Chapter 21

Patrick Feagles

“Have you never seen such beauty?” Seamus peered over Clare’s shoulder into the oven she had opened.

“Nor smelt it?” Pierce tried to nudge in as well.

“Back off, you two. I can’t breathe.” Clare tried to discern whether the beef shoulder was fully braised or not. This was Clare’s first time using an oven and, in fact, she had never before cooked beef. The thought of ruining such an expensive meal terrified her.

“Do you think it’s ready?” she said.

“How would I know?” Pierce said.

“Oh, if I could just cradle it in me arms.” Seamus licked his lips.

Clare shut the oven door and the hinges squeaked. She tended to the vegetables boiling on the stove, a task she found more familiar and comforting.

“Where’s the old lady?” Pierce asked.

“Shhh.” She looked nervously toward the door to Tressa’s bedroom. “She’ll hear you. She asked if I would mind the kitchen while she was preparing herself for Mr. Feagles.”

“We were taking our baths when she went in there,” Seamus said. “With all of that fixing time, she ought to come out as the queen herself.”

Clare noticed Pierce gazing at her. “What’s with you?”

Seamus elbowed his friend. “Are you ogling me sister?”

Pierce snapped out of his trance. “No. No. It’s just . . .” he started and blushed. “It’s just you cleaned up well, Clare. ’Tis all.”

Seamus patted Pierce on the head. “And you, my dear friend, smell lovely as well.”

Pierce swatted the hand away.

“Do you think we could have a wee taste of the beast?” Seamus started to reach for the oven handle.

“You’ll have no such thing.” Clare slapped his hand. “I don’t want either of you embarrassing me. And neither of you boys will get the first bite until you tell me how you came upon this place. Other than admitting to pinching my necklace, you haven’t provided any explanations. How did you meet Tressa?”

“Firstly, I never pinched your necklace, my dear sister.” Seamus reached into his pocket and held up the silver necklace, and the gem in the center of the braided clover sparkled even in the limited light.

As one would greet a lost friend, Clare took it from his hand and immediately put it around her neck, fumbling with the clasp. “But I thought you gave it to Tressa?”

“I only said I showed it to her. What a low opinion you hold of me at times.” Seamus plucked an apple from the fruit bowl, buffed it against his shirt, and bit into it loudly. “Now for the story of how we’re here, I’ll start by saying it took quite some reckoning to bring us to this much-improved situation.”

“’Twas a task indeed,” Pierce chimed in.

“You see ol’ Mack’s cousin,” Seamus continued, “the fella who offered us those brilliant accommodations in the basement.”

Pierce raised his eyebrows. “Strange chap.”

“Yes. Peculiar indeed. With you ailing and us near dry of funds, he put in our ear we should sell our belongings. Whatever could be spared. So I told him of the keener’s gift.”

“Yes. My necklace.” Clare raised her hand to her bosom, where the pendant rested against her skin.

“Understood, dear sister. Yet I’m certain you’d agree it would serve us little if we were all starved.”

“I suppose ’tis true.” She sighed. “Still, I wasn’t dead for asking.”

Seamus raised his eyebrows. “Anyways. When I showed Mack’s cousin the necklace for his appraisal, I could see greed flashing in his eyes, and I knew at once the keener gave us something dear. And I was morely convinced when this chap began to play his interest down.”

“Out of pity for our condition,” Pierce said in a mocking voice, “he’d give us a dollar to unburden us.”

“Yes. That’s what he said, more or less.” Seamus nodded. “When he saw we weren’t falling for it, he started pleading and begging, then hinting he would put us out to sleeping in the snow if we didn’t see to him having it as his own. We told him we’d think on it.”

Seamus took another bite of his apple. “So quick as we could, we started asking questions on the streets. It didn’t take long to find the clover of the pendant was a symbol for the place called the Irish Gathering or Irish Fellowship . . .”

“The Irish Society,” Pierce broke in.

“Yes. The Irish Society. It’s a place for our people they said. We ventured to a building that had the same exact clover symbol on its door. Once there, folks told us we had something in our possession that rightly belonged to a certain Patrick Feagles.”

“There’s more,” Pierce whispered.

“Well, there’s that.” Seamus lowered his voice as well. “The man we spoke to at the Irish Society seemed to believe this Mr. Feagles would be most grateful for the pendant’s proper return. That is, if he didn’t kill us for having it in the first place.”

“He said that?” Clare gasped.

“Aye,” her brother said. “But he was making more of it than there was, I am certain.”

Clare was unconvinced and now more than a bit troubled. “And Tressa. How did you meet Tressa?”

Seamus offered a bite of the apple to Clare, but she shook her head. “We were told we’d find Mr. Feagles in the tavern below, it being called . . .”

“McKinney’s,” Pierce said. “When we got here and mentioned this Feagles’s name, they pointed us to Tressa, who was sitting at one of the far tables.”

“At first, she was ill pleased,” Seamus said. “Until we showed her the necklace. One look at that and she was so sure Mr. Feagles would want to meet us she invited us to supper and even offered us her place to bed down.”

“And here we are.” Pierce spread his arms wide.

“So you know . . . nothing about this Patrick Feagles?”

Seamus shrugged.

Clare’s anger began to rise. “And do you think it wise not to tell me this man might intend us harm? Had you not the good wits to share this story with me before you brought me here?”

“No,” Seamus said with a patronizing smile. “He’ll be so grateful to us for the return of his precious jewelry, he’ll treat us generously.”

“And how do you know that, Seamus?”

He glanced at Pierce and then turning back put a hand on her shoulder. “When we showed it to Tressa, she said it was a gift he gave his sister.”

“Yes, I know. Tressa already told me Mr. Feagles was the keener’s brother. And what of it?” Clare’s head ached. She was preoccupied with wondering if they would be wise to flee the house while they still had the opportunity.

“Don’t you see it?” Seamus said, in an incredulous tone. “For some reason the keener knew we would end up meeting up with her brother. It was a real gift she gave us. This Feagles is from back home. He’s one of us.”

Just then a door opened. Startled, they turned to see Tressa emerging from her room. Her face displayed an artistry of makeup, which despite being a bit heavily applied, succeeded in making the old woman appear more youthful. Clare could imagine a young Tressa would have drawn the eyes of many a suitor.

“Oh, how wonderful you’re here.” Clare worried that Tressa might have heard part of their conversation. “I . . . uh . . . I’m uncertain if the roast is cooked or not.”

Tressa eyed them with suspicion. “Why are you muddling about? You all look as if you’re standing before the gallows.”

“We’re just grateful, ma’am.” Seamus smiled. “Pleased to be here.”

“Say nothing of it, dear. Patrick would be angry with me if I treated poorly friends of his sister. He dotes on that woman fiercely and will be cheered by any news you have about her. Just about broke the man when Rose went back to Ireland.”

Clare gave Seamus an accusatory glance. “I hope it won’t dispirit Mr. Feagles once he knows we don’t know her too well.”

“He’ll feast on the slightest detail. I told you he loves that woman. And speaking of feasting, that roast is done. Let’s pull her out and prepare the settings. What time is it?” Tressa glanced at the clock, which showed it was nearly eight in the evening. “Oh my. Paddy ought to be home soon. Let’s hurry ourselves so all will be ready.”

Under Tressa’s direction, Clare gathered the food onto serving china while the boys pulled a table from the wall and placed it where not too long ago the brass tub set. Whether driven by the anticipation of the meal or the man who was on his way, they hurried at their tasks, and in not more than a few minutes, they were gathered around the table, admiring the spread in awe and silence.

Before them, the meat sizzled atop a pool of gravy, as tiny rivulets of butter streamed down the curvatures of the corn on the cob. Beets, a brilliant purple and fresh from the market, brimmed to the edge of the dish, and further tempting their patience were the wheat aromas of oven-browned bread, which was still warm to the touch.

Clare and the boys gazed expectantly at the woman, hoping and even pleading with their eyes that the words of grace would free them from the cruel bondage of politeness. But no such words spilled from Tressa’s lips. Instead, she spoke of everything else, intending apparently for not a single fork to be lifted until her Patrick Feagles came through the door.

Then at last, with Tressa seemingly exhausting every possible word, she released a deep sigh and there was silence, except for the steady ticking of the clock, which seemed to grow in intensity as disappointment crept deeper into her face.

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon.” Clare clasped her hands, which were sweaty.

“Maybe we should begin . . .” Tressa looked at the clock again.

“We should wait . . .” Clare said, but it was too late. Seamus and Pierce dug into the food like wolves over their prey. The chains were broken. Clare, who couldn’t remember how long it had been since her last full dinner, had no more will to restrain them or herself. With each bite, strength returned to Clare, flowing through her body.

She barely noticed Tressa preserving a plate of food for Patrick, his chair ominously empty.

In a short while, it was all over. The last of the food was scraped from the serving platter, and after Seamus and Pierce used the bread to sop up whatever gravies remained on their plates, they leaned back in their chairs and exchanged sighs and groans of contentment.

Clare stared down with guilt at the food left on her plate. She abhorred the thought of wasting food, but her appetite was still fragile and she couldn’t force another bite without gagging.

“Miss Tressa.” Seamus patted his mouth with his napkin. “You’ve made our little venture to America already worth every effort. Had I known what awaited me here, I would have beaten the captain for speed.”

“’Twas fine.” Pierce smiled. “Fine indeed.”

Tressa looked over to the plate of food she had set aside for Patrick and blushed. “I suppose his duties kept him. He’s been at it hard lately. Patrick is a very important man.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Pierce said, “what exactly does Mr. Feagles do?”

Before the question could be answered, a muffled sound came through the door. It was a man’s voice, deep and drunken, echoing through the hallway outside and drawing closer.

“Jimmy, I’ll crack your head. See if I don’t come down there if I hear another word from ye.”

The words and tone widened the eyes of those around the table, with the exception of Tressa who seemed to be oddly pleased with the approaching rancor. From Seamus’s worried expression, he must have been recalculating the wisdom of his latest plan. But, there was nothing they could do but let it play out now.

“Don’t worry,” Tressa said. “He’s mostly harmless when he’s had a few.”

They listened with heightened senses as the man’s shouting shifted to a drunken song as heavy steps moved up the creaking wooden floorboards of the stairs.

Fair as a maiden, ever should be,
The lies of a lady, looking at me,
She brought down ships,
And sails unfurled,
Never seen beauty,
Like Celia my girl.

There was a fumbling at the door, the handle turned slowly, and the door cracked open enough to show the shadow of a man dressed in dark pants and a checkered waistcoat, with a gray cravat spilling lazily out from his neck. He took off his overcoat and hung it on the rack by the door after a couple of failed attempts. Without noticing them he leaned back out into the hallway and bellowed again as he took off his plug hat.

“Jimmy, I have a mind to come at you hard. Cheating me in my own place. I’ll break ye with me bare hands. See if I won’t.”

Clare experienced both a terror . . . and a strange familiarity. There was something in the man’s voice she recognized.

There wasn’t time to dwell on this as Patrick Feagles slammed the door shut and placed his hat on a hook while mumbling to himself. Then he turned to face them and became alarmed at the sight of the strangers in his home rising to greet him. He squinted to try to see in the dim light and seemed both confused and angry in his stupor.

Just then as he leaned forward, his face became illuminated by the beams of light coming from the candles, like the moon would after bursting through a shroud of clouds. There, as Clare’s mouth went agape in horror, the apparition of her past became eerily visible. Tall, broad shouldered, slumping forward with age and wear, teeth of amber hue, and leaning on a walking stick, Clare could see in this man the eyes of her father, now suddenly sad and frightened.

The sharp contours of his cheeks were undeniably of Hanley breeding and those bushy eyebrows and sideburns were ones so familiar and inviting to her during Clare’s ephemeral youth.

For there standing before her, warmed as if risen from the bowels of the sea, was Patrick Feagles. No. Not him at all. Because clearly Patrick Feagles was a counterfeit. The man before her was Uncle Tomas, as alive to Clare now as the day she last saw him nearly four years ago.