by Ann Moore
She and the children had walked across dusty prairies and through muddy bogs, had waded across dank creeks that smelled like Hell itself, all in the same clothes for weeks on end, but now at last they could settle in, clean themselves down to the skin for once, and dress in things that didn’t smell of smoke from the buffalo chips they’d used for fuel, of wood smoke, and of the sweat of beast and owner alike. It would be a relief, Grace had to admit. She hadn’t realized how very dirty they all were until Mary Kate was washed in the hospital, the water turning a murky gray as the muck soaked off. Really, she told herself, it was a credit to the doctor that he’d seen their true character beneath the soil and grime, and she renewed her pledge to set his household aright, at least in the manner of its meals.
As evening approached, Grace prepared another tray for Enid to take up to Miss Wakefield, for whom Hopkins had ordered a simple meal of broth. The doctor was not yet returned from hospital, so Grace kept his plate warm while she and Jack sat down at table with Missus Hopkins, Enid, and Mister Litton.
It was an awkward meal at best: Missus Hopkins had little to say, though Grace noticed she ate two servings of the pot pie; Enid was careful around her mother, though she gladly spoke when spoken to and often glanced surreptitiously at Mister Litton, who kept his own eyes firmly on his plate, though he stole a look at Jack once in a while.
“Will you have more, Mister Litton?” Grace asked when his spoon hit the bottom of the bowl.
“No, ma’am. Good eating, though, and thanks.”
Litton got up, pulled on his hat, and left by the back door. His lantern was visible bobbing through the dark as he made his way to his rooms over the stable, and when Grace turned back to the table, she noted that Enid had watched his leaving, as well, though when Grace caught her eye, she blushed and looked down.
“I understand Mister Litton was wounded in the Mexican war,” Grace commented. “I have a brother limps like that. He wears a special shoe on his foot.”
“My uncle Sean,” Jack put in. “I don’t know him yet.”
“He didn’t come with you to the city?” Enid asked.
“No.” Grace scraped up a last bite from the bottom of the bowl onto Jack’s spoon, then left it for him to finish. “We were all together in New York, but then he went on to Utah Territory and I’ve heard nothing from him.”
“Probably dead,” Hopkins stated matter-of-factly. “Being a cripple and all. No place for cripples out here.”
Grace winced, but only Enid noticed.
“Took up with those Mormons, did he?” the housekeeper asked around the chunk of potato in her mouth.
“Aye. When we passed through there, I asked after him. Mostly they didn’t know who he was.”
Grace paused, seeing the tiny, well-run towns clearly in her mind; the citizens of each had eagerly restocked the pioneer wagons with overpriced goods, but no such eagerness was forthcoming when it had come to answering questions about missing relatives who might have joined their number.
“There was one man thought he’d come here with a mining party, another said he’d gone back to New York, and a third said he’d gone up into Canada.”
“They’re all mad,” Hopkins pronounced. “Crazy as loons. Got a nest of them here—Sam Brannan and his. Don’t appear to have more than one wife each, but you can’t be too sure. A closemouthed, clannish bunch. Prideful. Pride is a terrible sin, Enid—you remember that,” she instructed her daughter.
“Mister Brannan is awfully nice, though,” Enid ventured, “always puts his head around the corner to say hello when he comes visiting the master.”
Grace put down her spoon, considering. “Do you think he might know something of my brother?” she asked hopefully. “Especially if he came out here to mine.”
“Doubt it.” Hopkins tongued a bit of gravy from the corner of her mouth. “His lot broke with them in the desert long ago. Goes his own way now, does Sam Brannan. Made a name for himself here, and not likely to share it with that other devil, Brigham Young.”
“You could ask him anyway,” Enid suggested, earning a look of gratitude from Grace. “Next time he comes.”
Hopkins scowled at her daughter. “Quit prattling on, Enid. Time to draw the curtains and turn down the beds.” She stood. “Enid will bring down the tray from upstairs. We will retire until the doctor is safely in, and then we’ll bank the fires and put out the lamps. You are responsible for the stove and the lamps in here, of course.”
“Of course,” Grace echoed. “Thank you, Missus Hopkins. What time will you want your breakfast in the morning?”
“We rise at six. Breakfast for the servants at seven, the master at eight or nine, depending. Miss Wakefield has her coffee at ten.”
Hopkins nudged her daughter with a sharp elbow to the ribs, then jerked her chin at Jack, whose head lay on his outstretched arm.
“Boy’s used to sleeping anywhere, eh, Enid? Don’t have proper beds in Ireland, you know. They sleep on the floor beside the animals for warmth. That is, until they get enough children to keep them warm, then the pigs have to shove over!” She laughed harshly and jabbed her daughter again.
Grace put a hand protectively on Jack’s shoulder. “You’ve never been to Ireland, I guess, or you’d know we have all kinds of living for all kinds of people, same as anywhere.”
“Never been, never will,” Hopkins retorted stiffly. “My Richard was killed in that cursed place. Went over as a soldier to help the miserable papists and got his throat cut for it.”
“I’m sorry for that,” Grace said with quiet dignity. “I lost most of my own family in that time, as well, so I know how you suffer with it. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll put my boy to bed.”
“He’s had a long journey.” Enid gazed tenderly at the little fellow. “Such a nice lad.”
“Lad’s a lad,” Hopkins declared. “They grow into men and do what they want, with little regard for their mothers. Mind that, missus, and don’t waste your affection.” She gave Enid a little shove toward the door, then followed her out, and Grace could hear the scolding tone of her voice and the apology of Enid’s as both faded away down the hall.
“Going to have a hard time with that one, young Jack,” she warned her son in a whisper as she scooped him up into her arms.
Jack roused only long enough to squirm and kick before she placed him on the bed and pulled off his boots, and then he lay like a big rag doll, arms and legs flopping limply as she got the rest of his clothes off him and a nightshirt over his head. There was plenty of bedding, and she tucked the blanket up under his chin, wondering whether he would be warm enough or should she burn a small fire to take the damp off the room.
She decided to wait a while longer and, after kissing his dirty face gently, Grace returned to the kitchen to wash the crockery. She had just finished drying up when she heard Doctor Wakefield’s carryall pull into the yard. Through the window, she could see George Litton’s lantern held high as the doctor climbed down and then reached back into the seat for something. A moment later, George led the horse and buggy toward the stable and the doctor headed for the house, a bundle in his arms. Grace rushed to the door and flung it open.
“Here she is, Missus Donnelly,” Wakefield announced, passing through the kitchen and going directly into Grace’s new rooms. “Oh.” Seeing Jack sound asleep on the bed, he immediately lowered his voice. “I’ll just put her right here, next to him, shall I?”
Grace nodded, her vision swimming. She went to her daughter’s side and looked down into a face still very pale but with a hint of pink from the evening ride.
“Mam.” Mary Kate reached for her mother’s hand. “I didn’t want to stay alone. He said I could come to you.”
Grace kissed her daughter’s fingers. “I didn’t much like going off without you, either, agra, though I knew Sister Joseph would stand over you all night long.” She looked up at the doctor. “Thank you so much for bringing her to us. Is she all right, then?”
“Oh,
yes.” He took off his hat and gloves. “Still requires strict bed rest and steady nourishment to regain her strength, of course, but she’s going to be just fine. Aren’t you, little lady?”
Mary Kate nodded. “Thank you, sir,” she said politely. “This is a very nice house.”
The doctor laughed. “Well, honey, there’s a little more to it than just this. When you’re up and around in a week or so, we’ll give you the grand tour.” He stopped and sniffed the air. “Missus Donnelly, what is that truly delectable smell? It wouldn’t actually be my dinner, would it?”
“Chicken pie and still warm, I’m hoping. Will you eat it in the dining room?”
“If you’ll put it on a plate for me, just this once, Missus Donnelly, I do believe I’ll take it straight up to my room.”
“As you like, Doctor. Be back in a moment, love,” she whispered to Mary Kate.
She dished up a generous amount of pie, then poured out a large glass of ale from the pitcher. When she turned around, there he stood, waiting expectantly, hands out to receive his plate.
“Thank you, Missus Donnelly.” He bathed his face in the steam that rose from the dish, breathing in deeply. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“You’re most welcome, sir.” She had to laugh. “’Tis I who should be thanking you, though.”
“You’re quite comfortable in your accommodations?” he asked solicitously. “I see you need a cot of some sort for the boy. George’ll take care of that for you in the morning.”
“Thank you, sir. And now you really should go and enjoy your meal. Good night, Doctor.”
They smiled at each other, then Grace turned and finished up in the kitchen, wiping off the worktable and putting out the lamps, save the one she used to light her way back into her own rooms. She checked on the children, who were fast asleep, and then realized she herself had no place to lay her head. She laughed softly; well, she’d slept in bunks and hammocks and cots, on ships and wagons and steamboats, on the bare ground and, just this past week, in a chair. She looked around the room—there was always the bench under the window, but oddly, she was no longer tired. In fact, she felt a kind of giddy excitement. It’s because we’re all of us well, she told herself. We’re well and we’re fed and we’re sheltered and I’ve work. They had made it; they were here. From Ireland to America, from the Atlantic all the way to the Pacific—they had come as far as they could; there was nowhere else to go. And now her eyes fell on the one trunk she’d brought with her, and she carried the lamp over to it, sinking to her knees and undoing the latch, lifting the heavy lid and propping it open.
She had not looked at many of these things in a great while, and for a moment she simply ran her fingers over the quilt that covered her treasure, breathed in the smell of old memories. Taking a deep breath, she took out the quilt and wrapped it around her shoulders, then began carefully lifting out her precious things one by one.
Here was the fragile burial cloth she’d embroidered to cover Michael Brian’s wee coffin; here was Blossom, the soft and love-worn doll Granna had made for Mary Kate, and this she set aside to give back to her daughter; beneath it lay the cashmere shawl Grace had brought back from her honeymoon in Dublin for her gran, who loved fine things. Next to that was a bundle of picture postcards, tied up in a green hair ribbon, belonging to Grace’s mother, Kathleen. Grace untied the ribbon and looked at them now, one after the other, touching their soft papery edges and remembering how they’d looked tacked up on the cabin wall. Her mother had loved to gaze upon them—the Mourne Mountains sweeping down to the sea, the cliffs of Kilkee, the grasslands of the Golden Vale, and the sunset at Bantry Bay. She had told her children all the stories of the Ireland she’d loved so deeply, of the sheer beauty of the land and the special people who dwelled thereon.
Setting these aside, Grace then pulled out her mother’s old Bible, which Sean had left behind in New York before he disappeared. Inside, on the flyleaf, was a record of Kathleen’s marriage to Patrick O’Malley, followed by the birth and baptism dates of her children—Ryan, Sean, and Gracelin—all written in her fine hand. Below these, Gran had added the marriage dates: Grace’s to Bram Donnelly, followed by the birthdate of their children; Ryan’s marriage to Aghna, followed by Thomsy’s birthdate. No deaths other than that of Mary Kathleen’s twin brother, Michael Brian, had been recorded—not Gran’s or Grace’s father, Patrick’s, nor those of Ryan’s little family; the only date she knew to enter was Gran’s. She sighed and opened the book further. Safe between the pages were the papers that showed Mary Kathleen as daughter of Bram Donnelly and rightful heir of Donnelly House upon her eighteenth birthday. That had taken some doing, Grace recalled wryly, thinking of Brigid and her grandson—now Philip Donnelly—who lived a far better life with Bram’s brother in England. Grace wondered if Mary Kate would really ever return to Ireland and take possession of the manor; at the very least, it was property she could someday sell, ensuring a personal income so that she might never be dependent upon anyone.
In a corner of the trunk was the wooden box Liam had carved for her—Mother, it said, and that still moved her, for she’d not been his mother for long, nor as good a one as she should’ve been. She hoped that Alice and Seamus, his real parents, could see him now, could see the fine young seaman he’d become under Captain Reinders’ tutelage.
Inside the box was a daguerreotype of Mighty Dugan Ogue in his boxing togs; Grace looked at this for a long time, rubbing the knuckle of the finger he’d broken while saving her life. Dugan and Tara had been her most loyal friends in New York, and she still missed the sound of their voices ringing through the busy saloon.
Also folded into Liam’s box was a letter that Grace took out now and held to her heart, closing her eyes. Weep for me and then be done with weeping, for I am watching over you as I never could before. She knew it all by heart, every word; she had carried it on her person for a very long time, but when Jack was returned to her, she’d been able to pack it away. She packed it away now, next to the ring Morgan’s sister Aislinn had given Mary Kate—the ring with the piece of Connemara stone—next to the small gold hoops he’d worn in his ears and the thick gold wedding band Lord Evans had presented him with at the moment of their wedding. The band she wore on her own hand had belonged to his mother, and she had never taken it off. Would never take it off, unless … She shook her head, tired now, but peaceful.
She put her precious things away and closed the trunk carefully, then stood, the quilt still wrapped around her shoulders. She turned down the lamp, and darkness filled the room, along with the steady, gentle sounds of sleeping children. Her children. Nothing was more precious to her than they. She kissed them both gently and stroked their hair, then curled up in a chair beside them, watching over them as she always did, until the darkness of night gave way to morning’s light.
Six
The day he limped into town and saw the Pacific Ocean, Sean O’Malley knew that he had come as far as he was ever going to go. This was the end; he felt it. No matter how many more years he lived, he had finally arrived at the rest of his life.
San Francisco was a sinner’s paradise, all the more recognizable from the perspective of a fallen Saint, and Sean breathed a sigh of relief—the struggle was over; he would simply give in and enjoy the ride down. Even the smell was appropriate: fresh sea breezes and pine skating along the surface of a civic stench of raw sewage, pools of stagnant water, raw lumber, acrid tar—the smell of a city in the making, the smell of success. Did it dry your throat? Make you thirsty? Step into any saloon any hour of any day: Whiskey poured as if from pumps so that dusty miners just in from the fields might slake their thirst immediately, might begin spending their money within the first moments of their arrival in the City of Gold. They drank like none others Sean had ever seen, they gambled with a vengeance, they whored every night, fought like sailors, cavorted, rioted, mobbed. And then they banked what was left of their money, picked up guns and ammunition and fresh supplies, and headed bac
k into the fields for months of backbreaking work, their places at the bar taken by the next round of miners dusty and dry, the next group of emigrants ready to go. Sean watched them from his place at the end of the counter, from his table in the back, from the window of his boardinghouse. The ebb and flow of humanity was fascinating to him; you never knew what the tide might bring in.
From the direction of the sea, what washed up on the shore were Irishmen the like of which Sean loved best—“Sydney Covers,” the locals called them, as they were convicts from Australia, criminals of a seditious and political ilk, the Young Irelanders of home. Sean was not one of this crowd, not anymore; he had failed his own people in more ways than one and so he kept to himself. But he could not help listening to their talk, though it made him so sick for home he drank more than ever.
From his stool at the end of the bar, he soon learned that a steady stream of convicts from the penal colonies in Van Diemen’s Land were making their way first to Hawaii and then to San Francisco, where they received a hero’s welcome. His old friend Terence MacManus—though a Liverpool native, still one of Smith O’Brien’s greatest supporters—had landed in San Francisco in 1851 and hadn’t been able to turn round without having a glass pushed into his hand. The extradition treaty between Britain and the United States was gleefully ignored by American judges when it came to political prisoners, and each escape from the penal colonies was heralded from coast to coast. MacManus had stayed in San Francisco for a while, trying his hand at the shipping business, but had been no match for the East Coast traders, and now word was he’d taken up ranching. Sean privately wished him well, even lifted a glass each time his name was mentioned—or the names William Smith O’Brien, John Mitchell, Thomas Meagher, Morgan McDonagh, but not Sean O’Malley … he choked on that drink. When his own name was raised in the company of these great men, he simply hung his head in shame, glad that he’d come to the end of the road and no one would know him again.
