Leaving Ireland

by Ann Moore

  “President, huh?” Reinders tried to hide his disappointment.

  “Only after he’s been a great American sea captain like his hero, sailing around the world a few times, discovering new places.”

  Reinders grinned. “Always liked that boy. Knew the minute I met him, he was a born seaman.”

  “So when do you think you’ll be able to come, Captain? He’d be so happy to see you. He’s always tearing up and down the wharf, looking for your ship.” And then she remembered. “You must see Lily first, though.”

  “Why Lily?”

  “Well, she’s worried, isn’t she? About her family, and all.” Grace saw the guarded look on his face. “She told me what you’re doing for her.”

  He studied her for a long moment. “You understand I can’t afford to have this get out?”

  “She only told me because she hadn’t heard from you and thought maybe I had.”

  “You?”

  “Aye. She thought we were, you know”—Grace felt herself beginning to blush—“keeping company. Or something.”

  His mouth fell open and he laughed. “Why would she think that?”

  “I don’t know,” she said defensively.

  “I don’t believe I ever mentioned you.”

  “She never said you did.”

  “Then why would she think we were seeing each other?”

  “I don’t know,” Grace repeated, rising to her feet. “Misunderstanding, I suppose. I made the same mistake myself.”

  He stared at her, baffled. “You thought I was seeing you?”

  “Don’t be daft,” she scolded. “I thought you were seeing her.”

  “You did?” He felt foolish now, his face heavy and hot. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” she said for the third time, exasperated. “We were talking about you, is all. ’Twas a mistake. We had a good laugh about it.”

  “A good laugh.” He had lost complete control of this conversation.

  “Well, sure,” she exclaimed. “Can you see either one of us stepping out with you, Captain?”

  “No.” His voice was sharper than he meant it to be, and it stung her, he could see that.

  “Well, of course not,” she said, and looked away.

  The silence was incredibly awkward, and he suddenly felt empty and much too old. “Maybe I’d better go.”

  “Aye, they’ll all be wondering what kept you here so long, and you wouldn’t want there to be a misunderstanding now, would you?”

  He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again, and left the room.

  She sank immediately into the closest chair, furious with him, but angrier with herself. Here he’d come to her defense, then sought her out for conversation, which she’d truly enjoyed until she apparently said the wrong thing and insulted him. But how? She wasn’t interested in romance, nor was he. Why had he gotten so angry? Why had she? It made her tired to think about it—she just didn’t understand men, she decided. Especially American men. They never really said what they meant. But it wasn’t his fault, it was hers, and she wished she could do it all over again.

  A voice harrumphed in the doorway, and she looked up relieved, words of apology already on her lips.

  “Captain, I’m …”

  “Ready for dinner, I hope.” Jay arched his eyebrow, amused. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Missus Donnelly. How naughty of you to deprive us of your delectable company.”

  “I’m sorry, Jay.” She pressed a cool hand to her hot cheek, then smoothed the front of her gown. “Shall we go in?”

  “With pleasure.” He offered his arm, and when she took it, he covered her hand with his, pulling her snugly against his side. “We’ll be one less at dinner tonight,” he confided intimately. “Poor Captain Reinders has gone home ill.”

  Twenty-eight

  JULIA wasn’t sure she could stand another month of disastrous trials and cruel sentencing. John was exiled to Bermuda, and William sentenced to hang; that had been the hardest, especially as the prosecution had given him an out—all Smith O’Brien had to do was admit that Duffy’s “diabolical temper” had been a mitigating factor in taking such extreme action. But William—good William—had refused, not wanting to prejudice the public mind against a man who still awaited trial. Tom Meagher’s had just ended; he’d been tried with MacManus and O’Donohoe, who were given death by hanging, though the consensus was that Meagher would escape by reason of his youth. But—following in Smith O’Brien’s footsteps—Tom had refused, telling the court he regretted nothing and retracted nothing, his ambition only to lift Ireland up, to make her a benefactor to humanity instead of the meanest beggar in the world. Meagher said that he understood his ambition was also his crime, but that the history of Ireland justified it and he looked forward to standing before a higher tribunal, before the Judge of infinite goodness, who would most certainly overturn the wrong judgments handed down.

  Julia sighed deeply, remembering the passion and eloquence she had witnessed. She did not go out anymore, had not been out for weeks. Her anger had been spent, all her tears shed, and the ink in her pen had run dry. There was only one thing forced her out of bed in the morning, one thing that held back black despair. She checked on him now, asleep in his little bed in the corner of her room.

  He was beautiful to her, though others turned their faces away when she showed him off. His eyes troubled them with their thick, milky stare, the crust that clung to his lashes from the oozing. But to her, he was the dearest thing, and she had come to love him with all her heart, no matter those who said he would not be in the world for long. She refused to believe it and took every day as it came, holding him for hours when he wheezed, painstakingly spooning hot cereals into his mouth, getting him to sip a little milk each hour. He was nearly a year old, young Morgan McDonagh, and he now called Julia “Mam.”

  “Hallo.” Her father poked his head into her room. “How’s the boy, then? Napping, still?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll stay with him.” Mister Martin came all the way in. “Why don’t you get out for a while? Take a walk along the river, or up to the college?”

  “I’m fine, Father, really.”

  He moved a pile of books and sat cautiously on the end of her desk chair. “It’s a beautiful day,” he said, to entice her. “Lovely blue sky, the last of the autumn leaves. Lots of new things in the shop windows.”

  “I don’t care about that.” She frowned.

  “Well, you’re so changed, my dear, I wasn’t sure.” He leaned forward. “Are you all right, Julia?”

  “It’s not like last year,” she told him firmly.

  “No?” He looked around the small room with drapes drawn, plates of uneaten food, spilled ink, stacks of dusty books.

  “I just don’t like going out anymore. Too depressing.”

  “Ah, yes. Depressing.” He nodded. “But you’re not depressed being stuck in all the time?”

  “Of course not.” She looked over at the baby. “I much prefer his company to anyone else’s.”

  “He’s a grand boy,” Mister Martin agreed. “And you know how well I think of him. But it’s not good for the two of you to be so cooped up—babies need fresh air, sunlight, the stimulation of new people, new things to look at.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “And just when did you become such an expert on babies?”

  “Well, do you think you just sprang from your mother fully formed as you are?” He laughed. “Your mother was a busy woman, and I got to spend a lot of time with you, for which I’ve always been grateful. She knew when to stay and when to go, and look how well you turned out!”

  “Are you saying I’m not a very good mother, then?”

  “Of course not!” Mister Martin shook his head, then leaned forward. “But if truth be told, you’re not really a mother at all. Have you forgotten that he has one of his very own, because I worry you have.”

  Julia fidgeted with her pen. “How could I forget a thing like that? But
we’ve not heard a word from her, have we? How do we even know she’s alive?”

  “We don’t,” he granted. “But what of Barbara? She loves the boy, and he’s her own flesh and blood.”

  “She’s gone to Galway with Abban—you know that. To work in the children’s schools.” She put the pen down. “He’s got a doctor here, and we’ve enough food. I promised her I’d take good care of him.”

  “Until she comes back.”

  “Yes,” Julia told him. “Of course.”

  Mister Martin regarded her with his great kind eyes. “I just don’t want you to be disappointed again, my dear. You’ve borne a lot for being so young. And I know how lonely you are.”

  She refused to look at him, to let him see the tears in her eyes and, to give her a moment, he stood and went over to the crib.

  “So you think the little fellow’s with us for a while?”

  “Yes.” She wiped her eyes before he turned around. “I do.”

  “Well, then.” He gave her a smile. “What do you say we strike a bargain, you and I?”

  “A bargain?” She tried to sound wary, but laughed instead. “Have I been set up again?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe just a little.”

  “I suppose it involves fresh air and sunshine.”

  “There’s my clever girl.” Mister Martin opened the curtains and a shaft of sunlight cut across the room. “I’ve not wanted to get your hopes up, but I’ve been in contact with a very interesting, very progressive young physician in London.”

  “England?” She shook her head. “I’m not going back there, Father, ever.” And then her eyes widened. “You’re not having me committed to a sanatorium or something, are you?”

  “You have enough commitments, my dear.” He laughed, stacking plates and cups on an empty tray. “This is about Morgan, actually. I’ve been following a trail of sorts and it has led me to Doctor Nigel Wilkes.” He paused. “Doctor Wilkes is an eye surgeon.”

  She sucked in her breath.

  “He’s agreed to take a look at our boy, but you’d have to be willing to leave the house, you know. Willing to go back to England.”

  “Oh, Father.” Her eyes filled with tears again, but this time she didn’t mind. “Thank you. Thank you. I’ll start packing.” She got up and moved a stack of books. “Right now.”

  He smiled, relieved to see her back in command. “I can get passage for you the end of this week, but before you go”—his tone grew serious—“you’ll need to send word to Barbara, and you must get off a letter to Grace. They have to know what’s happening … in case …”

  “I will,” she promised. “I’ll do it this afternoon.”

  “After you take himself out for a walk.” He picked up the tray.

  “Right.” She grinned. “After our walk.”

  “That’s my girl.” He kissed her cheek and left the room, the crockery rattling all the way down the stairs to Missus Geelan’s kitchen.

  Julia went over to Morgan’s crib and looked down at the boy—her boy, she thought. She must write to Grace—she knew she must. She’d promised Barbara she would, but instead had let day after day slip by until Barbara had been gone for months and still Julia had not written.

  Barbara had stayed in Dublin only a few days, afraid of running into Father Sheehan, who was often there on church duty, and who might try to change her mind. They’d charged Sister James with telling Father Sheehan the news of Barbara’s abandonment, because the girl planned on going back to her old mother herself if she found the nerve; she would only be on her own for a few days until the presiding priest arrived. And so Barbara exchanged her robes for trousers and a cap, and dressed like a laborer, she and Abban made their way north. They hadn’t been in Dublin long when they realized how dangerous it was; the city swarmed with troops, guards on the lookout for treasonous criminals, and Abban noted for his missing leg. Julia, by then so fond of Morgan, had begged to keep him, had pointed out the quality of his care here, the regular food and certain shelter, the doctor’s clinic nearby, and after hours of anguish, Barbara had finally agreed. She and Abban decided to go to the west, to volunteer where the suffering was worst, promising to stay in contact and to see the boy when they could.

  Julia looked down at him now and he awoke, his little arms flailing as he struggled to roll over and sit up. He cried out, and she picked him up, held his damp, sweet-smelling head against her breast and prayed that God would forgive her this.

  Twenty-nine

  OUTSIDE the windows of the Harp, snow fell steadily from a black sky, swirling through halos of lamplight, gusting into doorways, blanketing the grimy, littered sidewalks and muddy alleys, piles of muck freezing now into ruts that made the streets dangerous for horse and carriage. The city was strangely silent, muffled by the downpour of thick flakes. Traffic had dwindled to nothing, and the few pedestrians still braving the sidewalks slipped and slid, and clung to one another for balance. It was a beautiful, treacherous night.

  Grace pressed her warm forehead against the frosty glass, and prayed for the sound of Dugan’s heavy boots pounding up the stairs, midwife right behind. He’d gone out three hours before, when Tara’s discomfort had proved to be labor; now Grace realized she might well have to deliver this baby herself. She glanced around the room, hoping it contained everything she would need. Her own births were still fresh in her mind, and it was the memory of these she relied upon to guide her; she could hear the voices of both Brigid Sullivan and Barbara telling her what to do, could see in her mind’s eye the steaming kettle of water, the basin for cleaning the baby, the pile of fresh linens, the newspapers and extra sheets for underneath. She knew enough to put on a clean apron, roll up her sleeves, and wash her hands, and she knew about the pushing … just not when. Formal prayer had been abandoned an hour ago with Tara’s first real groan, and now she just left the way open for steady communication, trusting Him to guide her in His own way.

  Tara was such a small woman, her thin body easily overwhelmed by pregnancy, and she’d lost a great deal of strength from the long months in bed. Although Grace was, by now, very anxious, Tara was terrified and so Grace tried to remain outwardly calm and steadfast, as if she knew exactly what lay ahead.

  “Ah, no.” Tara panted from the bed. “No, no, no. Sure and I’m too old for this! I’ll never make it!”

  “Stop that!” Grace ordered. Best to be firm—she remembered that much. A laboring woman needed every drop of strength; pity did her no good. She strode purposefully to the bed, picked up Tara’s hand, and patted it briskly. “You’ll birth this baby, and do a jig the same day. Aren’t you the very picture of health?”

  Tara’s eyes searched Grace’s for some reassurance that this might be even remotely true, a weakly hopeful smile replacing her look of fear. But then the smile contorted and her eyes pinched shut as she began the climb up yet another hill of mounting pain, her forehead oily with sweat. She clenched Grace’s hand in both of hers, back arching.

  “Hold on to me, now.” Grace’s own body ached in response to Tara’s agony. “Hold on!”

  The pains were so close together that Tara had only a minute or two between each and she was exhausted, labor wearing heavily on her now. She lay still, her breathing shallow.

  “Take the baby, Grace. There’s no one else. And Dugan … Dugan …” Tears streamed down her cheeks into the sweat-stained pillow.

  “Open your eyes!” Grace demanded. “Haven’t I got family enough to keep track of, scattered as they are?” She forced anger into her voice. “You will bring this child into the world, Tara Ogue, and you will live to raise it because I won’t do it for you. Now get ready.”

  This time, Grace had Tara bend her knees, sliding her heels up toward her hips. The desperate woman screamed.

  “I see something!” Grace shouted, her hands firmly around Tara’s ankles, keeping them in position. “It’s the head, Tara! The baby’s head!”

  Tara thrashed and groaned, then gripped the iron bars of her b
edstead, her face purple with exertion.

  “That’s right!” Grace cried. “Push, then! Push!”

  To her utter amazement, the baby’s head emerged, followed by its tiny shoulders—a seemingly impossible feat—and then the door burst open and the midwife rushed in.

  “It’s come!” Grace called over her shoulder. “Hurry!”

  The midwife glanced toward the bed, then went to the basin to scrub her hands. “No need to hurry now. Hard part’s over. Go on,” she urged softly, drying her hands on a clean cloth. “Pick him up.”

  Grace stared in wonder at the little thing, now screaming and writhing on the bed, still connected to the womb. She picked him up carefully and the midwife severed the cord.

  “Put a blanket round him and hand him to his mother,” the midwife directed. “We’ll let him have a feed, while I look at your handiwork here. Another push now, missus.” She patted Tara’s leg, and Grace watched, fascinated, as the afterbirth was delivered. “Nice work all round, girls,” she commended. “You brought a strong, lusty boy into the world tonight.”

  Still stunned by the miracle of it all, Grace wrapped the baby in a clean, soft blanket, and carried him around the bed to Tara, who lifted up her arms, wordlessly. She took her son and peered with wonder into his tiny face, overcome with emotion. As his mewling grew louder and more insistent, she turned anxious eyes to her friend.

  “He’s only hungry after all that. You can take care of him well enough.” Grace untied the top of Tara’s shift and helped her settle the child to breast. He stopped crying immediately, shuddering now and then, as his mother cradled him with an aching tenderness, unable to take her eyes off the beautiful face of her very own baby. And then he fell promptly asleep, worn out from the journey.

  The midwife took charge of the groggy baby, cleaning him up with practiced efficiency; he was inspected, washed, diapered, and bundled securely back into gown and blanket without ever fully waking. Grace turned her attention to the childbed, rolled Tara gently from one side to the other to remove the soiled linen and newspaper, then remade it with fresh, tucking in the blankets and plumping up the pillow.