Then Tommy came home.
* * *
Twelve years had come and gone since I’d laid eyes on my youngest brother, but it didn’t take a minute for all that time to disappear when he walked into the Homestead kitchen with Tom. It was pouring rain outside and both men were soaked to the skin but I squealed like a babby and threw my arms around Tommy and burst into tears. I stayed so long weeping into his neck, he had to pry me off and sit me on a chair, and even then I wouldn’t let go. Hung on his sleeve like it was a promise.
The lads took off their jackets and passed a towel back and forth, while I found a dry one to wipe away my tears. And didn’t Tommy look lovely? Handsome as ever he was—the same face that was in the daguerreotype though now he was sporting a beard. His skin was seasoned like old wood, glazed tawny by the Western sun. Once my tongue came unstuck from my throat, I couldn’t stop asking questions.
Seeing Tommy alive and in the flesh swept away my sorrow. Felt like a miracle, it did, sitting with him in the same room. Tom, it was, put the kettle on and wet the tea, and we sat talking. I lost all track of time and would have left dinner to get itself if Emily hadn’t come into the kitchen.
“Miss Emily, you must come and sit with us,” I said, as if it was my own house. I bustled around and pulled out a chair, introduced her to Tommy, and poured herself a cup of tea. I thought Tommy might be feeling shy sitting down with the mistress of the house. But he chatted away like she was one of his own family. Maybe living out West all that time had him believing his betters were his equals.
Emily didn’t take offense. She asked him near as many questions as I did, laughing at his jests and making some of her own. It was the happiest I’d seen her since the Judge’s last visit. Sure, I couldn’t hear enough of Tommy’s tales and felt a pang when Tom stood up and said they had to be heading back to Kelley Square. Mary would be getting fretful and cross, for she hadn’t spent more than a couple hours with Tommy before Tom whisked him off to see me.
A lump came into my throat from knowing I’d probably have to wait till Sunday before seeing my brother again. But then Emily said I must take the rest of the week off. “We can get along without you for a few days,” she said. “Vinnie and I are perfectly capable of taking care of Mother and preparing our own meals.” She stood up and carried her cup to the sink.
When I didn’t move—for my poor head was still spinning—she got my cloak. And didn’t she put it around my shoulders and pull me to my feet and draw me to the door?
“Go along now,” she said, and she squeezed my hand like a sister.
I turned to thank her.
“Ah, Maggie,” she said, “Heaven comes so rarely near us, we must visit when it does.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Who should turn up the day after Tommy returned but Patrick? I was sweeping dead leaves off Mary’s front porch when I saw him coming across the yard. It was a shock, to be sure. My first thought was he was after his answer. I backed away as he climbed the steps and I’m certain my face twisted in a quare way. “ ’Tis only two weeks since you left,” I said. “I’ve no answer yet.”
But he shook his head, took the broom out of my hand, and pulled me to him, holding me like he wouldn’t let go. He kissed the top of my head and said, “I got your letter,” into my hair. “ ’Tis the only reason I came.” Sure, it was good to snug my face into his chest and listen to his strong heart beating. My tears came up fast and I couldn’t stop them flowing.
We went for a long walk out to the Agricultural College, himself holding my hand and listening all the way. I told him all my memories of Michael till my heart was too sore to hold anything but sorrow.
Patrick was by my side the next three days. A true comfort, he was, with his tender ways and soft touches. He didn’t press me for kisses, though he was happy to give them when I asked. Nor did he talk about marriage. Said he’d ask me after a month, like he promised.
He liked Tommy, said my brother reminded him of some of the good lads he’d met in the Irish Brigade. Fearless, they were. Best fighters in the Union Army.
When he left to go back to Brooklyn, I saw him off at the depot and stood waving him out of the station. It felt like a cold wind had blown up all of a sudden, though it was a warm, golden day. I stayed for a long time looking down the tracks at where the train had disappeared. Thinking I’d be giving Patrick the answer he wanted when he returned.
* * *
Eight days Tommy stayed in Amherst, and every one of them Mary and myself begged him not to go. But he had business in the West needed tending and said he couldn’t linger. I saw he was restless. Reminded me of Patrick that way. Maybe something about moving from place to place and working outside under the open sky made settling hard for lads. Patrick had complained of feeling cramped and itchy when he stayed in one place too long. Once he told me living in Amherst was like being locked in a box with a bunch of mosquitoes. I thought it funny at the time and laughed, but seeing Tommy looking the same helped me understand.
Tommy talked about Michael for hours, told us tale after tale of how well-liked he was in the mining camps and towns and how much he loved the Western life. Always talking about striking it rich, Michael was. Which was why he kept moving on, looking for the next lode when one petered out.
Tommy said he was at the bakery the day of the explosion. When the church bell started ringing, everybody in town dropped what they were doing and headed for the mine. He ran all the way, wanting to be part of the rescue crew. But when he got there, it was plain it was too late to save the miners—the entry had fallen in along with the tunnel. He grabbed a shovel anyway and started digging alongside the other lads. It was the only way to keep the grief and horror away, he said. He dug all day and night and into the next day, till he couldn’t stand up anymore and his friends had to carry him away.
I listened with my head hanging and my tears running down. There was nothing for it but to pray, and so we did. One day Father Barry came all the way from Northampton to bless Tommy and say a requiem Mass for Michael.
* * *
We were sitting on the steps at Kelley Square a quiet Sunday afternoon, chatting about one thing and another, when Tommy told me about a girl he met he was wanting to marry. He hadn’t asked her yet, but he was planning to. Beautiful, he said, with bright blue eyes and a big smile and every inch of her Irish. I asked what he made of Patrick, told him he’d proposed and I’d not decided whether to say yes. Thinking I likely would. “He was sweet to come when I wrote about Michael,” I said. “But I’m not certain I want to be living in Brooklyn, though he has his heart set on it.”
Tommy turned to face me. “Do you want to marry him? I remember when you were working for the Boltwoods, you were always telling me you weren’t going to wed anybody. Planned to stay single and free, was what you said.”
“That was more than ten years ago,” I said. “I hadn’t met himself yet.”
Tommy grinned. “Love makes fools of us all, now, doesn’t it? Remember how demented you were for George Garrett?” he asked. “I thought you’d run off with him, surely.”
I laughed. “God’s truth, I thought about it. I wasn’t much past twenty, with the mind of a silly girl. But it would have broken Da’s heart if I’d yoked myself to a Protestant. And sparked a scandal besides.”
Tommy was nodding. “Sure, Brooklyn isn’t California, but it’ll be an adventure, I’m guessing.”
“It will, won’t it?” I said. My brother was always able to see the bright side of things—and it brought out the spark in me. It was another reason I was wishing he’d stay East.
“Best thing about Brooklyn is you can stop being at the beck and call of the Dickinsons and their like,” he said. “I was surprised when you stayed with them instead of following me to California.”
I was quiet a minute. “ ’Twas your letter persuaded me,” I said.
“My lette
r?” He was frowning.
“The letter you sent to the Squire saying it was too dangerous for me to be going to California and I should stay in Amherst. When he showed me, all my fight drained away,” I said. “Seems like something you’d remember.”
He tapped the beard on his chin, just a little tap, then closed his eyes. A dark flush came up in his face. That fair Maher skin had betrayed all of us, more times than we could count.
“I do,” he said, his voice gone soft. “In truth, I could see the sense of his thinking. Mining towns were rough places when I first went out there. Some would as soon cut your throat as look at you. And then there was the cholera.”
I thought about what he said. “What do you mean, you could see the sense of his thinking? It was your letter—your handwriting was on it. The Squire showed it to me and I recognized it right off. Wasn’t I the one helped you learn your letters?”
“Aye, you did,” he said. “And it was my writing. But not my idea.” He wasn’t looking at me anymore.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
He took a breath in, let it out slow. Almost like smoking a pipe. “The Squire sent me a telegram asking me to write to you. Telling me what to say. Vowed it was for your own protection.”
I looked away at the train depot, where a man was standing beside his horse and buggy. I thought about what Tommy was saying. The Squire was behind it all. From the first, he’d been scheming to deceive me, using his money to get what he was after. He’d not only threatened my family in Amherst—he’d got Tommy to do his bidding.
“Why?” I said. “I don’t understand why you did it. Did he pay you? Threaten you?”
“ ’Twas a long time ago, Margaret.” Tommy shook his head, making a curl fall over his brow. “He didn’t pay me, but he was mighty convincing. It was best for you to be staying, surely. With Mary close by and needing your help.”
“I like making up my own mind,” I said. “And I had my heart set on running a boardinghouse.”
“Aye, I remember,” Tommy said. “God’s truth, I’ve been wondering why you didn’t open one right here in Amherst, you wanted it so.”
I gawked at him. “Sure, I never thought of it,” I said. “And for the life of me, I don’t know why.”
Tommy laughed. And didn’t I laugh with him and give him a hug as well? I thought of how Emily was fond of saying it’s easy to invent a life. But that day I was seeing how life was inventing me.
* * *
I didn’t think I could bear parting with Tommy. Spending those fall days with him had calmed something in me, taken a bit of the sting out of Michael’s death, and brought me back to myself. But too soon the day of his leaving came and we all got up with the sun and gathered on the depot platform, waiting for the train. Mary and myself were clinging to him like babbies to their mam. Sure, that’s no surprise, for there’s no bond stronger than family. When I heard the whistle and the train chuffed up, blowing and screeching, my tears came up. The car doors opened and the steps came down and I hugged Tommy tight and bid him good-bye. Felt like he was being swallowed by a steaming monster and I’d never be seeing him again.
Soon as the train left I went back to the Homestead, for I knew sitting with Mary would only sharpen my grief. A memory came to me—of a summer day I found Emily staring out the front window an hour after the Judge left. She turned and gave me a sad smile. “It’s the transitory nature of life that makes it so sweet, don’t you think, Maggie?” she said. “The knowing each moment that it will never come again.”
I didn’t make sense of her meaning then. But now the truth of her words was so plain, I blessed myself, right there on the street.
* * *
Grief is a long season and my sorrow over Michael’s dying lingered. Vinnie and Emily were understanding, mindful I was mourning. Emily was especially tender. One day when I was low, she found me sitting on the bench outside the kitchen door. She sat beside me and we watched a few leaves drift down from the apple trees. After a time she asked if I wanted to talk. And my thoughts just came tumbling out. I told her I was feeling awful for never going to California like I planned.
“I was set to,” I said. “Had my ticket and everything. Michael was so excited I was coming.” Tears came springing up in my eyes. “It’s been years and years since I laid eyes on him. And now I’ll never be seeing him again.”
“Oh, Maggie,” she whispered. I looked at her and there was pity all over her face.
All at once I was angry. It wasn’t her pity I was wanting. I wanted things to have been different. “It’s blaming your father, I am,” I blurted. The skin of my face was hot under the tears. “It was himself stopped me. Told me he’d hurt my family if I left. Said he had to have me—no other maid would do. I’ll not forgive him, though he’s dead and gone.” I pressed my face into my handkerchief.
“He did it for me,” Emily said in a quare voice.
“For you?” I looked at her.
She bowed her head. “I was the one who insisted you stay. I knew from the first week what a treasure you were. A pearl without price.”
I flashed on the memory of Mam telling me my name Margaret meant pearl. Remembered Emily said she wouldn’t call me by it. For a minute I couldn’t breathe. “It’s wrong to get what you want by hurting somebody,” I said. “ ’Tis a sin.”
Emily nodded. “It is. I thought he convinced you of the benefits of staying. I didn’t know he threatened you. I’m truly sorry.”
I looked at her. Saw the tears in her eyes. Heard how heartfelt her words were. And the anger flowed out of me. God’s truth, I was still under her spell.
* * *
Patrick came back to Amherst the next week. Walked into the Homestead kitchen on a Saturday afternoon. I had my hand in the oven, checking the temperature. When he said my name, I jumped and shut it with a crash.
“Agra,” he said, stroking my cheek, “you’re looking prettier than ever.” The skin under his fingers tingled. I sighed and leaned toward him, expecting him to kiss me. Instead he said, “I’m guessing you know why I’m here. I’ve come to collect the answer you promised.” He smiled a slow smile. “And much as I want to, I’ll not be kissing you till I get it.”
It nettled me, himself being smug that way. I felt my anger spark and went to the table, where I’d left a clutch of potatoes. I tried to settle myself—I owed him an answer, and till that minute, I thought I had one.
“I was hoping you’d have got Brooklyn out of your system by now.” I started peeling potatoes.
He made a little laughing sound, but I could tell I’d unsettled him. “Achushla,” he said, and his voice was like honey, all golden and sweet. “You promised.”
I couldn’t deny it. And I wasn’t a woman who went back on promises. I jabbed an eye out of the potato I was holding. Then I looked at him and saw the worry on his face and my heart melted. All I could think of was himself coming all the way from New York to comfort me when Michael died. That he’d waited so patiently for me to accept him. That was true love, surely.
I nodded and put down my knife and went to him. I put both my hands on his chest.
“Yes,” I said, smiling. “My answer is yes.”
God’s truth, Patrick was happy. His smile was wide as the sky and he wouldn’t stop kissing me till Vinnie came in the kitchen looking for Drummy-doodles.
* * *
I made a pitcher of lemonade and we went out to the piazza and sat on the bench, where we looked at the Pelham hills, all purple and red with the turning leaves. It was one of Emily’s favorite views.
Patrick told me about things he’d seen in New York, the great bridge they were building in Brooklyn and the Grand Central Depot in the city. Best of all, he said, was the grand parade and picnic to celebrate a holiday for laborers. His keenness made me feel keen too. But when he mentioned attending a lecture about Irish Home Ru
le, I suddenly thought of Fenians and remembered what I’d planned to ask before he told me he was going off to New York. So I asked him outright—had he been with the Fenians who raided Canada?
“Tom said you were,” I said. “So I want you to tell me true. I’ll not be listening to any blarney.”
He was quiet a minute, looking at the last of the lemonade in his glass instead of myself. “I did go, more’s the pity. But it was more than ten years ago and I’ve been trying to put it out of my mind ever since. Not something I want to be talking about.” He closed his eyes as if to show how much it hurt him to remember, but I didn’t say anything.
He gave out a long sigh. “After the war I lived with some other lads from the Irish Brigade. Most of us couldn’t find work, so we spent our days swapping tales and talking about Ireland. But when it came to good news about the old country, there was none to be had. No matter our talk about independence and fairness, it was clear England wasn’t going to lift Ireland’s yoke. When some lads joined the Fenian Brotherhood, I did too.” He finished his lemonade and poured himself another glass. “Word came of a plan to bend England’s will by taking territory in Canada.”
“So you joined in,” I said.
He gave me a look. “Sure, I did not. That was back in ’sixty-six and I was weary of war. It wasn’t till four years later I had any part in the fighting. By then I was just wanting to get out of the city—’twas a fearful place full of gangs and hoodlums in those days. And the only job I could get was as a cartman clearing night soil out of tenement outhouses. So I went north with Captain John O’Neill and his army. And it was grand at the start. We were near a thousand strong and raging like stirred-up wasps.” He was looking at the hills. “We crossed the border into Canada and were advancing to a bridge when our flag bearer was shot. Died where he lay, the poor lad.” He was quiet a minute, looking down into his glass. “Before we had time to blink, the Canadians were on top of it, raining down fire. We all ran for cover. I lay down behind a stone wall and said my prayers.”
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