Long Journey Home

by Sarah M. Eden

  Weekly supper with the O’Connors felt less uncomfortable than it had. Maura had begun to find her place among them. Knowing she was finding ways to help, however quiet and unnoticed, meant she worried less about being a burden. She could simply sit among them, seeing the joy in Aidan’s face as he interacted with the family he was coming to love, and be grateful that he had a home in Hope Springs. Their current accommodations were less than ideal, but the benefit of being near family and the joy of having helped two families, Tavish and Cecily, as well as Ryan and his ma, outweighed all that.

  She poked at the potatoes in her stew, thoughts of Ryan drowning out the others. How often that had happened in the days since he’d come to the Archer house. He’d been so put out with her upon learning she’d moved away. There’d been nothing overbearing in his objections. He’d seemed genuinely sad to see her leave.

  Like a fool, she’d pressed him, wanting to know why where she made her home mattered to him. An utter fool. His answer? Convenience. That, and his ma having company. Not until that moment had she realized how desperately she’d wanted his answer to be something more personal.

  “Thank you to everyone for being willing to come to dinner here,” Tavish said to the room. “Maura was right. Cecily’s been doing much better since deciding to stay home and off her feet.”

  Maura received a few nods, some hugs, a chorus of gratitude.

  “We’ve something else to be grateful for as well.” He had the entire room’s attention. He nodded at her. “Again, thanks to Maura.”

  She had no idea what he was talking about, but immediately had countless eyes on her. She shrugged and shook her head, not understanding.

  “Cecily and I had a visit today from Joseph Archer,” he said, “and he told us of an idea Maura had that he thought would be of interest to us.”

  Ah.

  Tavish hunched down beside Cecily, who sat in the rocking chair, and took her hand. “Granny owned her farm free of any notes or debts. Cecily inherited it that same way. Our home and land, though, we don’t own outright. And while we’ve no objection to continuing to pay on it until we do, our crop’s not been good the past few years. And this year, we’ve lost a lot.”

  The family was not shocked by the admission. They’d all worried over Tavish and Cecily’s situation.

  “Maura suggested to Joseph that, rather than leaving us to struggle to make our payments, he offer to make a trade.”

  Mr. O’Connor seemed to be piecing together the end of this tale. His eyes had grown wide, and his mouth hung the tiniest bit open.

  “Joseph’s offered to let us pay off all the notes on our land with Granny Claire’s house and land. A trade. He’d own that property instead of ours.”

  The family erupted in excitement. Few people in the valley owned their land outright. Nearly all were paying for it on time. To be free of that debt would be a weight off their burdened minds.

  “It gets better,” Cecily said. “Joseph said that the Claire land is worth more than ours, it being larger, and he’s offered to let us decide how we’d like to even that up.”

  “A good man,” Mr. O’Connor said.

  “Honest to his very soul,” Mrs. O’Connor added.

  “We’ve decided,” Tavish pressed forward, “to have him divide the difference three ways and apply it to Ciara and Keefe’s, Ian and Biddy’s, and Mary and Thomas’s land notes. Doing that will cut down what you owe. You can either make smaller payments every year, or keep paying what you are and repay your debt sooner.”

  Ciara and Keefe embraced enthusiastically. Thomas, standing near Tavish, thumped a grateful hand on his back, while Mary hugged her mother. Biddy put an arm across Ian’s back, leaning her head against him, and mouthed a thank you to Maura.

  Maura pushed back her emotions. She’d been happy to help Tavish and Cecily, but had helped the rest of the family far more than she’d expected to. Mr. and Mrs. O’Connor, she’d learned, owned their farm, having been amongst the first settlers in the valley. Their children had all struggled with the necessity of buying the land they needed.

  “This calls for cake,” Mrs. O’Connor declared. “Fortunately, I brought some along.”

  The family swept into action, gathering plates and forks and celebrating, exchanging hugs and grins.

  Biddy sat beside Maura. She took Maura’s hand in hers. “I cannot thank you enough. The family doesn’t know it, but we weren’t going to be able to make our full payment this year. Joseph would’ve been merciful; we know he would. But it hurt Ian’s pride something terrible to think of needing that mercy, when this isn’t the first time we’ve called on it. The burden has weighed on him.”

  “I am not the one who arranged it.” Maura felt more than a touch uncomfortable receiving the credit.

  “But you thought of the idea, and you proposed it. How none of us thought of it, I can’t say. Exchanging land never entered anyone’s mind.”

  “Sometimes you just need an outsider’s viewpoint, I suppose.”

  She received a scolding look. “You’ve not ever been an outsider, Maura. You’re one of us, whether you like it or not.”

  She pressed a hand to her heart. “I like it very much. And Aidan hasn’t been this happy in years. He needed family; I simply didn’t realize how much.”

  Biddy looked over at him sitting by Finbarr, the two lads deep in conversation. “He’s been good for Finbarr. We don’t know why Aidan doesn’t make him uncomfortable the way the rest of us seem to, but we’re so very happy to see him at ease with your lad.”

  Maura had given the same question some thought. “I think, in part, Finbarr appreciates that he has so much to offer Aidan. He knows things Aidan desperately needs to learn. Caring for animals. Farm chores. Things all the rest of you already know. He can’t offer that to anyone else in the family.”

  Biddy nodded. “That was true even before the fire. Being the youngest can be hard.”

  “I do think it’s more than that, though,” Maura hadn’t spoken her most recent thoughts on the matter.

  “What else, then?”

  “Finbarr grows instantly uncomfortable and withdrawn when anyone speaks of him ‘before’ his injuries, even if it’s years before, like when I’ve mentioned knowing him in New York. Aidan has only ever known him since coming here, years after his injuries. For Aidan, there is no Finbarr ‘before.’ No mourning the change in his life. He has no expectation of Finbarr being who he used to be. There’s something very freeing in not having to live to an expectation, especially if he feels himself unequal to it.”

  Mr. O’Connor, who sat in a chair nearby, inched closer, forming a little group with them. “I’ve been warning the children about that where Aidan is concerned, actually.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He balanced his plate with its slice of cake on his lap. “Aidan looks so very like his father. He has a similar sense of humor, even some of the same mannerisms. ’Twould be far too easy to expect him to be just like Grady rather than his own person. We don’t want to put that burden on him.”

  A kindness, one Maura appreciated. And yet . . .

  “He has no memory of Grady. Not a single one of his own.” Saying that truth out loud hurt. Heavens, it hurt. “I’ve done my best to help him know his father, but—” Emotion clogged her throat for a moment, but she pushed on. “I knew Grady less than five years before he died, and not three of those were spent together before he left for war. There is so much about him I never had a chance to know. Aidan has many questions I cannot answer.”

  She pulled in a deep breath, hoping to dislodge the grief that seemed to settle in her throat every time she spoke of that painful part of her past. But the breath, as always, simply left her coughing. She quickly got her breath under control again, smiling in the hope of dispelling any worry the sound might have caused her family.

  “We might be able to answer the lad’s questions,” Mrs. O’Connor offered, having come near them. “We would love to. We’ve
not spoken of Grady enough in the years since we lost him. ’Twould do us all good to think back on him with joy instead of mourning.”

  Maura wanted to be able to do that as well. She would have to work at it. So much of her emotion connected to his passing was still difficult to endure. Guilt and regret filled all the cracks left in the part of her heart that had belonged solely to him. Yet she knew this family grieved for him as well. Easing that pain for them was part of the mission she’d given herself. That would be part of her legacy.

  “I brought something with me that I think you will appreciate,” Maura told them.

  Her heart thudded and her hands were a little shaky. Very few people had ever been permitted even a glimpse at this, one of her dearest treasures. But they needed to see it. She knew they did. She’d brought her most treasured possession with her the past few weeks, trying to find the strength to share it with them.

  “Aidan.”

  He looked up at her from his slice of cake.

  “Will you fetch the tintypes from my coat pocket?”

  He paled a little. He treasured them as well, and sharing them felt very personal. She understood that. But it was time. He crossed to the nail on which her coat hung and pulled two hinged leather frames from it, both fitting easily in his hand. He brought them to her. She squeezed his hand and smiled reassuringly. He knelt on the floor in front her as he’d so often done when he was tiny.

  She set the frames on her lap and told her heart to stop its thudding. This was a good thing, certainly nothing to feel so nervous about.

  “A photographer visited the Irish Brigade the week before Gettysburg,” she said. “He wanted to document a little of the Union Army’s experiences. His sister, who traveled with him as an assistant, was very taken with two particular soldiers, declaring them the handsomest men she’d ever seen. The way I was told it, she pleaded ceaselessly with her brother to take their pictures.”

  The whole room was silent, staring, hardly breathing.

  “Saints above,” Mrs. O’Connor whispered.

  “The pictures came back to me after the battle,” Maura said. “I have to agree with the photographer’s sister. Two men handsomer than these brothers would be difficult to find.”

  Mr. O’Connor had moved to stand directly behind his wife’s chair. Ian stood behind Biddy’s.

  Maura opened the first frame, the room’s lantern light illuminating Grady’s beloved face. She turned the hinged frame so the rest of the room could see the photograph inside. An audible gasp met the sight.

  “Oh, my dear boy.” The words shook from Mrs. O’Connor.

  Maura placed the treasure in her mother-in-law’s hands. Grady’s parents bent over the frame, silent. Their tears flowed unchecked.

  “My Grady,” Mr. O’Connor whispered.

  Maura turned to face Ian. He and Patrick, the brother immortalized in the other tintype, had been closer than anyone else in the family. Their bond had been obvious to anyone who’d spent even a moment with them. Ian and Patrick’s connection had been special.

  She didn’t open the second frame, but she met Ian’s hopeful, worried, cautious gaze. “Patrick,” she whispered, and held it out to him.

  His hand shook as he took it from her. Biddy hopped up and guided him to sit, then stood behind him, wrapping him in her arms. He carefully unhooked the frame, and opened it the tiniest bit at a time. Biddy pressed a kiss to her husband’s temple as a tear fell from his eyes. Maura rose. The family needed time with these images, and the loneliness attached to them.

  She crossed to where Aidan stood. Finbarr hadn’t moved from his seat. He’d grown silent once more, his head lowered. Here was yet another thing he could not participate in. He couldn’t see the photographs.

  Ian closed the frame once more, openly sobbing. Biddy held him as he cried. How deeply he must have missed Patrick. Those two had been halves of a whole. Back in New York, one had seldom been seen without the other. Years of separation had stretched between them.

  Mr. O’Connor took the frame from Ian. The rest of the family had gathered around, including the grandchildren, all studying the faces of these two sons, brothers, uncles. Mrs. O’Connor wept. Her husband swiped at his own tears.

  “I should have shown you these sooner,” Maura whispered.

  “They loved Da, didn’t they?” The confirmation seemed to comfort Aidan.

  She pulled him into a one-armed embrace. “Your da and Patrick both. And they miss them fiercely, just as we do.”

  “Thank you for bringing these, Maura,” Mary said. “To see their faces again—” Emotion cut off her words.

  “I want all of you to be able to see them whenever you’d like. I would like to keep Grady’s for myself, but I think Patrick’s should remain with your parents, since he didn’t want it.”

  “Since who didn’t want it?” Mr. O’Connor asked.

  “Patrick.” She thought she’d been clear, but they were all a little overset. A more detailed explanation would likely help. “I told him he ought to keep the tintype because it was of him, but he said it didn’t bring him any joy, and he’d rather not be reminded of it.”

  They were all watching her again, brows drawn. Mary and Tavish exchanged bewildered looks.

  “These were taken before Gettysburg?” Mr. O’Connor pressed.

  She nodded. “I imagine that is why he didn’t want the picture. It reminded him of the battle, which he didn’t care to relive. The battle and everything attached to it.”

  Dumbfounded silence followed. For a moment, she could only stare back. Why was this so confusing? In a flash of understanding, she pieced their thoughts together.

  “By the saints,” she said in a whoosh of breath. “You don’t know.”

  “What don’t we know?” Mrs. O’Connor’s voice shook.

  “Patrick,” Maura said. “He’s not dead.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  The room erupted in shock, denial and a myriad of questions. Maura couldn’t begin to count the different responses bursting from the family. Curse that Patrick. If she’d had the first idea that he hadn’t written to his family as he’d said he would, she’d have sent word to them herself. No matter that they hadn’t wanted to maintain a connection with her during that difficult period of mourning, they deserved to know what had happened to their son.

  Cecily whistled loudly, bringing silence to the group once more. The wide eyes that met the shrill sound told Maura her sister-in-law hadn’t done that before.

  “If we’d all keep quiet,” Cecily said, “Maura could explain.”

  Mrs. O’Connor clasped her hands and pressed them to her lips. Emotion quivered in her brow. The family watched Maura, waiting.

  “When the casualty list was posted for Gettysburg, both Grady and Patrick’s names were on it.” Maura swallowed against the lump that always formed when she thought back on those days. “I waited weeks to write to you because the lists sometimes changed. Battlefields are chaotic and mistakes get made. I checked the list every day, praying for a miracle, dreading having to tell you that your sons were dead.” That had been a horrible, horrible time. “Some names were added, some were removed. But after a few weeks, our lads’ names were still there. So I wrote to you to tell you. I had no reason to believe that the report was anything but accurate, that we’d lost them both.”

  Even Aidan listened with rapt attention. Had she ever told him about the days and weeks after his father died? They were difficult to think about let alone speak of. But it was time. The family needed to know, so she needed to speak of it, at least a little.

  “The war continued two more years. Aidan and I lived with my mother until she passed, and then my sister joined us, until she, too, passed. Then we moved to a flat in a building where we could afford the rent.” The story was easier to tell if she skipped quickly over the loss after loss she’d endured in two short years. “The war ended, and soldiers began returning home. One day there was a knock at our door. I opened it and was, I
swear to you, convinced I was seeing a ghost.”

  “Patrick?” Mr. O’Connor filled the name with heartbreaking hope.

  Maura nodded. “He’d gone looking for us at the old flat. Not finding us, he began asking around. It took some doing, but he eventually found us. He hadn’t been killed, obviously, but he had been wounded and spent time in an army hospital before rejoining the regiment. When the fighting ended, he was sent home. He brought the photographs.” She motioned to the tintypes, Patrick’s being held by Ian and Grady’s in his mother’s hands. “He told me that Grady was most decidedly dead. That had not been a mistake.”

  Mrs. O’Connor cried openly, not even attempting to brush away her tears. Maura had to look away. She could not allow herself to cry about this. Not with so much yet to tell.

  “He stayed with us,” she said. “He took up a farrier job and helped us tremendously. He was also the only grown man in our building, which made him incredibly popular.” That was a memory she could smile at. Heavens, he’d been a flirt. In quiet moments, though, when no one was there but the three of them, he’d been withdrawn, pensive. She’d worried about him. “Aidan and I were very much alone when he arrived, and he—he was family to us when we needed it most: a brother, an uncle, and a friend.”

  Bless him, Aidan looked as confused as the rest of the O’Connor family. He’d only been five years old when Patrick had lived with them. She doubted he remembered much of anything about those short months.

  “Why didn’t you write and tell us?” Mr. O’Connor asked. He sounded far more baffled than angry.

  “He insisted he would write to you, and I had no reason not to believe him. He was quieter than before the war, more contemplative, but nothing in his behavior led me to think he wouldn’t tell his family that he was alive. I am, in fact, entirely unable to reconcile it.”

  “Where is he now?” Tavish asked.

  “Canada. He moves a lot, though he answers my letters. I send them to the last location I have for him and somehow he always receives them. His responses often come from somewhere else, and that is where I send my next letter. Feels rather like chasing a rainbow, ever moving and always just out of reach.”