Leaving Ireland

by Ann Moore

  “It is getting late.” Reinders glanced at the sun’s position in the sky. “I’m glad to have seen you, Missus Donnelly. Give Mary Kate and Liam my regards, and tell them I’ll stop in when I get back.” If I have the courage, he added silently.

  “Ah, now, Captain, don’t be afraid.” Grace put out her hand, grinning. “Have a safe voyage, and watch out for icebergs.”

  Reinders laughed despite himself, and allowed one hand cautiously out of confinement to hold hers for a quick moment. “Always a pleasure, Missus Donnelly. Lily”—he turned to her—“I’ll see you before I go.”

  He strode off down the boardwalk, people moving out of his way, glancing back over their shoulders at the tall, commanding sea captain who appeared to be cursing himself under his breath.

  “He’s not like other men,” Lily said pointedly.

  “No.” Grace watched him disappear. “He’s not.”

  Marcus Boardham loved his new job so much, he started rounds early each morning, and that was how he’d discovered the Donnelly woman coming out of rooms on Orange Street. Didn’t she know this was a dangerous neighborhood? he’d asked himself, stepping back into the shadow at the end of the hall. Bad things happened all the time to women, he mused, his tongue flicking his lower lip—well, maybe not on Saturday mornings when everyone was sleeping it off, he allowed, but still … it was no place for a lady. He’d watched her knock and go in, only to leave minutes later. He considered following her, but there was always the risk of being seen, and he wanted to keep on his side the element of surprise. The drunk would know, Boardham decided. It’d be easy to make him talk.

  “Hello, old man.” He popped the door to number nine open with his fist, and laughed meanly. “I was just in the neighborhood.”

  “I’ve paid this month.” Kelley scurried back into his corner, but not before Boardham caught sight of the bag in his hand.

  “What’s that you’ve got?” He crossed the room in two steps and snatched it away. “Money? Where’re you getting money?”

  “It’s from my boy,” Kelley whined. “Give it back to me!”

  “Your boy, eh?” Boardham dangled it just out of reach. “What’s he do, your boy, earns him a sack of coins like this?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “It’s my job to know things.”

  “Works for a saloonkeeper, cleaning up and the like.” He made a grab for the bag, but Boardham yanked it away.

  “What saloon?”

  “The Harp, down by the docks. Run by a boxer,” Kelley added belligerently. “Mighty Ogue—huge man—won’t like it you’re taking my boy’s money.”

  “I’m not taking it,” Boardham said easily. “Just holding it for a minute. Now”—he leaned against the wall—“who’s the woman what brings it to you?”

  “I don’t know,” Kelley lied. “Just some woman works for Ogue.”

  “Wrong.” Boardham opened the sack, took out a few coins and pocketed them. “Try again.”

  “All right, all right. Calls her Grace, Liam does. Grace Donnelly.”

  And suddenly Boardham knew. “Your son is Liam Kelley. Of course. And he lives with Missus Donnelly. You’re Liam Kelley’s father.”

  Kelley was sure Boardham must be drunk. One of them had to be. “I been sick,” he explained. “’Tis better for the boy, living there, earning his keep.”

  “And yours.”

  The old man said nothing.

  Boardham stood perfectly still for a moment, then unexpectedly tossed Kelley the bag. “That’s all I wanted to know,” he said pleasantly. “Thank you for your time.”

  After closing the door, Boardham heard Kelley slump into his corner. He smiled and patted the coins in his pocket. He wasn’t sure how he was going to use this information, but he enjoyed having it. He wouldn’t tell Callahan just yet, he decided. First he’d pay Missus Donnelly a visit.

  Twenty-six

  GRACE came into the upper rooms with a dress over her arm.

  “What do you think of this?” She held it up. “’Tis the same one, but with a new collar and sleeves now the weather’s cooler. Is it all right, do you think? For Florence’s party Saturday night?”

  Sean set down his paper. “Ah, Grace, I can’t go. I’m out all day on Saturday, and then Mister Osgoode is holding a meeting I must attend.”

  Grace’s face fell. “And just when were you going to tell me, Sean O’Malley? It’s tomorrow, is it not?”

  “’Tis,” he allowed, ruefully. “Ah, forgive me, now. I didn’t know myself until this very morning. Marcy sent a message after breakfast.”

  Grace tried to hide her irritation. “Are you telling me, Sean, that you’re going to pass on a fine party you’ve already accepted, to sit in on yet another meeting of the Saints? What about your friends?”

  “The Saints are my friends,” he said indignantly.

  “Not the friends providing you with work, nor looking out for your future,” she replied hotly.

  “That’s where you’re wrong!” He jabbed a finger at her. “They care about my future—my eternal future, which is more important, mind you. God says to lay up your treasures in Heaven, not on earth.”

  “If you’re laying them up in Heaven, then why is it costing you so much down here?” Grace flung the dress over a chair in the corner and put her hands on her hips. “You leave with money in your pocket each time, and then come back with nothing.”

  Sean’s face burned red. “You’ve no want, have you?” He stood, wincing as his hip caught the table edge. “Don’t I bring home enough for food and clothes, even for the boy who’s no relation?”

  “Shame on you, Sean O’Malley.” She shook her head, disgusted. “You know I’m grateful for all you do. That’s not the point. Have you not been down this road before? Have you not been Protestant and Catholic both, Quaker and Freemason? What of your pals—Quinn and Cavan? Danny Young? Do you ever see them anymore?”

  “Danny’s the one brought me to the Saints!” he reminded her. “Don’t you remember me telling you his uncle knew Joseph Smith himself, knew him as a Freemason back when he was transcribing the Book?”

  “What book?”

  “The Book of Mormon, girl!” He dug around in the piles on his desk and brought out a dog-eared book marked all through with scraps of paper. “What do you think I’ve been reading day in and day out?”

  “The Bible,” she said, confused. “There it is right there, and that’s what I saw open on your desk.”

  “Well, I was reading it,” he allowed. “And also the other, which takes up where the Bible leaves off.”

  Grace eyed him suspiciously. “What do you mean, leaves off?”

  “It’s the account of Christ’s days here in America when He walked among the natives.” Sean leaned forward in his chair, eyes blazing with what Grace recognized as his old religious zeal.

  “Bah,” she said. “The Bible is God’s holy and inspired Word, and there’s nothing at the end of it says, ‘to be continued.’”

  He laughed despite himself. “But isn’t that how Jews feel about the New Testament? Just because you don’t believe it, doesn’t mean it isn’t the inspired word of God.”

  “Or the inspired word of a charlatan,” she argued. “I know about your Joseph Smith, Sean. He was a seer, digging for other people’s lost treasure, guilty of fraud and forgery, and finally killed in a shoot-out from a jail cell, where he and his brother were waiting to be tried.”

  “He and Hyrum were martyred,” Sean asserted indignantly. “Satan is always working to keep the truth from us.”

  “And just maybe he’s succeeded by making sure your one became an instant prophet,” she shot back.

  “Grace!” He put out his hands, hurt. “Why are we arguing about this?”

  She crossed her arms in front of her, but her shoulders drooped. “I don’t know. It makes no sense to me. It scares me.”

  “But why?”

  “I guess because you’re smarter than I am, Sean�
�you lead, I follow. Only I don’t want to go this way. This way feels wrong to me.”

  “Why haven’t you said anything to me before now?”

  Grace frowned, embarrassed. “I guess I didn’t understand you were serious about it. I thought you were only serious about Miss Osgoode. Sure and she’s serious about you, no doubt there.”

  “So you thought I was only going along with this as a way to court Marcy?”

  “Aye,” she admitted. “I thought in the end it’d be you persuading her away from that lot, rather than her bringing you in.”

  He shook his head and Grace was afraid he was about to become angry again, but instead he laughed.

  “Well, you’re half right. No girl ever paid me the kind of attention Marcy does, and I admit I like it. She doesn’t even see this”—he shrugged his twisted shoulder—“or mind the brace on my leg. That means a lot to me, Grace. That a girl can see past this.”

  “I know it does,” she said, contrite. “And if she truly loves you and you her, then I’m happy for you both.”

  “She does love me.” He paused. “But I’m a Gentile.”

  “Well, of course you are! Isn’t she?”

  He shook his head. “God ordered Joseph Smith to make a new church because the old ones were corrupt and divided—if you’re a true believer, then you’re a Saint. All others, Jews included, are Gentiles.”

  “Ah Sean, you’re scaring me again. Are you saying you can’t marry Miss Osgoode unless you join the Latter-Day Saints? Is that it?”

  He nodded hesitantly.

  “Do you want to marry her?”

  “I might. I think I’m starting to love her. But joining the church would be about my love for God, Gracie, not about finding a wife.”

  She looked at her brother’s familiar face, glasses slid halfway down his nose. “I want you to be happy, Sean,” she said carefully. “But I don’t want to lose you in the bargain. I’m not ready to follow you into this, and what will happen if I never am?”

  “The Saints take care of their own.” He spoke with quiet assurance. “I’ll not go off and leave you, no matter what.”

  “Is that a promise you can make?”

  “Aye,” he said. “Will you make me one in return?”

  She nodded.

  “Will you promise to think about it, to come to a meeting with me, get to know some of these people and see for yourself? Maybe even read a bit of this?” He held up the dog-eared book.

  No, her heart beat. No, no, no. They stared at one another.

  “All right,” she said at last, afraid of losing him. “I’ll think about it.”

  He sat down again and picked up his paper. “That’s fine then, Grace. That’s grand. And listen, you go on to Florence’s dinner without me.”

  “Ah, now, I never could!” she protested. “Not alone!”

  “Jay is coming straight from his club to give us a lift. He’ll take you. It’s good for you to get out and take your mind off things,” he insisted. “Besides, I need you there to stop all that wicked talk behind my back.” He winked.

  She bit her lip, torn.

  “Think of all the work you put into that beautiful dress,” he wheedled. “The hours spent, the money into lace …”

  “Oh, stop.” She held up her hand. “I’ll go. But not because of the dress. I’ll go because I might meet a few of those Transcendentalists and Shakers, a couple of Masons and a Theosophist, and maybe between the lot of them I’ll come to understand you.”

  “I hope you do.” Sean laughed and pushed up his glasses.

  “Bah,” she said and left the room.

  “I’ve a surprise for you,” Grace told Liam and Mary Kate when she returned from Orange Street the following morning. “Dugan has given us the day off so that I might take you both to a birthday party!”

  Their mouths opened wide in astonishment.

  “You work alongside me this morning, so he’s not left with it all, and then we’ll go out on the town, and after”—she paused dramatically—“we’re meeting Lily and her two children in the park for a picnic! It’s them having the birthday. What do you say to that?”

  They both let out a cheer and threw their arms around her, Liam’s encircling her waist, Mary Kate’s around her legs. She squeezed them both in return and her heart was warmed. They were good children.

  They swept and washed, tidied up, and Grace made plenty of soda bread to go with the cheese and meat for a ploughman’s supper to be offered at the bar that evening along with pickled eggs. She packed a basket for their picnic, tied a scarf around her head, and sent Liam and Mary Kate for warmer hats as it was October now and the wind chilly, despite a deep blue sky and trees vibrant orange, marigold, and red.

  “Where will we go first?” Liam asked, marching along on one side.

  He would need new boots soon, Grace thought to herself, noticing how they bulged at the sides and were near worn through at the end. New boots, new pants, new winter coat. The same for Mary Kate, who was growing at an astounding rate. Custom would fall off in the winter, but she’d still need to pay Liam’s father each week. And what about her father and the baby—not a baby anymore. She bit her lip.

  “Mam?” Mary Kate pulled at her coat.

  “Hmm?” She pushed away the thoughts that consumed so much of her wakeful nights. “Oh, aye. We’re going along to Broadway to look in a room at daguerreotypes.”

  “What?” Liam squinted, puzzled.

  “Likenesses taken by a man with a camera,” she explained. “This is a famous man, an Irishman no less, Mathew Brady. Had his name in the paper and all. They call him ‘Brady of Broadway’ as he takes pictures of famous people.”

  She liked them to see important Irish, Irish with accomplishments as a foil for the prejudice that confronted them in a hundred subtle ways; but when she glanced at their faces, both were clearly deciding if this was to be a boring thing or not.

  “It’s something very new,” she told them matter-of-factly. “And as we’re adventurous people living in a great city, we ought not to be afraid of new things.”

  That cinched it for Liam, who pulled himself up to full height and threw back his shoulders.

  “Who says I’m afraid?” he demanded. “I’m not afraid of pictures, for crying out loud! Let’s go see ’em right now. Afraid of some old pictures,” he muttered under his breath. “Sheesh!”

  “Sheesh!” Mary Kate attempted to copy Liam’s swagger.

  Grace smiled as she shepherded the children down the smaller street and onto the wide avenue. There, she pulled them back against the buildings, out of the way of the dangerous horse cabs and private carriages, the tangled mess of city transportation.

  Eventually, they came to Broadway and as they walked down the sidewalk, they saw photographs of glamorous and celebrated people in the windows of Gurney’s, Edward’s, and Anthony’s.

  “Those are some of Mister Brady’s,” Grace pointed out, and the children dutifully stopped to admire the portraits.

  They came to a building at the corner of Broadway and Fulton, and went in, climbing the stairs to the top floor, which housed the Daguerrean Miniature Gallery.

  “Absolutely no touching,” warned the thin, fastidious clerk behind the desk, eyeing Liam in particular. “And no lingering,” he sniffed. “Stay in line, move along.”

  Grace nodded, steering the children into the line, which was moving slowly toward a larger room. A poster, printed with a sketch of Brady and a few sentences about his life and work, was propped on an easel; Grace read this in a low voice to the children, who listened carefully even as they stole glances round the room. She skipped over the part that said Brady did not photograph ordinary working people, though he had done studies of the inmates of Blackwell’s Island penitentiary for a book on reading heads. This reminded Grace too keenly of Doctor Draper, and her pride in the Irish Mathew Brady slipped a notch.

  The photographs were very good, and Grace found herself drawn particularly to those of the
women, to the confidence in their smiles, their spectacular clothing, their dramatic eyes. It was the eyes that captured her full attention—so alive, so real, yet guarded—and she leaned closer, peering into them, attempting to see down into the souls of these women, to see the truth of their lives and understand what it must be like to be them, to be American, living an American life. Her intense scrutiny penetrated some of these barriers, and she glimpsed who they really were.

  This one, she saw quite clearly, this theater star—so fashionably dressed with jeweled earrings and ropes of pearls—had many lovers when she was young, many lovers and three pregnancies, which she’d ended with little thought. Older, she’d found at last the love of her life only to be unable to provide him with the children for whom he longed. The irony had not been lost on her and she’d grown bitter, driving him away. She was beloved by thousands of fans, but not by him; her pain betrayed itself in the darkest parts of her eyes, in the fine lines that ran down from her mouth even as she smiled confidently into the camera.

  Next to her was a prosperous man who’d made millions buying and selling land, as finely dressed as anyone else, one hand in his pocket, the other atop an ornately carved cane. His face was hidden beneath a thick beard and side-whiskers, his eyes shadowed by heavy brows. Grace could barely see into those tightly guarded eyes, but she concentrated and there he was: a boy with his mother, turned out of their home, begging on the streets in the dead of winter. And there he was again, sitting in a dark alley as snow fell upon the still body beside him, trying to keep it from covering her face. He was a man now to whom riches meant everything, and he fed his terrible hunger with land—buying it, selling it—wanting only to have more, make more, save more, so that on winter nights when the snow fell, he could breathe; he could sit inside by a warm fire, drink his brandy, eat a fine meal, and tell himself that this was who he was, and not the other. He did not think about beggars in the snow, never looked in their faces nor met their eyes; he hated them, the young boys most of all because they reminded him of things he’d done in desperate times to earn his next meal. There was more, but Grace had no wish to see it.