by Ann Moore
“Just the fact that he’s survived all this is miracle enough for me,” Barbara told him. “But if he could see, as well?” She thought for a moment. “I’d fall on my knees and thank God every minute for the rest of my life.”
“Do you miss the life you had before?” he asked gently. “In the convent, so close to God and all?”
“I’m closer to Him here.” Her voice was strong and absolute. “I do wonder sometimes if I should go back, but I can’t bring myself to do it.”
“If that’s what you truly wanted, I’d take you,” Abban vowed. “Even though ’twould break my heart.”
“And mine.” She laid her hand on his thigh.
He felt the warmth of it there, and covered it with his own rough hand. “Barbara,” he began, then hesitated. “Barbara, do you not think we should be married?”
“You know we can’t.” She frowned. “I may have abandoned my calling, but I’ve not abandoned God and am I not already His bride?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about that.” Abban took a deep breath. “And what I think is that God won’t really mind so very much. I mean, why should He?”
“I’ve not been released from my vows. And there’s no divorcing God, Abban!” She put her hand to her chest, aghast. “’Tis a sin, even thinking that.”
“Well, I said nothing of divorce, did I?” he objected. “But you know I was tallying them up the other night—our sins, I mean, and there’s no small number, by reckoning of the Church—so the way I see it is, what’s one more?” He sought her eyes. “No, really, Barbara. Are we not people living in hard times, people who love the Lord despite everything, who serve Him with devotion? You, most of all!” He squeezed her hand. “If you’re not a saint, then they don’t exist, and surely God will judge us with mercy when we finally stand before Him!”
“Abban …” She tried to pull her hand away.
“If I could find a priest who’d marry us—knowing the whole story, of course—would you have me as your husband?”
“No priest worth his salt would agree to that.”
“Answer the question, love. And if it’s no,” he added soberly, letting go of her hand, putting his arm around her shoulders, “I’ll never bring it up again. We’ll just go on as we are and that’s all right.”
She looked over the desolate landscape, her breath like fog in the cold afternoon air. The sun was pale in the gray sky, and rooks called from their roosts high in the bare trees, swooping low over the stubbled fields. A band of children came racing by—ragged, dirty, some sick and soon to the—but still they raced and still they laughed, living as they did in the very moment of their lives.
“Yes,” she whispered then, and felt his arm tighten around her. “I will,” she promised and laid her head against his heart.
Thirty-six
REINDERS paced in front of the fireplace. “They’re at Florence’s right now, but tonight we leave for Boston.”
“But she has an army of people who do this sort of thing,” Lars Darmstadt protested from behind his desk. “Why do you have to go?”
“Because it’s my fault.” Reinders stopped in his tracks. “I never should’ve let that bastard live. It’s me he’s after.”
“All the more reason to let someone else drive Lily and her family,” Darmstadt pointed out. “Although I do think getting out of town for a while is a good idea.” He shoved a letter toward Reinders. “Came this morning. Delivered by two police-men.”
Reinders glanced at the signature. “Who’s this Callahan?”
“A hard-nosed ass. Hates Italians, Jews, Blacks, Irish. Poles, too, I think. Gypsies.”
“Isn’t Callahan an Irish name?”
“Hates poor Irish,” Darmstadt qualified. “An embarrassment to the old families already established in decent society, apparently.”
“One of those.”
“One of those with a badge,” Darmstadt said pointedly. “Views the steady flow of immigrants into this city as a river to be dammed, and is particularly loathing of Blacks, whom he considers something less than human. If he had his way, they’d all remain in slavery or be shipped back to Africa, which is where he thinks they all come from.”
“How do you know all this?” Reinders quit his pacing and sat down.
“I make it my business to know. If one is to succeed in this town, one had best understand who the lawmen are—which wards are honest and which are corrupt. His is one of the worst,” Darmstadt noted. “And it includes our moorage.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before now?”
Darmstadt shrugged. “It’s your job to run the ship, mine to run the business and grease the wheels. However, we have now come to his personal attention, and I want you to understand what that means.”
“But I haven’t broken any laws. Up here.”
“No written law,” Darmstadt corrected. “Callahan is one of those officials who works hand in glove with the slave catchers. No doubt, it’s quite lucrative for him,” He lit a cigar, puffing vigorously to get it going, shaking out the match. “He’s established a rapport with many of his fellow lawmen down the coast, and they would not be happy to know one of their most frequent commuters is also smuggling slaves to the North.”
“Where’s his proof?” Reinders demanded.
“Read the letter, dear boy. This is not accusation, but intimidation. He has a report of suspicious activity aboard the ship, and mentions a later altercation in an alley with two men.”
“Five. And how would he know if he wasn’t involved?”
“Well, of course. Exactly. Have you guessed who this reporter of suspicious activity might be?”
Reinders slammed his hand down on the desk.
“Right again. And now we know why Boardham gets away with murder. He works for Callahan.” Darmstadt leaned forward. “If this were just a money game, I could play. But it’s more than that.” He paused. “If Callahan notifies the port authorities along our route, we’ll be barred from entering. Slavery is their right and they resent anyone who interferes. They don’t need our business that badly.”
Reinders understood. “I’m sorry, Lars. The ship …” He hesitated. “You’ll have to find someone else to captain her.”
Darmstadt held up his hand. “We’re in this together, and no one sails her but you. Besides, we’re not there yet. That’s why I want you to get out of town for a little while. Make yourself unavailable to further scrutiny, and maybe he’ll find a bigger fish to fry. Detra and I are going to take a trip ourselves,” he added. “I’ll put Mackley in charge of the ship. Maybe have him harbor down the coast a ways. In a few weeks this might well have turned to nothing.”
Reinders thought it over. “All right,” he decided. “I’ll go. But I really am sorry, Lars, about dragging you into this.”
“You and I make a good living dealing with men who make their fortunes off the backs of these slaves,” Darmstadt replied. “It eases my conscience—only slightly, mind you—to know two came to freedom on the very same ship.”
“It was worth it for that,” Reinders allowed. “For the sight of Lily’s face when she saw Mary and Solomon standing there.”
“Remember that while you’re gone.” Darmstadt smiled fondly at his partner. “And don’t lose your sea legs.”
“Never.” Reinders grabbed his cap. “I’ve got to go out for a while. Then I’ll pack up.”
“Is that wise, do you think? Is it necessary?”
Reinders looked out the window at the snow on the trees, everything so clean and brilliantly white. “Yes,” he said finally. “It is.”
“‘It’ meaning the Irish widow?”
Reinders’ mouth fell open.
“Hah!” Darmstadt grinned and stubbed out his cigar. “Detra has been saying for months that you’re in love. She always wins,” he added.
“I’m not in love!”
“Ah, well, we men are often the last to know.” Darmstadt laughed. “Does she return your—what shall we call it, then—your regard?
”
“No! I don’t know.” He faltered. “I don’t think she’s over the death of her husband. And she’s got other concerns—a daughter here, a baby she had to leave in Ireland because of a … some trouble.”
“Many things to overcome,” Darmstadt acknowledged. “Only you would be drawn to such challenges in a wife.”
“A wife!”
“Do you know how often you’ve mentioned her, Peter, in the course of the last year?” Darmstadt came around from behind his desk. “How often the subject of Ireland emerges in your conversation? And what about that rather large donation to the Irish Emigrant Society?”
Reinders looked askance.
“Don’t forget I keep the books.”
“But she makes me feel like an idiot!” Reinders protested. “Whenever I’m around her I can’t put two sentences together, and we always seem to have misunderstandings. And she teases me. I hate to be teased.”
“I like her already.” Darmstadt grinned.
“It’s just that we’re not well suited. It wouldn’t make any sense.” He shook his head. “She is attractive, though,” he admitted reluctantly. “And a devoted person—to her children, her brother, her friends—and she’s brave,” he said, remembering the ship. “And kind. Definitely kind.”
“I see. But you’re not in love, and you don’t wish to marry.”
“Yes.”
“She is just a friend. A good friend.”
“Yes,” Reinders insisted weakly.
Darmstadt eyed him with amusement. “I think, Peter, that you’ve spent a little too much time at sea.” He tucked a fresh cigar in Reinders’ coat pocket, then patted it affectionately. “To smoke when you get to your mother’s house.”
“I’m not going to my mother’s house.”
“Of course you are,” Darmstadt said confidently. “Where else would you go? And one afternoon while you’re there, I want you to stand out on the porch, look over the bleak winter countryside, and be honest with yourself about this woman. You’re not a young man anymore, my friend. It’s time to think about the future.”
Reinders frowned, stubbornly.
“Detra’s going shopping for our trip. Ride with her in the carriage, and let her drop you. Can you find your own way back?”
“But I’ve lived here for years!”
“No, Peter,” Darmstadt said affectionately. “I don’t think you really have.”
Grace was exhausted. She and Tara had not been able to sleep after the terrible events of Christmas night, and so they’d lit a fire in the great room and sipped cup after cup of hot coffee until Dugan came home after dawn.
They’d taken Lily and the children to the Livingstons, he’d reported. Miss Livingston—so kind and gracious, not a’tall like that smooth operator of a brother—had immediately taken charge and bundled the poor, terrified family off to another part of the house, leaving Dugan and the other men with a bottle of brandy, which they managed to half finish by the time she returned. Lily’s family would be transported secretly out of town, she told them, up north to what she called a safe house. They’d be looked after up there until they could decide what to do next.
It was afternoon now, and Dugan had gone upstairs to sleep before the evening customers arrived. He hadn’t looked good, had complained of pains in his chest, and had a nasty cut on his arm from the swipe of the slave catcher’s knife.
Grace did not mind being left downstairs alone—her own children were napping, even Liam, worn-out with excitement. She knew she was tired, but her heart continued to pound wildly throughout the afternoon, and dark specks floated in the air before her eyes. She was awash with emotion, and everywhere her mind turned it found no peace, only turmoil. The violence of last night had shocked her, even as she found a knife in her own hand once again; the rage that welled up within her was frightening, and even hours later she felt she had it barely under control. Her happiness for Lily was marred by jealousy and anger that her own child had not arrived last night, that her own family was not with her today—and she hated herself for those feelings. She was angry with Sean for not being here, for having been away when they needed him so. He still hadn’t come back, had no idea what they’d all been through, would probably come home in a day or so, chiding her for worrying about him when wasn’t he a free man and able to come and go as he pleased? And she was angry at Captain Reinders, though she didn’t know why. What right had he to see into her heart that way, to take her in his arms when he knew she was not herself?
She shook her head, angry with herself and her swirl of emotions. There were times she thought she might be losing her mind with the waiting and wondering of it all, God help her. But He hadn’t.
It was this reverie that Jay Livingston interrupted when he pushed open the door of the saloon and came exuberantly into the room.
“Grace! What an absolutely extraordinary night you people had!” He brushed the snow off his hat, shrugged out of his coat. “I’ve come to say that all is well. Florence has a driver taking them off to Boston tonight.” He looked around the room, empty but for a few scattered drinkers in the back. “Where’s that errant brother of yours? I’d love to hear his loquacious version of the events.”
“He wasn’t here,” she replied shortly. “He went home with the Osgoodes after dinner, and we’ve not seen him since. He doesn’t know a thing about last night.”
“How very dull he’s becoming! What a boor—to be there instead of here. And on Christmas, for heaven’s sake! Really, I shall have to speak with him about this.” He tossed his hat onto the table.
“Well, it’s a job, isn’t it?” she pointed out. “He’s working for them all, setting up the wagon train that leaves soon and—”
“And his wedding to Miss Osgoode,” Livingston added glibly.
“Ah, Jay, don’t go telling me that.”
He heard how tired she was and, peering more closely, saw the fatigue in her eyes, the strain in her face. “Sorry. I’m out of line. As usual. Listen”—he set a leather satchel on the table—“I also stopped in because there’s something in here I knew you’d want.”
She glanced at it, puzzled.
“Sean’s mail—it’s been stacking up at the paper for weeks now. I meant to take O’Sullivan to lunch—he’s always there, you know—and he asked me to deliver this instead. Maybe you’ll want to have them sent here directly, if Sean’s not going to come round the office anymore. Anyway …” He rummaged around in the bag. “Letters from Ireland. One with your name on it.”
Her heart stopped and she could only stare at the bundle in his hands; he saw how pale she’d suddenly become.
“Let me find it.” He paged through until he came to one that was less official than the rest, water-stained and smudged, and this he put in her hands.
She turned it over, and saw the address of the convent in Cork.
“Let’s sit down.” Jay pulled out a chair. “I think I’ll pour us a drink.” He went behind the bar, watching out of the corner of his eye as she slowly withdrew the letter and read it, then set it down and stared at nothing.
“Grace?” he called quietly; when she didn’t answer, he returned to her side and put a hand on her arm. “Gracelin?”
She looked up, but her eyes were blank.
“May I?” He picked up the letter and perused it, his face sagging with the weight of the news it bore. He exhaled and sat down.
“This Father Sheehan says they’d all died by the time he got there. Is he talking about your father, Grace? Your son?”
She turned wide eyes to his and nodded slowly.
He glanced at the letter again. “Sister James was apparently the only survivor and had already returned to her mother. Your letters were unopened in a pile of correspondence he took back to Dublin with him.” Jay looked up. “He confirmed the graves of the other nuns, and of your father and an infant.”
Grace let out a low moan, then stood, knocking back her chair, eyes frantically searching the room. She bega
n to wail, and then to shriek, and finally she was screaming, pulling her own hair, clawing at her face. He leapt to his feet and grabbed hold of her, pinning her arms to her side so that she couldn’t hurt herself, even as she fought him. He held her tightly, rocking her until the wailing stopped and she was left panting, desperate for air; until he felt her arms go around him, her hands clutching at his shirt, his shoulders, as if she were drowning in a raging sea and he the last bit of land. And he did not let go.
Thirty-seven
ON the final day of January, Captain Reinders left the warm kitchen of his mother’s farmhouse and went outside to stand on the covered porch, Darmstadt’s cigar clamped firmly between his teeth, though not yet lit. He leaned on the railing and looked across the bare yard to the small barn, his eyes sweeping over the shed and various outbuildings; the pens and fences, newly mended. The place still didn’t look the way it had when he’d lived here as a boy, but it was in far better shape than when he’d arrived five weeks ago, and he knew his mother and brothers were grateful. They’d been surprised to see him again so soon after his last visit, but had asked no questions, and he’d volunteered only that business was slow, the ship needed repairs, he needed a rest. He smiled ruefully, for rest was clearly the last thing he did in those first weeks—rising early, roaming the countryside for hours at a time, entire days, taking only a rucksack and a rifle, returning with squirrel and rabbit, which his mother prepared for their evening meals.
He had hunted himself out, and had then poured his energies into the farm—mending, patching, clearing, cleaning, working until the sweat poured off his body despite the cold, until his limbs quivered from fatigue so deep he could hardly lift the shirt over his head at night.
His mother had said nothing, had simply let him be, had told Hans and Josef to give him work, then leave him alone. Sometimes he caught her looking at him, a question in her eyes, and finally she’d spoken one night when they were alone by the fire—she with her knitting, he with a rifle to be cleaned and oiled.
“Do sea captains ever marry, Peter?” she’d asked out of the blue.
