Banished Love (11 page)

At the gentle knock, I turned to see Gabriel at the doorway. “Hello, Mr. McLeod,” I said, unable to hide the flash of joy in my eyes at seeing him. I bit my lip, worried for an instant that I was alone with him, unchaperoned in my schoolroom, but soon focused on Gabriel and his visit rather than propriety.

“Miss Sullivan,” he said in a formal tone. “I am sorry for the delay in coming by the school.” He looked down, running the edge of his hat through his fingers as though nervous. “I…” He broke off, looking up to meet my eyes.

I met his gaze, my interest heightened by his hesitation. I raised my eyebrows in encouragement, signaling him to continue.

“I don’t have much news about the bookcase. Or the sideboard,” he said. “But I wanted you to know I’m still working on them.”

“Excellent,” I said with a small smile, feeling comforted by his presence.

“If it would not be improper, miss,” he said, meeting my gaze, “do you think you could return to my workshop some day?”

I inhaled shortly, taken by surprise.

“It’s just that I have a few ideas but wanted, needed to discuss them there.”

I continued to watch him silently. He ran his hand through his hair. “I would like your opinion on a few design ideas and wood choices, Miss Sullivan.”

I remained silent as though incapable of speaking.

“The wood’s too bulky to cart around the streets.”

I blushed, glancing down. “Of course, the sideboard. I’ll come by tomorrow.”

He nodded once, smiling, “That would be fine, miss.” He paused, studying me. “How is the school year progressing, miss?”

I nodded at him. “Well enough. Though the students are becoming anxious to be out of school. As am I,” I murmured, flushing softly at my escaped comment.

His lips quirked a quick smile, and I saw a small dimple in his right cheek. “At least you’re an honest teacher,” he said. He perused the room, taking in the chalkboard and the maps on the wall. “Do you teach geography, miss?”

“I teach a little of everything. Well, except homemaking arts. That would be a true disaster,” I admitted.

He wandered toward the map of the United States pinned on the wall. “Do you ever dream of traveling?” he asked in a wistful voice. At my quick shake of my head in denial, he said, “I do. I dream of California. Seeing the San Francisco Bay. I think it must truly be a land of opportunity there.” He continued to study the map. “Or anywhere out West. It seems a magical, wild place. Full of possibilities.”

“I should think you have plenty of opportunity here, in Boston,” I replied. “With family and friends nearby.”

“Why should you be content in the place you were born? Shouldn’t you want to see more of the world than that?” he asked.

“You sound like Colin,” I said. “He’s always talking of adventure, doing something new and different. I should be happy to stay here forever.”

“You say that now, but you never know what could induce you to travel, miss.”

“It’s hard to imagine what that would be, sir,” I replied, anxiety filling me at the thought of any leave taking.

He nodded again, seeming to sense my anxiety. “Well, then, Miss Sullivan, I will bid you good day. I will see you tomorrow. Good afternoon,” he said, smiling and nodding toward me. He turned and left, leaving my thoughts and emotions in disarray.

***

THE FOLLOWING DAY, after school, I set out for the workshop after trying unsuccessfully to convince Florence to accompany me. Although I knew I took a risk visiting his shop alone, I owed it to Uncle Martin not to ruin his wedding gift surprise for Savannah. And, if I were truthful, I wanted to have a few moments alone with him.

I enjoyed the now familiar walk to the workshop, cataloging spring’s arrival. The trees were finally in bud, and a few hardy birds braved the city environs. I smiled at the faint birdsong I could hear over the
clip-clop
of hooves on the cobblestones and the rattle of streetcars as they roared by. I turned my face toward the sun, thankful I did not have to ride a streetcar today but could walk.

I approached the workshop, enjoying watching the busy activity of the street, noting today’s fruit du jour in the pushcart was oranges. After a slow climb to the third floor, I saw that the workshop door was once again ajar, and I poked my head in to see if I could catch a glimpse of Gabriel working. Instead, I saw Gabriel and an older woman glaring at each other in a tense silence. I remained mesmerized in a shadow near the doorway, silently watching the exchange. They were leaning toward each other with fists clenched, as though they were merely pausing in the middle of a heated argument. Both breathed heavily, and they seemed to be conducting a battle of wits, daring the other to look away first.

I must have leaned against the door or stepped on a squeaky floorboard, because a loud creaking noise rent the air. I flinched guiltily at being caught witnessing such a scene.

The short, rail-thin woman whirled to look at me. Her fashionable clothes were hanging off her like a scarecrow, and she had piercing, almost turquoise-blue, eyes, with her dull, limp brown hair pulled back severely in a bun and a slightly hooked nose. Her eyes lit on me.

“And who do we have here, Gabriel? She seems a little fancy for you,” she taunted, her thin lips pulled back into a sneer. “Or maybe you think you’ve moved up in the world?” she jeered as she looked again toward Gabriel. “Don’t be thinking you’re better than you are. You’ll always be gutter scum.”

Then she addressed me in a sinister, low voice, “You’d better find out exactly what you’re getting into with this one, young lady. He’s a good-for-nothing, just like his father. He’ll bring you nothing but pain, disgrace and an early death.”

“Get out!” Gabriel roared, marching to the door and pointing at the stairway. “I have heard enough about my family from you. If I never heard another word, it would be too soon. Leave.” He hissed out a long breath, waiting for her to depart. They shared a long glaring look, icy-blue eyes clashing.

Finally the older woman left, looking over her shoulder toward me, but addressing Gabriel. She spoke with a slight smirk on her lips, stating, “Nothing good will come of your association with the Russells. I’ll see to that.” She then walked past me, slipped out the door, and I could hear the clatter of her heels down the stairs.

“Argh!” groaned Gabriel, walking toward his workbench where he picked up a piece of wood and threw it across the room where it splintered into fragments against the brick wall.

I stood still, transfixed, as I had never seen such displays of anger before. It was as though I were frozen in place, unsure if to run or to stay. Gabriel continued to breathe forcefully but finally began to calm after a few moments. He leaned heavily on the workbench, bent over at the waist, gripping the edge of the table so hard I thought it would break in his strong hands.

After a few moments he looked up at me, with his piercing blue eyes starker today than I had ever seen them, and said, “I’d ask you to forget these past few minutes, but that won’t be possible, will it?” He now appeared weary, as though the emotional exertions of a few moments ago had drained him.

I stared at him dumbfounded. “How could I forget what I have just seen? Who was that woman? Why is there such animosity between the two of you?”

“Ah, Miss Sullivan, you of the thousand questions.” His deep baritone had dropped to a gentle tone and was laced with wry humor. He shook his head ruefully and said, “I won’t be getting much more work done today. Will you walk with me, and I’ll tell you a story?”

I noted that he did not meet my eyes, one of the first times that had happened in our acquaintance.

I agreed and, as I had yet to take off my coat, was ready to leave. Gabriel carefully extinguished the gaslights and locked the door. We descended the stairs quietly, and then turned down Canal Street toward Causeway Street. He appeared to be gathering his thoughts.

Finally after a few blocks of silently walking side by side, I asked, “Penny for your thoughts?”

He said with a dry laugh, “Ah, Miss Sullivan, I thought they’d be worth more than that to you. However, you are right. I have a long story to tell you. I just hope you don’t tire of the telling.”

“I don’t wish to intrude,” I whispered.

“I want you to know who I am,” Gabriel said, determination lacing his voice. “And after witnessing that scene, you can only have doubts.”

I nodded in silent agreement, thinking of Florence.

We walked to an overlook of the harbor where we could see ships coming and going. The bustling port was filled with ships, many now with steam engines, although there were still quite a few sailboats traversing the harbor. Across the waterway in East Boston, large passenger ships were docked, recently arrived from Europe. Small ferries skirted the larger ships, bringing passengers to and from the different areas surrounding the harbor. Bunker Hill Monument gleamed in the late afternoon sunlight. This overlook was a beautiful place for we could see the harbor, watch men unloading ships and still have a sense of privacy while remaining in public.

“I had a good childhood,” Gabriel began in a low tone, carefully choosing his words. “My parents were strict, yet there was no doubt that we were all cherished. We didn’t have much money, but I think we were too young to notice. Or else my mum did a wonderful job of hiding our poverty from us. Either way, Jeremy, my youngest brother, Richard and I grew up creating harmless mischief and learning from our mistakes. My da believed in schooling, since he hadn’t had much himself and was barely able to write his own name. My mum was very educated, a well-read woman. She read to us every night and taught us our letters at an early age.

“It was expected of us to go to school, to learn and to make something of ourselves when we grew up. I wanted to be a lawyer, learn fancy words and be paid to argue. That was one of my favorite things to do when I was young—try to outargue my da. I never won, but I enjoyed the challenge. Richard wanted to be a doctor. Jeremy didn’t know what he wanted to do, but he figured he had time to decide, being the youngest. We lived in a protected cocoon, in our tenement in the West End, with sporadic visits from my da’s traveling brother, Uncle Aidan.”

He paused, sighing, and seemed to brace himself, not looking at me, but out to sea. As he continued, his voice hardened. “One night—a cold early fall night in November when the chill had just hit—I heard screaming and woke up. I was twelve and knew waking up and smelling smoke meant something was wrong. I shook Richard and Jeremy, grabbed them, somehow moved us in the right direction, and we escaped the house. We stood huddled together, in front of the house, waiting for Da and Mum to come out. I remember calling out, over and over again until I was hoarse, for my mum and da. But they never came.”

“What had happened?” I whispered.

“A neighbor’s lantern had tipped over, and the fire had spread to the back of the house first, killing my folks, but giving us time to escape.” His bleak eyes reflected the torment of reliving that long-ago night and the loss of his parents. He shook his head, as though trying to shake free of the memories.

“We just continued to stand huddled together in the street, not knowing what to do. We didn’t understand death, the finality of it. This was our home. We had nowhere else to go. Thankfully a neighbor across the way took us in for the rest of the night, rocked Jeremy to sleep and consoled us as best she could. But she had five little ones herself, and she couldn’t take us on. I remember watching the door all that first night, waiting for Mum or Da to come in to tell us everything would be fine, it had been a mistake, but they never did.” He paused, staring out at the harbor as though lost in thought. He shook his head, continuing to speak in a low, flat, emotionless voice.

“Finally the next afternoon, Aunt Masterson, my mum’s sister, came around looking much imposed upon that she had to see to her sister’s children, horrified she had to set foot in the West End. However, her idea of appearances and social standing had to be kept up, and she didn’t want the apparent social disgrace of forcing her parentless nephews into an orphanage. So she took us.

“Am I boring you?” he turned to me, addressing me for the first time during the retelling of his childhood nightmare. Torment lit his eyes. “I can stop at any moment.”

“No! No, I’d wish to hear more, if you’d like to speak of it,” I replied, reaching out to touch his arm, unable to hide the eagerness in my voice.

He smiled wistfully and looked out to sea again. A slight breeze blew, ruffling his black hair.

“We rode to the Mastersons’ home in a carriage—the first time I had ever been in one—and were introduced to cousins we had never met. Nicholas and Henry.” His voice was laced with disgust as he said their names. “They disliked us immediately. They were dandies. All dressed up in proper clothes, though a bit too fine, if you know what I mean? And using proper words and no rough accents. They looked at us like we were beggars, come to live in their home, and they treated us as such. We learned quickly that there was no love to be spared on us—no hug when we scraped our knees, no extra help with our studies.”

He closed his eyes for a few moments.

“I dreamt of escape from that house, almost from the moment I entered it, and Old Mr. Smithers helped provide that escape. He had no sons and was looking for an apprentice. He had caught me a few times in his shop, skulking around, hiding from Aunt Masterson. We struck a bargain. He’d teach me his craft, and I’d behave for my aunt and uncle. In the beginning, I often wondered who got the better part of the bargain.” With that, he let out a long sigh and turned to me. “Well, that’s enough of the past for one day. I’ll walk you home.”

I frowned, startled at the abrupt ending of the story. There was so much more I wanted to know, especially why the woman I had met, who I assumed to be his aunt Masterson, disliked him so greatly. However, as I glanced toward the harbor and East Boston, I noted that night was quickly falling. I knew I needed to hurry home to forestall any unwanted questions from my family.

“I would not want to put you to the trouble of walking me home, Mr. McLeod. I am used to making my own way, and I can ride a streetcar.”