The Streel Page 4

  I laughed and then suddenly he leaned into me and tipped my head

  back with one hand as if he were going to look at something in my face.

  He moved closer and kissed me. I felt it through my whole body, a jolt of warmth, and then I pulled away, catching my breath.

  “Sir, you take advantage of me.” The urge to slap him rose up in me,

  but I thought better of it. I turned and walked toward the house.

  “Brigid, don’t be so difficult.” He caught up with me.

  I stopped and turned to him. We were standing outside in plain view

  of the house and so I didn’t think he would try anything again. “I am your servant. I work for your parents. Now I must be on my guard around you.

  You make me consider my circumstances here.”

  “I only did it because I thought you’d like it.” He smiled at me and I

  saw a warmth in his face that had never been in the eyes of the men at the boardinghouse. “Besides, you have such a damnably kissable mouth.”

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  31

  The urge to tease him rose in me, but I could not do it. Such teasing

  might cost me my job.

  I dipped my head and gently tried to explain my position. “My life is

  very different from yours. I have had to work hard to get to where I am, and I will not ruin my chances to get ahead by il - conceived flirting. As your mother might be watching us through the window, I suggest we keep

  walking and part company at the door.”

  5

  December 15, 1878

  D alliances between housemaids and their masters were gossiped

  about among the servants. Rose told me the tale of a young girl

  at another Summit mansion who thought for sure the master’s son would

  marry her and so had let him have his way. When the evidence of their

  trysting became too large for anyone to ignore, she was sent packing, ruined for sure. Who would hire a girl with an illegitimate child?

  I avoided Mr. Charlie when I could. I took care to be with either Anna

  or Rose when I was around him. I never entered his room if I didn’t know that he was out of the house. I took no chances.

  Since my assault on the ship crossing over, I had grown wary of men.

  My caution had stood me in good stead when I worked at the boarding-

  house. I always tried to stay within sight of another servant, avoiding any chances of being caught alone by the boarders or, in my previous private home, the man of the house.

  One night when all was quiet in the house, after I had finished up the

  kitchen with Aggy, we sat down to chat. She made some tea and we talked

  of many things— but much of Ireland. Aggy had come from Donegal. She

  talked of the heather and the gorse and the smell in the air this time of year with the peat fires going in every house. She leaned on her hand and closed her eyes. “Sometimes, you know, I miss that smell so it like to break my heart.”

  I could hardly bring myself to speak of Galway and the bright water

  in the bay but told her of my family. “My mother is the smartest woman I ever knew. She could tell what time it was by looking at the sky. She mixed up herbs for all the women around to help them through whatever ailed

  them. She always knew what was on my mind.” I wondered if anyone

  would ever be able to read me like that again.

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  33

  “Might they come here?” Aggy asked.

  “My brother and I talked of it. We hope to bring some of them over if

  we can. But it’s hard to save the money.”

  We both fell silent for a moment, tears sparkling in our eyes.

  “Wel , that’s another life, isn’t it?” Aggy wiped her eyes with her apron.

  “But it’s done my soul good to have Charlie around.”

  “You know, Dorry mentioned some scene with a woman when Mr.

  Charlie left last year.”

  “Oh, Lord bless me, did that poor little sprite hear the goings- on?

  What a nasty scene we did have, right in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs. Bigsby would let the woman in no farther. The silly goose claimed that Mr. Charlie had seduced her and she flashed a cheap little ring as evidence that they were to marry.”

  “Why do you not believe her?”

  “Our Mr. Charlie would do no such thing. Now, I’m not saying that

  he doesn’t have a wild eye for the women. He does. But he’s no fool. He

  takes care of himself, does Charlie. He would never have given her such a gaudy bauble. Not his style at all. And for one more thing, neither was she.

  She was a tarty blonde. He has always preferred dark- haired women. You

  have more the kind of looks he has a liking for. But he’s a gentleman, our Mr. Charlie. Would never push himself on anyone. I’ve known him since

  he was in knickers.”

  I wondered what the truth was about our Mr. Charlie. While I couldn’t

  help but feel somewhat pleased with his attention, I wondered if I had

  fooled myself by thinking I had seen warmth and kindness in his eyes.

  That night the Hunts had gone out to attend the Christmas concert at St.

  Paul’s cathedral. They weren’t expected back for a while.

  I decided to let myself into the library and choose a new book to read.

  I often slipped one into my apron and read at night. I was always very careful and brought them back soon, so they were never missed.

  The library was quite dark, but I had brought a candle with me. I

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  enjoyed looking over the rows and rows of books. Such an enormous

  wealth to own them all. One afternoon I had gone into a bookstore in St.

  Paul and been astonished at all the volumes. An older woman with specta-

  cles perched on her nose asked me if I was looking for anything special. I told her I was just browsing, but she gave me a skeptical look. I could only imagine the luxury of buying a book whenever one felt like it.

  The library was where the family spent much of their time. Mrs. Hunt

  and Dorry would work a jigsaw puzzle while Mr. Hunt read the latest

  newspapers. A large couch filled the room, one end near the fireplace. I went to a shelf of books next to the fireplace and bent over.

  When the clock struck ten, the chimes startled me. I pulled Pride and Prejudice from the shelf. I had read one other of Miss Austen’s novels and had found it both enjoyable and refined. I opened the book to the beginning page and read the first line: “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a

  wife.” My thoughts ran to Charlie Hunt for a moment. He must find him-

  self in such a position.

  I clasped the book and turned to leave the room. Then I saw I was

  being watched. Mr. Charlie sat up on the couch.

  “Hello, Brigid,” he said quietly.

  I was caught. He knew I shouldn’t be there. “Mr. Charlie!” I didn’t try

  to hide the book in my hand.

  “What have you there?”

  “Just a book. I was going to borrow it for the night. No one would miss

  it. I take such good care of them.”

  “I’m sure you do. Come here and let me see what you have chosen to

  read.”

  I walked toward him.

  “I have heard that this Miss Austen writes a splendid romance. My

  mother has spoken well of her work,” he said.

  I said nothing.

  “For a kiss, I will forget this ever happened.”

  I bowed my head, shaken that he would again take advantage of me.

  I must have been mistaken about him. I had brought this on myself. I

  s
hould never have gone into the library alone, breaking my own rules for

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  safeguarding myself. I dropped the book on the couch and left the room

  with nary a word to him or even a look.

  The next morning, as I fretted over Mr. Charlie’s behavior, a letter arrived for me. I was glad when Bigsby handed me my mail, but when I saw the

  handwriting I feared something was wrong. The address was written in my

  father’s hand. He could barely write. I was amazed the letter even arrived with the poor address he had scrawled on the envelope. I tucked it into my apron and at the first opportunity slipped away from my work and went to my room to read it:

  Dear Brigid. Sad news. Your mother has died. She turned very sick.

  Then she had no breath. The prist came. The wake was held. She is

  burid near the church. Plese pray for her. Tell your brother. Send monie if you can.

  Your father and the girls.

  I slipped off the edge of the bed and curled up on the floor. She was in the ground already. My dear mother. I did not want to move. If only this letter wouldn’t have come. If only I would have stayed in Ireland. If only my mother was still there. Tears spilled down my face. I cried as if something was being pulled out of me, wrenching hard.

  I would never see her again. She was not in this world. Even though

  she had been so far from me, I had taken comfort in her walking on the

  same earth. I thought of her in heaven, but that gave me little pleasure.

  God did not need her the way I did.

  I’m not sure how long I lay there. But finally I stirred. What was I to do with myself? Oh, what I wouldn’t give to have my mother’s arms around

  me again. All I wanted was someone to tell me what to do. I slipped off the bed and prayed to St. Brigid, prayed for words that would help me know

  my way:

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  Oh Brigid, maiden bright and fair,

  help me come before God in his glory,

  sit with me, stay with me, night or day,

  may I be with you forever and ever.

  After asking for her help, a calm entered me. Something turned inside

  me. I stood, knowing clearly what I must do. I went to my drawers and

  emptied the contents into my valise. I needed to be with my brother, my

  only family in this foreign country.

  I found Mr. Hunt in the library, sitting at his desk, reading a paper and smoking a cigar. His dark eyes were hooded as he bent over his reading.

  He had the look of a hawk. The room plumed with smoke.

  “Mr. Hunt,” I said from the doorway.

  He looked up and waved me forward. “What can I do for you, Brigid?”

  I had not spoken to Mr. Hunt very often, but he had always struck me

  as a fair and honorable man. Even though it would have been more usual

  to talk to the woman of the house, I felt I needed to discuss with him the terms of my leaving.

  “Sir, I need to quit your employ. My mother has died and I must tell

  my brother.”

  “Can’t you just send him a telegram?”

  “I’d rather he heard it from me. I had been hoping to join him soon in

  Deadwood, so this will only speed up my departure.”

  He leaned back in his chair and studied me. “We’ll be sorry to lose

  you, Brigid. Good help is hard to find these days. I know Mrs. Hunt has

  come to depend on you, as has Bigsby. Have you let her know?”

  “Thank you, sir, for your kind words. I have yet to inform Mrs. Hunt.”

  He waited and then he asked, “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes, Mr. Hunt. I was wondering if you could help me get a ticket on

  the train.”

  He looked surprised by my request. “This is a little unusual, Brigid.

  Usually when a servant leaves they don’t ask for favors.”

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  37

  I could feel my face flushing, but I needed to take this chance. “I know, sir. But one of the reasons I feel I must leave your home is that your son has been paying improper attention to me.” I hesitated and studied his face carefully before I spoke again. “I assume you know what I mean.”

  I saw in his eyes he did. He nodded. He lowered his head and said his

  son’s name softly, “Charlie.”

  After folding up the paper, he tapped it on the desk with the sound of

  decision making. “I think a ticket can be arranged. You know the train will only take you so far and then you will need to transfer to a stagecoach. This will be a long and onerous trip. I speak from experience.” He seemed lost in thought for a moment, remembering his last visit to Deadwood. “When

  would you like to leave?”

  “As soon as possible.” I feared if I waited I would change my mind.

  He avoided looking at me. “That might be for the best.”

  I nodded.

  He blew out a trail of smoke. “Yes, I’ll see if there’s anything leaving tomorrow.”

  I thanked him and turned to go.

  “Brigid.” He called me back.

  “Yes, Mr. Hunt.”

  He regarded me with a sharp eye. “Deadwood is no place for a woman.

  Mind you take care of yourself.”

  Deadwood

  God bless my steps

  as they take me where I go.

  Bless, also, the earth

  beneath my feet.

  — Irish prayer

  6

  Deadwood, Dakota Territory

  December 24, 1878

  The Black Hils rose before the stagecoach like dark clouds on the

  horizon. They were called hills, but surely they would have been mountains in Ireland. The horses worked hard to pull us up the steep

  roads. Sometimes the men passengers had to get out and push the stage-

  coach when the going got too rough and the road too muddy. I would get

  out and walk alongside of them. After the flat plains we had driven across, I felt as though we were climbing ever higher into a forested kingdom.

  The coach took us through canyons so deep I had to tilt my head

  straight up to see the sky. At the top of one hill near Spring Canyon, the man next to me said we were more than 6,500 feet high. I could see the

  hil s stretched out like a dark ocean of pine trees.

  My body ached from the jostling of the vehicle. Although the Con-

  cord coaches claimed to be sumptuous because of their glass windows

  and leather curtains, they were not a very comfortable way to travel. The body of the coach swung high on leather straps tied into the frame, which was held high by the wheels. The rocking of the stagecoach had made me

  sicker than any waves had done at sea.

  The driver told me at one of our last stops, in Whitewood, that the trip had gone as good as any he had driven. “Sometimes it can take up to five or six days to make our way, what with the Indians or bad weather or robbers.

  If you avoid all that, then something goes wrong with the rig. No, I think you’ve brought us all luck, Miss Brigid.”

  Well past nightfall, the snow that had been hovering over our heads

  the whole journey to Deadwood started to fall as we pulled into town. We 41

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  descended into the bowl of the town, the tall trees standing sentinel on the hil s. A few lights marked windows, but most of the houses and tents were dark, and the streets at this time of night were mainly deserted.

  Twelve of us had made the three- day journey from Cheyenne in the

  Concord coach. I was the only woman. Early on the driver had asked his

  shotgun man, Sam, to watch over me. Sam handed me down from the

  stagecoach. He was returning with the driver. He tippe
d his hat at me and I blessed him. I felt immense relief to have made it to Deadwood.

  Talking with my fellow passengers on our long journey, I had learned

  that Deadwood had only been founded two years prior, when the gold

  rush started. The town had grown to a population of more than five thou-

  sand in that time.

  I had been set down on a small section of boardwalk in the heart of

  town. The main street was lined with many fine shops: Herrmann and Tre-

  ber Wholesale liquor dealers, Wyoming Store, Stebbins Post & Co. Walking to the closest saloon— the only place open— I asked for the whereabouts

  of Seamus Reardon and company.

  The heavily bearded saloonkeeper said, “What does a pretty girl want

  with them three Micks?”

  “One is my brother, sir.”

  He looked chastened and told me I was quite close. “Two streets over

  and you’ll see it.”

  The snow drifted over the streets, landing gently and starting to accu-

  mulate. There was little traffic on the mud- rutted roads; unpainted clap-board houses lined the streets. Smoke plumed out of the chimneys and

  mingled with the snow.

  After walking two blocks, I saw the house he meant and noted with

  relief that it was all lit up. I hoped that meant people were still awake, and that there would be food. I was starving. All I had had on my journey was bread and bacon grease at the stagecoach way stations.

  The thought of seeing Seamus filled my eyes with tears. I remembered

  when we were children. One Christmas he carved me a wren and built a

  little twig nest for it to sit in. I had given it to the younger children when I left home.

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  43

  I could hear music as I approached the door. Someone was singing

  and many voices were talking. I knocked on the door.

  A slightly weathered version of Billy answered. “Wel , will you

  look at what the storm blew in. The prettiest lass I’ve seen since I left Chicago.”

  He threw an arm around me, and I wasn’t sure he recognized me. I

  pulled back and looked around for my brother. My eyes lighted on him and the woman in his lap. Seamus’s golden, curly hair told me who he was even if he had grown a beard since last I saw him. He was busy planting kisses on the woman’s throat.