Read Somebody Wonderful Online
Authors: Kate Rothwell
Somebody Wonderful (21 page)
Chapter 19
As they rode back from the town, they decided not to tell anyone. “Except Araminta,” said Timmy. “I have to tell her or I shall burst. She is very good at keeping secrets. I think. I haven’t had many secrets before and certainly never, never one this wonderful.”
“You should tell your father, Timmy,” Mick said.
“If I must. But now I’d far rather discuss more interesting topics such as where shall we live.” she said.
“What do you require for your home?”
“Someone who will cook, a place for my photography, and you. And now Eddy, too. I travel light. Haven’t I mentioned that?”
They agreed on a house near a river or the ocean.
“Wide windows overlooking the sea,” said Timona, dreamily. “A house large enough for us, Eddy and lots of visitors like the Tuckers.”
Her voice grew sober as she hesitantly asked, “You-you do not mind visitors? I mean who are not like us?”
“You mean Mlylans and what not?” Mick said.
“I have always promised my friends that when I had a place to live they should visit me.”
“I would be glad to meet anyone you call friend,” a solemn Mick replied, hoping this was true. True, she called charming people such as Araminta and Mrs. Kelly friend. On the other hand, she liked Blenheim. And there were those other Calverson company types. Not to mention Solly Tothman.
They agreed on other details of their future. More animals. And babies.
“As long as you take care of them all, too, for you have had experience,” said Timona. She turned almost all the way around in her saddle and, throwing wide her arms, she cried exuberantly, “Oh, let us start right now. I want it all, all of our life this very minute.”
Mick gestured at the field of swaying tall grass they rode through. “Certainly, if you like, I can give you a baby. Would be better if we had a blanket,” he said with a leer, just fooling about.
But damned if the woman didn’t immediately pull her horse to a stop and slide off its back.
“What a good idea,” she said, delighted.
Mick suddenly recalled it had been a matter of days since he had held Timona. And the ground, warmed by the sun, didn’t look so bad at that.
They tied their horses to some saplings. Botty collapsed, panting, in the shade of one of the cropping horses.
With a whoop, Timmy flung herself onto the grass. She lay on her back, squinting into the sunny sky. He walked over to her and stood above her. Dress all rumpled, bonnet askew, she grinned and held open her arms to him. “See? A warm meadow makes a perfect bed.”
Mick lowered himself slowly to the grass, then without warning he grabbed the yelping, giggling Timmy and rolled her on top of him.
“Nah, I’ll be your bed, love.”
The grass was cool beneath him, Timmy a warm armful on top. Paradise.
The heady joy of their ride evaporated as they entered the camp.
A short, white-haired man was bellowing over the rows of digging workers, waving his hands. The king, thought Mick sourly, but it transpired the old man was not giving anyone grief.
“Oh dear. He must be growing anxious, for he is again trying to describe the types of bones he expects they might find,” Timmy said. “We’ll go give the horses back and then I’ll introduce you.”
Mick walked back to the site with her, hot with embarrassment as all of the laborers looked up from the pits. Could the men see the grass-stains on their clothing from their lovemaking an hour earlier?
He did not want to yank away from Timmy, who clung to his hand. But he did want to wipe the knowing smirks off the faces of the men who watched them. Or at least fight to prove that he loved Timmy, loved her for her sweet self and not her grubby money.
Of course, he reflected gloomily, he’d have to beat the stuffing out of them and everyone else he ever encountered. Taylor, the rodent man and the other New York crew. Bloody Blenheim. Even Mick’s old mate, Jim. Oh. Hell.
Timmy managed to pull her father away from the digging at last. They strolled to a shady spot under some trees near the house.
“Papa, please pay attention, it’s important,” said Timmy calmly. “I’d like you to meet Michael McCann. You may call him Mick.”
Sir Kenneth, a sunburnt, stout man with a moth-eaten mustache and a pop-eyed, goggling look to him, obligingly shook Mick’s hand. He grunted a howdy-do. He even went so far as to peer, frowning, into Mick’s face.
“Important, you say, my dear? Are you by any chance an agent of Cope’s? Don’t tell me you’re at Yale with Marsh. Have you seen his newest skeletal restoration—the brontosaurus?”
Timona interrupted. “No, he is not a scientist or dinosaur hunter. I meant to say he is important to me. Mick and I are getting married.”
“Eh? What? What? No. No. No. What the devil am I supposed to do? Who will make my arrangements and so on. No, Timona.”
He chewed vigorously at the end of his bedraggled mustache. Not moth-eaten after all. “I don’t like the idea.”
Mick bit back his incredulous laugh. The man did not care who she married, he just didn’t want to take care of himself.
“Papa, making your arrangements is your secretary’s job. That is why I hire gentlemen such as Mr. Blenheim.”
“But I like you better. Much better.”
She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “That’s sweet of you, dear.”
“Who’s going to talk to the cook? She doesn’t like Blenheim now. And she scares the devil out of me.”
“You couldn’t care less who cooks for you, Papa. You’d eat stones if they were put in front of you. I imagine that Araminta will move on, once I leave. She has said she wants to open a restaurant. It will be a simple matter to find a cook who gets along with Mr. Blenheim.”
“But what about Griffin? You know how he is always bothering me with nonsense about money.”
“I am sure I can figure out your budgets even after I am married. And you can sign your name, dear. That’s all Griffin usually wants from you.”
“But you are so good at packing my tools, Timona. No one does a better job sharpening them, too. And who will talk to the dashed locals? I like ’em well enough when the work day is through, but I can’t stand ’em poking round into my digs. And when someone wants me to make a speech, you always write it up. You’re the best writer, better than that droning Blenheim and . . .”
“Papa,” she put a hand on his arm and rubbed it soothingly. “I promise we will find a solution for each of these problems. Solutions that will satisfy you. Why don’t you draw up a list and I shall look it over with you.”
For the first time the old man relaxed. “Good plan. Good plan. A list, eh? So what did you say this man’s name is? Are you truly old enough to marry, my dear? God bless my soul, how the time flies. Does he know even the
first
thing about the terrible lizards?”
first
thing about the terrible lizards?”
“This is Mick McCann,” Timona repeated patiently. Mick wondered if the man had always been like this or if it was advancing age.
Sir Kenneth said, “McCann. McCann. McCann. Irish, eh? The bogs. You know some mighty interesting things have been found in those bogs. I met a man once in England who said he was doing research on a boat dragged up that was estimated to be more than a thousand years old. Post-dates my area of research, however . . .”
Mick glanced at Timmy who aimed a broad smile at him. That was it? The end of the man’s objections to her marriage?
Five days. That was all they had to wait.
Chapter 20
Timona and Mick walked into the house, and Eddy ran out of the kitchen yelping with delight. He went straight to them and threw his skinny arms around Mick’s waist for a hug. The boy had often clung to Mick, but had not often shown happy affection. Mick raised his eyebrows and looked over at Timona. They exchanged pleased smiles.
Mr. Blenheim strolled into the front hallway where they stood.
“Miss Calverson, may I speato you a moment?” He waved an elegant hand toward the parlor.
She sat down on the new horsehair couch, and wondered why anyone would want to own a piece of fashionable furniture if it forced you to keep your feet planted on the ground for fear of sliding off.
“Yes?” she said, hoping against hope that Mr. Blenheim was not going to start complaining again. Had he always been so particular?
Mr. Blenheim drew up a chair, and sat down near her.
Mick stood in the doorway, one arm around Eddy, who still leaned against him. For a few moments she watched them, the tall mountain of a man supporting the skinny urchin. The amazing joy swept through her again. Her family. They would be her family. Forever.
She felt like leaping up and dancing with them around the room. Perhaps she would, once Mr. Blenheim was finished speaking with her. A jig was a jolly sort of dance. Maybe Mick could teach her. The dances Mr. Blenheim had taught her were pleasant but too staid and stately for her heart just now.
Mr. Blenheim smiled at Timona. He did have a very attractive smile, though Timona had long ago noticed the words that usually followed that sedate look were usually not as agreeable. He would often begin with phrases such as “Miss Calverson, I fear you do not understand,” or “Miss Calverson, I am hesitant to mention this, but . . .”
Yes, she was right. In a low, serious tone, he said, “Miss Calverson, I do not know how to word this, but I think it is bad for the morale of the men if you show preferential treatment for one of their kind.”
Timona had to think for a moment about what Mr. Blenheim meant. But she had come to understand Mr. Blenheim more clearly in the last few hours, now that she saw how he treated Mick.
Araminta had long ago declared Mr. Blenheim was frightful, but the cook was a critical person too. As critical as Mr. Blenheim, Timona had pointed out at the time.
But no, Araminta was correct. Mr. Blenheim was not critical and perceptive like Araminta. He was merely a dreadful snob.
Timona had learned how to squelch people during her years as a celebrated female. She disliked doing such a thing to a person she liked. Or had thought she liked.
She drew herself up. “Mr. Blenheim, I assume you are referring to the fact that Mr. McCann is Irish. Am I correct?”
Blenheim blinked, obviously taken aback. Timona had not shown him cold behavior before.
“Well, ah, Miss Calverson, you must understand that society’s . . . and, er, it is more that the men might think . . .” He glanced over at Mick as if the sight of Mick offended him deeply.
“Mr. Blenheim. My friends are not your concern. I believe we have discussed this matter before, sir?” He’d been quite upset when she made it clear that Araminta was her best friend.
“Timmy. The man has a point.” Mick’s voice was thoughtful.
Timona wanted to bellow at Mick. What was he doing? How could he believe that he belonged anywhere but with her?
Mick whispered to Eddy, who let go of him. Mick walked into the room. He crouched next to Timona, took one of her hands and looked up into her face.
“Seems best to me if I take up residence with the laborers, Timmy,” he said softly. “At least for the time being.”
She stared into his china blue eyes, so pale in the light they looked translucent around the dark middle. His lovely, slightly crooked nose, snburnt face—she wanted to reach over and pull him to her. She longed to kiss him and feel his arms around her. She moved her hand in his and his grip tightened.
“Soon enough,” he whispered, almost as if he could read her mind.
“You will eat with us?” she whispered back.
Mick glanced over at Blenheim. He straightened up, and spoke aloud. “I think it best I eat with the men, most times. If Miss Araminta does not mind, I’ll join her in the kitchen now and again for lunch or dinner.”
“That’s fine then,” said Timona at last. “I frequently eat with Araminta.”
Blenheim coughed. “Miss Calverson. I do think that you have been showing such an improvement in our more elegant dining experiments. It would be a terrible pity if you were to allow your sentiment to take precedent over your self-improvement.”
Not much call for a farmer’s wife, or perhaps a veterinarian’s wife, or a photographer’s husband, for that matter, to know which fork to use with the oysters, thought Timona. But she thought Mick was right to be cautious. She would not let Mr. Blenheim know that fact yet.
“When my father skips meals, as he so often does, I am sure you are welcome to join us in the kitchen, Mr. Blenheim. We can all practice elegant dining,” said Timona. She knew his terror of Araminta would keep him out. Now that she thought about the matter, though, she suspected he was simply a man who judged people by their race.
Mr. Blenheim sighed heavily, but did not respond otherwise. He stood up and pulled out one of his odious cigars. Since Araminta hated smoke in the house, he would have to take the thing outside.
“I am glad we could sort this out amicably,” he said to Timona.
“Indeed,” she said coldly, and gave him a curt nod. He blinked at her again, registering astonishment. Good, she thought and wondered why she ever thought him remotely attractive. Though to be fair—and Timona tried always to be fair—he was a wonderful dancer. And he read aloud beautifully. Though not as beautifully as Mick.
Blenheim chose to take his meal in the dining room that evening, so the kitchen was a relaxed place during dinner.
Araminta fed them an exotic dish she called goulash, and for the first time since they arrived back in the camp, Timona felt carefree. Araminta, Mick, Eddy, and Timona ate and chattered together.
Araminta liked Mick—she was bound to. And Timona’s friend adored small Eddy, who blossomed astonishingly after spending one whole day in a real house with kind adults.
“Shall Eddy stay with me here tonight?” asked Timona, hopefully.
Mick took a bite of goulash. As he chewed, he listened to Eddy talk to Araminta about his New York friends, mostly fellow paperboys. Eddy did not sound at all homesick, thank goodness.
“He asked if he might stay with me in the barracks with the men. If you don’t mind I think I will keep him there. He has shown some fear of men in the past, and if he actually asked to stay, perhaps ’tis a good sign.”
After dinner, Timona showed Eddy some of the drawings her father had done of dinosaurs. Sir Kenneth was a skilled draftsman, and had put together a fine portfolio. Sir Kenneth wandered over, and insisted on showing them and explaining all aspects of every picture. Soon Eddy was yawning, as was everyone else.
By the time they’d gone through the drawings, Mick was the only one who still showed interest. “I have to put the boy to bed, but I wish I could see the photographs Miss Timona has taken of your work, sir.”
“Another day, another day, Mr., er, McClennan,” promised the happy Sir Kenneth. He obviously loved an appreciative audience.
Eddy wandered off, allowing Mick and Timona a few minutes to talk.
Timona walked a few steps from the house to look up at the enormous display of stars. “I missed that sight in New York.”
“As I recall, you liked the sight of buildings against the sky. I suppose it’s a gift you have. You seem content wherever you land.”
In the dark twilight, he could see her gleam of a smile. “Do you really want to marry me, Michael McCann?”
“With all my heart. You are the light of my life, Timona Calverson. You bring me joy such as I had never had even imagined before you tumbled into my life.”
“I don’t know if I can wait five entire days. I will miss you too much.”
He gave a low whistle and said, “And you have called me insatiable.”
“Oh, you know very what I mean, you rascal.” she said. “I can’t even hold you or kiss you first thing before I am even awake. I detest empty beds.”
“I know. It has been too long since we shared a bed, Timmy.” They were at the back door. He pulled her into his arms and gave her a long, slow kiss. “Here you go, then. Good night.”
She placed her hands on the sides of his face and pulled him down to her for another kiss.
“And good morning for before you’re entirely awake,” he whispered. After another soft, languorous kiss, he pushed her from him. “You’d best go inside before I have you right out here at the kitchen door.”
“Yes, as I recall you are good at doors. Though I usually prefer beds,” said Timona thoughtfully. “I suppose that means I am an old-fashioned girl.”
“Timmy, I do not think anyone on earth would describe you so,” he said.
“Ah, as if I would care how anyone described me,” her voice quavered with laughter and something else.
“Good night, wild woman.” With regret he watched her go back inside. It was best for he knew that the diggers were his best chance at finding help. Though he was not looking forward to what he suspected would be a chilly welcome.
The group of men who lived at the dig were a mixed lot. Morrison, a fine source of information, had given Mick the run down. A few men came from cities such as Dublin. There were some laborers, even a man who’d been a cop, like Mick. But mostly they were drifters and worse, including a couple of men who once had been part of the Whyos, one of the most violent mobs of Hell’s Kitchen.
Mick wondered if Blenheim or whoever did the hiring knew they had at least two former convicts on the job site. Morrison reported that rumor had it one of the men, named McNally, might be on the run, wanted by the police.
A couple of Germans also lived in the building. The rest of the workers, Danes mostly, lived in the area and went home at night—though they tended to stay for supper, and show up early for breakfast. Araminta’s cooking was one of the best things about the job.
Morrison warned Mick tht word had gone around that McCann, Miss Calverson’s “companion,” was going to sleep in the bunkhouse and that several of the diggers were ready and waiting to take on the man they had decided was a rich girlie’s plaything.
As soon as he walked into the barracks, the men fell silent, then began to speak in a loud, drawling voices, glancing in his direction.
Mick knew that he was going to face a tussle.
He could go one of two ways: Plow right in and get it over with, or dance about, using his damnable influence with the Calversons to get the trouble makers fired and the rest silenced.
It was an easy choice, as far as Mick was concerned. He’d grown accustomed to the violence of New York, and was not easily intimidated by thugs. To settle the matter, Mick was happy to be prodded into a fight. He felt nothing but relief to get the damn subject on the table, so to speak. Best to go with one of the larger men of the group, just to be more impressive and to avoid looking like a bully.
He stood up from his cot and walked over to the bulky fool who had just called him a “fancy man.”
Mick smiled into the man’s face. “C’mon. Let’s go outside with it then, shall we? I’ll be glad to show you how a fancy man fights.”
An interested group formed a circle to watch the evening’s entertainment.
Mick waited until he saw most of the laborers were there. Then he pulled off his shirt, the signal to begin the fight.
Despite his size, Mick could move fast, which meant he often managed to fool opponents—like this idiot of a man. Mick missed his nightstick, which would have settled matters faster, but he quickly enough had the burly laborer stretched out on his back. The man lay groaning on the ground while Mick only had a ringing ear and a bloody lip to show from the brief fight.
Mick knew that, for now, he’d be as close to acceptable as possible. And the men would leave his pack and his things—including Eddy and Botty—alone.
The one drawback was young Eddy lost some of his new confidence at the sight of the dustup. Mick had to pull the boy’s small cot close to his own so Eddy could put a hand on Mick’s arm if he needed to. He managed to convince Botty to climb onto the bottom of Eddy’s bed, to provide the boy with another source of comfort.
As Eddy slept, Mick lay on his bunk and spoke in a low voice to the man on the other side of him.
Mick was delighted to find that the large man, Frank Travis, was the ex-constable from Ireland.
“Tell me, Travis, have you seen anything odd since you been here?”
“Nothing,” the man reported. “Other than old man Calverson, of course. Do you have something in mind you’re worried about?”
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