TransAtlantic by Colum McCann Page A

She seemed to want to vanish. He wondered if she had left Webb’s house without rancor. He certainly had not meant to cause consternation. He nodded politely, tried to avoid her gaze. He recalled with a sharp pang the way she had whispered good-bye. He was glad nothing more had come from his presence in Dublin.
    —Your speeches, said Isabel. They were a great inspiration. Isn’t that right, Lily?
    The maid didn’t look up.
    —Boston? said Douglass. Is that your intention?
    She nodded and by degrees lifted her head: a surprising shine to her eyes.
    —Perhaps I’ll try New York, she said.
    A murmur of approval went around the room. Douglass ate quickly, quietly. He kept his gaze on his plate, but glanced upwards every now and then to see Isabel and her sisters lavish attention on the young maid. They served her and poured her a ginger mineral from a pitcher.
    The maid seemed to balance a weighing scale about her eyes: sheseemed at any moment as if she could easily launch into a volley of words, or just as easily burst into tears.
    When Douglass stood to excuse himself—he had more writing to do, he said—he raised a glass to Lily and said that he wished her well, that she would have Godspeed on her adventure, that he, too, hoped to return to his native land and to his wife and family soon.
    The toast was taken up around the table. A clinking of water glasses. The maid flicked a brief glance at him: he was not sure if it was one of fear or anger. He made his way up the stairs. Her appearance had unnerved him. What exactly was he expected to do? How should he have reacted? He did indeed wish her well, but what more could he have said? Perhaps tomorrow he could recommend a prominent family for her to work with? Maybe Garrison or Chapman might know someone? Or he could suggest an area of the city where she would be at ease? Why, he wondered, had she come all the way to Cork by foot? And in such weather, too?
    He sat at his writing desk, buried the nib of the pen in the inkwell. He had much to do, but he could not write. He tossed and turned beneath the covers.
    The birds woke furious with dawn. A blanket of dark had been lifted from Brown Street. He heard his name called from below. He parted his curtains. Isabel stood in the puddled yard at the rear of the house.
    —Lily left in the middle of the night, she said.
    He could feel the cold against the pane of the window. A rooster crowed in the yard and a young hen rose in the air and scrambled away.
    —Can you come with us, Mr. Douglass? she said.
    An alarm in her voice.
    —One moment, please.
    There were letters to write. Correspondence to sign. Meetings toarrange. A debate to prepare with the clergymen of the North Cathedral.
    He closed the curtains and placed his washbasin upon the windowsill. He removed his nightshirt and dampened a towel. The water was cold to the touch. It tightened his skin. He heard his name called from below once more. Then the high whinny of a horse from the stables. The clop and splash of hooves. Two of the Jennings sisters, Charlotte and Helen, came from beneath the archway. They wore wide hats and green rain clothing. Isabel appeared again seconds later, holding a sturdy nag by the reins.
    Douglass leaned out the window. He had forgotten for a moment that he was shirtless. He saw the two younger sisters turn away and giggle.
    Isabel rigged a series of leather harnesses around the horses: she left the tallest horse for him.
    He cursed himself. A maid. A simple maid. So, she had left early. And so what? It was hardly his fault. Yet he was eager to please. The inability to say no. He stepped back from the window, bumped his head on the frame. Perhaps it was a foolish desire on behalf of the young woman. It was not as if—not as if—surely not, no. He had not shown any impropriety. None at all. Certainly not.
    He went to his writing desk, shuffled the papers. Weighed them up. Stacked them, then turned to pull on his shirt and boots. He had been