The Daughters of Jim Farrell Read online

  Virginia scurried past the large hardware store, the coppersmith, the tavern, the milliner’s shop, apothecary and book shop, the clothing store, Martin’s Dry Goods, then stopped in front of Antonio Carbonetti’s new grocery. She felt guilty that seeing it still gave her perverse pleasure since it was the cause of that disagreeable Martin Roach having to eat humble pie after he tried, but failed, to stop the Carbonettis from opening their shop.

  She smiled down at the little boy who stood near its door. He appeared only a few years older than Sean Muldoon, and wore clean but worn overalls, scuffed boots, and a little cloth cap. He held his right arm close to his body as though trying to conceal the fact that there was only a one-inch stump where his hand should be.

  “Are you Michael O’Malley?”

  The boy grinned and nodded. “You Miss Virginia?”

  “The very same.” She opened her purse, pulled out the folded paper and three pennies, then placed them all in his open left hand.

  Patrick had told her about Michael, about his accident at the breaker and how after he lost his hand he was discharged by the breaker boss. Patrick also spoke proudly of how Michael continued working by picking coal from the dangerous culm bank whenever the company police weren’t around, then sold the burlap bags of coal for ten cents each—though Virginia wondered why Patrick didn’t consider this stealing. But now that the Mattson Colliery had buried the culm bank beneath mounds of dirt due to the recent fire, Michael had lost that livelihood as well.

  So the boy came to Sweet Air every morning, the community considered affluent by miners, in order to do odd jobs. Merchants gave him pennies to run errands or sweep and wash the walk in front of their establishments. And on slow days, Michael collected dog excrement or “pure” as the tanner in the next town called it, the one who purchased it from Michael for his leather processing.

  It was Michael O’Malley who would carry the articles and notes between Patrick and Virginia. It sounded simple. Patrick had made it sound simple. But sooner or later people would find out. And then what? Would she be prepared for the consequences?

  Kate hated flies. They were especially bad this year, and seemed to be everywhere. She was glad they were finally going to deal with the pests. She and Mother had already taken all the cheap, yellow cambric from the trunk in the garret and brought them down, placing a pile in every room. And all morning Kate had worked to finish the best parlor: securing all the windows with gauze blinds, then covering the large gilded mirror and paintings with cambric. She had also hung strips of sticky spiral flypaper in corners; then for good measure tacked red-berry asparagus clippings over the door.

  Ridding a house of flies was a big undertaking. Everyone was needed. Even now, Charlotte was working in the dining room and Virginia in the back parlor. Before nightfall, the entire downstairs, including the three downstairs bedrooms, would be done.

  That still left upstairs. And since Kate still had an hour before she was needed in the kitchen, there was time enough for one more room, provided she worked quickly. For days, Clarence Thumbolt, the retired railroad man, had been complaining how the flies were pouring into his room like a Biblical plague. Mother was there now remedying the situation. So Kate decided Jasper Wright’s room should be next since he had shown a prickly nature whenever inconvenienced by even petty matters like his bread not sufficiently toasted or his linens improperly ironed.

  But when Kate reached the top of the stairs and glanced into the partially opened door of Joshua Adams’ room and saw it empty, she changed her mind. Time to test her resolve. No temptation would induce her to violate his privacy this time.

  She entered and saw that his bed was made and everything neatly arrayed with the exception of the razor case lying open on his desk. Ignoring it, she went straight to the task of securing the gauze blind over the window.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Miss Kate.”

  She turned toward the familiar voice and smiled. “Mr. Adams, you’ll be pleased to know that tonight you’ll have a fly-proof room.”

  “I need to talk to you,” he said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him.

  She would have protested if it were not for the worried look on his face. “What is wrong, sir? You look distressed.”

  “Remember I told you Mr. Pinkerton had an inside man? The one sent to infiltrate the Molly Maguires?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, he has successfully penetrated the AOH.”

  Kate frowned. “The Ancient Order of Hibernians? I thought it was a respectable organization.” Hadn’t Mother told her it was an Irish Catholic fraternity that helped its dues-paying members with favors, advice, and sometimes money? It even had a benign motto, ‘friendship, unity, and true Christian charity.’ And didn’t Mother tell her that Mary O’Brien’s husband and some of his friends belonged to it?

  “Yes, it’s respectable.” Joshua tossed his large farmer’s hat onto the polished mahogany desktop. “At least in other locals where it’s just similar to Protestant societies like the Knights of Pythias. But here, in Schuylkill County, the AOH appears tied to the Molly Maguires. It seems that most of the bodymasters, the so-called leaders of these chapters, are men from Donegal. And even the Catholic clergy in Schuylkill have condemned many of their activities.

  “But the good news is that the AOH has accepted our man. He’s one of them now. He’s taken their secret oath; learned their passwords and handshakes. They trust him. And because they do, he’s been able to learn much.”

  “Anything relevant to Father’s case?” Kate laid the wad of netting on the bed, then joined him by the desk.

  “No. But our man is slowly compiling a list of those who might be involved with the Mollies. And . . . it seems your friend, Patrick O’Brien, is one of them. I thought I should warn you. I know how friendly your mother has been with the O’Briens. But now that Mrs. O’Brien has moved to Pittsburg, she should distance herself from Patrick. It would be best. If our agent is able to build a case against him, it may not go well with his associates. Questions will be asked.”

  “You’re not suggesting that Mother will be linked to the Mollies?”

  “No, only . . . well, with your father’s trial still so fresh, I thought you’d want to avoid any notoriety.” He touched her sleeve. “Truthfully, I was thinking mostly of you. I didn’t want you to experience anymore embarrassment or . . . pain.” He removed his hand and let it drift to the dusty hat on his desk. “But there’s another point. Our agent thinks Patrick O’Brien might be dangerous. He may be linked with some violence in the past. You and your family need to understand that.”

  “I see. Of course I’ll let them know,” Kate said, leading him to the door. “And thank you for telling me.”

  Joshua raked his mop of hair. “Someday I’d like you to see me as I really am, properly dressed and groomed.” He looked at her a bit too intently and stood a bit too close. His hand went to the knob, and before she could say a word, he opened the door and there was Mother coming from Mr. Thumbolt’s room. She paused, lowered her eyes, then quickly descended the stairs. But the expression on her face told Kate she was clearly scandalized.

  Goodness. How was she going to explain this?

  Kate wished her black-laced boots didn’t make such a loud tapping noise as she walked across the large terra-cotta tiles of the kitchen floor, a floor covered in rag carpet only in winter. Even the cheerful walls, freshly painted with yellow ocher wash, failed to elevate her mood.

  Normally she loved being here. It was the only room she really enjoyed, now, other than their back parlor. She loved its spaciousness, and the fact that it ran across the entire left side of the house instead of the back, which was more customary. But this position afforded them a wonderful panorama of the hills and woods without the clutter of an outhouse or clothesline. It also gave them a good view of their prized tulip garden—the envy of Sweet Air, a
nd which was, even now, ablaze with color.

  Ignoring the wafting orders of herbs and drying meats hanging among the pots overhead, Kate went to the corner where Mother often spent time checking the barrels of buckwheat meal, flour, corn meal, and salt. No sign of her. But near the wall filled with shelves of crockery was the cloth-lined plate-rack. Kate noticed it already held dishes ready to be rolled in front of the hearth for warming before dinner. Mother’s handiwork to be sure. She was here somewhere.

  Kate rounded the corner and there she was, her plump body wrapped in a white apron, plucking a chicken. Kate’s stomach churned, though she didn’t understand why. Mother was reasonable. She would understand, once Kate explained things. Even so, Kate’s courage waned with every step as she passed the large double sink, the ovens and stoves, then crossed to the opposite wall where two sizable work tables were nestled beneath a large window. Kate came along side her mother and picked up a potato from the nearby pile. Then she peeled potatoes while her mother plucked chickens and all without either of them saying a word.

  By the time Mother plucked her fifth chicken, Kate had worked up her courage and finally shared Joshua’s information about Patrick O’Brien. She watched her mother salt and wash the chickens. Watched her tuck them into two large roasting pans. Why didn’t she say something? When her mother opened a small cask of raisins and stuffed them, along with several sprigs of rosemary, into the chicken-cavities, and all without a word, Kate blurted, “I’ve explained all this so you would understand why Mr. Adams and I were behind closed doors.”

  “I’m sorry to hear Patrick O’Brien is under suspicion.” Her mother wiped her hands on her apron and turned to Kate. “He’s an intense man but that doesn’t mean he’s dangerous or has done anything wrong. Your information will not change my attitude toward him, nor my involvement at the patch.”

  “No . . . I . . . didn’t think so.”

  “But it’s not Patrick O’Brien I’m concerned about. Don’t you know I never doubted your conduct? You don’t need an open door to behave like a lady. But it’s the others, those living with us. You know most of our boarders have little to occupy their time, so they fill it with gossip. Sweet Air is a small town, Kate. Something seen and misunderstood by a boarder could easily turn into a scandal. Surely you understand that. Scripture cautions us to flee even the appearance of evil.” Her mother folded Kate in her arms and kissed her cheek. “A woman’s reputation is a fragile thing. She must protect it.”

  Kate rested her head on her mother’s shoulder. Oh, how she wanted to weep like a child and tell her mother everything, the way she used to when things went wrong or were too hard. She wanted to tell her why Joshua Adams was really here, and about the rent money she had been collecting from him, and how she had violated his privacy, and even how she shouldn’t be behind closed doors with him because of the strange way he made her feel. Confessing to Mother always seemed to make things better. And perhaps she would have if her sisters had not suddenly burst into the kitchen and shattered the moment.

  When there was a knock on her door, Kate knew who it was. Earlier, she had asked Virginia to come to her room before retiring. She wanted to tell her about Patrick O’Brien, and this out of Charlotte’s hearing. There was no need to burden Charlotte with Joshua’s news. Charlotte never went to the patch so there was little likelihood of her ever seeing the man. And what good would it do to have Charlotte fretting over Mother’s continued patronage of Patrick O’Brien and how it might affect her standing with the Gaylords, should they find out?

  But Virginia was another matter. She had changed—running to Higgins Patch and the nearby collieries every minute. And for reasons she wouldn’t divulge. And Kate had not forgotten how that awful Patrick O’Brien had looked at Virginia when they had visited the patch with Joshua Adams. And afterward, too. She had seen how he stared at Virginia in a most brazen manner during Tom O’Brien’s wake. And even how the two had walked the path together.

  Another tap, and Kate opened the door.

  “You wanted to see me?” Virginia said, in her customary forthright manner. Her beautiful long hair, cascading over her shoulders and shimmering like fire in the dim lamp light, looked freshly brushed.

  Kate directed Virginia to the bed, where they both sat down. Then she quickly relayed Joshua’s information. “I’ve already told Mother. But I failed to dissuade her. I fear she’ll continue helping out at the patch without making the slightest effort to avoid this man, even though I stressed how dangerous he might be. Perhaps if you were to voice your concern, maybe that would do it. Will you try?”

  Virginia rose, her face nearly as red as her hair. “I will not. Why should we take the word of this . . . amateurish Pinkerton? And how did he come by his information? A rumor, an unkind remark, dropped at the Sweet Air Tavern?”

  “No . . . not the tavern. I’m sure his information is credible.”

  “Why? Because you like him? Because bringing him here was your idea. Because you . . . . But never mind. Just know I won’t try to dissuade Mother.”

  Kate was all astonishment. Though Charlotte was the purported beauty of the family, Kate had always considered Virginia even prettier with her flaming red hair, her dimpled cheek, her flawless skin, and dancing green eyes. And though Kate knew people teased Virginia about how all redheads had a temper, the truth was, Virginia rarely showed any, and only when she cared deeply about something. So why was she acting this way now? It didn’t make sense. “Virginia, I . . . don’t know what to say. You’re behaving so strangely. Why is this such a hard thing?”

  “Because . . . I have made his acquaintance, and I believe I know Patrick O’Brien well enough to say I have nothing to fear, therefore no reason to stop seeing him.”

  “Stop seeing him? Oh, Virginia, whatever do you mean?”

  “If you must know I’m planning to write articles for a friend of his at the Anthracite Monitor. In fact, I’ve already written one.”

  “The Anthracite Monitor? What about?”

  “The need for more Widow’s Rows.”

  “So that’s what you’ve been up to this past week; running out to all the collieries.”

  “Yes, and if Patrick likes it, he’ll . . . .”

  “Patrick? You say his name as if you were more than acquaintances. Is this what it’s come to? You running wild all over the countryside and keeping secrets and . . . .”

  “I’m not the only one keeping secrets. What about your secret?”

  “What secret?”

  “The one between you and Joshua Adams. Just how is it that he has been here nearly a month and you’re still able to pay him? With what? You haven’t even sold your quilt. And don’t tell me it’s because he’s only charging half price. Our money should have run out long ago.”

  “Well . . . I . . . that is . . . .”

  “Don’t bother explaining. You see, that’s the difference between us. Whatever the reason he’s still here, I know it’s all right, and I know it because I trust you. Why can’t you trust me, too?”

  “Maybe I know things you don’t; things I’m not at liberty to share. But believe me, Virginia, I do trust you. I just can’t say the same for Patrick O’Brien. He might be dangerous. You could get hurt. Your reputation could become sullied.” She folded her hands on her lap. “‘A woman’s reputation is a fragile thing. She must protect it,’” she said, quoting Mother and feeling like a hypocrite. “I love you, Virginia, and wish to spare you grief. And of course we must consider Father’s investigation.”

  “Ah . . . Father’s investigation. Now it comes out.” Virginia took the few steps to the door. “I’m sorry we don’t see things the same way, Kate, but I’ll not do as you ask, and that’s final.” She opened the door, then turned. “You know . . . I loved Father too. And things can’t always be your way.” With that, she left.

  Virginia hurried along the narrow, dusty path, clutchi
ng her good moiré skirt, trying to keep the hem from getting soiled. She moved so quickly she barely missed twisting her ankle in one of the ruts. Slow down, slow down, he’ll still be there. She tried ignoring the heat. It was unusually hot for this time of year, and the absence of a breeze made it uncomfortable.

  She wondered what Patrick wanted. His note arrived this morning, just before church, carried by little Michael O’Malley who had waited in front of her house while she penned a reply agreeing to this meeting.

  “Must see you,” was all his note said. Michael had to fill in the rest, relaying details of the time and place they were to meet. Thankfully, the house was in an uproar with everyone trying, at once, to ready themselves for morning service. Virginia knew it was only this confusion that prevented the appearance of a little one-handed boy, clad in overalls, and carrying a crumpled piece of brown paper, from being noticed.

  It had been difficult for Virginia to sit through the service and pastor’s sermon on “the importance of maintaining a clear conscience before God.” It had been difficult for her to help Mother and Kate and Charlotte prepare lunch for their boarders, then wait patiently while everyone ate like snails. And it had been difficult to hear the clock strike two and still be in the kitchen washing dishes, when that was the very hour she was to be at the old Catholic Church near Higgins Patch.

  Finally, at quarter after, when every dish was dried and put away, she took off her apron and declared she was “going for a stroll.” A nice, long Sunday stroll. And everyone believed her. Everyone except Kate, judging by the look on her face.

  Must see you. That sounded urgent. Virginia quickened her pace. What could it mean? Maybe it wasn’t urgent at all. Maybe she was reading too much into it. Maybe he just didn’t like her article. She found herself growing angry. That was hardly a reason to summon her like this. They had agreed that her articles, and any correspondences pertaining to them, would be couriered by Michael O’Malley.