The Streel Page 3

  more than that.”

  I went off to set the table and wondered about what Bonnie Prince

  Charlie might have done.

  That night at dinner, I helped serve. Bigsby had the night off. As it was just family tonight, they ate in the breakfast room— a warmer, more intimate

  space than the formal dining room. A wood fire blazed in the fireplace, and they sat close to each other around the dark oak table.

  Mr. Charlie had much to tell of his time away. Often, I didn’t want to

  leave the room to get the next course when he was in the midst of a good

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  story. I would stand on the other side of the door to hear the end of it.

  “. . . then he slapped down his cards with one hand and picked a gun up in the other. But rather than shoot the man, he popped the light hanging over the table and glass rained down on them all.”

  Aggy had done herself proud with the meal: fresh potato rol s, a lovely

  beet salad, the beef stew, and for dessert, lemon cake. Mr. Charlie had seconds of the stew and, oh, Aggy beamed at that as I came flying back into the kitchen with his request.

  “I suppose no one’s been feeding that poor lad,” she mumbled happily

  as she served up another bowl.

  When I brought the stew back in and set it in front of Mr. Charlie, he

  smiled at me. I simply bobbed my head in answer.

  Dorry was on her best behavior. She sat up straight and ate all her

  food without complaining. She watched her brother’s every move. He

  teased her and called her Dorry Gumdrop. Sometimes, just Gumdrop. She

  looked as if she was afraid of him. All through dinner, she held in her lap the new doll that her brother had brought her. He told her the doll was

  from China. With straight black hair and a large white face, it looked like a Chinese baby and so was named Blossom by Dorry. She stared at her

  brother and kept one hand on her new baby dol , covering it with her napkin so no food would drop on it.

  When I brought out the lemon cake, Mrs. Hunt stopped me for a

  moment and introduced me to Charlie. “This is Brigid Reardon, Charlie.

  Don’t you know her brother out in the Hil s?”

  Mr. Charlie looked at me with new interest. He seemed to be weigh-

  ing me. I nodded my hello. “Seamus’s sister. There’s little likeness,” he commented, then remembered his manners and added, “How do you do?”

  I curtsied. And that was all. He gave me no word of my brother while

  I served the cake.

  After dinner, Mrs. Hunt sent Dorry off to bed in Rose’s care, then

  went into the kitchen to consult with Aggy about Thanksgiving dinner.

  Mr. Charlie and his father went up to the study.

  I was asked to bring up a new bottle of port for the men’s after- dinner drinks. When I walked into the library, they were near to the fire and

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  looked so obviously father and son, even sitting in chairs the same way, arms open, legs apart. The conversation stopped when I entered, so when

  I left I listened at the door, curious.

  I heard Mr. Charlie say, “Father, I’m finally getting ready to make an

  offer on that claim of Seamus Reardon’s. I think their claim is worth even more than they’re asking and I’d hate to lose it.”

  At that moment, I heard footsteps at the bottom of the stairs. I moved

  quickly away from the door and wished Mrs. Hunt a good evening as she

  came up toward me.

  She stopped and smiled at me. “Thank you, Brigid. Now that Charlie’s

  home, we will have a true Thanksgiving tomorrow.”

  I descended the stairs, wondering if Seamus knew what he was getting

  himself into, doing business with Charlie Hunt.

  3

  Thanksgiving Day, 1878

  In late November the sun set near to five. On this fine Thanksgiving

  day, the family would eat soon. I was sent in to light the candles on

  the table. We had only put in two of the ten leaves for the mahogany table.

  The dining room with its dark woodwork and tooled leather walls glowed

  with warmth. Roses tucked into pine boughs adorned the middle of the

  table. Mr. Hunt had twelve dozen roses shipped in for this holiday— a

  wild extravagance for so late in the year. They filled the room with their honey scent.

  Mr. Hunt’s sister’s family had come to St. Paul for the holiday so there were ten sitting down to dinner. The gold- rimmed Limoges china glinted

  in the candlelight. Matching gold- rimmed wine glasses waited to be filled.

  We had taken the fine silver from the vault and polished it until you could see your face.

  After I had lit all thirty candles, I stood back and looked at the room.

  The light from the candles made the gold leaf in the plaster ceiling shine all the brighter. Like a fairy castle it was. My mother would never believe such splendor existed. I would write and try to describe it in my next letter and explain how on the feast of Thanksgiving the Americans ate more food in

  a day than my family had eaten in a week.

  Even old Bigsby looked smart. He wore a white carnation and had

  slicked his thin hair back into a shine. He had looked us all over. “Please, do yourselves proud today. The young master is back and we have company. Everything must be perfect.”

  As I was standing in the dining room watching the rosy light grow as

  all the candles caught and bloomed, I was spoken to.

  “Quite a scene,” Charlie Hunt said at my side.

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  I gave a yelp, which was quite unladylike. “Let a body know when

  you sneak up on them like that!” I said, speaking more familiarly than was proper.

  “I’m sorry.” He took my elbow and turned me toward him. “You

  looked like the little matchgirl, standing and looking in on the dinner.”

  I held up my long match. “But I don’t plan on freezing now that my

  match has gone out.”

  “You’ve read the fairy tale?”

  “I’ve read many books.” I didn’t tell him that most of them were from

  his father’s library.

  “My, my. I have underestimated you.”

  Mrs. Hunt walked into the dining room at that moment and saw us

  together. For a moment, there was an odd look on her face and then she

  smiled as she called to her guests. “Come everyone. Charlie’s so hungry

  he’s ready to sit down without us.”

  After the family finished dinner and was settled in the library, playing cha-rades, it was time for the servants’ Thanksgiving meal in the kitchen.

  Aggy laid out a fine spread for us: ham and turkey, potatoes and fresh

  rol s, beans and carrots, relishes and pickles. And then there were the pies: mince and pumpkin and apple. We ate as well as the family that day. Mr.

  Hunt even sent in several bottles of wine.

  Rose and Anne got the giggles and went on about Mr. Charlie. “If he

  isn’t as handsome as they come,” one of them would whisper. They’d both

  laugh and then the other would say, “Those eyes, you could drown in them I’m sure. And a fine figure he has. Sure and he carries himself wel .” They turned to me and asked, “How do you find him, Brigid?”

  “Oh, he looks healthy enough,” I said.

  This sent them off laughing again. Aggy frowned and Bigsby har-

  rumphed, which did not quiet the girls one bit.

  After our meal, I carried up warming stones to slip in between the

  sheets at the foot of the beds. I was kneeling down, lighting the fire in Mr.

 
Charlie’s room, when he walked in. I had heard his footsteps in the hall

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  so he didn’t surprise me this time. Quite the opposite. He hadn’t seen me down by the fireplace.

  Mr. Charlie flung himself on the bed, then lay with his eyes closed and

  a hand held to his forehead.

  I stood up and gently cleared my throat.

  He sprang up and said, “What the devil are you doing here?”

  “I was only getting a fire going for you.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’m used to roughing it. This house is alto-

  gether too warm for me.”

  “All right, sir.” I turned back to blow out the small fire I had started when I heard his voice again.

  “Oh, leave it. I can suffer a little warmth, I guess.”

  I stood again and tried to gather the courage to ask him about Seamus.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Wel , sir. May I ask you something?”

  “Certainly. What is it?”

  “You know that I am Seamus Reardon’s sister. I would like to have

  word of him.”

  The light from the fire moved across his face. He did not answer im-

  mediately and I watched him weigh his words. This worried me.

  “Is he not fine?” I asked.

  “No, don’t worry. There’s nothing wrong with Seamus. He’s healthy as

  a horse, God knows. When did you see your brother last?”

  “It’s going on a year this fall.”

  “And the rest of your family?”

  “Still back in Ireland.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I’ll be seventeen soon enough, sir.”

  “A babe. How long have you been in America?”

  “I was just after turning fifteen when I came.” I was flattered by all his questions. “I need to get back to my work, sir.”

  “Yes. Take my word for it that Seamus is fine. I’d not say the same for

  those two he hangs around with— Paddy and Billy— they’re troublemak-

  ers, I’m afraid.”

  I nodded.

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  “You’re a pretty girl,” Mr. Charlie said.

  I was pleased to have such praise from him and could feel a flush warm

  my face, but I knew it would not do to let him know. “Oh, it’ll be the wine and the firelight talking, I’m sure.”

  He laughed and said, “Yes, you’re a fine Irish rose. I wonder if those

  thorns would prick if one got too close.”

  4

  The day after Thanksgiving was glorious, the black trees standing

  out in the new white snow. Mrs. Hunt had asked a favor of me,

  something she did from time to time. Dorry’s governess had gone home

  for the holidays, so Mrs. Hunt asked me to take her daughter sledding.

  Watching Dorry was a wonderful reprieve from the housework. I

  know Bigsby wasn’t happy when I told him that Mrs. Hunt had requested

  I chaperone Miss Hunt. Bigsby stared at me, then nodded his brittle head.

  I promised him I would be back at my post by four o’clock. “See that you are,” he said.

  I raced to my room, took off my uniform, and put on my maroon wool

  dress. I fastened up my high boots and put on my good coat with its fur

  trim at the col ar. Gloves and a hat and I was ready.

  Dorry was waiting at the door. She had long woolen pants that her

  mother had purchased especially for sledding and winter sports. Mrs.

  Hunt felt that getting outside was good for her child.

  “Hello, Dorry. Are you all bundled up?”

  “Yes, Miss Brigid. Thank you for taking me.”

  “It’s my pleasure. I haven’t been sledding before in all my life.”

  “Really?”

  We walked out the front door and the cold hit us in the face. I looked

  longingly at Dorry’s warm mittens, hoping my thin gloves would keep my

  fingers warm.

  Dorry gave a little skip and ran down the steps. “We have a good hil .

  It’s at the far end of the lawn. You just have to watch out for the tree at the bottom.”

  I had never seen Dorry so animated before. Her wan cheeks bright-

  ened with spots of red.

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  “We’ll get the sled from the stable,” she told me.

  I followed her and she chattered away at me. “I can’t wait for Christ-

  mas to come. Papa said we would have the biggest tree he could find.

  Won’t it be grand to decorate the tree?”

  “It will indeed.” I held her hand as we came near the stable. I didn’t

  want her to get run down by one of the horses. “Are you glad that your

  brother Charles is back?”

  “Oh, I guess so.”

  “Not enthusiastic?”

  Dorry laughed. “He’s nice enough. But he teases me sometimes. I

  don’t like to be teased.”

  “Tell him to stop.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t be ladylike.”

  “Never let being ladylike stand in the way of getting what you want.”

  The words slid out of my mouth before I could stop them. What did I

  think I was doing, talking to a child like that, the daughter of my mistress?

  I had given her the advice I would have given my sister, but she was certainly not that.

  She tipped her head at me like a wren and then pursed her lips and

  said, “I wish I could.”

  “It was but a thought.”

  The sled was lifted down from the loft by the stable boy. He set it in

  the snow for us and Dorry insisted on pulling it. As we walked toward

  the hil , Dorry continued to talk. “Charlie gets in trouble too. He was in trouble when he left the house. I think it was something to do with a girl.

  I was quite young then so I didn’t pay much attention. But I recall Mama was quite upset and I remember it caused a scene.”

  “A scene?”

  “Yes, a young woman came to the house and had words with him. He

  left the next day.”

  “What happened to the young woman?”

  “I’m really not certain. I couldn’t ask anyone because I wasn’t sup-

  posed to know it even happened. I can hardly wait to be older and be al-

  lowed to talk about such matters.”

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  29

  We stopped at the top of a long hil . Down at the bottom, I saw the

  infamous tree, an oak with a few leaves still clinging to its branches.

  “Should we go down together?” Dorry asked.

  “Why don’t you go first, and I’ll watch and see how to do it.”

  “Good idea.” She set herself on the sled, positioned her feet on each

  side of the front bar, and I gave her a push. The sled started slowly and then picked up speed. She maneuvered neatly around the tree, but a little shriek did escape her mouth at the end. I feared she would tip over, but she stopped without mishap.

  “Well done.” I clapped my hands as she pulled the sled back up the

  hill.

  “Now it’s your turn.”

  I sat on the sled and followed Dorry’s example. With a foot on each end

  of the bar, I held the tow rope in my hands. She pushed and I started down the hil . I was cold, but I forgot that completely. The wind blew through my hair, my eyes watered, the world went rushing by. I tried to miss the tree and ended up overturning next to it. Snow in my coat and up my skirts. I lay in the snow and laughed. For that moment I was a child again.

  Since I had set foot in America, I had not had time for play. I walked

  the
crowded streets of New York until I found a job, and then I worked,

  hauling wood for fires, hefting a heavy iron on shirts and sheets, carting dishes and washing them until my fingers were chapped red. Even on my

  afternoons off, I barely had time to attend to my clothes, do a few errands, and maybe, if I was lucky, read for a while.

  We sledded for another hour. Sometimes we went down together, of-

  ten we traded off turns. My gloves were soaked through with damp and

  my fingers were freezing. My feet felt like two icicles in my boots. As we readied ourselves for the last ride, I saw that Mrs. Hunt and Mr. Charlie had walked up.

  “Hello, Brigid.” I heard an odd note in her voice and I wondered how I

  looked, for Dorry and I had tumbled into the snow a time or two.

  “Let me push you,” Mr. Charlie said and gave us a large shove that sent

  us careening down the hil . Dorry was steering, but she came too close

  to the tree and the end of the cross bar hit it. We both spilled out. This

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  time I didn’t laugh, although Dorry did. Mr. Charlie ran down the hill and helped us up. He walked up the hill with us and pulled the sled. I felt Mrs.

  Hunt watching me.

  “I’ll take the sled back to the stable,” I told them and took the tow rope from Charlie.

  “I’ll escort you. Mama, you have Aggy make a big pot of hot choco-

  late. We’ll be right in.” He veered off with me in the direction of the stable.

  “No need, Mr. Hunt. I’m sure I can manage,” I told him.

  “I’m sure you can. I’m just not ready to go back in the house yet. You

  looked like you were having a wonderful time.” He smiled down at me.

  “It was terribly exciting. I’ve never gone sledding before.”

  “No snow in Ireland?”

  “Oh, we had it from time to time. Wet, heavy stuff it was, to be sure,

  but we had no sleds to play in it.”

  When we got to the stable, Charlie took the sled from me and put it

  back in the loft. Then he glanced down at my gloves. “Is that what you’ve been wearing on your hands? You must be freezing.” Without asking my

  leave, he stripped the gloves from my fingers and began rubbing my hands between his. “This will warm them up. This is what we would do in the

  Black Hil s to prevent frostbite. Also, it helps to stick your hands in your armpits— one of the warmest spots on your body.”