Song of Erin

by BJ Hoff

He spent the rest of the journey huddled inside the coach, chilled and growing increasingly irritable. He had hoped to reach Galway while it was still early enough to visit the Claddagh, but that seemed unlikely now. At least he had thought to arrange rooms with Mrs. Hannafin in advance. He could go right to his lodgings, have a hot bath, and then have some supper. If not this evening, then tomorrow he would get up early and go straight to the Claddagh, first thing.

  He was looking forward to seeing Terese, though he hoped her welcome would be warmer than her farewell. He thought of Roweena. His pulse quickened, and he realized that he was even more anxious to see her than to see Terese.

  Best not to analyze the implications of that, he decided.

  He almost wished the intimacy with Terese had never happened. He suspected that if the relationship continued, she would begin to press him more and more for some sort of commitment—a commitment he was unwilling to give, especially in light of his conflicting feelings for both her and Roweena.

  He had also begun to feel increasingly guilty that he hadn’t told Terese the whole truth about himself and what he was doing in Ireland. Knowing what he did about her almost obsessive desire to go to America, he supposed he ought to be thoroughly ashamed of himself. Her dream of leaving Ireland for a new life in the States was the most important thing in the world to her, yet by her own admission, she still had a ways to go before she’d be able to pay her passage. He had the power to make her dream a reality but had deliberately withheld any hint of that fact.

  By doing so, he might just as well have been lying to her all along. His deception had been deliberate, calculated for the most selfish of reasons.

  He was using her.

  Brady shivered inside his wet clothes, then leaned his head against the seat in an attempt to doze. But if he thought that by closing his eyes he could shut out the wave of self-reproach rising in him, he was wrong. Lately he found himself unable to think of Terese without an accompanying slam of shame. He was beginning to wonder if he should just come clean with her. Tell her the whole truth, and let her choose—stay in Ireland with him, or go to the States without him.

  Brady was of no mind to go back to New York. Certainly not yet, possibly not for a long time. In a few short months, Ireland had become home to him. He had never expected to fall in love with an entire land and its people, but that was exactly what had happened. Every time he seriously contemplated his return to the States, he ended up rejecting the idea altogether.

  He thought he could drag out Jack’s assignment for quite an extended period yet. Eventually, of course, it would end, and at that point Jack would insist that he come home. But that was a distant tomorrow, and he refused to worry about it now.

  He did worry about Terese, though. He had no illusions about the future of their relationship. With her uncommon beauty, her passion, and her mercurial spirit, Terese was more desirable than many of the more mature women he had known. Certainly, she was never boring. He found her fascinating, exciting, and he held a deep affection for her. But he wasn’t in love with her, at least not in the way he thought he would have to be before he could consider a more serious commitment—like marriage.

  The truth was that Brady didn’t always trust his own emotions. As Jack was fond of pointing out, he could be deplorably irresponsible where women were concerned. Try as he might, he couldn’t imagine himself married. Even if his wanderlust—and his other lusts—should one day wane, he still couldn’t envision himself loving any one woman enough to spend the rest of his life with her.

  A fleeting, luminous thought of Roweena suddenly impressed itself on his mind, and he started, catching his breath. Just then an explosion of thunder rocked the coach, and the storm renewed itself with a furious downpour and a frenzied dance of lightning. The noise was deafening, the wild display outside the coach almost frightening, but Brady was virtually numb to everything except the memory of another wild storm and the dark-haired fawn of a girl he had met that night.

  Roweena…

  In that moment, he decided that he could let Terese go, that indeed it would probably be best to do just that, for both their sakes. He drew in a long breath, almost smiling as he felt his guilt start to break up and give way to a more familiar, comfortable sense of well-being.

  That behind him, he dug down in his leather satchel for the most recent letter from Jack. It had arrived yesterday, but in the flurry of activity before leaving, he hadn’t taken time to read it. He slit it open now with his pocketknife, squinting in the dim light to make out his brother’s scrawl.

  There was mention of the Madden children and a reminder to Brady that he should advise Jack as to the date of their departure. Apparently, a Mrs. Samantha Harte would be directing the children’s settlement once they arrived in the States. It seemed that Mrs. Harte, in addition to being employed as a part-time proofreader with the Vanguard, also worked with one of the city’s immigrant societies. Jack went on about the woman for two or three more lines, and Brady smiled at the thought of Jack combining forces with some long-nosed charity worker. Not exactly his brother’s usual taste in women.

  He went on reading, bringing the pages closer to his face as the road wound through a stretch of low-hanging trees, blocking even more light from the coach’s interior. Jack had penned his usual admonishments regarding “responsibilities,” “extravagance,” and “self-discipline,” but Brady gave these only a cursory glance along with the next few lines, which had to do with circulation figures and news about the city.

  He was on the last page, scanning it quickly, when a name suddenly seemed to leap out at him. He stared at the words, frowned, then went back to the beginning of the paragraph.

  I can’t recall whether I’ve told you about my new driver, Cavan Sheridan, or not. Actually, he’s not going to be my driver for long. I’ve found him to have a nose for the news and more than his share of good writing instincts—as well as ambition. That being the case, I will probably be putting him on the paper as a cub reporter soon.

  Cavan Sheridan. For a long moment, Brady’s gaze locked on the words, his frown deepening. It couldn’t be. It would be too much of a coincidence by far. But he distinctly remembered Terese calling her brother…Cavan.

  He dragged his gaze away from the name and, holding his breath, went on, his eyes racing over the words that followed.

  Sheridan is actually the bright young fellow who thought up the idea of “personalizing” the stories by featuring a number of individuals and bringing them to the States. He’s as clever as a loan shark, though of vastly higher principles, I’m happy to say. Given the lad’s natural ability and ambition, you’d best not stay too long over there, little brother, or I may end up giving Sheridan your job as well.

  Brady was not amused as he read on:

  Sheridan has a sister over there, by the way, and I promised him I would mention her to you. He thinks the girl might have been caught up in the big windstorm back in January and is greatly concerned about her. They’re island people—Inishmore, to be exact—so it’s not likely you’d be running across her now, traveling as you are in a different direction. But I did tell him I would write you about her. The girl’s name is Terese, and she would be about seventeen. Sheridan hasn’t seen her since he left for the States several years ago, so anything could have happened to her by now. It would be grand if by some stroke of luck we could locate her, though, for the lad’s lost his entire family except for the girl.

  Brady went no farther, other than to retrace what he had already read. Terese’s brother—working for Jack? How such a thing could be was beyond all understanding, but there it was, in black and white, so to speak. He sagged back against the seat, the letter still dangling from his hand. His mind was spinning. He felt almost as if a stone had grazed his head and stunned him badly.

  Terese would be wild once she heard. He would have all he could do to stop her from jumping onto the next ship bound for the States.

  Not that she need learn of this right awa
y, of course. Certainly, he would tell her, but first there were a few other things that must be taken into account.

  It occurred to him that if he were to make Terese the subject of one of his articles and arrange for her passage to the States, it wouldn’t do for her brother to know of their relationship—just in case he happened to be the vengeful sort.

  And under no circumstances should Jack know. Jack was no saint, that much was certain, but he could be surprisingly old-world when it came to women. Given the fact that Terese was only seventeen—and the sister of one of his employees—he would be absolutely livid at the thought that Brady had been involved with her. No doubt he would accuse Brady of taking advantage.

  No, he would have to give this considerable thought before breaking it to Terese. He wanted to make absolutely certain that he had his own plans clearly in mind before making any plans for her.

  When Jane handed her her weekly wages, Terese drew a deep breath and said, “Could you be doing without me for the afternoon tomorrow, Jane? I’ll be going into the city, if you can spare me.”

  Jane’s eyes were sharp and searching, her reply a long time in coming. “I suppose you’ve earned an afternoon for yourself. Though sure you won’t be wanting to go if this storm doesn’t let up, I expect.”

  Terese had half expected a fuss, for Jane was not inclined to grant her time away. Her employer’s easy assent caught her off guard and only increased her nagging guilt. “No…no, I’ll not be going in such weather as this. But I’m needing some things…some items for myself…and I thought I might…see a performance or the like, if any of the players are about.” She paused, then added, “I might be gone until late evening, you see. You’re certain you don’t mind?”

  She shrank inwardly as Jane went on regarding her with that peculiar look, her eyes like glistening stones in the dim afternoon light.

  Again, Jane delayed her reply. At last she looked away, toward the window. Her tone was dull and neutral when she finally spoke. “Do what you must, girl.”

  Still, Terese hesitated. Something inside her seemed to be waiting for Jane to voice an objection, a more typically sour refusal. When it did not happen, she could think of nothing else to say and went to stand in the open doorway to watch the storm.

  The rain blowing in felt cool and welcome after the closeness of the past few days. Water overran the ditch beyond the cottage, splashing and gurgling as it flowed into the lane. The wind was coming heavier now, the thunder stronger, too, and the ground seemed to shake beneath the cottage. The noise was fierce, blasting at Terese like an angry assault.

  She hugged her arms tightly to her as she stood staring outside. Her sense of approaching doom had not dissipated since last night. To the contrary, she felt more anxious and apprehensive now than ever. Yet, when a jagged bolt of lightning slashed the front yard as if to set the grounds ablaze, she scarcely flinched, for the storm taking place around her was no more violent than the tempest raging within.

  34

  AN UNEXPECTED WELCOME

  I looked for the lamp which, she told me,

  Should shine when her pilgrim returned,

  But though darkness began to enfold me,

  No lamp from the battlements burned!

  THOMAS MOORE

  Brady had never been a particularly late sleeper, but, exhausted from his journey, he slept until after ten the next morning. By the time he’d shaved and had breakfast, it was nearly noon.

  He took the cobbled streets at a brisk pace, reaching the quay in minutes. The rainstorm had cleared and freshened the air, and the morning was bright and sharp, if somewhat cool for this time of day.

  The unmistakable smell of the fisheries permeated the quay, along with the pungent aromas of salt and burning kelp. Some fishermen—large men for the most part—in their work shirts and coarse trousers, milled about the boats moored at the quay. They were a quiet lot, their cavernous eyes watchful as they worked and talked in low voices.

  Two black-cassocked priests invoked the name of God in greeting and smiled as they passed, and Brady responded. A number of women in the familiar blue mantles and red skirts, bright kerchiefs bound around their heads, hurried to and from the markets. He saw half a dozen or more boys casting stones from rough-hewn slings—a sport for boys and men, but, in this remote quarter, also a mode of warfare known to be particularly treacherous.

  Brady never entered the Claddagh without feeling as if he had stepped back into the Middle Ages. In most ways it was a pleasant, even an oddly comforting, sensation. The isolated colony was a place of bright colors and dark mysteries, a place steeped in superstition and religious ceremony. He had grown fond of it all, including the handsome, taciturn people. In the beginning they had eyed him with suspicious glances, but eventually some had begun to offer an occasional gesture of friendship.

  Brady never forgot that he was an outsider here. Yet there had been times when he felt an inexplicable sense of belonging. There was an almost mystical quality that seemed to permeate the narrow lanes of the Claddagh, giving him the sensation of being able to step in and out of an entirely different way of life as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  He hesitated for a moment when he realized that he had turned not onto the lane leading to Jane Connolly’s house and Terese but instead onto Gabriel’s street. He thought about it, then went on, promising himself that he would stay only a few minutes. Just long enough to say hello and let them know he was back. Then he would go on to see Terese.

  The decision made, his steps quickened even more in anticipation.

  Gabriel saw him first. The door was standing open, and he had just finished his bowl of potatoes and was pushing away from the table when he looked out to see Brady Kane at the far end of the yard, turning onto the walk.

  He darted a glance at Roweena, but she was washing dishes from the midday meal and had her back to him. Quickly, Gabriel started for the door, meaning to stop the American before he reached the house.

  But wee Evie had spotted Brady, too. She came scurrying around the table, flapping her arms and crying his name. Roweena, apparently sensing the little one’s movement, turned with a questioning look.

  Gabriel blocked the child with his body and a stern word of warning, at the same time rapidly signing his words to Roweena. “I must speak with him alone today. I want the two of you to stay inside.”

  The child’s face crumpled in disappointment. Roweena, too, who had already taken a step toward the door, stared at Gabriel in unconcealed bewilderment.

  But Gabriel merely shook his head and lifted a restraining hand. “Stay inside, I said. I will explain later.”

  With that, he stepped outside into the yard, closing the door firmly behind him. The girls’ disappointment weighed heavily upon him, but he would not relent. Better that they should be disappointed now than later, he told himself.

  At the look on Gabriel’s face, Brady lost his smile of anticipation. The big fisherman stood in the middle of the yard, legs astride, his brawny arms crossed over his chest.

  Puzzled, Brady looked beyond the big man’s rigid posture to the house. But the door was closed, with no sign of either Roweena or Evie anywhere.

  By now, Brady suspected that something was going on, and whatever it might be, it wasn’t good. The big man’s eyes were chips of blue ice, his expression stony and unreadable. Brady suddenly felt about as welcome as a leper.

  “Gabriel…” he said uncertainly, extending his hand.

  If the other noticed the outstretched hand, he ignored it.

  “So, you are back.” It sounded less a statement than an accusation.

  Thoroughly baffled, Brady slowly dropped his hand back to his side. “I am. And I couldn’t be happier about it. I’ve missed…everyone.” He made a weak attempt at small talk, but Gabriel seemed not in the least inclined to reciprocate.

  “And Roweena and Evie—how are they?” Brady finally asked.

  “They are both well. Have you been to Jane�
��s yet?” Gabriel was watching him as if he already knew the answer.

  “Jane’s? No, not yet,” Brady said, hating the fact that he felt like a schoolboy caught in some offense. “I was on my way there, as it happens, but I thought I’d just stop by and say hello.” He paused long enough to take a breath. “Something wrong, Gabriel?”

  The big fisherman’s expression remained fixed. “I’ll not be keeping you, then,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard the question. “You will want to be on your way.”

  Brady’s puzzlement gave way to irritation. “You’re not even going to ask me in, Gabriel? I had hoped to say hello to the girls.”

  “Not today, I think. You should go on to Jane’s first.”

  It struck Brady then that something had happened to Terese. “What is it? Terese—”

  Gabriel’s eyes sparked blue fire. “You need to go to her. Your place is there with her, not here.” He turned and started walking back to the house.

  For a moment, Brady could only stand and stare at the broad expanse of Gabriel’s back as he walked away. Then, heart pounding, he swung around and took off down the yard, now intent on finding out for himself what exactly was going on.

  “Are you sure?” he asked her again, feeling sicker by the minute. “You couldn’t be mistaken?”

  “It’s been over two months now.” Terese’s tone was laced with accusation, as though he knew as well as she that her condition was indisputable.

  She was watching him with a keen closeness, a kind of urgency, as if the entire direction of her life would be determined by his next words.

  Had he not been so overwhelmed by the shock she had just handed him, Brady might have laughed at the idea that he could possibly utter anything even remotely meaningful at a time like this. He had all he could do not to turn and run.

  He couldn’t do that, of course. Instead he stood there, in the middle of Jane Connolly’s yard, his mind reeling, his pulse pounding, as he tried to think of what to say. He had to say something, after all. Terese was clearly waiting.