Legacy of Secrets (32 page)

R
ORY
O’D
ONOVAN WAS NEVER
quite the same after that blow on the head. He spoke with a stammer and he stumbled over steps and tripped on the cobbles. The icy winter wind made his cough worse and he grew even thinner. His mother shook her head in despair over her eldest son. He was the only one who could work and put food into the mouths of her children and she did not know what to do.

“If only Finn O’Keeffe had held on to his own money.” She sighed. “Nobody would have dared attack him and that big fella, Daniel, the way they did my son.” And Finn and Daniel wished it a thousand times also, back in their dark cellar.

In his dreams Finn remembered the heady excitement of possessing money. He touched the gold coins again and watched them magically change into dollars, so many dollars he could scarcely count them. But in the harsh freezing light of day he faced the reality that they were kept alive by the unwilling charity of the people of Boston, who hated the Irish for bringing their poverty and sickness to their clean, prosperous city. Still, babies and children had to be fed and the rich Bostonians employed the Irish women as servants in their houses and the men as laborers on their new buildings. And those with no jobs were given a little food so they did not die.

Whenever Finn or Daniel found a day’s employment unloading sacks of coal or flour at the wharves, or swinging a
pick in the stony hills, or shoveling infill into the muddy flats of Back Bay, they would divide their meager pay in two and
give
one half to Rory’s mother. “You’ll not suffer, Mrs. O’Donovan,” Dan told her gruffly. “My brother and I will look after you, never fear.” And he sighed deeply because he did not see how in the world he was going to keep that promise.

It was a rainy April morning and Finn was walking past the Common when a horse pulling a smart little two-wheeler gig bolted. He swung around at the familiar sound of galloping hooves and flung himself instinctively at the horse’s head as it came alongside. He clung grimly on to the traces, his legs dangerously close to the wheels as the horse pounded on, dragging him through the mud. Then it stopped; it reared up, pawing the air, and he knew he had it beat.

It was over in a minute and he grinned, pleased with himself as he held the nervous horse’s head. It rolled its eyes and whinnied and stamped, but he soon had it calmed.

The woman driving the gig was Beatrice James, the wife of Cornelius James, one of Boston’s richest men. She looked her rescuer up and down, frowning at his torn jacket, worn without the benefit of a shirt because that had long since disintegrated into rags, and at the muffler knotted at his bare throat. She stared at his muddy pants and his old broken boots stuffed with newspaper to keep out the cold, and at his wild curling black beard and into his hungry gray eyes, and she shuddered fastidiously.

But at the same time she noticed his confident way with the horse and she told herself that, after all, the young ruffian had just prevented a very nasty accident. She said gratefully, “I have to thank you for saving me, young man.”

Finn shrugged. “It was nothing, ma’am,” he replied, eyeing her. She was tall and aristocratic and though her clothes were plain he knew they were expensive. The little carriage was a beauty and must have cost a lot and he
thought hopefully that she should be good for a dollar or two reward.

He ran his hand knowledgeably over the nervous filly, inspecting it for injuries, remembering the stables at Ardnavarna. He sighed longingly; he could almost smell the sweet scent of hay and feel the power of a good horse between his thighs.

The horse trembled nervously under his hand and he said warningly, “I’ll be tellin’ you now, ma’am, this little filly is too high-strung to go between the shafts.”

“But my coachman chose her personally,” Beatrice replied, annoyed by his presumptuousness. “He said she would make a fine little carriage horse for me.”

“Then he’s just been proven wrong, ma’am. She’s too fast for you and too nervous. Even with blinkers she’ll be dangerous. She’s better suited to the racetrack than the streets.”

Beatrice knew he was right and she shuddered, thinking of her fate had the carriage overturned. She took a dollar from her purse and handed it to him and he pocketed it eagerly. She said, “There’s another dollar for you, my lad, if you will drive me home.” Taking a white pasteboard card engraved with her name and address from her purse, she handed it to him. He stared at it and she realized, shocked, that of course he could not read, and told him quickly to take her to Louisburg Square.

Finn hopped nimbly onto the driver’s seat and they set off at a brisk trot. The horse behaved perfectly for him and Beatrice thought how opportune were the ways of the Lord that had thrown the young Irish ruffian into her path.

Finn gave a low whistle of amazement as he drove into the yard in back of the Louisburg Square mansion. Four horses poked their heads inquiringly over the stable doors and there were two fine carriages in the coachhouse as well as a smart covered sleigh used when the ice and snow made the streets impassable for wheeled traffic. He vaulted lightly from the gig, then offered his grimy hand to
help Mrs. James. Wrinkling her nose in disgust, she ignored it and stepped past him.

His face flushed red as he remembered the day, long ago, in that stable yard at Ardnavarna, when his brother had washed the dirt and the stink off him. “I’m sorry, Mrs. James,” he said angrily, “but it’s hard to keep as clean as a man would like when you are as poor as I am.”

She turned to look back at him. He had called her by her name and she realized he must have read it on the card she had given him. “Then you do read after all,” she said, surprised.

“Aye, I can read. And write as well. And I’ve worked with horses all my life. Lord Molyneux always said I was the best horseman he’d ever seen, and wasn’t it meself that taught young Lord William to ride when they all said he niver would. I worked as groom for the earl, ma’am, and my brother worked as gillie and gamekeeper on the estate, until we came here to make a new life for ourselves.”

“A city like Boston is hardly the place for a groom and a gillie to find constructive employment,” she said caustically.

“No, ma’am, it is not,” Finn agreed politely. “But our ship was wrecked. She went down off Nantucket and they brought us to Boston. And here we stay, for we’ve no money in our pockets to be goin’ anywhere else.”

Beatrice James smoothed her pristine gray kid gloves over her thin wrists, taking another long, critical look at her rescuer. He was certainly a clever lad with horses.
Lord
William he had mentioned,
and
a grand estate in Ireland. Of course, everybody knew the Irish were horse mad, but she had firsthand evidence that he was as good with them as he said he was. Besides, he had shown exceptional bravery.

“Wait here,” she said, handing him the other dollar she had promised. “I shall have a word with my husband and see what can be done.”

Finn pocketed his dollar. He jingled the two coins together, his spirits rising like the morning sun. “Jayzus,” he
said to himself, “I’ve fallen on my feet here.” He ran to the pump in the middle of the yard and sluiced his hands and face with the icy water. He rubbed the toes of his boots on the back of his pant legs and took off his cap and smoothed back his hair. He reknotted his muffler and tugged his jacket over his naked chest and he paced anxiously up and down the cobbled yard, inspecting the horses who hung their heads over their stable doors.

Cornelius James observed him silently from the steps of the house. He was smaller than his wife and older, with gray hair and shrewd brown eyes. His family was originally English and they had not always been wealthy. Of course, they had never been as poor as the Irish and they had always been cultured and lived in old houses filled with books and paintings, and naturally they were educated. He had made himself rich with the clever invention of a patented device used in the Massachusetts cotton mills. And when he was rich enough he had married Beatrice, a daughter of Boston Brahmins, and then he had taken those riches and used them to make himself millions on the New York Stock Exchange.

Cornelius and Beatrice James were God-fearing Presbyterians, regular Sunday churchgoers, with prayers said morning and evening in their home for the family and the staff. Mr. James prided himself on being a charitable man and he was prepared for his wife’s sake to take on the lad who had risked his life to save her.

Of course, the fellow was Irish and he had not believed a word he said about working as a groom on a fancy estate in Ireland, because everybody knew the Irish could wrap up the truth in a colorful tissue of blarney to suit any occasion. But after watching the lad with the horses he took it all back. He could see he knew what he was doing and what’s more, he cared. He could tell by the way he was
talking
to the beasts.

“Young man,” he called, and Finn sprang to attention, whipping his cap from his head and staring wide-eyed and eager at him.

“Young man, I am Cornelius James,” he said striding toward him. “My wife has told me what happened and I am grateful for what you did to help her.” Putting his hands behind his back, he teetered back and forth on his heels, inspecting Finn with piercing brown eyes. “You are even younger than I thought,” he said, guessing, “sixteen, seventeen?”

“I’ll be almost eighteen, sir,” Finn said anxiously.

Mr. James nodded. “Fair enough. Then I’m offering you the position of stableboy. You will be in charge of seeing that the carriages are kept clean and you will make sure the horses are taken care of and exercised daily. Is that clear?”

Finn’s face shone with joy. “Oh, yes, sir. Yes, indeed it is, sir.” He thrust out his freezing hand. “And God bless you, sir, for givin’ me this chance. I’ll not let you down, y’can be sure of that.”

Cornelius was forced to smile as he shook the lad’s hand. He liked his enthusiasm as much as he liked his way with horses.

“And what about the pay, sir?” Finn asked, getting down to basics.

“Your pay? Ah, yes. Twelve a week to start, with a raise after three months if you prove satisfactory.”

“Twelve
dollars,
sir?” Finn said, wanting to dance a jig of joy.

“And your meals, of course,” Mr. James added, striding back into the house. “You can start tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir, yer honor,” Finn shouted back. “I’ll be here, sir, at dawn I will. You can count on me.” And then he ran home to tell Dan and Rory the good news.

Dan swore that now their luck had changed he would get a job too. “Luck’s like that, Finn,” he said confidently. “When she’s with you, she’s with you all right.”

Hunger led Dan to the logical place—Corrigan’s food store on Hanover Street. He loitered outside, hands in his trouser pockets and shoulders hunched against the wind, peering longingly through the window at the brimming barrels
of flour and sacks of potatoes, at the chests of tea and boxes of cabbages and onions. Every time the door opened the aroma of boiled ham almost drove him crazy and he busied himself picking up the scatter of cabbage stalks and leaves from under the trestles in front of the store. He took a rag from his pocket and polished the window, smiling through the glass at Corrigan’s scowling face. Every day for a week he was outside Mick Corrigan’s, whistling cheerfully, picking up the litter, opening the door for the customers, doffing his cap with a smile and a pleasant “good morning” to them. Though Mick’s window had never been cleaner, he exasperatedly told Dan several times to “be off with yer,” and each time Dan just met his angry stare with a smile.

“Sure and I’m just helping, Mr. Corrigan,” he replied politely.

After a couple of weeks the sight of Dan’s thin young face and his hungry eyes fixed longingly on the slab of ham compelled Mick to invite him inside. And once inside Dan talked. In no time at all he had told Mick his life story, except his reason for leaving Ireland, and without mentioning the Molyneux name, and he soon had Corrigan won over.

Corrigan was getting older and he told himself he had earned the right to take it a little easier. If he employed Dan he would not have to close up shop when he went off to the saloon to meet his cronies at midday, and he could stay open later at night. Dan would pay for himself in the extra business gained.

“I’ll offer you the job as my assistant,” he told Dan magnanimously, “at six dollars a week. And a discount on all the groceries you buy.”

“Seven,” Dan said firmly.

“Done!”

They shook hands and Dan became assistant manager at Corrigan’s Corner Store on Hanover Street selling everything from beans to buttons and bacon to boots, working six and a half days a week for seven dollars’ pay and cheap
groceries. But he was no longer one of the unemployed and he felt as though he had just conquered the world.

He bought himself a new shirt and pants on credit from Mick to be deducted at a dollar and fifty cents per week from his pay. He had a haircut at Flynn’s barbershop and a bath at the public bathhouse; and smart and clean and youthful, he stood behind Corrigan’s battered counter. The irony of working in someone else’s store when it might so easily have been his own made his stomach churn with resentment. He burned with ambition, imagining himself standing proprietorily behind his own shiny counters, watching the money come in.