Songs of the Shenandoah (8 page)

“Clare is at the newspaper.” There was a strength to Muriel's voice that seemed mismatched with her appearance.

“Yes, of course.” Why hadn't he thought of that? With all of the news to cover regarding the president's call to arms, there would be much for Clare to do.

Davin was disappointed, nonetheless. He was anxious to confront Clare regarding the unpleasantness of her finances. “So . . . you are the maid?”

Muriel laughed. “Do I look the part of a maid?” She looked down at her clothes and smiled. “I suppose I do. No, I help the Royces out whenever I can. When I don't have classes.”

“She's a doctor,” Garret said.

“Your uncle doesn't believe women can be doctors.” She raised her chin with a strange confidence, one he was unused to seeing in a woman. He knew many beautiful ladies who were aware of their allure and employed them well, but Muriel's verve seemed to be grounded in the strength of her intelligence. And so oddly placed in the hands of an Irish housemaid.

She turned to Garret. “How about you get yourself to the kitchen and gather for your uncle some of those scones we baked?” The boy nodded and left the room.

Muriel wiped her hands on her apron. “So, is there a message I should share with Clare?”

Davin tugged on his earlobe. What message could he leave? “Oh . . . yes.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the telegram. “This came in.”

“Yes, I was expecting that.” She snatched it from his hands and tucked it in her dress pocket.

He was startled by her aplomb. “Uh . . . how do you know it's for you?”

“They come from my aunt.” Muriel narrowed her red brows. Her blue eyes were tinged with both yearning and melancholy. “She lives in Canada. Worries about me and sends them all of the time.”

“What about the rest of your family?” Davin found this girl intriguing.

“Just me.” She twisted her lip and rested her hand on the banister. “They are all back home. Outside of Dublin a ways.”

“Why move here? Why New York?”

Muriel gave him the look again, as if she found his questions somehow insulting. “You already know. It has one of the only medical schools that admits women.”

“So all of that about you studying to be a doctor. That's true?”

She tightened the bow on her apron. “I've wanted to be a healer. All of my life.”

“And you would see yourself as being capable of . . . something like . . . sawing off a man's leg?”

“I suppose that would depend on whether the rest of him was worth saving.”

He gave her a congratulatory nod. She was unnerving him. Had he met a woman like this before who seemed . . . more intelligent than him? What man would ever want to commit to a life with someone like Muriel? Where he would always be made to feel inferior?

His nephew showed up with a plate full of scones.

“Thank you, Garret.” Muriel took them from him. “Your uncle was just getting ready to leave. I will get a small tin so you can bring them with you.”

Before Davin could protest, she was gone.

“How much do you have?”

“Hmm?” Davin looked to Clare's son and could see some of himself in the boy.

“How much gold?”

“You know what?” Davin reached into his breast pocket. He curled a finger in there, pulled out a small rock, and laid it out on his palm.

Garret's blue eyes widened. “Can I touch it?”

“Better than that. You can have it. It's one of my lucky ones. It's brought me good fortune wherever I go.”

“Really? Can I?”

“A gold nugget?” Muriel held out a small circular red tin to him.

He took it from her, opened the lid, and gave it a sniff. It still smelled as if had just come out of the oven. “Seems like a fair enough trade.”

Davin put his hat on and turned to go but then paused. “Good luck with your schooling. I think it's a fine thing for the world to have another doctor.”

With that he turned and left, having forgotten the intentions of his visit.

Chapter 9

The New York Daily

“Sounds a bit gloomy, doesn't it?” Andrew slumped back in his office chair.

Clare glanced over his shoulder and read the headline in the paper he was holding, still moist with ink:
War Inevitable
. “Yes. But sadly, it's also true.” She rubbed the back of his tense neck, and he responded to her touch with a groan of relief.

“We received a wire from Washington,” Clare said. “General McDowell has ordered the soldiers to prepare for departure. The camps are breaking, and the batteries are being prepared to roll. May God forgive us. They are just a few days away from blood being spilt.”

Andrew leaned back. “You've taken a peculiar interest in this war, have you not?”

“I . . . still can't believe it's risen to such contempt. Even an eagerness for violence. How can a nation be so broken?” Clare noticed the lines formed under his eyes. He had aged so much since taking over management of the newspaper following his father's death.

“The Irish certainly are no strangers to rebellion.” Andrew folded the paper and rested it on his large desk, which was covered with ledger books, ink drawings, and scattered notes.

“At least my people aren't threatening to kill one another.” She walked over to the wall and straightened a framed photograph. “What have we become? I never believed I would say this, Andrew, but I sometimes wish we were back home in Branlow growing potatoes.”

A firm knock sounded on the glass of the door. They turned to see the newsboy cap of Owen Kavanaugh, who though he was in his early thirties, had the kind of face that appeared much younger. And it was the kind of face that could never disguise bad news.

“Come in,” Andrew said, rolling his eyes at Clare.

“Sorry to be disturbing you.” Owen stepped in and snapped the door shut behind him.

Clare appreciated few people more than Owen. He had started at the
Daily
when he was a newsboy, selling papers before the sun and most of the city rose. Then he worked his way into the press room and was soon recognized as the best mechanic. Finally, he made the big jump to editorial and had been Andrew's chief editor the last couple of years. He wasn't a writer by any means, but he did seem to have a natural sense for business, much more than her husband.

But what Clare appreciated most about Owen was his character. He was as reliable as they came and as good a friend as Andrew had. Whenever there were grumblings among staff about Andrew's leadership, Owen would quickly douse the flames. More than a few blamed Owen's lack of talent for the demise of the
Daily
, but Clare was not among them.

“Haven't I told you never to visit unless you're bearing good tidings?” Andrew rubbed the back of his neck.

“Yes. But then I would never get to see you.” Owen leaned back against the door. His tight brown curls spilled from the sides of his cap.

“Then be about it,” Andrew said, “so I can get along with the grieving process.”

“It's Mr. Murphy.”

“Oh dear,” Clare said. “Is he pulling his advertising again? Does he believe we'll shut down without him?”

“Well.” Owen took off his hat and scratched his head. “There may be some truth in that. He happens to be our largest advertiser.”

Andrew tapped his hand on the desk. “Clare, I warned you that story was going to push our readers to their limits.”

“But really, Andrew. This notion that we're going to empty the Five Points of every black soul and put them on ships back to Africa. We have to speak out about such . . . drivel, even if it's coming from the mouths of my own dear people.”

Owen rocked on the balls of his feet. “I believe the line Mr. Murphy protested to in particular was the one where you said . . . what was it? Oh yes, that—”

“That we should put every fool Irishman who proposed such an idea on a train headed south so they can trade in their potatoes for Jefferson Davis's cotton.” Clare's stomach tightened. “I know what it said, Owen. I wrote it.”

Andrew chuckled. Was the man capable of getting angry at her?

Owen held his hands up in surrender. “I am merely sharing the news. That's what I do here. I am a professional newsman. Occasionally, I'll throw in a minor suggestion, you know one like, ‘Let's try not to anger our last three customers.'”

“We still have three?” Andrew raised a mocking eyebrow. “And you said you came with bad news.” He leaned forward. “Wait. You're still standing here. Please tell me you don't have more to share.”

“'Fraid so. It's Ben Jones.”

Andrew adjusted his glasses on his nose. “What did he do this time?”

“He packed his desk.”

“He's leaving us?” Andrew brought his hands to his face. “Now? He's our last remaining war correspondent. Where?”

“Went to the
Times
.” Owen placed his hand on the door handle.

The
Times
? Ben Jones was too good a reporter to work at such a place. Clare wanted to say something to Andrew to console him, but she couldn't think of anything. With the armies of the South and North facing off in a couple of days, it would be ruinous for the
Daily
if they had no coverage of the confrontation.

“We could send Zimmerman,” Owen said.

Andrew flopped back in his chair. “We're not doing a theater review. And he is at least a hundred years old. I am afraid the poor fellow's heart would give at the first gunshot. Who else?”

Clare went through the few options that remained in their editorial office, and none of them would be capable. They had counted on Ben Jones to take all of the most difficult assignments. He interviewed the hardest of criminals, went to the darkest of neighborhoods, and as a soldier once himself he was perfect to cover the war.

Almost simultaneously Owen and Clare spoke. “I'll go.”

They exchanged equally surprised looks at each other.

“You can't write a decent story,” Clare said.

“We aren't sending a woman,” Owen responded.

“Neither of you are going.” Andrew clasped his hands. “But you're both right. We don't have anyone else. It will have to be me.”

“Andrew,” Clare said. “You can't go. You're the only indispensable one we have in this building. If you don't replace the advertising I just lost, we won't need to worry about covering the battle.”

Owen wagged a finger at Clare. “She's right.”

“Of course I'm right.” Clare was surprised she was getting excited about the idea of being there to give a firsthand account of the battle. “We can't afford to hire Ben Jones's replacement, and even if we could, there isn't enough time. Besides, everyone is saying there will only be one battle in the war. The Union is going to make short order of this, and we can't be the only newspaper that missed the coverage. The
Daily
needs this story and to do it well. My mind is clear on this now. I am the only one who makes sense.”

“I am not sending my wife and the mother of my children to the battlefield to dodge musket balls hurled from Johnny Reb. I would much rather shut this all down once and for all and open up . . . a fruit stand.”

“How about we both go?” Owen looked to Clare for her support.

“Brilliant.” There was certainly a part of her that would be terrified to take on such an assignment. Having Owen along would quell those concerns.

Andrew started to shake his head, but Clare could see his protest starting to wobble.

“Just for this battle,” Clare said. “We'll keep a safe distance. I promise, I won't stab one Virginian with a bayonet.”

“Dear, please.”

Clare sensed he was weakening and pounced. “No. This will be good. We'll keep a close eye on one of the New York regiments, and I'll do a story on the bravery of the Irish soldiers. We'll win that dour Mr. Murphy back, as well as the whole of the Five Points.”

Owen nodded toward her. “That's why she's writing it.” He reached over and gave Andrew a pat on the shoulder. “I'll take fine care of her, I will. You know I'd lay my life down for the two of you.”

“Yes.” Andrew looked up to his friend. “I know you would.” He pulled out his watch by the chain in his pocket. “Then if you're going to leave—”

“We'll need to leave immediately.” Clare came around and gave him a hug. “I'll stop at the house and pack and say good-bye to the children.”

“You know it's gruesome to be this excited about going to war.” Andrew raised his eyebrow.

“Oh, dear.” She kissed him on the cheek. “My excitement is getting to help you. The
Daily
. To lift some of this burden from your shoulders.”

“I better get going,” Owen said. “Ben Jones was supposed to ride with a group of reporters who were going to catch the same train. I'll let them know two more will be joining them.” He turned and left.