Chapter 1
The hotel staff comprised youngsters like him—immigrants working their backsides off to survive. “No, no. You’re wrong. That’s a Scottish accent, for sure.” Mr. Thompson, another frequent guest, slightly older than Mr. Bingley but so thin he could hide behind a twig, argued with his dear friend. “Ha! Scottish?” Mr. Thompson had no idea how insulting it was to call an Irishman a Scot. “You’ve lost your mind, good fellow. That wild, black, tousled hair and those bright green eyes—no mistaking those telltale signs.” The big-bellied man was so caught up in his conversation that he missed Michael spitting on his shoe. He didn’t only do it out of spite; the saliva helped the polish glide across the leather with ease. Spitting on the wealthy was a perk of his job. He wrapped a cotton-furred rag around two fingers like a glove and scooped a big lump of polish from its tin. He’d spent hours perfecting his work. If he were going to be a bootblack, he would be the best. He worked the polish into Mr. Bingley’s black leather shoes. “The young lad is definitely Scottish,” Mr. Thompson replied, glancing from me to the growing shine on his friend’s left shoe. “If you’re so sure, how about a friendly wager between two gentlemen?” Mr. Bingley’s eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. If Michael had been the type to scare easily, he might have admitted that the look frightened him more than a little. But he wasn’t, so it didn’t. ‘A wager?’ They’d reduced him from being the lowly bootblack to the subject of a gentleman’s bet. How much money would one of them make from guessing his heritage? He knew what he’d get out of it—nothing—not a single penny in his pocket for being their afternoon’s entertainment. “Good idea. A wager it is. Two dollars or three?” Mr. Bingley slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out a billfold overflowing with money. Two dollars was more than Michael made in a month. He moved to the second shoe, mindful of a clump of mud stuck to the heel. He removed the dirt and grime, likely accumulated from walking the streets of downtown Philadelphia, and he began to shine the leather. He raised a dark eyebrow at the two gentlemen as he sat on his tiny wooden stool. The distance between them reflected the customers’ elevated rank in society compared to Michael’s. Their warm, velvety chairs sat three feet higher than his stool. “What if I said I was from Paris or native to the States?” Throwing a snarky comment was strictly against the rules, and Michael knew it. He was rarely allowed to be seen and never permitted to speak to guests other than to offer his shoe-cleaning services or a polite greeting. Michael had immigrated from Ireland to America with his family at the age of 15. When they arrived, his mother had told him to keep his head down and avoid trouble. She should have known better. Mr. Caswell reminded Michael every day to keep a polite tongue in his head and follow the Philadelphia Hotel’s staff rules. Most of the time, he stayed out of the rich folks’ way, but now and then, he simply couldn’t resist—like now, when he found himself the target of ridicule and embarrassment. “A jokester, hey? Come on then, lad. Tell us where you’re from,” Mr. Bingley’s goofy grin stretched across his face. It’s a good thing there was a rag in Michael’s hand. Otherwise, he might have been tempted to throw a punch. Or two. “And what if I don’t?” He tossed the rag into his pail. He knew such defiance could leave him begging for food on the street. But the nature of the conversation fueled an inconvenient confidence in him. In any case, what fifteen-year-old boy didn’t seek out trouble any chance he got? “We could tell Mr. Caswell you’re disrespectful or that you haven’t polished my boots as well as they usually are,” Mr. Thompson chuckled. It was a hearty laugh, indicating that he was only joking, but Michael couldn’t help but sit a little taller on the tiny stool where he perched each day. Mr. Caswell had received numerous complimentary recommendations regarding Michael’s services; he even cleaned his boots once a week. There was no way one lousy remark would cost Michael his job; Mr. Caswell wouldn’t fire him that easily. Would he? Working at the hotel wasn’t a bad gig, especially compared to what other boys from his hometown had. In Ireland, many struggled to scrape together enough food to last the week. And those who sailed to America, like Michael, often ended up locked deep down in dark coal mines, spending their days suffocating in darkness. No, thanks. He’d stick to cleaning mud off rich men’s shoes. After all, the hotel resembled more of a castle than all the other brick buildings in town. Intricate molding, marble floors, and crystal chandeliers adorned the ballroom, and hand-painted portraits covered the walls. The grand staircase, situated just beyond his shoeshine booth, was a beautiful work of art. The twists and turns of the iron railings gave way to ceramic statues and designs reminiscent of Greek mythology. Every day, he spotted a new detail he hadn’t noticed before. Plus, he’d made new friends in the few months since his arrival. John Murphy, Michael’s roommate and closest friend, was several years older and full of wisdom. Michael Lawless was loyal to a fault and somewhat hardheaded—sharing a first name was where their similarities ended. Then there was Bridget, whom everyone called Biddy. She was Lawless’s sister and could be considered as beautiful as the ornate paintings lining the fancy halls. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bingley. Hello, Mr. Thompson. Would you like a cool glass of lemonade while Michael finishes working on your shoes?” Biddy extended her tray to Mr. Bingley and then walked to the opposite side of Michael’s booth to do the same for Mr. Thompson. Michael didn’t know how she moved so carefully and steadily. He could barely walk in a straight line without clamoring into something. But not Biddy. When she walked, it was like she was floating on air, as if strings were attached to her back, pulling her toward the heavens like an angel. “Biddy, could you help us settle a little wager? Do you know which country your little friend immigrated to the States from?” Mr. Bingley winked at Michael as if he’d won the bet before any confirmation had been given. “Oh, I’m not so sure, Mr. Bingley. Surely, you’re aware that many staff members have traveled from all over the world to work at this hotel. Miss. Martha, the hotel’s head cook, came from Africa, and Mr. Caswell from Great Britain. I couldn’t possibly keep up with every staff member’s lineage.” Her blue eyes twinkled, and the magic of her charm left Mr. Bingley and Mr. Thompson stuttering to find their next words. Michael dipped his chin to hide an enormous smile. Biddy knew exactly where he was from because she’d immigrated from Ireland not long before he had. She and Lawless had lived in a small town outside of Galway while Michael was from Falcarragh. Their hearts belonged to coastal communities with beautiful views of seaside cliffs and breathtaking sunsets. Galway was much busier than Michael’s small county near the northern tip of Ireland. Still, the culture was the same. She and Michael shared a cultural history; they’d endured the same famine and seen family members starve to death. Biddy’s mother and father found a way to send her and Lawless to the Americas, just as Michael’s parents spent every penny to their names on their tickets. And now here they were, in the same hotel in Philadelphia. Warm, fed, and working for a better future. “Michael, did you hear me?” He looked up from Mr. Thompson’s shoes. “I’m sorry. Did you say something to me?” Biddy’s cheeks flushed a gentle red. A golden strand of her long hair fell from its place atop her head and drifted in front of her eyes. Michael’s fingers twitched, wanting to push it out of her way. He looked down at his hands; they were covered in grease and polish from working on the men’s shoes. Michael couldn’t touch her in that state; he couldn’t risk tarnishing her perfect skin. “Mr. Lawless needs your help when you have a moment,” Biddy said, smiling, and Michael’s heart raced six times faster than before. “Yes, ma’am. Please tell him I’ll find him as soon as I finish Mr. Thompson’s boots.” Michael picked up the polish and worked on the heel of Mr. Thompson’s left foot. “I’ll give you a twenty-five-cent tip if you tell us where you’re from.” Mr. Bingley leaned forward in his chair, keeping his voice so low and unhurried that only Michael could hear him. To Michael, a quarter of a dollar was a big deal in terms of a tip. The most he’d ever earned was five or six cents, which was a significant amount. The promise of financial stability was all the convincing he needed to sell out his background. With a terse nod, I replied, “You were right, Mr. Bingley. I’m Irish through and through.” “That will be three dollars, Mr. Thompson, and you can pay the lad for his hard work today,” Mr. Bingley announced as he stood, carefully climbing out of the booth and adjusting his vest. His tie remained crooked, but who was Michael to tell him to fix it? Without another word, he walked away. Mr. Thompson waited for Michael to shine the last spot on top of his shoe before he stood. He reached deep into his pocket and produced several coins in the palm of his hand. Using his pointer finger, he moved the coins around as he counted. “Here you are, young man,” Mr. Thompson said, dropping the coins into Michael’s hand before turning to walk away. “Oh, and Mr. Thompson?” Michael called to his back and waited for him to turn and face him. He arched a brow over his shoulder, waiting for Michael to speak.
