Daughter of the Loom (Bells of Lowell Book #1) (13 page)

“Sometimes Jonas doesn’t think before he speaks,” Julia finally said, breaking the silence. “Nor does Sarah,” she quickly added. “But they meant no harm, dearest Lilly. Hasn’t the weather been unseasonably warm for this time of the year?”

With the expert ease of a perfect hostess, Julia had changed the conversation and set her guests at ease. Once again the room was abuzz with meaningless small talk as Lilly attempted to devise some plan of escape.

“Come along, everyone,” Julia instructed. “We’re going to play charades, and I don’t want any of you men sneaking off to smoke cigars or talk business.”

Randolph laughed as he and two of his colleagues turned in their tracks and returned to the parlor. “We wouldn’t think of running out on a game of charades,” he teased.

“I really must be leaving,” Lilly whispered to her hostess. “We have a curfew.”

“Nonsense. Randolph will escort you home and explain that you were with us. I’ll not hear of you running off this early in the evening,” Julia replied, her voice growing louder and more insistent when Lilly began to shake her head in disagreement. “I absolutely refuse to permit your departure!”

Lilly winced as the other guests began to look in their direction. “Fine. I’ll stay for a little while. But I really must leave within the hour.”

“We’ll see,” the unrelenting woman replied, giving her a smile. “All right, let’s number off into teams. You begin, Randolph. You’re team one,” she instructed as she continued around the room assigning each guest a number.

In spite of her misgivings, Lilly joined the others, shouting out possible answers as guests performed their antics, laughing and cheering for several hours, forgetting the drudgery of her life and the tiny, airless bedroom she shared with seven other girls.

The Cheevers were standing at the doorway bidding their guests farewell as Lilly approached. “Ready, my dear?” Randolph inquired as he offered his arm.

“I can walk home alone. I don’t want to take you away from your remaining guests,” Lilly replied.

Randolph shook his head. “I’ll hear of no such thing. It’s a beautiful night, and the fresh air will do me good. Besides, I’ll be back home before Julia has an opportunity to miss me,” he quipped as he winked at his wife.

Lilly didn’t argue. It would be wasted breath and she knew it. “Thank you once again for a lovely evening,” she said, kissing Julia’s cheek.

“You must promise you’ll return to see us soon.”

Lilly merely nodded, knowing she wouldn’t soon return to socialize among the elite of Lowell.

“I’ve missed you, Lilly,” Randolph stated. “I’m genuinely sorry things didn’t work out between you and Matthew.”

“And I’ve missed you and Mrs. Cheever, but time goes on and our lives change,” she replied in a feeble attempt to appear philosophical about her station in life.

Mr. Cheever patted the hand she had tucked inside his crooked arm. “It’s true our lives change, Lilly, but sometimes I think we do better to look at life in smaller slices, a change at a time, perhaps. Sweeping generalities sometimes tend to diminish those minor changes. We need to take time and realize that sometimes good comes along with bad.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Mr. Cheever. My life has been turned upside down—nothing is the same. East Chelmsford no longer exists. Lowell has overpowered and smothered the life out of East Chelmsford.”

He smiled and shook his head. “I disagree. The name has changed and the town has grown, but East Chelmsford and her people are still alive and vibrant. Lowell didn’t smother us. We’ve been cultivated and nurtured so that we could change and grow into a larger, more productive community. Sometimes I think we humans just don’t want to give in and think that any good can come from change. Could you agree with me on that?”

“I suppose. But it’s difficult to find good that has come from all of this so-called industrialization. Our beautiful farmlands are now ugly brick buildings and canals. I miss the tranquility of the countryside, the pride of orchards producing bountiful crops, and the pleasure of seeing herds of woolly sheep roaming about.”

“I see. And do you miss the years of drought when we broke our backs attempting to eke out a living on the few crops we could produce? Don’t forget the bad as you remember the good, child. Otherwise, you paint yourself a false picture. There were good things about those days, but there were just as many hard times. One must keep events in perspective. Change is always going to be a part of our lives. If we don’t grow and change, we stagnate and die. Perhaps you should attempt to see Lowell with the unbridled enthusiasm of a newcomer. I believe you would find it exciting and, dare I say, quite lovely.”

Lilly looked up at Mr. Cheever and was instantly reminded of Matthew. Although Jonas was marginally handsome and well spoken, it was Matthew who had inherited not only his father’s good looks but his gift of persuasion. It was indeed a formidable combination. She feared she still hadn’t succeeded in obliterating Matthew from her memory after all.

Chapter 9

Boston, Massachusetts

Matthew tugged at his waistcoat as he and Kirk Boott followed closely behind a tranquil, black-clad priest. After traversing several hallways, the cleric rapped on a carved oak door, waited for a response, then opened the door to Bishop Benedict Fenwick’s private office.

The rotund man rose from a cushioned red velvet chair and came out from behind his desk, his dark-eyed gaze fixed on Boott. His upturned lips and the dark curly locks that surrounded his forehead and cheeks gave the bishop a youthful appearance. A stiff gold braid trim surrounded the edge of his unbuttoned collar, thus permitting his sizable double chin to rest upon a layer of soft white fabric. Matthew noted that the row of black buttons aligned down the front of the bishop’s jacket strained against the man’s expansive bulk.

“Good to see you once again, Mr. Boott,” Bishop Fenwick greeted, stretching his arm in welcome.

Kirk grasped the proffered hand and then turned to Matthew. “May I introduce Matthew Cheever, Your Excellency. He has recently been hired by the Boston Associates to assist me with my duties in Lowell. I decided to reward his hard work with a trip to Boston.”

“A pleasure,” the bishop replied, extending his ring-adorned hand to Matthew. “Always good to meet with men who have the best interests of our citizenry at heart. Sit down, sit down,” he offered, gesturing toward two dark blue brocade chairs opposite the large walnut desk.

Matthew and Kirk seated themselves, remaining silent as the bishop circled the desk and lowered his expansive body into the velvet-upholstered chair. The walls behind the desk were lined with matching walnut bookcases, each shelf crowded with volumes of leather-bound books. Across the room, an ornate silver tea service rested upon a marble-topped serving table. At the ring of a small gold handbell, a priest entered the room. He carried a tray of small cakes that he placed on the table before silently pouring tea into three china cups and exiting the room as noiselessly as he had entered.

“Tea, gentlemen?” The words were formed as a question, but both men knew what was expected.

They drank the spiced tea with lemon and ate the layered cakes Bishop Fenwick offered. They exchanged pleasantries, discussed the weather, and inquired into one another’s health. It was the way of genteel, well-bred people. It was also the way of far-reaching men hoping to gain advantage and power.

When Bishop Fenwick had finally eaten his fill, he leaned back in his chair, reaching his arms across the expansive girth of his belly. His thick fingers barely met. Boott leaned forward ever so slightly, obviously awaiting some signal that the cleric was ready to move their conversation into a more serious vein.

“I assume you gentlemen haven’t made an appointment to see me merely to inquire about my health,” the bishop stated. He leaned deeper into the chair, his eyes hooded by thick black lashes.

Matthew remained silent as Boott leaned forward, a look of concern now crossing his face. “Indeed, we do have a matter of importance to bring before you, Your Excellency. Not a matter that will be easily resolved, but a problem I believe we can eventually solve if we work together. Reasonable men can always benefit each other. Don’t you agree?”

The bishop’s eyelids opened wider. Matthew noticed an obvious spark of interest in the cleric’s dark eyes. “Unreasonable men have been known to become quite reasonable when the stakes are high enough, Mr. Boott. Just what is it that you perceive as our mutual problem?”

“Simply stated, the growing Irish population in Lowell,” Kirk replied. “Not that the Irish themselves are a problem,” he quickly added when the bishop unfolded his hands and gave him a look of obvious displeasure. “I take responsibility for this whole situation. It’s my lack of planning—not giving thought to the permanency of our Irish brothers in the community. To be honest with you, Bishop, I didn’t expect they would want to remain in Lowell. I always assumed they’d want to return to Boston and live among—”

“Their own?”

“Well, yes, if you want to put it that way. However, we have an ever-increasing number of Irish in Lowell who appear to be setting down roots. I don’t want to sound disparaging, but the Irish tend to be a clannish sort of people. You’d agree with that, wouldn’t you?”

The bishop nodded and stroked his plump red cheek. “They find comfort in that which is familiar. Not unlike most of us, Mr. Boott. However, the Irish do bring with them a deep sense of loyalty to the clans of their homeland and align themselves accordingly. In that regard they are somewhat different from other immigrants.”

“Right,” Boott chimed in, vigorously nodding his head up and down. “Well stated, Your Excellency.” He hesitated for a moment before continuing. “Another thing that I’ve observed about the Irish is their deep regard for the church.”

“For a moment there, I thought you were going to say their deep regard for a pitcher of ale.” The bishop gave Kirk a serious stare but then snorted as he attempted to hold back his own laughter. “It was a joke, good fellow—you’re permitted to laugh.”

Kirk’s nervous laughter mingled with Bishop Fenwick’s snorting noises for what seemed several minutes. Matthew sat quietly, observing the interchange, a smile emerging on his lips when the bishop finally gazed in his direction. “And what do
you
think of our Irish brothers, Mr. Cheever?” The bishop’s question brought the laughter to a startling halt.

Matthew glanced toward Boott, who nodded his head ever so slightly. “I agree with Mr. Boott’s assessment, sir.”

“Not much of an independent thinker? I’m surprised Mr. Boott would hold you in such high esteem,” the bishop rebutted.

Matthew knew he was being baited. His words must be carefully chosen. He dared not fail a second test in one day. “I don’t believe the fact that I agree with Mr. Boott’s assessment gives credence to your judgment of my ability to evaluate a given situation. It merely affirms the intelligence of my employer’s evaluation of this particular circumstance. I, too, believe the Irish hold the church in deep regard,” he replied in a measured voice.

The bishop laughed aloud. “Well put, my boy. Don’t know if I could have done better myself in such formidable circumstances. Isn’t that right, Mr. Boott?”

A forced smile formed upon his mentor’s lips. “That’s exactly right, Excellency.”

“Well, then, we all agree the Irish hold the church in high regard. So what is your problem?”

“They have no church in Lowell, no place to worship, no church leader to marry or bury them, no priest to hear their problems or direct them down the path of righteousness,” Boott replied.

The bishop’s face was stoic, unreadable. “I’m going to guess that since you’ve determined there is a problem, you’ve also devised some type of solution.”

“I’ve given thought to several ideas, but nothing concrete just yet,” he lied. “That’s what I want to discuss with you. Surely you have some knowledge of the increasing problems the Irish face in Lowell. After all, they are your people,” Boott said, obviously hoping to lead the matter into a discussion where he could further ascertain the cleric’s stance.

“You’re right that they are Catholics, and in that regard, they are my people. I would agree that all Catholics need spiritual leadership. However, Mr. Boott, they are your people also. They are in Lowell because you could find no others willing to perform the grueling labor of digging your canals and building your factories. Now that they have decided to remain in Lowell, you have a dilemma. You find them difficult to control, yet you need them close at hand to continue constructing your growing community. It is truly a troublesome situation.”

Bishop Fenwick was obviously enjoying himself as he rose from the chair and moved aimlessly about the room, stopping directly in front of Boott and forcing him to look up into the bishop’s face as he continued the assessment. “As I see it, you need the Irish—at least the men. However, you don’t want them living in Lowell, mucking up the tidiness of your well-thought-out progressive community. So now you’ve decided the Catholic Church should come to your rescue. Would that be what prompts your visit to Boston?”

Matthew had become increasingly uncomfortable as Bishop Fenwick spoke. The cleric had painted the Boston Associates, and particularly Kirk Boott, as tyrannical, abusive men who had shamelessly abused the Irish population of Lowell. It was ludicrous. Yet Boott seemed undaunted by the turn of events. Instead, he smiled at the bishop and helped himself to one of the remaining cakes sitting on the marble-topped table. Seeming not the least disquieted by the silence, he finished the cake, carefully wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, and waited until Bishop Fenwick had finally seated himself in the velvet chair.

“Now, then, let me see if I can adequately respond to your summation. First of all, I didn’t go rousting about hunting for Irishmen to work in Lowell. It was Hugh Cummiskey that led a group of his fellow clansmen from the Boston docks to Lowell seeking me and asking for work. I doubt you will have any difficulty verifying that fact. Once Cummiskey and his men were working, word spread that there was work available in Lowell. I never advertised, encouraged, or lured any immigrants, Irish or otherwise, into the community. Those who chose to come and work have been paid a fair wage. I have no control over how they spend their money or where they place their values. However, I believe the church should have a vested interest in their eternal souls, and I’m sure you could find use for a bit of their earnings if they cared to give a portion to the church.”