'Til Morning Light

by Ann Moore

  “Still out in Van Diemen’s Land. He’s not well, by all accounts, but Jenny and the boys sailed out to live with him, you know.”

  “That’ll be some comfort. I don’t suppose anyone’s ever heard what happened to Sean?”

  Julia shook her head. “I think that’s one of the reasons Grace is going farther west. She’ll travel through Utah Territory and, if he’s still alive, maybe she can find him.”

  “’Tis a vast place,” Abban marveled. “Like looking for a needle in a haystack, I suppose. And if he’d wanted to be found, he would’ve been by now.”

  “I just don’t know. So many people have simply disappeared for one reason or another.”

  “But some are found again, as well.” Abban looked back over his shoulder to where Barbara and Aislinn stood talking in front of the window, each with a twin riding on her hip. “Thank you, Julia.”

  “Thank yourself,” she replied. “I just run around the country shaking people down for money. You and Barbara do the hard work.”

  “’Tis a job I’m glad to do after all’s been said and done.” He put out his hand. “I’ve kept you long enough. You’d best go on while the light’s still good.”

  “Good-bye, then, Abban.” She shook his hand warmly. “I’ll see you soon.”

  “Kiss little Aiden for me. Aiden Elizabeth Wilkes,” he sounded it out slowly. “’Tis a strong, strong name you’ve given her.”

  “Aye, she’ll need it with me as her mam!”

  They both laughed, and then Julia climbed into the carriage and gave the order to her driver. Barbara and Aislinn rushed out to the gate, and they all watched the carriage go back down the road, Julia waving to them from the window.

  “Well.” Abban turned to Aislinn after Julia’s carriage had rounded the last bend before disappearing from sight. “Shall I take your young nephew, there, and give you a chance to settle in?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to hold him a while longer.” She picked up Nally’s chubby fist and kissed the curled fingers.

  “Then you go right ahead.” Abban tussled the boy’s hair. “I expect you’ll be chasing him about the yard with a broom soon enough—he’s a handful, our Nally. Takes after his grandda, I hear.”

  “Aislinn was always good with our da. Maybe she’ll have the same effect on his namesake.” Barbara winked at her sister.

  Aislinn laughed and twirled the little boy around in her arms, then lifted him high to see the look of sheer delight on his face, and when it appeared, something burst free in her heart, and she held him again tightly in her arms. She had not been surrounded by so many children since her childhood, when she’d been one of nine in a neighborhood where almost every house had as many, and it was a crowded, chaotic, familiar feeling that washed over and around her, bathing her in peace.

  That night, they all gathered around the table—Abban, Barbara, Declan and Nally, their auntie Aislinn; the hired help, Peigi O’Reardon and Gavin Donohue; six more boys in addition to the Alroy twins and six girls, ranging in age from four years to thirteen—faces flushed from being outside in the cool autumn air, eyes sparkling in the light of candles and lanterns, all on their best behavior for what must surely be an honored guest, so beautiful was the woman in her shimmering blue gown. Barbara passed the bread—she always made sure to have plenty of that—while her husband ladled out the potato soup, and when everyone had food in front of them, they all looked to Abban at the head of the table to lead them in prayer. When it was done, they still sat quietly, eyes wide.

  “Go on, now,” Barbara urged. “Pick up your spoons. It’s not like any of you to be shy. ’Tis only my sister, Miss McDonagh. She’s going to live with us now, but I promise she won’t bite.” Barbara’s eyes twinkled.

  There was a long pause as they all considered the fact of Missus Alroy having a sister and that this glamorous creature was going to live with them in the old schoolhouse.

  Maeve, the wise eight-year-old at the opposite end of the table, overcame her shyness and asked, “Have you lost all your family like us, miss, and that’s why you’ve come?”

  “Aye.” Aislinn put her hand over Barbara’s. “All but my sister, and she’s been kind enough to take me in.”

  “Mister Alroy and missus are good at caring for folk.” Maeve looked to her surrogate siblings for confirmation, all of whom were nodding in agreement. “Welcome then, miss, and we’re glad to have you.”

  “Welcome, miss,” the children repeated shyly, each one giving up a smile of encouragement to their newest member.

  Aislinn squeezed Barbara’s hand, not daring to look at her for fear of spilling tears. Instead, she let her eyes travel from face to young face, seeing in them the images of her lost brothers and sisters, her neighbors, her baby.

  “Thank you, dear children,” she said to them all. “It’s good to be with family again.”

  “And friends,” Gavin added, his eyes meeting hers over the table. “You’ve friends now, as well, Miss McDonagh.”

  His steady gaze was uncomplicated; Aislinn saw only the strength and clarity she had missed in people. “I see that I do, Mister Donohue, and I’m glad for it.”

  “My friends call me Gavin”—he grinned now—“when they’re not calling me the names I can’t say at table.”

  The older children sitting on either side of him laughed and shoved into him affectionately.

  “Gavin was beat up by the guards,” Maeve offered, proudly. “For smashing a store window and stealing food. They put him in jail.”

  The young man’s face reddened, but he did not hang his head. “Stealing’s wrong, Maeve, and I’m sorry for it.” He shrugged slightly. “Best to leave some things behind, wouldn’t you say, Miss McDonagh? Get on with the living instead?”

  The table was silent; Abban and Barbara exchanged a look that held in it all the things of their own they’d left behind.

  Aislinn set down her spoon and put her hands in her lap. “Easier said than done, Mister Donohue. But I’m going to try my best.”

  “Gavin,” he reminded her quietly.

  “And I’m Aislinn.” She smiled at him. “Now pass the bread.”

  Eleven

  All Saints’ Day dawned wet and cold, marking the end of their warm autumn weather. Rain splattered against the windows and dripped from the eaves, flattened the long brown grass, filled the road with puddles, and turned the yard to mud. Grace found that instead of dampening her spirits, this weather that was familiar from her youth somehow revitalized her. She had never minded rain, didn’t mind it now, so long as the cold was not so great. It could rain every day until Christmas and she’d have no complaints, just no snow, please, and none of those icy blizzards she feared so greatly.

  Grace pushed the heels of her hands more deeply into the bread dough, kneading it until it was silky and smooth, and then she placed it in a crockery bowl near the fire to rise. Wiping her hands on her apron, she glanced at Jack, who sat on the mudroom steps, plucking the first of four fine ducks. Doctor Wakefield, who enjoyed a day of sport now and then, had bagged them on an outing with his friend Doctor Fairfax. Litton had established a blind for them on a lake up the valley, just an hour’s ride from here, and there they’d waited for the unsuspecting birds, firing upon them as they lit upon the water, then sending the dogs out to bring them in. Scout had remained in the stable, still recovering from the birth of her litter, but Doctor Wakefield had been proud of the new dog, a fine black Labrador retriever, who had worked tirelessly the day long, reveling in the cold and muck of the marshland.

  Jack had watched them ride out in the morning, watched with a longing that had not gone unnoticed by the doctor. Wakefield had bent down and solemnly promised the little boy that he would take him out on one of these trips, show him how to shoot and run the dogs. Jack had insisted that he already knew how to shoot, but Wakefield had laughed and pointed out that gentlemen did not hunt with pistols. Stung, Jack had hung his head, but Wakefield had restored his dignity by putt
ing him in charge of Scout and her pups. Jack had embraced the task with great enthusiasm and now spoke of the burgeoning puppies with an owner’s proud air.

  “How are the birds coming along, son?” Grace asked him now, smiling at his industry.

  “Fine, Mam,” Jack answered, surrounded by feathers—in his hair, on his jacket, stuck to his chin, floating around the mudroom. “I’m getting ’em all in the sack, as you said.”

  “Aye.” She laughed. “I can see you’re trying. Remember—the more you sack, the softer your pillow.”

  Reminded of that, he bent his head over the task and plucked with even greater deliberation, spitting out the odd pinfeather that attached itself to his tongue.

  “And how’re you coming along with those?” Grace turned her attention to her daughter, who sat at the table, a bowl of freshly scrubbed potatoes at one elbow, a pile of thick orange carrots at the other.

  “Oh, fine,” Mary Kate said, scraping the carrots; the paring knife slipped suddenly and marked her finger, drawing blood.

  “Pay attention, there, girl,” Grace admonished, seeing now the other nicks and cuts on her daughter’s hand. “Are you writing stories in that head of yours again, or are you peeling carrots for our dinner?”

  “Peeling carrots.” Mary Kate smiled apologetically. “But, Mam?” Her hands paused. “Do you suppose Captain Reinders and Liam might be the prisoners of terrible pirates?”

  “Pirates?” Grace frowned. “Why would you be thinking that?”

  “Well.” Mary Kate set the knife and carrot down. “You know how pirates love gold and treasure and all that.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “And them in the hills, they’re digging nothing but gold still, aren’t they, Mam?”

  “Aye. Get to the point, girl.”

  “Well, what I’m thinking is that a smart pirate would be laying in wait out there beyond the harbor, ready to attack an innocent ship and rob it of its treasure. And once they’d gotten it, they’d—”

  “Kill the crew!” Jack stood in the doorway, eyes wide, holding a half-plucked duck by the neck. “Run ’em through with their cutlasses!” He thrust his free hand in the air, making the gesture.

  “All right, that’s enough,” Grace scolded. “Captain Reinders and Liam have not been captured by pirates, let alone killed by them.” She shot Mary Kate a warning look. “And you know better than to spin a tale like that in front of Jack.”

  “Ah, Mam.” Jack shook the duck at her. “You don’t know nothing ’bout pirates.”

  “Jack McDonagh.” Grace put her hands on her hips. “You get yourself back to work, now, boy, and I don’t want to hear another word out of you about what I do or do not know.”

  He scowled but went back to his stool and sat down. “Yeah, well, you don’t know Calico Bill or Captain Kidd,” he muttered.

  “Oh, and you do?” she replied, then instantly regretted taking the bait.

  “Aye! Mary Kate’s been reading out to me, and we know all about them scurvy bastards.”

  “Jack!” Even Mary Kate was shocked. “Mam, I never did teach him anything like that,” she insisted.

  Grace bit the inside of her cheek very hard, determined to put the fear of God into her precocious young man.

  “Young Jack,” she warned darkly, “if you ever talk to me like that again, I’ll tan your backside and give you nothing but porridge to eat for a fortnight.”

  He glowered and kicked the chair leg.

  “And no more stories at bedtime,” she added. “No books, no stories. For an entire year.”

  Jack was instantly contrite. “Sorry. Sorry, Mam.” He looked to his sister. “Sorry, Mary Kate. You’ll read still, won’t you?”

  “Only if you behave, Jack,” Mary Kate said, sounding very much like her mother. “Now get back to your work.”

  They all resumed their tasks in a heavy silence—Jack plucking with a grim stoicism, Mary Kate slicing vegetables, their mother snipping dried herbs and grinding spices to season the fowl—when suddenly Grace burst out laughing, unable to hold it in any longer.

  “Pirates!” She shook her head and wiped her eyes. “I don’t know which of you’s the worst. I really don’t.”

  Jack and Mary Kate hesitated, then began to laugh as well, relieved at the dissipation of tension in the room. The children lived for their mother—they were happiest when she was happy, lightest when she was light, least anxious when she moved about with purpose and direction.

  “I want you to know this.” Grace was still smiling, but serious now; she turned so that both of the children could see her face. “Liam and the captain can take care of themselves wherever they are. They don’t know we’re here in San Francisco, or they’d’ve come back straightaway. But we’re fine until they do come back—do you understand me?”

  Mary Kate nodded, then Jack did the same.

  “We’ve a roof over us and warm beds. And plenty to eat,” Grace added this last for her daughter’s sake. “Are you both happy here—for now? Are you, Mary Kate?”

  “Oh, aye. Doctor Wakefield says I can have books from his library.”

  “That’s right,” Grace confirmed. “And you, Jack, are you happy enough here?”

  Jack shrugged indifferently, but then his face brightened a bit. “I’m in charge of the puppies,” he announced. “And maybe I’ll get one of my very own.”

  “So we’re fine for now,” Grace stated. “And when Liam and the captain return, well … then we’ll decide what to do from there.”

  Mary Kate put down the paring knife. “Will you marry him, Mam?”

  Jack’s hands paused over the bird, waiting for his mother’s reply.

  “I’m thinking I might,” Grace answered carefully. “Will you want a da, do you suppose?”

  “Is he a hero, like mine?” Jack asked.

  Grace thought of how Peter had overseen the rescue of Lily’s children from South Carolina. “Aye,” she told the boy. “He is.”

  Mary Kate lowered her eyes, her hands limp on the table. Grace saw this and came to the table immediately, sitting down close beside her so that their shoulders touched.

  “Your da was a good man as well, Mary Kate. ’Twas the terrible times turned his character.” She took her daughter’s hand. “He had many fine qualities and you’ve got the best of those,” she said firmly. “Never forget that you’re the granddaughter of Lord Donnelly, and when you’re eighteen, you shall inherit the manor house and lands back home in Ireland.”

  “But you loved Jack’s da best,” Mary Kate pronounced. “You loved Morgan most of all.”

  “I loved your da, too, and I wanted to be a good wife for him.” Grace paused. “When Bram Donnelly died and Morgan asked me to marry, I saw then that I’d always loved him—since we were children, only I never knew it.”

  “And then he died.” Mary Kate knew the story well.

  “Then he died,” Grace repeated. “But you and I went on. We came to America, we got Liam and lived with Uncle Sean, we went to Boston to live with Lily, and now we’re here in the West.”

  “Do you love Captain Reinders like you loved Morgan and my da?” Mary Kate asked.

  Jack had come into the doorway again.

  “I think I do. I …” She hesitated. “There are many kinds of love, you know. ’Tis hard to make sense of them all.”

  “I’ll not take a husband,” Mary Kate resolved firmly.

  “And why not?” Grace was surprised.

  “Too sad when they die.”

  “Nor I,” Jack piped up. “No husbands for me.”

  Grace and Mary Kate looked at each other and had to laugh.

  “No wives,” Mary Kate told him. “Boys marry wives.”

  “Oh.” Jack frowned, hating to be corrected, and retreated to his stool.

  Grace picked up Mary Kate’s hand and kissed it, then pressed it against her cheek, thinking of what to say to this young girl.

  “Well, they don’t always die, agra,” she remin
ded her gently. “You can’t have the promise of a long life with them, but you can always hope for one. A little time is better than no time a’tall, don’t you think?”

  Mary Kate shrugged her little shoulders.

  “What of the children you have together?” Grace pressed.

  “Then everyone is sad,” the girl said simply. “’Tis too hard to care for the babies with no husband to help you. You could marry another man only for the help of him, but you’d still be sad.” She kept her eyes on the table. “You’d still cry at night for the one you loved most of all.”

  The impact of those words forced Grace to sit back in her chair and take a good look at her daughter, at the child she’d towed halfway around the world, through misery and mayhem, the child who had grown even wiser than Grace herself had suspected. She thought hard, knowing she would have to be honest if her daughter were to have any faith at all in the future.

  “Your life, agra, will not be like mine,” Grace began. “I couldn’t protect you from all that happened to us, and I’m sorry for that. Very, very sorry.” She bit her lip, feeling the rise of emotion in her chest. “But you cannot be afraid of what might happen. A heart cannot be locked away, and truly you are strong enough to love someone with your whole heart. You are.” Grace smiled into her daughter’s eyes. “Haven’t you lived through more in your nine years than most people in their lifetimes? And I cannot wait to see what you’ll make of it all, what you’ll become in the world, because you are”—she sought the word—“magnificent.”

  Mary Kate’s eyes filled with tears and she let her mother hold her.

  “Love does not run out,” Grace promised quietly. “You’ll always have enough, no matter what happens. Only you have to believe ’tis there; you must have faith in it.”

  “I love you, Mam,” Mary Kate told her. “And Jack. I love Dugan and Tara and their Caolon. And Lily and Jan, Sam and Ruthie, Mary and Sol, all the Frees. And I love Uncle Sean.”

  All the people we left behind. Grace closed her eyes.

  “And most of all, I love Liam. I miss him, and what if I never see him again?”

  “Me, too,” Jack said suddenly, having come all the way into the room. He pushed himself between Grace and Mary Kate, putting an arm around them both. “What if I never see him again, too?”