Read Somebody Wonderful Online
Authors: Kate Rothwell
Somebody Wonderful (5 page)
“No. That’s not it at all,” he said gently. “Miss Graves is a good girl, you see.”
She stared at him blankly, and then groaned. “This might be a problem,” she muttered as if speaking to herself. “Your world is divided between virgins and fallen women.”
He’d been ready for her anger, but not this. He’d heard that kind of phrase before. “Look here, you think that just because I am Irish—”
“Not just because you’re Irish.” She shoved up on an elbow to lean close and look him in the eye. “Because you are male.”
He had no reply to that. Hell, he wished he’d just kept kissing her instead of introducing so damn many words into the situation. He’d be in her by now, if he’d kept quiet. In her and in heaven. The thought made him dizzy with a wave of raw, heart-stopping, groin-aching lust. He slipped his hands up the curves of her side and tried to pull her back against him.
She made a disgusted noise, and flipped onto her back, out of his grip. Her mouth opened as she took a deep breath. No question, she had plenty to say. He supposed he deserved it.
“I don’t think it can be that simple, Mr. McCann. Photography. Now thatis a matter of light and shadow.”
He frowned. Still clutched by the astounding hunger for her, he wondered how the devil pictures came into the matter.
“Hey?”
“Photography is black and white. Yet even gray is not full color, and you can’t—”
A sudden clattering and thumping interrupted her. Someone banged at the door.
“Mr. Mick!”
Timona clamped her mouth shut. Was she really about to blather on about photographs again? Mr. Blenheim was right. She needed to correct that tendency.
Michael McCann slid away from her. He groaned, clapped a large hand to his forehead and shoved his fingers through sweetly bed-rumpled hair. And oh, my, the man had gorgeous forearms. Muscular and with red-gold hair.
He shouted, “Rob? What is it?”
There were more thumps coming down the stairs. “Mr. Mick!” several voices shouted. “Fire!”
He had the door open before Timona, made awkward by her sore muscles, had managed to scramble out of the crater in the center of the bed. A group of faces surrounded Mr. McCann, mostly young children, and one weeping woman.
They stood in a semi-circle looking up at the man, who already reeled off instructions. “Rob. You’d best take the pump since it needs strength. It’s a bitch to work of late.”
Mr. McCann shoved his billy club toward a boy dressed only in a long undershirt. “Petey, you go downstairs and wait. Do not bang the curb for help unless Rob gives you the word. Got it? Only then. Or what happens?”
“Or you’ll use it on my behind.”
“That’s right, boy-o.” He snapped his fingers, and Botty scampered to his side. Mick pointed down the stairs. “Botty, you can’t follow me. Go with Petey. Go on.”
The dog tucked what was left of its rear end between its legs, and trailed reluctantly after the boy down the stairs.
Mick shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “Where is the blasted whistle?”
One of the boys spoke up. “Remember? You gave it to the leddie in the next door building when she said she feared her old man friend.”
“Damn. The stick’ll have to do. The rest of you, on the stairs, the way you practiced. Be ready to pass the buckets or bang doors and run when I give the word.” He looked around the little group and groaned.
“Aw, saints, Jenny, where’s Tuck?”
The stout woman in the hall began to wail “Tuck-uck-ucker.”
Jenny pressed close to Mick and a baby started to wail.
“Ho, now, watch Quint, Jen.”
He took the infant from the wailing woman and absently passed it over to Timona who held the screaming, squirming baby under its arms, and away from herself. Her dearest friend Araminta was probably good with babies, but Timona wasn’t sure what to do with the squirming handful.
Mr. McCann, striding back into the room, stopped to flip the baby onto its belly, so it lay face down on Timona’s arm. “Like this, see. Poor mite likely has gas. This eases it.”
How on earth did he know about babies? For a moment she wondered if he had a wife and children back in Ireland. No. He would surely have some memento of that other life if he did.
Mr. McCann pulled a rumpled handkerchief out of a pocket of the frock coat, dipped the cloth in water, and then tied it across his face. He grabbed his dripping wet blue coat, and the large pot full of water stained with something dark. With a chill, she realized it was probably her own blood he’d washed from his coat.
He started up the stairs, his strong legs taking the steps three at a time. As he ran he called down, “Jenny, love, stop the wailing. Save your breath. We might need you to wake anyone who miraculously slept through this.”
The noise ended at once.
It had been perhaps thirty seconds since the banging and mayhem had started. Mr. McCann had his troops ready and pressed into action. Timona trailed after him, awkwardly clutching the baby, and wondering how she should help. The child stationed in the hall gaped at her instead of watching Mr. McCann tear up the stairs.
A door opened. A fat, unshaven man in an undershirt glared at the children on the stairs. “Fire? Again?”
The girl nodded.
The man bellowed up the stairs. “Mick? You taking care of it?”
Mick’s voice floated down. “Aye, Jim. I’m thinking it’s not so bad. We’ll knock you up if need be.”
The man yawned, then retreated into his flat and slammed the door.
“Why’re you dressed like that, ma’am?” the girl asked, but Timona was up the stairs following after Mr. McCann. The fire must be at the top of the building, for the air grew hazy with smoke as she slowly climbed the stairs. The charred, sharp stench stung her eyes and nose.
“I shan’t go any higher,” she reassured the baby, who seemed to be falling asleep on her arm. “I just wish to know where he is.”
She soon reached the next flight, where Jenny stood next to Rob at the pump. “I wondered where little Quinton’d got to,” said the plump, dark-haired woman, still sniffing after her bout of tears. She wiped her face with the back of a hand and held out her arms. “I can take him back. I’m fine now.”
Timona clumsily thrust the baby towards her.
“You’re a girl, ain’t you?” said Jenny, as she settled the baby in the crook of her arm. She had a strong southern American accent. “So why are you dressed like that?”
Timona wondered why these people cared more about her clothes than the fire.
A thicker puff of acrid smoke drifted down the stairway.
“It’s a long story,” she said politely. “Where is Mr. McCann?”
“Our place is the top of the building. One more flight up.” The older boy pointed. “That’s where the fire is. Don’t worry. It’s not a bad one, I think. Maybe even I coulda put it out but Ma thought we’d best rouse Mr. Mick. Hey, ma’am,’ he called after her, “if you’re going up past our Henry, you ought to get down low. That’s what Mr. Mick says to do. Air’s better when you go on your hands and knees.”
Timona climbed past their Henry, who stood at attention and solemnly stared up into the smoky hall above them.
On the top floor, the hot, thick air brought tears to her eyes, and her lungs hurt with every inhalation. Instinctively, she dropped to all fours. Should she bang on the doors before the other tenants suffocated?
The door to the flat was wide open and as she crawled, she could see the dim figure of Mr. McCann stomping on a smoking cloth. His wet coat, she realized. Even as she watched, the smoke began to die away.
She cougand crawled to the doorway. “Do you need any help?” she called hoarsely.
“I don’t. ’Tis out. I’ll just be fetching Tucker.” The damp handkerchief muffled his voice, but she could hear he sounded almost cheerful.
“What about the Tuckers’ neighbors? They might be having trouble breathing.”
“You can knock up the neighbors if you think it best, but this time is not bad enough to worry about.”
She wondered what the place was like when it was bad enough.
He headed to the back of the room. She couldn’t see him in the dark and smoke. She waited and for a long moment her chest hurt with something more painful than the smoldering air. Get out of there, she wanted to scream. She gulped a few smoke-filled, shallow breaths, forgetting that she should not do so, in all the confusion.
Mr. McCann appeared in the door, the lanky figure of an unconscious man draped across his back and shoulders. With one hand he pushed down the handkerchief tied across his face. He grinned at her. “Feathers stink something awful, eh?”
She stopped herself from racing to him and throwing her arms around him.
He started down the stairs, and was two flights down, when Timona heard the sound of retching.
Mr. McCann’s voice drifted up the stair well, half-laughing, half-groaning. “God help us, Tuck, couldn’t you wait til you got outside?”
Timona thumped down the stairs after him. She felt like laughing aloud. Her hair and skin and clothes smelled of smoke, but Mr. McCann would stink far more.
She slowed her steps as she remembered Daisy. Perhaps she should ignore Daisy’s existence? Timona at once amended that thoughtless resolve.
She’d meet the woman first.
If Daisy didn’t appreciate the treasure she held, then Timona would work as hard as she could to take Mr. McCann for herself. She’d transform herself into a bandit, a pirate, or even a coquette. Whatever it took.
Chapter 3
Timona spent the first hours of the new day helping to clean the reeking apartment. Mrs. Kelly and Mrs. Hurley, who lived in the building, worked with them for an hour or so, and even the widow on the bottom floor pitched in. She took in the younger members of the Tucker family, which seemed to surprise everyone.
“Her place is the biggest flat in the building,” Rob told Timona, as they trailed down the stairs from the Tucker’s flat.
Henry, who was ten, added, “We get one room of her place, and she has two more. But it’s not for long. She’s already told us five times it’s just until we get the worst of the smoke out and the place cleaned up.”
At the bottom of the steps, they met Mick coming out of the widow’s flat, where he’d checked on the still-unconscious Tucker.
Mick looked up at them, his brow furrowed. “Jenny, Rob. It’s time to talk, but it’d best be over breakfast at Colsun’s. Henry, you come along and we’ll get victuals for the little ones and Tuck. And the widow.”
“And Botty,” added Henry.
“Of course,” said Mick and grinned at him. He turned to Timona and gave her a blank look, almost as if he wasn’t sure who she was. “You coming along, then?”
Timona touched his arm s the group trooped out the door. “Mr. McCann.”
In the small foyer, she pulled him aside. “I, ah, told Mrs. Tucker my name is Cooper. I hope you don’t mind calling me that?”
He shook his arm free and scowled down at her. “Are you wanted by the law, Miss Calverson?”
“Nothing like that. No. I will explain later, but I promise you that I am not a fugitive.”
He squinted at her for a long moment. “All right then. Miss Cooper it is. And even if you are a hardened criminal, you come on and down a bit of food. You must be half starved.”
They walked out the door. On the sidewalk, he stopped for a moment and turned to face her. He pushed back his shoulders, folded his arms and stood, legs apart, shifting from boot to boot. The universal stance of a policeman.
He didn’t look her in the face. Instead he gazed over her shoulder, as if searching for something behind her, and spoke in a halting mutter. “Er. I don’t know if . . . um. I should apologize for going at you this morning. Even if tis your usual, ah . . . After your rough day yesterday, I didn’t think . . . So. I am truly sorry.”
She was fascinated to see him blush. Before she could answer, he strode away, so fast she had to trot to catch up with him.
Mick led them to Colsun’s Restaurant, a dingy, crowded room in the first floor of a building down the street. It had a stale fug that Timona suspected would cling to anyone who even walked past the place: a mix of cigars, grease, and coffee.
The wooden floor of Colsun’s was dark and scarred and probably hadn’t been swept in days. The hard chairs were almost as dirty as the floor they stuck to.
Most of the patrons were laboring men taking a quick breakfast before heading off to work. Rob, Jenny, and Mick settled at a table. Timona had followed after them and sat down, hoping to look as if she belonged.
She now wore a gown that smelled of smoke, hung like a tent on her, and was a purple so loud it gave her stomach pains. But it was a dress, not the boy’s breeches she’d worn, and she felt nothing but gratitude to Jenny for it. Her feet fit into a pair of thick leather boots that nobody needed right now. They were too small for Rob and too big for the next boy down.
The two waiters lounged in a corner, chatting and ignoring the customers.
At last one of them ambled over and cleared off their table. He removed his toothpick, rubbed his hands on the stained apron covering his front, then plopped a thick, white mug of coffee down in front of each of them.
“Eggs, please, Teddy,” Mick told the waiter, and said to the others, “Be right back.” He went to the back of the restaurant and pulled open the kitchen door. He cupped his hands and shouted something over the din into the kitchen.
A burly, scowling man soon appeared with a basket for Henry to take back to the widow’s apartment. Mick paid the man and strolled toward the table, stopped by several people along the way. He smiled and shook his head. They’d invited him to sit down.
A popular man, Mr. McCann.
He handed the basket to Henry and gave the boy an affectionate pat on the shoulder. “Not too heavy for you?”
“Mr. Mick!” Henry was scornful. Then he must have caught his mother’s eye, for he gave them each a polite nod of the head, and raced out of therestaurant toting the basket with two hands.
When Mick sat down, Rob and Jenny looked over at him expectantly, as if he held the answer to all of their unasked questions.
Timona picked at the runny scrambled eggs and listened.
“Thing is, I think you have to watch Tuck every time now when he smokes his pipe.” said Mick, as he spread something that probably wasn’t butter onto his toast.
“It’s the fourth time the poor man has fallen asleep while smoking.” Jenny put down her mug. “You think he’d learn.”
Rob glanced around the crowded, noisome little café as if he were afraid someone might be listening. “He can’t help it, Ma.”
“He was drunk,” Jenny said. “That’s why.”
Timona stopped chewing when she saw that Mick was watching her, Timona, with narrowed eyes.
“Miss Calverson, don’t you be thinking Tucker is some kind of drunk just cause he’s got no work and is poor,” Mr. McCann said in a low voice that only she was supposed to hear.
Honestly, he was touchy. She swallowed the mouthful of disgusting egg. “I didn’t think any such—”
“Ma’am, my pa drinks because he is sick.” Rob must have overheard after all. “Mr. Mick, it was my fault. He woke in the middle of the night, aching something fierce. So he had me fetch his pipe and gin. I meant to stay awake but I fell back to sleep. Wasn’t his fault. Poor Pa is sick as they come, Miss Cooper.”
Mick opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Jenny wailed, “Not so sickly. My Tucker is not so ill.”
Mick handed her a handkerchief. “Jenny. It’s hard, but now’s the time we got to figure something out.”
We, thought Timona. The man was wonderful.
Mick spoke to Jenny. “You posted that letter to Tucker’s brother? Have you got word back yet?”
Jenny sniffed and nodded miserably. “He’d be willing to take us on.”
Rob, again acting as interpreter, explained to Timona, “Uncle Dave’s our only relative. He’s got a farm in Indiana or some such place. Out west of here. Chickens, I think.”
“Turkeys. Horrible birds.” Jenny clicked her tongue. Her thick, dark eyebrows knit into a scowl. “I hate to leave New York. Won’t be no good for Tucker neither.”
“The children, Jen,” Mr. McCann stroked her shoulder. “They’re your first worry and this is no place for them. Look, love, you have had a long night. What do you say you go back to the widow’s for a rest, and to see how Tuck is faring. He’d want you there, and anyhow, I don’t suppose your young Sarey’s up for much nursing. I’ll just get Rob another cup, and we’ll chat until he has to go to work.”
Jenny nodded and pushed back her chair.
Mick got to his feet, too. He picked up her shawl from the floor, and handed it to her.
A gentleman. Timona couldn’t remember the last time she watched someone perform an act of kindness without expecting a tip or some other, less tangible reward.
Jenny wrapped the shawl around her plump, disheveled figure. “I’ll go to Tucker. Nice to meet you, miss. Thank you for your help.”
Timona stood, and offered Jenny her hand. “I am very glad to meet you too, Mrs. Tucker. And thank you again for the use of the gown.”
Jenny shook her hand, looked her up nd down, and smiled. “Looks pretty on you, I’d say, Miss Cooper. Suits you.” She looked at Mr. McCann. “Much prettier than . . . well, least said, soonest mended.”
Mick’s mouth went tight, and Timona guessed she was talking about Daisy. She’d never competed with another woman before, but she would imagine the good opinion of friends would help her cause.
She sat back down and watched Jenny trail out the door.
Mick cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, miss, but I should talk to Rob for a few minutes.”
“Ah.” She stood up again and wondered where she should go.
“No, Mr. Mick. It’s fine for her to be here. Go on. I suppose I know what you’ll say.”
“Aye, well.” Mr. McCann turned away from Timona. He put a large hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Rob. I’d say it’s a matter of days. Maybe weeks at most. Tucker’s not going to be with us much longer. When I took a look at him just now, I couldn’t rouse him. His heartbeat’s even more irregular, too.”
Timona gasped, but the boy only nodded, and frowned down at his hands encircling the white coffee mug.
Mr. McCann kept his hand on Rob’s shoulder. Timona strained to hear his soft voice. “Thing is, when he goes, Jenny might not do so well for a while. Maybe a long while. She must know he’s dying, I tried telling her, so has Dr. O’Toole. But she won’t, she can’t . . .”
For a moment, the unflappable Mr. McCann stopped talking. He stared at a crust of bread that lay on the table. “She won’t admit it and so I reckon she’ll have to do all her mourning when he goes. You’re the eldest. You’ll be in charge.”
“That’s not fair, he’s practically a child.” Timona must have been tired or she would never have interrupted. Two pairs of blue eyes looked at her in amazement. She dropped her gaze to the greasy oilcloth.
“I’m nearly fourteen,” said Rob indignantly. “I’m apprenticed to the blacksmith.”
“I agree with Miss, er, Cooper. ’Tisn’t fair to you.”
Timona gaped at Mick, surprised by his agreement. He continued, “But it won’t be for long, Rob. Just til you get to your uncle. T’others will count on you. Good thing you’re a strong lad. Sarey’ll be a help with the youngest ones. You’ll get by. But here’s the other thing . . .” Mr. McCann cleared his throat. “I wonder if you’ve seen the letter. Because it might be your ma wasn’t entirely . . .”
Rob croaked. “Oh. You mean there might be no letter from Uncle Dave.”
“And when your da passes on, you’ll have to move fast before you run out of money, and your mam goes back to her old job as barmaid and starts drin—” He stopped talking and coughed. When he darted a quick, wary glance at Timona, she resisted the urge to roll her eyes at him.
Rob said, “I may need some help, Mr. Mick. And I need to borrow money to go out there. And I don’t know what all I have to do.”
“A’ course I’ll help,” Mick said.
“Me too.” Timona piped up. “I’ll help.”
She looked up from the table and met Mick’s blue, frowning eyes. The chilled gaze disappointed her. A few hours before she had practically melted from the heat of those eyes.
He tilted his head and examined her for a long moment, then said, “You’ll be back with your da, miss. We’re looking into that this morning.”
“Secretary?” Mr. McCann’s face puckered as if she had said something obscene. “I thought your da was some kind of fool, the way you spoke of him. A secretary?”
She picked up her mug and gulped down a swallow of dreadful, boiled coffee. She gathered the man was a tremendous snob about the English and, she now understood, about people with money. She had to step carefully until she had him ensnared.
“Never mind the secretary. A fancy name for a type of caretaker.” She would feel guilty about calling Mr. Blenheim a caretaker except, come to think of it, the title often fit the poor gentleman’s job description. “We must worry about Mr. Tucker and his family. Not me.”
Rob stood up. “It’s past my time, Mr. Mick. I’m off to Biggens’s shop. Glad to meet you Miss Cooper. Thank you for all of your help with the family and all.”
Timona smiled. “It was a pleasure, Mr. Tucker. And I must apologize for speaking out of hand earlier when I said you were practically a child. I was a careless wretch when I was young, and I forget that other young people are far more responsible. If I were your mother, I would thank my lucky stars for giving me a young man like you to turn to.”
Rob’s young face lit as if she had bestowed a medal on him. He tugged at his wool cap and sauntered out of the restaurant.
Mick laughed. “Now you’ll have a slave for life, Miss Calverson.”
“I meant what I said.”
He studied her for a moment. “Yes, and it’s a good thing to have said, at that. Make the boy proud of himself—it’ll likely be the only reward he gets.” His last words sounded grim and Timona wondered if he spoke of Rob or himself.
“There’s the reward of seeing his family thrive,” she ventured, and Mick smiled at her at last. He had the kind of eyes that sparkled when he was pleased.
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