City of Dreams (70 page)

“I can manage.”

“Yes, I expect you can.”

The devil’s own grin when he said it. And even though he was so handsome he took her breath away, she meant to tell him that some things were not as he supposed. She never got the chance. The woman cut her off. “Here’s Tilda. Let her take the wench and clean her up, Morgan. You and I must talk.”

Roisin was grateful that the man still gripped her arm. It was all that kept her upright. Dear God in heaven! Morgan Turner the pirate. She’d been in New York only a month, but she’d heard all about him, and his mother. The veiled woman was the one they called Squaw DaSilva, the vixen who was said to be colder and more cruel than any man, who owned the fanciest of New York’s fancy houses, and who was so opposed to anyone taking her trade away by whoring in the streets that she’d arranged the public floggings as a warning. Holy Virgin, what was she going to do now?

Whatever they said, because otherwise it was the man in the black leather apron and the whip. And as Jesus would be her judge, she couldn’t find the courage to face that again. The Women of Connemara strike her dead if she lied.

Tilda looked the newcomer up and down, then shook her head and sighed, but when she turned to Morgan she was smiling. “Be good to have you home, Mr. Morgan.”

“Thank you, Tilda. It’s good to be home.”

The black woman looked again at the girl and sighed. Nothing new there. Ever since he was a little boy Morgan had been bringing home strays. Dog, cat, or urchin, it was always up to Tilda to make the newcomer presentable. “Come with me,” she said and set off around the side of the house. Roisin hesitated only a moment, then trotted after her.

Morgan watched the girl go, noting the narrow waist and the curve of the hips, and imagining the shape of the ass that was hidden by the torn and filthy homespun skirt and the equally filthy petticoats. He hoped it was a generous ass. He liked a woman to have curved and soft buttocks, ready to be pinched or kissed or spanked. Tight, flat bottoms were for boys. Thing was, until you got their clothes off, it was impossible to tell. Fun to find out, though.

“Later,” his mother said firmly, tugging at his good arm. “First we must talk.”

The copper bath was pulled up close to the fire and a young scullery maid emptied buckets of steaming water into it under Tilda’s watchful eye. “That be plenty,” Tilda said after the fourth addition of water. “There not be that much to this one once we get the rags off her. All right, missy, take off them tatters what pretend they be clothes.”

Roisin hated the watching eyes of the black woman and the scullery maid, but she hated the filth more. For all the nine weeks of the crossing and the four weeks she’d spent in New York after her indenture was sold, there had been nothing but a cold splash. The rising steam of the bath reminded her of her mother’s kitchen. It was irresistible.

Quickly she peeled off the grease-spattered homespun skirt, the threadbare blouse, and the tattered chemise and petticoats, all of them stiff with dirt, then stepped into the copper tub. If she closed her eyes she could pretend she was alone and that no one was staring at her breasts and her belly and her knees, taking her measure as if she were a mare on market day.

“Here, missy, you be using this.” The nubbin of soap Tilda gave her was ash and lye beaten into a strong brown paste and hardened in a base of tallow. Roisin knew how to make such soap. Also soap as mild and soothing as thick cream warm from the cow, sweet with the scent of grass and flowers. The knowledge was part of her legacy, handed down from one generation of Connemara Women to the next.

She’d have used the brown stuff willingly enough, but a much older woman came in just then, so heavy she waddled, with at least three quivering chins, and stray strands of iron-gray hair escaping from her mobcap. “Here.” She handed Roisin a chip of something smooth and fragrant with lavender. “You best be washing with this. Sure and it’s a sweet-smelling bedmate Master Morgan deserves his first night home.”

Roisin’s stomach churned. She was being prepared like a haunch of fresh beef turning before the fire, basted and salted until it was juicy and tender and ready to be devoured.

“I’m Mistress O’Toole,” the fat one said. “That’s Tilda. The young one’s called Mashee, but sure and she doesn’t talk enough to give you any call to use her name. Not the wits for speech. Now, missy, bend forward and I’ll tip this pitcher of water over your head. Good, that’s fine. How old are you? And what’s your name? What will we be after calling you while you’re under this roof?”

“I’m fifteen. And my name is Roisin Campbell.”

“Roisin, is it? Sure and that’s an Irish name if ever I heard one. How did yourself come to be Roisin when Campbell is as Scottish as can be?”

“My mother was Irish.” Roisin managed to tilt her head so she could see the older woman. “From Connemara,” she added, waiting to see if there was a reaction.

Flossie dug her fingers into the girl’s scalp, scrubbing away the filth of weeks. “Well, Connemara’s Irish enough. But didn’t your mother teach you not to go selling in the street what will earn you a dozen times as much in any decent bordello? Here, tip yourself this way so I can get the other side.”

Roisin did as she was told. The scrubbing continued. The scolding as well. “Look at you, child! Made as well as any girl I’ve laid me eyes on, you are. And this red hair will be a fine sight once we dry it by the fire. Sure and where were your Irish wits to be throwing such gifts in the gutter? Pure waste it was to spread your legs for tuppence from young bounders when any old fool with a guinea to spare would have gladly given it for no more than a cock kiss.”

“I wasn’t whoring. I—”

Flossie and Tilda both guffawed. Even Mashee tittered. “Saints in heaven, but all you street doxies are the same when you’re caught. ’No, milord, it wasn’t me was bouncing me arse off the brick wall while some drunken sailor had his willie shoved in so deep it almost reached me throat. Oh no, not me, milord magistrate. Someone as looked like me, I expect. Me twin sister, maybe it was. Or me familiar.’”

Flossie wiped the tears of laughter with a corner of her apron and returned to the business of getting Roisin in a fit state to spread her legs for Morgan Turner. “Mashee, stop your gawping and be getting me another bucket of water. I’ll not be after sending Master Morgan a doxie for a night’s fuck with soap still in her hair.”

Eleven! Twelve! Thirteen! She’s swooned, whipper! Wake her up
so’s
she feels the next one!
Roisin clenched her teeth and said nothing.

Squaw DaSilva saw to her son’s shoulder wound herself. It was superficial, already scabbing over. A shake of some stanching powder and a bit of lint was all that was required. “We’ve no need to trouble Uncle Luke. It doesn’t need to be stitched.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing him nonetheless. How is he?”

“Uncle Luke is fine, but busy. Your grandfather died this morning,” she said as she patted the bandage into place.

Morgan was shocked by the news. First because he couldn’t imagine a world without Christopher Turner, second because she’d waited so long to tell him. “Why didn’t you say? You sent word to meet you at the pit, but nothing about—How could you have gone there tonight, knowing—”

“Would not going have brought my father back from the dead, Morgan?”

“No, of course not.”

“This shirt’s finished,” she said, throwing it on the fire. “There’s a clean one in that cupboard. Your grandfather will be buried tomorrow afternoon.”

“The arrangements—?”

“Everything that needs to be done will be done. Don’t trouble yourself. I told you, Uncle Luke is seeing to it.”

They were in her private parlor, but she had not removed her hat or thrown back her veil. Morgan didn’t expect her to. He had seen his mother’s unveiled face only once that he could remember. It was the day they’d moved to this grand house on the Broad Way in the choicest bit of the court part of town, in sight of the Governor’s Mansion and across from the Bowling Green where ladies and gentlemen of New York took their afternoon strolls.

Morgan was seven. In all the fuss and trouble of moving day he’d been ignored. He’d run through the enormous new house opening every closed door and looking into each room; secretly he’d been hoping he might find his father. He knew he’d been brought here earlier; Morgan had watched from the window of the house on Hudson’s River where they’d all lived until that morning. He’d seen a cloaked figure, face shadowed by a broad-brimmed hat, helped into a small, two-wheeled chaise and driven away.

“He won’t be after being any different in the new place, grand as it is, Morgan lad,” Flossie whispered coming up from behind and putting her arms around him. “Don’t be getting your hopes up.”

It was true. Each closed door Morgan opened in the enormous new house had led to a room full of fancy things he’d never before seen, but they were all equally empty of people. Except for one. When he opened the door to a room on the second floor—just a crack, the way he had all the others—there was Mama. With no hat and no veil. She was holding up her black skirts and dancing across the polished parquet floor, dipping and swaying and curtsying as if she were at a ball.

He kept his face pressed to the crack in the door, watching, thinking she didn’t see him, but after a few moments she said, “Come in, Morgan. And close the door behind you.” And when he did she knelt in front of him and let him stare at her as much as he liked.

“You’re pretty,” he whispered at last. “I thought you must be ugly. I heard one of the kitchen maids say you were poxed, and that’s why you wore the veil.”

“No, my darling boy.” She took both his hands in hers and pressed them to her cheeks. He’d felt her smooth and silken skin, and he was proud and happy because beneath her veil his mama was a beautiful lady.

“Morgan, listen to me. We are not like everyone else. I am not like them and your father is not like them. Therefore you are not like them.”

“Is that why they hate us?”

“Who told you they hated us?”

“The ladies in the other house. They all say—”

“The ladies are fools. If they were not they wouldn’t be whores.” She’d made no apology for using the bad word, even though Flossie had washed his mouth with soap the one and only time he’d said it.

“The real reason people hate us is because we are better than they. And smarter. And richer. They call me Squaw DaSilva to shame me. No, don’t look like that. I know all about the name. Don’t hang your head, Morgan. I have made it a title to reckon with. That’s why we are in this lovely house in the most fashionable section of the city. Because I had it built and furnished and made ready for us long before any of them had the least idea who was the true owner, and now there’s nothing they can do. We are here, and we’ll stay as long as we like. We will always beat them, Morgan. You and I. Always. And we will have vengeance, my darling boy. I swear to you that we will.”

“What’s vengeance, Mama?”

“It is getting what is rightfully yours. Restoring your pride and your honor. And causing the greatest possible suffering to the one who tried to steal those things from you.”

“Did someone try to steal our honor?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Who, Mama? Who did—”

“Caleb Devrey,” she said, staring deep into his eyes. She took his hands from her cheeks, but she kept them clasped in hers. “Look at me, Morgan. Now say ’Caleb Devrey.’”

“Caleb Devrey,” he said. And added, “The Devreys are our cousins, aren’t they? Flossie said so.”

“That’s as may be, Morgan. It is not important. I am telling you what’s important. Now, say, ’Caleb Devrey will pay. I swear by Almighty God.’”

“Caleb Devrey will pay. I swear by Almighty God.”

It was the first of many times she’d made him take that oath, but the only time she kissed him. Then she made him bring her the hat and the veil that lay on the large table in front of the marble fireplace in this grand room, which was to be her private parlor, and she hid her face from him and he never saw it plainly again.

A few weeks later Morgan announced that he wished to be called Morgan Turner, not Morgan DaSilva. His mother thought about it for a moment, then nodded gravely and said it was his right to choose his own name.