Cindy Thomson - [Ellis Island 01] Read online

  She turned and kept her eyes on her feet and the trim of the red petticoat her mother had given her to travel in when she’d met her at the docks.

  Oh, Ma! When Grace had been able to look into her mother’s green-gray eyes, she found assurance. On the ship, Grace had tried to emblazon her mother’s face on her memory so it would always be there when she needed to see it. She’d even sketched her mother on some paper with a charcoal pencil another passenger gave her. She had the sketch in her bag with her meager belongings. Not much, but all she had now.

  “Thanks be to God.” “God have mercy.” “God bless our souls.” “The grace of God on all who enter.” . . . Her mother never failed to acknowledge God. She was a good woman. The best. Grace was so far away now from that umbrella of assurance.

  She focused on the immigration official calling out names. Survival was human instinct, and humans adapted. She’d learned to do it once before. Perhaps she could manage to exorcise her father’s voice from her head, the one that told her she was incapable, and actually make a life, a good life, for herself in America.

  Grace’s mother had held her at arm’s length when they said good-bye on the docks in Dublin. She’d rubbed Grace’s cheeks with her thumbs. “The best thing for you is to go to America. You are not a child anymore. I could not let you stay in the workhouse. Don’t I know how hard it is for a grown woman to keep her dignity there.”

  Grace had tried pleading with her. “Take me home with you. I’ll be polite to S. P. . . . I promise.”

  But her mother wouldn’t hear of it. “There’s no life here for you, Grace. Fly free, Daughter. Find your way. ’Tis a blessing you can go.”

  Grace had told her mother she couldn’t do it. Not alone. Not without her.

  “Listen to me,” her mother had said, tugging Grace’s chin upward with her finger. “I don’t care what lies your father once spoke to you, darlin’. To us both. Pity his departed soul that he left us with no choice but the workhouse. But promise me you will not think of the things he said to you. Remember instead this: You are smart. You are important. You are able.”

  If she could prosper as her mother had asked her to, then perhaps her mother might choose to come to America too, a place where she would not need S. P. Feeny. Grace would make it happen. Somehow. She had to. Her hands trembled as she held tight to her traveling bag.

  Grace’s face grew hot. She lifted a shoulder to her chin, hoping her embarrassment didn’t show. She didn’t want to speak to a peeler—or whatever they called them in America. But she was stuck, shoved into a hot electric-powered car with more people than she thought it should safely hold. The man had addressed her and asked her a question. She had to respond. She spoke toward her feet. “I am well. I come from County Louth.”

  The large man leaned down toward her. “You say you are from County Louth, miss?”

  “I am.”

  “Is that so?” He let loose a low whistle. “My people come from Tullamore. We might be neighbors or cousins or something.”

  The woman with Grace, who’d introduced herself as Mrs. Hawkins, chuckled. “You’re all cousins, love, all of you from ole Erin.”

  Grace was no kin to men like that, and if she were, she would disown them straight away. These are the men who force poor families from their homes and send them to workhouses the minute they can’t pay rent.

  There was a lull in the conversation as the car pulled them through an intersection. She heard the peeler’s breath catch. She dared to look at him. He was staring out at the street. He did not seem formidable at all and perhaps was even a little uneasy riding on the streetcar. Odd, that.

  Grace glanced back down, studying the shoes surrounding her, trying to focus on the future instead of dwelling on the past. She was in the “Land of Opportunity,” after all. She hoped not to associate with folks she didn’t care to.

  She clutched the bag containing her treasured drawing pencil, wee pad of paper, and a small card bearing the address of that Ellis Island photographer, Mr. Sherman, who had taken her photograph.

  2

  OWEN MCNULTY rarely took the streetcar, but he was late, so he’d made an exception, trying not to think about the fact that so many of them were involved in accidents every day. He had checked the street before he hopped on. Seemed safe enough.

  After he’d ridden for a few minutes, the car had stopped near the Battery and he realized he’d gotten on going in the wrong direction. He’d be riding longer than he cared to, but at least now that the car was at the tip of Manhattan, it would be turning north again shortly. A crowd of people had gotten on, mostly new arrivals from Ellis Island, judging by the native dress he saw. Perhaps if he rode more frequently, he would be accustomed to seeing new immigrant girls like the one standing just beyond his right elbow. No longer on Ellis Island, she shouldn’t be as frightened as she now appeared. She’d made it, and, he noticed, she was accompanied by a woman from his church.

  Since the young woman seemed reluctant to exchange pleasantries, he turned to her companion. “Pleasant day, Mrs. Hawkins.”

  “Indeed it is.” She smiled at the petite, auburn-haired young woman next to her. Owen followed the woman’s gaze. When it landed on the girl’s tattered red petticoat, she sighed. “I’ve begun a new outreach, Officer. Now that I have my housekeeper, I’m getting boarders.”

  “Isn’t that fine.” He glanced again at the girl, who did not look up. “And you, Miss From-County-Louth, what is your name, if you please?” Owen tipped his hat at the meek girl even though she refused to look at him.

  She mumbled, “I was assured I passed the inspection.”

  “Easy, lass. Just being friendly.” He looked to Mrs. Hawkins, who in turn stared down her large nose at the girl as they all gripped overhead rails to steady themselves while the trolley car maneuvered up the brick street.

  “Miss Grace McCaffery,” Mrs. Hawkins said, clearing her throat. “You may speak to police officers. There is no harm in it.”

  Owen chuckled to himself. The girl might not realize it, but he really was no threat to her. There was plenty of menace to be found in Lower Manhattan, however, and she was fortunate indeed to be in the care of such a kind protector as Mrs. Agnes Hawkins.

  “Going to see Reverend Clarke?” Owen knew the man counseled new arrivals from time to time. He and Mrs. Hawkins and probably many others among First Church’s congregants took seriously the need for missionary outreach to immigrants.

  The girl named Grace finally glanced up in his direction but stared past his shoulder. He got only a quick peek at her wide blue eyes before she lowered them again. But that was enough time for him to see just how vulnerable she felt . . . and how attractive she was.

  Later, while working his beat, Owen’s thoughts wavered between that frightened immigrant girl and his job as he marched down a crowded street. He contemplated whether having a partner to work with would be beneficial. Like it or not, the captain had told him to expect as much when the new assignments were doled out. “You need someone with you, McNulty,” the captain had said. “Someone folks might be more . . . at ease with.” Owen worried that the captain might have lost confidence in him.

  A group of vagrants clustered against a warehouse wall stood straighter when Owen approached. “Good day to you, Officer.”

  Owen nodded. His first anniversary on the force had passed, but he knew most of the locals still saw him as a college boy and not one of them.

  He paused at an oyster vendor. “Packing up for the day. Here, Officer. Try?”

  Owen accepted the sample handed to him on a half shell. He sniffed. “Ah, smells like the sea.” He swallowed the salty delight. Even the Waldorf could not compete. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he pointed to the seaman’s wares. “Very good and fresh, Oliver.”

  “Thank you. Got a family, Officer? You can take some.”

  “No. But thank you.”

  It was a pleasant exchange. Most of the conversations he had on his beat were. B
ut it was all superficial. He needed the local people to trust him and confide in him.

  Oliver waved. “You should get married, Officer. Find a girl from home.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Good night, Oliver.”

  The man continued shoveling ice from his cart into buckets.

  Owen moved on down the sidewalk.

  Now that he’d passed his twenty-third birthday, Owen realized most of his childhood friends were married, some with children. Owen might have been too if he hadn’t changed course. His life had turned out to be vastly different than most anyone expected, even the folks living and working in Owen’s beat, who still seemed to think he belonged uptown instead of in their neighborhoods.

  Before the night was over, Owen would head toward the mission, the late-night part of his rounds—for now, anyway, until his assignment changed, as it so often did. He looked forward to patrolling near First Church, where he was welcomed, a little island of respite.

  Well, most folks embraced him there. He thought again about that new girl, Grace, who had avoided him like the smallpox. Definitely something amiss with her. Had there ever been a clearer expression of fear and uncertainty than what he’d seen on Grace?

  He continued on his rounds. Buildings, being constructed further toward the sky month by month, threatened to suck him down into their shadows. There was much more light and fresher air up Fifth Avenue, where residents did not have to look at the filth lining the rivers on both sides of Manhattan. But if he were going to help where help was most needed, he had to patrol where the rats roamed like buzzards. He was needed here. He had no regrets about that.

  Owen paused to watch some of the trolley cars pass up the street. Each one served to remind him that his role was not that of a rich son laboring ever so leisurely in his father’s vast dry goods business. Not anymore. Owen believed God wanted him to be employed helping folks, especially those riding on trolleys.

  3

  WHEN THEY LEFT THE TROLLEY, Mrs. Hawkins took Grace’s arm. “You’ll learn soon enough, love. Be respectful to the New York police, and they’ll be there when you need them. Treat them rudely, and spend the rest of your days looking behind you in dark alleys.”

  Och, nothing was different here. Grace would try harder. She did not want to be bullied. Not ever again.

  They approached a brown brick building with Irish Immigrant Society painted on the side. Mrs. Hawkins rang a bell on the front door. A thin woman with gray hair pulled back in a tight bun answered the door.

  “Good day, Edwina. I have Miss Grace McCaffery here to see the reverend. Grace, this is Mrs. Reilly.”

  The woman showed them in and bade them wait in a front room. Mrs. Hawkins smiled when Grace raised her head.

  “You’re most welcome here, lass. Do try to relax.”

  Grace let out a breath. “I’m sorry.”

  “Well, now. We know how unusual all of this is to you. Quite understandable. But before long you’ll be all settled in and you’ll be calling yourself American like all the rest.”

  This woman was as British as the workhouse master, but not nearly as coldhearted. Ma would like her.

  When Grace heard someone approaching from the hall, a chilling thought gripped her. Welcome? She wasn’t sure what that meant exactly. They might want something from her. There had to be a price for—

  She gazed around the room. Clean, tidy. If S. P. had indentured Grace or sold her into servitude . . .

  The woman named Mrs. Reilly returned. “Perhaps you’d like to tidy up, child? I’ll show you to the washroom.”

  Grace hesitated.

  “Go along, love. Leave your bag here with me.”

  Grace rose and followed the other woman down a hallway until she stopped. She flung open a door and pointed. “In here.” She pulled on a cord and light lit up the room.

  There was a basin and a stack of towels and a toilet. One toilet?

  “Go ahead and clean up. There is soap in the dish on the basin. When you’re done, come back to the parlor. The reverend is finishing up some business and he’ll be with you shortly.” She closed the door behind her, leaving Grace completely alone. She didn’t think she’d ever been the only person in a room before, ever.

  Tears sprang to her eyes as she rinsed ringlets of dirt from her arms in the washing basin. After she dried off, she hung the towel back on the rail fastened to the side of the basin stand. Whatever these people expected from her could not be as miserable as the workhouse or living with her always-drunken father before that, could it?

  She noticed a small window in the corner of the room and drew back the curtains to study the moving shapes on the sidewalk outside. The folks in America were different. They walked faster, whistled less, and seemed so . . . so busy. But so far she hadn’t seen any workhouses or locked doors. The sky might be darker, the air heavy with soot, and the city overcrowded, but she was safe, for now. Free to walk out that door and into that street if she desired. Free to talk to anyone she pleased. Free to lie down right now if—

  A knock resounded on the door. “Are you all right in there?”

  Grace opened the door.

  As she followed the woman down a corridor that she said connected the reverend’s residence to the church, Grace marveled at how elegant everything was. She must have gawked because the woman paused. “Different from where you are from?”

  “It is.” She thought there might be some scheme that allowed the reverend such a comfortable dwelling. “May I ask a question?”

  “You may.”

  “Who pays for all this?”

  The woman shrugged her narrow shoulders. “The church, child. You know. Tithes.”

  “The government . . . ?” Dare she even ask after the government-run house she’d come from?

  “The church, I said.”

  “I just . . . ,” Grace whispered. “Is this a workhouse?”

  The woman cocked her head to one side. “This look like a workhouse? What are those castles like in Ireland? Palaces? If we don’t meet your standards—”

  “Nay. I do not mean that at all. This is very nice. Much better than from where I came.”

  “Odd one, you are, Grace McCaffery. C’mon. You’ll meet Reverend Clarke now.”

  They stopped at a closed door and the woman tapped softly.

  “Come in,” a voice boomed from the other side.

  Mrs. Reilly opened the door and waved an arm to usher Grace inside. A man sitting behind a polished desk removed his spectacles as she walked in. His blue eyes widened as though Grace were a long-lost relative. “Ah, a new arrival. Come in, child.”

  Such hospitality was not what Grace had expected, at least not from the man in charge. He must be hiding something.

  Her escort left, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  “I’m Reverend Clarke. Was your passage agreeable?” He pointed to a chair.

  Grace folded her hands in her lap. “Thank you, sir, for allowing me to come here. I won’t impose any more than necessary.”

  He smiled. “You are most welcome. We’ll help you get settled.” He tapped some papers on his desk. “Now, let’s get some information about you and see what we can do about finding employment.” He glanced up from the ledger in front of him. “You’ve eaten, haven’t you?”

  While Grace could have purchased food at Ellis Island, she’d chosen to hang on to her money because she didn’t know what she might need to pay for later. “Nay, uh, no, but I’m fine.”

  “What!”

  Grace pressed her back against the chair at his shout.

  He bolted to his feet and scrambled around her to open the door wide. “Just arrived and you’ve probably been hours at the immigration station.” He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Edwina, come here!”

  Mrs. Reilly appeared, wearing an apron.

  Grace blew out the breath she’d been holding.

  “The poor dear hasn’t eaten. Would you bring her a biscuit and some tea?”

 
“Certainly.” She turned to leave.

  The reverend snapped his fingers. “And some of that pork we had with breakfast. And an apple or two.”

  Grace’s stomach rumbled.

  Mrs. Reilly turned back. “Two cups for tea?”

  He chuckled. “Well, I might have a bite as well. Can’t let the girl sup alone, now can we?” He smacked his lips. “See that Mrs. Hawkins is served as well while she’s waiting, won’t you?”

  “I planned to, but are you sure you want all that?”

  “Indeed.” He wiggled one hand in front of his chest.

  The woman rolled her eyes, but the reverend didn’t seem to mind her lack of respect. How different things were in America.

  He turned his attention back to Grace. “We will help you find a good job. That’s why you’ve come, yes?”

  “Aye, yes, but . . . Reverend Clarke, may I ask a question?”

  “Certainly.”

  “What is my obligation here?”

  “You have none, other than to observe proper morals and help Mrs. Hawkins with chores. You’ll be staying with her. You were referred to us as someone who needs a bit of help to get established, and that’s what we do.”

  “Why?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why do you want to help me? Did my mother’s husband pay you?”

  “We don’t accept payment, Miss McCaffery. This is a charity, an outreach mission. Mr. Feeny? That’s it, isn’t it?” He hurried back to look again at his ledger.

  “Aye. That is his name.”

  “He asked if we could help you, and I replied positively.”

  She did not want to talk about that man. “So you want to help me?”

  “Ah, yes. Well, we do expect you to apply yourself, but we are doing the work of our Lord.”

  Grace pondered that. Her mother trusted God. This was a man of God. Mrs. Hawkins was pleasant. Grace didn’t know if God would accept her, but these people wanted to help, so . . . maybe, just maybe, things would work out.