The Shadows Read online

I slipped down the stairs. The back door was locked against the thieves and the homeless that filled the city. I turned the key and stepped out into the small backyard. The night air was soft and cool; I closed my eyes and lifted my face to it, and then I stepped to where I could see the moonrise over the roof.

  The moon was huge tonight, blue white in a deep-blue sky. I stared up at the shadows of its face, and my yearning rose until I thought I might burst. In that moment, I felt part of every legend and romantic tale I’d ever heard. Like Tennyson’s Lady of Shalott in her tower, imprisoned by a curse, unable to look upon the world except through a mirror. I whispered, “ ‘I am half-sick of shadows, said the Lady of Shalott.’”

  The air seemed to pulse around me with music only I could hear. I wanted to dance in it. I wanted . . . what? I didn’t know. I didn’t know what I wanted or who I was, just that I was meant for something more.

  Wasn’t I?

  I looked back at the moon, begging her, as I always did, for answers. Tell me your secrets. Tell me what I am.

  But she was as silent as ever.

  TWO

  Grace

  I dressed slowly for Mrs. Devlin’s supper. The dove gray looked well on me, I knew, with its lace-edged sleeves and polonaise. I couldn’t put up my hair until my debut, but I had become rather good at fixing it without a maid, and I arranged it as best I could to disguise my lack of jewelry, which had all been sold. Still, I thought the style too plain; I would not stand out in the least from the other girls there, who would have jewelry and ribbons. I’d look a poor church mouse beside them. But I had gloves, at least, and if I turned my hand just so, you couldn’t see the grease stain that marred the palm.

  Aidan waited for me in the parlor. Mama would not be going; Grandmother was too ill to be left alone. “You must serve as her chaperone,” Mama was telling him as I came in. “Don’t lose yourself in drink and forget.”

  Aidan wasn’t drunk now, but there was a look in his eyes that I recognized: pinprick pupils. He’d been into Grandma’s laudanum, no doubt. But his walk seemed steady as he led me down the railed stoop and past the wild-looking shrubs—no gardener now either—that lined the cast-iron fence of our redbrick row house.

  There was no carriage, of course, and so we walked the few blocks to Madison Square. The day was warm; I had to ask Aidan to slow down so that I didn’t arrive sweating and bedraggled.

  “It will be good to see Patrick again,” Aidan said. “Though now that he’s one of the Brotherhood, I expect there’ll be no living with him.”

  “The Brotherhood?”

  “The Fenians,” Aidan said, as if I were the most stupid girl in New York City. “You’ve heard of them, haven’t you?”

  I had—there wasn’t an Irishman in the city who hadn’t. The Fenian Brotherhood had formed to help Ireland win its independence from Britain. It had been one of my father’s favorite topics of conversation. But I hadn’t been interested then and was less so now. I’d been born here in New York City; the problems of Ireland seemed very far away, and nothing to do with me.

  “Yes, I’ve heard of them,” I told my brother haughtily. “Is that what Patrick was doing in Ireland these last years?”

  “The Devlins have business interests there. But I’m certain Patrick was trying to raise funds for a rebellion as well.”

  The thought irritated me. It meant the conversation at supper would be mostly politics. But perhaps we’d be lucky and the men would save such talk for after supper.

  I glanced at the street, at the passing carriages, the horses raising clouds of dust that settled between the cobblestones, and I wished I were in one of those carriages, going anywhere.

  But then we were at the Devlins’. Aidan took me up the steps that led to the white marble-fronted brownstone. Much finer than our house. I felt a little stab of envy that Devlin Hatters had stayed so successful when our own fortunes had fallen so far.

  A butler welcomed us into the beeswax-and-rose-scented foyer. Old Irish-made tapestries hung the length of the hall. Statuettes of horses and serpents—all ancient and Celtic—held places of honor on highly polished sideboards and tables. Patrick’s late father had been a collector of all things Irish. It was small wonder that his son was involved in the Fenian Brotherhood.

  Our footsteps were muffled by a rose-patterned carpet as the butler led us to the parlor. People were there already; some I recognized: The Lederers and their son, Timothy. Mrs. Devlin and Lucy, who was two years my senior, and blond and pretty. She’d had her debut last year and tonight wore a gown that I thought daringly low-cut, with fabric roses on the neckline that fluttered with her every breath. She was flirting rather obviously with Timothy, who looked pleased and flushed—well, no chance for me there, not competing with Lucy. Beyond them were the MacDoyles, with their son Michael in tow—pimply faced and my age but looking barely grown into his own skin. Maisie O’Doul, one of Lucy’s friends, who had no sense of humor and a distracting habit of blinking constantly, stood near two young men I didn’t know, one of whom was handsome, with light-brown hair just this side of blond. And then—

  Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald, and their daughter, my best friend, Rose. She waved from across the room, and suddenly I was glad to be here. I hadn’t seen her in weeks; she and her parents had been in Boston, and I’d missed her so much. She’d sent me a note a few days ago saying they’d returned, but I hadn’t expected her here.

  I would have rushed to her right then, but Aidan and I had to greet Mrs. Devlin, who gave me a hug scented—again—with roses and whispered in my ear, “Patrick’s been waiting to see you both. He was so happy to hear you were coming.”

  I managed not to make a face and said, “Mama regrets not being here, but with Grandma being so ill—”

  “I quite understand,” Mrs. Devlin said. “You two enjoy yourselves.”

  I left Aidan to himself and hurried over to Rose.

  “It seems forever since I’ve seen you!” Rose said, hugging me.

  “It has been forever,” I said. “Tell me you’re staying in the city for a time, please.”

  “At least through the summer, Papa says.” Rose tucked a loose strand of her red hair behind her ear and led me away from the others, into a corner near a vase full of peacock feathers. “I’d forgotten how much Mrs. Devlin loves roses. I feel quite at home. How perfect I’d be for Patrick! Then there would be a Rose in his bedroom too.”

  I couldn’t help laughing at how scandalous she was. “You know, he might be tired of roses.”

  She laughed with me. “Oh, I suppose so. You must tell me what’s been happening. What have I missed? Tell me everything!”

  Now I did make a face. “I’m to have my debut this year. In October.”

  “October!” Rose clutched my fingers. “Oh, I can’t believe it. I vow I’ll be an old spinster before Mama allows mine. She thinks I should wait until I’m nineteen.”

  “I wish I could wait so long.”

  “You do not! Balls and suppers and walks in gardens and all the boys asking you to dance . . . Oh, it’s so romantic.”

  “It’s not romantic, Rose,” I said miserably. “Not the way I must do it. I’m to find a husband this year if I can. We’ll lose the house otherwise.”

  Rose’s brown eyes warmed with sympathy. “Perhaps it won’t be so bad as you think. A rich husband could take you wherever you wanted to go. Think of that. Why, you’d take your honeymoon on the Continent, of course. France and Italy and perhaps even Spain!”

  She made it all seem so bearable. I had to smile. “I have missed you, Rose.”

  “You need someone to rouse you from your books and your boring old poets.” Rose’s glance flashed past me. “So what do you think of Patrick Devlin now? Three years in Ireland changed him for the better, don’t you think?”

  “I haven’t seen Patrick yet. Aidan and I only just arrived.”

  “You saw him when you came in. He’s never left this room.”

  I shook my head. “No,
I—”

  “I told you he’s changed.” Rose’s voice lowered to a whisper. “Why, he’s right over there with his friend Mr. Olwen, who came with him from Ireland.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. I knew everyone in this room but the two young men in the corner, and just then the handsome one turned, and I nearly gaped like a fish when I realized it was Patrick Devlin.

  And oh, Rose was right. How he had changed.

  The last time I’d seen him had been a few months before he’d left for Ireland. I’d just turned fourteen, and he’d been eighteen, and all skinny angles, coltish and gawky.

  And now . . . now his broad shoulders filled out his brown coat; the face that had been all angles had become truly gorgeous. His gray-green eyes were as heavily lashed as a girl’s.

  He caught my glance and smiled; it was mischievous, a smile I remembered, and I realized that he’d caught me staring. I looked quickly away, and Rose laughed. “I see you like the look of him now.”

  “Don’t,” I whispered, blushing madly. “Oh dear God, tell me he’s looked away.”

  “No. In fact, he’s coming over.”

  “Don’t tease. No, he’s not. Not—”

  “Why, hello, Mr. Devlin,” Rose said.

  And there he was. Standing beside me.

  “This can’t be little Rose Fitzgerald I’m seeing,” Patrick Devlin teased with an exaggerated Irish accent.

  “The very same,” Rose said with a light curtsy. “And I’m certain you remember Grace Knox.”

  “Miss Knox.” He dropped the accent and smiled at me.

  That smile left me breathless. It was all I could do to extend my hand and say, “How nice to see you again, Mr. Devlin.”

  His fingers brushed mine and then held my hand too long for politeness. “The last time I saw you, you were still in short skirts.”

  “Yes, it’s been some time.”

  “You’ve aged very . . . well.”

  “Thank you.” And then I felt like an idiot for saying it, for not coming up with some clever remark in return. But I hadn’t Lucy’s charm nor Rose’s talent for flirtation. Patrick Devlin’s smile overwhelmed me; I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  His smile broadened as if he knew it. “Your brother tells me you’ll be debuting this year.”

  “Yes. October.”

  “You’ll invite me, I hope.”

  My throat tightened so I could hardly speak. “If you wish.”

  He laughed. “Don’t you wish to have me there?”

  My face must be the color of a lobster. “Yes, of course.”

  “Why, she’d be a fool not to, wouldn’t she?” Rose’s eyes twinkled. “Just returned home and already you’re the catch of the season, Mr. Devlin.”

  He flirted right back, completely at ease. “Am I that elevated so soon?”

  “I think you must know it.” Rose tapped his arm with her finger. “But I suppose you managed to find a sweetheart while you were away.”

  She was so bold.

  Patrick said, “Ah, unfortunately I’m afraid love has quite eluded me. But I have hopes that will change.” And then, astonishingly, impossibly, his gaze came to me. “I believe we’re seated next to each other at dinner, Miss Knox. Might I have the honor of escorting you to the table when the time comes?”

  Had Rose not nudged me—hard and not very subtly—I think I might have stared at him in shock for minutes. As it was, it seemed a horribly long time before I managed, stupidly again, “But Aidan—”

  “We’ll have him tend to Lucy.”

  I nodded. Stupid, stupid girl.

  “Then I’ll leave you for now. My mother insists I speak with everyone.” He gave a slight bow and then he went off.

  The moment he was gone, Rose turned on me. “Have you lost your wits, Grace? You might as well have been a statue.”

  “He surprised me.”

  “He’s interested in you.”

  “He’s just being polite.”

  “Oh no.” Rose shook her head. “That was not politeness.”

  “Then kindness,” I said. “He knows of our misfortunes as well as anyone.”

  “Perhaps, but I’d wager it’s more than that.”

  “You’d see true love in a hello.”

  “You’re worse than me when it comes to that, and you know it. Why couldn’t it be true love?”

  “Because it’s my life. Do you see any fat old men in this room? Because that’s my future.”

  Rose only laughed.

  I was as nervous as a bird, waiting for the call to supper. By then I’d talked about what a lovely spring we’d had with Mrs. Lederer and Timothy, spoken with Mrs. MacDoyle of my mother’s sainthood in taking care of my ailing grandmother, and suffered Lucy’s prattling about her newest love—one of many, and the grandson of an Astor and no more within her reach than the moon. No matter how successful the Devlins were, it wasn’t going to buy her the interest of an Astor, who were old Knickerbocker money. There was no chance they’d accept the daughter of Irish immigrants, and one in trade, no less. But it was better than Lucy’s last love, who had been a gardener, and just as inappropriate.

  When the call came, Lucy tapped my arm with her folded fan and whispered, “You’ve caught my brother’s eye, Grace. How well you’ve played it, with no jewelry and such simple dress. Why, you stand out from the rest of us like a Quaker.”

  I didn’t know whether it was an insult or a compliment, which was always how it was with Lucy, but before I had the chance to say anything, Aidan came to take her to supper. He had a glass of sherry in his hand, and I eyed it and said, “How nice to see you’re enjoying yourself.”

  He raised the glass in a mock toast. “I am indeed.”

  Lucy gave him a disparaging look. “Are you drunk, Aidan? So early?”

  “It will only make me more entertaining, my sweet.”

  “I should have asked Patrick to pair you with Maisie,” I said, and then started when I heard the laugh behind me. It was Patrick.

  “Still bent on tormenting your poor brother, I see,” Patrick said.

  “Always and forever,” Aidan replied.

  “What horrible thing has he done to deserve Maisie?”

  Everything, I thought, but I couldn’t say that to Patrick. While he’d been in Ireland making something of himself, my brother had been staggering about in the company of a bottle of whiskey. Not only was I not proud of him, I didn’t want the world to know, which only made me more irritated with Aidan for making it so obvious.

  Lucy said to my brother, “Don’t trip over my gown, you lout, or I’ll never forgive you.”

  Aidan offered his arm, and Patrick turned to me. “Shall we?”

  My nervousness returned. As he led me into the dining room, I had this fleeting wish that he’d been wrong about the seating arrangements at the same time that I knew I would be disappointed if he had. How I was to keep the attention of someone like Patrick Devlin throughout dinner, I wasn’t sure. My tongue already felt tied into knots.

  He wasn’t wrong: our name cards were next to each other. He pulled out my chair and when I sat, leaned close to say, “I asked my mother to do it.”

  I looked at him and blurted, “Why?”

  “Because you’ve always been easy to talk to.”

  “You mean easy to tease.”

  He laughed. “Aidan and I were obnoxious. But I hope I’ve changed.”

  The way his gaze flickered over my face made me nervous all over again.

  “Three years is a long time to be away,” he went on. “Things are very different.”

  I scrambled to come up with something to say that didn’t make me seem a complete idiot. “Yes, I imagine. Have you seen how far they’ve got building the bridge to Brooklyn? It’s very impressive.”

  “Impressive indeed,” he agreed. “I wish I could say the same about the ‘For Let’ signs in every window and the tramps on every corner.”

  “The city’s changed.”

 
“And so have you.” His eyes lit up. “When I left, you were only just becoming a beauty.”

  I fumbled with the napkin stuffed into its ring—a silver band with an enameled shamrock probably made especially for Patrick’s return. “You’re very sweet, but I’m hardly that.”

  “I saw that you would be, you know. Such pale skin and dark eyes. Ah, I’m embarrassing you. Forgive me. It’s only that I thought of you often while I was gone.”

  “Of me?”

  “I don’t know why that should surprise you. Did you never wonder why I followed you around as much as I did?”

  “Because you and Aidan lived to torment me,” I said.

  He laughed. The talk grew louder around us. A servant filled wine glasses.

  Patrick said, “Do you still love your poets?”

  Everything about him astonished me. The way he looked, his attention, that he remembered anything at all about me beyond putting salt in my tea.

  “Oh yes.” Here at last was something I could talk about. “I’ve just discovered Tennyson, as a matter-of-fact.”

  “Ah, Tennyson.”

  “Have you read him? ‘The Lady of Shalott’ is my favorite.”

  “Yes, I suppose it would be. Very romantic, isn’t it? You always liked such things, I remember. Heroes and handsome knights riding to a lady’s rescue.”

  I felt completely out of my depth. “Yes.”

  I waited for him to tease me for it, but instead he said, “I brought something back for you. A book. An Irish poet I thought you might like. I’ll give it to you after dinner.”

  I think my mouth dropped open. Before I could say anything else, the woman sitting to his right asked him a question, and the conversation turned. I, too, was swept up in it, and during dinner we didn’t have the chance to speak again. But his shoulder brushed mine, and I felt he was watching me even when he didn’t seem to be; and I couldn’t help glancing at him now and then just to assure myself that he was real, that this wasn’t some illusion that would melt away.

  After dinner, Mrs. Devlin rose to usher all the women into the parlor while the men stayed in the dining room to smoke cigars and drink and talk. Patrick pressed my hand as if he didn’t want me to go, and I froze, so flabbergasted that Rose had to nudge me to move. I heard them discussing the plight of Ireland before we’d even left the room.