by Ann Moore
He’d kept a straight face. “No, Mother, they never do.”
“Ach, you. They do marry, and have families even. Little children.”
“Do they?”
“Peter, I am serious now. And I want to know why you haven’t found a nice wife.”
“Well …” He had no ready answer. “I’m not in port long enough to meet anyone really. And even when I do, it’s so awkward. I come and go constantly—we have to start over each time.” He’d felt very irritated then, frustrated. “I’m used to rough men, Mother, to rough language and ordering people around. I’m not good at polite conversation, at making small talk. I am often misunderstood. Apparently.”
She had stopped her knitting. “I see.”
He’d returned the rifle to its rack, trying to end the conversation, but she’d refused to let it go.
“I will tell you something, Peter, that most men never learn. Women, they listen here.” She put her hand on her chest. “More than here.” She tugged her earlobe. “You understand?”
“I could say yes, Mother, but frankly most things about women baffle me these days.”
She’d laughed at him, then. “Ach, Peter, you are a good boy, but so stubborn-minded like your father. You see what you want. to see, not what God wants you to see. I will tell you something else.”
“All right.” He’d feigned weariness, sinking down on the step.
“A woman will guard like a bear the treasure of her heart. But it is a treasure she wants to share, if only you win the trust of the bear.”
“Mother!” He’d been surprised. “I had no idea you were a philosopher.”
“I am just an old German farm woman, but I know some things.”
“Apparently so.” And he’d blown her a kiss, which was so out of character that her eyes had opened wide in astonishment.
“You are changed,” she’d pronounced. “It is good on you.”
He’d gone to bed, and although they didn’t speak of such things again, Captain Reinders felt closer to his mother than ever in his life and he knew she felt the same.
The final days had passed quickly, and he was grateful that she had not asked him to come home, find a wife, work with his brothers on the farm. She showed her acceptance of the man he’d become by presenting him with four pairs of woolen socks and a snug cap to pull over his ears when he stood out in all weather on his ship, determining his course.
He wished he could as easily determine his course standing here on his mother’s porch, and he lit Darmstadt’s cigar, mindful of his partner’s last piece of advice. He thought again of the last time he’d seen Grace—the afternoon darkness, snow falling on his shoulders as he stood outside the Harp, Jay Livingston holding Grace in his arms. He’d almost gone in anyway—Livingston was such a seducer—but the look on the man’s face had stopped him, had kept him frozen out there in the snow; the usual smug self-assurance had been replaced by an almost painful tenderness that only love could have revealed. Reinders had envied him in that moment, then had stepped back from the window and made his way home.
Here in the countryside, Reinders had tried to forget her, staying weeks longer than planned, but it was no good. He told himself that what he’d felt for her was not love, could not be love—but somewhere deep inside, he knew the truth. She had trusted him with her friendship and had never led him on; if he did not act like a complete idiot, he might still be able to enjoy that friendship, might still be welcome in her home. And would that be enough? Yes, he told himself, stubbing out the cigar—it would have to be.
When they mentioned it at all, they called it her “illness.” Dugan and Tara had put her to bed, then broken the bad news to Sean, who sat up all night in the bar. They were amazed when she came down the next morning, dressed and ready for work. It had been a shock, she’d allowed, a terrible shock, and she was sorry for giving way like that. But she was fine now, really; she must’ve known all along in her heart—no word these many months, the baby so ill when she’d left him, her father wounded and alone. It was too much to have expected them to survive, she’d said, and though they could not understand it, they accepted this and let her carry on.
What they didn’t know, as she pretended to carry on, was that she hated her heart for what it had known, and had banished it completely. Darkness now filled the place it had occupied, and at night, her sleep was plagued by terrors. In the morning, she’d awaken with an emptiness so deep she couldn’t begin to fill it. But bitterness could, and it bound itself tightly to her very breath, making her resent the customers who sat and drank instead of going home to their families; resent Dugan and his sympathy, his insistence that she take the day off, go up, lie down; Sean’s sudden presence after weeks of absence, his invitations to prayer meetings; and—most especially—Tara’s apologetic eyes as she held her own living son in her arms, offering words of comfort, words that Grace accepted mechanically but did not take to heart because she had banished her heart.
Slowly, slowly, bitterness smoldered until it flared into anger—sharp words to the children or no words at all, pots slammed in the kitchen, meals slapped down without asking if hands were washed, the blessing said, and when it was done, making them go off to bed. Flare turned to fire, and she told Tara to take that crying baby back upstairs, out of her sight, wasn’t she sick to death with the sound of it. She fought with Sean over his idiot religion and fanatical beliefs, over proud Marcy Osgoode and her self-righteous father, over money and duty, selfishness and children—he didn’t have any, she screamed, how could he possibly know?
Anger turned to rage when Liam sidled in late one afternoon and wouldn’t say where he’d been. She’d grabbed him by his thin shoulders and shook him, shook him, shook him, shouting into his stunned face that he was no better than his drunken father and maybe that’s where he belonged—shouting until he broke free of her and ran downstairs.
Rage had overtaken her then, had swallowed her up completely, and she’d smashed everything within reach upon the floor, ripped her own clothes, torn pages from books, flung chairs against the wall, kicked over the table, saw the baby’s Christmas blocks and hurled them through the window. Dugan had burst into the room just as the knife tip pressed against her heart, the heart she hated so much. He’d pried it away, breaking two of her fingers, so strong was the grip of her despair; he’d flung the knife across the room and she’d attacked then, throwing herself at him again and again, kicking and biting, clawing, screaming, struggling furiously against him as he tried to restrain her without causing more pain than she already suffered.
The doctor had come—Liam ran all the way—and had poured laudanum down her throat while Dugan held her, one massive arm across her chest, his other hand on her forehead, tipping it back. The doctor had forced the liquid between her teeth, cursing when she kicked him, and at last she’d grown limp, held firmly in Dugan’s arms while the great man wept.
Days had passed in an opium haze, and at night, she’d awakened and stared into the darkness, hearing voices from the past, whispering and just out of reach. At daybreak, her eyes had closed again, ushering in a black sleep that forbade all voices, all memories, all loss.
The Livingstons’ physician had recommended commitment, but Dugan had declared he’d kill the first man tried to take their Grace to a place like that. The doctor had sighed and shaken his head, had left another bottle of laudanum, one that Dugan had carried to the alley and poured out, telling himself she might wake up and take too much, though the picture in his mind was of the knife at her heart.
The children had slept on cots in the Ogues’ front room, where Tara could look after them, wounded as they were; Mary Kate rarely spoke, the tension in her small face easing only when Caolon was placed in her care. Liam stood often in Grace’s room, looking down at her face, sometimes whispering her name or shaking her shoulder gently. Outside the room, however, he was sullen and stubborn, refusing to run errands for Dugan and getting into shouting matches with Sean, who had no idea
how to handle the angry boy.
Sean continued to work with the Osgoodes, returning in the late afternoon to help Dugan serve the evening crowd. A girl had been hired to cook, but the food was bad and her outlook grim, and the old drinking men begged for the return of Missus Donnelly, please God. Sometimes, at night, Sean sat by Grace’s side and read aloud or simply held her lifeless hand, more for his own comfort than for hers.
As the serving girl took over more duties, Sean began to stay at the Osgoodes for days on end. There was much to be done, he told himself, and he needed the money, now that Grace was too ill to work. Marcy had offered to visit her, but Sean declared his sister much too weak; really, though, he feared the sight of the young woman would send Grace into another fit, and he simply could not bear that. Marcy turned her attention then to the men in the house, bringing their meals to the study, fetching inks, pens, and paper from the stationers, sending Sean’s clothes to be laundered, doing the mending herself. It was a relief, he had to admit, to be looked after once again.
At last, Grace began to awaken from her strange slumber, though she was exhausted and could barely sit up at first. When she realized how long she’d been ill and how badly this had affected the children—especially Mary Kate, who now reminded Grace painfully of the child she’d been in Ireland—she had forced herself to rise and sit in a chair by the window, to get up and walk around the room and, finally, to dress and come downstairs. She now did this each day, caring for her children and resuming her chores. The presence of Una, the dour serving girl, was worrisome, but Dugan assured her the job of cook was eagerly waiting as soon as she felt up to it, though they would keep Una a while longer; Grace should not take on the work all at once—she should rest, spend time with the children, get out into the light, go to the park.
It was good advice and Grace had taken her little family back to the duck pond, where they’d spent such a happy day last fall. She had thought they’d play as always, but they’d only sat quietly by her side, touching her, leaning against her and sighing as if resting now from a long, hard journey. At home, sometimes, one or the other would take her hand and urge her to sit; they brought her cups of tea, small bites of food, offered her little things they’d found—gull feathers, smooth stones, a leaf or new flower … look, they’d say, isn’t it pretty? As if to convince her there was still beauty in the world, as if enticing her to stay.
And so to prove to them that she would not go away again, she traveled out into the world each day—out into its bustle, its oblivion, walking among the people, drawing strength from them, from their resilience and their very human nature, seeing that life went on. At times it was too much—too loud and boisterous, too celebratory—and she found herself drawn to the very edges of the city, to older neighborhoods, to parks, to peace and quiet. Sometimes she sat perfectly still, staring off at nothing, but never when Liam and Mary Kate were there, never when Sean might see.
That was why she stirred herself when she heard his foot on the stair, not wanting him to find her staring out the window. She opened the Bible in her lap to the place she’d marked, then looked up and greeted him warmly. He was so happy to see her looking well that he pulled up a chair and sat down to visit. Finally, after rattling on for most of an hour and sensing she had fully returned, he paused and raised the question she’d been waiting for him to ask.
“Can you tell me, Grace.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Do you know why the death of this child hurt worse than the others? Did you love him more because he was Morgan’s?”
“I loved the other two boys I bore just as much as this one,” she told him honestly. “’Twas Morgan himself I loved more than any other. All I had left of him in the world was his son, and I left that son behind. I couldn’t forgive myself for that.”
“But if he’d died in the crossing, you’d not have forgiven yourself for that either.”
“Aye.” She knew. “But at least it would’ve been in the arms of his mother who loved him.”
“Da loved him. Barbara loved him.”
“He was my son. Our boy. And I wanted him so much, to see his father in him.” She stopped, her throat tight with emotion. “I wanted him to live.”
“Grace.” Sean leaned forward and took her hand. “You’ll get over this, as well. You’re strong, Grace. Stronger than all of us.”
“I’m not strong a’tall, brother. That’s where you’re wrong. What I am is stubborn.” She frowned. “I couldn’t be grateful to God for what I had. No—I had to bargain with Him, instead.”
“What?”
“I’ve been so angry with God,” she confessed. “About everything that’s happened. But I knew ’twas a sin and maybe that’s why He wouldn’t listen to me.” She hesitated. “So I made up my mind to bargain with Him—I’d follow you into the Saints if He’d give me what I wanted.”
Sean slumped. “But instead, they died.”
“And then I hated God.”
“But He doesn’t work that way, Grace! You know that.”
“Well, but I was stubborn, wasn’t I? I wanted what I wanted. I wanted to hate God, and so I did. I pushed Him so far away that there was no comfort left for me. And then I went mad.”
“It wasn’t madness, Grace,” Sean insisted. “You were exhausted. It was a terrible blow after so many blows.”
“No, brother,” she said firmly. “’Twas madness. And a gift. It was God saying to me, ‘Stop now. Stop and remember all the good. It’s not Me causes the pain, but I’ll help you through it if only you’ll quit pretending you don’t need Me.’”
Sean sat back, surprised. “God has revealed Himself to you, Grace. You must tell the others.”
“No, I’m telling you and no one else. ’Tis a private thing between us. And, Sean”—Don’t let me lose him, she prayed—“I’ll not be coming to services with you anymore.”
His face fell.
“It’s not the way for me,” she added, as gently as she could. “I don’t want to be lost anymore, now I’ve found Him again.” She set her Bible on the table.
He saw the place she’d marked. “I am the resurrection and the life, he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.”
“You read it to me one night. I could hear the sound of your voice and then … those words broke through.”
“I remember.” His face was pained. “I only wanted to comfort you, Grace, to give you hope.”
“You did.”
“I wish you’d give them another chance. They’re such good people. I feel Him in their midst, and I can’t bear to give that up.”
“I’m not asking you to.” She held steady.
He nodded, struggling with his disappointment. “I’m sorry, Grace. I’ve been so caught up in my own life, I paid little mind to yours.”
“It’s time for me to find my own way, brother,” she told him earnestly. “You were right about letting go of the past and looking to the future. I had one foot in Ireland and one in America—’twas a long reach and it finally wore me out.”
He took her hands and kissed them. “Will you be all right, then?”
“I will.” She smiled at him, this brother whom she loved. “I’ve not come this far for nothing.”
Thirty-eight
AS much as she despised the English, Julia had to admit that London was beautiful in the spring. All along the avenues, pink and white blossoms drifted from trees like a fragrant snowfall; banks of primrose, pansy, and daffodil lit up the parks; and the grass was tender and sweet and awash with new clover. The air was so intoxicating, she often came back to the hospital dizzy after her long walks, and her father would have been gratified to see how much she herself had bloomed these past months. Gone was the pale, defeated-looking woman who had barely been able to leave her room, who had despaired of ever finding a purpose in life again, who had made such impossibly poor decisions. When Julia looked in the mirror these days, she saw the person she used to be, the girl who got things done, whose eyes blazed and
whose mind juggled a hundred details with joy.
“Ah, Doctor Wilkes! Is he awake, then?”
The tall, sandy-haired man in the hospital coat turned from his patient and smiled at the sight of his patient’s guardian, her cheeks bright and pink from the sun and breeze, her eyes sparkling. He did love sparkling eyes.
“Yes, he is. Up and listening for you, I believe.” Wilkes stepped aside so she could see the toddler standing in his cribbed, hands on the rail, bouncing and cooing now he’d heard her voice.
“Hallo, little Morgan.” She swooped in and picked him up, so pleased with his sturdy bulk, the healthy weight of him in her arms. “Time for your drops, and then we’ll have tea. I brought you a sticky bun,” she whispered in his ear, and he giggled. “I brought three for you, Doctor.”
“Oh, my.” He laughed self-consciously. “I see you remembered my enthusiasm for sticky buns the last time we had tea. I’m sure I should be mortified.” He peered into the bag she offered. “But apparently, I have no shame.”
“Will we have him on the table, then? Or on my lap?”
“He’s getting pretty good about this.” Wilkes smiled warmly at the little boy. “Let’s have the table.”
Julia laid Morgan down, then pulled up his undershirt and kissed his round tummy, making him laugh that lovely belly laugh she never tired of.
“All right, old man.” Wilkes smoothed the boy’s dark hair off his forehead and began undoing the bandages. “How’s it looking under there today, hmm?”
Morgan lay perfectly still, by now used to the routine.
Nigel Wilkes never hurried. He was a patient man—literally—and his patients all loved him for his kind consideration and gentle touch, his personal interest and dry humor.
Julia hovered down toward Morgan’s feet, standing on tiptoe to see. “What do you think?” She bit her lip. “Any improvement?”
“Yes. A little less dry today, less irritated. Stand over here—” He made room. “See there, how the redness is nearly gone and moisture has gathered in the corners?”
