by Cathy Gohlke
Dorothy sighed but stayed by the door as if coming into the room might draw her into something too deep. She squared her shoulders, and Olivia recognized the subtle change as her sister’s retreat to safer territory.
“There are things I want in life—things I need, things I mean to do,” Olivia went on. “I just don’t know what they are.”
“I only want what’s best for you.”
“I know that. But I don’t think I’ll find what I’m looking for tied to a man I don’t love and a silly social calendar. You, of anyone, should know that of me.”
Dorothy looked away. “It’s not all silly.”
“I’m sorry,” Olivia stammered. “You know I didn’t mean that for you.”
But Dorothy forged ahead. “Drake has invited some charming and eligible men to the ball. You can take your pick—railroad, real estate, banking. You’re a wealthy woman.”
Olivia’s nerves pricked. “A perfect merging of bank accounts—how good of Drake.”
“You need a husband. You can engage in all those causes you’re mad about inside marriage, provided your scribbling about them doesn’t create scandal. But Drake says you must have someone to direct your business affairs, at the very least. And if you won’t allow him to take things in hand, well, then . . .”
Olivia closed her eyes at the unspoken but repeated topic of every conversation: money, money, money. Sometimes she envied people who had none to fight over.
“Drake said you really must be settled before . . . before long.”
“Before I’m a crotchety old maid?” Olivia smirked.
“Let us say, more kindly, before the bloom leaves the gilded lily,” her brother-in-law countered, standing suddenly behind his wife.
Dorothy started, clasping her hand to her neck.
Olivia, too, felt her breath catch but stood, determined to regain her composure. She did not want Drake in her father’s study. He had no right, though he acted as if he possessed everything. Nothing could have moved her to her detested birthday ball so quickly as his presence.
“We mustn’t keep our guests waiting.” Olivia squeezed her sister’s hand and pushed past Drake into the evening ahead.
Maureen knew her aunt was not one to waste words or actions, so it was no surprise that she’d set well-laid plans in motion within the hour of Mam’s death.
Maureen argued that such a trip on short notice was impossible. She sputtered at the very idea that the American Colonel Wakefield might yet be willing to help them, insisted they were begging a fool’s errand—a fool’s irretrievable mistake. Still, she knew her aunt was right—this might well be the last night before the Orthbridges’ minions pounded the door for Gavin’s new toy. So Maureen numbly followed her aunt’s orders, cutting bread and cheese and wrapping thick slices of roasted lamb in cheesecloth for boxed lunches.
Aunt Verna divided the gold coins, stitching some in the hem of each niece’s skirt and tucking one in each girl’s shoe. She placed the rest—all but one—in Maureen’s purse.
“You should keep some,” Maureen said, looking up from her task and wiping her hands down her apron. “I’ve never seen so much money. I’ll not know what to do with it, and it’s all foreign, beside.”
“It won’t be foreign once you get there, and you’ll need every penny. There’s the passage to be bought and more food for the trip. You can’t trust the shippin’ company to provide their due. This last coin—” she tucked it into Maureen’s coat pocket—“you’re to give to Joshua Keeton.”
“Joshua Keeton? Whatever for?”
“You’ll be needin’ a ride to Dublin if you’re to sail, won’t you? He’s goin’ there himself, isn’t he? And hasn’t he agreed to meet you and Katie Rose at the crossroads beyond the hill, two hours before dawn?”
“You’ve already asked him, then? You were that sure of yourself—of me? And how can you trust anyone in this village?” Maureen wondered if she should be vexed.
The huff and puff left Aunt Verna’s face. “Joshua Keeton is a good man—the only man I’d trust with both my nieces in the dead of night. And if you had eyes in your head, you’d see he’s been taken with you since you were twelve. You could do worse, but I doubt there’s a better man.”
Maureen turned away, not willing to believe any man did something expecting nothing in return.
Her aunt crossed the room, taking Maureen in her arms. “You’ve no choice, Maureen, nor does Katie Rose. If you both stay, you’re both doomed. If only one of you goes to Dublin, they’ll track that one down and likely take it out on the one left. You, of all in all, should know that of the Orthbridge men. You must both go—you’re best off together—and you must both live and thrive. Set your face to it, girl.”
“I’m afraid,” Maureen whispered in her aunt’s hair. “And I’m not afraid of much.”
“Do it for yourself, if you can. If you cannot, then do it for love of Katie Rose.” Aunt Verna pushed flaming tendrils past Maureen’s temples. “May America be good to you, Maureen O’Reilly. May every road rise to meet you, and may the good Lord hold you in the palm of His hand.”
Nearly three hours before dawn, Maureen and a sleepy, bewildered Katie Rose hugged their aunt good-bye and stumbled through her dark cottage garden, out onto the moonlit road.
No candles to guide lost souls burned in the windows they passed. No dog ran to bark or give them away. Hard frost had settled on the fields, causing their boots to slip and their footsteps to echo brittle in their ears. Maureen wondered if she’d ever walk this pasture or that field again, if she’d ever sit to rest on any stone wall in Ireland.
She could not understand why Katie Rose walked along without speaking, why she allowed herself to be led so easily through the cold and dark with only a promise of going abroad. All Maureen had said to her younger sister was “Do you trust me?” And Katie Rose had simply nodded. It would not have been enough explanation for Maureen, and it nearly vexed her that it was enough for Katie Rose. How could a girl, especially a girl of thirteen, be so trusting? But, Maureen remembered, she herself had trusted at that age, and it had been her doom. Never again. Not once.
They were early by a good half hour, but Joshua Keeton, with his cart and his horse pawing the ground, stood patiently waiting in the cold.
“Miss O’Reilly.” In the pale moonlight, Maureen could see that he tipped his hat and offered his hand to help them over the wheel. But she ignored his hand, pushed Katie Rose ahead of her, and climbed up to take the outside seat.
She wrapped her arm round her sister to keep her warm and steady and as far from Joshua Keeton as she could.
The Keeton men were not known for useless speech; Joshua’s even pace and silent forward slump with traces loosely held betrayed nothing unusual in his midnight errand.
By the time gray dawn softened the sky, Katie Rose was fast asleep against her sister’s shoulder, and Maureen’s chin had begun to bob very near her chest.
“You’ll not want to fall off, Miss O’Reilly,” Joshua Keeton whispered.
The sound of a human voice jerked Maureen awake, and she shifted in her seat, adjusting her hold on Katie Rose. “Thank you, Mr. Keeton.”
“It’s an early ride. Once we’re settled, you’ll have a chance to sleep.”
“‘We’?” Suddenly alert, Maureen felt the cold creep through her.
“Did your aunt not tell ya? I’m sailin’ too, bound to make my way in America.” Joshua glanced proudly in her direction, then back to the road ahead. “When I told your aunt last week I was goin’, she said you’d been waitin’ to go yourself—you and your sister—until your mother passed, but to keep it to meself. ’Tis a fine and grand thing—a fresh start—good for the both of you.”
Maureen felt her face flame. She’s tricked me! Did she think I’d not go alone—or that if she told me he was goin’ too, I’d back out? I’ve half a mind to jump out of this cart and drag Katie Rose with me!
“I mean,” Joshua stammered, “I mean I only wish
you could have gone sooner—for your sake, Miss O’Reilly. The good Lord bless you in your new life.”
Maureen didn’t know what to say. She was furious with her aunt and didn’t know how to take Joshua’s words—kindly, at face value, or as an insult, deep and abiding. The good Lord’s not blessed me so far, Joshua Keeton, and I’m not expectin’ His ways to change in America! So she said nothing at all, and the miles passed.
When at last the sun spread its golden orb over the horizon, she mustered a civilized tongue. “Why would you leave County Meath, Joshua Keeton? You’ve a good job, have you not?”
He clicked the reins and the horse stepped up. “I’m beholden to Julius Orthbridge just for livin’ on his land.” He grimaced as if he’d swallowed vinegar. “He’s got us all under his thumb one way or another. ’Tis a shame, to be sure, but no shame to those who’ve no choice.”
Maureen blinked, still uncertain as to his meaning. Does he think I had a choice and made it?
Joshua stared down the road. “I admire you for takin’ your leave this way, and I’m proud to be of service, Miss O’Reilly—now, and in America.”
So, there it is. A man in search of an easy woman. She didn’t give Joshua Keeton the courtesy of a reply. For the sake of no other choice, she would ride with him to Dublin. But once they reached the wharf and she paid him his due in gold coin, as Aunt Verna had likely promised, she’d walk away. I’ll never leave this past if weaselin’ men with tales of my sins trail me to America. I’ll trust no one, least of all a man from County Meath!
Katie Rose woke when at last they clattered over the cobbled and rutted streets of Dublin.
Maureen inhaled the sea air. Anticipation of change quickened butterflies in her stomach.
“I see the ships!” Katie Rose pointed, speaking for the first time.
“I’ve promised my horse and cart to a farrier near the docks. If you ladies will wait while I make the transaction, I’ll—”
“No, Mr. Keeton. Thank you for the ride, but we’ve no mind to wait. Katie Rose and I’ll go on alone. Drop us near the shippin’ office, if you please.” Maureen looked straight ahead but could sense the turn of Joshua’s face.
“I’ll not drop you alone at the docks, Maureen O’Reilly. You must wait for me.”
“We’ll be makin’ our own way, and we’d best begin. We’ll no longer be needin’ your assistance, Joshua Keeton.”
She felt him straighten, felt the air charged with his confusion and displeasure, but refused to look him in the face.
“I’ll not—”
“You will!” She glared at him and pushed a gold piece toward him. “You’ve earned your gold coin, and that’s the end of it.” Your fine shoulders and unruly black hair might have wormed their way into Aunt Verna’s senses, but they’ll do no good with me!
Joshua, his jaw set and his eyes dark, guided the cart to a walkway across from the shipping office door. He made taut the traces and steadied the cart but did not get down, did not offer his hand to either woman as they descended. With a curt “God go with you, Maureen O’Reilly,” Joshua seemed about to say more but instead picked up the coin, flipped it through the air toward Katie Rose, lifted and slapped the reins, clucked his tongue, and clattered down the wharf.
Maureen grabbed the coin from a startled Katie Rose and threw it into the back of the cart. Take your fine baritone voice and pitch it in the sea. With one strong spit to the back of his wagon, she gave her final good-bye to Ireland and all thoughts of Joshua Keeton.
And yet, several times over the next two weeks, Maureen wished she’d not sent the man away so hastily. For one reason or another she was not able to book passage: the ship she’d hoped to board was standing in dock in need of repair; a second ship was waiting until the full complement of steerage was booked—“Sardines in a tin,” the ticket holders complained. Still, Katie Rose never protested, never questioned Maureen’s decisions.
Crossing the western sea was not as easy as their aunt had believed, nor was the wait at third-rate rooming houses in Dublin cheap. Maureen spent first the gold coin in her shoe, then the one in Katie Rose’s. By the time they’d bought a nightdress apiece, a comb and bag between them, the barest of lodging—a warehouse with sleeping pallets where they were locked in with others at dusk and let out at dawn—and food and tickets for a ship that would finally, truly sail, Maureen’s purse was empty. They were down to two coins sewn into their hems.
To stretch the money, Maureen had bought tickets in steerage—four women to a cabin with a tiny washbasin in between.
“Aunt Verna said that God will help us through—if we trust Him,” Katie Rose ventured when Maureen’s spirits sank low.
Maureen smiled. She rumpled her sister’s hair until Katie Rose smiled, too, but thought, I’ll not be trustin’ what I cannot see.
The crossing was storm-tossed rough, the bowels of the ship dank and putrid from vomit, urine, unwashed bodies, and voyage upon voyage with nothing but a splashing down for cleaning. The cabin doors bore no locks, and there was no privacy from drunken, leering men or curious boys.
“Here, then, let’s pile our bags in front of the door, so we can at least hear if those ragtags push open in the night,” the oldest of the cabinmates ordered, a stout woman with iron-gray hair greased back into a tight bun.
Maureen was grateful for someone else to take charge, if only for the night. Still, to be sure and safe, she and Katie Rose slept in their dresses and fastened cloaks, leaving them crumpled and dirty.
The next morning, after a too-salty herring and biscuit breakfast they couldn’t keep down, a rousing melody of Irish pipes and drums drew the sisters to the swaying deck.
“How is it,” Katie Rose, half-green, stammered, “that they’re singin’ their hearts out—not the least bit sick. How can they?” She dry heaved over her elbow.
“Riverboat hands, lass.” A knowing voice spoke over the wind behind the girls as the man handed Katie Rose his handkerchief. “Doesn’t matter if they’ve never set foot upon a seagoin’ vessel. They’ve the needed cork in their legs and bellies to keep steadily afloat.” He swatted the air whimsically, dismissing the musicians and the twirling, fancy step dancers. “They’ll be larkin’ about clear to New York, full of their own bravado, singin’ up their courage!” He laughed. “Like as not they’ll need it.”
Maureen and Katie Rose exchanged envious glances and, clutching the back of a ship’s bench for dear life, turned to make their way below deck.
In that moment a new high-stepping couple twirled to the center of the dancing ring. Spinning broad shoulders and a familiar mop of flying black curls caught Maureen’s eye.
“Joshua Keeton!” Katie Rose called.
Joshua looked up, bright-eyed and laughing, and waved at Katie Rose as he spun his fair colleen.
Maureen gritted her teeth against the sudden drop in her stomach and the fury that raced up her neck. She grabbed Katie Rose’s hand, pulling her quickly below deck and back to their cabin.
“Why did you do that?” Katie Rose demanded. “He’s been nothin’ but a friend to us, and you run from him like the plague!”
But Maureen refused to answer. She couldn’t explain how desperately she wanted to leave all of Ireland and its memories behind. She had no reason to believe that Joshua Keeton would keep her secrets from America’s shores—shameful secrets known by the entire village—if he could not curry the favors from her he wanted. And surely, she thought, that’s what he wants. Why else would he be carin’ about me, about us? Why couldn’t he have sailed on a different vessel?
She kept her distance. It wasn’t hard; the seasickness never left either sister, and they were rarely fit to take the sun on deck.
For that reason the simple food ration included in their ship’s fare proved more than ample. What little they’d bought and stowed to supplement their meals was pilfered first by small boys and then by ship rats.
The last day, as the ship sailed through calmer waters nearing the
American coast, they were simply too weary to eat.
“Will the pitchin’ never end?” Katie Rose moaned from her bunk.
But by that time the pitching and rolling had truly stopped. All sailing was smooth.
“What is it, Katie Rose?”
“It’s freezin’ in here, and I’m just so weary of the motion. I’ll be grateful to stop.”
Maureen checked her sister’s brow. “You’ve a fever. Eight days at sea and now the fever?” She thought it worse than bad luck.
“It’s nothin’, just a sore throat,” Katie Rose assured her, sniffing, but didn’t open her eyes.
“Keep her turned to the wall,” the gray-haired leader ordered. “We don’t want whatever she’s got.”
“It’s a throat raw from the damp, nothin’ more,” Katie Rose whispered.
“Scarlet fever or influenza or raw throat—no matter. They’ll not allow fever of any kind off Ellis Island. They’ll send her back—and anyone catchin’ it.” The woman ignored Katie Rose but warned her cabinmates, “You’d all fare better on deck than in this tin can.”
“Back?” Maureen could not believe her ears.
“To Ireland—in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, and no regrettin’. I’ve heard Americans claim they’re not the world’s hospital, after all—that’s what me brother wrote. You must stay well, strong, to make it through the medical check. They’ll take no public charges on American shores.”
“I’ll not go back,” Katie Rose whispered. “I’ll not. I’ll jump overboard first.”
“Hush! There’ll be no such talk, Katie Rose O’Reilly—never!” Maureen pinched her arm.
Katie Rose grabbed the neck of her sister’s dress. Strong in her desperation, she whispered fiercely, “I heard what Aunt Verna said that night—that last night you both thought me sleepin’. I heard what she said about Gavin Orthbridge. He’ll not touch me. I’ll kill him first. I’ll kill me first.”
Maureen’s heart nearly stopped. She had underestimated her sister. No wonder she’d never once complained; no wonder she’d never once challenged leaving everyone they’d known, everything she’d held dear, despite the trouble, the weariness of the journey. Maureen felt she’d been running uphill all night. “You knew, then?”
