Bless the Bride (6 page)

Seamus had caught up to us, his round Irish face streaming with sweat. “Molly, it’s grand to see you again. We went to your old house, but there was nobody there except for a painter and he said a young couple was to be moving in. So we thought you’d gone away.”

“The young couple is Daniel and myself.” I stepped aside as there was a shout and a cart full of bolts of cloth came rumbling down the street. “I’m getting married in less than two weeks.”

He tipped his cap to me. “Lord love you. God’s blessings on you and your husband.”

I smiled. “I sent you an invitation to the wedding. Now I hope you’ll be able to make it.”

“If we’re still here in two weeks.” Seamus wrinkled his forehead. “Not exactly sure how things will be going.”

“Where do you think you might be?”

He frowned again. “I heard they were looking for men willing to take a ship down to Central America,” he said. “There’s plans to build a canal through a place called Panama, clear through the jungles. When it’s done they say that ships will be able to sail from the Atlantic to the Pacific without going ’round the Horn. So I signed on and I’m taking young Shamey with me. We want to be on the spot when the contract gets signed and get first pick of the jobs. They say the pay’s good and I reckon it will set us up for life.”

I looked from one face to the next, my unease growing. “You’re taking Shamey with you?”

“I am. He’s a good little worker and almost a man.”

“I’ll be twelve soon,” Shamey said, “and I can lift really heavy things, can’t I, Pa?”

There was such pride in his voice that I couldn’t yell out what I wanted to:
Don’t let him go!

I turned to look at little Bridie. She had also grown, but she still had that frail and delicate air about her, holding on to my skirt as she looked up at me with those sweet blue eyes. “You’re never thinking of taking Bridie down to some heathen jungle?” I demanded, stroking that baby-fine hair.

“No, it would be no place for a young girl,” Seamus said. “That’s why we came to look for you. I was hoping that you’d find her a position in service. Mother’s helper or maid of all work. She’s a willing little worker and she learns quickly.”

I could feel my anger rising. Bridie was a sweet young child. She deserved a childhood, not starting out as a servant before she’d had a chance to play and learn. I wanted to volunteer to take her in myself, but then I remembered that I was about to get married. I could hardly start married life with someone else’s child in our household, could I? And I remembered that back home in Ireland many young girls were put into service when they were not much older than Bridie. I myself had been left with three young brothers to raise after my mother had died. But it wasn’t a fate I would wish on anyone else, especially not on a delicate child like this.

“Don’t make any plans for her without consulting me,” I said, trying to measure my words. “I’ll ask my friends and see what can be done for her. I’m staying across the street at number Ten with two ladies while my own house is being decorated to be ready for my marriage or I’d ask you all to stay with me. It must be horribly cramped at Nuala’s place.”

“Aye, it’s not the most comfortable,” Seamus said. “But ’tis for only a short while. Nuala’s willing to take the girl in herself, having only produced sons, but I thought you’d know how to give her a better future than that. I don’t wish a life in the fish market for my daughter and I know my dear departed Kathleen wouldn’t want it either.”

I took a deep breath. “I will do my best, Seamus, I promise. And I won’t let Bridie wind up with Nuala, that’s for sure.” I smiled down at her. “We’ll find something for you, my sweet. We’ll stay in touch, and you’ll come to my wedding, won’t you?”

We parted, my head buzzing with this latest complication. Why was life never simple? I had thought how nice it would be to have Bridie in my wedding party and lo and behold Bridie appears, but now it was up to me to find a way to prevent her from living in that hovel and working in a fish market. Always too many things to worry about.

I made it back to the Bowery and squeezed into a car on the El back to Astor Place. As my straw hat was knocked to one side of my head I reminded myself that at this very moment I could be sitting on Mrs. Sullivan’s cool porch, sipping iced tea, and doing nothing more strenuous than stitching my petticoat. Daniel would probably be angry with me that I had returned to the city. I had taken on another case when I had virtually promised him that I wouldn’t and I was achieving nothing by it. In fact the thought actually crossed my mind that it might be more useful to have acquired some sewing skills—which shows you how despondent I felt.

I quickened my pace as I walked the shady length of Eighth Street. I turned into Patchin Place. Sid and Gus would have a pitcher of lemonade or some kind of exotic drink waiting, and I could sink into one of those chairs in their back garden. Ah, bliss.

I knocked on the front door. Nobody came. This was something I hadn’t expected. They had not mentioned that they might be going out this evening. And I’d left my key to my own house on the dresser in their spare room. I felt tears of frustration welling up as I stood in the deep shade of the alleyway. Now what did I do? They were usually so considerate. Surely they’d have left me a note. But perhaps they assumed that I carried my house key with me and that note they’d written lay on the hall table across the street. With little hope I rapped on their door a second time and waited. I’d just have to go to a coffeehouse and hope that they returned before too long.

I had just turned away when I heard my name being called. I spun around. Gus was standing there.

“Molly, I’m so sorry. We’re all out in the garden and we were debating so heatedly that we didn’t hear the door. You poor thing, you look worn out. Come in, do. Sid has made sangria. It’s divine. And everyone’s dying to meet you.”

“Everyone?” I asked. My mind went to the party they were giving for me at the weekend. They couldn’t have put it forward, could they?

“Our suffragist group. I mentioned to you that we were meeting tonight. Such wonderful women. So brave. You’ll adore them.” With that she dragged me inside and helped me off with my hat.

“Come along. Sid’s sangria will revive you in no time at all.” And she propelled me down the hallway, through the kitchen, and out to the small square of back garden. I had no idea what sangria was and I was too tired to speak or resist.

“Here she is at last,” Gus called. “And in serious need of revival.”

I saw faces looking up from deck chairs as we approached. A group of around eight women were sitting in the shade of the sycamore tree.

“Molly, what have you been doing to yourself? You look as if you’ve just walked across the Sahara Desert.” Sid jumped up and started pouring a red liquid into a glass, thrusting it into my hand. “Get this down you. You’ll feel better.”

I was placed into a wicker chair and sipped the drink I had been given. It was delicious—a sort of red wine punch with fruit in it, and it was icy cold.

“Let me make the introductions.” Sid perched herself on the arm of my chair. She was dressed in white linen trousers and an open-necked white shirt. The look was dramatic with her black bobbed hair. “I don’t believe you’ve met any of our suffragist sisters.”

“I did meet some of them when we marched on Easter Sunday,” I said, “but I don’t think any of these ladies were among them.”

“Easter Sunday?” one of the women asked.

“We were among a group of Vassar girls who joined the Easter Parade. We had banners:
VASSAR WANTS VOTES FOR WOMEN
. Not a very successful outing, I’m afraid,” Sid said drily. This was an understatement, as we’d been arrested and thrown in jail for the night.

“And not exactly wise,” an older woman said. She had a round, distinguished face and her gray hair was swept back into a severe bun. “The sort of people who attend parades want to be entertained, not informed. And they don’t want the firm foundation of their little universe shaken when they least expect it. I expect they pelted you.”

“They did. And we were arrested.”

“The arrest was not a bad thing,” the woman said, a smile spreading over her severe face. “It gets us a mention in the newspapers. It may even evoke the sympathy of other women—at least it may start them thinking. But you’re neglecting your duty, Elena. How about some introductions?”

“Elena?” I looked around the group and then of course I remembered that it was Sid’s real name. I had never heard anyone refer to her that way before.

“Of course,” Sid said. “Ladies, this is our dear friend and neighbor Molly Murphy. And Molly, let me begin with the most distinguished of our company: may I present Carrie Chapman Catt? She is the current head of the North American Woman Suffrage Association and she has deigned to grace our little gathering tonight.”

“Nonsense, you make me sound like visiting royalty,” Carrie Chapman Catt said in her rich, deep voice. “We’re all foot soldiers in this together, you know. These are my fellow infantrywomen: Sarah Lindley, Annabel Chapman, Hortense Maitland, Mildred Roberts, and Felicia Hamm. I’m delighted to meet you, Molly. I hope you’re a fellow champion of the cause.”

“She’s about to join the ranks of the enemy,” one of the younger women quipped.

“Meaning what?” Carrie asked sharply.

“She’s getting married in a couple of weeks.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean she’ll cease fighting for the cause,” Carrie Chapman Catt said fiercely. “I myself have been married twice and have never been under my husband’s thumb.”

“And I don’t intend to be under my husband’s thumb either,” I agreed. “I’ll most definitely still be a supporter of votes for women.”

“Well said, Molly.” The speaker was a beautiful young woman with porcelain white skin and hair that was deepest copper. “I’ve been enduring the same teasing from our more militant sisters. I’m Sarah and I’m also getting married in a few weeks. So we shall be twins—the two redheads who will defy the odds and remain true to the cause after they marry.”

“I’ll wager you won’t have an easy time of it, Sarah,” another of the women said. “Your intended seems horribly conventional and old-fashioned to me.”

Sarah flushed. “Well, he has been raised in that kind of society, so I admit that my task won’t be easy, especially if we go back to England.”

“Your future husband is English?” I asked.

“The honorable Monty Warrington-Chase,” Gus said with a grin. “Son of an English peer. Our sister Sarah will be a lady one day.”

“She may be able to influence her husband in the House of Lords,” Carrie said. “The women of England are having a tougher time than we are, but in spite of it are acting with greater bravery and audacity—throwing themselves in front of carriages, chaining themselves to railings. Foolhardy, but one must admire their courage.”

Sid touched my arm. “So Molly, we’re dying to hear about this assignment. What could the mysterious rich gentleman have wanted that has wearied you to the point of exhaustion?” Her eyes twinkled as she said this.

I looked around the group. It was somewhat unnerving to have those earnest faces staring at me. “Oh, but I don’t think I should interrupt your meeting,” I said. “I should go up and change out of these crumpled rags and leave you to your discussion.”

“As to that, I believe we’ve agreed upon everything that we can tonight,” Carrie said. “Elena will continue to write her series of articles on injustices to women, and we hope that some may be published in the national press.”

“And Annabel and I will try to persuade Mr. Samuel Clemens to join us at the rally next month,” the sharp-faced girl said—I believe she was Mildred. “His endorsement could really give our cause the boost it needs. He has a wonderful way with words.”

“Well, he would have, wouldn’t he, being a famous author,” another of the young women said drily.

“Samuel Clemens?” The name was somehow familiar to me.

“Molly, you remember. Samuel Clemens is the author Mark Twain. He came to one of our parties once.”

“So he did.” A picture came into my head of the white hair and bushy eyebrows, and a surprising endorsement of women’s suffrage.

“So tell us about your adventures today while I go and make another pitcher of sangria,” Sid said. “Only talk loudly enough so that I don’t miss anything.”

“Well,” I began, enjoying the shock I was about to give them. “You’ll never guess where I have been today—” I looked around. “Chinatown. My employer is a Chinese man of great wealth.”

“Mercy me,” someone muttered, but the others merely looked interested. Nobody swooned or reached for smelling salts as proper young ladies should have done.

“And what can you possibly be doing for a Chinese man of great wealth?” Gus asked, pretending to be shocked when I knew that little could shock her, in spite of her delicate appearance.

“Ah, well, I don’t think I can share the details of my assignment,” I said. “I assured the gentleman that I would keep our dealings confidential. He is most insistent that I not discuss it with Daniel.”

“Phooey,” Sid said. “As if we’d breathe a word to Daniel. And now that you have tantalized us with the mention of Chinatown, you can’t leave us in suspense.”

“We simply must know, Molly,” Gus said. “Is it something awfully sordid? Will we blanch and swoon at the mere mention of it?”

They chuckled.

“Well, I suppose there is no harm in telling you, as it seems such a prosaic task,” I said. “I’ve been asked to recover a piece of jade jewelry that has been stolen.”

“What a letdown,” Sid said. “A stolen piece of jewelry. That sounds more like a straightforward job for the police.”

“That’s what I said, but he claimed that the police would do nothing to help a Chinese person. He sees them as the enemy.”

“And how does he expect you to recover this stolen jewel?” Sid demanded, leaning back from her route to the kitchen. “Does he think you’re in touch with fences and crooks?”

“I’ve already tried all the pawnshops in the area,” I said, “and most of the jewelers within a mile or so. Frankly I don’t know what else he expects me to do or even why he hired me. Tomorrow I’ll have to go and admit to failure, I’m afraid. And lose a fat fee.”