The Trainmasters (11 page)

She had broken with Ben Kean only the week before. And now she was back in the hat shop entrance, waiting for a new man to
fall for her. And support her.

The man she finally settled on she estimated to be no older than twenty-four or twenty-five, which is to say not much older
than the age Teresa claimed for herself, though she was actually nineteen. But he was extremely handsome, he was well dressed,
and he had a vaguely foreign look that Teresa felt boded well. He had an intense yet wistful air about him that set Teresa
O’Rahilly’s well-tuned antennae vibrating wildly; the man could possibly be one of those who would take care of her for weeks!
or
months’
.

He set off down Chestnut toward the waterfront. And Teresa followed him. When he reached Water Street, he turned north and
strolled along casually, gazing at the ships docked along the Delaware River piers, pausing now and again to stare at one
in particular which struck his fancy. He’d walked about half a mile, up to about Vine Street, when he paused, spotted a news
vendor, and bought a paper. Then he looked around until he found a sunny place to sit and read the paper. Now and again he
flung pieces of bread he had stowed in his pockets to seagulls. Soon, dozens of the birds were milling and squawking near
him.

While he was reading, Teresa approached him a little closer than she had previously allowed herself. She decided then that
she liked his eyes. And his hands were long and fine but also hardened by wind and sun.

When he had finished with the paper, he rose, tossing it into the gutter, and then proceeded west on Vine as far as the northeast
square. After that he turned south and ambled slowly down Seventh Street, looking casually into shop windows. Once or twice
he stopped to chat with other men on the street. Teresa admired his friendly, confident look.

Church bells rang, announcing vespers or other evening services. Worshippers, dressed in Sunday finery, walked purposefully
about the area.

But Teresa’s quarry strolled, then paused. Occasionally he stopped to observe a band of quarreling children. He bought a warm
cinnamon apple from a food seller and ate it slowly as he walked, obviously appreciating its flavor.

When he reached Walnut Street, he paused again for a moment, undecided about his next turn. There was a horse car coming his
way, and he seemed moved to take it. Thankfully, Teresa reflected, he decided otherwise. She did not like paying the nickel
fare. Her funds, for the time being, were limited. She also didn’t yet want to get close enough to him to attract his attention.

After passing Independence Hall, he turned south again onto Fourth Street and walked briskly as far as Christian Street. After
that it was east again, toward the waterfront; and Teresa suddenly realized where he was now likely headed. He was probably
going toward William McMullen’s famous—and notorious—saloon. And that did not please her. He was likely to pick up another
girl there if he was interested, but even worse for Teresa were the many regulars at McMullen’s who would recognize her.

She crossed the street and rushed ahead of the young man, hoping that he had not noticed her following him.

McMullen’s was not far from the river. When she was a block from that establishment, she stopped and turned to see how far
the gentleman was behind her… He was much closer than she had expected—only two hundred feet away.

She took a deep breath and wondered if there was time to wipe off the sweat on her cheeks and forehead. No, she decided. And
besides, if she were a little flushed and perspired in the coming moments, it might help matters considerably.

Threading her way between the traffic of wagons and carriages, she crossed Christian Street once again and stationed herself
next to a lamp post, taking deep gulps of air. When the young man was no more than a building away, she lifted her hand to
her bonnet, closed her eyes, and fainted.

There were others on the walk nearby, and so she knew he might not be the one to respond to her. But she had to take a chance.
The risk of his entering William McMullen’s Saloon was too great to do otherwise.

As soon as she fell, she heard the gratifying sounds of shoes pounding the pavement. She thought they were coming from the
right direction.
Please, God, let it be him!

“What happened?” someone was saying in a pleasant, vibrant voice.

“She just up and dropped,” someone else said.

A hand raised her wrist, feeling for her pulse.

“Can you hear me?” the first voice asked, quite close. He must belong to the hand holding her wrist. She did not respond.

There were murmurings from other people who were beginning to crowd around.

“Back up!” said the second voice. “Back away, damn you. Give the girl some room.” There were more questions and concerned
chatter.

A soft cloth wiped her face and forehead.

“She has a strong pulse,” the first voice said. She noticed for the first time that the voice was not American but English.
That did not displease her.

Just then an arm slipped under her neck, and her head was raised off the pavement in the crook of its elbow. “Can you hear
me now?” the English voice asked.

Teresa’s eyelids fluttered. She moaned softly.

“There, there, girl,” the second voice said. It was an older man’s voice. “You’ll be all right. You’ll be just fine.”

“OOOhhhmmm,” she said, and coughed convulsively. Her eyelids fluttered again. But, though she tried, she could not discern
who her benefactors were.

“Move back,” the English voice said. “Give her air.”

She lifted her hand shakily, moving it toward her face, and found what she hoped to find—the hand belonging to the soft cloth.
She clutched it like steel. “OOOhhhmmm,” she moaned again.

“Everything is fine,” said the English voice.

“She’s quite a pretty young thing, ain’t she?” the second voice said. “If she wasn’t so pale and hungry lookin’.”

Teresa opened her eyes… The English voice was his!

She closed her eyes and then reopened them. And then she took a deep, shuddering breath and struggled up to where she could
sit, without releasing the hand that she was still grasping.

“If you would rather lie back…” the young man said, leaving his thought unfinished.

“No,” she whispered, barely audible. “No. No, thank you.” And then she swayed a little but managed to pull herself upright
before she fell back again. The young man’s other hand had moved to steady her. It now rested just above her shoulder blade,
supporting her back.

“Oh, thank you!” she said soulfully, giving his hand a final squeeze before releasing it. “Thank you
so
much! I’ll be all right in a moment.” She spoke the words carefully, for the accent she was using was not the Irish brogue
she had grown up with, but a London accent she had learned when she was acting with her father and mother.

“You
are
beginnin’ to look healthier now,” the older man said. He seemed to be in his forties. Old!

“So I think I’ll be off then,” he continued, turning to leave.

Teresa was glad to see him go.

Once he was gone, she urged tears into the corners of her eyes, and soon they started to flow abundantly down her cheeks.
Quickly, the young man dabbed his soft cloth—it was a white linen handkerchief—at her face.

“Do you think you can stand?” he asked. “That might clear your head.”

“I’ll try,” she said doubtfully. Slowly, and after a struggle, she staggered to her feet. The young man, of course, was at
her side giving her strength and courage.

“There,” she said when she was fully erect, “I’ve done it!” And then she added significantly, “With your
most kind
help.”

“It’s been a pleasure,” he said, “to help someone so lovely in her distress.”

She gave him a quick, sharp look to see if he meant that. His face looked guileless. So she decided to press on.

“It’s very lovely of you,” she said, a little bashfully, a little timidly, “to think of
me
as lovely. Especially here… and now!” Tears flowed once more.

“There, there,” he said, offering her his handkerchief. “What’s wrong? Please tell me.”

But by now she was crying too hard to be coherent.

“Well then,” he said, “come with me and I’ll find a place for you to sit and rest. Are you hungry?”

“Oh, yes!” she managed to say between sobs. “I’m
so
famished.”

“There is a place I’ve been to down the street here, McMullen’s. Let’s go there.”

“Oh, no!” she blurted. “I can’t go in there!”

“Why not? It’s noisy, but clean and safe.”

“It’s really not a place that nice girls go into,” she said shyly.

He gave her a disturbing look. His eyes flashed with a light that showed greater awareness than Teresa cared to see, and there
was a strange, almost sarcastic curl to the ends of his lips that she liked even less. Yet his eyes were such an engaging
shade of blue, and his mouth was so sensual and supple that Teresa could hardly stop staring at them. “I’ll watch over you,”
he said. “You’ll be all right. The vital thing is to put some food inside you so you will get your strength back.”

“I
really
shouldn’t go inside that place,” she protested. But the man had Teresa O’Rahilly firmly in tow, and he practically dragged
her into McMullen’s famous saloon.

McMullen’s was not in fact the infamous den of iniquity that some sermonizers and self-appointed wardens of the public good
had portrayed. Neither was it a church. There often was a dense, noisy, belligerent crowd of rugged men —seamen, laborers,
craftsmen—and only slightly less rough women. Many of the women would sell their favors, if asked. And many of the remaining
women did the asking themselves. If one didn’t mind these cruder aspects, McMullen’s was a bright, cheery, friendly place
in which to buy a good meal and a glass of decent beer rather cheaply.

Before Teresa and the Englishman were through the door, she managed to reach up and tilt her bonnet down so that it partially
covered her face. This gave her a slightly comic look, which was at the same time a little sinister, but better to look silly,
she thought, than to be recognized.

Most of the tables were already filled. And many of them were filled with card players. There was much cigar and pipe smoke
in the air as well as the noise of cards slapping down onto tables. And of course there was much conversation.

The man found an empty table for them and, like a gentleman, held a chair for Teresa before she sat down. Soon a waiter approached.
She knew Desmond Brady and cursed silently to herself, for she could tell he recognized her, too. But luckily, he was coming
from behind the Englishman, and so she was able to give him a look and a shake of her head. She hoped to God that he understood.

Desmond was now beside the table. “What’ll it be for you and the girl, Mr. Carlysle,” he said to the Englishman. He showed
not a sign of recognition of her. But Desmond knew the young man, not that this was strange or unusual. “What we got today
is boiled ham, sweet potatoes, and Indian corn,” Desmond said.

“That’s perfect,” the young man said. “And you?” he asked Teresa.

She smiled weakly and gave a nod of her head.

“And I’ll have a beer, and the lady will have the same.”

“Oh, no,” she protested. “I shouldn’t.”

“Beer,” he insisted, waving the waiter off. “It will give you strength.”

“I… I…” she stammered. His eyes were staring into hers in a most disturbing way.

“And now,” he said, smiling, “why don’t you take that ridiculous bonnet off. I’d like to see your hair.”

“Oh, no!”

“Everything is ‘no’ with you, isn’t it? When will I hear a ‘yes’?” As he said that, his hand stretched across the table and
touched her chin.

This sudden intimacy jolted her. It shocked her as no sexual familiarity would have done. She wanted to retreat, to escape,
to twist away from the soft yet compelling and insistent touch of his fingers. But instead, she froze.

“Raise this up,” he ordered in a gentle voice. She complied; she could think of nothing else to do. Then he loosened the string
on the bowknot that held her bonnet and slipped the bonnet off her head and dropped it into her lap. “There,” he said, admiring
what he saw. “That’s much better. Now tell me your name.”

“Teresa Derbyville,” she said, giving the name she had decided to use. Her first name she pronounced in the Spanish way: Teraysa.

“Teraysa,” he repeated and caught her eye. “How lovely.”

And then she coughed and sputtered, because she saw William McMullen moving among the tables, heading her way. McMullen had
known Teresa O’Rahilly for years, since she was a “Bridget”!

“Are you all right?” the Englishman asked, seeing her distress.

“Yes, thank you, I’m fine,” she said, but she clearly wasn’t. Her face was flushing quite red.

“You look upset.”

“No. No, really,” she said, hating her body for betraying her. Things were not at all going the way she had planned; he was
not acting the way experience had dictated he would. In the past, her pursuit of a man almost always followed the same script.
She would be in charge of the affair from the moment she settled on a likely prospect. But this time, he was in control. And
she didn’t know what to do about that. Yet she wanted him, for that reason, all the more. This one would be a truly satisfying
catch if she could only land him.

“My name is Graham Carlysle,” he said.

McMullen was now on top of them. He gave her a look, and then he looked at the Englishman, Graham Carlysle. He nodded at Carlysle,
greeting him. Then he smiled and went on. Teresa took a deep breath. And she let it out slowly, slowly.

The fingers of his right hand drummed a tattoo onto the table top.

“And now,” he said, drumming harder and faster, “Miss Teresa
Derbyville
, you must tell me what your game is. And tell me your real name, too, while you’re at it. Your real Irish name… Your accent
is good enough for Americans, maybe, but not for me.”