Chapter 33

The Dinner

The echoes of brightly polished silverware clattering on imported French china was all that could be heard in the absence of conversation. Clare’s finely upholstered chair tucked into a mahogany table bearing a mirrored sheen, covered with intricately hand-sewn runners and place mats, illuminated by candles lifted by golden holders. In well-crafted silver bowls and platters was the most spectacular spread of food she had ever seen.

A turkey, which had been roasted to a perfect brown, surrendered to the blade in carefully sliced piles of juicy white and dark meat. Corn, not served on a cob, but stripped and piled high with fresh creamery butter lay beside mashed potatoes, which were served with gravy and accompanied by warm, fluffy rolls.

Clare sipped water cooled with chips of ice from a crystal glass so intricately designed she feared breaking it. As she set it down carefully, her eyes rose up across the table to see Andrew gazing at her in amusement, acknowledging the tension at the table.

At one end of the long table was seated the matriarch, Mrs. Royce, who with a long neck perched between a painfully slender body and a sharp, angled face, drew circles in her plate of food with her fork when she wasn’t looking up to scowl at their guest.

Opposite her was a perfectly rotund man, who more than made up for a lack of breadth with an extensive width. As if unwilling to embrace his shape, he wore a fine silk suit, gray with a large red tie, which was easily two sizes too small, and Clare worried that at any moment buttons from his jacket would break loose and shoot across the dinner table.

His gray hair extended broadly from the sides of his head, and only a few long strands remained atop his barren pate but were proudly groomed and displayed nonetheless. His unusually reddened cheeks softened his demeanor as did a broad toothy smile, which appeared frequently and without much prompting.

His desire this evening seemed only to keep the conversation pleasant, just as his wife appeared equally committed to draw the air out of the room. Mrs. Royce had a spirit of disenchantment Clare found disarming.

Andrew, on the other hand, although apologetic by his gestures, seemed entertained and, much to Clare’s horror, quite willing to prick the tigress.

“So, Mother. You might be pleased to know that Clare is a writer of some skill.”

Clare disapproved with her brows.

“Is this true?” Mrs. Royce shifted in her seat. “I’m surprised a woman of your . . . profession would choose to ignore those talents.”

“Well . . . I . . .” Clare tried to decipher those comments.

“Perhaps she could teach you something about writing, hmmm?” Charles held up a turkey leg in his fist in emphasis before biting into it.

“My father believes I lack discipline in the craft of his choosing.”

“Andrew is a fine journalist,” Charles said with his cheeks protruding with food. “He’ll make an exceptional publisher. If we can spare him from his unfortunate distractions.”

“My parents don’t approve of my ministries in the Five Points.”

“That’s not the case, Andrew,” his mother said, raising her nose. “We’ve always supported the work of the church. It’s just there are some tasks that should not be borne by a man of your . . . stature. We can help people most if we keep a certain distance. Just for proper perspective, that is.”

Andrew glanced toward Clare with a look seeking forgiveness.

Mrs. Royce patted her napkin against her lips and raised her chin. “There is nothing wrong with a mother not wanting her only son to gather . . . strays.”

As if on cue, Cassie emerged through the doorway and started to pile up empty plates. “It sounds like we might be readying for dessert. Oooh my. Miss Holmes be preparing rhubarb pie. I can taste it myself. Not that I dipped my fork in it, but then again someone’s gots to make certain it’s cooked through.”

Andrew grinned at Clare and shrugged. “Cassie believes the cure to any ailment is a full stomach. She nearly fed me to death as a child.”

“Poor child you is. The missus and master spoiling you with kindness and you don’t thank them for nothin’. Ain’t that right, missus?”

Mrs. Royce rolled her eyes and pushed her plate from her. “Can you bring in our tea, Cassie? And quietly if at all possible as we were enjoying our conversation.”

“Yes, missus. Enjoying? That’s strange word to describe it. Not that I was hearing nothin’. But you carry on. I’m a gonna quietly clear this table and tell Miss Holmes we’s ready for rhubarb.”

“So, Miss, uh . . . ?” Mr. Royce said.

“Hanley, sir. Clare Hanley. Just Clare is fine.”

Charles leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands. “So, Miss Hanley. What do you think of the news from back home?”

Cassie had returned from the kitchen again and removed some more plates, including Clare’s. “What news is that?” Clare asked.

“The crops. They’ve failed again this spring.”

“In Ireland?” He had her attention. It would be one thing to have a season of the rot, but if the farms struggled again it would starve her people.

“Terrible development. Terrible indeed. Especially with so much of the land committed to potato.”

“Was yours a potato farm, Clare?” asked Andrew.

Clare nodded at him, still digesting the news.

“Perhaps, son . . .” Charles put his finger to his chin and tapped. “What do you think of having Clare here help you with a story on the plight of her people? The perspective from one so recently arrived would be intriguing.”

“That would be delightful.” Andrew smiled. “What do you think, Clare?”

Cassie came in with a platter of tea and put it in the center of the table. She nearly toppled it as she was watching to see how Clare would respond.

“Good graces, Cassie!” Mrs. Royce said. “Do watch what you’re doing.”

“We’ve been hoping to get better circulation in the Points,” Charles said. “Maybe getting more of an Irish angle on our stories is what we’re missing.”

Andrew’s demeanor brightened. “Say yes, Clare, won’t you? It would bring wind to my sails. Take some of the drudgery out of the business.”

“The Irish perspective,” Mrs. Royce scoffed. “Shall you write feature stories about drunks and brothels? The inside, untold stories?”

“Mother!” Andrew’s gaze darted to Clare. “Sometimes you are intolerable.”

“I’ve never written for a newspaper,” Clare said.

“Neither has my son hardly,” Charles said. “Maybe this will give him some focus. Whatever it takes, I’m willing to try.”

Cassie came in with a pie, ruby red peering through a cross-hatched crust. She started to slice it and pass it out on plates.

Mrs. Royce appeared discomforted. “Perhaps we should just attend to Miss Hanley’s recovery so she can return to her people.”

Charles hardly looked at his plate as his fork shoveled in the pie. “You should visit the dock tomorrow. Talk to those coming from the ships. The stories have grown cruel. You’ve crossed recently, Miss Hanley?”

Clare nodded, beginning to feel overrun.

“Ha!” Mrs. Royce waved off the slice of pie when Cassie tried to hand it to her. “You’re sending your son to the docks?”

Charles began to grow irritated. “I didn’t ask him to go swim in the harbor. Is it your intention to humiliate our son in front of his guest?”

“Don’t be bothered by it one bit, son.” Cassie poured tea into Clare’s cup. “No shame in that. On account of him nearly drowning as a boy, anybody’s gonna fear the water some.”

Clare couldn’t shake the news of the crop failure. It infused uncertainty in her mind. Although she had been sending support and letters from the Irish Society faithfully every week, she had yet to receive a letter in return. Perhaps she could hear some news from some of the immigrants arriving by ship.

“Could you take me there, Andrew?” she asked, startling the others.

“Andrew, please,” his mother said, softening her tone. “Don’t embarrass yourself, son. When’s the last time you were at the shoreline?”

“Poor boy,” Cassie said. “Wouldn’t even take baths. We needs to wash him while he was sleeping.”

“Now I’m embarrassed,” Andrew said, “and I’ll need to remind you all that I’m still present in the room. I prefer if I’m a target of scandal and gossip, you’ll have the decency to do it behind my back.”

Clare laughed and then quickly covered her mouth and pretended she was coughing.

He looked at her with warm, sweet eyes. “And I believe our greenhorn journalist would benefit from a full evening’s rest.”

As he wiped his mouth and then rose from the table, they all did as well.

“Shall we declare a toast?” Charles lifted his glass.

“We most certainly must.” Andrew lifted his as well.

“To the Irish,” Charles said. “May their land heal and their people prosper.”

“Hear, hear,” echoed Andrew.

“And to our young Miss Hanley,” Charles continued. “May her words be true, bearing pain to the enemies of justice and freedom to the oppressed.”

As the glasses clinked, Clare smiled at Andrew’s kindness.

She was a fraud to have anything to do with writing at a newspaper. But in that moment, she determined to try with all of her will.

Clare didn’t know why it mattered so, but she didn’t want to disappoint Andrew Royce.