'Til Morning Light

by Ann Moore

  When it was over and they were again out on the street—two handsome Irishmen with glistening hair and fresh, bold faces—heads turned toward them instead of away, and the women they passed eyed them flirtatiously from beneath the brims of their fancy bonnets.

  “Couple of lady-killers we turned out to be, eh, boy?” Quinn draped his long arm around the shoulders of his friend. “They don’t know there’s but one lady for us. Now let’s go see that captain.”

  Reinders was pacing the house. With Lars and Detra gone, and only himself and Liam in quarters, it was simply too big. Too many servants were required to run the place, in his opinion, though the new man, Jameson, was a far better butler than Arnott had ever been. Arnott had smugly denied any pilfering until Reinders put a pistol to his head and threatened to have him shanghaied, and then he came clean, turning over a personal trunk filled with items that had gone missing over the years. Reinders had had him shanghaied anyway, and it gave him a sense of justice to think of the arrogant little man swabbing decks and heating tar on a rough ship headed for the Sandwich Islands. If he survived in one piece, he might find that he preferred the tropics, with their native delights. Not much to steal down there, but the people could be friendly.

  Anyway, the house was too big, he told himself, returning to his original line of thought. Even with Grace and the children, it would seem cavernous; he’d never really grown accustomed to this style of living, much preferring the tidy organization of his cabin on the ship. But he was about to become a married man, so somewhere between ship’s cabin and Nob Hill mansion, a compromise must be reached.

  The problem, he admitted to himself, was really that San Francisco had become too crowded for him, too busy and self-important. The problem, if he were to be completely honest, was that he wanted to build a house in New Whatcom … and Grace did not—especially not now she’d found her brother. Sean was a far cry from the vibrant, brilliant man Reinders had met in New York, his potential wasted away to nothing, like the body that was now no more than skin and bones. He was a broken man, a man who would never rise again but only exist, though Reinders did not say this to Grace. She was so very happy these days and saw her brother as often as she could in the house he shared with his China mistress, when she was not tending to the needs of the woman with the illegitimate child. Reinders shook his head, disgusted with himself. When had he become so judgmental of others? he wondered. When had the concern of what others might think replaced his confidence in his own opinions? He shook his head again—it was this town, he told himself. San Francisco loved its high society and had adopted the very social code Reinders had hoped to leave behind forever. And yet, here he was—wondering what his friends thought about his marrying an Irish housekeeper, wondering why he cared, longing to go north, where the town was small and respect was earned through hard work and diligence, where more and more he felt his true friends were. Even Mackley talked of settling there when he married at the end of the summer.

  Reinders stopped pacing now and stood instead in front of the window, watching absentmindedly as two men, packs slung over their shoulders, started up the hill. In many ways, he thought, life was easier when everything you owned fit in a pack, when you could pick up and go on a moment’s notice. He sat down in his chair, legs sprawled out before him. It was only wedding jitters, he told himself, and the restlessness that came over a seaman when he’d been too long off the ship. That’s what he needed, he realized then—a long voyage. He and Liam were off for Hawaii in August, but before that he could take Grace and the children up the coast to New Whatcom. Astrid and Teresa would make her feel welcome, and perhaps she’d come to love it the way he did. Maybe he’d even dangle the carrot of agreeing to attend church services with her, though he wouldn’t say anything about that yet. First, he’d have to get Jack on board the ship, and the boy simply refused to set foot on the Eliza J, much to Reinders’ great irritation. He could swear that child set out to thwart him on purpose sometimes, though again he’d never say this to Grace. The list of things he couldn’t say to Grace seemed to be growing, and he missed the days when he felt he could tell her anything. They seemed only to find things about which they disagreed these days; only last night they had quarreled over which rooms the children would occupy when they moved into the house! It was ridiculous, he thought; why had he argued with her over something he cared nothing about?

  “Oh, God, I’ve got to stop this.” Reinders rubbed a hand wearily over his face and stood up. “Grace and I are going to be married, and nothing is going to get in the way of that. Nothing.” His voice rang out in the empty room, and then the door opened and Jameson came in.

  “Excuse me, Captain Reinders. Gentlemen here to see you, sir.”

  “Which gentlemen?”

  “They preferred not to give their names, sir. Friends of Missus Donnelly, they say.”

  “Show them in,” Reinders ordered. “And bring in the bar. Might have to offer them a drink.”

  “Very good, sir.” Jameson closed the door, but he was back a moment later. “This way, gentlemen.”

  Two dark-haired men entered the room, the taller one hanging back while the other came forward.

  “Captain Reinders?”

  “Yes.” Reinders looked him up and down, taking in the new clothes and fresh grooming, the offered hand. “And you are …?”

  “Morgan McDonagh, sir.” There was a long pause as the captain stood, dumbfounded. “I’ve come about my wife.”

  Quinn never said a word the entire time the two men talked, just sipped his drink and watched as Morgan and the captain came to a mutual understanding and even respect for each other; and why shouldn’t they, Quinn asked himself, for were they not the two men Grace loved most in the world? Reinders was a good man, Quinn determined, though a bit rigid and stubborn, as any man might be in the face of such an unbelievable revelation. The captain resisted at first the fact that Morgan was who he claimed to be, but Morgan persisted, telling his story from the days with Grace in Ireland up to the very moment they arrived in San Francisco, and finally Reinders accepted what, of course, was the truth: McDonagh was alive, and he was Grace’s husband. She was not in Oregon, he told the Irishmen, but living here in San Francisco; he would take them to her right away.

  “Do you know her brother is here, too?” The captain stood and set his glass aside, his demeanor one of gracious defeat.

  “Sean’s in San Francisco?” Morgan looked at Quinn. “We heard he’d gone off with the Mormons, never to be seen again.”

  “Partly true. I don’t know exactly when he got to the city, but he and Grace have only just found each other. He’s not in a good way, I’m afraid.”

  “Sick, then?”

  Reinders considered. “Defeated,” he replied. “Broken.”

  “Best he sees people who know him, then,” Quinn said quietly. “People who know about that. If you tell me where he is, Captain, I’ll go to him while you take Morgan to Grace.”

  Reinders nodded and wrote down the address in Chinatown, along with directions, then called for his buggy, climbing into the driver’s seat with Morgan beside him. It was a silent ride down the hill and across town, then up the long hill to the Wakefields’. As they drew closer to the house, Reinders’ heart began to pound and sweat broke out on his forehead as the realization that Grace was lost to him forever smashed into his being with full force. His hands shook and his vision suddenly blurred.

  “I’ll drive,” Morgan offered, gently taking the reins. “Or do you want to let me out here?”

  Reinders shook his head and took a deep breath to clear the ocean in his ears. “No.” His voice cracked. “No,” he repeated. “Best to do it together. I don’t want her joy to be—” He stopped to collect himself. “I don’t want her to worry about me.”

  Morgan returned the reins. “I’m sorry, Captain.”

  “Don’t be. She’s your wife. She’s always been your wife. And always would’ve been, I think.”

  The
y pulled around to the side of the house and agreed that the captain should go first, to ease the shock. Reinders could see through the window that they were all gathered around the table for supper and, for a moment, he stood and cherished the look of the woman who would’ve been his wife. Grace laughed then at something Mary Kate said, and the sound of it caught in his chest; why was it, Reinders asked himself, that too often we let love be overshadowed by things that simply don’t matter? Too late—the words soared through his head—too late, too late, too late. He pulled himself together then, and knocked on the door, then stood back, snatching off his hat at the last minute.

  “Peter!” Grace was delighted to see him and contrite in the same moment. “Oh, Peter,” she said, stepping into the yard. “I’m so sorry about last night. I never meant to argue with you over nothing. Whatever you want is fine with me. Really, I only want us to be—”

  Reinders laid a finger across her lips to silence her. “Grace.” His eyes swept over her face and he tried to smile, though it faltered.

  “What is it, Peter? Are you all right? Is it Liam?”

  He shook his head. “Good news,” he managed. “It’s good news, Grace. Unbelievable news, really.” He took her hand, wondering how to say it, but then it just came out. “Your husband is alive.”

  Grace’s mouth fell open, her eyes searching his for some sign of what this was all about. “No,” she whispered. “What are you saying to me, Peter?”

  “Yes.” Reinders took her other hand now, too. “Morgan McDonagh is alive. You better come with me.”

  In a state of disbelief, Grace let herself be led around the corner of the house to where Reinders’ carriage stood, a man waiting expectantly beside it.

  “There he is,” Reinders said softly. “Your husband.”

  Grace’s eyes locked onto Morgan’s face—for surely it was Morgan’s, though older now, fully a man instead of a lad, but still there were the freckles that ran down beneath one eye, the eyes so blue … she felt the ground beneath her feet give way and gripped Peter’s arm.

  “Steady, now. It really is him. Your wife needs you, McDonagh,” Reinders called to the man, then gently moved out of Grace’s grasp, walking rapidly away from her to the garden behind the house.

  Morgan stood before her, the man she’d always loved and the man she knew not at all anymore, for he was someone the same and very different, and she shook her head, trying to clear it of the dream, praying it was not a dream, not knowing what to believe.

  “Will you come here to me, Gracelin O’Malley?” Morgan asked, and then she knew it was real.

  She stepped forward and into arms that wrapped around her, crushing her to the body she’d longed for, listening to the voice she’d heard only in her dreams as it repeated her name over and over and over until she wept. Dazed, she pulled away and looked at him again, both their faces damp now, eyes spilling over with tears.

  “Where in God’s name have you been?” she demanded incredulously.

  “Canada,” Morgan replied, then laughed at how simple it sounded. “Canada and then New York City. Panama. Now here. Oh, Grace.” His smile trembled with heartache. “Can you forgive me, Grace, for not being with you all these years, for not finding you sooner? Will you still have me, Grace?”

  “I thought you were dead.” Grace felt sick to her stomach, and her voice was muffled by the ringing in her ears. “I tried to let go of you. I tried, but I couldn’t. I’m engaged to be married!” She looked at him, stunned. “To Peter—and I love Peter!” She buried her face in Morgan’s shirt and clung to him. “Oh God, dear God … ’tis really you?”

  Morgan clung to her as well, his eyes closed. “’Tis, Grace, ’tis. I never let go of you either, Grace. Every day I thought of you. Every night I prayed for you. I never gave up hope. I want you to know that. Never once. I love you, Gracelin. Never have I loved anyone but you.” Now he lifted her chin so that he could see her eyes. “I know about our son, Grace. Dugan told me. I know about him.”

  “He’s called Jack,” she whispered.

  “Aye.” Morgan smiled through his tears. “’Tis a fine name his sister gave him. How is Mary Kate?”

  Grace stepped back and wiped her face with her apron. “They’re inside.” Her chin trembled and her head felt thick. “They’ll never believe it. Never believe ’tis you.” She paused and looked over her shoulder. “Where is Peter?”

  “In the garden.” Morgan pointed.

  “I must speak to him,” she said gravely, fresh tears coming into her eyes.

  “Aye.” Morgan took her hand. “He’s a good man. He loves you.”

  They walked slowly around the corner to the back of the house, and suddenly the kitchen door burst open and Jack tumbled out, followed by Mary Kate. The children pulled up short when they saw their mother holding hands with an unfamiliar man.

  “Children.” Grace’s voice quivered slightly. “Come here to me. I want you to … there’s someone you should—” She stopped, lightheaded, her throat thick with emotion.

  Mary Kate came over immediately and stood before the man, studying him intently.

  “You don’t remember me, Mary Kathleen, but I knew you in Ireland.” Morgan bent down so they were face-to-face. “You were a wee thing then, but you’ve grown into a fine young woman.”

  “I know you.” Mary Kate held his gaze. “But we thought you were dead.”

  “Only lost,” Morgan replied soberly. “For a long time, and I’m sorry about that.”

  Mary Kate reached behind her and pulled her brother forward. “This is Jack. You’ll want to meet him.”

  Morgan squatted even lower, eyes roaming hungrily over the little boy’s face. “Hallo, Jack.”

  Jack eyed him suspiciously. “Who’re you, then?”

  Grace put a hand on her son’s shoulder. “’Tis your da, Jack,” she said as gently as she could. “Morgan McDonagh.”

  The boy’s eyes widened in astonishment, and then he grinned. “Well, I knew you’d come,” he announced confidently. “I knew you would.”

  “Sorry it took me so long,” Morgan apologized. “But I’m glad you didn’t give up on me.”

  “I’ m five now.”

  Morgan nodded, eyes glistening. “A big boy, then.”

  “And I have a dog,” Jack boasted. “You can see it if you like.”

  Morgan stood, then looked down in wonder at the little hand that had slipped into his own. As Jack towed him toward the stable, Morgan offered his other hand to Mary Kate. “Will you come with us?” he urged, and the girl nodded, shyly taking his other hand, glancing at him with the beginnings of a smile.

  “That’s going to be a nice family, once they all get used to one another.”

  Grace turned at the sound of his voice, her face twisted with anguish. “Oh, Peter, I’m sorry …”

  “McDonagh said the same thing.” Reinders smiled wryly. “He’s a lot like you, you know. We had a long talk before I brought him up here, and I was struck by how alike the two of you are, though I’d be hard pressed to say why, exactly.”

  “I love you, Peter.”

  “I know you do.” The captain took her hand. “And I know we would’ve been very happy together. But”—he shrugged his shoulders—“I told you once that I only wanted you to be happy—whatever that meant, whatever that was, I wanted you to have it. Do you remember?”

  Grace nodded.

  “Your true happiness lies with that man over there—with that man and his son and your daughter.”

  “What about you?” she asked him quietly.

  “I have Liam,” Reinders reminded her. “And he is everything in the world to me. I can truly say that I am happiest when the Eliza J is ripping up the sea and my boy stands beside me, calling orders. I love you very much, Grace, and we will always be friends,” he promised. “Always.”

  “Thank you, Peter.” She moved into his arms one last time. “Thank you for everything.”

  “It has been my honor, Missus McDonagh.”
Reinders kissed the top of her head. “Good-bye, my dear.”

  He did not turn around once, but disappeared behind the house; Grace heard the sound of the horse pulling the buggy down the drive and resisted the urge to run after him, for what was there left to say?

  Morgan spoke to the children, then left them with their dogs and returned to Grace, taking her in his arms.

  “Have you a kiss for me, Pirate? Or perhaps ’tis too soon.”

  “Aye,” she whispered, answering both questions, but he kissed her anyway, tentatively at first, and then with the passion she’d never been able to forget.

  “Marry me, Grace?” Morgan fell to his knees, imploring her. “Marry me again—not in secret, in the middle of the night, but in front of God and the whole world, in the bright morning light. Say you will, Grace. Say it.”

  She looked at him, thinking, Any minute I’ll wake up from this and he’ll be gone away. “I’ll marry you,” she said quickly before the dream ended. “Only you’re never to leave my sight ever again, Morgan McDonagh, do you hear me now? Not ever.”

  The children, having crept up close to see the kiss, now cheered, then shrieked with joy as Morgan tossed into the air first Mary Kate, then Jack, settling the boy on his shoulders, his hand on the head of the girl.

  “Do you live with us now?” Jack bent over to ask.

  “If you’ll have me,” Morgan said.

  “Aye, but where will you sleep, then?”

  Morgan lowered him down to the ground, then took Grace in his arms once again.

  “Next to my wife, of course.” He kissed her cheek tenderly, breathing in the warm scent of her. “God willing, I’ll lie beside your mother every single night for the rest of my life. I promise you that,” he whispered in her ear. “And now let’s go inside, young Jack and dear Mary Kate, for we’ve things to talk about.”

  “Like what?” Jack asked.

  “Like a wedding,” Morgan told him. “Aye, my love?” He looked down into Grace’s eyes. “And all the days beyond?”

  Oh, aye.” She touched his cheek.