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THOMAS STEPPED THROUGH the footgate on the northwest side of Baltimore Town.
Before him, red-bricked St. Paul’s Anglican Church perched atop the highest hill in town. Thomas wove south past the building and along the eastern slope.
Although Baltimore Town had been laid out on sixty acres a little over five and twenty years ago, about as long as Thomas had been alive, it had yet to reach prosperity. The streets were wide with dirt on dry days and deep in mud on others. The buildings were sparsely placed, although more crowded the ground towards the south and the one wharf that serviced the town at the harbor and the Patapsco River.
He turned south onto Calvert Street. About a hundred yards before him, at the corner of that street with Fayette, stood the miserable, frayed Fottrell House. The first brick house and two-story house in town, interior chimneys on either end now haunted a sad, thin roof. Paint flipped and tore away from the few shutters still left protecting the windows. The door, no more than a plank of rotten, forgotten wood, proved an ill guardian between the Neutrals and the outside world.
A woman stood on the front steps. Even from here, Thomas could see the tattered hem of her red dress, the ground in dirt on the sleeves, and the frayed edges of what was once a lacy white veil but now was more akin to old and dirty cream. She folded her hands atop a belly just filling with a child and hollered to someone in the house.
A young man, not much older than Thomas, appeared in the doorway. A dirty red scarf wound around his head. His right eye wobbled this way and that. He struck a cane’s tip to the make-shift wooden stoop. Beneath a nearby tree several children, dirtier and more ill-clad than the adults, shifted dark heads and darker eyes between Thomas and their elders.
Thomas stepped into the fenceless yard. The children scurried inside like field mice before a flock of hungry night owls.
Thomas eased his way to the front steps. “Good day.”
They looked at each other. They shrugged.
Ach! After three months, he would have thought they would have at least picked up a common greeting.
He translated the words into French. Their faces relaxed. They understood but offered nothing in return.
This was going to be harder than he thought.
“Je cherche le Père Bergier.”
The man turned into the house and disappeared. The woman continued her long stare at the ground at her feet. Her hair was dark like Elizabeth’s. Her sad eyes shifted left and right as an ant worked between her wooden shoes. Why would she not look him in the eye? To his left, children pressed their noses against windows and jostled for better positions.
“Well, if ‘tis not Thomas McQueen and back from the dead.” Father Bergier bounced down the steps. A wide grin lifted a well-kept beard. Wrinkles rippled the Jesuit’s suntanned forehead like an Atlantic tide assaulting a beach. A large black rosary swung at his side.
He stretched his right hand outward. “Bonjour, Tomas.”
Thomas grasped the priest’s hand in a strong shake.
“I am quite certain your mother is relieved to find you are well. And you are just the man I need.” The priest patted Thomas’ hand with his free one. “The Lord does work in strange ways. Would you mind coming inside? I am in the midst of a project, and I need another pair of strong arms. All the men capable of helping are gone.”
The priest turned. He spoke with the man and the woman. Both disappeared inside. He stepped into the hallway. Thomas followed.
Unfinished floors, doing little more than collecting dirt, lay beneath him. Finished walls crisscrossed lathe ones. Stairs, bereft of a railing, staggered upward. The smell of aging manure and animal sweat mixed with human filth of various kinds assaulted his nose in waves. He blinked his eyes against the sting, then followed the priest into the room on his right.
Crude backless benches marched toward the east wall. An altar rail had yet to be erected. The altar table had been pulled about a foot and a half from the wall. Unlit candles guarded either side of a tabernacle. The stark spire pointed upward to a good size crucifix on the wall.
The priest led Thomas down the aisle. “Mr. Carroll is trying to locate another priest to help so someone can be stationed here at all times and I will not have to go back and forth between here and Doughoregan Manor.”
But priests, in a country that hated Catholics, were in short supply. Charles Carroll, despite his resources and wealth, might be sharing his priest for a long time yet.
“I have these three pieces of wood.” The priest pointed at the table. “I would like to put the shorter piece on top of the other two which will go along the sides of the crucifix. ‘Twill be a sort of frame.” Tanned, leathery fingers picked up one of the longer pieces. “I need someone to help hold them in place while I nail them in.”
He held the wood toward Thomas. It appeared to be walnut. A dark stain had been applied. Thomas took the piece from him.
“I have marked where I wish it to go.”
Thomas lifted it to the wall and held it in place along the marked lines. Father Bergier climbed the ladder and hammered the first nail in at the top. “Now, why is it you came to see me? I think it does not have to do with yourself.” He reached for the second nail. “Is your mother well?” He paused. “Or, perhaps it is Mrs. Mackintosh? Is there trouble with the babe?”
“No, Father. They are all well.” He lowered his voice. “I found a young Acadian lass at my farm last week.”
A hunted look filled the man’s eyes. He pressed his finger to his lips. He hammered a final blow to the nail. His head spun to the doorway leading to the hall. His eyes darkened. “Anne-Marie, ferme la porte. À prèsent.”
The door slammed closed. Footsteps, more than one pair, raced down the hall.
The priest climbed down the ladder. “Elizabeth Johns?” he mouthed.
“Aye.”
He pulled the ladder to the right. He picked up the next piece of wood. “How fares she? And speak soft and use no names. Even the walls have ears.”
Thomas took the wood. “She is ill and at our camp outside of town.” He positioned the wood according to the marks on the wall. “Her brother is dead. Seasoning.”
The hiss sifted through the man’s teeth. “May the soul of Josué
Johns rest in the Lord’s peace now and forever.” He signed himself with a cross. He turned to Thomas. “He was a good boy. She will be lost without him.” He looked around the chapel. “And this place is not the same since she left. Somehow she rallied them all. She insisted they hang onto whatever hope they could find.” He pulled a nail from the pocket of his cassock. “She made them move toward some goal every day, no matter how small. Josué led the rosary every morning for all of them.” He bucked up his lips and drove the nail into the wood.
“She is afraid to come back here.”
“And she would not be welcome.”
“Do you know what drove them away?”
“I understand Josué got into a fight with Pierre d’Entremont. I am not certain over what because no one will tell me. It all happened while I was away. Matthew Hardwin offered some sort of an arrangement to all involved, but Elizabeth and Josué would have none of it, despite the fact d’Entremont was injured at their hands.”
“Josué and Elizabeth’s?”
“Aye. Josué was very protective of her. He and Elizabeth were bound tighter than most. They admitted they hurt d’Entremont. I even heard talk of British soldiers.” The man frowned. “These people are fearful of all things British and terrified of the authorities.” He shrugged. “Who can blame them?”
“This Matthew Hardwin. Would he answer any questions?”
Bergier climbed down the ladder. “He is as tight-lipped as the Neutrals.”
Thomas handed the last and shortest slip of wood upward.
The priest set it atop the other two pieces of trim and nailed it into place. “Ye could be in trouble for harboring her. Your mother comes here to Mass, and she does what she can to help the Neutrals.”
“I have taken responsibility for the lass.”
The man’s thick brows nearly flew from his head. “So you are no longer Catholic?”
“I did not say such, but I have been gone for near two years. Nae one here knows where I stand in regards to my faith.” Neither did he for that matter.
The priest climbed down. He pulled the ladder aside.
He motioned for Thomas to grab one end of the altar table. They moved it against the wall. The top edge flushed even with the vertical trim.
“She awaits her father’s arrival,” Thomas whispered. “I have promised to find her a job and a place to stay, but there will be nae need if she survives not the seasoning.” He swallowed. “She has asked for ye, and my maither thinks ye should come.”
The priest nodded gravely. “I will get my things and will be along with you.”
“I would rather ye came alone and later. I dinna wish anyone to know she is there.”
“Alright. I need to speak with William about the wedding. I understand from Hannah they wish to move the date up. I can see the lass while I am there.”
They walked up the aisle and into the hall. “These people are suspicious, but they have reasons to be so.” They made their way into the yard. “But I will let them know they are to find me if you come asking, and not just about Miss Johns. I am here if you wish to speak of yourself.”
“Thank you, Father, but that day is not likely to come. There is so much for me to get past.” And so little time left.
“It will come. Many people pray for you. And your mother?” He pinched his fingers in the air. “A mother’s prayers count twice. When she is on her knees, there is no telling what the Blessed Jesu will do for her. And God, well, He never tires of forgiving us.”
They reached the street. They shook hands, and the priest turned and made his way back to the house.
I have grieved myself near sick while wearing my knees out in prayer that you would return to me.
Colina McQueen could pray all she wished, but Thomas could nae see how her doing so could help him find forgiveness. He had lost his faith that day in the meadow when God had not seen fit to protect his family. He was not likely to get it back now.
And certainly not when he was so close to his end.
––––––––
THOMAS STARED AT THE two Acadian women.
Matted hair clung to their faces. Their nails, lifted upward in cupped hands, would take days of soaking to clean.
‘Twould take weeks to erase their smell.
Would Elizabeth have been reduced to begging in the streets? Or, God forbid, had she done so?
Nae. She might beg for another, but she would starve before doing so for herself.
For some reason, that idea dinna set well with him either.
He motioned to himself, then to A Stitch and a Thread Millinery behind them, and explained in broken French that he would bring something to them when he came out. They nodded, but their eyes fell downward with disappointment. No doubt they had been let down before by others.
He opened the door and stepped inside.
Madam Barnes huffed. “At least the backcountry people stay in their camps outside of town. Those God-forsaken Neutrals wander the streets like nits on a dog.”
A second woman spoke. “And they are everywhere.”
Another woman sucked in a quick breath. “It helps not they are Papists. I heard . . .”
The three women pressed their heads together in a knot. Thomas could hear nae more.
The annoyance wracked his bones. He cleared his throat.
Madam Barnes lifted her head upward of the others. Recognition flooded her eyes. She shushed the women. Three pairs of suspicious eyes faced him.
They are not happy to see me.
Granted, he smelled more of rank trail dirt and fusty sweat than man, and he looked little better, but he had a feeling based on the long looks and whispers that his outward appearance was only part of the problem. When Madam Barnes passed him over for other customers thrice, he was certain of it. Just to goad her, when he was the single customer in the shop, he took his time looking over the few articles of previously worn clothing.
The woman glared. She crossed and uncrossed her arms. She pattered around behind him.
’Twas her ain fault for first passing him over and now not having the hunting shirts he liked. He understood inventories were limited, but still. Why was there not at least one?
He grabbed two regular shirts, one light blue and another the color of an acorn. He tossed them to the counter. He followed up with the only available pair of brown breeches in his size, several pairs of stockings, a new pair of buckled shoes, and several white cravats. His waistcoat he could wash and repair.
To his right, the women’s clothing grabbed his attention.
He had not recognized Elizabeth as French until she spoke. If she were dressed as an English woman, could he more easily find her a job?
By now, Madam Barnes was beside herself. The eyes of the other customers, and now including one scraggly old gentleman, raked his back
“Mr. McQueen,” she said, drawing his name outward as one would thick taffy. “What reason do you have for woman clothing?”
Nae reason other than a lass at camp that was supposed to remain hidden.
Thomas guessed at the lass’s size. He grabbed white shifts and petticoats as fresh as daisy petals, a gown as green as a Highland faerie’s, some more ladies’ stockings, a pair of black shoes with a silver buckle, and a white cap with a green ribbon. He flung them to the counter and prayed they would be a decent fit. If the lass required any more undergarments, or a size other than what Thomas had chosen, he would come back later with his maither. He was not about to embarrass himself further nor provide more fodder for gossip that was sure to spread once he was gone.
“Wrap them separately.”
“But Mr. McQueen.”
“They are for a friend.”
She pursed her lips but set to work doing as he asked.
He paid.
“And if ye would really like the Acadians off the streets, perhaps offering them a job might be better than complaining.”
Her hawkish nose swelled and shrank.
He grabbed the packages and stomped out the door, pleased when it slammed behind him. He deposited a fair amount of change in first one Acadian woman’s hands and then the other. He lifted his hat, bid them a good day, and set off for home.
Back at camp, Elizabeth napped and Issy sat at the watch, her fingers plying a needle through a bright red cloth. Thomas set the package of the lass’ clothes to a chair beside the herb cabinet.
“What do ye make?” he asked his sister.
“A doll for Elizabeth,” she whispered. “A gift.”
He scruffed her head. “I am certain she will love it.”
He turned around. The lass slept peacefully in a clean chemise. Dark silky tresses flowed around her shoulders.
He sat on the bed to her side. He fingered the strands. He pulled his thumb down her freshly washed cheeks.
What did she so fear at the Fottrell House? Would she ever trust him enough to tell him?
More importantly, could he leave here without knowing?
“Brother?” Issy whispered. “Do ye feel well?”
He jerked to his feet. “I go to help the others in the large tent.”
He stumbled outside, worked to catch his breath, then hastened to the tent. For the next several hours he cleaned, although no words were spoken between William, Mac, or him. The outside pyre rose higher and higher. Inside the large tent, the chaos eased.
Well past the nooning, Father Bergier arrived. His eyes widened at the confusion. He assured Thomas he would nae tell anyone the lass was here, nor would he mention the mischief.
Thomas took him to Elizabeth, grabbed his new clothes and his traveling bag, and went to the secluded lagoon just north of camp. He shaved off the beard. He bathed in the creek and dressed in the new clothes. His wet hair he combed and tied at the back of his neck. He trudged back to camp. Father Bergier waited for him near the central fire.
“Have you begun looking for a place for Elizabeth?” the priest asked.
“Not yet. We just got here yesterday, and she is still quite ill.” With at least a week to go, perhaps longer.
He would nae consider the alternative.
“But you are determined to do so?” the priest asked.
“I made a promise, Father. I will see it through.”
“Good.” The man fingered his beard. “And you said your Indian friend is taking her father a letter? And that he will be coming for her?”
“Aye. Why all the questions?”
The priest looked back at the tent. He turned a worried gaze to Thomas. “Because she cannot, except for Sunday Mass, go back to the Fottrell House.”
Alarm bells rang up Thomas’ spine. “Why?”
“I am not at liberty to say. But Thomas.” The man lifted a steely gaze upward. “Her father cannot get here soon enough.”