Cinders to Satin. Fern MichaelsЧитать онлайн книгу.
He smiled at her. The attempt at friendliness was almost an obscenity, and Callie bristled.
“My trunks and hat boxes, not to mention the royal jewels, will be arriving on the Cunard line!” she drawled insolently. “Of course this is all I have. If I had more, do you think I’d be dependent on your good will?”
Quicker than a striking snake, cousin Owen had her by the arm, squeezing it unmercifully. “I told you to watch that sharp tongue of yours,” he warned, his soft, lilting tone in direct contrast to the threat in his eyes and the force on her arm. “Men . . . people don’t like to hear a young girl being fresh. I take back what I said about you being educated. You’re smart, all right, alley smart. Now pick up your things and come along.”
His release on her arm was as sudden as his grip, leaving her shaken and afraid, aware of his potential for violence and making her feel more alone than ever. She might be young and inexperienced, but she was no fool. Cousin Owen was not going to use her fairly. Callie raised her eyes heavenward. “Good Lord, what have You gotten me into? It’s clear my interests aren’t at the top of Your list.”
“Did you say somethin’?” Owen asked over his shoulder.
“I talk to myself sometimes,” Callie answered.
Owen rolled his eyes. A cuckoo in the bargain. He led the way out of the terminal into the harsh November wind. Callie, burdened by her blanket pokes, followed close behind. As he walked, Owen swung his brass-handled walking stick, moving along at a jaunty pace. The trousers of his suit were tight-fitting and strapped beneath the boots—hugging his bowed legs which probably were the reason for his unusual toe-out gait—as though he were squashing bugs under his heels.
They walked several blocks along the cobbled streets. Buildings and tenement houses rose up from the sidewalks to an astonishing four or five stories, their red brick facades decorated by slate lintels over the windows and doorways. Every house, it seemed, was fronted by a porch, or stoop as they called it in Dublin, and all were attached to one another just like the row houses back home. Home, Callie thought. This was home now.
Shops and eating houses and taverns spilled their sounds and smells onto the street; delivery carts and beer wagons clattered over the cobbles, their horses slat-ribbed and plodding. She heard the sounds of her own Ireland in the brogue and lilt of voices, and there were other sounds too: the harsh, guttural tones of Germans, the melodious language of black men and women, and even, to her surprise, a small yellow man dressed in black with a round hat perched on his head and a long black pigtail hanging down his back. He turned to look at her, his flat features breaking into a smile, his slanted eyes dancing with amusement.
“What kind of man is that?” Callie asked, tugging at Owen’s sleeve.
“Him? He’s a Chinee. You’ll see people from all over the world here. Eyetalians, Germans, Portugee, but thank yer stars it’s mostly the fine folk of Ireland you’ll find yourself with. Course, there’s them what calls themselves Americans. They was born here and think they don’t stink because of it!” Owen spit down on the sidewalk. “Those are the kind to stay away from, take my advice. They don’t think much of the Irish, and I’m pleased to say the Irish don’t think much of them. Think they’re better than the rest of us.” Owen loved it when he could display his worldliness and thought of himself as a man about town.
“Where are we going?” Callie ventured to ask, lugging her pokes and shifting them from one arm to the other. She could feel her stomach rumble. She’d not even had a cup of tea this morning and couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a piece of bread.
“It’s not far. Just uptowns a ways. We’ll take the trolley at the next corner.”
He saw her struggling with her belongings but didn’t offer to help. She’d lugged them all the way from Dublin, she could lug them a ways farther. “See them tracks set in the street?” he pointed. “Those is trolley tracks. Makes for a nice, easy ride over the cobbles. Hurry up now, don’t fall behind. I’ve got business to take care of.”
Callie quickened her pace, almost falling into step beside him but not quite. “There are no streets paved with gold . . . are there?”
“Now don’t you be tellin’ me you believed that fairy tale. Tis a land of opportunity, but only for those who work at it. And me, cousin deary, I work at it.”
“What kind of work? What’ll I be doing here? I need money to send my mum back in Dublin. You know what’s going on there, don’t you? Sometimes there’s hardly enough for the little one’s supper.”
“Now ain’t that a shame!” Owen sneered. “Listen, girlie, I don’t care what’s happening in Ireland or anywhere else for that matter. Owen Gallagher only concerns himself with himself and his own pockets. If you want to take everything you’ve got and throw it away, that’s your business, not mine. I said you were smart; it won’t take long before you think of yourself first and leave the rest to the devil.”
“Why did you bring me over here?” Callie demanded, her voice a hiss. “We all thought you were trying to help out some. I came to work, to send money to the family—”
“Listen,” Owen said nastily, “I didn’t bring you over here. T’was Colleen I sent for. I could tell from her letters that she’s an enterprising young lady and wanted more than anythin’ to get herself away from Ireland. She seemed to know what life was all about. You said she’s gettin’ married. No doubt she’s already got a cake in the oven, right?”
Callie looked at him quizzically. Then it dawned on her. “Yes, Colleen’s going to have a baby. . .”
“That’s what I said, right? She knows what life’s all about. Trouble is, she didn’t know enough. Now, my girls know how to take care of themselves, they do. Or out they go! I don’t keep no charity cases, and when a girl can’t work, she’s got no place with me. Just you remember that.” This was all wrong. She should be grateful. Instead he found himself with a hellcat. There would be no fooling this one for long. He thought of the handsome prices she could earn for him, and he had recently lost Trisha because of a botched-up abortion. An empty bed in his house brought no revenue, and he was eager to fill it.
A horse-drawn conveyance pulled up the street at a clip. The car was open-sided with benches all in a row, some of them facing outward to the street. Cousin Owen instructed Callie to get aboard while he dug in his pocket for two coins, which he dropped into a little change box held out by the conductor. Callie sank down on the hard, painted seat, tucking her pokes alongside her.
“Don’t get too comfortable, it’s not that far.”
“Then why didn’t we walk?”
“Owen Gallagher never walks when he can ride.”
Callie hung out over the side, looking up at buildings and down at the people passing by. A group of children tossed a ball back and forth, and she heard their shouts and calls at play. The sound was somehow comforting.
“We get off here,” Owen told her. “Come along and don’t leave anything behind.”
“Hardly, when this is all I own in the world,” Callie muttered. She was liking her situation and Cousin Owen less and less by the moment. She didn’t like the way he tugged at her arm and practically pushed her off the high step of the trolley. When her feet touched the street, she dropped her pokes and stood facing him, hands on hips. “I’m not moving another step unless you tell me where you’re taking me and what I’ll be doing when I get there!”
“Just shut that mouth of yours and quit attracting attention. I’m known in this town and I have a reputation to consider, and I don’t want you spoiling it for me. Now keep quiet and talk when I tell you.” He picked up her pokes and was pushing them into her arms.
“Why?” Callie demanded bluntly, dropping her pokes for the second time. “I want to know now!”
A brat! A big mouth! He certainly didn’t need this skinny piece of baggage. “You’ll be livin’