Unaware that she was observed, Callie ran to where she had last seen Billy squirm between the dust bins. “Billy James, come out of there!” When she moved one of the heavy tin drums aside, expecting to find her little brother crouched behind it, she found herself peering into a narrow cellar window, Billy’s skinny little legs sticking out onto the sidewalk. Before she could gather her wits to grab him by the ankles and pull him out, he slipped forward, head first, into the blackness. “Billy! Billy!”
Byrch Kenyon heard the alarm in Callie’s voice, saw her bending over from the waist, heard the rumble of the tin dust bins as she hoisted them aside.
Callie was down on her knees, stretching, reaching, probing the darkness with her hand. Suddenly she felt herself being lifted aside and was vaguely aware, through her panic, of a tall man leaning through the window while he voiced calming and reassuring words to the howling child.
“Hold on there, boy. I’ve got you. Just let me pull you up. That’s a boy!”
Within the space of a moment, Billy was dragged through the opening and out into the sunlight. It wasn’t until she actually held Billy in her arms that Callie lifted her head and saw that Byrch Kenyon had come to her rescue once again.
“You!” The utterance was a combination of shock and accusation.
“Yes, regrettably so. Knowing how fiercely independent you are, I’m afraid I’ve interfered yet again.” The mockery was there in his voice as it had been before, and Callie could see the humor in his light eyes and the wry smile that played around his mouth. His height, his leanness, his handsomeness, all came in a series of impressions. And Billy was crying with abandon.
“Hush, Billy,” she soothed, “all’s right now. But you should never never go off on your own like that. Think what could’ve happened!”
“I . . . I . . . was lookin’ for the pot o’ gold, Callie,” the child sobbed. “I almost had it. I did!”
Seizing him by the shoulders, Callie succumbed to her frustrations. “There’s nothing in the way of a pot of gold, Billy, and the sooner you know it, the better.”
“There is! There is! Granda says there is!” Billy protested through his tears. His little boy’s fists pounded at Callie.
“Here, here,” Byrch pulled Billy away. “You shouldn’t be hitting your sister that way, young man. Now tell me, what’s this about a pot of gold? Did you think you’d find it in the cartwright’s cellar?”
Billy nodded his head shyly. He was too young to verbalize his reasons, but in his little heart he believed in Granda’s stories.
Byrch smiled down at the child and quickly lifted him onto his broad shoulders. “Well now, Billy, when I was a boy about your age, I too heard tales abut the wee people and their gold. And I once heard that if you were smart enough to find a four-leaf clover and follow the way it was pointing, a handsome prize of gold you’d find.” Reaching into his pocket, Byrch withdrew a gold coin and pressed it into Billy’s hand. “Here’s your prize, boyo.”
Billy opened his hand and looked with amazement at the shiny coin. Then his features screwed into a frown. “But it’s not a whole pot o’ gold the way Granda said!”
“That’s because you went off without telling your sister,” Byrch reasoned. “The pot of gold is only for the most worthy and the best. You mustn’t frighten the ones who love you by taking risks, understand, Billy?”
Billy nodded in agreement. It was Callie who offered her protests. “Mr. Kenyon, I’ll thank you not to be filling my brother’s head with tales of wee people and the like. There’s enough of that from Granda. And as for the coin, you’re much too generous and have done quite enough already.” Her clear blue eyes held his. “After all you’ve done we couldn’t accept it, could we, Billy?”
“No! Mine!” Billy cried. “I gonna give it to Mum and Da!”
“Let him have it, won’t you?” Byrch interceded. “After all, it’s such a little coin for such a little boy.” His smile was warm and genuine and said that she mustn’t interpret the coin as charity. That, Byrch knew, Callie could never accept.
Chapter Four
Elizabeth Erin Kelly Thatcher was her name. Elizabeth for her grandmother, Erin for her great-grandmother, and Kelly was her maiden name. The Thatcher was from her husband of four years. A weary smile played around the corners of her soft mouth. Patrick Willard Thatcher, and he had become her world. Pat and little Paddy were her reasons for living. As tired as she was, ailing though she may be, her heart could still flutter wildly when Pat looked at her as he was doing now. She knew without doubt that he wanted to be off exploring this seething, overcrowded city of Liverpool. His exuberance to fill each moment of this, the greatest adventure of his life, was evident in his energy and the excitement in his eyes. Beth was the one who saw the rubble, felt the crush of milling hordes, smelled the stench of their leavings. She saw the desperate eyes, the thin, wasted bodies, and the carefully guarded pokes that contained all of life’s possessions, while Pat saw only hope, determination, and a splendid future that he would carve out for Beth and Paddy. He wanted to experience all there was to see and do and know, but he realized Beth needed him here with her. He would remain at her side, the dutiful, loving husband. They were sitting in a relatively sheltered corner of Albert Docks Commonhouse. The Albert Dock was the largest and most opulent of all the Liverpool docks, with its cast-iron Doric pillars and polished marble floors, muddy and wet now from the tread of thousands of people. Pulling the rolled blankets fastened with leather straps that contained all they were taking to America, Beth smiled with forced vitality. “Go along, Patrick. See what it is that makes this place bubble as it does. Paddy and I will be just fine.”
Patrick Thatcher needed no urging. His Beth never said anything unless she meant it. She was giving him free rein to search out this cauldron of humanity, and the temptation was too great to refuse. This was a part of his future, and he didn’t want to miss a moment of it. He failed to notice the thin, white line of exhaustion around Beth’s mouth or the dark smudges beneath her frightened eyes. His bright gaze passed over the six month’s protrusion under the dark, ugly cape she wore to disguise her pregnancy. Beth would be fine, he assured himself. She had Paddy, and at three years of age the little tad would discourage any bounder from flirting with his mum. Patrick dropped a light kiss on Beth’s head and tousled Paddy’s coppery curls. “Be back in a shake, darling’,” he told her happily as he tugged his worn cap more securely on his head.
Beth watched her husband stride away, admiring his tall, straight back and the way he maneuvered his slim, agile body through the crowd of people. Everything will be fine, she told herself for what seemed like the thousandth time since arriving in Liverpool the day before. Pat will take care of us and see to everything. If only she could sleep. Really sleep. Without feeling as though all the world were watching for her to let down her guard. Beth was a very private person, and living and eating and performing necessary functions amidst a world of strangers was agony. Being pregnant accentuated her instinctive nesting habits, as Pat liked to call her devotion to home and family. She should be home, in her own little house, cooking and cleaning and making a comfortable life for the ones she loved. Only there was nothing left to cook and no house to clean. They had lost everything they held dear in Killaugh, a country town sixty miles from Dublin. The crops had failed and so had their livelihood.
Beth had become so lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed Paddy wander off. It wasn’t until she heard his croupy cough at some distance from her that she became alert. Heaving herself up from the floor, she rushed to him, calling his name, warning him not to go another step.
By the time she reached Paddy his face was flushed red from his attack of congestion, and he was having difficulty catching his breath. She gathered him close to her knee, rubbing his curls and patting his back. She should stoop down to pick him up into her arms, but she was so cumbersome that she might fall off balance. She crooned softly to her son until the coughing stopped. These at
tacks always left Paddy exhausted. She herself felt light-headed and weak—if only everyone wouldn’t stand so close, if only they’d give her room to move, air to breathe . . . She felt herself sway, felt Paddy clutching her leg more fiercely. She couldn’t give in, she couldn’t. Everything was tilting, fading in and out of focus, and she was distantly aware of a firm grip holding her arm. Startled, she raised frightened eyes, expecting to see some roughneck hoping to sell her something she didn’t need, or one of those ragged skalpeens looking to pick her pocket or steal her wedding ring. Paddy was whimpering, his hold on her leg a death grip, but he released his frantic hold to stare wide-eyed at the young girl who was holding his mum steady. “Where are your things?” Callie asked, tilting her head. “Where can you sit down with the boy? Can you walk?”
“Over there,” Beth indicated with a lift of her chin. Callie kept her clasp on the young woman secure as she reached down to take the little boy’s hand. Paddy raised trusting chestnut eyes, and it was all she could do not to burst into tears. Paddy was no older than the twins she had left behind.
“What about your baggage?” Beth asked in a voice that was barely above a whisper.
“It will take but a second to get you comfortable. If anyone even thinks of helping himself to my goods, he’ll have me to deal with,” Callie said fiercely. Beth believed her.
Guiding Beth and Paddy over the the sheltered corner that was indicated, Callie was quick to catch the movements of two youths curiously poking about the unguarded baggage. Beth saw them too. “That’s Patrick’s satchel!” she cried helplessly.
Spurred into motion, Callie steadied Beth on her feet and pushed through the edge of the crowd, shouting at the top of her voice. “You there! Leave that be! Get away from there!” In the space of a moment, she was flying at the culprits, struggling for possession of the satchel, fighting them off with coltish kicks and pounding fists. A string of epithets spewed forth, taking the youths by surprise. She wrenched Patrick’s bag from the taller of the two, kicking out with all the force she could muster. The adolescent clutched his groin and doubled over. “You come one step closer,” Callie warned, “and you’ll get more of the same!”
Grabbing the hem of her skirts, Callie displayed the length of her knitted-stockinged leg. Strapped to the calf was a bone-handled knife. The weapon shone bright and lethal, and the look in the girl’s eyes said she would not hesitate to use it.
There were grunts of approval from several men who had witnessed Callie’s show of bravery before they turned around, intent on their own affairs. She had been in Liverpool two days now, and it always amazed her how, by turning their thoughts inward, people could attain a kind of precious privacy amidst a throng of thousands.
Beth’s gratitude embarrassed Callie. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said softly. “I know Patrick will want to thank you also.” Beth’s hand was pushed against the swell of her belly, and her complexion was still white.
Callie took charge. “Here, you sit right here while I get my own poke. I’ll come and sit with you and the boy.” Obediently Beth sank to the floor, leaning on one of the blanket rolls. Quickly, leaving Paddy with his mother, Callie retrieved her own poke. She stacked the baggage neatly against the wall, away from the temptation of any other thieves, and sat down beside Beth. Introductions were made. “I’ve lived in Dublin my entire life,” Callie said. “My family still lives there.”
“Are you going to America all by yourself?” Beth asked in amazement.
“Yes. The streets are paved in gold, don’t you know?”
Beth missed the sarcasm in the girl’s voice. “You sound just like Patrick,” she told her, a false excitement ringing in her tone. Then allowing the guise to slip, she said wearily, “We had nothing left in Ireland. Nothing. And the failure of it was eating away at Patrick like a worm in an apple. I’m frightened, Callie. So very frightened. But I mustn’t stand in Patrick’s way. He’s a good man. He wants so much for us. We’ll find it in America, he knows we will.”
“And so you will,” Callie assured her. “Look about you. All these people can’t be wrong, can they?” Even to her own ears her confidence struck a false note. “Sit back and rest, Mrs. Thatcher.”
“Please, call me Beth. That’s Patrick’s name for me.”
Callie smiled; whenever Patrick Thatcher’s name was spoken a soft, loving glow came over Beth’s face. It reminded her of the way Peggy’s face and tone softened whenever she thought of Thomas. She fervently hoped that Patrick Thatcher was more of a doer than a dreamer. Thinking about Peggy and Thomas made Callie homesick. For distraction, she looked to little Paddy.
“Would you like to sit up on one of these barrels?” she asked.
Paddy nodded, and Callie slipped down and lifted the child onto the barrel beside hers. She was stunned at how thin and frail he felt in her arms. The layers of clothes he wore made him seem more robust than he was. She didn’t need a doctor or the child’s mother to tell her he was consumptive. Poor tyke. The wet, damp sea journey would do him no good, and from the looks of Beth, it wouldn’t do her any good either. Her pregnancy was advanced, and if she could hold it that long, the babe would be born in America. If there was one thing Callie knew about, it was pregnancy. Hadn’t she watched her own mother through five of them?
Callie settled Paddy and then propped up several pieces of the soft baggage beneath Beth’s head. “It was wise of your husband to limit the baggage,” Callie said approvingly. “I’ve only been in Liverpool two days, but I can tell you it pays to travel light. I’ve seen those with too much baggage who cannot move about without the aid of carts and wagons, and I’ve seen those who were as good as nailed to the spot because they had to sit guard on their boxes and trunks.”
“My Patrick is as smart as men come,” Beth agreed. Not for anything did she want to think about all the household goods Patrick had sold to buy passage across the Atlantic. Not for anything did she want to remember the huge family Bible that had been passed down to her from her mother’s mother, or the fine linen tablecloths, or Paddy’s first pair of shoes, and the low, wooden cradle into which generations of Kellys had placed their newborn babes. Gone, all of it. Never to be seen again.
“Why don’t you take a short nap until your husband comes back? I’ll care for the boy. I’ll tell him a story the way I used to do for my own little brothers. You can trust me, Beth.”
It never occurred to Beth that Callie couldn’t be trusted. Her eyes were already half-closed, and it was a great relief to leave Paddy to another’s care. She knew this pregnancy was a terrible drain on her. She should have convinced Patrick to wait until after the baby was born. But his arguments had made so much sense. “A babe in the arms is more difficult and more vulnerable than one in the belly,” he told her. And what of washing dirty nappies? And where would they find milk if hers gave out as it had with little Paddy? “And besides, think of it, Beth. The first Thatcher born an American citizen!”
Beth had wanted to argue, to find some other answer, but she couldn’t destroy Patrick’s dream. She would never deprive him of anything he wanted or needed. Whatever was best for Patrick was best for her and Paddy. Patrick loved them, so it had to be right.
Paddy cuddled against Callie, and soon he too was asleep. Glancing down at him, she was touched by the delicate blue lines in his eyelids and the unhealthy bright spots in his cheeks. She was certain he was feverish. Tenderly she cradled him closer, remembering tiny Joseph and his lusty, demanding cries. Surely Mrs. Thatcher realized her son was ailing. Or did she, like so many others, attribute her child’s puniness to the hard times they’d suffered?
The day was becoming colder, the wind whipping the relentless rain into wet and clinging curtains. The steamer trip from Dublin to Liverpool had been a trial of endurance. There was no shelter for the passengers; the hogs and poultry between decks enjoyed better accommodations. The inner layers of Callie’s garments were still damp, and the waistband of her drawers and petticoats ch
afed her slender body.
Leaning back against the cold masonry wall, Callie sighed. She knew she should be down at the Black Ball offices seeing to her own passage instead of playing sentry for Beth and Paddy Thatcher. In the two days she had been in Liverpool, she had learned the hard facts of being an emigré. First, no ship sailed until its hold was filled with cargo. In the case of the Yorkshire, the ship on which cousin Owen had booked her, it would be at least another day till sailing. The agent in the ticket office where she had to confirm her passage had pointed out the tall, masted ship as she lay at anchor in the Mersey River, her furled sails hanging like shrouds in the bleak light, her hull lolling in the muddy waters like a huge, black sea bird. Callie had never seen such a preponderance of ships and steamers of all description. The muddy Mersey was trafficked by an endless line of steamers plying up and down the river to various landing places. Steam tugs and small boats with familiar dark red or tan-colored sails that were oiled to resist the wet darted in and out of the larger ships like scurrying insects. Yachts and pleasure boats rode at anchor, the commercial packet boats having precedence for dock space. Most common of all were the small black steamers whizzing industriously along, many of them crowded with passengers.
Resisting the impulse to close her eyes in sleep, Callie decided the ticket agent and the validating of her passage could wait. She was needed here to watch over her charges, to protect them should a cutthroat approach them demanding money or worse. If only there was somewhere to go to eat a proper meal and sleep in a proper bed. Such a thing was impossible, Callie knew. Thousands of people were stranded in the city, many of them seeking nonexistent employment or living the best way they could. Too often a man would find himself the victim of robbery or a poorly dealt game of cards, stripping him of the money he would have used to purchase packet tickets, leaving him and his family with nowhere to go.
The dark and dingy streets were peopled by the poorer than poor. Women openly nursed children at their breasts; men, haggard and often drunk, wandered the roads and byways, sleeping in doorways. Sick and dirty children begged on street corners. It seemed that every few steps there were taverns, and the buildings were plastered with placards advertising strong drink and food. It seemed to Callie that the entire city was geared to the business of emigration—Ship brokers, provision merchants, eating places, and public houses. And everywhere were signs advertising the Cunard Line, the Black Ball Line, and various ships. Public-service posters were squeezed in every available space. One especially chilled Callie to the bone:
Cinders to Satin Page 4
