“I don’t feel afraid at all, right now,” Erin said. “I suppose I’m getting used to it. I just want to understand it.”

  “It has to be important,” Charlie said. “Or else why is it happening to you?”

  “Maybe it’s not important,” Erin said. “People see ghosts, don’t they, and it’s just scary. It doesn’t mean anything. And those remote viewing experiments—they weren’t really meaningful, either. Just interesting.”

  “You think this could be a random experience?” Charlie said.

  “I almost hope so,” she said slowly. “Because if it means something more—I don’t know what to do about it.”

  “I wish I could see her,” Charlie said.

  “So do I, believe me.”

  When they left their cups in the sink and went back to bed, clouds were rolling in again, covering the moon with strands of gray fleece. Charlie squeezed Erin’s hand and said, “Sleep well. Call me if you need me.” She kissed the top of his head.

  Before she drew the comforter over her, she took a last look at the spot where the wraith had stood. The room was much darker now, the organdy curtains and the polished cotton of the comforter making ghostly white patches in the gloom. Erin lay back on her pillow and stared up at the ceiling. Even with Charlie asleep in the next room, she felt isolated and lonely. I suppose, she thought, some things you have to work through alone. No one can help. No one can go through it with you.

  But as she turned on her side and closed her eyes, Gene Berrick’s lean brown face rose in her mind, his fine hands, his clear gray eyes, and she felt comforted.

  21

  London, July 1762

  PREPARATIONS were under way for Dr. Franklin’s return to the Colonies. While London baked under the July sun, Peter had to drive back and forth between Whitehall and Craven Street, from Fortnum & Mason’s to Barclay’s to Goodwin’s Court, as Dr. Franklin wished to be well-supplied with the tailored suits he could not get in America. The political situation in the Colonies had grown tense, and Franklin’s usual ebullience was subdued. Mrs. Stevenson was much grieved to lose her famous and congenial tenant, and Eilish heard her more than once trying to persuade him to put off his trip.

  “And William’s marriage?” Mrs. Stevenson kept saying. “Should you not stay to see your son marry?”

  At that Franklin growled some uncharacteristic response. Eilish knew none of the details of this, but it was not hard to guess that Franklin was not pleased with William’s choice.

  Polly came in from Essex often, perhaps once a month, and she and Franklin went all about the town, shopping and visiting his friends of the Royal Society. When Franklin had to go to court, Polly moped about the house, giving everyone pointless orders, until Cook threatened to give notice, which drove Mrs. Stevenson almost into hysterics. Eilish retreated to the laboratory.

  She had her own concerns. If Dr. Franklin left Craven Street, where was she to go? She had no purpose here, other than playing the armonica. She supposed she could become the kitchenmaid. Polly would no doubt be pleased by that, but Bessie would be furious.

  Into the midst of all this confusion came a message from Seven Dials. Rose Bailey’s little brother Thomas came round the back of Number Seven asking for the blackamoor.

  Bessie answered the door, and then bustled downstairs to the kitchen, fat cheeks puffed with distaste. “There’s a scrap of a lad asking for Peter,” she said. “Dirty Irish, I’ll be bound. Allus said ’twas a mistake to bring that element into the house! I didn’t let ’im in, I can tell you. One look at the mistress’s lovely things, and we’d none of us be safe in our beds ever again!”

  Cook tut-tutted at her, but Eilish jumped to her feet. “Peter’s gone up to the Royal Society meeting with Dr. Franklin,” she said. “Who wants him?”

  Bessie counted herself at least one social level above Eilish Eam, since Eilish was Irish and an orphan and from Seven Dials to boot. Turning her back on Eilish and speaking pointedly to Cook, Bessie said, “ ’E says ’is name’s Thomas Bailey. Now, is that dirty Irish, or isn’t it? ’Tis like the Old Bailey, where they say there’s more Irish spoke than English!”

  ‘’Tish tush, Bessie,” Cook said. “ ’Tisn’t Christian to go about making such remarks.”

  “Well, won’t be me what talks to ’im,” Bessie announced. She tossed her gray head and flounced out of the kitchen, her footsteps heavy and loud on the stone flags.

  Eilish knew Thomas Bailey. “I’ll go,” she said, but her heart pounded with dread as she climbed the stairs to the first floor.

  Thomas Bailey stood on the back stoop, his hat in his hand, his freckled cheeks flushed with the importance of his mission. He cried, “Hi, Eilish,” the moment she appeared. “I walked all this way from Seven Dials! Walked right here like I bin doing it all me life!”

  “Thomas,” Eilish said breathlessly. “Why did you come? What’s happened?”

  “Rose said to come and tell you, right away. That you would want to know.”

  “What, Thomas? Is Mackie ill? Hurt? Tell me, hurry!”

  “No, no, ’tisn’t him, not the lad. ’Tis his ma. Dooya. Dooya O’Larick. She’s gone and got herself kilt.”

  “Thomas! No! How could that be?” Eilish felt as if her knees would collapse. Her head began to ache immediately, and her mouth went dry. She took a wobbling step outside, closing the door behind her. Shaking, she moved down the steps and led Thomas to the stable, where the two of them could sit on a hay bale. “Dooya dead?” she murmured. “For true? I can scarce believe it.”

  They sat on the scratchy hay, and Thomas jammed his cap back on his head. “ ’Tis true,” he said, pulling a long face. “Dooya was working, like she does, under the Dials. She found a bad ’un, it seems. He stuck her with his knife so he wouldn’t have to pay her, Rose says. Dooya made it back to the Clock and Cup, but she never made it up the stairs.”

  Eilish sat stunned for a moment, her hands to her cheeks. Dooya dead? It didn’t seem possible. Dooya of the heavy hands and the resonant snores and the loud voice. How could all that life be gone? “Oh, by the angels, Thomas, ’tis a terrible thing. Where’s Mackie, then? What’s become of him?”

  “Rose took him in, but the Runners was called, and they told the priest! They’ll have Mackie in the orphanage in two shakes. Rose says we can’t afford another mouth to feed.”

  Eilish put her hand to her breast, where her heart pounded with hopelessness. “Oh, no, Thomas. I don’t know what to do! What did Rose want me to do?”

  “Well, Rose says if you can send a bit o’ money, she’ll manage for a while.” He grinned, a monkey grin full of confidence. “Here’s a grand house, Eilish. Surely someone here can give you some money!”

  “You don’t understand,” Eilish said miserably. “I’m a servant in this house, for all I give concerts and such. If someone gives me a shilling, I always send it to Seven Dials. But I never know when that’s to be.”

  “You give concerts, Eilish? Proper concerts?” Thomas’s eyes were wide with admiration.

  Eilish took no pride in her concerts at this moment. She had to see Mackie, had to talk to Rose. What would she do? What would become of poor Mackie, another Irish orphan with no one to care for him?

  The back door of the house opened, and Cook appeared, still in her long white apron, holding a napkin-wrapped bundle. “Eilish?” she called quietly. “I thought perhaps your caller would be hungry.”

  Eilish got off the hay bale and went to the door. “Oh, ta, Cook. ’Tis ever so kind of you.”

  Cook gave her the bundle, watching her face closely. “Bad news, I fear,” she said. “You look that pale, dear.”

  “Aye,” Eilish said. “The news is very bad.”

  She gave Thomas the napkin, and he sniffed it appreciatively and tucked it under his jacket. “What shall I tell Rose?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I just don’t know, Thomas. Tell her to wait, and not to let them take Mackie! I’ll try to do something. I’ll try to get some money. Please, tell her to wait!”

  EILISH, weighed down with anxiety, went slowly up to the laboratory. She couldn’t mourn Dooya O’Larick, though Dooya had given her a home after her da died. Dooya had reaped the reward of her sowing, Eilish knew that. But Mackie! Eilish seemed to see his great round eyes everywhere, hear the faltering step of his feet, see the fearful crookedness of his short legs.

  She had not so much as a penny. Franklin had been away from home a great deal, and no one had come to hear her play in weeks. She played every day, of course, for herself, or for Mrs. Stevenson, who found it soothed her nerves, but there wasn’t any profit in that. She supposed Cook might help with some food, perhaps a cast-off bit of clothing. But money? Oh, what was she to do?

  She scrubbed her hands in the washbasin, and cleaned the armonica, then sat down on the stool and pumped the treadle. She began with the oldest, simplest melody she knew, “Eileen Aroon,” that her da had told her dated back to the fourteenth century. She played the little Welsh lullaby, “Ar Hyd y Hos,” and then she played the Irish one, “Baidhin Elhemhi,” as if Mackie were right beside her. The song of the crystals reached right into her breast to squeeze her heart. Tears wet her cheeks, but she didn’t notice them until they dropped onto her wrists.

  She played until her fingers were wrinkled from the water and her ankles cramped on the treadle. Her tears dried under the caress of the music. She felt lifted out of herself, free of her aching body and anxious heart. It seemed, briefly, that someone stood at her shoulder, someone stronger, wiser than she. She turned her head, but caught only the echo, the shade of it.

  Late in the evening, long after tea, Dr. Franklin returned home in the carriage with Peter at the reins. Franklin walked slowly, heavily up the stairs, dragging his gouty foot. He came into the laboratory and found Eilish still sitting at the armonica.

  Franklin smiled wearily at her, adjusting his spectacles. “Good evening, my dear,” he said. “Have you been practicing?”

  “Aye,” she answered. “So I have.”

  He looked at her more closely. “Something is troubling you, Eilish?”

  She met his gaze. “Aye. A great grief, Dr. Franklin.”

  “Ah. Poor lass.” He put out his hand and drew her to her feet. “This is a time for woes, I think. I, too, have a great grief, and nothing for it but to return to America. I’m loath to go, but I must.” He drew the silk cover over the armonica. “Come, Eilish, let’s sit in my parlor. Bessie will bring us something to eat, and you will tell me your grief. Perhaps I will tell you mine, though I think you’ll not understand it. ’Tis almost more than I can understand myself.”

  Bessie, her lips pursed in a sour little knot, brought them a pot of tea and fresh scones and jam. Franklin had a tot of brandy as well. He propped his bad leg on a footstool, and took a deep sip of brandy while Eilish sugared her tea. She loved Cook’s buttery scones, but the thought of Mackie, motherless this very night, took away her appetite. Though the armonica’s sweet voice had purged her tears, her heart still faltered under its load of worry. She drank, and then put her cup in its saucer and stared into the little fire that crackled in the hearth.

  When she looked up, she saw that Franklin had put his spectacles up on his brow and was watching her with gentle eyes. She was surprised by that. Though she often enjoyed his company, she had not thought of him as someone who would concern himself with the troubles of a servant. Peter had to run hither and yon at his master’s orders, without regard for the hour or the weather or his own inclinations. But now Franklin nodded to her, saying, “Do tell me, my dear. Let us share our burdens here, in this cozy parlor, and when we fare out into the world again, we shall be the stronger.”

  Eilish said, “ ’Tis kind of you, sir. I fear there is nothing can ease my burden.”

  Franklin’s lips curved upward in a shallow mockery of his old jolly smile. “Let us discover if that is true.”

  Eilish gave a deep sigh. “ ’Tis my old home that troubles me, Dr. Franklin. There has been a death, and a child, a little child, has been orphaned like myself.”

  Franklin’s eyebrows rose, but he waited, only taking another sip of brandy and rolling about it in his mouth as if the taste were too good to swallow too soon.

  “They are so poor in Seven Dials, sir,” Eilish said slowly. “I had no home but for that of one of my da’s old friends, and she a Gin Lane whore.” She blushed a little. “Forgive my talking blunt, sir. ’Tis naught but the truth.”

  He nodded, his eyes heavy, his mouth drooping. “Truth can be painful, my dear. I have come to terms with a great deal of it lately. As to prostitution—the ways of God’s creatures are often twisted, are they not?”

  “Aye,” she said. “When my da died, Dooya O’Larick allowed me her back cupboard to sleep in. She needed a bit of help with her gossoon—her little boy—I stayed with him nights while she worked. And now she’s got herself murdered, and little Mackie, that never had a father, has no mother neither. And he’s the crookedest legs you ever saw, that will hardly carry him. He can’t go to be a chimney sweep, or a pickpocket, or work for the costermonger, he’s that frail.”

  “Ah,” Franklin said heavily. “And so ’tis the orphanage for him, is it not?”

  “I fear so.”

  “Of course, you know I’m bound for the Colonies at the end of summer.”

  “Aye.”

  “I wish I could help your little friend, Eilish. I can’t ask Margaret to take in a crippled Irish boy.”

  “No, sir. I know that very well.”

  “And where is the boy now?”

  Eilish watched the small flames dance in the fireplace. “He’s with a family I know. They run a pub called the Clock and Cup. The oldest girl takes care of all the wee ones, and ’tis no easy task. She’s a good girl, but there’s so many mouths.”

  “Well, now, Eilish Eam,” Franklin said. His smile was sharper now, and his eyes began to twinkle. “Many will say I’ve spent a good bit of money that wasn’t mine to spend. But here you’ve been my helper and my aide all these months, and not asked for a penny! Suppose we were to figure your back wages—would that be a help for young Mackie?”

  Eilish looked at him, her mouth a little open, her heart hardly daring to credit his words. “Back wages?” she breathed. “Wages? For playing your lovely little armonica?”

  “Exactly!” he cried, truly smiling now. He put his spectacles back on his nose. “Hand me that bit of paper, there, and the inkwell. Let us do a few sums. Good Lord, it’s gotten to July, hasn’t it? And we began our little project November last!”

  Eilish stared, entranced, as he dipped a quill into the ink and made rapid black marks on the paper. “November, December, January—my, my, the time does pass. Let us say, a shilling a week? It’s a good wage, don’t you think, when room and board are included as well? And I do demand your services at odd hours. So, yes, a shilling . . . I make that thirty shillings, or one pound ten.” Franklin put down the pen and smiled at Eilish. “One pound ten, my dear. Would that help your young friend, d’you think?” He reached into his pocket and counted out coins until he reached exactly that amount.

  Eilish could hardly believe it. She had never held such a sum. The coins were heavy and cool, gold and silver together, weighing down her palm. They were alive with history, fairly vibrating with stories to be told. Her headache receded almost to nothing, and her heart beat fast now with joy and relief. She put out her hand to touch Franklin’s plump one. “Oh, ta, Dr. Franklin. ’Tis so kind of you, ever so kind. ’Twill certainly keep Mackie out of the orphanage, and give the Baileys a bit o’ luck to boot! Angels bless you, sir.”

  Franklin sat back in his easy chair, and, as Eilish had done, stared into the fire. “If only thirty shillings would solve my problems,” he said sadly.

  “How many shillings would it take, sir?” Eilish asked. “To solve your problems?”

  He gave a rather bitter chuckle. “Well, my dear. A mere four thousand pounds should set things straight.”

  Eilish opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. “Oh, la, Mr. Franklin!” she said at last. “Who could own so much money other than King George himself? What a terrible trouble it must be!”

  “Bad enough, Eilish, bad enough.”

  Shyly, she said, “And is that why you must return to America? Leave Craven Street?”

  “That’s not all of it,” he said heavily. “There are other things—political things. My home, Pennsylvania, suffers under the ill rule of its governors. I’m needed there.”

  “Will you ever be back?”

  “I hope so, my dear. I hope so.”

  And then, the big question poised on Eilish’s lips, anxious to pop out into the warm air of the parlor. She feared to ask it. She feared more not to ask it. “Mr.—I mean, Dr. Franklin. Are you taking the armonica with you to America?”

  He stared at her for a moment in complete amazement. “Taking—taking the armonica? Oh, my dear! I am so sorry! You must be beside yourself with worry!” He grasped her hand and patted it with his other hand, over and over. “No, no, Eilish. I am not taking the armonica! You are to stay here, to live here with Margaret, who is happy to have you, and you are to play my armonica whenever you wish, and for whomever comes to hear it. I never thought—oh, my dear, I am so sorry. No, no, your place in this house is secure, I promise!”

  At that very moment, as Franklin held her hand and smiled down at her so charmingly, Polly Stevenson entered the parlor. She stopped and stared down at the two of them, her face ugly with her fury.

  “Why, Polly! I thought you had returned to your aunt Tickell!” Franklin cried, all unaware. He jumped up and held a chair for her.

 

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