The Rose of Winslow Street (9 page)

Michael positioned the tweezers around another splinter. “What condition were the other boys in at the end of the fight?”

“Two of them were crying,” Andrei said. “I punched the little dark one in the stomach and he cried like a girl. Mulholland is a tough fighter though. I got three good punches in, but he caught me twice with a kick to the side.”

Michael straightened. “You said the Mulholland boy is taller than you.”

“He is.”

“Then you should not have allowed him to get far enough away to land a kick. Remember, when you go against someone who is taller than you, stay close and use a quick combination of punches. It is hard for them to defend against punches coming from below.”

Mirela whirled around to glare at him. “I cannot believe you are teaching these boys how to fight. Now of all times!”

Michael removed the last of the splinters from Luke's face. He did not want to argue with Mirela, but neither would he teach his children to run from a fight. He dipped a cloth in water and began wiping away the dirt that was encrusted around the scrapes on Luke's face. “Sometimes people pick fights with others because they are different. There is not much we can do about that because we
are
different and always will be. Sometimes they pick fights because they perceive you as an easy target. The best you can do in such situations is show them you are not weak, and that is what you did today, Luke. There is no shame in losing a fight. You may
never
win a fight, but if you demonstrate that you are not the sort to run away, you make it too difficult for them to want to bother with you. Eventually, they will give up.” He turned and looked directly at Mirela. “I wish it was not this way, but that is the situation for these boys.”

Exhaustion pulled him down onto a seat. For the second day in a row, he had walked over fifteen miles in desperate search of a particular type of tree he needed if his business was going to survive. In Romania, he knew the terrain well enough he could have gone out and found what he needed in short order, but America was an alien landscape. He needed to find an area where the soil was moist and sandy but had plenty of sunshine. Guessing where to find such conditions was exhausting, but he could not afford to stop looking. As soon as Luke was feeling better, he would go out and search again.

“Am I going to need stitches?” Luke asked.

Michael tried not to smile. Two years ago Turk had given Andrei a row of six tiny stitches when a scythe had cut into his leg. Ever since, Luke had desperately wanted some for himself. “A doctor is coming by the house later today to see Aunt Mirela. We will ask him to look at your face and decide.”

Luke looked at Mirela. “Why are you getting to see a doctor? You weren't in a fight.”

Mirela's face flushed a bit. “I haven't been feeling so well,” she said softly. “I hoped it would get better now that we aren't on a ship anymore, but I still feel bad.”

“What hurts?”

Michael gathered up the medical supplies and returned them to the box. “No more questions, Luke. You should never ask a lady why she wants to see a doctor. It is not gentlemanly.”

Silence hung in the air, but he felt no need to elaborate. There was little he had been able to offer Mirela since she'd moved in with him, but at least he could protect her privacy. He retrieved his wallet from its hiding place in the parlor, counting out the dwindling supply of bills inside. He handed one to Mirela.

“I hope this will be enough to cover the doctor's fee. If it is not, tell him we will have some eggs soon. Or Turk can go hunting if the doctor would like some meat.”

Mirela nodded but could not meet his eyes. “I understand,” she said. There was a time when she would have worn enough jewels around her throat to pay a doctor's salary for an entire year. No matter how poorly her life had turned out, Mirela never complained, never asked for more than he could afford to provide for her.

The thought of Luke being thrown against a fence made him feel sick. He needed to earn more money. Quickly. Then he could buy his children proper clothes and make sure Mirela got whatever care she needed to finally heal.

And pay his attorney. Three times he had met with Mr. Crane to prepare for the looming court case, and each meeting ate further into his dwindling savings. Mr. Crane swore Michael's legal position was strong, but they could not afford to scrimp in preparing to defend Uncle Constantine's will in court, and it was getting expensive.

He looked over to the cabinet where his four precious vials were stored. They would be useless unless he could get the correct sort of resin to serve as a fixative. He knew exactly which sorts of trees would serve his purpose, but the contents of his vials would go bad unless he found the trees soon. Until he found them, he would not rest.

Michael fed a bit of kerosene to the wick, casting a greater rim of illumination around the geologic map spread across Professor Sawyer's desk. He'd found the map of Massachusetts beneath a stack of old atlases on the bottom shelf of a bookcase. Each swirling band of color indicated a different layer of geologic strata. If he could determine which color indicated sandstone, he could make an educated guess about where a grove of red juniper trees might be located.

Michael muttered a curse under his breath, wishing he had gone to class more during the one splendid year he had been able to attend college. He had enrolled in botany and chemistry classes, but they'd held little allure to a young man who had just arrived from the Romanian countryside to the glittering city of Paris. What had his father been thinking? Sending a man with Michael's weaknesses to Paris was like sending an alcoholic to be educated in a winery.

Michael rubbed his eyes and focused again on the map. Did the light green shades indicate limestone or sandstone? Or was it granite? Because if it was granite, there would be no red juniper trees for miles.

There was a heavy pounding on the stairs, and the study door flew open without a knock. Turk filled the opening, breathing heavily. “Lady Mirela is not in her room,” he said. “I am worried about her. You know how she can get.”

“Mirela has been in good spirits today,” Michael said. “Perhaps she went for a walk?” She'd had a clean bill of health from the doctor earlier in the day and that seemed to put her mind at ease. At dinner, she'd laughed at Joseph's stories and insisted on helping the boys clean up after dinner. Before going up to her room to retire, she'd laid her hand against his cheek and thanked him for being the best brother in the world.

“I'll go see,” Turk said. “You should check the rest of the house. It is not like her to go for a walk without telling anyone.”

Michael stood so fast his chair tipped over. It was true. Mirela could be strong when safely protected behind the walls of her own home, but was timid when it came to venturing out on her own. And why had he blithely accepted her vague statement that the doctor gave her a clean bill of health?

“I'll search the house, you take the streets,” Michael said.

Turk was out the door before he had even finished the sentence, and Michael went from room to room, flinging open doors and calling her name. When he found nothing, he bounded upstairs and did the same on the second floor, pausing only in Mirela's bedroom to look for any sign of where she might have gone. The bed had not been slept in, but neatly folded on the dresser was a stack of the boys' shirts. And a note.

I cut and hemmed the shirts for the boys. I wish I could have done more for all of you. Love, Mirela.

The windows were open, allowing the warm summer air to waft inside the room. The scent of roses from the neighboring house carried on the breeze, and his jaw clenched as he tossed the note down.

He banged on Joseph's door. “Mirela is missing,” he said. “Get dressed and search the attic. I'll search the yard.”

Dread filled his throat, and his sense of foreboding grew even stronger when he realized that Mirela's open window had caused her to smell those roses.

The door banged as he strode out into the backyard. “Mirela?” His voice echoed on the night air. He checked the yard, the newly planted gardens. He scanned the chicken coop and behind the shed.

Then he went to the greenhouse, the thin light from the moon revealing the horror within. “No,” he breathed. He tugged at the door, but she had locked it from inside. He rattled the door. “Mirela, can you hear me!” he shouted as he banged on the door.

She was curled on her side, motionless on the ground. Could she still be alive with that much blood lost? Her dress was soaked with it and her skin looked like parchment.

He did not stop to think, he merely acted. With a forward lunge he plunged his shoulder against the glass, smashing it into a thousand shards. Pain sliced through his arm, but he ignored it as he kicked the flimsy support posts to the ground. Glass crunched beneath his boots as he sped to her side.

Her skin was clammy, but tears fogged his eyes when he saw a little blood weakly pulse from the cuts on her wrists. She was still alive. “Stay with me, baby sister,” he murmured. “This is just one more battle we need to win. Stay with me.”

He whipped off his shirt and tore it in two, using the fabric to bind her wrists. His own blood was running down his arm where shards of glass were still wedged in his skin, but he ignored the pain as he twisted the fabric tighter. It was not possible that Mirela would die here, not after everything she had triumphed over to get this far.

She was light in his arms, her face waxy and motionless in the moonlight. He carried her up the stairs, vaulting up them two at a time before laying her gently on her bed and shouting for Joseph to summon a doctor.

Tears rolled down his face at the sight of the perfectly hemmed shirts for his boys. He covered his eyes with his palms. “Why, Mirela?” he whispered. “Don't you know we all depend on you? Every one of us.”

But she lay as still and lovely as a porcelain doll.

The room was silent except for the sound of the doctor's pencil scratching across the paper as he wrote instructions for Mirela's care. Michael sat motionless in the study, but his mind reeled. He'd thought Mirela's demons were all in her head. He'd thought that with time and care she would emerge from this hibernation that devoured her spirit to live a normal and whole life.

He'd been wrong. Mirela had syphilis.

The doctor had given her the terrible diagnosis that afternoon. Michael cursed himself for failing to even consider such a tragedy from happening after the brutal ordeal Mirela had endured. He was numb as the doctor outlined what they should expect. Mirela must never marry and never have children. The doctor's accounts of babies born to women with syphilis were chilling. They could be born blind, covered in sores and crying incessantly from pain until they finally screamed themselves to sleep. Mirela had always longed for children, but now motherhood was another dream that had been torn from her life. With proper care, she might live five years or fifty years, but she would battle this disease for the rest of her life. There were treatments that could stave off the escalation of the disease, but they were painful and costly.

“I'll find the money,” Michael said.

The doctor shook his head. “She is not yet at the stage to begin the treatments. In the meantime, here is a diet she should follow to restore her blood. She should also drink a full glass of water every hour for the next several days. She must not be left alone, as she may try to re-injure herself if given the opportunity.”

Michael turned his pain-filled eyes to the doctor. “She seemed so happy this evening. She laughed at dinner and smiled as she helped the boys clean the kitchen.”

“It is not unusual for people who have resolved to end their life to feel this sort of peace,” the doctor said. “They see an escape route and believe an end to their torment is near.”

Joseph would stand guard over Mirela for the rest of the night. Tomorrow he would send Andrei to purchase the items on Dr. Kennescott's list for Mirela's new diet. Because of Mirela's kindness, Andrei would be able to walk into town with a shirt that looked just like what all the other American boys wore.