Promise Me This (6 page)

“But, Owen, he’s a stranger—and these are our last holy days together!” Annie could not escape the desperation in her voice any more than she could stop the passing of the days.
He acts as though he sees neither.

He bent to kiss her cheek and slapped his cap atop his head, all in one quick motion.

She turned her face away.

“That he is—a stranger—and we took him in.” Owen playfully pinched her cheek, winked, and walked through the door into the morning. “Be ready by nine!” he called over his shoulder. “We’ll come round for you, love!”

Annie slammed the kitchen door behind him and threw her carefully ironed apron to the table.
He’ll be laughing all the way to the town hall!

“Well, I’m not sorry he didn’t come, Owen.” Annie tucked her arm through Owen’s as they strolled along the quay. “It may be selfish and wicked of me, but I’m glad to have you to myself this Easter Sunday.” Annie saw that her confession grieved Owen. She stopped and asked quietly, “Are you really so very vexed with me?”

“Not vexed. Certainly not with you.” Owen dropped her arm, pushed back his cap, and smiled—almost—as he tugged a long ringlet of her hair. “I am worried for the lad. He’s terribly afraid of something. I don’t know what.” Owen kicked a stone with his boot. “When I asked him to join us, he made up some cock-and-bull story about his old priest—a Father Boyd—forbidding him to step foot into a Protestant church. Said he’d called it a ‘den of vipers.’”

“The idea!” The flush in Annie’s cheek rose, nearly as bright as the nosegay she carried.

“He said ‘consorting with the devil church’ was the reason his mam had been excommunicated from the Holy Roman church—that, and for marrying a Scots-Irish Presbyterian.” He shrugged. “I can’t make him out, but I pity the lad.”

Annie sighed. “I’m sorry for him, Owen—truly I am. But what more can you do? You’ve talked to Mr. Bealing. He’s agreed to give him a try in his nurseries.” She smoothed her skirt and looked away. “I do think the boy brings his sufferings on himself. You saw how he stood across the street from the church and stared at us. Even when you called him, he turned away—and on Easter Sunday! Beastly manners!”

“Annie!” Owen said more sharply than was his habit. “You’re talking like Aunt Eleanor again.”

Annie lifted her chin.

“And what appears poor manners might be something more kindly explained.” Owen tipped his hat to a lady in passing. “You saw the anguish on his face. He refused to join us, but there’s something more behind it; I’m sure of it.”

“I suppose. But, Owen, please let’s not quarrel. You promised we would spend the afternoon together.” Her moments with her brother were fleeing—an india-rubber ball racing downhill. She could not spare one in regret.

Owen straightened and pushed his frown away. “I did, indeed. And so we shall.” He offered Annie his arm again. “May I introduce you to the town hall gardens and your brother’s handiwork, my lady?” He winked.

She nodded eagerly, glad for Owen’s jest.

“There’s a bench there. I’ll show you how to run your fingers beneath its seat and feel the carving of our names. No one else will know they’re there, but you will know.”

He smiled so kindly Annie thought her heart might burst.

“And when you touch our names, you’ll remember that I’m here with you in every way I can be. Visit the bench on your birthday—your fifteenth.” He smiled. “I’ll be thinking of you the same day. Let those carved letters be my promise to send for you the moment I’m able.”

Annie nodded. She swallowed the burning in her throat and clung the tighter to Owen’s strong arm, determined not to cry outright. “I hold you to that promise, Brother.”

Michael spent Tuesday afternoon waiting and dreading the setting of the sun, waiting and dreading to meet Owen at the docks. One last job with the only friend he could claim before that friend sailed away. And what a fool he’d made of himself—refusing Owen’s invitation to Easter services with him and his sister, then spying on them from behind a lamppost. Michael clapped his cap against his knee and groaned aloud.
A fool!

He would have been fearful of running into his uncle by the quay, except that he knew the ship’s crew—certainly the stokers—would be drowning in ale as long as their fists could grasp a glass in local pubs that night. The “no drinking at sea” rule for crew members boosted the business of port pubs the night before a sailing. Still, just to be certain, Michael pulled up his jacket collar and tugged his cap down.

Mule-drawn carts, loaded and heaping with pots and plants, trundled down the dock just before dusk, and Owen behind them.

“Tim! You’re here, lad. I want you to meet Mr. Bealing.” Owen bent down to whisper, “Stand straight, Tim. This is your chance for a new beginning.”

The idea shot through Michael in a rush. This was what he’d long told himself he wanted—a new beginning.

Michael, Owen, Frank Bealing Sr., Frank Bealing Jr., and a strong Bill Geapin hauled load after load of potted palms, plants, and cut flowers in every variety aboard the great ship. Michael had never seen so many thousands of flowers, nor could he guess their names. They set all on a great tarpaulin in the foyer, just long enough for some of Mr. Bealing’s party and
Titanic
’s crew members to catch them up and deliver them hither and yon the length of the ship. Michael couldn’t imagine where so many plants and flowers might find homes—and still they carried more aboard.

“Owen Allen,” Mr. Bealing Sr. shouted above the din, “carry this group to the reception room outside the first-class dining saloon.”

Michael trailed behind with another load.

“And you, lad, take that big palm along and lend him a hand.”

“Yes, sir.” Michael stepped smartly toward the dining saloon, hoping Mr. Bealing noticed how quickly he responded to an order.

“Whoa, Tim!” Owen turned around. “Where are you going?”

Mr. Bealing called over his shoulder. “Follow the lad, Owen. He’s headed in the proper direction.”

Owen stepped lively, but Michael outdistanced him. Owen caught up, panting, “Tim—did you not hear me calling? How in the world do you know where you’re going, lad? It’s as though you’re a homing pigeon aboard this ship!”

Michael slowed abruptly. “Lucky guess, I’m thinking.”

“I’m thinking it’s something more.” But there was no time for questions.

The hours slipped by one by one. Fragrant flowers in every color of the rainbow, those grown in season and unseasonable varieties forced in hothouses, were piled into Michael’s arms. Together, he and Owen delivered cut flowers to the cooling room, small plants to tables and corners, to the Parisian café, everywhere they were directed. Before the night ended, they’d been over a fair portion of
Titanic
’s public areas and staterooms. They’d watched the Bealings create displays so large that each one looked an entire garden to Michael.

“A fair floating Eden!” Owen exclaimed when at last they set their feet upon the dock.

“You’ve done well.” Mr. Bealing shook Owen’s hand. “I wish you weren’t off to America, Mr. Allen. I could use you in the nurseries. Still, I wish you Godspeed.”

“Thank you, sir.” Owen doffed his cap. “I’ve appreciated the extra work, sir, and I thank you for the opportunity you’re giving my young friend.” He set his hand on Michael’s shoulder. For the first time Michael didn’t shudder at the weight of Owen’s hand—a clasp and not the clamp he was used to from his uncle Tom. “He’s a good worker, God bless him; I can vouch for that.”

“Yes, well . . .” Mr. Bealing’s gaze fell upon Michael. “We’ll give you a try, lad. You’ve no experience, but I can see you’re a willing worker. Be at the nursery at 7 a.m. sharp tomorrow. We’ll see how things go along.”

“Yes, sir,” Michael said, but he couldn’t muster the enthusiasm such an opportunity warranted.

Mr. Bealing frowned but nodded, then looked back at the ship. “
Titanic
’s dressed for the ball, so I’m off.” He stopped, kneaded the back of his neck, and turned again to Michael. “You’ll be wanting to clean up a bit before we load another ship. Use your first wages wisely.”

“Yes, sir.” Michael looked at his broken shoes, feeling his neck and face flame. He knew what he looked like but for the first time considered that he might stink as a gutter rat as well. When he looked up, Mr. Bealing had moved along, busied himself with the mules and their drivers.

“It’s all right, Tim,” Owen whispered. “All things in time.”

But Michael knew the time was gone. It wasn’t that he cared overmuch for the rebuke he’d been given by Mr. Bealing. Michael had known worse all his life. But the spreading of this new path before him reminded him that in a very few hours Owen would be gone from England forever. Michael had never even told Owen his name—at least not his full and proper name. He’d lied outright about having a granddad, about his priest, about a dozen things. But what mattered, all that mattered, was that Owen had called him his friend. And he’d been a friend—the only friend Michael could remember having.

Owen squeezed Michael’s shoulder, trying to shake him from his reverie. And Michael bolted.

He couldn’t say good-bye to Owen, dared not try to thank him in a voice that would surely break. Michael could not sleep another night on the floor of his friend’s room, could not accept another morsel of food or drink, not a pitying or encouraging word from this man who’d given him in six days more kindness than Michael had known in the six years since his parents’ death.

Without a word or a backward glance, Michael ran. Fiercely pounding the planks of the dock with his broken hobnails, he tore through the gates, then pounded the cobbles of the darkened street. He pushed back tears that threatened and oozed, unwanted, from the corners of his eyes. Those rebel, unfamiliar streams served only to anger him. Why was kindness so hard to bear, so foreign that it could not be endured?

Michael couldn’t think it through, refused to think, but set his face to run until he was spent. Too late he saw the three men, twice his size and more, stumbling from the Grapes Pub swearing, singing, bent over in their raucous laughter. But when the collision came, knocking all four to their knees, Michael smelled the sour and familiar stench of ale-soaked breath and bodies.

The beefy hand that grabbed Michael’s jacket collar, yanking him to the ground, was no stranger, either, and Michael’s heart heaved, broken, to the pit of his stomach. He dared not speak. But the word echoed and reechoed through his brain,
Betrayed! Betrayed! Betrayed!
It was a joke too cruel.

“Fool!” Uncle Tom swung a fist toward Michael’s face, then another that found its mark. As the punches landed, Michael slammed shut the door in his mind, turning the key in the lock, retreating to the familiar dark and secret place inside himself, a place where he could not hear or see or feel or know—a place to wait until the beating stopped, however long that took. Another punch knocked the breath from Michael’s lungs.

And then there was an unexpected tussle of arms and legs. One of the men stood, stumbled across Michael’s feet, and fell face forward into his uncle, knocking the three of them to the ground again. For a moment, a brief and precious moment, Tom Auld lost his grasp on Michael’s jacket. Already tasting the blood from his split lip, Michael jerked away, rolling into the lane.

Before any of the men could rise, Michael scrabbled backward, found his feet, and sprang through the alley, through the next garden, and over a low gate. Two blocks away he could hear his uncle rage—the memory it conjured a garden claw torn down Michael’s spine. He waited until the cursing ran its long and heated course.

Michael sat long minutes hugging the shadows, his back pressed against a cold iron gate, willing his breath to slow, his heartbeat to stop pulsing in his eyes.

He couldn’t say what drew him back to the cobbles outside the Grapes half an hour later. He didn’t want to go, yet couldn’t keep himself away.

The pub stood dark, locked against the night, and the lane, blessedly empty. Only the gaslight of the lamppost shone a pool in the street. Michael slumped against a garden wall and drew a sharp breath. Had his uncle recognized him, or was that a beating he awarded a stranger in his path? Either way, it had been a close shave.