Into the Storm (35 page)

M
r. Jenkins and Betsy Howard sat across from each other at a table in the crowded and smoky Cotton House Tavern. A small candle in a cracked cup provided a spot of light between them. “Thank you for hearing me,” Betsy Howard said.

Mr. Jenkins shrugged. “There are some who care nothing for what women say. That's not me.”

“I needed to tell you what happened today. You are speaking tomorrow, aren't you?”

“I am. Tell me your news.”

The woman proceeded to tell Mr. Jenkins what had happened in the mill that morning, the turning away of Sarah Grafton.

With growing anger, Mr. Jenkins heard it all. “Did they replace her?”

Betsy Howard nodded. “A Paddy.”

“I knew it!”

“Then they asked me to teach her how to work the machines!”

“Insult to injury!” cried Mr. Jenkins. “Now,” he said, “do I have the name — Grafton — right?”

“Yes.”

“Does she have a boy? Blacks shoes?”

Betsy Howard nodded.

“I know him well.”

“Do you? I suppose he's the only one in the family making money now.”

“Miss Howard, I promise you, I shall use all of this as an example at my meeting tomorrow. It's exactly what people
need to know. Make sure to be there. Big things will be happening.”

“What?”

Mr. Jenkins leaned forward and whispered, “Revenge.”

Betsy Howard looked into Mr. Jenkins's eyes, then, feeling uncomfortable, stood up. “It's near to curfew time,” she announced. “I have to be at lodgings.”

“I'd see you there, but I'm meeting someone else. Miss Howard, do come to the meeting.”

“I will.”

Twenty minutes later Mr. Grout appeared. As soon as he sat down, he said, “Look 'ere, Jenkins, I came to this city searchin' for Matthew Clemspool. Yer promised yer'd tell me where I could find 'im.”

Mr. Jenkins looked at the Englishman slyly. “And I will tell you, sir. But not till tomorrow evening, when you will have completed your work for me.”

Mr. Grout grimaced. “I keep askin' yer, wot kind of work is it?”

“It's very simple, sir. Tomorrow evening I will be holding a meeting. At Appleton Hall. Eight o'clock. I shall be doing the speaking.”

“Wot's the subject?”

“The dangers of immigration to this country. I'll propose a call to action.”

Mr. Grout squinted his one good eye. “Wot kind of action?”

For a moment Mr. Jenkins said nothing. Then he hunched forward and, speaking in a low voice, said,” I want a demonstration outside a certain place.”

“Why?”

“It will do the most good there,” he said.

“And wot am I supposed to do?”

“You will lead the people to that place.”

Mr. Grout considered the man with suspicion. “That's it?”

Mr. Jenkins smiled grimly. “That is it.”

Taking a piece of paper from his pocket, he said, “Here is the name of the street to which you are to guide the demonstration.”

Mr. Grout picked it up and, in the dim light, struggled to read the writing.

“Cabot Street,” coached Mr. Jenkins. And he repeated the name but held back the number. He was not sure he could trust this man.

“What you must do, young man, is during the day go and find that street. Then you'll know how to lead the people there. But you must tell no one what you're doing.”

“Why?”

“An unplanned event should look unplanned,” Mr. Jenkins allowed, then pointed to his eye and his nose and made a circle with his thumb and forefinger.

“Yer full of mystery, ain't yer?” said Mr. Grout.

“I know nothing,” replied Mr. Jenkins with a grim smile. “But, sir, once the unplanned demonstration is over, you have my solemn vow I will tell you where to find your man. Thus, you will know something.”

Mr. Grout, not entirely happy with the conversation, left the tavern.

In contrast, Mr. Jenkins was happy indeed. Having arranged that Mr. Grout would lead the crowd to James Hamlyn's address, he felt confident he could shed responsibility for any incident that occurred there. Let Grout carry the blame for what the American hoped would happen. The man was a foreigner.

M
aura could hardly bear the tolling of the first morning bells. How she longed to stay in bed! But though her back, legs, and feet ached, she scolded herself for being lazy. Was she not in America with employment, earning money? “Thank you, Holy Mother,” she murmured.

Then and there she made a vow that she would ask Mr. Brewster where she could find her father's church, so she might confess and take the sacrament. She must also ask the whereabouts of Da's grave.

After a prayer, she made the sign of the cross, then got up, trying not to wake Bridy.

In haste now — for the room was dark and cold — Maura slipped on her new clothing and tight shoes, washed her face in the cold-water basin, then bent over Bridy and brushed a soft kiss on her brow. For this, she was rewarded by the girl reaching up and hugging her around the neck.

“Are you awake then?” Maura murmured.

“Yes,” Bridy replied drowsily.

“I'll be going off to the mill now and will return when day is done,” Maura told her. “Will you be finding yourself something useful to do?” she asked.

“I'll watch the house for Mr. Hamlyn,” Bridy said.

Maura, not really understanding what the girl was talking about, merely replied, “Sure, that will be fine.”

While swallowing a quick cup of hot tea and a piece of warm buttered corn bread, Maura told Mrs. Hamlyn that her brother had disappeared.

“You must be worried about him,” the woman said.

“Faith, mistress, I am and am not,” Maura explained with a rueful smile. “You can't believe how often the boy's gone off, but he never fails to come back safe and sure. And truth to say, mistress, last night I was too exhausted to be looking for him. But if he does come to your door, I'd be grateful if you'd tell him I expect a visit from him tonight.”

Mrs. Hamlyn promised she would, and Maura left the house in the company of one of her sister boarders.

“Please, Miss Polly,” she said to her companion, “can you explain the meaning of all those bells again?”

A
t the Spindle City Hotel, Mr. Drabble, too troubled to sleep, also rose from his bed when the first bells rang. Leaving a sleeping Laurence and Toby Grout, he crept out of the room and onto Merrimack Street. There, the cold, dark, and deserted street helped him indulge the illusion that he was the only person in the world. As well as the most wretched.

Mr. Grout had found work. So had Laurence. But not him. Perhaps, he thought, it was better to have been rejected than to have looked foolish before an audience. No, he wished that he had a role, any role.

His thoughts drifted to his love for Maura. “‘Let thy love be younger than thyself …,'” he murmured, quoting from his adored bard.

He regretted now having left his volume of Shakespeare by the canal. The more he thought of it, the more he wanted it back. Glad to have some goal in mind, he set off — head bowed, hands deep in pockets — through the gloomy streets.

A few people passed. Mr. Drabble supposed they were going to the mills. Shivering, he envied them. Then the notion
struck him that perhaps he might apply for a mill job. Not only would it provide necessary money, but he would, at least, then be able to stay in the same city as Maura.

The idea so appealed to him, he stopped meandering and studied the other predawn passersby. It was while watching them that he thought he saw Maura. His heart tumbled. The clothing this woman wore was quite different. But her tall, straight way of walking and the brown hair that flowed down her back were much like Maura's. And when, by the light of a street lamp, the actor saw that the shawl wrapped about her was dark red, he became certain it
was
his beloved.

Maura — presumably — had found work. Why else would she be about at such an hour? His first impulse was to cry out her name and rush to her side. She was walking, however, with another young woman, and from time to time the two exchanged words. The thought that Maura might rebuke him again — and in front of a stranger — was more than he could bear.

Besides, Mr. Drabble told himself, what could he say of
his
achievements? Nothing. Better to see where she went.

Accordingly, he fell in behind her, but not so close that she might notice. Never losing sight of her, he saw her turn in at the gates of the Shagwell Mill.

He knew he could wait for her — the whole day, if necessary — for he assumed that it was here that she had been fortunate enough to find employment. Or he could return to the street where he'd first seen her. She must live near there with her father, he thought. Mr. Drabble was certain he would recognize the man.

With renewed energy, the actor retraced his steps. Some minutes later he found Cabot Street. And there he spied Bridy, emerging from a doorway. She too was in a new dress. With a shawl wrapped about her, she sat on the top step and looked right and left along the street, sending Mr. Drabble ducking into a doorway.

He peeked out. From the look of the house in front of which the child sat, Mr. O'Connell had done well for himself. The realization caused Mr. Drabble a new pang: While he
had fallen in the world, Maura had risen. She would never look at him again.

He must establish himself. Then and only then could he let his presence be known. He noted the number of the house — eighty-seven. He repeated it to himself — “Eighty-seven Cabot Street”—as if the phrase were a magical charm. Merely knowing where she lived, knowing that, secretly, he could see her every morning as she left the house for work, gave Mr. Drabble new courage.

Now that he had again found his very heart, he bustled off to find his Shakespeare volume, his very soul.