Songs of the Shenandoah

by Michael K. Reynolds

  No. This land of opportunity had been their savior. Not only for herself, but for her brothers and sister, who had made new lives for themselves; lives not so dependent on the whims of nature or the cruel provision of fate.

  And although her brothers Seamus and Davin had scattered to the far ends of this country, in gold-rich California, she was comforted by knowing she had assisted in their arrival to these nurturing shores, to a place where their bowls would never be empty and through effort and innovation, their dreams were always in reach.

  America was a place of blessing where someone like herself, her siblings, and her children could rise above their given standing and declare their own destiny.

  Yet something troubled Clare, for she knew in her heart that they left something behind in the ship taking them all from Cork Harbour to the promised land. A memory forgotten. A voice that was silenced.

  “What’s wrong?” Andrew placed his hand on her arm and looked into her eyes with a yearning to heal.

  Clare shook her head. She regretted wearing her concerns so obviously. This was not the time for such a discussion. “I was just thinking of home.”

  Andrew was about to speak but then paused and turned toward the telegraph as gasps came out of several people, and those who had nodded off to sleep were given heavy tugs on their arms.

  All attention was focused in silence on the brass head of the telegraph machine, which now danced with tapping rhythms of change.

  Chapter 1

  Christmas in Manhattan

  Manhattan, New York

  December 1860

  Clare had been anticipating this moment for more than a decade.

  It was to be the most glorious Christmas dinner of her life, with her cherished guests about to arrive, and she was intent on making every detail of her hospitality an expression of the profound love she felt for her family.

  After all of this time and separated by so many distant miles of untamed territories, they would be home at last.

  She stepped back, raised her hand to her chin, and considered the placement of the candles that were set in brass holders, tied with golden ribbons, and placed on a red silk runner, which went down the center and spilled over the sides of a long cherry table.

  The flames rising from the wicks and those emanating from wood crackling in the marble-framed fireplace combined to light up the spacious dining room and cause shadowy figures to shift on the walls between painted portraits and landscapes.

  The pine boughs she had weaved so delicately on the shelving and mantelpiece of the room smelled of fresh-cut evergreen. These scents blended with those from the mistletoe arranged on the table and the potpourri simmering in a copper kettle at the foot of the fire, providing a festive symphony of Christmastime aromas.

  Garret, with his black tussle of curls, had his back to her, his knees perched on the bay-window ledge, fogging up the glass as he waited anxiously for the arrival of relatives he had known only through letters and photographs.

  Standing beside Clare, her sister polished the crystal drinking glasses around the table with the aid of a napkin. The flickering candlelight splashed delicately on Caitlin’s face, who at thirty years with her long, wavy blond hair, high cheekbones, and fair complexion appeared much younger.

  “This one is quite chipped.” Caitlin held the glass up to Clare.

  “If you look closely, you’ll see they all have their blemishes, I am afraid. Much the same as me.” Clare reached down and picked up one of the china dishes. “Look at these poor fellows. If they survive this . . . last supper, it will be only due to God’s mercy.”

  Clare held up one of the silver knives, tarnished beyond repair, and sighed. “Oh to see what has become of all of this! If Andrew’s mother were still with us, she would no doubt have good reason to lecture her daughter-in-law. A sad caretaker of the Royce empire I have proven to be.”

  Caitlin plucked the piece of silverware from her sister’s hand and laid it in its proper place on the table. “These are different times. Troubling times. There is victory in . . . just maintaining our position.”

  “What I would do to maintain. What a glorious ring that word has to it. No, we slip further with each day.” Clare glanced at her fingertips. “And I have calluses to prove how precipitously we hang on.”

  The harmonies of well-sung Christmas songs wafted through the window. “What’s this I hear?” Clare headed to the window.

  “Ma,” Garret said, without turning. “There’s carolers coming.”

  “What a welcome sound to our evening.” Caitlin nodded to her sister to join them.

  “Enough fussing about the cutlery.” Clare squeezed her son’s shoulder. “I should be ashamed to be bantering about such things on this of all evenings.”

  The three of them peered out the window, smiles warming their faces as they gazed through the misty veil of the falling snow. There, under the gaslight, was a gathering of seven sharply dressed singers, the women in bonnets and colorful dresses and the men sporting tall hats and tailored coats. Each stood closely together and were wrapped tightly in scarfs as steam rose with each Yuletide verse they sang.

  As she savored the words and muted melodies of the song, Clare whispered a prayer of thanks for this neighborhood she lived in and this house, a fieldstone two-story structure that despite sorely needing new paint still rose above the others on her block.

  “Should we go outside?” Garret turned and smiled sweetly, but his eye had swollen even more in the past hour, and it was darkening.

  Clare had almost forgot about his fight earlier in the day with the boys at the park. “Oh, that looks dreadful, son.” She put her hand on his cheek. “If only you had the sense to ignore them and just walk away.”

  “You know I won’t allow them to speak of you and Da so unkindly.”

  “What did they say to you?” Caitlin asked. “I hadn’t heard.”

  Garret looked to Clare for permission to answer, which she grudgingly provided with a nod.

  “They don’t like Ma’s writing in the newspaper.” He turned to face the window, his freckled cheeks reflecting in the glass. “They say she hates her own people and wishes she was a Negro slave.”

  “Who said these horrible words?” Her eyes wide, Caitlin looked to Clare. “You should have told those . . . dreadful whelps . . . that your dear mother has been the greatest gift to the Irish this city has ever laid eyes on. No one has done more for her people than—Oh my, who is that precious little girl playing in the snow?”

  Clare peered outside and her entire body tensed. She tapped her knuckles on the window. “Ella Royce! You come in here immediately.”

  Garret looked back with his mouth agape. “Ma, you’re going to scare away the carolers.”

  In a few moments the front door snapped open and Clare’s daughter entered the dining room with guilty and moist steps, her brown hair flecked with snow and her face ruby red from the cold. Ella was wearing only a blue cotton dress, and she had a latticed apron folded up to hold some concealed items that appeared precious to her.

  Clare propped her palms on her waist. “What a sight is this! Your clothes are all but ruined and you most assuredly have caught a chill. And what . . . what are you hiding there?”

  The child shook her head and appealed to her aunt Cait with sappy brown eyes for some sort of support, which, as always, she was all too willing to provide.

  Caitlin bent over and carefully opened the girl’s apron and peeked in. “Well if those aren’t the most well-formed snowballs I’ve ever seen. May I?” When Ella nodded, Caitlin pulled out one of the white frozen orbs and held it up with reverence as if it were hand chipped from marble.

  “Do you know the effort we’ve gone to get this house and you decorated in the spirit of Christmas?” Clare glared at her sister who had her hands to her lips, her mouth threatening to open in laughter
. “And you are villain as well for your encouragement.” Clare turned to her daughter. “Now what madness would cause you to go out in the storm . . . dressed as such, and bring those . . . snowballs into this home, young lady?”

  Ella bit her lip and glanced over to her brother and then Caitlin. “I fetched them for Garret. It will make his eye feel better.”

  The words pierced Clare’s matronly scowl, and she rubbed her hand on her face. Then she bent down with a deep breath of apology and kissed Ella on her head. “And that, my kind heart, is why we named you after your grandmama.”

  She glanced back out the window to see if the carolers remained, but they had moved on and the snow now drifted down in heavy flakes with the flutter of butterflies. “Oh dear, I hope it will be safe to travel. To come all of the way from California, thousands of miles, only to perish in the streets of New York City on their way from the harbor.”

  “Seamus, the mountain man turned pastor, and young Davin the famed gold miner?” Caitlin exchanged a look with Clare and they both laughed. “How could they stray? One finds lost souls and the other lost treasures.”

  “We certainly could use strengthening of both our faith and fortunes.” Clare glanced at the clock on the wall. “Andrew, Andrew, my dear husband, why are you taking so long?”

  Just at that moment, a clamor came from the front entranceway and both of the children went running for the door.

  “Oh my, they are here.” Clare fanned her face with her hand, suddenly feeling flush.

  Clare entered the hallway just as Andrew walked in through the door, his tall frame bent over while toting two large cases, with a smaller one tucked under his arm. He lumbered over and set them down noisily, then he removed his round spectacles, swept his hand through his blond hair, and shook snow from it to the floor.

  Behind him came a woman, who even through her travel weariness, was eloquent with her chartreuse dress, black feathered hat, and long auburn curls draping down.

  “You must be Ashlyn.” Clare met the woman’s large brown eyes, held out her arms, and embraced her. She wanted dearly to kiss the woman on the cheek in joy. Was this not the dear creature who had transformed Seamus’s life? Could there be a greater angel?

  Clare held her firmly for a few moments, and when she pressed back she saw a young girl in the doorway, who she knew to be almost thirteen, disheveled by the journey and seeming overwhelmed by the attention.

  Caitlin stepped up and hugged the girl. “And this is Grace?”

  Footsteps could be heard and Clare’s heart leapt with anticipation and she began to cry and covered her mouth. Carrying several cases himself was her brother Seamus, and Andrew grabbed the cases from him and set them down with the others.

  Seamus stood up straight, dusting off snow from the sleeves of his black wool coat, and he appeared to Clare as handsome as ever with his slender build, long black sideburns, and the effervescent blue Hanley eyes. She tried to avoid looking at the scar on the side of his cheek, which was surprisingly tame considering it had been the result of a branding iron—his punishment for being a deserter in the war with Mexico.

  His face erupted in a broad smile, and his arms outstretched. “Come here you, my precious oldest.” When Clare came, he pulled her in and lifted her from her feet as she hooted and cried. Then he reached out and drew in Caitlin as well.

  There were some grunting noises and then a man’s voice. “Where should these go?”

  Clare looked up to see two carriage drivers backing in a couple of leather-strapped trunks piled on top of each other.

  “Right here, I’ll help you with that.” Andrew guided them to the far edge of the hallway. “We’ll stack them neatly. What do we have? About four or five more trips?”

  One of the carriage drivers who was short with silver hair rubbed his hands together for warmth. “At least that and probably more.”

  Clare laughed. “Well, I suppose you would have quite a bit of baggage.”

  “Oh no.” Seamus pointed to the bags he carried in. “Those few there are the only ones that are ours. We had to hire a separate carriage to bring in your little brother’s belongings.”

  “Davin?” Clare peered out the door as the breeze carried in a flurry of snowflakes. “Where is he?”

  “Meeting a bloke of his.” Seamus gave Ashlyn a knowing glance, and she pursed her elegant lips and lowered her head. “His business partner as it is. Said he would be a tad late for sup and was hoping it wouldn’t be a bother to your plans.”

  Clare noticed Seamus wasn’t wearing a minister’s collar. Perhaps it was too uncomfortable for the long voyage. “Of course we won’t mind.”

  Seamus tugged on the fingers of his glove to take them off. “Seeing as my little brudder tabbed our trains, coaches, and ferries, it was no discomfort to carry his bags.” Seamus cleared his throat. “Have we been properly acquaintanced?” He bent down and extended a hand to Garret, who along with his sister was standing somewhat in awe of their new guests.

  Garret shook the hand meekly and Ella took a step back, subdued with her shyness.

  Clare was reminded how deeply she cared for Seamus. Since he was a boy and was tormented so by their father, she was the one who always intervened, who understood his thoughts, and who ached when he did.

  Which was why she was concerned as she watched him interact with her children. Something was wrong. He hadn’t shared it in any of his recent letters, and he was always capable of covering up his problems with Irish cheer.

  But she could tell. There was a sadness behind the curtains of his soul.

  Chapter 2

  The Dinner

  “Do you think we should send after him?” Clare didn’t know whether she was more angry or worried. After all of these years apart, why wouldn’t Davin want to come directly to see them all?

  They had finished dinner more than an hour ago, cleaned up the table and kitchen, and since moved to the sitting parlor, where they rested in the faded upholstered chairs and couches. Muriel, who appeared the part of an Irish maid, with her young face, red hair, and white apron, served everyone evening tea.

  What a gift from God Muriel had been to the Royce family! With their inability to afford to hire any help, they were so fortunate to discover this sharp-witted treasure, who provided her precious assistance with the children and the house chores in exchange for lodging and board. She had only been here for a couple of months but had already become part of the clan.

  Andrew glanced up from the fire he was lighting. “Would you like me to go out and about to see if we can find your brother?”

  “Where would you start?” Clare looked to Seamus sitting on a couch with Ashlyn, who sat with proper Southern elegance. “Did Davin inform you of where he was heading?”

  Seamus held out a cup and saucer to Muriel, and once it was filled with the steaming fluid, he handed it his wife. “I wouldn’t go fussing about Davin. How old was he when you last saw him? Eleven, right?”

  Ashlyn rolled her eyes, dipped a spoon in the sugar bowl, and then lifted it to her cup. “Your little Davin is now quite a dandified man.”

  “But I quite liked him the way he was.” Clare sighed. “Is he that changed?”

  “’Fraid so.” Seamus smiled. “One day he was this kind, considerate, and innocent boy, and then suddenly, well, you’ll find out soon enough.”

  “How unkind of you, Seamus.” Caitlin frowned. “Didn’t you say he covered the cost of your travel?”

  Seamus lifted Ashlyn’s hand and caressed it. “Oh, I love my little brudder well enough, that’s for certain. Why, he stowed away on a ship for many thousand miles, just to seek me out. And find me he did.” He looked at his wife. “It’s just . . . we worry about him. Since . . . you know.”

  Ashlyn grinned. “I believe my husband is about to preach his most famous sermon. And a most unpopular one in the foothills of th
e Sierra range.”

  Seamus lowered his head and clasped his hands. “Thins out the congregation a bit when you preach about the evils of the yellow rock in gold country of all places.”

  “It seems we’re all preaching something unpopular these days.” Andrew put his arm around Clare. “My wife pontificates with the pen. She has become the voice of abolition. Must be a Hanley tradition to row upstream as they throw rocks from the banks. Even Caitlin is of service to the Underground Railroad.”

  “The Underground Railroad?” Surprise laced Ashlyn’s tone.

  “Yes.” Clare looked for disapproval in the woman’s face. Ashlyn remained a mystery to her. Was she the source of her brother’s melancholy? “Caitlin has been part of the movement for years. Why, even Muriel has taken interest in it as of late.”

  Muriel shook her head. “I’ve merely attended a few meetings.” She placed the teapot on the table, sat beside Caitlin, and folded her brown cotton dress beneath her.

  “And,” Clare added, “Muriel’s been assisting us at the newspaper as well. Our sweet lady here holds many surprises.” She lifted her teacup and eyed her sister-in-law. “What about you, Ashlyn? Seamus boasts about you in his letters. And of your baby orphanage.”

  Ashlyn withdrew her hand from Seamus. “Yes. But unfortunately that . . . was closed, I am sad to say.”

  Seamus winced. “The crash in San Francisco was difficult for all of us. Banks closed. Merchants failed. Donations were a wee chore to come by. And this was at the same time that I . . . well, we . . . thought it was time to move closer to the mountains. Seek out a new ministry.”

  “Yes.” Ashlyn took Seamus’s hand again and rubbed it. She met Clare’s probing gaze. “You would have been proud of your brother. Never has a man put so much braveness in trying to start a church.”

  Unspoken questions hung in the air as a lull lingered for a few awkward moments.

  “And what a wonderful father he has been to Grace.” Ashlyn glanced into her husband’s eyes with adoration.