Authors: Cindy Thomson
13
A
NNIE FELT NEARLY
as sick as Kirsten and only sipped at her soup after returning from her shopping trip. If the postman had suspected there was trouble at Hawkins House
—not to mention a Pinkerton
—they had to do something right away to ensure that Kirsten, and indeed all of them there, were safe. They had confided in Grace last night because she was sure to see Kirsten and would need an explanation. And Grace was a kind lass. She would keep it to herself for the moment. Annie needed time to determine how women in America could be spared from places like laundries or reformatories
—whatever they called them on this side of the Atlantic.
During her entire outing, save for the brief conversation with the postman, she had been considering her options. Taking legal action against Kirsten’s boss did not seem feasible. Judges didn’t rule in a woman’s favor, even if they would give them an audience. The best thing for Kirsten would be to start over somewhere.
Annie had to speak to the Hawk soon. The woman was lunching with a friend and would return at any time now. Annie pushed away her soup bowl and tried to concentrate.
She’d seen Mrs. Hawkins stand up for herself against that Pinkerton fellow. Thinking about that, she went to the back door but did not see anything unusual. She wondered if he’d seen Kirsten come home battered and bruised or if a neighbor would report it.
She paced the kitchen, worrying her lip. Perhaps she and Mrs. Hawkins could visit the police station and plead their case. Kirsten was innocent. The fact that Owen McNulty was taking so long to report what he’d learned about that man could mean bad news. Either there’d be no stopping the man or the police were not willing to help.
She stood over the sink, pulling at her sleeves. Her father had once told her not to borrow trouble. Easier to speak than follow, that.
After checking the coal supply, she set a kettle on. Most conversations went better over afternoon tea.
Mrs. Hawkins entered by the back kitchen door, seemingly drawn by the sound of the whistling teakettle. “How kind of you to ready tea, love. Are you well this afternoon? You didn’t eat your soup there.”
Annie picked up her bowl. That woman didn’t miss much. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hawkins. I am fine, so. Thank you. Did you enjoy your lunch?”
“I did. Clam chowder.”
“Sounds delightful.”
“What about our Kirsten? Did you see her off this morning?”
“She is not well.”
“Poor dear. Should I send for the doctor?”
Annie reminded herself that not all doctors were evil. The doctor Mrs. Hawkins was referring to was the woman’s close friend and confidant. Annie understood this but still could not dismiss the face of that horrid man in Ireland from
her nightmares. Now, however, she had to be sensible.
Keep your wits, Annie. Stay calm.
“Perhaps you should. But, Mrs. Hawkins . . .” Annie searched her mind for the right words. She hemmed and hawed until the teakettle’s blast overtook her voice. She pulled it from the stove and set it on a trivet. Kirsten had been sure no good Christian women would accept her now. What if Mrs. Hawkins had trouble understanding? “I . . . um . . . Aye, get the doctor.”
The woman scrubbed her hands at the kitchen sink with Pears soap and then dried them on a white tea towel while Annie waited for her. “I’ll hail Jules. I should get one of those telephones. You know, for emergencies. Mrs. Jenkins next door is out for the day or I would use hers. Does she have a fever, love?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“What about Grace? Did you see her today? She hasn’t caught it yet, has she?”
“Uh, she has not.”
“Good. We wouldn’t want it passed along to the children. Aileen?”
“’Tis only Kirsten, Mrs. Hawkins.”
“One cannot be too careful with infectious diseases. Thank the Lord nothing has spread. But poor girl. I should check on her.” She ignored the tea Annie set in front of her and started for the back stairs.
“Wait.”
The woman turned around.
“We need . . . the doctor. I mean . . . we need him to be . . . discreet.” Annie stared at the floor tile. “’Tis not an infectious disease. She is not ill. Her boss did something to her.”
“Oh, dear. I see.”
Annie rushed to her side. “You don’t understand. ’Twas not her fault. Her boss forced her.”
Tears formed at the corners of the woman’s eyes and rapidly spread down toward her hooked nose. “Oh, poor Kirsten.”
“I know. I . . . I should have said something earlier.”
Mrs. Hawkins raised her graying brows. “How long have you known about this . . . this assault, love?”
“She told me last night.” Annie’s face grew hot. “I have been trying to think of something . . . a way to keep her safe. Someone has to do something.”
Aileen’s chirpy voice resounded from the opposite end of the hall. “Do something about what?”
Annie had forgotten she’d tried to keep her occupied waxing the wainscoting. Unfortunately Hawkins House had thin walls and little privacy. Before long they would all know anyway. Kirsten’s bruised face would take weeks to heal.
Annie trudged into the hall to hush Aileen and stopped short when a white envelope drifted through the mail drop in the door. Ignoring her cousin, she rushed to scoop it up, opened the door, and called to Mr. Adams. “Thank you.”
He turned, smiled warmly, and waved.
Some days the postman came two or three times if there was something to deliver. She wished his visits were better timed. There was so much commotion at Hawkins House now, it probably didn’t matter anyway. Previously she’d had leisure to chat with all the delivery folks who dropped by but not now. She shut the door to find Aileen staring. “Come now, Cousin. You didn’t speak to your postman at home?”
“Not like that. I think you’re sweet
—”
“Nonsense.”
The lass shrugged. “As you wish, Annie Gallagher. Now tell me, what is the matter with that boarder who rooms across the hall?”
Annie looked to the top of the stairs. “What do you mean?”
“Saw her run out her door and into the bathroom. I think she vomited in there.”
“She did. She is sick.”
Mrs. Hawkins hurried past her and up the stairs.
Aileen stomped her wee foot. “Would someone tell me what’s going on? What’s got the pint sour?”
“None of your business. How about you go . . . polish the silver in the dining room?”
Aileen pouted as she went to the scullery to fetch supplies. Annie would deal with her later.
As she began to ascend the stairs, Mrs. Hawkins marched down wearing her feathered hat. “I have to go out. Some matters are best handled in person. Annie, you and Aileen see to the sweeping up, will you?”
After the woman hurried out, Annie entered the dining room and glared at her cousin. “The broom closet is in the scullery. First salt the rugs; it will make the colors bright again. Sweep them thoroughly and then remove them and sweep the downstairs rooms. I will be in the garden sweeping the back stairs and waiting for the iceman. Kirsten should sleep for a while, but if she needs anything, you get it for her and . . .” She hesitated, realizing Aileen would likely see Kirsten’s face. She should give some kind of explanation. “She’s in a bad way, Aileen. Someone treated her ill. Her face . . . Well, she won’t want to talk about it. Just allow her privacy. Understand?”
Aileen scowled back. “All right. Don’t I know what a drunk’s face looks like.”
“What? I’m warning you, Aileen.”
“I won’t say a word. Off with you. We will be fine.”
Annie glanced down at the letter in her hands. Another letter for Kirsten. What would they tell her brother when he arrived?
14
S
TEPHEN HAD INQUIRED
all along his route, but so far he’d had no luck finding anyone who even came close to being a writer. It was a ridiculously hopeless endeavor. He met Dexter at his counter. “Salami sandwich and coffee, please, Dex.”
“Coming right up. Didn’t discover a bestseller, I take it?”
“Nah.”
“Don’t fret, Stephen. Something will come up.”
Stephen swirled a sugar lump into his black coffee. “Thanks, friend. There’s an automobile show over at the Madison Square Garden next week. I can get off early. Want to go?”
“A what, you say?”
“You know. Horseless carriages. It’s a display of all the new machines soon to be produced in mass. Could never buy one myself, but it might be fun to look. What do you say?”
“Ah, sorry, fella. After I close up the diner, Harriet expects me at home. You understand.”
Stephen said he understood. Annie Gallagher had been pleasant enough to him, but he wasn’t quite ready to invite her on an outing. If she were willing, however, he’d give up the automobile show for paper dolls or hat shopping or whatever she wanted.
Dexter pointed to Stephen’s mailbag. “You have so much mail to deliver today.”
Stephen looked to his bulging sack. “Oh, that. I bought a couple of books at Bourne’s and haven’t taken them out of my bag yet.”
“Wonderful. You get a raise?”
“No. I’ll eat beans for a week to make up for it.” Books were the escape of lonely men, although Stephen wouldn’t admit that out loud. “I need to keep up so I can talk with people. You know.”
“You mean that girl you have your eye on. I am sorry she did not come to that dance you talked about last week.”
Stephen should not have told him he’d admired Annie since he couldn’t be sure anything would come of it. “Don’t worry about me, Dexter.”
“Let me worry about who I should worry about.”
Stephen shrugged, unable to hide his disappointment.
“So she likes books. You like books too. That’s a start.”
“She’s not interested in being anything but friendly, like most folks when they pick up the mail delivery.”
Dexter laughed and picked up a plate of food from the pass-through. “That did not stop me with Harriet, my friend. These things can be worked out. You woo her. She will pay attention.”
“If you say so.”
When Dexter returned from serving a table, he pointed to the sack. “Show me.”
“You want to see what I purchased?”
“Why not?”
He pulled out the copy of
Wonderful Wizard
.
Dexter’s eyes went wide. “You got one. Can I see it?” He opened the cover and smiled when he saw the illustration of the Scarecrow with the list of chapters. He turned the page and sighed as he silently read the dedication. Stephen had read it
also and had responded similarly, but with a bit of wistfulness.
This book is dedicated to my good friend & comrade, My Wife. L.F.B.
“Just as amazing as people are saying,” Dexter stated, turning a few more pages.
“Say, after I’m done with it, I’ll hand it off to you so you can give it to your kids.”
Dexter shook his head. “Let’s split the cost. What do you say? I know how much it set you back, so seventy-five cents apiece?”
“You don’t mind that it’s been read first?”
“Nah. After my kids get ahold of it, no one will know the difference anyway. You should see how ragged that
Father Goose
book is. Seems like a deal for us both.”
“Thanks, Dex.”
After delivering his route, Stephen dropped by the post office to see if he might speak to Minnie again. He could draw out some of the money he’d deposited with Leonard and make a bigger payment to the undertaker and prevent his man from dropping by his apartment again. But she wasn’t there. He should have realized sorters didn’t work all day.
“May I have a word, Mr. Adams?”
He turned to find the postmaster, Mr. Sturgis, standing by a mail bin at the other end of the room. “Uh, good afternoon, Mr. Sturgis. I . . . was just leaving for home.”
“This will only take a moment. In my office, please?”
Stephen followed the man to his small work space, where the postmaster closed the door behind them. There was only one chair, so they both stood.
“Is there some trouble?”
“I am not sure. I’ve noticed you having several conversations with a mail sorter.”
“Uh, well, I do like to talk to folks. Is that a problem?”
“Not usually. I’m a bit concerned about our newest employee, Minnie Draper. She has been talking to quite a few mail carriers lately. I just don’t want her to interfere with our operations.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not happening, sir. Perhaps if I suggest to her that she not be quite so . . . socially engaging. Would that help?”
“Perhaps. I would prefer you not have long conversations.”
“Understood.” Stephen put his hand on the doorknob.
“Mr. Adams?”
“Yes?”
“You will tell me if this employee does anything out of the line of normal duties, won’t you? I would rather find out about it than have the postal inspectors uncover something and escort her out.”
“We would not want that, sir.”
Stephen left the office sweating. The cooler air outside did not refresh him. Both he and Minnie could lose their jobs if the postmaster found out they’d been conducting business on the clock. He’d have to get all his money out and be done with it.
Late that afternoon he stopped at the grocer on the corner of Elm to pick up a few things after work. He examined the potatoes and apples in the bins outside the door, chose two of each, and then entered.
“Stephen, my boy. How’s the world treating you?” The proprietor, Mr. Gorman, greeted him wearing a white apron and holding out a turnip.
“Fine and dandy. What’s this?”
“Just delivered, son. Would make a lovely addition to your Sunday stew.”
“I don’t cook much, Mr. Gorman.”
The man frowned and put the vegetable back on the carefully constructed mound next to the cash register. “I know, I know. Roasting potatoes is your limit. You’ve told me before. What you need is a young lady to
—”
“What I need is coffee and canned milk.” Stephen laid his produce on the counter and then wandered to the back of the store, where Mr. Gorman stocked odds and ends. He was leafing through an outdated literary magazine when someone called his name.
“You see there? You are a reader, Adams.”
“Davis.” Stephen dropped the magazine back to the pile on the floor. “I was just picking up a few things for supper.”
Alan Davis retrieved the magazine and squinted at it. “Planning on reading this during your meal?”
“I . . . uh, I don’t know. I have some books. . . .”
“Ah, fine then. You’ve moved on from Verne.”
“I finished that novel.”
The man rubbed his chin, but before he could say anything else, someone called to him from the front of the store. “Uncle Alan, we are ready now.”
Davis grinned at Stephen. “My niece and her husband. Visiting from Syracuse.”
“How delightful.” It seemed everyone had a big family.
“Good evening, Adams.” He was halfway down the aisle when he turned around. “Don’t spend too much money here, son. Rent’s due at the end of the week.”
Stephen let out a breath as the man joined his family at the cash register. He couldn’t spend too much now that he had exhausted all of his expendable income.
As he was leaving, he encountered Mrs. Jenkins, the woman who lived next door to Hawkins House. After they exchanged pleasantries, she asked him to check in on the women at
Hawkins House. “I’ll be away a few days, leaving the day after tomorrow, and it seems there has been some disturbance over there. They are such nice people. Sergeant McNulty will keep an eye on them, but you can’t fault a lady for her concern. You deliver on the street every day and sometimes morning and afternoon. Tell me that if you see anything amiss, you’ll contact the police, Mr. Adams.”
“Certainly.”
“I’m probably fretting needlessly. It’s my nature.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Jenkins. The women there have friends to look out for them. And I will pay attention to your residence while you are gone as well. Shall I hold your mail until you return?”
“Thank you kindly. I will be home next week, so only halt it through Saturday, dear boy. I won’t be going far, just visiting relatives in New Jersey.”
“My pleasure. Have a wonderful time.”
“Thank you, Mr. Adams. There cannot be too many watchful eyes.”
Whether or not the woman was overly concerned, Stephen couldn’t help but wonder. Owen McNulty had also voiced some apprehension. Just what was going on over there?