
Imagine sleeping in a palace like this. I could fit our entire apartment in her bedroom and still have room left over.

“Inspired by such grand surroundings, Louisa,” Mary Margaret gushed, “elegant words must pour from your pen!”

“You would think, wouldn't you?” Louisa laughed. “I wish it were that easy for me.”

“Just don't give up,” Mary Margaret urged her. “So much of your writing is worthy of being published. Truly it is. This one is my favorite,” she said, pulling out the one letter from Louisa's sheaf that mentioned Mary Margaret and her freckles. “I wouldn't have believed my own eyes if my name had actually appeared in a magazine!”

“Well, it didn't.” Louisa looked on glumly while Mary Margaret read the rejected letter aloud.

“Now Louisa, that's clever writing!” Mary Margaret declared after she finished her enthusiastic reading.

“You don't mind that I used your name and discussed your freckles?” Louisa asked.

“Not at all,” Mary Margaret said. “My da always says to take no offense where none is intended. I'm only sorry that
Merry's Museum
hasn't seen the quality in your writing yet. Just don't give up. I think perseverance will pay off.”

“Pay off indeed,” Louisa laughed. “Papa says if I actually get an article published in the magazine he'll give me a silver dollar!”

“Well, now, that
would
be something!” Mary Margaret had never actually held a silver dollar, a fact she kept to herself.

The girls agreed that what Louisa needed was new material to write about.

Mary Margaret had decided not to tell Louisa about the bottle she and Da found. It was going to make the best story in her journal. She felt a little tinge of guilt, but it was too good to share just yet.