Flight of the Earls (29 page)

She grabbed his scarf and pulled him to her. “Young, Mr. Hanley, do not forget who you are speaking to. This is the same face who was cleaning your bottom when you were crawling on all fours. Now speak to me before I beat it out of you.”

Calmly, he unfolded her fingers and removed her hand from the scarf. “Take a close look at me. Does this look like the same lad who left Ireland?”

There was an intensity in his voice that made Clare step back. He had changed, and replacing the puckish smile of her Seamus was the glare of a man who was courting the shadows of darkness. It chilled her to the core.

“I know of your intentions,” she said sternly.

“What?”

“Your plans. Our friend told me.”

“What did he tell you?” Seamus said, his anger rising.

“Calm yourself. I know about your enlistment. I know about the trouble you're in. What I don't know is the nature of it all. Those details he left out.”

“He wasn't to burden you with all of this,” Seamus said. “He'll get a piece of me for this.”

“A burden? I'm your older sister. I'm responsible for you. What am I to tell your family?”

“You can tell them the boy's a man, and he'll do just fine.”

“What sort of bother are you in?”

“It's nothing to concern you.” His eyes softened. “Really, Clare. I won't lie to you. We've got ourselves in a mix and there are those who have issues with us. But it's all going to resolve itself tomorrow.”

“The fight?”

“That's right.” He nodded.

“And how would that be?”

Seamus hesitated. He raised his hat and settled it back on his head. “Your man is going to win tomorrow. But it won't be because he's the better fighter.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Her brows tightened.

“Patrick has . . . he's made arrangements.”

“Does John Barden know this?”

Seamus's face was enraged. “He doesn't and he must not. You can't tell him. He has to think he earned it fairly or we'll lose everything. People would empty our blood on the streets. They'll cut us, do you understand?”

Clare was used to cleaning up her brother's messes his entire life, but this was beyond her mending. “Does this have to do with our uncle's business partner?”

“Yes. You've heard about him as well? 'Tis true. They have dealings between them that go back a ways and that we know nothing about. Other than Patrick wants out in a big way and the agreement in this fight will settle all debts. Once and for all.”

“So I don't understand,” Clare said. “What has this to do with you? Why do you have to leave for the war?”

“No one knows about this, Clare. Not our uncle. Just Pierce, me, and now you. And that's the way it must stay. Our uncle's debt will be square, but not ours. We'll have some earnings from the fight to give to you, and some for our pockets, but our time is short here.”

Her heart leapt to her throat. “What have you done?”

Before her question could be answered, there was a loud rapping on the door.

“He's here.” Clare went to answer the door. She felt a tug on her arm.

“You can't say anything,” Seamus said. “Nothing at all. It would cause us great harm. All of us.”

“I understand.” Clare walked to the door and let John Barden in.

They wove through the well-wishers on the way out of the tavern. John's celebrity was rising one day ahead of the big event, and he pulled Clare through the growing crowd with an eagerness to be outdoors and away from the madness. The questions were peppered at him as they passed.

“How ya feeling, John?” said a man with a sunburned face.

“Well enough.”

“What do you think about Billy?” asked another. “Can you duck his left?”

“Those are my intentions.”

“Don't you shame us, John Barden,” piped in a woman serving beer.

“Aiming not to, ma'am.”

With that they had made it to the doors and they spilled into the paved roadway, and they galloped for a distance with Clare giggling. Tonight, there were no evangelicals picketing the walkway and she felt a tug of disappointment. It surprised her that her thoughts carried to the face of the blond man.

There she was again, musing about a man who believed her to be of ill repute. At least if she was to believe John. In her mind she replayed the brief encounter with the stranger, his strength and grace, the momentary embrace of their eyes—or was that her imagination? No. There didn't seem to be disdain or even pity in his warm nature. But why else would he have handed her the pamphlet if he wasn't convinced she required rescuing?

Could an able-bodied, stouthearted man, the one to share a lifetime, truly be gentle and kind? It seemed an unlikely pairing of qualities in her estimation. Her father certainly did not believe this possible. He once told her a husband's sole responsibility and the measure of his worth was provision of food and shelter, not good cheer.

But she had to stop thinking of this Andrew person. She should be focused on the one standing beside her. “Tell me, John Barden. Are you getting a little anxious about all of this?” Clare asked as they slowed to a stroll.

“I will once the day arrives, but tomorrow is a long way off.” He turned to see her expression.

“Where are you taking me?”

A horse pulling a carriage trotted by, its hooves clacking on the surface of the pavers. Three young boys ran by them, entertaining themselves with some sort of evening devilry. Clare couldn't help but think of her two brothers back in Branlow.

“There is something I want to share with you,” he responded.

After an uneasy pause, Clare asked, “Am I not to inquire?”

“I love the Five Points. The newspapers don't speak kindly of her. They see the beggars, the poor, the beaten, the homeless, the drunks, thieves, and whores. But I see a place full of good people, short on blessings, but full of hope and courage. I see a place groaning for its chance to prosper. Only to be kicked down when it tries to rise to its feet. Sounds like the Irish, don't it?”

Clare leaned in closer to John. “Beautifully stated. Fine poetry coming from a fighting man.”

“Well. No man can fight without having something to believe.”

“So when you fight, you fight for the Five Points?”

He laughed. “The Five Points can fight for herself. I fight to earn.”

“Noble.”

He shrugged.

“So . . . how did you come to meet Patrick Feagles?” She scrutinized his reaction.

He turned to face her as if understanding some deeper meaning in the question and then looked away. “I think you know who I work for.”

“I do? And who would that be?”

“Listen,” he said. “I know your brother and his friend don't take kindly to me. Ours is a business relationship.”

Clare gasped inwardly, fearing she had crossed a line.

“I'd prefer”—John stroked her cheek—“if you and I can be about anything but business.”

“That would be fine,” she whispered, warming to the touch of his hardened hand.

He stopped as they came before a tenement building. “We're here.”

Sitting on the stone stairway leading to the oak doors of the entranceway was an old man caressing a bottle. Curled up tightly beside him, as if to draw warmth, was a small girl only a few years of age. A bony dog looked up and growled. Both eyed John and Clare with suspicion as the two of them walked up and entered the tall, squeaking doors.

It was almost total darkness inside, and they waited for a moment for their eyes to adjust. Clare felt her senses rising to the surface.

Then she felt the tug of John's hand leading her. He leaned over and spoke softly in her ear. “We're going upstairs. Mind your step.”

Her hand was enveloped in his large hand as he drew her upward.

“Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” she lied. What madness could have overcome her to put so much trust in a man of whom she knew so little?

After a few flights of stairs, they came to a halt. Clare heard the tap of his knuckles on a door. She had questions for him, but the words didn't arrive. Instead she could only hear her own breathing and the frantic pacing of her heart.

In a few moments, the door opened a crack, and a woman peered out at them with a lantern held before her gaze. She was disheveled with mismatched clothing, a dirty face, and oily brown hair splayed wildly from her scalp. Yet Clare could discern an underlying winsomeness in the woman, whose sharp, even features shone through her filth.

“Well, if it isn't the viper himself,” said the woman in a voice that was gentle and tired.

“Let us in, Tara,” John said.

“Did you bring money?”

“I have.”

The woman stepped back from the door and opened it to allow them entrance. As John came in, he drew Clare in behind him, who wished she was anywhere but here.

“What have you brought here?” Tara glowered at Clare. “Another one of your whores?”

John's voice modulated to one Clare had not yet heard, and he pointed an angry finger at her. “Woman. Do not test my anger.”

“How do you like his temper?” she asked Clare. “Have you felt it yet?”

“Where is she?” John asked with firmness.

“Sleeping. Don't you wake her.”

“I'll be quiet.”

“Where's my money first?”

John stood close to her. “You'll get your money when I say you do. Look at you, drunk and filthy.” He reached over to a small round table and picked up a near-empty bottle. “What's this, my dear?” He went over to the fireplace and poured it onto the flames, which hissed and reached up greedily in response.

“What are you doing, John?” she shrieked. “That was all I had left.”

He held the bottle up, and through the flicker of the flames, anger could be seen in his expression. “This isn't what I give you the money for.”

The protest in Tara's voice fled and she shrank back. “I just had a wee sip, John. I promise. I'll give it up for you. I promise. I will.” She stepped forward to reach for him, but he shrugged off her advance.

“Come, Clare.”

She followed sheepishly behind him as he grabbed a candle from the mantelpiece.

“If you wake her, I'll put this bottle to your temple,” Tara said from behind them.

Ignoring her, John entered the small adjoining room, which through the dim light could be seen to be sparsely appointed. Merely a drooping wardrobe and an enfeebled bed. Worrying that Tara would follow behind and crack her over the skull with a bottle, Clare hurried behind him into the room.

In the bed was a girl, of age four or five, with brown hair, peacefully embracing the soft arms of slumber. Her chest gently rising and falling with the tides of her sleep. John bent down slowly and kissed her with a tenderness that belied his stature and air. As he caressed the girl's hair with adoration, Clare was moved by what she witnessed. She never experienced such affection from her father.

Is this the great fighter?
Strangely drawn to his vulnerability, Clare was struck by the sight of the hardened features of his face brushing against the soft cheek of the child.

He turned to Clare and spoke softly. “This is what I fight for.” John kissed the child again on her forehead. Then he pulled the blanket up to her neck and left the room with Clare on his heels.

John pulled out a wallet from his jacket and extracted some bills, which he handed to Tara.

“Four dollars? Is this all?”

“There will be more. After tomorrow.”

Tara's expression changed to one of concern. “You take care of yourself.”

“I will. Don't waste your worry on me.”

He nodded to Clare, and not knowing what to say or do, she followed John in silence through the darkness.

When they came outside the building, the old man, his daughter, and the forlorn dog were nowhere to be seen. A soft, cool mist was in the air and Clare tucked her hands into her coat. John's arm came around her shoulder. She shuddered and he withdrew it.

John looked away into the night. “What's bothering you? Speak freely.”

“Why?” she said to him.

“Why did I bring you there?”

She nodded.

He lowered his head as they walked. “There is no one else in my life I can trust.”

“But we've just met.”

“That's true,” he said. “It's pathetic, isn't it? The great John Barden.”

Clare wanted so much to care for him. She felt pulled into his emotional injury.

“I've tried to love Tara. For my daughter.”

“That's exactly what you should do,” Clare said.

They walked in silence for a block or two as Clare fought back her tears. Again, she felt a strange sensation that someone was following her, but this time didn't say anything about it or even glance behind her.

Up ahead she could see the lights of the tavern approaching. John held her arm and they stopped. Could he see the glistening in her eyes?