Heart of Stone

by Jill Marie Landis

  IRISH ANGEL SERIES

  Heart of Stone

  A Novel Book One

  Jill Marie Landis

  New York Times Bestselling Author

  ZONDERVAN

  Heart of Stone

  Copyright © 2010 by Jill Marie Landis

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.

  EPub Edition JANUARY 2010 ISBN: 978-0-310-39576-8

  Requests for information should be addressed to:

  Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Landis, Jill Marie.

  Heart of stone : a novel / Jill Marie Landis.

  p. cm.—(Irish angel series; bk. 1)

  ISBN 978-0-310-29369-9 (softcover)

  1. Single women—Fiction. 2. Irish—United States—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3562.A4769H425 2010

  813—.6-dc22

  2009026814

  * * *

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers printed in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by Zondervan, nor does Zondervan vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.

  To new beginnings—forging friendships strengthening ties fulfilling dreams finding peace. Thank you for reading this book.

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Preview

  About The Publisher

  Share Your Thoughts

  He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.

  John 8:7

  ONE

  NEW ORLEANS, 1853

  Eleven-year-old Lovie Lane would never be certain what actually woke her the night she learned her life was to become a living hell.

  She might have been unintentionally kicked by one of her three younger sisters, all crowded on the pallet on the floor beside her. Or it might have been the gnawing hunger in her belly. She could have been awakened by the sounds of her aunt and uncle’s voices raised in anger. Or a shout outside the shack where they lived. The Irish Channel—a New Orleans neighborhood home to penniless Irish laborers newly immigrated to Louisiana—was not known for peace, quiet, or abundance.

  Whatever the reason, Lovie sat up. She pushed her matted hair out of her eyes and gazed at the tangle of limbs and threadbare nightclothes illuminated by the lamplight spilling in from the front room. Her sisters slept soundly, like angels, innocent of the tumult around them. Across the room her two male cousins, both older than she, also slept on.

  The nasal whine of her Aunt Maddie’s voice easily carried through the thin curtain that hung in the doorway to the sleeping area. “We can’t keep ’em. Not with our own to feed.”

  Lovie gingerly slipped out of bed, taking care not to waken her sisters. She crept up next to the curtain, moved it aside just enough to peer out without being seen. Her uncle shuffled to the table and pulled out a chair. He weaved back and forth before he finally sat, and her aunt shot him a dark scowl as she bustled about the stove to prepare him a cup of tea.

  Uncle Timothy tried to shush her, but Maddie wouldn’t be silenced. “You’ve been drinkin’ again. I can smell it on ya.”

  “I been out tryin’ to solve our little problems, is what I’ve been doin’.”

  “Whiskey ain’t goin’ to help. We wouldn’t have our ‘little’ problems if it weren’t for your brother and his wife both up and dying on us.”

  “Thank the angels they’re all girls. The Ursulines will take the two little ones.” His heavy sigh reached Lovie from across the room.

  “And the other two?”

  Lovie stifled a gasp, knowing she, and Megan, almost nine years old, were “the other two.”

  “Found a place for them, too, I have,” he bragged.

  When Ma lay on her death bed, Lovie had promised she’d watch over her sisters. Now they were going to be parceled out, given away like unwanted kittens. Separated for life.

  Maddie set the tea down and shuffled back to the stove. She was rail thin, all elbows and wrists, angles and edges—no softness about her at all. She was nothing like the gentle, soft-spoken mother Lovie had known, the mother she missed so desperately.

  “Is it a good place?” Maddie wanted to know.

  “What do you care? Besides, they’ll live in a big, fine house.”

  “Oh, really? And how’s that?” Maddie turned away and mumbled, “Maybe I should go me’self.”

  “Don’t tempt me.” Uncle Tim burst into ribald laughter mingled with a phlegmy cough. When he stopped choking and slapping his knees, he settled back in his chair again.

  “They’ll have three square meals a day, their own beds, and fine clothes.”

  When her aunt glanced in the direction of the door, Lovie drew away from the crack in the drape. Aunt Maddie lowered her voice to a gravelly whisper. Lovie was too lost in her own speculation to concentrate on what her aunt might be saying.

  Never having known what it was to not fight for pallet space, Lovie found the prospect of sleeping alone a frightening proposition at best. And fine clothes? It was hard to even imagine what exactly that meant, but it was tempting. What little girl didn’t want pretty clothes?

  A chair creaked in the other room. Lovie peeked out and saw Uncle Tim fighting to stay awake. His head slumped onto his chest and his mouth opened on a snore. Aunt Maddie shook his shoulder with a rough jerk.

  “Did you save any coin? We’ll need milk tomorrow.”

  “Once I deliver the two girls in the mornin’, we’ll have plenty to spare. You get them washed up first thing. Have ’em lookin’ as presentable as you can. I don’t want to have to be bringin’ ’em back.”

  “And the little ones?”

  “Soon as I deliver the older girls, I’ll come back for the other two.”

  Having grown up in the brisk chill of Ireland, Lovie was convinced she’d never grow used to the sultry Louisiana air. Tonight, though, she shivered despite the heat as she tiptoed back to the pallet and knelt down.

  She stared at “the baa-bies,” as her Ma always called the two youngest girls. They were her babies now. Tears wet her cheeks and she pictured the coming morn. She and Megan were to be groomed and taken to a new family.

  Were they even Irish? Would anything be familiar?

  She wondered if she could somehow sneak all of her sisters out of the house, and thought
about waking them. Within another breath she realized the idea was completely impossible. If it were just her and Megan, they might stand a chance of escape, but with a four-and six-year-old along? Impossible.

  Besides, she barely knew the Irish Channel neighborhood and it only covered a few blocks near the docks. Ma had told her New Orleans was a huge, sprawling city, big as Dublin, with many, many streets and neighborhoods. Many dangers, too, if the stories her parents told were to be believed.

  As Lovie lay staring into the darkness, she blindly reached for Megan’s hand. Though her sister slept, Lovie took comfort in slipping her fingers around Megan’s own warm ones. Eventually she fell asleep with her tears drying on her cheeks.

  Before the light of dawn the next morning, true to her word, Aunt Maddie woke Lovie and Megan and filled a tub in the kitchen with lukewarm water.

  She proceeded to have each girl stand in the tub as she sluiced them with soapy water and scrubbed their faces until they shone. She put their dresses back on them, then struggled to make some semblance of their tangled hair.

  “Lovie, your hair is a rat’s nest.”

  “Sorry, Aunt.”

  Somehow Ma had always managed to tame her matted curls. Ma said she took after her English cousins, what with her dimples and hair the color of wheat straw. Megan, with her straight, dark-brown hair and dusting of freckles all over, looked Irish through and through. Lovie longed for straight hair and freckles, but had to settle for blonde ringlets and bright-blue eyes.

  “Want me to get the babies, Aunt?” Megan asked. “They need bathed in the worst way, you know.” She’d been chatting happily all morning, and the cheerier she grew, the heavier became Lovie’s heart.

  She has no idea—

  “I won’t be needin’ to bath them. But you’ll be wantin’ to go and tell them good-bye, I suppose, so you best get to it.”

  “Good-bye?” Excitement dawned in Megan’s brown eyes. “Are we going somewhere? Just Lovie and me? Where, Aunt?”

  “I don’t rightly know, but your Uncle Tim ‘as a surprise for you and Lovie. You’ll be movin’ to a fine new place where they need two lovely lasses like you.”

  Megan’s perfectly shaped brows drew together. A scar parted her right brow, a reminder of a fall she’d taken aboard the ship on the voyage to America. “But what of the others?” She glanced toward the other room where her sisters and cousins slept on in their innocence.

  “They won’t be goin’ with you. They’ll be off to their own place, they will.”

  “But…” Megan looked to Lovie for answers. “But Ma said we’d always be together. Didn’t she now, Lovie?”

  “She did, Sis, but Ma ain’t here no more.”

  Looking down into her sister’s trusting eyes, Lovie’s heart crumpled like a paper fan. No use in lying or trying to tell her it wasn’t so. A million and one questions crowded Lovie’s mind, but her uncle was short-tempered and impatient of a morning. He wasn’t civil until he’d had his first ration of whiskey for the day. There was no sense in asking him where they were going or if they’d ever see their sisters again.

  The thought that she might never lay eyes on Katie and Sarah again was unthinkable. Before their mother died, Lovie had promised not only to be brave and to do as she was told, but above all to watch over the little ones. She was the oldest, the head of the family. She was the one charged with keeping them together.

  “Be good, Lovie. Do your best. Work hard. Keep the others safe.”

  Theirs had been a difficult life. There was famine in Ireland and Da had had no choice but to come to America to meet up with Uncle Tim and seek his fortune. Uncle Tim was a slacker; Da had always said so. But they were brothers, after all. So Da packed up Ma and Lovie and all the girls and, bringing only what they could carry, they’d sailed across the Atlantic in search of a better life.

  What they’d found was as bad as the potato famine they’d left behind.

  Like the hundreds of other Irish immigrants who’d come before them, they’d settled not far from where they disembarked at the docks of New Orleans and moved into the two-room shack with Uncle Tim, Aunt Maddie, and the boys. Da had found work digging the canals that surrounded the city. The immigrants were hired not only because they worked for pennies, but because they were expendable. The task was so dangerous, disease and accidents so common, that slave owners refused to risk their precious investments. The Irish dug the canals. The slaves did not. At least that’s what Da told them, and he never lied.

  They hadn’t been there but six months before Da caught the yellow fever and died. It wasn’t long before Ma fell ill too. Her heart and spirit broken, she followed Da. Her parents had survived what many immigrants called the “coffin voyage” to America only to perish in a filthy, crowded shack near the damp, Louisiana dockside.

  Aunt Maddie gave the older girls but a moment to hug the two little ones. The tears and bawling quickly became infectious, and their aunt shooed Megan and Lovie out of the bedroom and held on to the babies to keep them from running after while Uncle Tim quickly shoved the older girls out of the house. Lovie paused to look back. She could hear her sisters screaming for her through the door.

  “Come on.” Uncle Tim grabbed her by the arm and pulled her along after him. With her free hand she quickly wiped her face and then reached back and grabbed Megan, who was struggling to keep pace as their uncle dragged them through the streets of Irish Channel.

  Soon they left the docks behind. The houses around them grew larger. Iron grille work lined the second-floor galleries that hung out over the sidewalks. Moss draped the trees like moldy gray-green beards.

  Megan had faltered and was nearly pulling Lovie’s arm out of its socket. She tried to slow down. Uncle Tim stopped long enough to tower over them. “Hurry up or I’ll give ye the back of m’ hand!”

  “Keep up,” Lovie whispered to Megan. “You can do it.”

  Her own heart pounded to match her footsteps. Her fear of her uncle was as great as her fear of the unknown.

  The city took on a different feel and flair away from Irish Channel. Well-dressed ladies in fancy gowns and gloves strolled beside gentlemen with top hats and polished canes. They barely gave Uncle Tim and the girls a glance as they passed by on foot or on the high-sprung seats of their glossy phaetons. Away from the docks, the very air was heavy with opulence.

  And yet…Lovie sensed an underlying sadness that laced the air, an all-pervasive heaviness that, like the Spanish moss in the trees, hung in a pall over the city built on the backs of slaves and the poor.

  As they hurried along, panting, Megan dared to ask, “Where do the Ursulines live, Uncle?” She was rewarded with a dark glower but wasn’t dissuaded. “Will the babies be far from our new home?”

  “A world away,” he mumbled.

  “Are they…are the Ursulines…a nice family?”

  “The Ursulines are nuns who run an orphanage.”

  Orphanage? Lovie recoiled. Aunt Maddie and Uncle Tim had sworn to their mother that none of them would ever be sent to an orphanage.

  Lovie’s heart began to pound when she realized what was happening. There would be no loving family for the little ones. No pretty clothes or beds of their own. They’d be parceled out—separated from one another like puppies from the same litter—if by chance anyone chose to adopt them at all.

  How would she ever find them again if they were separated? How could she pull them all back together?

  She turned to stare at her sister, taking in Megan’s wide, terrified brown eyes, her thin limbs and straight brown hair. The image of her da had already begun to fade from her mind’s eye, and she imagined the same would soon happen with her ma. What if she and Megan were separated and she forgot what her sister looked like? What if she couldn’t recognize the babies?

  Her hand tightened on Megan’s as their uncle rounded a corner. She was tempted to run, just as she had been last night. As if he could read her mind, her uncle glanced over his shoulder and growled, “D
on’t be dawdlin’.”

  He picked up his pace, made a sharp turn off a main thoroughfare, and ducked down a narrow passageway. Shaded by the sides of tall buildings and lined with cobblestones, the lane was cool and damp. Now and again they were treated to the sight of lovely walled gardens crowded with ferns and colorful flowers she couldn’t name and palms with long fronds whispering in the breeze. Trickling fountains lent the soothing sound of falling water.

  She didn’t know exactly what to hope for now that the raw truth had hit her. They were to be living here, in this grand, terrifying new place. Would their new family have a walled garden?

  Uncle Tim suddenly stopped before a door of thick planks set in a stucco wall the color of rust. He stared down at the two of them for so long that Lovie didn’t know if he was going to hit them or if he might have changed his mind.

  She hoped he was about to say, “I’ve made a mistake. Let’s go home.”

  Instead he barked, “Brush your sister’s hair back off her face, Lovie.”

  Lovie spit on her palm and smoothed back Megan’s brown hair. She cupped her sister’s chin in her hands and smiled down into her eyes. “It’s going to be grand,” she whispered. “You’ll see. It’s going to be grand.”

  “You promise?” Megan whispered.

  Lovie closed her eyes. A shiver slid down her spine. She wanted to scream, “I don’t know! I don’t know anything. I’m only a little girl myself!”

  Instead she whispered, “I promise.”

  Uncle Tim raised the wrought-iron loop that served as a knocker and let it fall. It made a hollow thud. A moment later, the door was opened by a tall Negress wearing a bright-orange turban and a stiff white apron over a calico gown. The woman took one look at Uncle Tim and then glanced down at Lovie and Megan. A fleeting shadow of concern moved behind her eyes. It passed so swiftly Lovie wasn’t certain whether she actually saw it or not. She tried to tell herself she was wrong. Tried to tell herself the look meant nothing.