Currents Page 15

  “I would love to study all those things,” Mary Margaret said.

  “My father says that young ladies need to be educated so they can make fine wives and mothers,” Louisa said. “I don’t see how mathematics and science can help with that.”

  “Sit here, ladies, and I’ll bring in cups of hot chocolate,” the teacher said over her shoulder as she disappeared below stairs to the cellar kitchen.

  Mrs. Lowe appeared at the same time as the hot chocolate, and Mary Margaret thought she looked as though she had been crying.

  “Is everything all right with Lucas, Mrs. Lowe?” Mary Margaret asked.

  “Yes.” She smiled. “He should be home by Christmas. Oh my goodness, what a sight for sore eyes he will be.”

  “What else does he say, Mrs. Lowe?” Louisa asked. “Has he discovered gold?”

  “Well, he doesn’t say, so I’m not sure. But he’s having fascinating experiences.” She thought for a moment. “Would you be interested in hearing his letter?”

  “Oh, yes!” Mary Margaret cried, forgetting herself.

  “Please, oh yes, please,” Louisa agreed.

  Mrs. Lowe took a deep breath and began to read slowly:

  Dear Mother,

  Pick out the fattest Christmas goose at the market; I am coming home at last! Please forgive the long absence since you last heard from me. I hope this photograph of your handsome son will make up for it a bit. There are photographers camped out here with simple, portable cameras who will take portraits for twenty-five cents. Don’t fret if I look a little gaunt, I’ll quickly gain back the weight when I return to Boston and your splendid cooking.

  Perhaps you have read in the newspapers that the gold fields here are almost picked clean. After just five years, the gold rush is all but over. Fortunes have indeed been made by a lucky few, but more people have made money selling to the miners than the miners have made prospecting for gold. Picks, shovels, food, shelter, and all means of required supplies are wildly overpriced. Of course, once one is here, what are we to do? There is nowhere else to buy these necessities.

  The talk is growing here that there may be a war if the Southern states try to secede and if they do not free the slaves. Can this be? At first I thought it was just foolish gossip, but now everyone who arrives from the East says it is so. How can it be that after all we went through to become a free nation, we would now turn on each other?

  I have booked passage on the schooner Liberty, departing from San Francisco and arriving in Boston mid- to late December, depending on the seas and the weather.

  I have so much more to tell you, Mother.

  Your devoted son,

  Lucas

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Together they scanned every detail of Lucas in the photograph he’d enclosed. He did look thinner. His hair and sideburns were a little scruffy.

  “The barber down in Pemberton Square will tidy him up.” Mrs. Lowe kissed the tip of her finger and touched it to the picture. “If he really makes it home before Christmas, we’ll go to church together, and then I’ll roast a wonderful goose for dinner.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Lowe. I can’t wait to see him,” Mary Margaret spoke up.

  Mrs. Lowe tucked the letter tenderly in her skirt pocket. “He’s been in California all this time, so it will take a while for his blood to thicken up and get used to our New England winter. I’ve almost finished knitting a pair of mittens for him. Red with thirty-one white stars around the cuffs—fifteen on one mitten, sixteen on the other. Lucas will know right away they represent the thirty-one states in the union, and thus the stars on the American flag. We Lowes are nothing if we’re not patriots!” she finished proudly.

  “Does he still have the drawings that Mary Margaret and I did for him before he left?” Louisa asked.

  “Why, yes, Louisa,” she laughed. “And I haven’t changed a thing in his room, except to tidy it up after he left. His bookcase still holds his books—Aesop’s Fables, biographies of great men the likes of Marcus Aurelius, and another favorite, The Journal of Lewis and Clark to the Mouth of the Columbia River by Meriwether Lewis. I guess those stories of adventurers inspired him and fired his imagination.

  “And your drawings are hanging above his dresser. The one you drew, Louisa, of skating on the Frog Pond. And the other, Mary Margaret, of all three of you flying down Boston Common on a red sled.

  “Your drawings and his favorite quote from the Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius are the only things he hung up.”

  “I remember him quoting that to me,” Mary Margaret said.

  “He wrote it out and framed it,” Mrs. Lowe said. “I’ve looked at it so many times that I know it by heart.” She clasped her hands on her chest and recited: “‘Do not act as if you had ten thousand years to throw away. Death stands at your elbow. Be good for something, while you live and it is in your power.’”

  It was more than either girl had ever heard Mrs. Lowe talk about anything, and they both fell silent, not wanting her to stop.

  “Oh my, where are my manners?” Mrs. Lowe suddenly said. “I’m just going on and on. Did you enjoy the tour of the school?”

  “Very much, ma’am. I am wondering, do you teach the girls here to write stories?” Mary Margaret asked, unable to hide her enthusiasm.

  “Why, yes, we do. Aren’t you clever to ask? We teach history and math in the morning. After lunch the girls pull out their required journals and share their writings. When you see me sitting in my window by the lamp at night, I am often correcting their journals for them. I hope to produce some talented writers from our little school. We finish up the afternoon with science, spelling, and penmanship. Once a week we study geography and current events.”

  “I love to read and write, but I have a headache just thinking about the rest,” Louisa laughed. “We’d better be on our way. Mary Margaret’s mother is making us a pot roast for dinner, and I can almost smell it from here.”

  “Thank you, girls.” Mrs. Lowe dug into her pocket and pulled out a penny for each of them. Mary Margaret almost took it, but Louisa demurred, and so she reluctantly did the same. The thought of a bag of tasty candy ran through her mind as well as how long she had to stand over a hot iron pressing shoelaces to earn a penny.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  “Mr. Merry says we should write about things that we know.” Louisa pulled her heavy wool cape up against the morning chill and tucked her dark hair primly under her velvet bonnet. “I think if we wander around a bit, I will find inspiration and something just wonderful to write about.”

  Mary Margaret was grateful to have a day outside, walking around Boston Common.

  “I’m sure you’ll make a fine writer someday, Louisa,” Mary Margaret enthused.

  “I long to be. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be when I grow up. Some people think it’s unladylike for women to be authors, but I think that’s terribly old-fashioned. The Lamplighter was written by a woman, and it was quite good, didn’t you think?”

  “I certainly agree,” Mary Margaret said.

  They walked along, kicking at a snowbank here and there while waiting for the perfect story to come along and plant itself in Louisa’s imagination. Mary Margaret again considered telling her about the bottle, but decided to wait longer still. She had begun writing about it and could already tell that it was going to be a grand story, one that was hers alone. Louisa could find other stories to write.

  “I like to write, too,” Mary Margaret explained. “Mostly in my journal. Someday I would like to learn proper spelling and grammar and maybe even calculating.”

  “Perhaps you could enroll in school,” Louisa said. “There are no Irish children in my school, but I’m sure someplace would take you.”

  “No. Now that I’ve finished up with public grammar school, my days of schooling are over. Ma says most high schools cost one hundred dollars a year per pupil. Aye, I’ll be getting out to earn a living within a couple of years. Probably in Lowell. Lots of lasses like myself are moving t
here to work in the mills. Da says that there are respectable boardinghouses for the girls to live in there.”

  “I’ll miss you, Mary Margaret,” Louisa said earnestly.

  “I’ll be home for visits, I think at Christmastime. Perhaps I’ll have saved enough money to come with gifts.” Mary Margaret smiled at the thought.

  “You’re very clever,” Louisa said. “You’ll do just fine. I’m so inspired reading your stories in your journal. Thank you for letting me keep it all this time.”

  Mary Margaret beamed and said, “That’s all right. Since I have filled the one you have, I have another one I write in. Which stories are your favorites so far?”

  “I couldn’t pick just one,” Louisa said. “I’m halfway finished and honestly, I love so many of them. You have a way with words that is all your own.”

  They walked toward the bottom of Beacon Street, past the row of stately town houses. The brick sidewalks were slippery and had heaved in the frost, so they rose and fell as if they’d been set by a drunken bricklayer. A pair of dappled gray horses huffed and snorted as they pulled a shiny carriage up the hill, while two stray dogs nipped at their hooves. The driver, wearing a tall black beaver hat, snapped his leather whip at the spotted dogs, yelling, “Here, here! Get away from here!” But the dogs were having too much fun on this cold, sunny day and ignored him.

  Children’s voices squealed as they raced down the hills of Boston Common on red sleds, scarves flapping behind them, the glimmering State House dome rising in the background.

  At the foot of Beacon Hill they turned onto Charles Street, and Louisa waved her gloved hand, pointing toward the swampy Back Bay. “Now here is a story that I think will interest people.”

  “A smelly marsh?” Mary Margaret asked.

  “No. Papa tells me that they’re going to bring in tons and tons of dirt from west of Boston and fill in this whole area. You see all that muck? He says lovely houses will stand on this very spot in a few more years. I think people will want to know about this.” She smiled, warming to the idea for her writing project. “I think I’ll get an article in Merry’s Museum,” Louisa said, beaming, “and my silver dollar!”

  Mary Margaret had stopped listening. Her attention had been drawn to the back of a woman wearing a bright red hat with a feather and walking briskly ahead of them down Charles Street.

  “What is it, Mary Margaret?” Louisa asked. Mary Margaret had begun to walk in the woman’s direction, as if in a trance.

  “Mary Margaret,” Louisa asked again. “What is it? Do you know that lady?”

  Suddenly the woman stopped at the corner next to a tall burly man with scruffy brown hair, and they wrapped their arms around each other and kissed.

  “In public, no less!” Louisa scoffed, not understanding what was going on.

  When the couple turned and went on their way, arm in arm, Mary Margaret continued to follow them at a safe distance, dragging Louisa with her.

  “Mary Margaret,” Louisa said. “You’re scaring me. What is it?”

  “I know that woman. I’ve been sworn to secrecy, but I can see I’m going to have to tell you. Come on, though, keep up with me.” They followed at a discreet distance while Mary Margaret filled her stunned friend in about Daphne Cummings.

  “Oh, Mary Margaret, these people might be criminals! And I don’t like this part of town. I don’t think we should be here,” Louisa said. “What if she spots you?”

  “She doesn’t know who I am. She’s never laid eyes on me. And she doesn’t know I know who she is,” Mary Margaret explained.

  Finally, the couple stopped in front of a run-down brownstone rooming house, and the man pulled out a key.

  Mary Margaret rushed up to the couple and tapped Daphne on the arm, leaving Louisa standing alone and looking frightened on the corner.

  “Excuse me, ma’am?” she asked.

  The man turned and looked down at her. He had a nose that had obviously been broken on several occasions, and he was missing a couple of teeth.

  “What do you want?” he asked. “We don’t give no money to beggars.”

  “I’m not a beggar, sir. And I’m sorry to bother you,” Mary Margaret said to the woman in the red hat. “But are you Miss Malloy?”

  “No,” she snapped in a voice that didn’t sound anything like the sweet voice she used with Mr. Eaton.

  “Well, I was told to deliver a message to Miss Malloy at this address, and they said she was a fine-lookin’ lady who usually wore a red hat,” she lied.

  Daphne patted her hat and smiled a little, “Well, I am a fine-lookin’ lady, but I am not Miss Malloy. And no Miss Malloy lives in this building.”

  “See here,” the man broke in gruffly, “she ain’t no Miss. She’s my wife. Now like she said, you got the wrong person, so scram.”

  The couple shuffled into their front vestibule and slammed the door in Mary Margaret’s face.

  “Poor Mr. Eaton,” Mary Margaret kept saying as the two girls made their way back up Beacon Hill.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  “But you don’t work today,” Ma said the next morning as Mary Margaret carefully placed the bottle with the cross and torn page in a small bag and picked up her coat.

  “I know that, but I thought if Mr. Eaton took another look at the bottle he might think of something else. He knows an awful lot about many things, Ma.”

  “You’re keeping the necklace inside the bottle?” Ma asked, her eyebrow arching.

  “I am,” Mary Margaret answered. “I thought on it and decided that Agnes May put it there for a reason, Ma. It seems only right that I keep it safe there for her.”

  “Well, I guess you have a point.” Ma smiled weakly. Mary Margaret knew her mother was tired from another long night. She had been up and down many times with Bridget. Her sister had been complaining more and more lately about the gnawing pain in her hips, and she seemed to have even less strength than usual in her arms. This morning when she tried to sip her tea, it dribbled, and Bridget admitted that she had begun to experience numbness around her mouth.

  “Can I do anything to help with Bridg, Ma?” Mary Margaret asked.

  “No. She’s finally gone to sleep. Go ahead off to see Mr. Eaton. Let’s just keep it quiet here so she can rest.”

  Mary Margaret put on her coat, pulled her scarf up over her head, stepped out into the frosty air, and closed the door softly behind her.

  She had gone over and over in her mind how she could tell Mr. Eaton what she had discovered about Daphne. Nothing seemed right. At last she had decided to trust that the right words would come. She didn’t really think he would have discovered any new information about the bottle, but it was as good an excuse as any to appear for a visit. She knew she couldn’t let him go on not knowing the truth. And she needed to get to him before he gave Daphne Cummings any more of his money.

  A sign hung on the door of the shoe shop that said PROPRIETOR WILL BE BACK SOON. The door was unlocked, and Mary Margaret went in to wait. She was wondering how much more of Mr. Eaton’s hard-earned money the woman had managed to steal from him when she looked up and saw the red hat with the feather bobbing along outside the shop window. Leaping to her feet, Mary Margaret disappeared behind the velvet drape just as Daphne and her husband entered the shop.

  “He keeps it in here,” Daphne said. Mary Margaret heard them cross the room and open the desk drawer.

  “Ah, the key. He keeps it in this dirty old chipped cup with the faded roses on it.” Daphne laughed. “He says that his wife used to drink her tea from it every day. Oh, boo hoo!”

  Mary Margaret’s blood would have boiled if her heart weren’t pounding in her throat. She steadied herself, remembering how mean Daphne’s husband had looked. She was just as afraid of Mr. Eaton returning and stumbling onto the scene as she was of being discovered. Since she had approached them in front of their rooming house, they would be sure to recognize her.

  “Just take the whole box, Fred,” Daphne ordered. “And let�
�s get out of here before he gets back!”

  Her husband whistled when he saw the pile of cash inside.

  “Is there anything else worth taking in this place?” he asked, scanning the room.

  “No, no,” she said nervously. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  “I just want to be sure that I’m not leaving behind a nice watch or something else that I might pawn,” he said, crossing to the back of the shop, so close that Mary Margaret could smell his hair pomade.

  When he yanked back the red drape, his mouth flew open at the sight of Mary Margaret standing on a chair, her arms raised high above her head, clutching her bottle in both hands. She wasted no time swinging it down with all her might across the side of his head. Stunned, he spun back as Mary Margaret jumped off the chair, flew past him, and ran toward the door.

  “You!” Daphne’s eyes widened as she recognized Mary Margaret, and she jumped in front of the door, grabbing Mary Margaret’s arm as Fred recovered his balance.

  “It’s the girl from the other day! The one who asked us if I was Miss Malloy!” Daphne said, holding Mary Margaret’s arm in a vise grip.

  “You ain’t no delivery girl,” Daphne spit out.

  “And you ain’t no cripple!” Mary Margaret spit back as Fred grabbed Mary Margaret by her other arm.

  Just then, the front door flew open, hitting Daphne and knocking her to the floor. Officer Dyer, two other Boston policemen, and Mr. Eaton rushed inside.

  “Frederick and Daphne Cummings, you are under arrest!” Officer Dyer shouted, grabbing Fred by the arm and yanking Daphne to her feet.

  “Elton!” Daphne’s entire demeanor had suddenly changed, and she fluttered her large brown eyes at Mr. Eaton.

  “They say there’s no fool like an old fool.” Mr. Eaton looked sadly at Daphne. “Well, you certainly found an old fool in me.” Instead of taking her outstretched hand, he went over to Mary Margaret and lifted her up from the floor where she had fallen during the scuffle.