Grace's Pictures (19 page)

Annie had said to hurry.

“I must be going,” she said, reaching for her camera.

The man handed it back. Turning to his wife, he said, “Cameras right on the street, dear. Imagine that. We could end up on the front page of the evening
World
just for walking down Broadway.”

“Don’t be foolish, Charles.”

Grace hurried on. There was a druggist on the corner that Mrs. Hawkins had said sold film for her camera.

Once she purchased the film, she carefully loaded the camera and then returned outside. When she passed by an open door, the whooping and shouting erupting from inside made her pause and think of the games the workhouse master and the cook played in the master’s office. Cards of some sort. She caught a glimpse of some men seated around a table. Was this American game anything like the Irish one? Curiosity killed the cat. She remembered Mrs. Hawkins telling her Mr. Hawkins used to say that. But Grace had no time to be cautious. She’d just take a quick peek.

She glanced at the box camera in her hands. A photograph allowed time to study the subject. Perhaps she could capture the scene on film and study it later. If she could do that, she might
understand the Americans a wee bit better and lose the label of outsider all the sooner.

Standing out on the sidewalk, where there was more light, she hoped would bring her subject into focus. She didn’t really know if it would work, of course, but if she didn’t start experimenting with her Brownie, she’d never learn.

She nearly dropped the camera when a fellow plopped down from his seat in the open window. The sound of his feet hitting the floor inside the room rattled around in her head for a moment. She glanced around, holding her camera to her chest. No one seemed to notice her. People continued to stomp up and down the street and walkway, providing her a sense of anonymity. She looked around for something to stand on to give her a better perspective. A milk crate rested near the curb. She turned it over, and by perching atop, she achieved a clear view over the tops of the heads of the hoards of people passing by.

She aimed.

When she clicked the shutter, a bawl rang out from the room.

“Did you see that outside the window?” someone shouted.

They pointed in her direction, but had they meant her? She was sure she had been discreet, but if she could see over the heads of the passersby, then the people in the house could see her.

“Was that a camera? A nose from papers! Smokey, I warned ya they’d be looking to ruin me. Not even Tammany Hall can silence that.”

“Not the papers, Mr. Middleton. Just a ragbag urchin girl.”

What kind of English did these card players speak?

A scrambling sound came from the room, and although they could not have been talking about her, a desire to flee launched her from her perch. Her petticoat snagged on a fence post as
she tried to rush away. She pulled at it, leaving some red threads behind before she scrambled to a trolley car and hopped on.

She thought she heard someone cry out the name Rosie, but there was so much commotion, so many people. Probably just in her head.

Sucking in breaths, Grace tilted her head against the back of the wooden seat.

“Sneaking up on a stuss game, miss?”

Grace bolted upright. A man on the seat across from her scowled.

“Are you speaking to me, sir?” Grace asked.

“I am indeed.” He raised a thick brow and turned his head to one side. “Looked as though you were playing police detective with your Brownie camera.”

Although Grace didn’t understand what this man was implying, she knew she had to object. “I was not. I was just curious, and I thought I might—”

The man turned to the woman seated next to him. He crossed his gloved hands over the top of a cane that he repeatedly tapped against the trolley floor.

“Uh-huh,” the woman said in answer to the man’s stares.

The man puffed out his jowls. “Just as I predicted, Harriet. The advent of those little box cameras will mean that every John—or in this case, Jane—Doe on the street will be taking our photographs. There will be no privacy. Not just for lawbreakers, but for the gentlemen and women who wish to maintain their due right to privacy.”

The woman nodded and smacked her lips, and then he pounded his cane harder.

Grace squeezed her eyes tight. Had everyone seen her blunder?

17

OWEN SAT IN THE DEPARTMENT MEETING,
but his mind was not on the scheduling Captain Nicholson was speaking about. He was thinking about the Dusters and how he might find their leader. When Nicholson took a break to light a fresh cigar, Feeny, seated to his right, leaned over to whisper.

“Word on the street is Middleton was caught in a stuss game yesterday.”

“The reformer?”

“That’s the one. You know, the novelist, one of those fellas folks like to think know more than the rest of us so they’re always quoted in the papers.”

“Yeah, well, can’t always trust someone’s who they appear to be.”

Feeny rounded his eyes like a cartoon character. “Someone took his picture. He don’t like it much, I don’t suppose. And to think he done it on the Lord’s Day. Not good for his image, that.”

“Suppose not. When did they bring him in?”

“Not an arrest, I’m speaking about, man. A civilian took his picture, all Jacob Riis–like. Just a wee lass, so I hear, with one of those newfangled box cameras. They say even a child can use those things.”

“Well, I suppose a lot of people will be carrying those cameras around in the future.”

Feeny always seemed to have something to jabber on about. Owen didn’t much care about reformers who only wrote about the plight of immigrants but never worked in the trenches, and he certainly did not care to hear about those who demanded reform and yet still participated in the illicit activities the police were trying to clean up. Jacob Riis was an exception. He went out on the streets with Roosevelt and documented how miserable things were down here. But that was a few years past. Without the folks who did the real work out there now, things would be worse than they are. Kudos to the girl who took that hypocrite’s photograph.

“I hear he’s even sent thugs out after the photographer.”

Owen turned back to watch the captain, sending a message to Feeny that he wasn’t interested in the gossip.

Feeny tugged on his shirtsleeve. “’Tis the truth, I tell ya.”

“Really, Feeny, where do you hear this stuff?”

“I know people. Important folks.”

“Right.”

During Linden’s nap and while the girls attended to some needlework they were practicing in the kitchen, Grace decided to try to find out why the mistress of the house was so unhappy. Mrs. Parker sat in the parlor, a Burpee Seed catalog balanced on the top of her pregnant belly.

“Mrs. Parker?”

“What is it, Grace?” Alice Parker turned her shadowy eyes from the paper.

“I was just wondering, if you don’t mind me asking, is there anything wrong, ma’am? Anything I can do to help you?”

“Wrong? What do you mean?”

“You are so . . . quiet . . . and you hardly want the children around you. Are you ill?”

Mrs. Parker slapped the arm of her chair with the catalog. “You are too nosy. I’m with child, if you didn’t notice. George always says I’m grumpy when I’m with child. Well, so be it.” She turned to look out the front window. “Nosy. This is what I get for hiring a biddy.”

“I only wish to help. For the children’s sake.” Grace really wanted to slap sense into the woman. What was wrong with her?

“Don’t be complaining to him about me, Grace. I’ll have you fired.”

“Oh, I would never.” She thought about the money in her bag, money she would give back at the first opportunity.

Alice Parker rose and poured herself a sherry from her husband’s decanter. “I despise my life, Grace.” She twirled around and lifted her glass in Grace’s direction. “And now you know. George thinks I’m not good for much else but birthing babies and growing flowers. He might not say so out loud, but I know that’s what he thinks.” She laughed. “What a life that is, huh?”

Grace retrieved the glass from the woman’s hand. “The baby. You should not—”

Mrs. Parker collapsed on the sofa. “I suppose you are right, but don’t get the idea you can tell me what to do.” She mumbled under her breath. “Irish biddy.”

The woman clearly had no fight in her. Grace urged her to recline and covered her with a blanket.

She lifted a finger. “I don’t care any longer. Not about anything.”

“Nonsense.” Grace pointed to the catalog. “You care about gardening, now don’t you?”

Alice Parker smiled. “Coralbells. I think I’ll plant coralbells in the spring. The south side of the house. Don’t you think, Grace?”

“Lovely.”

When the woman had relaxed, Grace asked again. “Why don’t you show the children more affection, Mrs. Parker? Children need it.”

“Affection? Who showed me affection?”

“Your mother?”

She huffed. “I grew up in an orphanage.”

“No, this is your family home. Your people go to church near here. Mr. Parker said.”

“That’s what he wants everyone to think, Grace. The nuns raised me.” A stern look came over her face. “Irish nuns. And as you can see—” she waved her hand in the air—“as you can see, they didn’t do a very good job.” She pushed herself up on her elbows. “My biddy mentions this to no one, hear me? Do and I’ll see you get no work on the entire west side.” She whimpered. “He would not like that. Not at all. A miracle he even allowed me a maid.”

“Not a word,” Grace promised. “Are you crying?”

The woman wiped her eyes with her thumbs. “George says tears are a sign of weakness. You never saw me crying, understand me?”

“Aye. Yes.” Grace instantly thought about what Linden had said.

Later in the day Grace busied herself in the kitchen. Grace
understood Alice Parker. The woman felt worthless, not unlike the way Linden felt. Mr. Parker had them under his thumb. Grace did not have her father around anymore and still he sometimes controlled her. She did not want to become defeated and depressed like her employer and certainly did not want wee Linden to be like his mother as a result of living with such a demanding and restrictive man.

Grace straightened the dishes in the pantry, folded some towels, and swept the floor—each task stirring up anger. Mr. Parker was a fake, pretending he had a happy life and hiding away among the immigrants probably because he liked how lofty and important he felt around them. Reverend Clarke did not know the man as well as he thought he did, but Grace had experience with his kind. George Parker might not be a violent man like her father was when he was drunk, but he was no good just the same. No wonder he didn’t want his wife in church with him. It was probably bad enough that his nanny saw what was going on.

She blew out a breath. It just didn’t seem right such people should exist in America. The reverend was right. Grace had to be careful. When no one was looking, she entered Mr. Parker’s office and dropped the envelope of money on his desk. He’d find it when he returned from work. Maybe he would get the message and not bring it up again.

Grace muttered under her breath later in the day as she polished crystal glasses and placed them back in the dining room sideboard. Christmas Eve and she was expected to create such fancy dishes as she’d never seen before. “Spiced chutney and turtle soup and butter crème pie. How am I supposed to make those things? And why would anyone want to eat them?”

She closed the door on the sideboard and moaned softly
when she heard Linden cry out from his nap. She stood absolutely still, hoping he’d go back to sleep. The mistress had gone to her garden club’s annual Christmas meeting at the house next door, a rare outing for the woman, and she’d only gone because the neighbor had promised to call the midwife if Alice had any problems. Mrs. Parker had potted a cutting from a violet she’d wintered indoors and was proud to be taking it to the Christmas gift exchange. If plants had not been involved, Grace was sure the woman would never have risen from the couch.

Hazel and Holly had gone with their mother to play with the children next door. They had a nanny who would supervise during the garden club gathering, thankfully. Grace needed to study the cookbook.

The house quieted again. When she opened her eyes, she looked down at her shoes. Ill-humored Mrs. Parker, before she headed next door, had insisted Grace purchase new ones—and at her own expense. “After all, they’re on your feet, not mine. Why should I buy them? I pay you enough.”

Grace sat on the sofa and let her legs dangle over the edge. If expenses kept gobbling up her pay, how would she ever get her mother over?

She thought about the extra money she had turned down. Tempting, that had been. Where did the man get all his money?

The postman turned the bell on the door.

She greeted him.

“Good day. Letters for the Parker family.”

She took the papers from his hand and thanked him. Closing the door firmly behind her and glancing toward the stairs, hoping the sound hadn’t awakened wee Linden, she placed the mail on a silver tray in the parlor near the chair where Mr. Parker reclined most evenings. The letter on top caught her attention.
Sanitation Department, Re: Chatham Square property
. Grace had begun to learn her way around, and she knew that Chatham Square in the Bowery was a place to avoid. And Mr. Parker actually owned property down there. She questioned what she had gotten herself into by working for this man, and more importantly what he might expose his children to, the ones he so adamantly proclaimed he wanted to protect. There was definitely more to this man than what first appeared. She would have to be more than just careful. She would have to be vigilant.