Grace's Pictures (18 page)

“I haven’t done anything—”

“I’m not accusing you of anything, Grace. Let me be clear.”

Please, get on with it.

“I want to keep you on.”

She let her shoulders relax.

“Mrs. Parker, please understand, does not have the patience for the children’s antics. Oh, she adores them, of course. She just needs her private space and time to garden once the baby comes. You understand. She is somewhat . . . shall we say, hermetical in disposition.”

She did not understand, but she nodded anyway.

“I had hoped for a nanny, but Mrs. Parker sees the need for housekeeping as well.”

Was the man blind?

“So I am willing to have you work these long days.” He placed the open magazine on his lap to free his hands for expression. “But you are leaving quite late and unescorted. Reverend Clarke brought this to my attention. He’s still very much concerned for your well-being, Grace.”

“He is a fine man.” The only trustworthy man she’d met.

“I agree. And we do not think it’s best for you to be traveling back and forth alone.”

A wee knock came from the front door. She stood.

“There he is now.” Mr. Parker hurried to the door. Placing his hand on the doorknob, he turned back to her. “I’ve taken the liberty of arranging an escort for you. I’ve gotten permission from his captain to allow him to take the necessary time out from his usual duties. He’s on the night shift.”

Captain? Night shift? He didn’t mean he’d hired a policeman, did he?

Mr. Parker swung the door open and in stepped Owen McNulty, flashing his famous smile. Of all the people, how did he . . . ?

“Mrs. Hawkins told me you two were acquainted, and I’ve met Officer McNulty at church,” Mr. Parker said.

After what she’d overheard before she was hired, she couldn’t imagine Mrs. Parker would be happy about this. “Does Mrs. Parker know?”

“She’ll abide by my wishes.”

Grace’s knees went weak and she had to sit back down to recover.

Mr. Parker frowned. “I thought you’d be pleased to have the company.”

He had no idea. He couldn’t know. Grace was beginning to find Owen completely charming and that worried her. She did not yet know if he was cut from a different bolt of cloth than the Irish peelers. If he were another Harold Hawkins, all would be well. But she didn’t know if that could be.

“He’s on duty, you understand. So he’s honor bound to deliver you to Hawkins House safely. He protects the citizenry. I know for a fact, Grace, he is reputable and an upstanding member of the congregation of First Church.”

“Aye, yes.”

“Good, then. Are you ready?” Mr. Parker was still holding the door ajar.

When they stepped out into the night, Owen did not seem any more comfortable with the arrangement than she was.

“I’m sorry to take you from your work, Officer. This was Mr. Parker’s idea.”

He rubbed his chin. “It’s not that I mind. I’ve been happy to escort you home previously, Miss McCaffery.”

“You do not seem happy about it. I understand.”

He shook his head. “I would be very happy indeed, under different circumstances.”

“I see.”

“I’m on a special assignment. I just have that on my mind.”

“I knew it was an inconvenience.”

“No, no. I’ll be handing this duty over to Jake.” Owen stood in the aisle of the nearly deserted train while she sat.

“Who is Jake?”

“My new partner. Just transferred over from Brooklyn. He won’t mind.” Finally he looked her in the eye. “He’s a fine fellow. Since you seem . . . uncomfortable with me anyway—”

“I am not uncomfortable.” She shifted in her seat, knowing she’d not spoken the truth. “Thank you for your help. ’Tis just that I didn’t expect this.”

“You can trust Jake.”

Truly?

He smacked his lips. “I would be happy to escort you myself. It’s just that there is this special duty in the park. Well, I can’t say any more about it, but I’ll be engaged for some time.”

“I see.” The park? There were many parks in Manhattan. “You don’t mean Battery Park?”

“Like I said, I can’t say much about it.” He lowered his voice. “I saw you there once. Don’t go there alone anymore.”

“You were spying on me?” Didn’t she know as much? Her first instincts had been true.
A peeler is a peeler.

“No. I . . . uh . . . I patrol there sometimes.”

“I would prefer someone else to escort me. Like you said, the police are otherwise engaged.”

“As you wish. But please don’t misunderstand, Miss McCaffery. Under normal circumstances—”

“No. Nay. I do understand. Reverend Clarke might suggest someone for me.”

“Whatever pleases you, Miss McCaffery. I really should be
about official business. You know, catching the robbers and such.”

He referred to a snide remark she had once made to him. Her face hot, she kept silent for the rest of the journey.

Owen felt like kicking himself. Grace hadn’t deserved to be the target of his frustration. How was she to know that he had been struggling between spending time with her and keeping his mind on his duties?

Owen eased his large frame down onto his bed. His legs throbbed. The slug he’d received in that Canal Street alley had bruised him up good. He was ecstatic to see his bed.

He rubbed both hands over his face and stared at the ceiling medallion. He rolled to one side.

Is this worth it, God? Did you make a mistake sending the rich boy to do this job? Who am I?

He knew who he wanted to be. A decent man with a wife and children. A family man. Someone worthy of the confidence Reverend Clarke put in him to show Christ to the downtrodden. He pulled his tightly woven blanket, the one his long-departed granny had brought from Ireland, over his head.

He reached for the watch chain on the bedside table and brought it close. Sighing, he put it back, wondering if he’d get any sleep.

And whose are you, Owen?

The question came to him in a jolt like a cold slap of wind.

He got out of bed and wandered over to the window. The elevated train stood demon-like. When the weather was better, he could lean out and get a view of the steeple on Trinity Church. But now only steel, steam, and black train rails rose
stoic against gray structures. He had not been born here, hadn’t lived here out of necessity like everyone else around him. Owen had come to the bowels of the city by choice. And at times it seemed to swallow him alive. Logic said he should get out, save himself. Go help his father with the business. But he still felt burdened by a desire to stay, to help, to do what Officer O’Toole no longer could.

Frustrated by the fact that Grace McCaffery and others like her still shut him out, he picked up the watch and flung it against the wall. He never should have insinuated that he was too busy for her.

The watch bounced and slid underneath his bed. Regretting his outburst, he retrieved it. The watch survived his temper.

He had no other direction for his life. Just one. The one the streetcar accident had pointed to.

The sound of screeching metal brought him back to the window. A train had stopped on the tracks. As though cloaked in disguise, black shadows of men slid from the train and moved back and forth on the elevated platform.

Owen went back to his bed, derailed, stuck, and in desperate need of One to drive his life for him. He drifted off to sleep in a cloud of prayer.

16

AFTER CHURCH ON SUNDAY,
Grace requested a meeting with Reverend Clarke.

“An escort, you say?” He rubbed his watery blue eyes as he leaned on the desk in his study.

“Aye. To ease the mind of my employer, who does not want me traveling alone after dark.”

“That’s right. I suggested it. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I know you cannot see me home every night, Reverend, although I did enjoy your company.”

He laughed. “As did I yours, child. And you say the New York police will not be sufficient for this job?”

She shifted on her chair. “I do appreciate your recommendation, Reverend.” She inhaled before continuing. “I just think they are so busy doing more important work keeping the city safe.”

“You are probably right about that. Hmm. Let me see. There is Mr. Crawley. He’s a widower, quite lonely but respectable of course. He’s an octogenarian but very ambulatory for his age.”

“Perfect.”

The reverend stood, steadying himself with his palms on the surface of his desk. “He should be in the sanctuary trimming the Advent candles. I’ll go check with him.”

“Thank you.”

“Wait here, dear. I won’t be a moment.”

She helped herself to tea while she waited. Sipping the rich dark liquid, she gazed about the study. The man with the kind blue eyes had told her he didn’t understand God completely. They had that in common. But he still professed a faith, like her mother’s, that was foreign to Grace. She needed to be with people like that, draw from their strength. She wondered if she might someday take Reverend Clarke’s photograph, the way she’d seen Mr. Sherman do with the minister at St. John’s.

When Reverend Clarke returned, he brought an older gentleman with him. “Miss Grace McCaffery, this is Mr. Crawley.”

He was tall and thin and wore wide black shoes. Despite his furrowed face, he had a smile that seemed to light the dark corners of the room.

“Pleased to meet you.” She held out her hand.

Mr. Crawley had blue eyes like the reverend, although a bit more faded with age.

He patted her hand. “I’m the one to be pleased to be escorting such a pretty young girl.” He bowed, indeed limber for his age as Reverend Clarke had said. “I vow to keep all ill-intentioned young men from your presence, my dear.”

She laughed. “Lovely. When can you start? I can promise you a muffin most every evening when you pick me up and scones when I’ve time to make them.”

He glanced to the reverend. “What a deal that is, Reverend. I’ll be glad to help, once I finish the Christmas preparations here at the church.”

The reverend gripped the man’s shoulder. “And I do appreciate your help with that, Mr. Crawley. I’ll escort Grace tomorrow. Then you can take over after Christmas. That all right, Grace?”

“Aye. Yes. But, Reverend, so close to your special services. Will you have time?” She should have realized how much she was imposing.

“Oh, I will have time, I expect. Deliver just about the same message every Christmas.” He laughed. “I think I know it well enough.”

“Are you sure?”

“Indeed. I am happy to oblige.” His face lit up with sincerity not unlike the wee lad she looked after, Linden.

“Thank you both.”

Right after the midday Sunday meal, Grace planned to spend some time outside with her camera. Remembering that daylight was limited, and because photo taking was nearly impossible indoors, Grace took her camera on a stroll through the neighborhood. “I won’t be gone long,” she called to Mrs. Hawkins.

“Take someone with you,” she answered back. “Annie?”

Annie stared at her from behind a mound of dirty dishes. Grace realized she shouldn’t run off and leave Annie with all the chores. “I should help you.”

“I can manage. I’ll let you scrub the bathtub later.” She winked. “Taking your camera out?”

“I hoped to.”

“Go along, but stay on our street and don’t go more than three houses down. If you’re not back in twenty minutes, she’ll have my head.”

“I’ll hurry.” Leaving her satchel behind so she could manage better, Grace slipped out the kitchen door. She had gone no more than five paces when a couple stopped her.

“Look at that, Charles.”

The man tilted his head to examine Grace’s camera. “I do believe that’s one of those Brownie cameras. Am I right, miss?”

“’Tis. Excuse me. I have to—”

“May I see it?” The man reached for the camera.

Grace sighed and allowed him to hold it. Tapping her foot impatiently, she looked up and tried to determine how much daylight was left, but the towering tenements hid most of the sky. In Ireland she could tell time by the sun even without the workhouse clock ticking away the hours.