Boston Metaphysical Society Page 14

  Erin growled and looked away from Andrew as she dumped the vegetables into a pot of boiling water on the wood burning stove. Like most of the furniture, it was of good quality but well used. “Bah! Don’t be wasting me time, girl. Sit and eat.”

  Caitlin thought she glimpsed a flash of sadness across her father’s face but then as he turned toward her his face brightened. “Sweet Pea,” he said as he pulled out the bench for his daughter as he always did for dinner. “May I do the honors?”

  Caitlin grinned as she gave him a brief curtsy, then swept her skirts underneath her with one hand before sitting down. Then in her best Beacon Hill imitation, she said, “Why thank you, sir. You are quite the gentleman.”

  Her father gave her a bow before he walked over to the other side of the table and sank down onto the other bench.

  Erin slammed a large wooden spoon on the edge of the stove. The sound made Andrew and Erin jump.

  “Why do you go on putting on these airs and fillin’ this girl’s head with nonsense?” She pointed the spoon at her husband. “She’ll never amount to nothin’ and you know it.”

  Andrew’s face darkened in rage. His whole body shook. “Erin…,” he hissed.

  The brief truce between the two vanished in an instant.

  “You think becomin’ a teacher is goin’ make people forget she’s Irish? That some Middle District man is goin’ to make her his wife?” Erin waved the spoon around as if it were a magic wand. “Dress her in riches and silk? She’ll either marry an Irishman and be plagued with children or die a spinster.”

  Caitlin watched as her father’s hands clenched into fists until his knuckles went white. His voice shook the small room without him even standing up.

  “Woman, do not ever speak of my daughter that way again.”

  Erin opened her mouth to retort, but the expression on his face frightened her enough to back off. She turned to the stove and stirred the stew. “The girl still has work to do. I found her a position with Jeanette cleaning a Middle District house over on Devonshire. The family’s name be Kage.”

  “But what about school?” Caitlin asked. “I can’t stop now.”

  Andrew looked as though he would launch into a tirade, but Erin stopped him.

  “Now before you get yourself into a tizzy, it be after your schoolin’.” Erin looked Andrew straight in the eye. “No shame in workin’ a few hours a day like her ma has done all her life.”

  Caitlin watched as her father sat in silence for a full minute before he nodded. “Aye. No harm in that.”

  Erin gave him an almost imperceptible nod of agreement.

  “But da, that be the only time I have to myself and to take care of your… workshop.” Caitlin gestured to the space Andrew used as his darkroom.

  Andrew frowned at her, knowing full well she was referring to Duncan, a ghost who had inhabited this building for longer than they had lived there. Caitlin often used the excuse to clean his workshop just so she could spend time with him. Andrew did not mind, but he often told her that dealing with the dead at so young an age was not good. “Mind your ma. She be right in this matter.”

  A disappointed Caitlin sank into her chair. “Aye. When do I start?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  JEANETTE AND CAITLIN CARRIED STRAW baskets filled with cleaning rags as they stood on the sidewalk and stared up at the four-story brick house with flower boxes hanging from the first-floor windows. Lavender and peach colored pansies pushed their way through a tangle of small-leafed ivy that hung over the sides of the wooden boxes. In fact, each of the neighboring homes had window boxes, though they each contained different kinds of flowers. It gave the neighborhood a sense of springtime in the countryside. The large oak front door was framed in brass vine leaves around its edges. Behind them a mix of horse-drawn carriages and steam-powered buggies chugged by. Paved with smooth stone, the street was unlike the dirt roads on the South Side where most everything was covered in ash and soot.

  When a Middle District woman and her young daughter strolled by each carrying a dark gray parasol to shade their fair faces, both girls couldn’t help but gape at them. Their clothes were nothing like what people wore on the South Side.

  The woman wore a cashmere-and-wool skirt and short jacket the color of roasted coffee with a silk blouse that reminded Caitlin of black Irish tea doused with milk. The girl’s attire matched her mother’s in all but color; her skirt and jacket were light rose, and her blouse the color of cotton candy. What set them apart as upper-class Middle District was the copper-wire trim around their hems and cuffs. They even had tiny copper wire appliques woven through their lapels.

  Caitlin had never seen such dresses up close but had read about them. Jeanette left her mouth open so long, drool leaked out of the side.

  “Do those be Beacon Hill folk?” Jeanette could not tear her eyes away.

  Caitlin shook her head. “They just be rich Middle District. I heard the Great Houses dress even finer.”

  “They be so beautiful. How much do you think a dress like that cost?”

  “Way more than we’ll ever make in our lives. Even then the likes of us could never wear such things, and you know it.” Caitlin poked her in the arm. “Come on. They be waitin’ for us by the servants’ entrance.”

  The girls hustled toward a side alleyway. Four oak trash barrels each three and a half feet tall sat at the back entrance of every house, their lids held shut by large clamps to keep vagrants and varmints out. Messenger boys on bicycles rode past while delivery carts and steam-powered trucks parked and unloaded food and other sundries.

  The servants’ entrance to the house swung open right before they reached it. A boy, around six years old, ran out laughing. He wore brown fine woolen knickers edged in copper filament and a white cotton shirt covered in swatches of blue and red paint. A woman in her thirties flew out the door after him, exasperation written on her face. Her dress was one step above a maid’s, so Caitlin assumed she was the boy’s nanny.

  “Matthew Q. Kage! That is no way for a proper gentleman to act!” she yelled after him.

  The boy turned and plastered his paint covered hands right in the middle of the woman’s skirt. He shrieked in delight as he smeared the paint over the pristine dark blue wool.

  Caitlin and Jeanette huddled together trying not to laugh, but it was hopeless and they fell into a fit of giggling.

  Clearly furious at what he had done, the nanny appeared to want to take it out on him but held herself back. When she overheard the girls laughing, she focused her ire on safer targets.

  “How dare you laugh at me? I’ll have you beaten for such disrespect.” Her eyes narrowed as she picked up her skirts and marched toward them.

  Caitlin realized they might be in trouble and backed away.

  “Miss Simpson. Don’t you think you should be taking the young master back inside?” a matronly voice boomed from the open alley way door. “If he gets a chill, then no one will be getting any sleep tonight.”

  Miss Simpson stopped in her tracks and turned around to face a stout woman with her arms crossed over her ample chest. “Yes, Mrs. Trask, I’ll see to it right away.” The nanny marched back to the boy and took his hand to lead him back inside. Before they disappeared, he turned and waved at Caitlin.

  All of a sudden, Caitlin had a queer feeling inside her head and couldn’t speak. It was something she’d felt once or twice before, but couldn’t remember when or why. Jeanette nudged her, snapping her out of her revere just as Mrs. Trask loomed over them.

  A bit shorter than Miss Simpson yet broader in the shoulders, Caitlin noticed every strand of the older woman’s charcoal hair stretched back into a bun. She wore a severe black dress which buttoned from her collar to her hem. It bore little resemblance to the stylish women the girls had just seen. The woman examined them like they were two chickens waiting to be plucked.

  “Which one of you is Mrs. O’Sullivan’s daughter?” she asked.

  Caitlin raised her hand.

/>   “I knew your mother. A hard worker. I expect you to be the same.”

  “Aye, ma’am,” Caitlin squeaked out.

  “You will address me as Mrs. Trask. I am the head house keeper. The Kages are not part of a Great House, but they are a fine family and you will treat them and the rest of the staff with the respect they deserve.”

  Both girls nodded.

  “Come along.” Mrs. Trask gestured for them to follow her. “Most of the staff does not live in, but they each have their assigned duties. You two will do light cleaning on the lower floors in the afternoons and help elsewhere whenever it is required.”

  “Aye, Mrs. Trask,” the girls said in unison.

  As they followed her, Caitlin couldn’t help but ask, “What about the young master?”

  Mrs. Trask stopped in her tracks and glared at Caitlin. “Whatever do you mean?” Her voice was low and threatening.

  “Will we be looking after him as well?” Caitlin stammered, not understanding how she had provoked such a reaction.

  “No,” Mrs. Trask replied, her face softening. “Miss Simpson and one of the maids look after him.”

  She turned on her heel and marched back to the house without any concern as to whether the girls were following or not.

  As they hurried to catch up, Jeanette tugged on Caitlin’s elbow. “What you be asking those questions for?”

  “There be something about him,” Caitlin mused. “Something familiar. Though I cannot quite remember what.”

  IT TOOK THE GIRLS A good week before they settled into the routine of working at the Kages. Mrs. Trask had assumed they had worked in a Middle District house before, but Jeanette was so afraid to touch anything, Caitlin thought they would both be sacked. Each room displayed artwork and fine china from parts of the world neither girl had even imagined existed. The ladies’ parlor had a wall pattern of delicate roses and lilies, while the furniture looked so fine, they wondered if anyone ever sat in it. Though the maids claimed the throw rugs came from Australian sheep, Caitlin knew Irish wool when she felt it. She and Jeanette were responsible for dusting, cleaning the fireplace, airing out rugs, and general tiding up. They always started with the parlor, then worked over to the sitting room and finished in the library.

  Both girls felt more comfortable working in the library as it contained few breakable objects. The library appeared to be the gentleman’s room with its framed maps on the wall, shelves full of books and large leather chairs fit for a king. They always took their time in the library, and when they thought no one was around, they hopped into one of the big chairs and pretend they were ladies from another time and place. The best part was that the room smelled of copper polish and wood lacquer with just a hint of stuffiness.

  While dusting the bookshelves one day, a small voice piped up. “I can read to you while you clean, if you like.”

  Much to the girls’ surprise, young master Matthew peeked around a large rosewood arm chair upholstered in sienna leather.

  “You better find Miss Simpson before you get us into trouble.” Jeanette tried to shoo him away, but the boy refused to move.

  “He can stay, Jeanette. It be his house.” Caitlin turned to the boy. Her voice took on a sterner tone. “But he has to read quietly and with no yelling or jumping about.”

  “Gah!” Jeanette dusted the mantle with even more vigor. “It be on you.”

  The boy pulled a book out from underneath the chair and handed it to Caitlin. “It’s my favorite.”

  Caitlin stared at the cover and almost dropped it for fear of being burned by hell fire on earth. The book was none other than Samuel Clemens’s The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. She knelt down and handed it back to the boy.

  “Who gave this to you?” she asked, fearing dismissal or arrest at any moment. She had overheard her da say the writer had fled the country when one of the Great Houses claimed his books insulted them and wanted him hanged.

  “It was hidden away. Regina showed me where it was. She reads to me before I go to sleep,” Matthew said without a hint of guilt or remorse.

  “Is that the maid who takes care of you?”

  The boy giggled. “No, silly. That’s Sally. She can’t talk or read.”

  Caitlin looked at Jeanette not knowing how to respond.

  Jeanette shrugged. “These Middle District folk have odd ways.”

  “Aye, that they do.” Caitlin nodded, then turned her attention back to the boy. “Well, you have to promise to put it away if you hear anyone coming.”

  Matthew nodded as he opened the book. “I promise.”

  CAITLIN RETURNED HOME THAT NIGHT to find her father out and her mother fast asleep in the small bedroom she shared with him. A pot of stew simmered on the stove, and fresh bread sat on top of the oven. Caitlin leaned in to take in the aroma. Everything smelled heavenly. Her mother may not be the kindest of people, but her bread was the envy of their neighbors.

  She tiptoed toward the darkroom and opened the door in such a way as to make sure it did not squeak. As she entered, Caitlin glanced back to see her mother turn over, still fast asleep. She closed the door behind her without making a sound except for the soft click of the door latch.

  Caitlin’s favorite place in the whole world was her father’s darkroom. With its chemical smells and soft lighting, it felt comfortable. Shelves lining one wall held small glass vials of the chemicals he used for developing his photographs. On the far wall were two shelves that held six different cameras, three on each shelf. A few were in pristine condition while others showed cracks and missing pieces. When he had time, Andrew instructed her on the mechanics of each camera as well as how to develop photographs. She fingered his latest pictures, which he’d hung on a string to dry. The paper ones were something he was experimenting with, but Caitlin did not care for them. She always preferred the daguerreotype. The detail and the silvery image made the subjects appear magical, but the real work went into the glass plates.

  Glass was the medium on which Andrew O’Sullivan could capture the images of ghosts for a small bit of time. Caitlin looked over at the various stacks he had covered with a plain cotton cloth and wondered how her father did what he did. What was it like? Were all ghosts like the ones she and Jeanette had met or did he face ghosts that attempted to harm him or other people? Or was there something else out there he battled that he never spoke of? She suspected it was the latter since her father had grown more secretive since working for this Mr. Hunter. A soft breeze wrapped its way around the top of her head to tickle her cheek. Caitlin grinned and remembered why she had come in here in the first place—Duncan.

  Caitlin had first discovered Duncan when she was almost two years old. As a small child, she had thought he was her father’s semi invisible friend, but it wasn’t until she was a few years older that she realized Duncan was a ghost. Her father had tried to hide his disappointment when he discovered she could talk to Duncan, but Caitlin knew better. He said he’d hoped she did not possess his gift since it would make leading a normal life difficult. Andrew had warned her never to tell her mother about Duncan. Caitlin understood that if her mother found out she had her father’s gift it might be more than their fragile relationship could bear.

  Duncan never strayed beyond the confines of their apartment or so they believed. Both Caitlin and her father felt something terrible had happened here that permanently bound his spirit to this place. Caitlin wanted to ask Duncan who he was and why he was there, but she feared if she questioned him, he might disappear into the aether, or worse, never speak to her again. Though the term speaking was not accurate, Duncan had the ability to communicate by leaving messages in the dust and being able to move objects around. He appeared semi translucent, but his image was solid enough to be able to discern that he was a young man of no more than twenty years of age. Other than Jeanette, Duncan was her only real friend.

  “Ah, Duncan,” Caitlin spoke to the air. “I know you be there.”

  Dust swirled in the air, and the opaque form of
a young man appeared within it. His translucent fingers moved across his face as if to encourage her to smile.

  Caitlin plopped down on a stool in a huff. She faced the rows of chemical-filled glass jars up on the shelves.

  “I miss my da, Duncan. He’s always gone now with this Samuel Hunter, but there never be time for me anymore.” Caitlin sighed. “I know it don’t be fair as he’s bringing in a good wage, but all the same… I don’t be supposing you could tell me what he’s doing with that man.”

  The dust settled and the words, Good things. Hard things appeared on the floor.

  “Is he in danger?” Caitlin became worried.

  The air moved again and Duncan vanished. Caitlin sighed, knowing full well what that meant. Her mother was up.

  “Caitlin! Get out here!” Erin yelled. “I can hear ye talking to yourself again.”

  Caitlin sighed. “Yes, ma.”

  She opened the door to see Erin scooping out stew from the pot into a wooden bowl. The fresh bread was on the table.

  “Eat.” Her mother plopped the bowl on to the table as Caitlin sat on the wooden bench. That table must have been as old as she was, but her mother refused to get a new one even though they could afford it. Caitlin just didn’t understand her sometimes.

  Erin gave her a good long stare. “You don’t be tellin’ anyone about talkin’ to yourself, do ye?”

  Caitlin shook her head as she picked up the wooden spoon her mother had laid out for her. “No, ma. No one. Not even Jeanette.”

  “That be good.” Erin gave her a curt nod. “No sense the world knowin’ you’ve lost your senses… or worse.” She went back to stirring the stew with more vigor than was necessary.

  “Ma? What do you mean, worse?” Caitlin asked, not knowing if she wanted to know the answer or not.