Cinders to Satin. Fern Michaels
her own conclusions about the windfall’s origins. Much as Mum refused to admit it, Aunt Sara was quite comfortable with the hard luck of the James’s family, and even took haughty pleasure in Peggy’s tribulations. If only Peggy hadn’t knocked out so many children, Aunt Sara was fond of saying in mild rebuke. If only she’d chosen a smart, enterprising man like Uncle Jack instead of a handsome rogue like Thom James. If only they’d learned to put enough by to see them through the hard times. If only, if only!
Callie pulled the twins along beside her at a pace that was almost too fast for their little legs. What would Aunt Sara know about it? She who had married that mewling Jack O’Brien just because he owned a dry goods store. And Colleen, that prissy arsed twit! Her, with her fancy lace drawers and nose-in-the-air manner. What would Colleen know about going to sleep hungry and hearing her stomach growl all the night through? Not Colleen with her handsome English soldier who led her about on his arm as though she were a grand duchess while Aunt Sara glowed with pride.
Things hadn’t always been rosy for the O’Briens. There was a time when they were no better off than the Jameses. But since hard times fell on the land and droves of English soldiers and their families poured into Ireland to “guard the order of the land,” Uncle Jack’s business had soared. The English had money to spend, and Aunt Sara and Uncle Jack waited with palms open. That the English were a hated reminder of Ireland’s subservience to Great Britain and in turn dealt with the Irish with a harsh type of justice meant nothing at all to the O’Briens. As long as their shop was frequented by those who had money, they would have served the devil himself. And as far as Callie was concerned, they did.
Rounding off McIver Street onto Bayard, Callie gripped the twins’ hands tightly to her sides. Horse-drawn wagons and pushcarts crowded the street, adding their noise to the calls of the peddlers and the general commotion of shoppers and workers and the men lingering outside Melrose’s Tavern. Women with dark shawls pulled over their heads bustled along, guarding their baskets of goods and keeping a watchful eye for roving bands of street arabs who were quick of hand and fleet of foot in their intent to separate a woman from her hard-earned purchases, her purse, or even the very shoes from her feet.
Bridget tugged at the skirt of Callie’s brown linsey-woolsey dress, a castoff from cousin Colleen. “Walk slower, Callie, I can’t keep up!”
“All right, then. Just a little slower until we get over onto Florham Way.” Callie was eager to cross Bayard Street onto the relative quiet of Florham Way where just a few streets down there was a park where the children could play. This was the way she had run home earlier that morning, after snatching her basket out of the arms of Mr. Kenyon.
Florham Way was a double-wide street that made traffic for the carts and carriages more orderly. Trees, still skeletal in these early weeks of March, nevertheless held a hint of green, a promise of spring. Hallie and Georgie followed close on their sister’s heels past rag shops and cobblers. Callie could remember when flower shops and glove shops and milliners lined the street, but in these hard times a body couldn’t eat flowers, and there was no money for gloves and hats. She’d heard stories of poor folk out in the countryside who had taken to eating roots and grasses, only to die for their efforts. Callie shivered at the thought. It seemed to her that she never thought of anything else these days except food and where it would come from. Seeing her little brothers and sisters with their scrubbed and shining faces walking beside her, their heads lifted and happily teasing one another, she was glad she’d stolen the groceries. At least their bellies were full and they could laugh and play. Callie was glad she had taken the basket, and if the opportunity presented itself, she’d not hesitate to take another.
Georgie and Hallie ran across the brown, stubby grass to play along a cindered path atop a bulkhead on the waterfront. The waters of the Irish Sea were wind-chafed, rolling endlessly toward shore, pushed by the salty breezes. The sun shone warm, dancing in diamond reflections off the sea, and out in the distance there were freighters and schooners, making their way to Dublin’s wharves. This was Georgie’s favorite place. He always claimed, with the intensity of a seven year old, that one day he would become a sailor and be off to see the world.
Bridget and Billy searched the mottled turf for an elusive four-leaf clover. Granda had convinced the children that if they found a four-leaf clover, it would point the way to the hiding place of leprechauns, and there they would find the pot of gold.
Callie frowned, her finely drawn brows wrinkling over the bridge of her saucily tilted nose. Georgie wanting to see the world, the twins searching for a pot of gold. It was all the same to her. There was no pot of gold, and she’d never see any more of the world than Dublin and the long, austere rows of houses on McIver Street.
Bridget’s light golden curls lifted on the brisk March wind. Her drab green woolen dress needed patching at the sleeve. Billy would be needing his shoes resoled before long. There was no escaping the worry, the everlasting sense of responsibility she felt toward them. Yet at the same time there was an anger, a hostility that she should have to take on such a burden.
The sun shone down on the mud flats exposed by low tide. The overripe smell of rotting vegetation and decaying fish caught in the swing of tide wrinkled Callie’s nose. Huge gray boulders, exposed now, stood starkly against the dark waters of the Irish Sea. Georgie would dearly love to race across the mud flats the way he could in summer. Summer, only months away, and yet no nearer than a lifetime. Summer would come, and with it, Peggy’s new babe. A new James child, a new responsibility. And what hope was there for it? Could Billy or Georgie grow to be fine, educated gentlemen like her savior from the night before, Mr. Byrch Kenyon? Would their shoulders ever be as broad, and would they wear fine cranberry velvet coats? No, she thought not.
Callie had been trying to forget Byrch Kenyon ever since she’d run away from him on the dark corner of Bayard Street, but the memory of his smile and the way he had lifted his dark brows when he laughed drew her thoughts to him again and again.
Somehow, Callie felt that meeting Mr. Kenyon was an important event in her life, even though she almost laughed at herself for thinking it. She was never likely to see him again. He had told her he was returning to America and his newspaper.
Squinting into the late afternoon sun, Callie saw Hallie and Georgie walking toward her, the freshness of the air staining their cheeks rosy. Immediately her eyes went to little Bridget who had given up the game of clover hunting to cuddle her little rag doll and sing softly to it. Swinging about, Callie searched for Billy’s bright blond head.
“Bridget darlin’, where’s your twin?” The little girl looked about, shrugging her thin shoulders.
“Georgie, have you seen Billy?” Even before his answer, Callie knew he had not.
Going to Bridget, Callie knelt down beside her. “Tell Callie, darlin’, where was Billy when you saw him last?” She tried to keep the edge of panic from creeping into her voice.
Bridget stuck her finger into her mouth as she always did when she became frightened. Her pansy blue eyes were widened. “Billy? Billy?” she called for her twin.
“Where was he when you were playing?” Callie purposely softened her tone. “Did you see where he went?”
“Billy found a clover, and he’s gone to find the pot of gold!” Bridget said, pleased that she remembered.
“Yes, darlin’, but which way did he go?” Bridget pulled her finger out of her mouth and pointed back in the direction of Bayard Street.
“Oh, my God! The traffic!” Appointing Georgie to mind the children and not to leave this spot, Callie ran to where Bridget had pointed. Wild imaginings taunted her. Billy was such a little boy, too little to know the dangers of the carts and horses. She could imagine him, small and helpless, being trampled beneath the wheels of a wagon or stomped beneath the flinty hooves of a ragman’s team. Looking for the pot of gold, indeed!
Pulling her shawl tight around her shoulders, Callie ran the length of Florham Way back to the noise and confusion of Bayard Street, searching for a bright blond head. There was a break in the traffic, and across the cobbled street she caught sight of a little figure scooting between the dust bins