Grace's Pictures (12 page)

Near the crowded corner of the parlor, he found an unoccupied chair and sat, but when an elderly lady made her way across the room, hobbling with the aid of a cane, he offered his seat.

The sound of stringed instruments replaced the piano music, coming from the direction of the large open area Miss Amelia liked to call her ballroom.

“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson.” He nodded toward friends of his mother’s and then shook hands with a stockbroker his father dealt with, along with the executive of a chain of department stores.

The night dragged. He chose to stay in the front room, as did many others who apparently held no fondness for dancing.

“Excuse me.” A woman pulled her arm away even though she had barely brushed against him.

He caught a glimpse of yellow fabric as she wove her way through black suits. He trailed behind. When he caught up and captured her attention, he tipped his chin. “Lovely piano playing, Miss Pierpont.”

Her ruby lips turned into a smile. “Why, thank you.” She reached out her hand.

Owen spent the next hour chatting with the young lady and was delighted to find they shared an interest in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle novels and Southern pecan pie. He supposed he had been lonely and bored. His mother found them engaging in conversation on the parlor sofa.

“Come along, darlings. Come dance with us in the ballroom.” She pulled Owen to his feet and, with a shrug of her eyebrows, suggested he help Miss Pierpont rise.

Thankfully, once they entered the ballroom, his mother disappeared. He took Miss Pierpont’s gentle hand and led her to the dance floor.

“I must warn you that my mother plays matchmaker.”

“Oh? And I suppose this does not please you.”

“It does not. Uh . . . don’t misunderstand. It’s been lovely spending time with you, Miss Pierpont, and I’ve enjoyed our conversation. But let me be clear about something.”

“Please.”

She frowned, but he thought it would be better to set things straight. “I have a demanding job chasing down thieves and gangsters. I work most nights. I live in Lower Manhattan . . .”

He felt her sink back slightly.

“I am not suitable courting material, I’m afraid.”

“I see.” She pinched a smile. “I’m sure you are being too hard on yourself, Officer.”

“Realistic. I don’t mean to be rude. I truly have enjoyed your company this night.”

“I’m flattered.”

They waltzed to the edge of the crowd, and he released her. He coughed. The thickly populated house seemed to close in on him.

His mother appeared by his side. “Here come the O’Tooles. Say hello, darling, before they make their speech.”

He turned to find the smiling faces of Mr. and Mrs. O’Toole. He had not seen them since the funeral. Mr. O’Toole shook his hand firmly, and Mrs. O’Toole leaned forward while he kissed her cheek.

“So happy you’re here, Owen,” Mrs. O’Toole said. “The night would not be complete without you.”

“You are too kind.”

“We are grateful for your service to the citizens, son.” Mr. O’Toole thumped Owen’s back.

“Well, I . . .”

The orchestra ceased playing, and Miss Amelia led the man and his wife to the center of the room.

Mr. O’Toole, dressed in an ordinary black suit, and his wife, wearing an unadorned navy dress and no hat, stood in the middle of the crowd, an island of ordinariness surrounded by wealthy patrons, the finest New York could attire. The contrast was more than just visible. It was palpable.

Mr. O’Toole began by talking about his deceased son and the plight of the poor in the city. The crowd nodded as though they understood. Owen knew none of them really did. Throwing money at a problem never solved it. The only way to make change was to roll up your sleeves and—

Suddenly the room erupted in applause, and the couple in the center waved to him. He drew closer. Mr. O’Toole continued on. “With the dedication of officers like Owen McNulty, much good is being done. This fine young man, who traded a life of comfort for one of service, utilizing good morals and avoiding the corruption of Tammany Hall, represents the spirit of servitude our own son possessed. We now award him the first annual Dan O’Toole Award for Excellence.”

Had his mother and Miss Amelia only invited Tammany opposition, Mother might have endured this better. She stood at the edge of the crowd, fanning her pale face. She had been caught off guard just like Owen. As people congratulated him and asked to look at the silver-plated plaque he had been handed, he saw his mother and the hostess engaged in animated conversation near the swinging door the domestics used to bring in trays of champagne flutes. His mother waved her
arms as she spoke. She never would have allowed the O’Tooles to give that speech if she’d known they were going to refer to her son as a servant. If Miss Amelia had previous knowledge of it, she must not have mentioned it to Mother.

Mr. O’Toole pulled him aside. “Did we surprise you, son?”

“Uh, yes, you did. This was very kind but not necessary.”

“Of course it was necessary. I admire what you are doing out there.” He glanced down at the plaque. “Besides, you’ll pass the honor on to someone else next year and hopefully this will help encourage the honest cops out there.”

Owen smiled. “I’m sure it will. It’s a fine honor.” He shifted his feet. “Sir, please know that I cannot replace your son. He was a great man.”

“He was indeed. But you are your own man, Owen McNulty, and a good one too. Still got the watch?”

Owen pulled it out to show him.

“Good, good.”

Owen pushed it toward him. “I think this should stay with the family.”

“Absolutely not.” Mr. O’Toole placed his hand on Owen’s arm the way a father should, the way his father never did. “Not many men would walk into the path of an out-of-control trolley to save a wee child, even if such an opportunity arises again. You might, but whether or not you do is irrelevant. It’s the spirit you have, lad. You may have been born into the upper crust, but make no mistake, you were meant to be a policeman in the immigrant wards. And thank the good Lord you’ve found what you were born for. Know what I mean?”

“I think I do.”

He winked. “Now I’m off to lose this monkey jacket and get a pint at the pub.”

Owen was leaving too. With his award and his watch and the confirmation he’d needed. He might be caught between two worlds as far as courtship was concerned. But he was in the right place, doing the job he’d been called to do.

When he stepped outside, a familiar face met him. Owen, being a tall man himself, stood nose to nose with New York City’s police chief, Big Bill Devery.

“Nice award, son.”

“Thank you, sir.” Owen accepted the man’s handshake. When it was evident the man had nothing else to say, Owen scrambled down the front steps.

Big Bill lumbered after him. “By the way, Officer McNulty, glad you weren’t badly hurt.”

“Sir?”

The man rubbed his large belly that stretched his tuxedo to the limit. “I hear you got roughed up a bit out there on your beat. A pipe to the knees?”

Owen stiffened. “I’m surprised you hear about such common occurrences down in Lower Manhattan.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised what I hear.” He leaned in close. “Every man on the force knows who’s in the game and who’s not. Roosevelt may have hired you, but you work for me now. Understand?”

Owen forced a smile. “Of course. You are the chief. Good night, sir.”

As Owen sat on the train, he debated what he should tell Nicholson. The captain was trying to keep his own head on his shoulders, after all. Owen knew deep down inside that God wanted him to be a New York City policeman. Mr. O’Toole’s encouragement was confirmation of what he already felt. And yet there was the matter of Owen’s father. Owen had better find
out what ailed the man. As his father’s only son, he couldn’t let the business fail. Stuck between two worlds indeed.

If Owen had thought receiving an award would make his beat more pleasant, he was wrong. He hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, but word got out, Owen learned as he worked a rare morning shift. The precinct guys began calling him Most Excellent Officer. A few of the shopkeepers on the beat gave him the thumbs-up, but he could imagine what they said out of earshot.
“College boy. Thinks he’s better than the rest.”

Why had Owen agreed to show up at that charity event in the first place? The O’Tooles meant well, but surely it hadn’t been their idea. The concept of an award had to have been thrust upon them by socialites looking for a reason for a party.

And to make matters worse, the police chief himself had threatened him. Subtle, yes, but still a threat. He decided he would not tell Captain Nicholson, not just yet. He didn’t want to be taken off this chase.

10

AT BREAKFAST FRIDAY,
Annie showed Grace a page from the newspaper. “Owen McNulty, from our very own church. See his picture?”

Grace read the caption. It seemed he had been given some kind of an award at a fancy charity ball. “Officer McNulty? How could someone from down here end up in high society and be the honored guest at a place like that?” She knew America was different from Ireland, but still.

Annie pointed at the newspaper. “He did belong there. He’s from a wealthy family.”

The Hawk chewed the crust on her slice of bread and looked at both girls in turn. “Sometimes folks—even those who have a great deal of money—choose a simpler lifestyle. Sometimes God calls them to go somewhere, to do something that they didn’t expect. You girls still have a lot to learn, it would seem.” She rose and excused herself.

Grace exchanged glances with Annie. “What got into the Hawk?”

Annie tilted her head back and laughed. “I love that. The Hawk!”

“Seriously, Annie.”

The girl rose and gathered the dishes. “I expect she is simply
serious about aiding girls like us. That’s all.” She paused. “This Owen McNulty. He’s quite a catch, isn’t he?”

“He’s a policeman.”

“So?” She tossed her head. “Policemen don’t marry?”

Grace drew in a breath. “He’s nice, but I’m not interested. The police are not trustworthy, believe me.”

“Some, maybe. But not him.” She pointed to the newspaper again. “Look. He was honored by the police. So he must be an honorable man. Who could want more?”

Grace gave up. The last thing she wanted to do was talk about what the peelers had done to her. And her mother. There was no way Annie would ever understand. Besides, unless there were men like Reverend Clarke who were of marriageable age, she would stay single. And that would be fine with her.

After yesterday’s adjustment, the children seemed willing to accept Grace as nanny, but that did not mean they were always cooperative.

Grace struggled to braid Hazel’s hair while Holly complained loudly about having to wear woolen stockings. “Hold still, Hazel. No, Holly. ’Tis winter, so. Just put them on like a good lass.”

Linden bounced a ball on the playroom floor. “I wanna go to school.”

Even though both his sisters had been going to school for the last few months, Linden seemed especially disturbed about it now. Perhaps it was for Grace’s benefit. Maybe the pending arrival of the new babe was making him sour. Or he didn’t like having a nanny. Grace wasn’t sure. “You’re not old enough yet,” Grace told him.

“Yeah, but
I
get to go.” Holly glared at him, hands on hips. This was not helping.

“Not fair!” Linden was about to lose control. Grace had already begun to recognize the signs.

She took his hand. “Your time will come, laddie.”

Linden, however, still seemed terribly aggrieved by it all. “Father says I have to be a man.”

Holly twirled in her new school dress. “You can’t go, Lindy. You’re just a baby.”

Linden marched over and delivered a blow to Holly’s cheek before Grace could untangle her fingers from Hazel’s hair.

“Oww,” Holly wailed.