Bring My Soul Out of This Prison (on hold)

Chapter 4

Seamus looked around the room and took a step forward to see around the door.  Murphy followed him and the butler closed the door behind them.  It was a typical sitting room.  The opposite wall had two large windows with cushioned seats that looked out over the orchards in front of the house.  On the left hand side was one of the white tiled fireplaces.  On either side of the fireplace were shallow recesses, filled with shelves.  The shelves showcased beautiful sparkling white china pieces with pale colored designs.  Opposite the fireplace, on the right side of the room were three glass-doored bookcases filled with books of various sizes and colors and next to that desk of the same rich cherry wood as the other furniture.  Upon it were materials for writing, such as stacks of paper with the company logo stamped on top, a bottle of ink, several pens and a small stick of sealing wax.

In the center of the room was an overstuffed sofa and two matching upholstered chairs on either side that all faced the fireplace.  Behind the sofa sat two people, a middle-aged man and a woman about ten years younger, at a table, obviously having tea.  The woman sat straight up in her chair, her back making a perfect parallel line with the back of her chair.  She wore a milk white muslin gown with small green sprigs sewn all over it.  The sleeves were puffed from shoulder to elbow.  Then from her elbow to the her wrist they were tight to her skin and covered in a beautiful white lace that flowed over the back of her hand like water in a stream flows over the rocks.  The neckline was cut square with a white, crisply pleated linen insert that rose up over her neck, ending in a small lace ruffle under her ears.  Her dark, reddish brown hair was tucked neatly into a bun at the top of her head and held in place with pearl-topped hairpins.  The hem of her gown ended on the floor, where it was tipped with more lace and everything but the tips of her shoes.  Her face was soft, heart shaped, and her features were small and delicate.  The pink color of her full lips matched the tiny rosettes painted on the china teapot she was using to pour tea into two matching cups.

The man sitting opposite of her was as different from her as two people could be.  His hair was a very dark brown, almost black color.  His skin was tanned to a caramel color by many hours in the sun as a boy.  You could see the farmer in him; it was in the way he moved, the way he dressed.  His clothes were nice, of the highest quality, however they looked like they had been thrown on him in a hurry without a thought to how they went together.  His slacks were gray wool, and his shoes were shiny black leather.  He wore a long waistcoat of brown and green plaid, a white linen shirt with a crumpled collar (the starch having gone out of it already), and on the back of his chair hung a dark, plum purple great coat.  He darted out one hand to grab the cup and saucer, delicately passed to him by the woman.  While his other hand grabbed a sweet cooking from the tray on the table.

“Darling,” her sweet, soft voice rang out in the stillness.

The man froze, the cookie halfway to his mouth, and set it down on one of the little plates in front of him.

Seamus went to step forward into the room and toward the angelic woman when Murphy laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.

The butler cleared his throat.

“Yes?” the man asked gruffly, turning towards them.  “Oh, Murphy, is this the boy?”

Now Murphy allowed Seamus to step forward.  “Yes, Mister Twomey,” Murphy nodded, “This is the boy I picked up from the train station.”  He gave Seamus a little push on his back to propel him forward.

Mr. Twomey looked Seamus up and down.  “Hmm,” he muttered as he eyes the boy.  “What’s your name?”

“Sea—“ the boy cleared his throat, “Seamus Sweeney.”

“Hmm,” was all Mr. Twomey said.

Without looking up from her cup of tea, Mrs. Twomey placed a milk white hand on his tanned one.

“Wha—oh,” Mr. Twomey sighed.  “Show me your hands, boy,” he held out his hands for Seamus to put his hands in.

“Well at least they’re goo working hands.  I don’t want some lay-about working in my shop.”  Mr. Twomey turned Seamus’ hands one way and then the other.  “Small fingers too.  You should be good for some delicate work.”  He looked up from Seamus’ hands and into his eyes.  “Do you know what an apprentice is, boy?”  As an accent on the end of his question, Mr. Twomey contorted his face so that the right eyelid went down as his left eyebrow went up.

Seamus looked around at every face in the room for an answer.  No one gave him one so he shook his head negatively and said, “I don’t know, Sir.”

“Well,” Mr. Twomey smiled, as always pleased when he knew something that someone else did not.  He puffed up his chest, sat back in his chair, and stuck his hands in his waistcoat pockets.  “Well, my boy, well, well.  You being my apprentice means that you have pledged yourself to my shop and myself for a certain period of time.  In your case, His Lordship,” he stopped to smile at his wife.  She only gave a nod of her head approvingly in response.  “His Lordship and I have worked out a deal where I feed, clothe, and house you until you are eighteen.  All the payment I will receive is your wages for these 10 years.”  He leaned down to look into Seamus’ eyes.  “You get somewhere to live for free and I get a worker for free.  Understand?”

“I think so, Sir,” Seamus started hesitatingly, “I get to live with you if I work in your shop.”

Mr. Twomey smiled and looked at his wife then back at Seamus.  “Yes, boy.  We don’t have a lot of boys living here, so how about you room with Murphy?”  He turned to Murphy, “Do you have room for the boy?”

Murphy stepped forward and placed a hand on Seamus’ shoulder.

“Yes, Sir, I would be honored.”

Mr. Twomey waved a hand at him.

“How old are you, Seamus?”  Mrs. Twomey’s cool, smooth voice rang out again.  She still did not look at him.  Instead she had turned her head to look out the window.

Seamus was so surprised, that it took him a minute to answer.  “About eight years old, Ma’am.”

She turned her head sharply, looking at him for the first time.  “Eight years old,” she breathed slowly.

“Ann,” Mr. Twomey said, warningly.  He sat up and put his hands on the table near hers.

She pulled her hands away and looked out the window again, “Eight years…” she stood up liquidly from her chair and glided to the window.  “He’s eight, Michael.” She turned toward her husband for a moment, “Eight!”

“Ann!” Mr. Twomey stood up quickly then turned and pointed to the door.  “Out!” he bellowed to the group watching the scene, transfixed.  “Out, damn you!”

“Come on, boy,” Murphy whispered to Seamus.  He grabbed the boy by his shoulders and guided him out of the door.  Once they were back in the hall, Seamus turned around again and heard loud sobs coming from inside along with whispered soothing words from Mr. Twomey.

Seamus stopped and turned on Murphy.  “But, what was that, Mr. Murphy?”

“First of all, boy, it is just Murphy, no mister.  Secondly, there are all kinds of things going on in a house that are not anybody’s business.  When you need to know, then you’ll find out.”  Murphy sighed then smiled.  “Until then,” he wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulders, “we need to get you settled in.”