The Crimson Thread (9 page)

            She observed him more closely than she ever had before and saw why she’d previously found his age so hard to judge. She saw no that he was probably younger than twenty, not much older than herself, but all that he’d been through had left a hardness, more like a deep weariness, in and around his dark eyes. Maybe it was just sadness.

            His face lit with a though, and he suddenly appeared to be as young as he really was. “Do you want to see something I just found?”

            “What?” she asked, thinking that he was really quite pleasant-looking when he smiled. Until this moment she had not seen him smile with anything other than bitter irony. His smile of real pleasure – appearing so unexpectedly, like the sun suddenly rising from behind a cloud – raised an answering smile from her.

            “Come with me.” He picked up his pace, and impulsively she followed him. In two blocks he turned down an empty alley, where he lifted the hatch of a basement cellar and climbed down. Bertie went down after him.

            It was cold and dark, but the open door above provided enough light to reveal an abandoned room. At its center sat a broken spinning wheel.

            “When is the last time you saw one of those?” he asked happily, excitement animating his face.

            In truth, it hadn’t been that long ago. Her mother had had an old spinning wheel like this one, which she had used to spin the fleece from their one sheep until they had to sell the animal. Her mother had once shown her how to use it, but she’d forgotten now.

            “And look at this,” he added, directing her attention to a small hand loom. “All this is done in big textile mills now. Someone must have had a little home shop down here once.”

            “What’s upstairs?” she asked. “These things must belong to someone.”

            “I don’t know. The building is boarded up. I broke in just the other night looking for a place to sleep. Remember that very hot night? I came down here thinking it would be cooler, and I found these.”

            “Why don’t you get a regular place to live?” she asked him. He seemed to have enough money.

            “I haven’t had a home since I was seven. The idea of it makes me nervous. I’m happier flopping down anywhere that’s convenient.” He looked away from her as if wanting to change the subject. “Isn’t this hand loom great? I want to clean it up and see if I can use it.”

            “Would you make cloth?” she asked.

            “I don’t know yet. I just want to see what I can do with them.”

            He stepped closer to her – too close, she thought, but for some reason she didn’t move away. “You are very pretty in that new dress, you know, princess,” he said, his voice dropping to the thick, unmistakable tones of attraction.

            “Why do you call me princess?” she asked him, no longer content to let it hang as a mystery between them.

            “Because I can see you as you really are.”

            “How can you?”

            “When you grow up on the streets, you learn to see into people. You need to if you are to survive. I can see beyond the ragged skirt and even this cast-off dress to the royal blood that courses through your veins.”

            She felt laid bare, exposed; her deepest secret revealed. And yet he had said it. She had not claimed to be any princess. He had claimed it for her.

            He knew what she knew, what she felt deep down. But how?

            He looked her over and then took her hand. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. People will talk if they find us down here together, and you don’t need that.”

            “What will they say?” she asked as she climbed the stairs ahead of him, wanting to hear his version of what she knew the gossip would be.

            “They will ask why the beautiful red-haired princess from Ireland lowered herself to consort with that no-good troll of a tailor from who knows where.”

Da’s Wild Boast
 

Over the next two weeks, it became clear that Paddy O’Malley, now Rick Miller, had not been wrong when he boasted of his daughter’s skills, even though she had not yet acquired those skills at the time of his boast. Under the expert tutelage of Margaret, Bertie soared to new heights of dressmaking, even daring to design her own dresses based on the patterns she saw in J.P. Wellington’s thick books and to create tissue-paper patterns of her own.

            And Bertie adored the work. She discovered dexterity in her hands that she had never realized she possessed, since she hadn’t ever had the chance to so such fine, delicate work before. She folded in pleats and finished buttonholes with such skill that even the exacting Margaret was impressed. Her attention to detail was top-notch, and soon Margaret trusted her to put in collars of the most expensive lace.

            The early October nights became chilly, relieving the blistering heat of an Indian summer that had dogged the city dwellers all the way through September. It made life in her tenement somewhat more bearable.

            Eileen improved, but she continued to wheeze and cough. Bertie wanted to bring her sister back to Dr. Umberto, but her paycheck just covered their needs. Her father gave her money each week, but all it did was allow her to hold on to the apartment.

            She was reconsidering Paddy’s idea for Mike O’Fallon’s sister to take Eileen and let Liam go live with Finn in Boston, but she couldn’t stand the thought of her family being broken up like that.

            She thought of asking Maria to look in on them during her breaks from the restaurant where she now worked, but worried that it was too big a favor.

            From time to time she ran into Ray on the street and always felt a mixture of gladness and uneasiness. He continued to simply pop up announced and uninvited in the oddest places, as though he had some sort of ability to sense her presence. She had begun to wonder if his many acquaintances had taken to alerting him of her whereabouts when she was out in the neighborhood.

            The strange draw she felt toward him disturbed her. He was not her idea of someone she could ever love – he was so odd and intense, so rough and overly direct in his manner – and yet there was something about him. She was always glad to see him, but knowing how he felt about her made her nervous. She did not want to lead him on to believe he had a romantic chance with her. She was not going to let that happen.

            Her mind stayed fixed on James Wellington. James had finally convinced his father to let him forego a university education in order to stay home to help with the business. Bertie almost wished he had gone off to school so she wouldn’t be reminded of him on a daily basis.

            But another part of her loved the mere sight of him.

            When they passes in the halls, he grinned and sometimes even winked at her, implying that they shared some delicious secret, perhaps that he had once hidden in her room. Bertie couldn’t help but smile back. And just when she thought she had quieted her mind from playing the image of his sparkling eyes over and over, another of these chance encounters would set her brain spinning, fixating on his every movement once again.

            Bertie finally met J.P. Wellington Sr. one day when she was coming in from an errand. He was a man of about fifty, balding and stout, with muttonchop whiskers around his broad face. The millionaire industrialist asked her name, and she introduced herself.

            One October morning, Bertie was racing through the kitchen, almost late as usual, to make it up the stairs into the sewing room. She had arrived at the top floor landing when she heard shouting coming from J.P. Wellington’s study. The ferocity of it stopped her cold.

            “What is this you’ve done?” J.P. bellowed. “You’ve ruined me!”

            “I only did what you told me to do!” It was James’s voice, shouting back defensively at his father.

            Bertie stepped closer to hear, forgetting all about her lateness.

            She knew that J.P.’s textile mills down south made fabrics for curtains, blankets, sheets, and other household items, but that he bought the fine fabrics for his fashion line from Europe. He had put James in charge of purchasing the fabrics for this line. His sisters had told her all this while she sewed, since they liked to come to the sewing room to watch her work and gossip.

            Clearly James had mismanaged his task somehow.

            Inching a bit closer to the slightly open door, she could see father and son confronting each other: the older one powerful and enraged; his handsome son alternating an aggressive posture with one of near cringing.

            Bertie bit her lip anxiously, feeling sorry for James.

            “I told you to consult with Mr. LaFleur in Paris before buying anything!” J.P. roared, pounding his wide desk.

            “He’s an old man!” James shot back. “He doesn’t know what young women like. Why should I listen to him?”

            “He’s only thirty, and he knows what’s happening in Paris!” J.P. turned such a bright shade of enraged red that Bertie could imagine his head exploding. “He telegraphed me this morning to say that bolts and bolts of dark gray and blue material have arrived in the New Jersey warehouses. You have spent our entire year’s budget on these colors.”

            “Young women want to look sophisticated, and dark colors make them seem worldly,” James defended himself.

            “This year women want everything from China!” J.P. argued. “Even if it’s not from China, it has to
look
like it could be from China! They want dishes from China and rugs from China. And they want
fabrics
from China: bright colors – reds, yellows, purples! They want silken embroidered dresses. LaFleur says all our competitors are featuring them!”

            Someone came up the stairs from the kitchen and stood behind Bertie on the hall landing. It was Paddy. “What’s the fracas about?” he asked her in a low tone.

            She told him what she had heard.

            He nodded knowingly. “That lad thinks he knows a great deal more than he actually does,” he commented. “I’m happy to see his father putting him in his place.”

            Bertie scowled at him. He didn’t know what James was like at all. “Why are you here?” she asked.

            “Mr. Wellington called for his carriage, but I was still feeding the horses, so he asked me to come tell him when I was ready to roll,” he explained.

            “We are ruined, James!” shouted J.P., his voice thunderous. “I cannot take a loss like this!”

            “Send the fabric back!” James told him.

            “I can’t! Its low price comes with the stipulation that it is not returnable. I’ve never returned a single bolt in more than twenty years!”

            Paddy grabbed Bertie’s wrist. There was a dangerous, almost maniacal, gleam in his eyes that frightened her. “Here is out time, my girl! Fate has brought us to this landing at an auspicious moment!”

            “Da1 No!” was all she had time to say as he pulled her into J.P. Wellington’s study. “Good morning, sir,” Paddy greeted his employer. “Your carriage awaits outside. But before we leave, I could not help but overhear you speak of your business predicament.”

            “No doubt the entire block is aware of it,” James muttered sullenly.

            “Allow me to suggest a remedy for you plight, if you don’t mind,” said Paddy, releasing Bertie’s wrist and stepping forward.

            “Go on,” J.P. allowed.

            “You have met my daughter, Bertie?”