'Til Morning Light

by Ann Moore

  “Oh, my darling girl,” he murmured in her ear. “I’ve missed you more than you’ll ever know.”

  Mary Kate pulled away and looked into his eyes. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere, Uncle Sean,” she informed him matter-of-factly.

  “Have you, now?” Sean replied, voice breaking. “Well, you found me at last.” He kissed her again and set her down, though he kept ahold of her hand. “And who is this fine young man?” he asked, looking at Jack.

  The little boy came closer but stood next to his mother, pushing himself into her skirts.

  “This”—Grace swallowed hard and put a hand on his head—”this is John Paul Morgan McDonagh. But we call him Jack.”

  A sob escaped Sean’s lips, but he controlled himself enough to ask Grace, “How in Heaven’s name …?”

  “Julia Martin had him all along. Cared for him, then brought him to me in Boston.”

  Sean shook his head in wonder, then looked down at the little boy, who watched him cautiously. “Will you shake my hand, young Jack? I’m your uncle Sean, and I knew your da.”

  Jack stepped away from his mother and put out a small hand, which Sean took in both of his.

  “Aren’t you just like him, then? Like when we were boys.” Sean’s eyes met Grace’s. “’Tis a miracle, this.”

  “Aye.” She nodded tearfully. “All of it.”

  “Mei Ling.” Sean looked at her, standing quietly behind the counter, hands in her sleeves, head bowed. “Did you do this?”

  The room was still as all eyes turned to the young woman, who raised her head, looked at Sean, and nodded. “Family,” Mei Ling pronounced with quiet dignity, “is all.”

  “Aye.” Sean went to her and put his arms around her. “Family is all. Thank you, Mei Ling. Thank you.”

  There was a great deal to explain; Sean closed and locked the shop and took everyone back to his house, where Mei Ling made them tea, surprised that they remained in the kitchen with her, surprised when they pulled chairs around the table, including one for her. She sat in their midst, hands warming around the thin cup she held, listening to the talk of all they’d done these past years, the places they’d seen, the many people they knew. Mei Ling listened as they laughed, then wept again, then laughed again. She watched their faces closely, wondering at the love that shone from their eyes, the way they touched one another so freely with such affection and tenderness it brought tears to her own eyes; and she bowed her head over the little cup to hide them.

  Sean saw and covered Mei Ling’s hand with his own. “This woman has set me free,” he told his sister, but the words were for Mei Ling. “I love her,” he announced to everyone, and Mei Ling looked up into his eyes to see if it was true. “I love you,” he said directly to her, and she realized that it was.

  “Is Uncle Sean a Chinaman?” Jack asked then, and they all laughed.

  “Irish, like your mam,” Sean told him. “American, as well. But if I’m lucky, I might have China children in the mix.”

  Mei Ling stared at him, hardly daring to believe, and then at his sister, who had told her such a thing might one day be true.

  “Can’t wait to meet them,” Grace said quietly, meeting Mei Ling’s gaze. “Welcome to the family, sister. Mei Ling O’Malley.” She grinned. “Now there’s a modern American name if I ever heard one.”

  Thirty-seven

  There were two letters from America in the packet Abban picked up when he and Gavin Donohue went into the city for supplies: the first, he noted with relief, was from Grace, who appeared to be in a place called San Francisco, California; the second was from New York City, and that gave him pause as they had no family there any longer. With time left before Gavin came for him, Abban sat down on the bench outside the postmaster’s and had a closer look at the writing, which was vaguely familiar. He set the other parcels aside and opened the letter carefully, taking out two sheets of paper, and then he began to read.

  Dear Abban and Barbara,

  I have only just now learned that you survived and joined yourselves in marriage, and my heart is full of joy for you both. I wanted you to know by my own hand that I have survived, as well, though it may be hard for you to believe that your old friend and brother, Morgan McDonagh, is really alive.…

  Abban’s hand fell into his lap and he raised his eyes to the sky, giving thanks to God with every beat of his heart. Morgan was alive. He shook his head, hardly able to believe that this was not one of those dreams he had on occasion where he walked into the kitchen of his house and found Morgan sitting there, laughing up a storm with Barbara, young and confident and full of life. He picked up the letter again and read it through, then wiped his eyes and read it again.

  “Bad news, then, Abban?” Gavin had pulled the cart up and gotten down, and Abban hadn’t so much as lifted his head.

  “No, son,” he said now. “The best news there is, as a matter of fact. Barbara and Aislinn’s brother is alive and living in America.”

  Gavin looked puzzled. “They’ve no brother but one, and we all know he was killed.”

  Abban shook his head and held out the letter as proof. “But he wasn’t. It’s all here. He’s been living in the great forests of Canada, sick and broken, but now he’s gone to New York looking for Grace. He says Dugan helped him, and now he and Quinn Sheehan are going west to find her.” He paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I didn’t know Quinn was in America. Fine lad, Quinn Sheehan. ’Tis a wonder they’re together.”

  “Aye, ’tis the best of news. Aislinn’ll be so happy now.” Gavin grinned. “And Barbara, of course. C’mon, then, let’s get home!”

  They loaded the wagon, and Abban climbed on, letting Gavin take them home while he absorbed the incredible news. God was gracious, he acknowledged, to have worked such good out of such misfortune.

  When they pulled up in the yard of the little asylum, Abban could barely greet the children, who abandoned their games with Peigi O’Reardon to clamor around him; not even his beloved twins could attract his full attention, though he scooped up Nally and carried him into the house, Declan close behind. Barbara turned from the stove to greet him, the smile dying on her lips when she saw his face.

  “What’s happened, then?” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron.

  Abban set the mail packet on the table, then handed her the letter from New York. “’Tis wonderful news,” he told her. “Read for yourself. Aislinn!” he called up the stair. “Come down! We’ve letters from America.”

  The young woman came down the old stairs with a clatter, pausing to smile at Gavin, who stood in the doorway, hat in hand.

  “What’s the news?” Aislinn’s face was flushed from her work and the heat of the day, her hair escaping its bun.

  “He’s alive.” Barbara had sunk into a kitchen chair, dazed. “Our Morgan’s alive.” She handed the letter to Aislinn, who tore through it in minutes, then shrieked.

  “Oh, Barbara!” She swooped down and embraced her sister, then flung her arms around Abban. “He’s alive!” Aislinn hesitated only a moment, and then grabbed Gavin by the hands and danced him round the room, singing the good news, much to the delight of the twins, who laughed and clapped their hands.

  “I can hardly believe ’tis true,” Barbara said as Abban sat down across from her. “Does Grace know he’s coming, then? He doesn’t say.”

  Abban’s eyes went wide. “There’s a letter from her, as well.” He found it in the packet and handed it to his wife.

  While Barbara opened it and read, Aislinn and Gavin sat down at the table to wait.

  “Well.” Barbara looked round at them all. “Mary Kate’s been ill, but now she’s well. They’re in San Francisco now. Living in the house of a doctor, no less, Grace doing the work of cook.” She paused and bit her lip, her eyes seeking those of her husband. “She’s doesn’t know he’s coming, Abban. She and Captain Reinders are set to marry the end of May.”

  “But he’ll get there in time,” Aislinn insisted.

&n
bsp; “’Tis anyone’s guess,” Abban offered weakly, “though he says he’s traveling by steamer, then overland, then another steamer, which is the fastest way, so perhaps he’s almost there now.”

  “Please God,” Barbara added.

  They sat in silence, and the older children, sensing something out of the ordinary had occurred, began to file into the room.

  “He’ll make it.” Aislinn pounded the table with his fist. “And even if he doesn’t”—she got up and looked around the room—”even if he doesn’t, she’s still his wife.”

  “Aye,” Barbara agreed. “But it’ll be hard on all of them. Years have passed, you know. People change, and she may well love this other man the way she once did our Morgan. And there are the children to consider.” She got up and headed for the stair.

  “Where are you going, Barbara?” Abban watched her retreat with concern.

  “Where do you think? Upstairs to pray, and don’t look for me anytime soon.”

  Aislinn and Abban exchanged glances, and then Abban shrugged.

  “Well, if He’s going to listen to anyone, you know ’tis her.” He rose from the table now, too. “Best get on with my work, then, seeing as how Barbara’s got the divine miracle end covered.”

  “Will we write to Julia?” Aislinn asked. “’Twill be a shock for her, as well.”

  “She’s coming up with the doctor and wee Aiden next week. Best she reads the letters for herself then. C’mon, children.” Abban herded the little flock toward the door. “Back outside now, to enjoy this happy day. Will you see to finishing up the supper, Aislinn?”

  Aislinn nodded absentmindedly but turned toward the stove, seemingly unaware that Gavin still sat at the table. The young man got up quietly and came to stand beside her.

  “I’ve been thinking I might go to America someday myself,” he announced. “To see the place, and all.”

  Aislinn put down the stirring spoon and looked at him, hands on her hips. “And what would you travel on, Gavin Donohue—you who won’t take so much as a penny in pay?”

  Gavin shrugged sheepishly. “I didn’t say I was going right off, did I? In the future, I’m thinking. And only if this place is squared away. But then, aye. My back is strong and I don’t mind hard work. I’m a young man, still.” He reached out a tentative finger and touched a strand of her hair. “And you’re a young woman, you know.”

  “The life I led before makes a person old in more ways than years,” Aislinn told him. “I’m no man’s blushing bride.”

  “I know all about you, Aislinn McDonagh, and it matters not a whit to me. America’s the place to be free from all that, to start again. That’s where your brother’s gone, after all.” Gavin paused. “I’d like to meet him one of these days, you know. He’s a great man. I’d like to tell him how much I love his sister.”

  Aislinn didn’t look at him, but she blushed and her fingers curled into his hand.

  “We’ve our whole lives ahead of us,” Gavin pressed, encouraged by her touch. “A chance to do more than just survive. I think we ought to see for ourselves what the world has to offer, but if you want to stay in Ireland, Aislinn, then we will.”

  “You’re presuming a lot of things, Mister Donohue,” she said quietly.

  “I lost my heart to you, girl, the minute you stepped out of that carriage, though I could see you’d been hurt and needed time among your people.” Gavin put his finger under her chin and gently tipped it up so he could see into her eyes. “I know you’ve come to care for me, Aislinn, but tell me I’m wrong and I’ll never say another word.”

  “You’re not wrong,” she whispered.

  The young man nodded soberly, though inside his heart flooded with joy. “Then whenever you hear me talking about the future, know ’tis ours I’m referring to, and give me your opinion. I want to know what you think, Aislinn. I care about what you think.”

  “I think you should give me more time,” she said and saw that he did not flinch. In another moment, she added, “And then perhaps we’ll go to America.”

  Gavin’s face lit up, and he kissed her with such passion that her feet came off the floor.

  “You won’t be sorry, Aislinn—ever,” he promised. “I’ll work hard to make a good life for us, for the children we’ll have.”

  Her smile faltered just a little, and he put his arms around her again, held her close and whispered in her ear, “I know. I know about him, and I’ll remember him with you no matter how many others we have. He’s a part of you forever, and I love you, Aislinn.”

  She felt the roughness of his shirt against her cheek, listened to the steady beat of his heart, felt the strength of those arms around her. “I love you, as well, Gavin Donohue,” she whispered then, and hung on as he swept her off her feet.

  Thirty-eight

  Quinn and Morgan presented themselves to the customs officers at the end of the long wharf, then left the building and started up the hill.

  “Give me your pack,” Quinn ordered. “You don’t want it rubbing against that scar.”

  “Which, by the way, is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen,” Morgan commented, shifting the pack to his other shoulder. “What were you doing in there, anyway? Digging for gold?”

  Quinn laughed. “Never had a chance to finish medical school,” he quipped. “Now hand it over.”

  “I’m fine, Quinn. Only a bit stiff, but otherwise good. You did well by me, friend. You don’t have to worry.”

  “I’m not worrying. Only I wanted to save your strength for when we find your wife.” He laughed again. “Do you know where he lives, then, this Captain Reinders?”

  “No idea,” Morgan confessed and stopped. “What do you think?”

  Quinn looked his partner over, took in the shaggy, matted hair and heavy beard, the stained and oily clothes, sniffed the air, and knew they were bad off if he could smell this over the stench of the waterfront. “I think we look like criminals and smell like their dogs.”

  Morgan glanced down at himself, then back at Quinn, then frowned. “Can’t show up on Reinders’ doorstep looking less the men than we are,” he decided. “So here’s what we’re going to do—we have enough money left to buy us new clothes, a bath, and a shave, and still get our tickets for Oregon Territory.”

  “Enough for a decent meal, besides, do you think?” Quinn asked hopefully, his stomach rumbling.

  “Aye. You deserve as much, though we might be sleeping on the ground tonight. C’mon.”

  Quinn followed Morgan as he shouldered his way through the throngs of people waiting for the mail packet to be off-loaded, waiting for friends and family to come ashore, waiting for foreign cargo, or simply waiting for the action that always occurred when people grew hot and irritable and tired of waiting.

  From directions given by a helpful pedestrian, Morgan and Quinn walked up Clay Street until they came to the City Hotel, across from Portsmouth Square; from there, they entered the square—marveling at the industry and architecture—and stopped at the first men’s clothing shop they came to. No need to worry about the state of their current dress, Morgan saw at once, as the place had plenty of rough-and-tumble men, most of them miners come to town for fresh kit. After too much help from an overeager clerk, Morgan and Quinn each walked out with a paper-wrapped bundle that contained undergarments, a shirt and trousers, and a vest.

  “Expensive town,” Quinn mentioned. “Maybe we’ll give dinner a miss, buy something off a stand.”

  “Aye. Suppose they’ll want an arm and a leg for the bath, as well.”

  “Got to have it, though. No point laying new clothes over old dirt.”

  They headed toward Chinatown, where public baths were said to be had, and suddenly they were in a different world. This must be like China itself, Morgan thought, his senses overwhelmed by the sound of the language, the sight of the people so similarly dressed, the smell of exotic foods, the signs written in foreign characters below their English translations.

  “Look over there.” Quinn j
abbed him in the ribs. “Maybe we ought to go in, buy a little of that?”

  “‘House of Good Fortune,’” Morgan read aloud. Below the sign, a Chinawoman opened the door and began to sweep out the entry, pausing for a moment to speak to a small, braid-bearded man in spectacles whose hand lay upon her arm; the tender gesture pricked his heart, and he turned away. “Down there.” He pointed. “‘Hot Water Long Bath Good Shave.’ That’s us, then.”

  It felt good to peel off the clothes in which they’d been living for months, and the moment he sunk his grimy body into the steaming water, Morgan vowed never to put them on again; they were nothing but rags now, anyway, not even fit to wash. He tipped his head back against the lip of the tub and let the heat penetrate his bones. From the tub next to his, Quinn let out a long groan of satisfaction.

  “Happy, darling?” Morgan asked, and Quinn flipped water at him, though his eyes remained determinedly closed.

  They stayed in the tubs a good hour, the man coming in regularly to remove tepid gray water with one bucket, then add fresh steaming water with another. After the grime had loosened, Morgan and Quinn gave their heads and bodies a good scrub with the brushes provided, then stood up and let the bath man pour warm water over them to rinse the soap away. They got out, weak with the heat and more relaxed than either could ever remember, dried themselves off, and dressed in their new, clean clothes, directing the attendant to throw the old ones away.

  From the bathing rooms, Morgan and Quinn were led upstairs to a barbershop, where two men showed them to chairs, draped large pieces of cloth around each of their necks, and then began to cut off their beards. It was slow going, and the two barbers made disconcerting noises as they hacked through the growth, a necessary step before applying the straight razor. Quinn and Morgan exchanged one last look, grinning through the lather on their faces.

  “Hope you’re not as ugly as I remember,” Quinn said.

  “You must be thinking of the only girl you ever kissed,” Morgan replied, and both men laughed.