“Saffron,” she surmised. “How unusual. And expensive,” she added.
Chef Louis beamed at her. “You cook?” he asked.
She nodded. “What are you making to go with this sauce?”
“Crispy chicken,” he said. “I’ll add a little roasted garlic.”
“Some cardamom,” she offered.
He raised his eyebrows. “Really?”
“Gives it a magical taste that no one can figure out.”
“Yes,” he nodded, smacking his lips once as if tasting it in his mind. “I can imagine that perfectly. Thank you,” he added.
Rose smiled.
“Your man is at the Navy yard now. He works there.”
Her man? Not anymore.
“Thank you, Chef.”
As she exited, she considered her plan. At that hour, the streets were jammed with traffic, and her horse and carriage would go nowhere fast. With nearly 190 streetcars threading their way throughout the city every hour, however, one was certain to be going her way.
Yet which way was the quickest? She could go left along Winter Street and back toward the Park Street Station. At the last moment, however, she turned right and headed toward Washington Street. Within minutes, she saw a streetcar marked No. 296 with “Roxbury and Charlestown” emblazoned on the dasher.Thank goodness!
Rose clambered aboard, nodding to the conductor before taking a vacant seat. The car wound its way through the financial district along Milk Street, through Post Office Square, and along Congress to Adams Square, before rejoining Washington Street. She sighed in frustration at the traffic and the number of vehicles of every type. What’s more, every few minutes it seemed, a pedestrian ran in front of the trolley.
Soon, they crossed Haymarket Square and passed the Northern Depots, turning right onto Causeway Street and left onto Beverly Street, all the while picking up people and dropping others off. Rose watched the conductor record each and every passenger’s fare that he collected on the mounted register.
At last, they crossed the Warren Avenue drawbridge and passed through City Square onto Chelsea Street. Rose stood up impatiently as they traveled along the road bordering the shipyard. She disembarked at the corner of Bunker Hill Street and found herself trotting in haste the short distance to the Charlestown shipyard’s main gate, feeling anxious as the late day sun sunk lower. Soon the yard would close, and she might miss him again.
The yard was enormous, like a small town. How would she ever locate Finn?
At the gate, a young man in a naval uniform came up to her.
“May I help you, miss?”
Rose didn’t want to mention Finn’s name. She hesitated.
“Yes, I’m trying to find,” she hesitated, racking her brain for the name of the master builder Finn had mentioned, “Mr. Gilbert.” He would know where Finn was.
“Yes, miss. Is he expecting you?”
“No,” Rose said. “Yet it is quite important that I speak with him.”
After a moment’s hesitation while he seemed to consider, the guard nodded.
“Master Builder Gilbert is normally in the Muster House.” With that the young, straight-backed man marched off, and she had no choice except to follow him. The place was bustling with workers, and a few times, someone strode between them carrying a long skein of rope or a 2-by-6, and she nearly lost sight of her guide.
At last, he slowed his step in front of a rounded building that reminded her of a squat turret. Taking her inside, the guard led her up the stairs to the third floor.
“He’s there, miss.” He gestured to the oldest man in the room. “Master Builder Gilbert. This lady is here to see you, sir.”
Rose faltered, as a mustachioed man with graying hair looked up from his desk, surveying her. As he slowly got to his feet, her head felt light.
What on earth was she to say to him now?That she knew Finn Bennet was alive? That she thought this man’s incompetence had helped send men to their deaths? Perhaps she should counterfeit that she needed a ship built.
