Into the Storm (39 page)

M
r. Drabble, his recovered volume of Shakespeare under his arm, and excited by his discovery of Maura's dwelling place, returned breathlessly to the Spindle City Hotel. Wanting to make certain he did not forget his beloved's address, he asked at the clerk's desk for pencil and paper.

On the paper he wrote:

 

Where Maura O'Connell lives:
87 Cabot Street

 

Neither Laurence nor Mr. Grout was in the room. With hardly a thought of them, Mr. Drabble secreted the paper under his pillow, stretched out on his bed, and — his head propped up with his hands — gave way to romantic imaginings. Once more he looked into Maura's blue eyes. The vision made him sigh.

T
ell my sister I'm here and not to worry,” Patrick requested as Laurence was about to leave the Hamlyn house.

“Shall I say what happened to you?”

“I suppose you'd better. But I'm thinking you should also be letting her know it was you who rescued me.”

“Why?”

“It will do you some good.”

Laurence looked at Patrick earnestly. “Are you still my friend then …?”

“By the Holy Mother, Laurence, I'm still thinking it over. It's a bit of a thing, isn't it, not knowing your friend from your enemy, and him the same person? Faith, I'm saying the truth. If I'd known in Liverpool what you've told me, I wouldn't have helped you.”

“But why?” replied a shocked Laurence.

“Ah, Laurence, you don't know the misery your father dealt!”

“But maybe he didn't know.”

“If he's taking the money from us, he should be knowing!” Patrick replied with anger.

“But I didn't know.”

Patrick suddenly shrugged. “Sure then, the innocence of babes,” he said bitterly.

Laurence, afraid to say any more on the subject, muttered, “I'll come back as soon as I can,” and set off.

It was not long before he was standing in front of the Shagwell Cotton Mill, gazing at the buildings. Impressed by the noise and numbers of people he saw, he hesitated as to whether to go forward or not. Not that anyone paid him any notice.

Preparing to wait for Maura — Mrs. Hamlyn had said the lunch break came at twelve-thirty — Laurence sat against one of the mill walls. There, in a spot bathed in warm sunlight, he gave himself over to musing about his confession to Patrick.

Laurence could hardly believe the facts of his life as he'd told them to his friend. Though he knew perfectly well his father was Lord Kirkle, their privileged world seemed very remote. Once again he told himself he was no longer a part of it. That made Patrick's hostility all the harder to bear. Even so, the question arose again: Would he — if he got the money back — return to England?

With a sigh, Laurence acknowledged he didn't know the answer. “I'm not Sir Laurence Kirkle,” he said aloud, “I'm Laurence Worthy.” With a rueful smile, he recalled how he'd gotten the name Worthy. From a muffin man in London…. Yet perhaps he was not Laurence Worthy either but someone new. Not that Patrick noticed, he thought sadly.

Laurence assumed that Albert meant to bring him back to London. Even if he did return, it wouldn't be Albert who took him. Upon that Laurence was resolved. “Maybe,” he said out loud, “I am John Faherty. If I am, I have no brother in this world.”

But over and over again the boy's thoughts circled back to the question of Lord Kirkle's money. Perhaps if he could get it back, all his questions would be answered.

As the sun shifted, Laurence began to feel chilly. In search of warmth he thrust his hands in his pockets and felt the key Jeb had given him. He had forgotten all about it. On the key shank he read the words:

 

M
ERRIMACK
V
ALLEY
C
ONSOLIDATED
B
ANK
AND
L
AND
C
OMPANY

 

How, Laurence wondered, had a boy like Jeb come by such a key? And what was it for? He was about to toss it away when the city lunch bells startled him. Half past twelve! Maura! Cramming the key back in his pocket, Laurence scrambled to his feet.

As he looked on, hordes of people burst from the large building and swept out from the yard, making their way to boardinghouses where meals would be waiting for them. They had thirty-five minutes to get there, eat, and be back to their work.

Those who did not leave the mill sat or strolled, alone or with others, eating from buckets, kerchiefs, or leather pouches.

Laurence searched the crowds for Maura. It took some fifteen minutes before he spied her. She was leaning against a sunny wall, eyes closed, face turned toward the warmth. By her side was a young man who now and again seemed to be speaking to her, though, for all Laurence could see, she did not reply.

He approached cautiously. “Miss O'Connell,” he called.

Maura looked about, staring at him with puzzlement. Then she realized who it was. “Faith and glory,” she cried, “it's Laurence himself!” Not only was she surprised to see him, she found herself glad too. “And what might you be doing here?”

“It's Patrick….”

Maura shook her head and smiled. “I should have guessed it was only you and he in mischief again.” She turned to Nathaniel. “This is Laurence, a poor English boy that Patrick befriended in Liverpool. He was on the ship with us.”

“Welcome to America,” Nathaniel said.

“Miss O'Connell,” Laurence said, “Patrick is perfectly fine. But he wasn't when I found him.”

Maura's smile faded. She put a hand to her throat. “Why, what do you mean?”

Laurence told her what had happened to her brother, how and where he found him, and that he was now with Mrs. Hamlyn.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Maura said, flinging her hair out of her face with a snap of her head, “are we Irish to get no peace in this world? Laurence, I've done you wrong,” she
conceded. “It's twice now you've been kind to my brother. Once is friendship. Twice is more like kith and kin. I'll ever be thankful to you.”

Laurence, wondering what she would say if she knew what he had told Patrick, made no reply.

“Mr. Brewster, do I have the time to see him now?” Maura asked Nathaniel.

“Not nearly,” said the young man. “But at least you know he's all right.”

“Are you the man he's staying with?” Laurence asked.

“I am.”

“He said the boys knew where he lived, and he's afraid to go there. He's staying at Mrs. Hamlyn's.”

“He is probably wise,” agreed Nathaniel grimly. “I'll go back with you tonight,” he said to Maura.

“I'll come too,” Laurence offered.

Maura, worried now, looking down, said only, “That would be fine.”

“But I have to go to my friends first and tell them where I am,” Laurence said.

Maura lifted her face. “Would that be Mr. Drabble?” she asked.

“Yes.”

The young woman hesitated, even blushed when she remembered how she had bid the actor leave her at the Boston wharf. “Laurence … you can tell Mr. Drabble … for friendship's sake … I should like to see him.”

Promising to do so, Laurence dutifully set off for the Spindle City Hotel. When he reached it, he paused and looked for Jeb at his shoe-shine post. But other than a carriage stationed opposite the door, everything appeared exactly as when he left early that morning.

Within moments Laurence was in his room, where he discovered Mr. Drabble stretched out on his bed, reading his volume of Shakespeare. Mr. Grout was not there.

“Well, here you are,” exclaimed the actor. “I've been worrying about you. Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” said Laurence.

“Truly, Master Laurence,” Mr. Drabble chided gently, “we must really keep each other better informed.”

Laurence was perfectly willing to tell the actor all that had happened regarding Patrick, including the news of Mr. O'Connell's death. This he did at some length, mentioning but briefly the role of Jeb Grafton in the affair. He also told Mr. Drabble how he had gone to Maura and delivered Patrick's message.

The thin man popped up like a drawbridge. “And … did Miss O'Connell ask … anything … about me?”

Laurence nodded.

Mr. Drabble closed his eyes and commenced to breathe deeply. “Pray tell, what … did she … say?”

“She said she'd like to see you.”

“Oh, my heart!” cried the actor, his face taking on a perfectly crimson hue of delight. Hugging his Shakespeare volume to his chest, he leaped to his feet. “I shall go to her immediately,” he announced.

“She's working at a mill,” Laurence warned. “She won't be going home until the work is over.”

“But I know where she works,” Mr. Drabble replied, full of trembling excitement. “I'll wait at the gates.”

“Mr. Drabble, do you have any idea when Mr. Grout will be —,” Laurence began to say only to have the door burst open and Sir Albert Kirkle step into the room.

L
aurence stood like a small animal trapped in surprise. Albert, leaning arrogantly against the door frame, grinned with glee.

“You wretched, insufferable thief!” he declared. “What
do you say to my marking up the other side of your insolent face?”

Albert's words jarred Laurence out of his shock. In its place, anger and hatred began to boil.

Mr. Drabble, though just as startled as Laurence, leaped forward to stand between the brothers. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he cautioned Albert. “This is a private room.”

“Keep aside, fellow,” Albert replied, flapping a dismissive hand in the actor's face. “I have some matters — private matters — to discuss with my brother.”

This declaration of a family connection caused Mr. Drabble to look from one to the other hastily. There was — he now saw — a resemblance between the two.

“Laurence,” Mr. Drabble inquired, “is this young gentleman what he claims to be?”

“I hate him!” Laurence cried. “I hate him.”

Mr. Drabble drew himself to his full height. “Sir,” he declared to Albert, “considering what my young friend has said, I must ask you to leave.”

“He's my younger brother, isn't he?” Albert sneered. “And I've come a rather long way to give him the punishment he deserves.”

“Punishment? Pray tell, for what offense?” Mr. Drabble asked.

“That boy's a thief,” the young lord drawled with contempt. “So stand aside and let me take him. He's stolen something I want.” With that he made a sudden if clumsy grab at Laurence.

The boy leaped back upon Mr. Drabble's bed.

“And what, sir,” Mr. Drabble persisted, “did Laurence steal?”

“Money,” gasped a frustrated Albert as he edged closer to his brother.

Laurence, who kept inching away, tried to defend himself by snatching up the pillow and holding it before him like a shield.

“How much, sir,” Mr. Drabble pressed, “did he take?”

“A thousand pounds.”

The figure, Mr. Drabble recalled, was the exact amount of money Mr. Grout admitted to taking from the boy. “But where,” he asked, “did Laurence get the money?”

“Look here,” said Albert, after yet another futile lunge at his brother, “don't you know about this scamp? He stole it from my father, Lord Kirkle.”

Mr. Drabble's eyes grew very round. “Are you asserting, sir, that this wretched boy is the
son
of
Lord Kirkle
?”

“The
younger
son,” Albert took pains to say as he made still one more ineffectual grab at Laurence. “To tell the truth, the governor don't care a snap for him. All he wants is his money back. That's why he sent me over.”

“Liar!” cried Laurence.

“Sir,” Mr. Drabble interjected, “I hasten to inform you that this boy has only a few pennies to his pocket.”

Worn out, Albert stopped trying to reach his brother. Perplexity gathered on his face. “Where's the rest of the money then?” he asked.

“A man named Clemspool stole it!” Laurence shouted.

Albert, thinking he had caught Laurence in a lie, broke into a grin. “All right,” he said, “let's ask the fellow directly.” So saying, he stepped to the door and made a beckoning gesture. Into the room walked Matthew Clemspool like a Roman general marching through a triumphal arch. His face fairly glowed with pleasure; a benign smile played upon his lips. His plump hands spread wide — as if ready to grasp the entire world.

“Well, young sir,” he said to Laurence, “I am — to make my point precisely —
delighted
to see you again. There is something about a hotel room…. Now then, if you would be so good as to give me —”

Mr. Clemspool did not finish the sentence. Laurence, seeing his two great enemies standing side by side, was now utterly inflamed with rage. So powerful was his anger that he hurled the pillow he was holding into his brother's face with such force, it drove the young man back against the wall. Laurence followed up this blow by jumping from the bed and flinging himself upon Mr. Clemspool, knocking that gentleman
to the floor. Even then Laurence did not stop but tore out of the room as fast as he could.

All this occurred so quickly that Mr. Drabble needed a moment to grasp what was happening. Once he did, he too hurried from the room.

“Laurence, wait!” he cried as he ran out of the hotel and saw the boy running pell-mell down the street.

Laurence looked back. When he realized that it was only Mr. Drabble trying to catch up to him, he halted.

“Where are you going?” Mr. Drabble demanded.

“To Patrick,” Laurence panted.

“Is that where Maura will be?”

“I think so.”

“Then I'll go with you!” Without another word, man and boy rushed on toward Cabot Street.

Across the street, Jeb Grafton, wanting to take up his shoe-shine post again, watched Laurence run off. Ruefully, he wondered if the boy still had the key with him. Should he follow, Jeb wondered, as Mr. Clemspool had employed him to do? He was, he knew, a little frightened of the boy. He looked small, but he was fierce. And now there was a man with him too. Even so, Jeb decided he would hardly place himself in harm's way if he followed at a distance to see where they were going. Perhaps if he told Mr. Clemspool where the boy was, he might yet get something. Jeb didn't like Mr. Clemspool, but there was his mother's illness. And if ten dollars could cure her … After all, he had been promised that amount to fetch the key.