Currents Page 13

  Mr. Bennett had a peaked roof built over the cellar’s entrance, so the rain wouldn’t dash in or the snow fill up the stairwell in winter. Mrs. Bennett had planted a flowering vine that twisted up and over the roof, providing a little shade in the summer and a lovely fragrance when it bloomed every spring.

  The Caseys fed the kitchen stove all winter with sea coal from the backyard shed to heat the three rooms, and Ma kept every inch of their tiny home spotless. On the wall behind the table where they took their meals, she hung a picture of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

  Like every Irish child, Mary Margaret knew the history of the Great Hunger. She and her family had fled Ireland, along with thousands of their starving countrymen, when the Potato Famine struck. Irishmen in Boston still repeated the sorrowful stories over and over. In 1845, the leaves on potato plants suddenly turned black, curled, and eventually rotted. It was unlike any other crop failure they’d seen before. The working people of Ireland ate meals of boiled potatoes three times a day, but it wasn’t long before they went from being hungry to starving.

  Mary Margaret was convinced that what little joy Ma had in her died the day two crewmen tossed Mary Margaret’s brothers’ lifeless bodies overboard in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Tad and John weren’t the only ones. Ireland’s potato famine sent tens of thousands of starving souls on ships bound for the United States. Fleeing on overcrowded, rickety ships, hundreds of exhausted, starving passengers died just like the Casey boys of typhoid and other diseases before they reached America’s shores. Mary Margaret knew Ma also blamed herself and the meager diet she had subsisted on while pregnant with Bridget for her sister’s frequent illnesses. Lately, there were days when Bridget had been so sick she couldn’t leave the bed.

  Mary Margaret was proud that when Mr. Bennett needed skilled workers for his growing shipbuilding business, out of thousands of men, Da was chosen. Cheap Irish labor was pouring into Boston, and a friend of Mr. Bennett’s who worked at the immigration station kept an eye out for possible workers. It was he who recommended the Casey family. Mr. and Mrs. Bennett met them and felt confident that the couple would be a good fit—Rose as household help and Tomas as a skilled craftsman.

  The Bennetts were told the family had lost two sons on the trip over, though Mary Margaret’s da never mentioned it to Mr. Bennett. One day when Ma and Mary Margaret were cleaning the Bennetts’ first floor parlor, Ma had paused over some of the Bennett family photographs, and her eyes had filled up. Mrs. Bennett had touched Ma’s hand and said gently, “I’m so sorry about the loss of your little boys.”

  Ma’s face had softened. “Thank you, ma’am,” she said. Mary Margaret had known her ma was grateful for the kindness. “I’m still their mother in my dreams,” Ma said.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The temperature had dropped, and it had snowed still more. By morning the city was covered with a pearly white blanket and the narrow streets were slick with ice. Pedestrians tried their best to steer clear of horse-pulled carriages, since occasionally one of the big beasts would skid, causing its cab to swerve back and forth.

  Mary Margaret loved the days when her father would take her downtown with him on errands for the Bennetts. Their breath spilled out in clouds as they made their way down Beacon Hill past the gold-domed State House and the fine houses on Pemberton Square.

  Scollay Square was filled with the smells and sounds of horses, street vendors, and sailors fresh off ships. Well-to-do merchants and tradesmen strutted about in black top hats as they came and went from the shops, law offices, and small businesses that catered to the wealthy residents of Pemberton Square.

  Mary Margaret and Da’s first stop was the Old Corner Bookshop, where they presented the clerk with a list of books that Mrs. Bennett planned to give as presents.

  “I’d like to work here someday,” Mary Margaret said, marveling at the rows and rows of leather books that lined every wall.

  “Growing tired of ironing shoelaces for Mr. Eaton, are you?” Da asked.

  “Not really,” Mary Margaret answered thoughtfully. “We talk a lot. And he talks to me like a friend, not as though I’m an annoying child. Of course, that might be because he has no one else in the world to talk to except for me and his customers.”

  “Perhaps you’ll even have one of your own books on these shelves someday.” Da patted her arm. “You keep writing in your journal. The parts you’ve shared with me I’ve much enjoyed. Sure I have.”

  She looked down at her feet for a moment before she spoke. “I write about all our lives, Da. Some of it is very sad. What little I can remember of our crossing when we lost Tad and Johnny, even. And I write about how Ma still cries for them when she thinks we don’t hear her. The one about the boys is called ‘The Coffin Ship.’ Ma says that’s what they called the boats that brought us over because so many people died. But I also write about joy. There is a fair amount of that to be had if you want to find it.”

  “Choose joy, Mary Margaret,” her father agreed. “It is a choice. Always choose joy.”

  “One of my best stories is about the day Lucas Lowe took Louisa and me sledding.”

  “Ah, yes.” Da brightened. “The one you call ‘The Red Sled.’ Sure that’s your ma’s and my favorite of all the stories you’ve shared with us.”

  “Lucas Lowe is coming home, you know,” she said.

  “I heard!” Da replied. “That will be a fine day. He’s a good boy—a man now, I imagine.”

  The bookshop clerk, presenting Da with a bundle neatly tied up in brown paper and string, interrupted them. “Tell Mrs. Bennett that I think she’ll enjoy her selections. And wish the Bennetts a Happy Thanksgiving and a Merry Christmas for me.”

  A small bell above the door tinkled as they left the warm shop and trudged back out into the cold, snowy street. Da lifted his daughter over one particularly slushy puddle.

  “Now down to the docks to pick up a fresh fish for the Bennetts’ stew tonight,” Mary Margaret said.

  Long Wharf jutted out farther than any of the others, allowing large ships to tie up and unload directly into the warehouses and shops. The salty air took on a nasty bite as they walked to the end of the dock. Bell buoys clanged in the harbor, and people bustled about doing their errands. Everyone’s head was tucked down against the bitter winds. Mary Margaret pulled her coat tight around her and wished she had a warmer scarf.

  They purchased two pounds of cod from a fishmonger, and despite the bitter cold, Mary Margaret asked if they could walk along the wharf a bit to look in the windows. A teashop, barbershop, and other shops selling bright-colored threads and toys had begun to decorate their doors with festive greens and berries.

  “I don’t suppose it will do any harm,” Da agreed.

  “Louisa told me that the pirate William Fly was executed here,” Mary Margaret piped up. “And his body was hung above the wharf for everyone to see!”

  “Ah,” Da said. “Louisa is a fountain of information.”

  “She’s the one who will be a writer,” Mary Margaret said with confidence. “She practices all the time. She’s read all the new books. She let me borrow The Lamplighter, and I could hardly put it down, Da! Louisa said all her girlfriends want to be just like Gertie. She’s the girl in The Lamplighter.”

  “Is that what they teach her in the fancy school she attends?” Da asked.

  “That and many other things. She studies etiquette—that’s a fancy word for nice manners—embroidery, painting, music, and how to pour tea and coffee. She practices the tea pouring for me some days. She’s wonderful at it.

  “She also learned that a lady never shows her ankles.” Mary Margaret thought about that for a moment. “But I don’t care if anyone sees my ankles or not. I’d rather pick up my skirts than let them drag on the ground and get wet and dirty.”

  “Very practical of you,” said Da.

  “If I had the choice, I would rather attend Mrs. Lowe’s school,” Mary Margaret offered.

  Da could barely
hide his surprise. “You joke! Old Mrs. Lowe? I doubt she is fond of us Irish, Mary Margaret.”

  “Yes, I know. But I think she just may have a good heart under her bluster. Lucas is so kind, Da. She couldn’t have a son like that and not have some kindness in her heart.”

  “Aye,” Da agreed. “Lucas Lowe was always good to all of us.”

  “And she teaches important things at that school. Louisa has told me all about it. Things that, between you and me,” Mary Margaret said, grinning at Da, “I think are more important than tea and ankles.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “We need to be getting back,” Da said. “I don’t like the looks of that sky, and if it snows again tonight, I’ll have to be up in the dark to clear the Bennetts’ walk and still get to the shipyard on time.”

  “Oh Da, wait—stop. Down there. Look at that. What is it?” Mary Margaret stopped short, leaned over the wharf, and pointed down into the water at a small object bobbing against the pilings.

  “There’s a lot of trash floating around the docks, Mary Margaret,” Da said. “It’s probably what’s left of some sailor’s evening ale.”

  “No, it’s like a genie bottle. The light is glinting off it. Can you see?” she said.

  “Lord, Mary Margaret, your imagination.”

  “I’m serious, Da. Can you fetch it for me?”

  He looked down at the bottle floating along the surface. All manner of things collected around the wharves.

  “Ah, Mary Margaret,” he groaned. “I don’t really feel like retrieving a dirty old bottle from under the wharf.”

  “It might have a genie in it—you can’t be sure,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

  “You don’t believe in genies now, do you, lass?” he asked.

  “Of course not. But it does look interesting. It looks special. Please, Da?”

  “All right, all right,” he said. “Let’s see if it will come up.”

  Da borrowed a long pole with a hook at the end from one of the fishmongers and lowered it into the water. The first time he managed to snag the bottle, it fell off the hook. Again, his hook caught and slipped.

  “I think, Mary Margaret, that it doesn’t want to be caught.” He gave it one more try before Mary Margaret knew he would begin insisting they head back home. This time, dripping with saltwater and bits of wharf moss, the hook held. Bringing the bottle up gingerly, Da unhooked it, plucked off the weeds, and presented it to his daughter.

  “That won’t make much of a stew for you tonight,” the monger joked when Da returned the pole.

  “Your ma will have my head for letting you bring that smelly old thing home,” Da said, frowning.

  “I’ll clean it up, Da. Can you open it for me? Please. It looks like there is something inside. Some paper and something that makes a little rattle and catches the light.”

  He pulled his pocketknife out, carved away the wax seal, and carefully wiggled the top up until it gave way, spilling out the contents into the palm of his hand.

  First came out an engraved gold cross with tiny pearls embedded in it. There was an empty spot in the middle where one pearl was missing. A rolled-up note had also fallen out. Mary Margaret’s eyes lit up. She let out a whistle as she carefully unfolded it and then read aloud:

  Agnes May Brewster

  Born: July 1843. Colored slave.

  Da let out his own low whistle and said, “Well, now, what do you know.”

  “Can I keep it?” she asked.

  “Well, I’m not of a mind to toss it back in the drink after working so hard to get it out. But let’s take a closer look at it when we get home. Right now we need to get back.”

  They hurried home, speculating what the contents might mean and what the cross might be worth. But first they stopped to drop the fish and books off at the Bennetts’ kitchen door.

  “Now wait a minute, Tomas.” Mrs. Bennett lifted a butcher knife and cut off a big chunk of the fresh fish. “Give this to Rose for your dinner tonight.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Bennett, I couldn’t—” Da said, politely refusing.

  “You can and you will. Enjoy your dinner, Mr. Casey. Mary Margaret, I know you like fish stew.” She smiled as she closed the door behind her.

  When Da and Mary Margaret appeared in their own kitchen, they called Ma and Bridget over to the table so they could show them their newfound treasures. Bridget was still in her nightdress, her face drawn and pale. At least she’s up and out of bed, Mary Margaret thought.

  “I think the cross is real gold, Tomas,” Ma said after a moment, her eyes shining. “But what would a colored slave and a gold and pearl necklace be doing in the same place?”

  “There are initials on the back of the cross.” Mary Margaret squinted and held it up closer to the lantern. “D-S-S, J-K. I think. Aye. That’s what they say.”

  “Dissjik?” Bridget scrunched up her nose, pronouncing the initials as one word.

  “No, you squirrel! That’s not a word. I think they’re initials—the first letters of a person’s name,” said Mary Margaret. “I just can’t imagine whose.”

  “Sure I don’t know. There’s no way of telling such a thing,” Da mused. “I’m afraid that it’s going to remain a mystery. One thing is certain—DSS J. K. does not stand for Agnes May Brewster.”

  Mary Margaret sat up straight. “Someday soon I could be working in a Lowell mill, maybe even on the same cotton that this Agnes May had picked just months before.”

  “It’s possible,” Da said, nodding.

  “I can take it with me the next time I go to Mr. Eaton’s. He might know something about it. He’s a wealth of information, he is,” Mary Margaret said. “I can keep the bottle and its contents, right Ma?”

  “Aye, put it someplace safe, though,” Ma said. “I’d have you return it, but I don’t know how you’d go about findin’ the owners. We’ll find out the value of the cross. We could use the money.”

  “Oh, Ma, I don’t want to sell it,” Mary Margaret pleaded. “I want to wear it. I think it must have meant a great deal to someone at one time. I can’t imagine why it was tossed out to sea.”

  “I can’t see that would do any harm, Rose,” her father said. “At least for now.”

  “Yes, yes,” her mother sighed. “But wash that bottle well so it won’t smell up my house.”

  “I will, Ma, and thank you,” Mary Margaret said.

  But her mother was already storing the fish Mrs. Bennett had sent down before heading upstairs to prepare the Bennetts’ dinner.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  A few days later, Mary Margaret bent over the dark, cherrywood desk that Mr. Bennett had installed in a sunny corner of Louisa’s fourth-floor bedroom, and carefully read the articles and letters Louisa had written. Louisa propped up the November issue of Merry’s Museum Magazine against the back of the desk as she tucked a curl behind her ear. Like her mother, she wore her dark hair pulled back in a bun, except for two long ringlets that hung down in front of each ear. Every month when the illustrated magazine arrived, she devoured its contents. She especially enjoyed that fashions of the season were discussed.

  “I send in article after article and get back rejection after rejection.” Louisa dropped her head on her desk.

  Mary Margaret looked around slowly. She’d never been to the fourth floor. Two enormous rooms faced each other and took up the entire floor, save for a small landing at the top of the stairs. Tall windows looking out onto Mt. Vernon Street were framed with heavily embroidered draperies that complemented a carpet woven with a swirly leaf pattern. A quilt decorated with roses covered Louisa’s four-poster bed, and a coal-burning fireplace was on the opposite wall.

  On top of a bookcase a dozen china dolls sat lined up by size, each dressed in fine garments trimmed with braid, fringe, cording, and tassels. Over the fireplace hung a framed sampler that read “Home Sweet Home,” which Mary Margaret knew Louisa had made herself when practicing her sewing skills.

  All Mary Margaret could t
hink was, Imagine sleeping in a palace like this. I could fit our entire apartment in her bedroom and still have room left over.

  “Inspired by such grand surroundings, Louisa,” Mary Margaret gushed, “elegant words must pour from your pen!”

  “You would think, wouldn’t you?” Louisa laughed. “I wish it were that easy for me.”

  “Just don’t give up,” Mary Margaret urged her. “So much of your writing is worthy of being published. Truly it is. This one is my favorite,” she said, pulling out the one letter from Louisa’s sheaf that mentioned Mary Margaret and her freckles. “I wouldn’t have believed my own eyes if my name had actually appeared in a magazine!”

  “Well, it didn’t.” Louisa looked on glumly while Mary Margaret read the rejected letter aloud.

  Dear Mr. Merry,

  I very much appreciated your short article about people with large feet. I am one of those people. I can tell you from experience that it does not feel good when others laugh at them and pronounce that I could sail across the ocean on them. So it was a pleasure to read that while some people think that large feet are ungenteel for a lady, you think they are convenient because these people have a better chance in a high wind than those with small feet.

  I also liked your suggestion that large feet are more convenient for kicking rascals.

  My friend Mary Margaret has a great number of freckles on her face. So do her mother and her sister, Bridget. She doesn’t like them, but her mother and sister don’t seem to mind them at all. Mary Margaret’s father told her that an Irish girl’s face without freckles is like a sky without stars. So I suppose everyone has something about themselves that they don’t like.

  Respectfully,

  Louisa Bennett, Boston

  “Now Louisa, that’s clever writing!” Mary Margaret declared after she finished her enthusiastic reading.

  “You don’t mind that I used your name and discussed your freckles?” Louisa asked.

  “Not at all,” Mary Margaret said. “My da always says to take no offense where none is intended. I’m only sorry that Merry’s Museum hasn’t seen the quality in your writing yet. Just don’t give up. I think perseverance will pay off.”