Sheppard's Boarding House
Chapter 3
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Sean sat in a chair beside the small desk in Molly's room, facing his young cousin perched on the bed. Gregory had left hours ago, reassuring Sean that everything would be all right, and reminding him to get Molly to dinner on time. Seeing the sticklike legs poking out from Molly's too-short dress, Sean had long decided to make feeding her his first priority. "So. . . how was the train?" Sean asked, still searching for a topic that interested her. It had been a long time since he had been forced to keep a youngster occupied. Babysitting was tough! He smiled weakly at his cousin. The warm afternoon sun coming through the window above the desk had been making him drowsy for quite a while now. Though he had no clue as to how he could possibly take care of Molly when the week's worth of paid rent ran out, he was stunned but thankful that Gregory had given him the rest of the day off with pay. Molly shrugged, swinging her skinny legs at the end of the bed, lowering her eyes to her lap. Sean continued nervously, "I like the train, myself. Don't think I'd have liked riding with Miss McDougal, though." Molly giggled, her emerald eyes dancing as she met Sean's gaze for the first time since they had met on the landing. "She wasn't very nice," Molly interjected softly, still smiling. "And she smelled funny. But don't tell her." Sean smiled back, winking to reassure her that her secret was safe with him. He turned to look at the clock on the wall behind him and gaped at the brass hands in alarm. His sleepiness fled. "Oh, no! How could this happen!" Leaping up and grasping Molly's slim arm, Sean yanked her off the bed and into the hall. He bounded down the stairs with her in tow. They scooted to a halt at the bottom of the stairs before a stout, irritated woman in a dark, calico dress who blocked the open dining room door with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face. "And just where do you think you're going?" she snapped, a few strands of brown hair escaping a tightly pulled bun on top of her head. The dangling strands framed her impatient blue eyes. "Ma'am," Sean said, feeling awkward about arguing with his elders, but determined to get his cousin some food, "we're going to dinner." "Not with the others, you're not," the woman replied. "And that's 'Mrs. Sheppard' to you, young man. All latecomers eat in the kitchen. That's my rule! So, off with you. Kitchen's around back. I'm sure there's plenty left." Sean nodded, a hot flush rising in his cheeks as he felt the eyes of the diners fixed on him and Molly with curious merriment. As he began tugging Molly in the direction of the kitchen, Mrs. Sheppard nodded absently, her eyes flickering briefly over Molly, then popped open in wide-eyed alarm. "Merciful Heavens! Why, she's skin and bones! Never mind the rules, come in here, dear. Sit down by me. We've got to fatten you up!" Mrs. Sheppard's expression softened as she took Molly gently by the hand and led her into the room. Sean had no choice but to follow. Sean froze as they rounded a rather important-looking, jovial fellow who had been craning his neck to see them through the doorway. Sitting next to the man were two faces Sean recognized from the Monument site: Gerald Holm and Thomas Maxwell, members of the Monument Society. Maxwell had given Sean the letter for Mr. Holm. Maxwell's eyes coldly narrowed on Sean. Maxwell was aristocratically handsome, with dark hair and high cheekbones. But the hatred lurking behind his blue eyes chilled all those caught in their intense focus. The man definitely gave him the creeps. "If it's all the same to you, Mrs. Sheppard," Sean said, "we'll just eat in the kitchen." Mrs. Sheppard ignored Sean and sat Molly down beside her own chair, fussing over how thin she was. Sean could do nothing but slip in quietly beside his cousin. The now-motherly landlady began heaping food on Molly's plate and the little girl dug in with zeal. Once she seemed satisfied that Molly would not starve, Mrs. Sheppard made the introductions, indicating Gerald Holm and Thomas Maxwell, whom Sean already knew, to his right. To his left sat Toby Sikes, a tall, wiry black man wearing a long-sleeved shirt and corduroy vest. Next to Toby, Sam MacDonald, an intense-looking man in a three-piece suit. He had blazing blue eyes, sandy hair and a neatly trimmed moustache. Toby and Sam were engaged in a low, animated discussion, apparently enjoying each other's company immensely. From what Sean could pick out of their dialogue, Sam had arrived earlier that day. Sean's eyebrows rose sharply as he studied the sandy-haired man and his black friend. Very seldom did blacks eat at the table with whites, even in Washington. Most of the time they were forced to eat in the kitchen - out of sight and, presumably, out of mind. Sean's appreciation of Mrs. Sheppard shot up a notch. She had to be a woman of exceptionally strong character to condone such a blurring of class and color lines. As conversation resumed a low hum around the beautifully tooled mahogany table, Sean began to relax. He reached for his fork, his hand freezing inches from the handle when Gerald Holm spoke. "I know you. You're Gregory Richards' apprentice. The impatient fellow who gave me that note this morning. I seem to have misplaced it. You haven't seen it, by any chance?" "Yes," Sean said, instantly on his guard, "er, I mean yes, I am. And no, sir, I'm sorry, I haven't seen it." Maxwell snorted, bringing his napkin to his lips as though he had swallowed something foul. "A Catholic apprentice?" he coughed, disbelieving. "Well, that's certainly unprecedented!" "Richards has always been a rather unconventional man," Holm put in quickly. "Indeed," Maxwell agreed, his disgust plain in his eyes as he sized Sean up, his expression hidden from the others at the table by the napkin in front of his face. "I think that Sean must be a very good apprentice, and that Mr. Richards must be a man of great integrity," Sam MacDonald interjected with such compelling gravity that Sean tore his angry gaze from Maxwell. "Mr. Richards is the finest man I've ever met," Sean agreed, instantly liking the sandy-haired man at the foot of the table. Maxwell did not seem to share Sean's sentiment. "Filthy, Irish-loving lunatic, more like. . ." he muttered to Mr. Holm, just soft enough to escape Mrs. Sheppard's ears. Sean's ears burned. He opened his mouth to defend his mentor, but a soft tug on his sleeve stopped him. "Sean, what does he mean?" Molly whispered, looking confused. "What's a lunati-" Mrs. Sheppard rose to her feet. "Molly, come with me, please," she said, her tone allowing no argument. She took Molly by the arm and led her out of the room, glaring angrily at Holms and Maxwell. Sean looked down and shielded his grin. Mrs. Sheppard had heard them after all! A long silence prevailed after they left. Sam MacDonald and Thomas Maxwell stared each other down from opposite ends of the table. Toby Sikes tried to break the ice. "That Molly seems really sweet. Will we meet your parents?" "Her parents died in Ireland," Sean replied, a touch of sadness in his voice. "And I'm her second cousin. Now I'm all she's got." "Two fewer vermin on our shores, at least," Maxwell muttered to Holm. The two chuckled nastily, Maxwell's mustache twitching and Holm's double chin jiggling as they relished the cutting statement. Sean's pale cheeks went crimson with outrage. But he was only half out of his chair by the time Sam MacDonald rose to his feet. "Sir, you show great disrespect to the dead," he said, his voice steady but reproving. "And worse, a lack of common decency." Only then did Sean notice the deep pain that lined Sam's face and crowded around his eyes. The rebuke seemed to have sprung from somewhere deep within his soul -- somewhere as deep as the place where Sean's own anger sprouted. Holm swallowed and looked ashamed. Maxwell merely raised an eyebrow, then stood and bowed in cold and half-hearted apology. "I'm sorry. I suppose the remark was uncalled for. Come, Holm, I believe we should go. We seem to have offended one of Mrs. Sheppard's guests." He pushed in his chair and turned away from the table, leaving the room with Holm in hasty pursuit. Sam sank wordlessly back into his seat. "I'm sorry," Sean said, starting to get up, "this is my fault. I should have just taken Molly to the kitchen." "It's not your fault," Sam said with quiet gravity while pausing to shake his head. "It's theirs. They are blinded by differences, too blind to remember God's command to love one another. There's no human help for it. Only God can change them." A look of deep suffering flickered across Sam's face, and Sean decided to take his leave. Mrs. Sheppard blustered into the room in a huff, her hands imperiously settled on her hips, "Sean, you need to get that girl to bed! She's going to have a long, hard day tomorrow working for me. Or were you just planning to take her to the Monument site to be among those rowdy Catholic haters?" Sean's mouth fell open. He could hardly believe his ears. He had never once thought about tomorrow! "Well. . .yes, of course," he mumbled, searching for words. Mrs. Sheppard, the very picture of a wise schoolteacher, inclined her head in the direction of the stairs and smiled. "You can thank me tomorrow." "Yes, Ma'am - I mean, Mrs. Sheppard!" Sean blurted, his cheeks flushing a deep red. "Thank you!" He stepped into the wide foyer to find Molly sitting on the landing below the stairs, rubbing her eyes. Her hair had been brushed and her face washed. Just beyond her right shoulder, Sean could see the parlor. The door was cracked open, and a thin slice of yellow lamplight fell upon the polished wooden floor. "Sean," Molly said, her hand dropping, "can we go play now?" Play? Sean thought, looking dubiously at her drooping lids. Mrs. Sheppard, craning her neck out the dining room door, folded her arms over her chest and shook her head, indicating the correct response. "No," Sean said quickly, "you have to go to bed now. It's late. We both need to get some sleep for tomorrow." Sean tugged her gently to her feet, noticing Mrs. Sheppard's approving nod just before she returned to the table to attend to her other guests. Molly pouted a little, but obligingly started up the stairs to her room. Sean started to follow when the sound of voices filtering out from behind the parlor door stopped him. "Tonight, then. . ." Thomas Maxwell's muffled voice announced firmly. Sean could not hear the response, but he recognized the low, uncertain voice that answered as Gerald Holm's. Something about it didn't seem right. His teeth on edge, Sean hurried Molly upstairs, settled her in the room, and promised to be right back. Slowly, Sean crept back down the stairs and toward the parlor door. Staying low, he peered through the opening at the severe, aristocratic lines of Maxwell's suit. Holm, in front of him, was pulling on his greatcoat, hat in hand, obviously preparing to leave. As he shoved his arm into the left sleeve, a loud crinkling noise made his eyes widen in surprise. He withdrew his hand with a rumpled, folded sheet of paper gripped in his fingers. Sean assumed the creased paper was the misplaced letter, as a look of relief flitted over Holm's face before he placed it back in the inner pocket of his coat, unopened. "Tonight's the night," he agreed, bobbing his head, his hat trembling with the motion. "We'll throw that popish idol into the Potomac!" Sean's fingers tightened on the doorframe, his lips parting in alarm. Idol? What idol? Could he mean the Pope's stone? Maxwell nodded, glancing at the open door. Sean backed quickly away, suddenly fearful he might be seen. As he did, his heel clipped a small, spindly-legged, ornamental table. Sean gasped, watching the vase on top teeter, then slip off and shatter on the floor with a resounding crash! He raced up the stairs just as the parlor door swung wide. "Who's there?" Maxwell called. His voice echoed, chasing Sean into the room where Molly sat upright in her bed with a worried look on her face. Sean shut the door quietly and leaned back against it, panting. Molly climbed off the bed and trotted over, her patched and worn nightgown trailing behind her, her small fist clutching the ancient fabric. "It's time for bed now, right, Sean?" she asked, looking up at him uncertainly. Sean nodded, taking a moment to focus. His eyes roved blankly over the nightgown, Molly's freckled cheeks, her hair, her trusting eyes. "Yes, yes it is," he said, forcing the scene from downstairs out of his mind and pasting a weak smile on his face. |