by Ann Moore
Again she turned in the bed, wincing, her body sore, her heart heavy, her mind aching. How could she have done it? In the night, in the dark, there was no convincing herself that a mother is ever right in abandoning her own child. But she had and—in the night, in the dark—she wondered how on earth she’d find the strength to live with it.
“How, Father?” she moaned, and His answer came in a tender vision that took her breath away: For there—down the long road of her memory—were the tinkers, driving their horse caravan on the lane past her cabin. And there she was—that must be her, that happy young thing with dark hair streaming and cheeks gleaming from the spring air—running in the woods, down to the bog with Morgan and Sean to squish the mud between their toes, behind them the sound of Mam’s teasing laughter and sweet singing; the gentle, practical voice of her gran telling the old stories; the smell of her da’s tobacco as he swept her up into the air; the sight of his strong back as he worked the field behind their cabin.
And then the cabin itself—the wooden table around which they all sat each day, a turf fire to keep them warm, her mam’s picture cards on the walls, a rug on the floor, curtains at the windows, fresh and sweet, happy and safe, the lane outside so lushly green and dear with flowers in spring, berries in summer, nests of birds filled with song from morning till night, the river nearby rushing, tumbling, flashing with salmon, the woods behind full of game. And Gracelin running barefoot through it all, eating her fill, laughing out loud at the sheer beauty of her world, the joy in her heart.
And then she was falling asleep at last, drawing deeply from the well of a childhood sustained by love. Her hand fell down beside the bed, seeking the warm shape of her own daughter, stroking the cropped, tangled hair before coming to rest protectively on the child’s shoulder.
The tension in Mary Kate’s little arms and legs washed away with this touch; she sighed and sank into a deep and restful sleep—her mother was there, guarding over her, and guarding over them both, she knew, was the ever-wakeful countenance of the Lord.
Two
THE world Grace occupied in her sleep was shattered by the sound of a morning well under way. Horse carts clattered noisily in the street below the hotel window as deliveries were made, foods and sundries bought and sold, directives given, orders placed. Doors swung open with a bang, windows creaked, dogs barked, and servants called to one another as they emptied bedpans in the lane, shook out cloths, argued with the baker over the price of buns. Grace listened to it all, remembering where she was and what she was doing there, then prayed quickly for protection through another day.
“Wake up, wee girl.” She leaned over and stroked Mary Kate’s cheek with the back of her fingers. “’Tis morning time.”
The girl’s eyes opened immediately. “Will we eat?” she asked midst an enormous yawn.
“Aye,” Grace reassured, even as her heart ached for a child whose first thought on waking would always be for food.
The door opened then, and Julia—fully dressed and marshaled—pushed her way in with a tray.
“I thought we’d have something up here before facing the world.” She kicked the door closed behind her, then set the tray down on a little table by the window. “Who’s for tea, then?”
“I,” Mary Kate said shyly, sitting up.
“Of course, I!” Julia smiled warmly at her, took a cup of milk, and put in a generous spoonful of sugar before adding the tea. “And a warm bun, I should think, as we’ve got another long day ahead of us. Come sit here at the table, Mary Kate. Put that blanket round your shoulders.”
Mary Kate did as she was told, bowing her head quickly in prayer before biting into the bun, her eyes wide at the sweetness of it.
Julia brought two cups of tea and two buns on a plate over to the bed, handing one to Grace, then sitting down gingerly beside her.
“I’m afraid I’ve got bad news,” she said quietly. “I’ve been to confirm your passage on the Eliza J, but departure has been delayed. They had a stormy crossing and the ship needed repairs. It’s taken longer than expected. We’ve got to wait four more days.”
“Doesn’t sound promising.” Grace looked at the window and the cold, dark sky outside.
“No,” Julia admitted. “It doesn’t. But of all the ships departing to America, this one’s the most reputable. William’s contact here booked your passage and the captain comes highly recommended. He’s part owner, and American—they say Americans run the tightest ships—so we know he’s making proper repair. I’ve heard stories of these captains who simply patch up and sail off, unwilling to lose even one voyage in a year for the cash of it. Plenty of those go down only God-knows-where—they get lost and run out of provisions, or hit an iceberg this time of year, or sink in a storm and no one ever really knows what happened.”
Grace stared at her, aghast, cup partway to her lips.
Julia winced. “Sorry. My father always says I’m as tactful as a hurricane. Never mind me.”
They sat for a moment, not looking at one another.
“All right, then.” Grace rested her cup in its saucer. “Four days. Maybe longer. And winter’s coming on, so crossing will be risky, at best, and of course, there’ll be fewer boats making the trip.”
Julia nodded.
“So will we find room on another that’s leaving right away then, or will we wait for this one to be repaired? And is there money to be had for lodging if we decide to wait?”
Julia bit her lip. “There’s the money to buy extra provisions and clothing,” she said. “And it’s generous—William contributed and so did … the others.”
“Meaning you?” Grace asked.
Julia ignored the question. “You could probably stay here for a week and still have enough to buy extra provisions for the two of you, maybe warmer cloaks and boots, a blanket.”
“And if the boat’s not ready in a week?”
“I don’t know. If you stay on here, you’ll run out of money eventually, of course, though it’s one less mouth to feed as I’ll have gone back to Ireland.” Julia frowned, thinking. “I could send someone back with more. But the longer you stay, the riskier it is.”
Grace glanced at Mary Kate, who was absorbed in watching the street life below their window. “Aye,” she said quietly. “’Tis the lion’s den here.”
Julia nodded soberly. “We’ll keep an eye on the sailings this week so that if the Eliza J isn’t ready, you can book passage on something else and we’ll get word to Sean.”
Grace was silent, considering. “Or Mary Kate and I simply get on another boat today.”
“No,” Julia said, firmly. “The Eliza J is seaworthy and well-captained, and it’s common knowledge that any yahoo with a boat these days is in the immigrant business. It’s best to bide our time a while longer. Boarding the Eliza J is our first choice. Our best choice.”
Grace looked around the small room and took a deep breath. “I’m trusting you to know what you’re talking about here, Julia, though Lord knows you’re not getting on that boat with us.”
Julia understood, but didn’t waver. “We wait. That’s the right decision.”
“All right, then,” Grace said. “And what is it you want me to do while we’re waiting?”
Julia stood and began gathering up the breakfast dishes. “I want you to rest here while I go out and round up a few things for the trip. You’ll need a small trunk to store your things, with room for food.”
“Does not the cost of passage include our board?” Grace handed over her teacup.
“It does. We’ve booked you a private cabin and you’ll take your meals with the other passengers in first. The rest of the passengers get weekly rations, which they prepare themselves. But rations run out if the ship is overbooked, or if you hit foul weather and the trip takes longer than expected, or if the captain is not as honest as we’ve been led to believe.…” She caught herself. “Sorry. There I go again. I don’t mean to make you more anxious than you already are, but from all accounts,
the crossing is not an easy one in any weather, and extra food and drink, a blanket or two—it’s winter at sea after all—medicines … all will most likely be put to good use.”
“Aye, you’ve convinced me,” Grace said. “Get whatever you think we might need to survive this and I’ll thank you for it every time we open that trunk, sure and that’s the truth.”
“Let’s hope you won’t have to,” Julia said, and left the room with her cloak over her arm.
“Grace.” A hand shook her shoulder gently, but insistently. “Grace, wake up. You’ve got a visitor.”
Grace opened her eyes and saw that Mary Kate was still napping beside her on the bed; outside it had begun to snow. She turned over and looked up.
“You’ve got a visitor,” Julia repeated and stood aside, revealing a woman dressed in a long velvet cape, her face hidden deep within the hood.
Grace swung her legs carefully off the bed and moved up, wiping her eyes and mouth with the back of her hand, and smoothing her skirt, self-conscious in front of this well-dressed woman and more than a little put out at Julia’s lack of discretion.
“How do you do?” she said quietly, putting out her hand.
The hand that clasped hers was smooth and white, its long fingers decorated with several beautiful rings. With the other hand, the woman lowered her hood.
“Do you not know me, then, Gracelin O’Malley?” she asked with the hint of a smile.
Grace gasped. “Aislinn!” Her eyes flew to Julia’s face, then back again. “I can hardly believe ’tis you standing in front of me! ’Tis Aislinn McDonagh!” she said to Julia. “Morgan’s sister!”
Julia laughed quietly. “I know who it is, or why do you think I’ve brought her here?”
“Well, where on earth did you find her?” Grace asked, astonished. “Where did she find you?” she asked Aislinn, and then began to cry.
Both women came to Grace immediately, but it was Aislinn who held her and whispered in Irish, calling her “sister.”
“You know, then?” Grace asked. “About … everything?”
Aislinn nodded sorrowfully, her own eyes filled with tears.
“Mam.” Mary Kate was awake and sitting. “Who’s that, Mam?”
“Your mam was a dear friend of my brother, of all my family,” Aislinn said gently. “I wanted to see her before you went away.”
“To America,” Mary Kate said gravely.
“Aye, ’tis a wondrous place and you will like it there very much.” She let go of Grace and came toward the little girl. “May I give you a present?” she asked. “Something for luck?”
Mary Kate looked at Grace, who nodded.
Aislinn slipped a ring off her little finger and held it out to the girl. “The silver is in the pattern of a sacred knot,” she said. “And do you see the green stone in the center?”
Mary Kate nodded, eyes riveted to the ring.
“It’s from Connemara, in the west of Ireland,” she explained. “I had that ring made to remind me of home, and now I want to give it to you to remind you of home when you are far away. Will you have it?”
“Oh, aye.” Mary Kate’s eyes were wide and she took the ring reverently. “Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome.” Aislinn touched the girl’s thick hair. “You remind me of my little sister. Fiona was a pretty maid, as well.”
Mary Kate ducked her head shyly, but they could see her smile.
“Come, little miss.” Julia picked her up off the bed. “Let’s you and I go down and have our tea by the great fire, shall we? We’ll leave your mam and her friend to talk together, and then we’ll come up to say good-bye. What do you say?”
Mary Kate nodded her head, always happy for the chance of a meal. She waved at them as Julia carried her out of the room, the door closing softly behind them.
“I can’t stay long, but I wanted to see you before you left.”
“How did you find us?” Grace went to the little window and sat beside it. Outside, snow fell softly, clinging to the leaded glass.
“Julia.” Aislinn took the other chair. “Morgan asked her to find me, and last summer she did. But after I explained my situation, she agreed it was better I stay … missing. She sent word ahead that you would be here, but kept it from you in case I was unable to come.”
“Unable?”
“I am the mistress of a very powerful man. A man who saved my life, actually, or what was left of it. He agreed to let me come, as long as I am discreet.” She hesitated. “You’re shocked.”
“Ah, no, Aislinn, no,” Grace insisted. “I just can’t get over seeing you alive, is all.”
Aislinn reached out and took Grace’s hand. “I know,” she said. “About Mam and Da. And the girls. Julia told all.”
“Barbara’s still alive. She’s called Sister John Paul at the convent.”
“Of course she is! Always the saint, Barbara.” Aislinn scowled, revealing a bit of the girl she’d been before leaving home.
“I’ve nothing but love for your sister,” Grace said. “She delivered me of my son, called John Paul Morgan after the two of them.”
“Julia says you wed.” Aislinn shook her head. “I could hardly believe it true.”
“Father Brown married us in secret seven months ago. Another man was there, as well.” She smiled wanly. “He gave Morgan the ring off his own finger. I wear your mam’s.” She held her hand out.
Aislinn took it, kissed the ring, and smiled. “Ah, Mammie. I did love her.” She looked up at Grace. “She’d be so happy to know you wear this, Grace, so happy you and Morgan were wed. And that you have a son of your own.”
“We had only the one night together, but ’twas enough.”
“Did he know?”
“Aye.” Grace closed her eyes briefly, and there was Henry’s face. “An English soldier helped us. He smuggled Morgan’s letter out of prison, but was killed in bringing it to me.” She pulled the letter out of its place behind her vest and offered it to Aislinn.
“I can’t read, Grace,” the young woman admitted. “Morgan and Barbara both tried to teach me my letters, but …” She shrugged and smiled wryly. “Always had my mind on boys and the like, didn’t I now?”
Grace slipped the letter securely back into its place near her heart. “He says he’s glad for our baby, but knows he won’t live to see it, to make a life for myself and our children, and not to mourn forever as he’ll see me again one day. In Heaven.”
“And so he will, Grace. So he will.”
“I never knew he loved me all that time.” Grace’s face twisted in anguish. “Or it’s him I would’ve wed first. I married Bram in good faith, the Lord knows I did. ’Twas worth everything to have our Mary Kate. But …” She paused, shaking her head. “It ended badly.”
“There was news of the murder over here,” Aislinn said. “The Donnellys, you know, and their fine society. They say your own brother did it at your bidding, but I didn’t believe a word.”
Grace hesitated. “’Twas Moira.”
“Moira Sullivan?” Aislinn wasn’t surprised. “Having it off with him behind your back, was she?”
“Bram turned her head with promises he never meant to keep, and when he was through with her she couldn’t bear it, her with a baby and all. She waited for him in the woods. And shot him.”
“Good for her.” Aislinn’s voice was hard. “He was a bastard, Grace. She did you a favor.” And then it dawned on her. “It was her baby you turned over to Bram’s brother to raise! I knew something was wrong when I heard that story—the Gracelin O’Malley I knew would never give up her child without a fight. Hah!” She laughed delightedly. “’Tis Moira Sullivan’s boy those eejits are raising to be a young lord!”
Grace nodded, deciding in that moment not to tell Aislinn the entire truth—that the baby was not even Bram’s, but a true Irish bastard the Donnellys had brought into their home.
Aislinn snorted gleefully. “I’m glad to hear it, Grace. That’s a fine piece of work on th
em what treated you so poorly, and never you worry—your secret’s safe with me. I knew you’d never give up your own son.”
“I have, though,” Grace confessed. “I’m going to America without him.”
“That’s not giving him up!” Aislinn insisted. “That’s leaving him in safe hands till he’s strong enough to come. ’Twould be the sure death of him to make this voyage, but you’ve no choice, Grace—they’re looking for you in Ireland, Julia says, and you’d go to prison for sure.”
“For shooting a guard that come to tumble our cabin.” She paused and looked out the window. “And then, of course, I’m sister to Sean O’Malley, wanted for treason and murder, and rumored to be wife to the outlaw Morgan McDonagh. So I must know names and maps and the whereabouts of others, though truly I do not.” She turned back to Aislinn. “I would’ve stayed in Ireland if the cost was my life only, but what will happen to my daughter and my wee son if I die in prison?”
“I knew it would torment you, and that’s why I had to come—to tell you to go to America. And to make you this promise.” She leaned forward. “I have money now. Plenty of it. I’ll send some back with Julia to provide for your son, anything he and your da might need. Barbara can’t know it’s from me, though,” she added. “She wouldn’t take money from a whore.”
“You don’t know your sister, if you believe that,” Grace said firmly. “And you’re not a whore.”
“What do you call it then—a woman who trades favors for food, shelter, and the protection of a man?”
Grace considered this. “Some would say ‘wife,’” she offered.
Aislinn burst out laughing, then reached out and embraced her friend. “It’s good to see you,” she whispered. “A face from home.”
Grace kissed her cheek, then leaned back. “The last I saw you was that night of the O’Flahertys’ dinner party when Gerald wouldn’t leave you alone. Did you run off with him, then? The serving maid eloping with the young master?” She winked.
Aislinn sighed in disgust, and shook her head. “What an eejit I was. I believed his lies of love, and a high life in London. But he only wanted me to bed, of course, and only when it suited him. I wanted to go out and see the world on his arm, as his wife, and after I fell with his child I thought sure we’d marry. But he was engaged to someone else, a distant cousin with a tidy sum each year, approved by his mother.” She raised her eyebrow; they had both suffered Missus O’Flaherty. “I was furious, but he promised it would be a marriage of convenience only, that he’d arrange rooms for me and the child, and come to us there. I clung to that promise for a long time.” She paused, remembering. “The landlord came twice to demand payment, which, of course, I didn’t have, nor a single friend from whom to borrow it. He was nasty, the landlord, and that’s when I realized I had been abandoned.”
