Читать книгу Cinders to Satin - Fern Michaels - Страница 7

Chapter One

It was a peculiar dark that fell over Dublin that night during the long hours before dawn. Damp mists, like the wraiths of souls tormented, hung low over the narrow, cobbled streets, their specter fingers stretching into doorways and rising to dissipate vaporously near the flame of the gas lights. There was a chill in the air, but it wasn’t the kind of raw cold that was usual for early March. Tonight there was a promise of the coming spring.

A small figure dodged in and out of the shadows, running as though the night were reaching out to clutch at her. She carried an ungainly grocer’s basket close to her thin body, struggling against the weight of it as she searched for a particular alley, praying to find it quickly so she could scurry into its obliterating darkness.

Callie James held her breath, not daring to make a sound, choking back the need to take in great gulps of air as she crouched behind an abandoned cart whose iron-rimmed wheels had long ago been removed.

The space between the cart and the back wall of a local pub was narrow and more cramped than she had anticipated, yet she dared not make a move to reposition herself. She listened intently and could hear them, her pursuers, running along the cobbled street, calling in muted shouts to one another, questioning for signs of the “filthy little robber.”

The voices came closer, almost to the entrance of the alley, and Callie’s heart beat a wild tattoo. If they came up the alley, she would be trapped, something she had not considered when choosing her hidey-hole. Fear gripped her. She felt her hair standing on end, and her eyes squeezed shut against her fate.

Even as she prayed, she cursed herself for her impetuosity. How had she dared to steal the grocer’s basket that had stood outside the market awaiting delivery? In these poor times here in Ireland only the rich could enjoy such luxuries as this basket held. Even through her terror Callie could smell the sweet salty perfume of the smoked ham and the ripe aroma of oranges. And the bread. Dear God, the blessed bread! Huge loaves of round, crusty dough still warm from the oven. The temptation had been too great—the hunger too painful.

The penalty for stealing was death by hanging, a justice meted out under an English martial law whose tenuous grasp on law and order was maintained by making examples of felons. That’s what she was now, Callie realized with shame—a felon. And if caught, no amount of pleading or claiming extenuating circumstances would save her. The grocer was an Englishman, that hated breed of men who sucked life from Ireland with their laws and edicts. While the Irish starved because of the potato blight, the English dressed in their finery and ate their fill each and every day. There would be no pity for her, no forgiveness from those who had full bellies and who possessed no understanding of starvation. Others had died at the end of the rope—men, women, and children. Only in punishment could the Irish find equality in the eyes of the English.

Boots scraped upon the cobbles, the sounds coming closer and closer. Now someone was actually entering the alley! She squeezed her eyes tighter, not daring to open them to face her horror. Oh, Mother of Jesus, why had she taken the basket? Callie thought of leaving it and making a run for it. Unencumbered by its weight, she might have a chance to save herself. Moving to put her burden aside, she heard the rustle of tissue paper, betraying the fact that there were eggs within. Eggs for the little ones. Food. That was why the unguarded basket had been such a temptation. Eight in the house and only her own poor pittance of a salary from the textile mill to support them.

Thomas James, Callie’s father, had lain in bed for nearly two years complaining of back pains, malingering and defeated, refusing to seek even the lightest employment. Her grandfather, old Mack James, was too old to work, and no one would hire him.

Only her mother, Peggy James, had any backbone—in Callie’s opinion—but her work at the mill had been interrupted by the birth of the twins. Owing to the lack of food and an unclean birthing, Peggy was a sick woman. Bridget and Billy, the two-year-old twins, and Hallie and Georgie, now eight and nine, and still another babe on the way, Callie thought in disgust for her father’s lusty inclinations. Too sick to work but not dead enough to hinder him from putting another babe in Peggy’s belly. And him strutting about like a cock o’ the walk, with no thought as to how this new mouth was to be fed!

The heavy tread of boots brought Callie back to her immediate terror. They approached closer still; someone was indeed in the alley. She held her breath, her hands covering her face against the dread of seeing the grocer’s plump, well-fed face when he reached through the shadows to seize her. One step and then another, the beat of a purposeful march. He finally reached the dilapidated wagon and stubbed his foot against it. With a mighty heave he tilted the cart, and Callie anticipated those heavy butcher’s hands capturing her, holding her like a trapped bird, threatening to crush out her existence.

She heard the cart topple, and her hands flew away from her eyes in wide-eyed panic. Blinded by the sudden light of the flare he carried, she couldn’t see beyond it to the face of the man who had discovered her hiding place.

A shout came from the street, calling into the alley. “Have you found the little barstard, sir?” It was the voice of the grocer, harsh and out of breath, yet Callie could not mistake his tone of respect when he spoke to the man with the flare.

The sound of his voice jolted her, so near, booming down at her, and it was a moment before she could grasp his answer to the grocer. “Nothing in here, man! Just an overturned dogcart!”

“Well, thank ye for your assistance, Mr. Kenyon. I wouldn’t want to trouble you further on my account. The little thief must’ve run the other way. I’ll get me goods back, don’t you worry, sir. No guttersnipe is going to get away with six pounds of me best wares. There ain’t another ham the likes of that one in all Dublin. It was brought in special for his Lordship, Magistrate Rawlings.”

“Good luck to you then,” her savior’s voice replied. It was the most wonderful sound she’d ever heard.

Now that the flare wasn’t being held directly in front of her, Callie was able to make a quick appraisal. His boots were knee high and polished to a shine. A gentleman’s boots. The light buff of his trousers clung to his long, lean legs, and the whiteness of his shirt showed in stark relief against the dark of his hair and the rich cranberry of his coat. But it was his face that held her attention: the lean jaw, the smooth wide brow. The kindness in his light-colored eyes. His finely drawn lips twisted into a wry smile, lending a suggestion of cruelty that contradicted the expression in his eyes. No, not cruelty, Callie amended. Rather a strength of character, a type of righteousness, a possession of authority. “Mr. Kenyon” the grocer had called him, she now remembered. He lifted the flare higher, drawing it away from her.

Byrch Kenyon stood transfixed by the sight of Callie crouching against the tavern wall, defending her stolen basket. He had expected to find a dirty-faced street urchin with hard, defiant eyes. Anything but this terrorized young girl with her bright clean face and much-mended shawl. She huddled like an animal who has heard the snap of the trap shut behind her.

The glow from the flare caught the red glints in her chestnut hair and lit her pale, unblemished skin. A pretty Irish colleen. Large, luminous eyes; a firm, softly rounded chin; cheeks a bit sunken as were all of Ireland’s children. It was her expression which struck him. Her full, child’s mouth was set in a pout, her sky-colored eyes meeting his in a wide, unblinking stare. He felt himself smiling, no, laughing at her spunk. Here she hid, a thief, and yet she was flashing her defiance, daring him to present her to the Englishman’s justice.

“Don’t try to appeal to me with your sweet expression, colleen,” he said sarcastically. “Regardless of how you plead, I’ll not turn you into the law.”

“If you think I’ll be thanking you, you’re sadly mistaken,” Callie sniped in her soft brogue. She wished her voice were more steady and that her body would quit its trembling.

“Oh, I can see that,” he told her, reaching to help her to her feet. “Gratitude would be too much to expect.” Despite her shrinking away from him, he grasped her by the elbow and raised her up. He was struck by the thinness of her arm and her diminutive height. “How old are you? Twelve? Thirteen?”

Callie bristled at this affront to her womanliness. “I’m no child thank you, sir. I’ll be sixteen in a month’s time.”

“Oh, that old, are you? Pardon, madame. And where, may I ask, are you off to with your pilfered goods? Or do you plan to stay here and devour that entire basket here and now?”

Callie looked at him suspiciously. “And why would you be asking? So you could turn me in along with my entire family?”

“I merely asked because you’re not the only thief skulking around in the shadows of Dublin. You’ll be lucky to carry that basket two streets without it being stolen from you!” His hand still cupped her elbow, and he could feel the tremors running through her. “You’re shaking like a leaf in a storm.”

“Does that surprise you, sir?” She jerked her arm out of his grasp. “I’ve just gotten away with my life!”

“Your bravado isn’t the mark of someone who has just escaped with her life. Not the way your eyes flash and your tongue bites. You’re a feisty young miss, do you know that?” He scowled, clearly annoyed.

“And what’s it to you?” Immediately she regretted her words. He had helped her, and here she was giving him lip. Her mouth always got her into trouble. What if she angered him into calling the grocer? Or worse, what if he dragged her to the patrolling constable? As usual, words of apology did not come easily to Callie James. To show him her regret, she smiled up at him.

“Feisty and charming.” He laughed easily, amending his earlier statement.

Callie could see his strong white teeth when he laughed, and she liked the way he threw back his head. He was tall, very tall, and his clothes were fine and well-tailored. He was a gentleman, no doubt about it. She understood why the grocer had spoken to him with respect.

“Will you tell me your name and what you’re doing about the streets at this hour?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Callie answered, bending to retrieve her basket. “How am I to know you won’t change your mind and turn me in?”

That seemed to strike him funny. “It’s evident we’re strangers. If you knew me better, you’d have no doubt of my opinions concerning the English Law we suffer. You’ll never make it through the streets with that heavy booty, you know. You may as well leave it here and get home with you.”

Callie drew herself up to her full five feet one inch, facing him brazenly. This was no time to back down. “I dragged it all the way here from the grocer’s, didn’t I? And at a full run, I might add. I’ll make it home, all right, or die trying. I’ve a family to consider.”

“A little thing like yourself with a family?” he questioned.

“Well, I do too! They’re my own brothers and sisters.”

“Come along, then. I’ll walk with you. Just to be certain the grocer and his boy don’t come back this way.”

Callie hesitated and saw his logic. He was right. She wouldn’t have to let him come all the way with her, just far enough to get out of this neighborhood. And if he tried anything with her, he’d be sorry. Her shoes were stout and their soles thick. He’d feel them where they’d hurt the most if he got any funny ideas in his head. “All right, I accept your offer. Seeing as how it means so much to you.” He laughed again, and she scowled. Callie ignored him and picked up her basket, falling into step beside him.

They’d not gone a block when she was panting with effort. The basket must have weighed thirty pounds. Breaking the silence between them, he said, “If I tell you my name, will you let me help you carry your hard-earned goods?”

“I already know your name. It’s Kenyon. Mr. Kenyon. However,” she turned and dumped the basket unceremoniously into his arms, “I’d be obliged if you carried it a bit of the way, Mr. Kenyon.”

“Byrch. Byrch Kenyon.” He looked for recognition of his name but none was forthcoming.

“Any man willing to tell his name under these circumstances can’t be all bad,” Callie said. “Kenyon is a fine old Dublin handle. But Byrch! Why would anyone pin a moniker like that on a fine Christian lad? Hadn’t your mother heard of good saintly names like Patrick or Sean?”

“And who says I’m a fine Christian lad?” This little piece of baggage had a mouth on her!

“You’re Irish, aren’t you? Or are you?” Callie turned and eyed him quizzically. “You speak with a fair lilt of the auld sod, but there’s something else besides.”

“I’m here in Dublin visiting friends,” he answered smoothly.

“Here!” Callie drew up short, swaying her shoulder into his tall frame. “You’re not English, are you?” she demanded. Not for anything would she associate with an Englishman.

“No. American. My father is Irish. I’m here in Dublin waiting passage back to Liverpool. Then I’m bound back to America.”

“Well, at least I know you’re not lying to me. No one in this world would admit to family and friends in Ireland during these hard times if it weren’t so.” And then she smiled, and Byrch Kenyon thought the fair sun of summer had lit the dark streets.

“If you won’t tell me your name, at least tell me something about yourself,” he said, hefting the basket onto his hip as though it were no heavier than a lady’s handkerchief.

“Callie.”

“Callie what?”

“That’s all you’ll get from me, Mr. Kenyon. Why don’t you tell me about yourself instead? Then I can tell my mother all about you.”

“So, you have a mother. Back there in the alley I thought you were responsible for your brothers and sisters all alone:”

“I didn’t mean to make you think that, but you never asked about my mother. Hey! Watch where you walk! You’ve spattered mud on my dress!”

They were under a gaslight near the corner, and Byrch turned to look down at her. “You’re a lovely child, Callie. Do you know that?”

She shrugged. “So I’ve been told. But listen here, you try any funny stuff; and you’ll feel the toe of my boot crack your shins!”

Byrch smiled and made a courtly, mocking bow. She was a tough little scrapper, but he was beginning to suspect it was all a show. Probably she really was afraid he’d try something with her. As though his tastes ran to children! As though this little mite would stand a chance against him!

“Are you going to tell me what you do in America? We’ve only a little ways to go now.” Callie deliberately softened her tone. Perhaps she shouldn’t have said anything about him trying something. She was sensitive enough to know she’d hurt his feelings and upbraided his gallantry.

“I run a newspaper in New York City,” Byrch told her, “and I’m trying to make my mark in politics there. So many Irish have come to America, and most of them have settled around New York. I intend to help them, to be their voice in government.”

Callie stopped dead in her tracks and turned to face him. If he expected to see admiration in her eyes, he was mistaken. She had turned on him with a temper so fierce he felt as though an icy wind had blown him down.

“So, a voice of the people, is it? And what of the Irish here in Ireland, starvin’ and sweatin’ to earn a day’s wages to buy bread for the table? The English know we’re hungry for any kind of wage, and so it’s not even a fair pay they offer us to slave in their mills and dig for their coal. To my mind, those Irish who left their country have no need of a voice in the land of milk and honey where the streets are paved with gold!”

“Times are hard for the Irish over there too, Callie. There’s no milk and no honey and no gold for the Irishman. It isn’t what it’s cocked up to be, believe me. I’m doing what I know best and where I think I can help the most.”

“Are you now?” Callie said hotly. “Don’t be wasting your time and energy on me, Mr. Kenyon. Go back to your Irish in America and help them!”

She snatched the basket from his arms and ran off, leaving him standing there with an incredulous expression on his face. What had he said to make her take off like that? Then he realized they must have come close to where she lived, and it was the easiest and simplest way to rid herself of him. A smile broke on his face, and he laughed. “You’re a fine girl, Callie. I hope we meet again.”

Darting down an alley, taking the shortest route home, Callie hefted her basket and giggled. That was a stroke of genius, she congratulated herself. She’d gotten rid of Byrch Kenyon fast and easy. Confident now that she was safe from the hands of the law, she walked jauntily, and somehow the basket seemed lighter and lighter the closer she came to home.

Just as dawn was beginning to crack the sky, Callie turned down a pathway and could see the doorway to her home. A twinge of conscience panged her, knowing that Peggy would most certainly be lying on her bed, worrying about her. Peggy never liked the fact that Callie preferred to work in the mill from five in the afternoon to three in the morning instead of working the day shift, which ran from three in the morning to five in the afternoon. But she understood when Callie complained of slaving on the day shift and never seeing the light of day. Leaving before the sun was up and returning as it was going down made her feel like a night creature who never felt the warmth of the sun upon its face.

For the first time since seeing the unattended basket outside the market, Callie began to think of what her mother would say. Peggy James prided herself on doing the best she could for her children, raising them to have a decent sense of values. No matter how welcome the basket would be in the James’s household, Callie knew Peggy would cast a dark frown her way when she questioned her about this magnificent windfall.

Callie tried to formulate a likely story of where she’d come by her goods, but soon gave up. Mum may be trying to raise us the right way, she thought, but it won’t do her any good if the babies die from hunger before she has the chance to teach them to be fine and upstanding. Holding her head high, a twinge of shame and misery buried in her heart, Callie carried her basket into the damp chill of the two-room shack that housed her family.

“Mum, I’m home,” she called softly, hoping to awaken her mother and get the scolding over with in some degree of privacy. If she was going to get her ears boxed, she didn’t want it done under the confused eyes of the younger children or the sympathetic gaze of her grandfather.

“Mum!” she called again, tiptoeing to the meager bed beside the woodstove in the front room. Looking down with distaste at Peggy and Thomas entangled in one another’s arms, she nudged her mother’s shoulder, bringing her awake.

Peggy James wrested herself from her husband’s arm and rose from the bed with difficulty. Glancing down at Thomas to be certain she hadn’t disturbed him, she tucked the thin coverlet closer to his chin with loving hands.

“Where have you been, Callie? Do you see what time it is? The sun’s already come up.” Peggy rubbed the small of her back. Her time was coming close now, and sleeping was often difficult.

“I’ve brought you something, Mum. But you’ve got to promise me it won’t be tossed out!” It had only just occurred to her that Peggy might refuse her ill-gotten luxuries.

“Tossed out?” Peggy whispered. “Now what have you brought home this time? Puppy? Kitten? Good Lord, child, we’ve all we can do to manage as it is.”

“No, Mum, nothing like that. I haven’t brought home a stray since the blight began. It’s on the kitchen table, but you’ve got to promise me you’ll keep it!”

Peggy looked at her oldest surviving child and saw the tension and fright in her face. It was the same look that found the child in trouble at school or in the mill or just dealing with the neighbors. Some called it pugnacious, and others called it defiant, but Peggy knew it was just the way the good Lord had fashioned the child’s face. Callie got that look when she was frightened of a scolding or worse. Peggy decided to make the promise. At least Callie would be able to lie down and get a few hours sleep before the little ones were up and making a ruckus. “All right, Callie, I promise. Now what have you brought?”

Callie led the way into the kitchen and pushed the basket over to Peggy, her eyes downcast. “Why, that looks like a grocer’s basket. . . Callie James! Where did you come by this?”

“I took it, Mum. I just plain up and took it.” Before the words could sink into Peggy’s mind, Callie began emptying the basket’s contents onto the table. “Look, Mum, bread! And oranges! Jelly and sweet rolls! Here, a chicken for soup and an onion and a carrot! But wait, Mum, wait till you see this!” She pulled out the smoked ham; its sweet tang filled the room.

“Callie . . . I asked you once, now you tell me the truth. Where did you get this?” Peggy’s eyes surveyed the tabletop, already counting the number of meals she could serve. Her housewife’s inventory went to the cupboard where she hoarded the last of the flour that would make dumplings for the chicken soup. One egg, two at the most, along with the flour and they could all eat their fill. The handful of dried peas would make a good porridge when the ham bone was picked clean. Her eyes scoured each item as it was presented from the basket. Sugar, tea, bread. God blessed bread!

“I told you where I got it, Mum. It’s the truth. Now you promised not to toss it out, remember?”

“Yes . . . but, Callie! I thought I taught you better. I’ve never known you to take what wasn’t your own. And now . . . now this!” Peggy sank down onto a straight-backed chair. “It’s wrong, child. And you’ve got to take it back. This minute!”

“No, Mum, I won’t. And you can’t make me. I risked my neck for this basket, and I’ll be damned if I’ll turn it back now.”

“This is a Godly house, Callie! Shame for your language.”

“Mum, can you stop being a mother long enough to think? Think what this will mean to the little ones and to the one in your belly. It’s not like anyone else is starving because I took it. It was packaged to be delivered to Magistrate Rawlings, and you know he’s got more money than God, and he’s an Englishman besides. And the grocer will just raise his prices to those who can pay. Mum, your babies are starving under your very eyes!”

“Near to it, I’ll grant you, Callie, but we’ve managed to fill their bellies somehow.”

“You and I, Mum. We’re the ones who fill their bellies. You with your washing and ironing for the English officers’ wives and me working in the mill. Well, the axe fell tonight, Mum. My hours have been cut and so have my wages. What will we do now? We barely managed before, and now we’ll starve for certain.”

“Something will turn up.” Peggy ran her fingers through her rust-colored curls. There was a time when her hair had been her pride, thick and glossy, the color of the sun in its setting. Now it hung loose, already streaked with gray although she was barely thirty-two. “We’re God-fearing people, Callie, and the Lord looks out for His own.”

“Those aren’t your words, Mum, they’re Da’s! He’s always going around touting how the Lord will provide. It just ain’t so and you know it! And where does Da do his touting? Down at the corner pub after laying abed half the day and eating more than his share.”

“Callie, Callie.” Peggy hung her head, her hand massaging her swollen belly. “I won’t have you talking about your Da that way! Stop it this minute, please, for my sake.”

Once having begun her tirade, Callie was beyond stopping. Even pity for her mother could not still her tongue. “The one who is provided for is Da. And who does the providing? Not the good Lord, I’ll venture. It’s me down at the mill and you leanin’ over the washboard. At least Granda tries to do what he can with that little garden of his.”

“It’s your Da’s back, Callie. Some mornings he can barely walk and you know it!” Peggy tried truthfully. “He’s a man, and a man’s got his pride. He doesn’t want his children to think of him as a cripple. It’s his own torment that he’s unable to work and feed his family.” Peggy wrung her hands in distress. She couldn’t bear it when Callie took on about Thom’s not supporting his family. Times were hard, and jobs impossible to come by. Was there no pity in the girl’s soul? Didn’t she see her father dandle the babes on his knee and sing the songs of old Ireland in the sweetest voice the angels ever heard? Couldn’t she feel the love the man held for his family?

“How can you keep making excuses for him, Mum? Much less sleep with him. You no sooner give up nursing one babe and he puts another in your belly? Why, Mum? Why? How can you still love him?” Callie hated herself for treating Peggy this way—the one person she loved more than any other.

Peggy pushed her hair off her strong-boned face. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She realized Callie’s anger toward Thom was born out of the fear of losing her mother while birthing another child.

In the dimness of the early morning light that filtered through the tiny kitchen window, Peggy walked over to her daughter and touched her face. In a soft voice, the voice she always used when speaking about Thomas, Peggy said, “When your time comes, Callie girl, you’ll understand. There’s something that brings a man and a woman together, and not heaven, hell, nor even a baby’s hunger can change it. Makes no matter what he does, nor even if he betrays you. You’ll love him, and he’ll be your man till the day you die.”

Callie’s eyes strayed about the damp, chill room and fell on the two little ones sleeping just past the doorway in the next room, their noses always snotting, their deep-set eyes cavernlike in their thin faces. “Well, I’ll not be like you, Mum. You can be sure of that. My head will never be turned by a handsome face and a strong back, even if he does sing with the voice of an angel! It’s my head that’ll rule my life, not my heart!”

Peggy watched her best-loved daughter’s pretty face flush with the heat of her words. With a deep sigh, Peggy reached out to touch the girl and gazed somberly into her Irish blue eyes. “Well spoken, darlin’, and well meant. But sometimes one must listen to the heart, for not to would be to miss the best life has to offer. Oh, it may be mingled with tears, but I’ll vouch you, it’s still the best.”

Callie looked up into her mother’s face and then buried her head against the round belly. Throughout her life Callie would think of this moment and bitterly yearn for that headstrong, willful young girl, and wish she had heeded her own words.