A Song Across the Sea (32 page)

It wasn’t easy living on her salary. She’d insisted that Sheila continue her schooling, though the girl didn’t devote much energy to it. Sheila caused her other worries, too. Tara tried to keep her young cousin to the upper floor, but Sheila showed a distinct preference for the tavern and the men she met in it. The patrons of this wretched place were the refuse of the city: scoundrels, criminals, drunkards and the kind of women who went with men for money. Tara almost wished Sheila were still keeping company with James. At least he was a clean, decent lad. But Sheila had only met with him once since they’d left the boarding house, to tell him good-bye. He lived too far away now, Sheila said. Tara suspected she’d simply grown tired of him. It was a relief. She needed no trail from their old lives that might lead Muldoon to their present hiding place.

Mrs. McGuigan did nothing to discourage Sheila from loitering about the place, young as the girl was. The same cozy arrangement with the police that allowed her to remain quietly open on Sundays—when taverns were supposed to be closed—made her indifferent to the illegality of having an underage girl on the premises. Sheila was pretty and unlike Tara, friendly to the tavern’s male customers.

Tara finished with the floor and stood up, her lower back aching, her hands red and raw.

Sheila came into the tavern when she was nearly done washing the glasses. She was accompanied by Webb, a dissolute-looking man with a greasy black beard and a slick, ingratiating smile. Tara thoroughly distrusted him.

“Did you hear, Kitty?” Sheila said. “The Germans went and sank a British liner. Just like that! Webb was after tellin’ me all about it. What was the name of the ship again, Webb?”

“The Lusitania,” he answered, looking bored.

Sheila continued with her big news. “It was terrible. Thousands of people were drowned. A lot of them Americans.”

Tara closed her eyes for a moment, the nightmare of the Titanic’s sinking coming back to her in an instant. Those poor people. She could imagine their terror as the cold water closed over them. And the memory that she tried so hard to keep at bay washed over her: poor Paddy.

“Are you all right, Ta—Kitty?” Sheila, bless her heart, actually noticed that something was wrong.

“Just tired. Tired of it all, I think.” She wasn’t sure whether she meant the war in Europe or her own trials.

Sheila and Webb went to sit at a table in the corner. Tara didn’t like the intimate way Webb linked hands with his cousin. He was far too old for Sheila, had been in some troubles with the police. Tara was sure he had no intention of marrying her cousin.

A warning bell went off in the back of her head. She needed to find a better environment for both of them, before it was too late.

It was time for Tara to shake herself out of her stupor and make some changes.

•  •  •

Fifth Avenue. This was where the biggest, grandest mansions were. “Millionaire’s Row,” it was called. The first door she rang at was answered by a maid who stared rudely at Tara’s less-than-stylish clothing.

“We have no positions available here,” she said curtly. “And the next house you apply at, you might think about using the servants’ entrance. You’ll find it around the back.” With that, she shut the door in Tara’s face.

Tara’s next attempt went a little better. At the servants’ entrance she was greeted by a friendly cook who let her sit in the kitchen and drink a cup of tea while she waited to speak to the head housekeeper.

“Have you any experience as a maid?” the housekeeper asked her.

“No, but I’ve served in a tavern.”

That was the end of that interview. At each mansion, Tara learned a new lesson. In addition to using the servants’ entrance and not mentioning her tavern employment (girls who did such work were thought to be slatternly), she needed a letter of reference extolling her skills as a maid and her high moral character. How could she possibly get one?

Her day off from the tavern was passing by quickly, with poor results so far. She would try a few more mansions. At the next one, the pinched face of the maid who answered the door seemed familiar to her. She tried to place it. Somehow it seemed important to remember.

“We’ve no openings here,” the maid said impatiently.

Just then an anxious, high-pitched voice pealed out from a nearby room. “Brigid? Brigid, where are you?”

Of course! After all these years, Tara was surprised at how quickly the name came back to her. Brigid Connelly. The arrogant visitor to her mother’s parlor.

Tara jammed her foot in the door just as Brigid went to close it on her.

“Brigid Connelly,” she said forcefully. “Do ye not remember me? I’m Tara McLaughlin, from your own county back in Ireland. You visited me mither and told tales about the grand home you had in America.”

Brigid looked panic-stricken. “I told you. We’ve no need for more staff at the moment. You could come back at a later—”

“Brigid!” The shrill voice was closer.

“Is that the woman of the house? D’ya think she’d like to hear about the tales you told us? Wouldn’t she be surprised to know that this is
your
mansion, and not hers?”

Brigid inhaled sharply. The woman of the house suddenly appeared at her side. Tara could understand why it had taken her so long to get there. The absurd, trendy hobble skirt she wore limited her to short, mincing steps. As full-figured as she was, the style did not flatter her.

“Didn’t you hear me, Brigid?” she said breathlessly. “I need another server in the main dining room. That clumsy girl—oh, what is her name—dropped my silver tureen, and there’s cream of barley soup all over the floor.” She noticed Tara. “And who is this?”

“A friend of hers from Ireland, mum,” Tara said quickly, shaping her tone into a suitably subservient one. “Brigid always said how much she enjoyed working for you. What a lovely home you had. I was hopin’ to find work here as a maid.”

“Oh, I’m afraid we’ve no openings at present. Cook!” she shrilled. “Where is that boiled ox tongue?” And she was gone.

Brigid looked at Tara consideringly. “I appreciate your not tellin’ her about me little stories. You’ve done me a good turn so I’ll do you one as well. There’s a home just up the street from here that’s needin’a maid. One of their girls just left to get married.”

“I’ll need a letter of reference.” Tara was not about to let this opportunity get away.

Momentarily taken aback by Tara’s boldness, Brigid nonetheless shrugged. “Fine. I’ll give you a note to take to the head of staff there. She’s a particular friend of mine. You’ll get the job for sure.”

“I’m grateful to you, Brigid,” Tara said sincerely, feeling just a little guilty at the way in which she’d blackmailed the other woman into helping her. The qualm passed quickly. She needed a new job and had done what she had to do to get it. “Which house is it?

“It’ll not be hard to find. I’ll write down the address for ya. It’s grander than this one, even. Set back behind a wrought iron fence.

“It’s the Millinder mansion.”

“P
resident Wilson has it right, to my way of thinking. Let the Europeans handle their own petty squabbles. Why even entertain the idea of getting mixed up in it?”

Having delivered himself of this opinion, Mr. Wilfred Dunphrey gave his attention over to the plate of roast spring lamb with mint sauce that Tara placed in front of him. Garnished artfully with sliced cucumbers and dressed lettuce, it made a pretty picture.

“It’s hardly a petty squabble, Father.” Hollowell Dunphrey, brimming with youthful intensity, was eager for a spirited yet civilized argument. “After all, the Germans seem intent on sinking just about every ship on the high seas!”

“It’s not even safe to travel to Europe anymore. What a shame. I do so miss it.” Eleanor Dunphrey, a bosomy woman with a deep, mannish voice directed these remarks to Adrienne, hoping to entice her hostess into the conversation.

“Ah went there many times, when Ah was young,” Adrienne said wistfully.

“War! War! War!” Lila Dunphrey cried out petulantly. “I’m sick to death of hearing the word, ‘war.’ Is that all anyone can talk of these days?”

Emory Millinder leaned forward, ever the genial host. It was, Tara knew already, his favorite role.

“Now, now, my dear Miss Dunphrey. There’s no need to trouble yourself. Your father is right. The civil war in Europe has little to do with us.”

“Oh really, Emory?” Wilfred Dunphrey looked up slyly from his dinner. “Is that why you’ve just purchased that munitions factory in Cleveland?”

Emory chuckled jovially and signaled Tara to refill his wine glass.

“There’s no reason why a man can’t profit from the idiocy of others.”

Wilfred wasn’t finished with his joke yet. “Then tell me: which side do you intend to sell to?”

Emory thought for a moment.

“Both.”

Everyone laughed at that. Even Adrienne managed a tremulous smile, but Tara could tell the evening was a strain on her, even though this was a fairly small dinner party. She ate little. Tara knew she was waiting a respectable amount of time until she could make apologies and retire to her room, leaving Emory to finish entertaining the guests in the drawing room. It was a pattern Tara had seen played out again and again in the few months she’d worked here.

Tara couldn’t blame her tonight. These Dunphreys were a tiresome lot. When Lila Dunphrey handed her kid gloves to Tara at the door, she looked as if she half-expected Tara to steal them.

“Why do they entertain so much, as ill is Mrs. Millinder is?” she’d asked Cook once.

“It’s him. He’s the one who wants all the parties. He’s a social climber, he is. Doesn’t care a fig that it’s hard on her, as long as he can have his fancy friends over and show off the mansion. She’s a lady. Comes from old money in the South. But he’s new to it. His father,” Cook hissed viciously, “was an undertaker.”

The mansion was, indeed, deserving of being “shown off,” thought Tara. She stood against a wall, making herself invisible until needed—as she’d been trained to—and stole glances around her. The dining room alone was magnificent. As much time as she spent serving in here, she never entered it without thrilling to its grandeur.

The carved teak table—now covered by an Irish lace cloth—would have overpowered a room of lesser proportions. Fortunately, the dining room was quite long, and the red alabaster columns lining the walls drew the eye upward to gilded cornices and an ornate beamed ceiling two stories overhead. Antique tapestries on the walls gave the room a rich texture. Dresden urns gleamed like plump, blank-faced sentinels on either side of the twin onyx-faced fireplaces.

She remembered that Mr. Dunphrey the Senior owned several banks. Possibly, the Dunphrey home was even grander than this one, though that was hard to imagine.

Mr. Millinder was looking her way in annoyance. What was needed? He would not, of course, simply tell her. She scanned the table. It was not time for dessert yet. Everyone had wine aplenty. One of the other maids caught her eyes and motioned toward something at Mr. Millinder’s elbow.

Of course. The crystal salt cellar was nearly empty! It was an unacceptable state of affairs. Her starched uniform rustled softly as she stepped forward to remove the offending object and take it to the kitchen. She was careful not to drop the tiny silver spoon that nestled in the salt cellar.

The spoon drew her attention to something else. The sterling silver fork resting on Mr. Millinder’s plate bore a scrolling, magisterial “W” on its handle, as did the rest of the silverware. Why a W and not an M? She must remember to ask Cook about it.

Not too much longer now. In a while, she and the other maids would serve dessert: rice pudding with vanilla sauce. Then, there’d be fruit and Edam cheese in the drawing room, along with French coffee. After clearing the table, washing the dishes, cleaning up the kitchen and storing the sterling silver tableware in the kitchen’s walk-in safe, she and the others would crawl gratefully into their beds in the servants’ quarters. Tomorrow would start, as always, before dawn.

•  •  •

Sheila did not return to the room they shared with four other girls until well past midnight.

It was only through Brigid Connelly’s friendship with Mrs. Beecham, the head of staff, that Tara was granted an extra bed for her cousin. The irony of it was that Sheila showed not the least bit of gratitude for the roof over her head.

“Do you think you’re movin’ up in the world, Tara? Is this what you’re wantin’, to toady to rich people the rest of your days? You’re welcome to it, you are, but don’t expect me to be glad about it.”

Tara couldn’t hide her annoyance. “Was it such a grand life you had back there, in the Bowery?”

“D’ya call this nasty little room grand?” Sheila shot back, in earshot of the maids who had to live in it along with Sheila and Tara. “We’re tucked up here under the eaves like prisoners in a tower, while below us, those rich sots live in a palace. Oh yes,” she answered Tara’s unasked question. “I’ve seen those rooms. Sometimes I creep down there with a candle late at night and sit in one of those enormous chairs in the drawing room—the ones covered in damask and silk, all soft and shimmery—and pretend that I’m the lady of the house herself.”

“Sheila! If you were discovered down there, I’d be discharged from me job!”

“And what a pity that would be,” Sheila snapped. “I’ll not pretend that I like bein’ here, Tara. In the tavern, at least, I had me friends.”

“Fine friends they were, too. The cream of society. Real gents.” Tara suddenly realized what was behind Sheila’s tirade. “You’re not still seein’ Webb? Is that where you’ve been sneakin’ off to when I’m workin’? I thought he was in jail, for punching that police officer when he was three sheets to the wind.”

“He’s out now. You’re not me mither, Tara. I’m nearly seventeen and I’ll do as I please. The way you treat me, sometimes I’m sorry I ever came here.”

Tara stopped herself from saying that sometimes she, too, was sorry Sheila ever came to America. She wanted so much to point out that she hadn’t invited Sheila. It hadn’t been her idea to become Sheila’s caretaker.