Chapter Two

Louisville’s outline in the distance came closer and burst into life as the train rolled into Union Station. November fog held the city in a gray fist as Finola and the other passengers disembarked from the train.

She clutched her bag tightly, fearing some hooligan would steal the few precious belongings she owned. And nothing or no one could take what she carried inside the satchel without killing her first. She tentatively touched the outline of the small photograph through the bag’s worn exterior. The only reminder she had of Frank and Siobahn was still tucked safely inside, nestled between the thick paper envelopes of seeds.

Jostling men and chattering women flooded into the station around her. How would she ever locate Mr. Adams? She hadn’t a clue of what he looked like, save the face in her imagination. And not one of them looked like that.

The passengers paired off with their waiting parties, thinning out the crowd. She looked toward the corners of the station’s great room, but no one greeted her anxious eyes.

She stepped toward the ticket window. “Excuse me, I’m looking for a Mr. Adams. Would you know him?”

The ticket master regarded her with a cool stare. “Mr. Timothy Adams?”

“Yes, that’s him.”

“Well, yes. I do know him. He came by here about fifteen minutes ago looking for an old woman.”

“An old woman?”

“Yes, miss. He said he was waiting on the arrival of his new housekeeper.”

Stunned disbelief threatened to knock her breath away. An old woman?

“Oh, there he is, miss. There’s Mr. Adams.” The man pointed toward a bench.

Finola followed the point of his bony finger to a thin, dark man sitting at the edge of the platform. He seemed to be studying the palms of his hands.

“I thank you, sir.” She hoisted her bag up once again. His chuckle made her more aware that her words sounded more like, “I tank ye, suh.”

She squared her shoulders as if to knock the lingering chuckle of insult away and walked sedately toward the man on the platform. Never mind him, she thought, I’ve other business to attend.

“Mr. Adams?”

He looked up at her with sorrowful dark, brown eyes. Not a hint of smile played on his mouth that was nothing more than a stern, thin line.

“Yes?”

“Are you looking for Finola McNamara?”

“Oh, thank Heaven. Is she here? Do you know her? I was terrified she had changed her mind. Where is she?” He looked around as if the woman he was expecting might be hiding behind her.

“I am Finola McNamara.”

Timothy stared at her as if she were a spook haunting him in some terrible nightmare. He shook his head, slowly at first and then faster with a firm resolve.

“That can’t be. Mrs. McNamara is an old widow woman. That’s what the priest said.” His voice sounded a bit shrill, his voice rising with each syllable.

“I am a widow, Mr. Adams.” She drew her eyebrows together, as she always did when facing a problem. “And I am Finola McNamara from St. Louis.”

“No, no, no!” Timothy Adams slumped in the bench. “This can’t be happening.”

She feared for a moment that he might start crying.

Although she had not expected a big parade or other fancy greeting, she had not expected a reaction such as this. What was wrong with him? What was wrong with her?

“You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Adams, but I’m not quite understanding. Have you changed your mind? Do you not want me here? I was told you needed a housekeeper and someone to take care of your son.”

“And I do.” He raised one hand in a helpless gesture. “But not you.”

“And what’s so bloody awful about me?” she demanded. “I’ll have you know I’m a fine housekeeper. And I know a thing or two about children, as well. I’m a good cook, nothing fancy but I handle a good meal…”

In her tirade she was barely aware of him taking her arm and steering her out of the train station. She was pointing out the fact that no other woman in the United States or Ireland could iron with the same skill she possessed when he partly shoved her into a carriage.

“Home, Carmine, but stop at the mercantile and general store on the corner near the house first, please.”

Carmine raised one eyebrow at the babbling woman in the seat behind him. She was going on and on about removing stains when Mr. Adams motioned at him to get going.

“There isn’t really much I can’t handle around a house,” she continued. “I just can’t see why you wouldn’t want me…”

She stopped her diatribe with the same startling abrupt halt as she had started it with when she realized the carriage was traveling at a speedy clip.

“Where are we going?”

“Home.” He leaned his chin in one hand and stared out the window with a sigh.

“Your home?”

“Yes.”

She narrowed her gaze. “I thought you didn’t want me to be your housekeeper.”

Timothy’s eyes snapped at her with an annoyed glare. “Well, what choice do I have? You’re here, and I need help. I can’t imagine what kind of gossip will fly when people see you. I’ll have to think of something. Maybe I can pass you off as a relative, although I’d be hard-pressed to explain that. There must be something.”

“What on God’s earth are you talking about?” she demanded. “You’re not making sense.”

He slapped an open palm to his forehead. “Don’t you understand? You’re young. You’re very attractive. People are never going to believe you’re my housekeeper. It’s not proper to have a young, single woman in the house with me. People are going to talk.”

“What people?”

“These people.” Timothy waved his hands about excitedly. “Those people over there. The people at the bank where I work. The people at church who got me into this mess. All of them.”

Finola feared he was verging on hysteria and wondered if she should alert the driver. In her dismay, she thought it best to let Mr. Adams sit and worry in his own accord. She studied the interior of the carriage and was duly impressed. It was quite a fine specimen, although she had little to base her knowledge. The hood had been set down so to let the fine autumn sunshine inside, so she set back to view the bustling streets around her. Shops and businesses lined the street, opened to greet the throngs of people milling to and fro. Wide plate glass windows sparkled in the sunlight as domestics filled their shopping baskets with fruits and vegetables on display in front of the stores.

“Louisville is a very fine city,” she said at last, hoping that Mr. Adams might abandon his distraught mood if lured into some safe bit of conversation.

“Yes, it’s quite nice. Now that we’ve recovered from last year’s flood, life is getting on as usual.” He nodded. “For most people, anyway.”

“Oh, ye had a flood, did ye? That can be nasty business. I dare say that St. Louis doesn’t hold a candle to your fair Louisville.”

Timothy cocked his head to one side as if hearing her for the first time. “How long did you live in St. Louis?”

“Oh, my, for half a year, I think. I stayed on there after my husband died.” Her heart still ached when she remembered Frank and their child. “We had planned to travel further west, but I guess God had other plans in mind.”

“Yes, it seems He often has plans that differ from ours,” he said, averting his gaze out of the carriage. “But I can’t say that I often understand them.”

“I don’t think we’re meant to,” Finola murmured.

“My son, Liam, is very ill. The doctors don’t think he will live. He’s dying of the same thing that killed my wife, but no one seems to know what it is.”

“I see.”

“Do you now? I’d like to know how you could see that.” His words were a challenge.

“I lost my own child when she was just a baby. She got a bad fever and died before my husband could get us to a town with a doctor.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Timothy’s face blanched at her words.

“As am I. I’m looking forward to meeting your son.”

“Oh, Lord, I can’t believe this is happening,” he said suddenly, burying his face in his hands again.

Apparently, Mr. Timothy Adams was not of his right mind, she decided, inching away from him on the plush, upholstered seat.

“Don’t forget the mercantile!” His bark at the driver rewarded him with a half-hearted salute.

“Aside from all the talk, you can’t run around here looking like that,” he added, glaring at her anew.

Like what? Finola looked down at her plain, dark blue dress and woven shawl. Surely he could not be suggesting she was attired in some indecent way? She thought of Mary Louise and her bright red dress with the bustle and her fine matching hat. What if she, a housekeeper, had appeared in the railway station wearing that get-up?

“You’re going to freeze to death.” He waved a hand at her shawl. “You don’t even have a decent cloak.”

She set her jaw. It was one thing to worry about appearances for propriety’s sake, but it was quite another when someone couldn’t afford to buy a coat. The sting of indignant anger burned at her eyes and she stared down at her hands. It wasn’t a domestic’s place to argue with her employer, but his insult cut her deeply.

“You people come here thinking that because Kentucky is a southern state, it’s all sunshine and happiness. Well, it’s not. It gets very cold here during the winter, and that time is coming quite quickly.” Timothy kept his gazed trained on the street, avoiding eye contact with the woman sitting next to him. “It was foolish to come all this way without your coat, Mrs. McNamara.”

She continued to look at her tightened hands in her lap. She had indeed been foolish, but it had nothing to do with a coat or a lack of one. But here she was now, and she would have to live with the folly of her mistake. She became aware of him rambling on again.

“Or perhaps you thought that by coming to work for a banker that you could manage to obtain garments better than your own?” He arched his eyebrows to make his point clear.

She clenched her jaw and met his eyes with a level glare to match his own. “I’ll have you know, Mr. Adams, that I had no such plan in mind. I didn’t leave my coat behind in hopes that you would provide me with a better one,” she said, her fury rising. “I don’t have one. And I’ll thank you not to be dreaming up such schemes on my part, because I don’t behave that way.”

“I’m sorry. I apologize. I shouldn’t have said that.” He dropped his head, causing a lock of dark brown hair to fall into his eyes. “This has all taken me by surprise. I expected a much older woman, like a grandmother or matronly aunt. I never expected you to be so young.”

“Well, as I’ve explained, I am a widow, and I’ve had a child of me own,” she remarked, ready to let the whole ugly business dissolve.

The carriage pulled up in front of a corner store. Carmine leapt from his driver’s seat and opened the door of the carriage to allow Mr. Adams to step down. Then he held his hand out to her, who bewildered, took it and stepped onto the street. The large painted sign hanging down over the doorway read, “Constantine’s Mercantile.”

“Let’s go inside and get some things. I’m afraid the cupboards are bare at home.” Timothy opened the door, motioning for her to enter.

She could scarcely take in the bounty of Constantine’s shelves. What was not displayed on the floor to ceiling shelving that surrounded the neat mercantile was kept in large wooden barrels.

A huge, black pot-bellied stove sat in the middle of the floor emanating the unforgettable acrid odor of burning coal. She paused, warming her hands above it. She thought she might freeze to death in the carriage, but she would never admit as much to Mr. Adams. Perhaps, she thought, it might be best to look for other employment. Then he could find the old, matronly woman he wanted so desperately.

She watched as Timothy picked up a large shopping basket from the counter. He motioned to her to follow him, and she did but kept her distance behind him. When he paused to say something to the clerk, she kept her gaze on the worn, wooden floor planks. It would not do to seem forward if he were so concerned about what his neighbors might say about her.

As the clerk moved away from his post behind the counter, Timothy turned to her and said, “Just pick out whatever you need to cook meals. Liam and I aren’t too picky, but I will warn you that for the most part he eats sauerkraut.”

She took the basket from him and began perusing the shelves. When the clerk returned to his post, she said, “I’ll be needing five pounds each of flour and corn meal, two pounds of white sugar, two pounds of coffee beans, and a large sack of Irish potatoes, if you please.”

The clerk looked at Timothy with raised eyebrows. He nodded his assent and fell into step behind Finola. She picked baking staples off the shelves and put them in the basket—salt, lard, leavening, and pepper. At the vegetable stand, she took her time in choosing several yellow onions, a large head of cabbage, turnips and carrots.

“Do you have good meat?” she asked the clerk.

He turned his perplexed look to Timothy again. “Mr. Constantine, this is Mrs. McNamara, my new housekeeper. Please make sure she gets everything she needs.”

Finola smiled with satisfaction. She supposed that meant that she would be staying on after all. She followed Mr. Constantine to the large icebox where they haggled at length about the quality of two huge portions of smoked ham.

As Carmine loaded the supplies into the boot of the carriage, she noticed that the hood had been raised on the carriage. Thanks be to God, she thought. At least now I won’t freeze to death.

“Mrs. McNamara?”

She turned to find Mr. Adams looking at her intently. “I thought you might use this.” He held out a paper-wrapped parcel to her. When she hesitated, he peeled the paper back to reveal a navy blue woolen cape.

“This should do,” he said, draping the cape over her shoulders. “We can’t have you catching a cold.”

“Oh, sir, I can’t…”

“No, I insist. I was rude to say those things.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I’m just not myself. But help is here now, and everything will get better. Just be patient with me, I beg of you. My son needs your help.” He turned on one heel and climbed into the carriage, pausing to extend a hand to help her up.

She followed his lead, feeling as lost as the echo of his footsteps from the street into the carriage. How could she ever understand his quick change of moods?

After a brisk ride through a few more streets, Carmine pulled the horse and carriage into a cobblestone drive leading up to a huge two-story house. The mottled red brick exterior bore the dying vines of summer ivy. Smart black shutters were drawn open and latched to show wide glass panes with delicate white lace curtains peeking out from inside the window frames. A brick walkway led from the drive up to the bright red front door with a bright brass knocker while another brick path led the way to the back.

Finola caught her breath. Never had she seen such a beautiful home. As she looked about the grounds, she spied a gazebo in the far corner of the back yard, painted white and looking just as inviting to a visitor as it must in summer. And what a yard, she thought. How lovely it would be if Mr. Adams would grant her permission to grow a small garden in the corner opposite the gazebo.

He stepped down from the carriage, once again offering her his hand. Timothy frowned as her small, rough red hand filled his large, gloved palm. She apparently didn’t wear gloves and probably didn’t even own a pair. He winced as she pulled her hand away quickly as if she could read his thoughts.

“What is it?” she asked in a small voice. “Have I done something wrong already?”

“No…no. It’s just that you’re not wearing gloves. Aren’t your hands cold?”

“Oh, no! I hardly feel the cold anymore.” She laughed, the tinkling of her cheerfulness reminding him of bells ringing. “Years of lye soap and scrub brushes have all but stolen the hide from me hands. I’ve never even owned a pair of gloves, so my hands don’t mind the cold at all.”

He shook his head and turned loose of her hand. He realized anew just how cruel he had sounded in the carriage blathering on about tricking him into buying her a new cloak. The poor woman—that was all she was, a poor woman. She had nothing more than what she carried in the pitiful worn out bag she brought along with her.

A gust of autumn wind rose up and blew the hood of her new cape back, revealing her dark, shining hair twisted neatly into place at the back of her head. Timothy realized with renewed terror how beautiful Finola McNamara was in her simple, tidy way.

“Let’s get inside, Mrs. McNamara,” he said.

Turning to the carriage driver, he ordered, “Carmine, bring in the supplies after you put the carriage and horse away. Thank you.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Adams.”

She glanced at the driver and was astounded to find him smiling at her. As soon as Mr. Adams’ back was turned, he winked at her.

“I want to talk to you,” he mouthed at Finola, turning quickly away before caught by their employer.

She hurried to keep pace with Mr. Adams, holding her carryall to her chest tightly. Her heart pounded as they neared the shiny red door, and she longed to take hold of the brass knocker and give it a fling.

“Liam is probably still napping,” he said, making gestures to stay quiet. “He needs all the rest he can get.”

“Of course,” she whispered, wondering what horrid ailment the poor child suffered.

“I’ll go put the supplies away. That will give you time to unpack and settle into your room. It’s upstairs. I’ll show you the way.”

Finola began to protest that most domestic help stayed in rooms at the back of the house near the kitchen, but before she could get a word out, Timothy was motioning to her to follow him.

She could see the house’s interior was just as grand as the outside, but a heavy layer of dust covered the fine carpets and furniture. Even the lighting fixtures were filthy. She had her work cut out for her, as her old da used to say. And this time he was so right. It would take more than a solid week of working daylight to dark to remedy this mess, and she hadn’t even seen the kitchen yet.

Timothy paused at the top of the stairs and turned left. She didn’t even look to her right, although she was curious. Instead she followed him through the hallway lined with framed portraits of people she assumed were his ancestors. Pausing outside a closed door, he moved quickly to the next room at the end of the hall.

“That’s Liam’s room there.” Timothy pointed at the door where he had stopped to listen. I want you near him, just in case he needs something during the night. And this is your room.”

He pushed the door open and urged her to step inside. “It’s nothing fancy, I’m afraid.”

The bedroom glowed in sunlight pouring in from the windows. Ivory lace curtains adorned the windows, allowing the sun’s generous warmth in but also providing a desired amount of privacy. The wooden floors were dusty, as was the rest of the house, but a little polish and hard work would soon put that right. An iron frame bed, painted white with its scrollwork headboard against the wall, boasted a red berry and emerald green Irish Chain quilt.

She took a tentative step toward the ladderback rocking chair by the window. A green plaid throw was folded over the back, and she touched it lightly with one finger. She peered out the window to see the gazebo and fountain in the yard below.

“I don’t know what to say, sir. I’ve never seen a finer room in me life,” she whispered at last.

Timothy smiled. “I’m glad you like it. As I said, it’s rather on the plain side…”

“Oh, no,” she assured him. “It’s grand, just grand.”

“Well then, I’ll just leave you to settle in. I’ll be in the kitchen. You can come down and inspect it when you’re ready. It’s just past the stairs, toward the back of the house. I have no doubt that you’ll want to change things around to suit you.” He retreated toward the hallway, closing the door behind him.

She looked around the room that was now hers. It was so large and filled with furniture the like of which she had never enjoyed before. Her few meager belongings would barely fill one drawer of the huge oak dresser, not to mention the matching wardrobe closet in the corner.

Unpacking her things took only minutes to put in order. She carefully stored her seeds in a small top drawer, put her clothes in the longer drawer underneath it, and set the photograph of her husband and child on the bedside table. It was time to find the kitchen and get started on this job that seemed so daunting.

Her heart pounded as she padded quietly down the hallway past Liam’s bedroom. What would she find down there in the kitchen, she wondered. Would it be a nightmare? Cobwebs hanging from the ceiling? She shook her head and trotted down the stairs with light, quick steps. No sense in dreading it, she realized. But what if it were a complete shambles? Neither pots nor pans for cooking and dirt three inches thick on the floor?

She would, she resolved, firmly deal with whatever she found. She hadn’t come this far to be frightened off now. At the bottom of the stairs, she followed a tapestry woven carpet toward the back of the house. A good beating would tidy it into good shape once again, she thought. It would be amazing what a thorough cleaning would do for the Adams’ household.

More framed portraits lined the hallway, but one was larger and more prominent that the others. She stopped to gaze up at the slim, beautiful woman with golden hair dressed high upon her head. Her deep, blue eyes seemed to look back toward her. Her full, pink lips were curved in a slight smile. She was quite a beauty, whoever she was. But she knew in her heart that the woman could only be the late Mrs. Adams.

No wonder her new employer was all at ends. He had probably loved her deeply and now missed her without end to his sorrow. And now their only child was ill, too. Grief has a way of coming out in odd measures, she thought as she arrived at the door to the kitchen. And for Mr. Timothy Adams, grief apparently equaled thoughtless comments at times.

She took a deep breath and pushed the door open to find himself standing at a sink full of soapy water and a pile of dirty dishes. His elegant suit jacket discarded onto a chair and his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, Timothy Adams was frantically scrubbing dishes. Fiona broke into laughter.

“Heavens, man, what are you doing? Here, get out of that. What do you think I’m here for, anyway? Did you think I would be scandalized to find dirty dishes in the kitchen?” She shooed him away from the sink and took an apron from a peg by the back door.

“Sit down there, and I’ll put the kettle on for some tea.”

He did as she commanded, pausing to replace his jacket and right his sleeves again.

Finola washed the dishes and set them on a rack to dry while she took notice of the kitchen. It was well-equipped with an icebox, cook stove, wood stove, table, chairs, cabinets, and enough utensils and dishes to cook for a regiment. True, the place was a mess, but it was nothing that she couldn’t put right. She had seen much worse.

“I just wanted to get things straightened up a bit for you.” Timothy swept his arm around the kitchen. “I’m very embarrassed at the condition my home has acquired. I’ve tried to get help, but they don’t last long. Taking care of a young boy who is ill in addition to keeping this house going seems to be too much for most of the women I’ve hired.”

“It’s a big job, I’m sure. But perhaps you were wrong in your choice of older women,” she remarked with a smile. “Work on this scale takes a young back and a lot of strength.” She poured cups of tea and set them on the table.

“Well, you certainly seem to know your way around a kitchen,” he agreed.

“I’ve been cooking and cleaning all me life,” she explained, pulling food items from their bins. “I’ve several younger brothers and sisters, so I had to learn how to take care of a house when I was just a wee girl. And then, of course, I married Frank, and we had a home of our own for a bit.”

She placed a grater next to a pile of potatoes by the sink and turned toward Timothy. “You didn’t leave your son here all alone, did you?”

Her question startled him. “No, of course not. A lady from church came by to stay with him, a Mrs. Hughes.”

“That’s good. I’m looking forward to meeting the lad.”

“He’s quite ill, Mrs. McNamara.” Timothy shifted uncomfortably in his seat as she reached for her teacup and sipped. “The doctors aren’t sure what he has, but we all fear it’s the same disease that took his mother. They’re telling me now that he will probably die.”

“That could be,” she said. “But sometimes doctors are wrong.”

Before he could answer, a small bell jingled at the kitchen doorway. Timothy jumped to his feet. “That’s Liam. I’ll go up and help him. You come up in about fifteen minutes or so.”

“Yes, sir.” Finola watched as he dashed toward the door. She grated the potatoes and placed them in a colander to drain while she peeled an onion. Did the other men she had known in her life possess the same dedication that Mr. Adams showed to his ill son? Frank had loved their Siobahn with all his heart, but could he have raised her without Finola? She doubted it.

With careful hands she mixed the grated potatoes and onion with some flour, salt and pepper. She shaped them into small cakes and covered them with a tea towel. It was time to go meet Master Liam Adams.

First thing tomorrow, she mused as she dried her hands on the scrap of material tied around her waist, would be to find a suitable apron. She trotted back up the stairs, pondering how much yard goods might cost when she was stopped in her tracks by a blood curdling scream.

“Noooo!”

What in the name of all that was holy could that be, she wondered. She took the remainder of stairs two at a time and arrived at Liam’s door in a panic.

“Liam, calm down,” Timothy was saying, his voice low and calm. “Mrs. McNamara is our new housekeeper. She came to help us.”

Oh, heavens! The lad was crying about her. He was upset because she was here. She had come so far, and the present day alone had been enough to dishearten anyone. She closed her eyes and prayed for strength. She needed this job, the Good Lord Himself knew that to be true. But even more, she thought of how much the Adams needed her to take care of them. “Help us, Father. Please, help us,” she prayed.

With a strength she didn’t think possible, she forced her quaking legs to move forward into the room. Pausing to smooth her hair down and brush flour away from the front of her dress, she walked up to Liam’s bedside.

“Hello, Liam. I’m Finola. It’s nice to meet you.”

The small boy wiped his eyes and looked at her with a sniffle. “Hi.”

Timothy stared at his now calm child who had been screaming with anger just moments before. The boy’s eyes were fixed solidly on Finola.

“I hear you’re not feeling well,” she said.

Liam nodded, and she hoped he understood “noot feelin wail” in the same way she meant it.

“Well, I’m sorry about that, but I think I have something down in the kitchen that might help. Do you like potato pancakes?”

Liam nodded, his brown-eyed gaze never leaving her face.

“Good, then I’ll just go back down and finish making them. In the meantime, would you like a cup of hot tea with milk and sugar?”

Again, the child nodded.

“I’ll fix it right up for you,” she said, patting his hand before leaving. She nodded to Timothy and swooshed out of the room, her air of efficiency firmly restored.

Just as she stepped out of the room, she looked back to see father and son gazing at one another. Was that a smile playing around the young boy’s lips?

“Okay, she can stay,” Liam said just loud enough for her to hear.