An Embarrassment of Riches

by Margaret Pemberton

  He dug his hands in his pockets and began to walk in the direction of his stateroom, his grin gone, his brows pulled together in a frown. He wasn’t at all sure how he felt about his discovery, nor of the knowledge that his own relationship with the girl he had married was one teetering on the verge of friendship. It was not what he had had in mind, and it could quite possibly cause complications.

  For the first time in twenty-four hours Maura was happily unperturbed. Alexander’s reaction when she had told him of the circumstances of her birth had cast all anxieties from her mind. She had not merely fallen in love with a devastatingly handsome face. There was depth and substance to Alexander Karolyis as well. She felt drawn to him as she had never felt drawn to anyone ever before, not even Isabel or Kieron. When they landed in New York they would be able to talk for hours and hours. She would be able to tell him about Ballacharmish and Lord Clanmar’s and her mother’s deaths, and he would be able to tell her the cause of his own terrible unhappiness.

  As the steward led her into second-class accommodation she was filled with a fierce sense of optimism. Together she and Alexander would help each other to overcome all the vicissitudes of their pasts. They would become a family, a tight-knit unit against which nothing could prevail.

  They entered the companion-way leading through third-class to steerage and she remembered Alexander’s warning as to the fuss that might be made of them on their arrival. Who had he been referring to? His parents? A brother, perhaps? Sisters?

  The steward hesitated at the steerage barrier, reluctant to venture any further. Maura barely noticed. When she had said that she must return to steerage in order to host a party, she had been saying the first thing she could think of in order to save herself and Alexander the embarrassment of being led to his stateroom in the manner of newly married medieval royalty being led to the nuptial chamber. It had never been her intention to have any sort of celebration at all. Now, however, it seemed like a very good idea.

  She took her leave of the steward and just as she was about to enter steerage accommodation there came the sound of several heavy feet approaching behind her. She turned to see a dozen of the Scotia’s crew, crates of Veuve Cliquot high on some shoulders, food hampers high on others. At the rear two seamen carried several collapsible trestle tables.

  ‘Mrs Karolyis? Where would you like us to set up the spread, ma’am?’

  Maura wished she had had the forethought to have asked Alexander to join her for the party. It was going to be great fun. Champagne for Irish poor accustomed only to home-brewed poteen. Inside the hampers she glimpsed pasties and pies and large sides of cold beef and ham. Never before would such a party have been given in steerage. Never before would her guests have enjoyed such a feast.

  ‘Follow me, gentlemen,’ she said, wishing Alexander was with them so that she could have hugged him and thanked him properly for his generosity.

  As they entered the gloomy, cavernous quarters where the emigrants ate, lived and slept, every eye turned towards them, the noise level dropping so that by the time Maura stood on a packing-case to speak to them, a pin could have been heard dropping.

  ‘I told you I was to be married,’ she said, her voice thick with happiness, ‘and now I am married and I would like you all to join me in celebrating my marriage.’

  There was an eruption of approval as members of the crew began to set up the trestle tables.

  ‘The drink and the food have been provided by my husband, Mr Alexander Karolyis!’ Maura said, raising her voice so that it would carry over the excited shouts and exclamations.

  ‘And God bless him!’ Rosie O’Hara called out.

  Maura was nearly deafened by a host of similar sentiments and then as the food, cooked with exquisite care for first-class passengers consumption, was set out on the bare tables, someone shouted: ‘Three cheers for Mr and Mrs Alexander Karolyis! Hip, Hip, Hurrah! Hip, Hip, Hurrah! HIP, HIP, HURRAH!’

  It was a party that Kieron would have loved. An Irish wedding revel that went on into the small hours of the following morning. Never before had Maura felt so Irish, or been so acutely aware of the roots from which she had sprung. No matter what the future held for her, she knew that she would never forget the poverty into which she had been born and in which her fellow passengers had been born. Nor would the man who had taken her away from that poverty have wanted her to forget it.

  As she thought of Lord Clanmar the tears she had fought against when talking of him to Alexander, sprang to her eyes unchecked. Other landlords had deserted their tenants during the famine years. Lord Clanmar had not. When he had left for St Petersburg he had left his estate in the hands of his son and when his son had proved unworthy of the task he had arranged that power of attorney be given to Mr Fitzgerald. Oats and potatoes had been imported for distribution among Clanmar tenants and from then on not one Clanmar tenant had died of starvation. Nor had he ever evicted a single family in order that land could be made over to sheep. He hadn’t believed that the circumstances a man was born into sealed his future immutably. He had believed that with opportunity the most humble peasant could be educated, and that with hard work and diligence he could rise in the world. It was an opportunity that be had given to Kieron. An opportunity that he had given to herself.

  When Alexander had looked down at her and told her with a negligent shrug that people were not responsible for the circumstances of their birth, her heart had gone out to him in total commitment. His sentiments were exactly those that Lord Clanmar had held. She wondered what else they would have been in agreement on; she wondered why Alexander had been in Ireland; if he had been visiting family or friends; and as the party finally ended and she at last lay down to sleep, she wondered if he had liked Ireland and if he would want, some day, to return.

  Even when the empty bottles and trestle tables were removed the next day, the buoyant party atmosphere remained. Full bellies and champagne intoxication had bonded the emigrants into one huge, exuberantly optimistic happy family. They were going to the Promised Land, where a poor man could become a rich man overnight; where everything was possible and where even the wildest dreams could come true, as their recent gastronomic feast bore witness.

  Maura was now everyone’s adopted daughter or sister. Hopes and aspirations were confided to her. Some emigrants already had relatives living in New York and they told her of the fine homes they were going to in the Bowery or Five Points. All were eager to work, to be free men no longer beholden to a landlord who could evict them at will from the land that was their only sustenance.

  Maura spent as much time as possible on deck and whereas before it had often been difficult to find a space to sit or to stand, now room was eagerly made for her. Whenever she emerged from the companion-hatch she looked immediately upwards towards the first-class deck, but it remained disappointingly empty. She wondered why and came to the conclusion that it was because, if Alexander were to appear, a near riot would break out in steerage with people thanking him and wishing him well and that he knew that and was circumspectly keeping his distance.

  On the evening before the day they were due to land, she said her goodbyes to her host of newfound friends.

  ‘You mind you pay us a visit in the Bowery!’ someone called out, and there were other, similar, admonitions.

  ‘And the Five Points! We’ll put on a rare party for her, won’t we, girls?’

  ‘We will, and that’s the truth!’

  That night Maura could barely sleep for wondering what the next day would bring. Alexander had said that they would, in all likelihood, be met. What would his family say when he introduced her as his wife? Would they like her? Would she like them? Where would she and Alexander live? How would they live?

  Question after question crowded in on her. She remembered the last time she had been unable to sleep for feverish excitement. She had been eight years old and her bed had been a pile of straw in Killaree. She had wondered then what life at Ballacharmish would be like, and not even
her wildest imaginings had come anything close to the wonderful truth. And now? Was she doing exactly the same thing? Was she wondering about something beyond imagination? She smiled at her idiocy. However vast and strange New York was, it was surely not going to be beyond imagination. Nor would be her future lifestyle. Alexander was obviously well-bred and well-educated. He was probably training to be a banker or lawyer. They would live comfortably, though not in the grand style she had become accustomed to at Ballacharmish.

  As she at last began to drift into sleep, her last thoughts were of the rose-garden, and when she dreamed, she dreamed that Alexander and Lord Clanmar were sitting on the terrace, discussing

  Mr Lincoln’s handling of the Civil War.

  The next morning she brushed her hair vigorously and mindful of the sea breezes, constrained its heavy weight in a coarse silk hair-net. Then she smoothed the folds of her blackberry-blue ankle-length dress and picked up her shawl and her carpet-bag. In another few moments she would be with Alexander and her new life would begin. She gave one last look around before leaving. Everyone was asleep. Somewhere a baby mewled. Mentally vowing to fulfil her promises to visit those who had given her addresses, she turned and made her way to the companion-way.

  No-one apprehended her as she walked through third and second-class accommodation and then into first. In first she approached a steward who took her respectfully to Alexander’s stateroom.

  He was already dressed to disembark, a cream linen shirt open at the throat, a dark brown velvet jacket surmounting it, brown-and-white chequered trousers adding a rakish air to his ensemble. He smiled broadly at her, his dark grey eyes bright with an excitement she could only assume was relief at returning home.

  ‘I’m glad you’re early. I want to watch our approach into harbour from the deck.’

  There was a copy of The Times on one of the easy chairs, a breakfast tray bearing the remains of coffee and croissants on a small table. The copy of the The Times was obviously a week or so old and she wondered why he kept it. The coffee smelled marvellous and she was acutely aware that she had not yet eaten. Nor, apparently, was she about to.

  ‘Come on. Let’s not waste any more time,’ he said, striding towards the door and opening it. ‘I’ve never approached New York by sea before and I don’t want to miss a minute of it.’

  Eager to share in his delight at his homecoming, she didn’t give the coffee another thought. He escorted her along wood-panelled companion-ways and up a staircase that led to the sanctified heights of the first-class passenger deck.

  There, before her, shimmering beneath an early morning heat haze, lay America.

  ‘There’s Sandy Hook!’ he exclaimed, running towards the deck-rails, the warm sea breeze tugging at his hair. ‘And over there is Coney Island … and look … we’re approaching The Narrows. Can you see the Inner Bay?’

  Maura looked and marvelled. She had never seen a city bigger than Dublin before and New York, with its skyline of church spires all glinting in the sun, looked to be vast.

  ‘That’s Brooklyn over there,’ Alexander said as they steamed into the harbour. ‘And over there is Jersey City and Hoboken …’

  When he had woken that morning, his excitement had been because of the imminence of his show-down with his father. Now it was simply because he was so pleased to be home. New York! Was there a city anywhere else in the world like it? He doubted it. Certainly not London, which he had enjoyed but been unimpressed by. And not Dublin, which he had thought parochial. New York was a city of vigour and vitality. It was a young city. It was his city.

  ‘There’s the spire of Trinity Church,’ he said, pointing out one of the many spires to her. ‘And over there is St Thomas’s.’

  It was almost as if he had forgotten that the girl at his side was not Genevre. He was full of plans to see Charlie; to visit the race-tracks of Long Island; to live it up at Sherry’s and Delmonico’s. He leaned his arms on the deck-rails and drank in his fill of the sights as they drew nearer and nearer to shore.

  There was nothing for him to do now but to disembark. The manservant Powerscourt had so thoughtfully provided him with had already packed his bags and would supervise their transfer. There were no customs formalities to worry about, such as they were, they had already been attended to in the comfort of his stateroom. Captain Neills had assured him that the Herald, The New York Times, the Globe and the New York Post would all be speedily informed that he was aboard, and that he had been married during the crossing. All that remained now was for him to remain on board until the journalists arrived.

  In rapt fascination Maura watched as first-class and second-class passengers disembarked. The noise and bustle of the docks was deafening. There were smells, too. Smells not a world removed from the smells of Queenstown.

  An officer approached and cleared his throat in order to gain Alexander’s attention.

  ‘The press are waiting for you, sir.’

  Alexander gave a slight nod of his head in acknowledgement. It was now. The moment had arrived. If he chose to, he could remain utterly silent about the marriage that had taken place. He could pay the girl off, ensure Captain Neills’silence by presenting him with a handsome monetary gift, and the incident would never be mentioned again. If he ever married in the future, the marriage would be bigamous, but the girl in question would never know, and he doubted very much if he would care. All he had to do was to keep silent.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said, turning towards Maura who had not heard the officer’s quietly spoken message.

  For the first time he took a proprietorial hold of her arm. Maura flushed slightly and then they were walking from the deck, down the stairs and along a warren of companion-ways.

  ‘What about your luggage?’ Maura asked him, concerned. ‘Shouldn’t we have it with us?’

  He shook his head. Ahead of them was the gangplank, and at its foot he could see a mass of journalists, notebooks in hand. ‘No. My manservant has gone ahead with it.’

  Maura stumbled and was saved from falling only by his steadying hand. ‘Your manservant?’ Even though he was travelling first-class it had not occurred to her that he would have a servant travelling with him.

  ‘Mr Karolyis! Mr Karolyis, sir!’

  The crowd at the foot of the gangplank was streaming towards them. ‘Is it true that you married aboard ship, Mr Karolyis?’

  ‘Is it true that your new bride is one of Lord Powerscourt’s daughters?’

  Maura was too stunned with surprise to understand even half of what was being asked. How on earth had these people known of their marriage? Who were they? Where was the family Alexander had been expecting?

  His hand tightened beneath her arm. ‘Allow me to introduce my bride, gentlemen.’

  There was an instant hush. Alexander savoured the moment. He thought of Genevre. He thought of her leaving America believing him to have been unfaithful to her. He thought of her dying in that belief.

  ‘My bride,’ he said with relish. ‘Miss Maura Sullivan of Killaree, County Wexford.’

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Sullivan?’ half a dozen journalists asked simultaneously, their faces blank. ‘Sullivan?’

  No-one had heard of a Duke of Sullivan or an Earl of Sullivan. One bright spark, remembering that among the British aristocracy a family name and a title were often two different things, shouted out: ‘Is Sullivan the family name of the Duke of Powerscourt?’

  Alexander smiled genially. ‘My new bride has no family connection with the Duke of Powerscourt.’

  Beyond the crush of journalists he could see a carriage waiting, emblazoned with the coat of arms that his father affected. Captain Neills’s messengers had been highly efficient.

  ‘In fact my wife has no family connections at all,’ he said, still smiling as he forced the journalists to make way for himself and Maura.

  As he reached the carriage he gave Maura a hand into it and then turned to the still besieging Press, delivering his coup de grâce. ‘My wife is Ir
ish, a Roman Catholic and illegitimate. Good-day, gentlemen.’

  If he had said that his wife was a two-headed leprechaun his statement couldn’t have met with more disbelief. Hard on the heels of the initial reaction of stunned incredulity came anger. Every single journalist was convinced that Alexander was trying to make a fool of them. His bride’s name wasn’t Sullivan. Sullivan was a name from the Irish bogs.

  ‘Your sense of humour isn’t appreciated, Mr Karolyis!’ one of them shouted out as the coachman flicked the reins and the carriage began to move away.

  Alexander merely grinned. In another few moments they would be interviewing Captain Neills. Then they would have to believe him.

  Maura was staring at him in shattered horror.

  ‘Why … why did you say those things?’ Her face was ashen, her eyes enormous, her voice cracked and unsteady.

  He was still grinning. ‘Why not? They’re the truth, aren’t they?’

  A slight touch of colour had begun to return to her cheeks. Sick disbelief was turning into bewildered anger. ‘Yes, but it’s not for the world to know! You are the first person I have ever told …’

  ‘So no-one else ever knew?’ As the carriage rolled away from the docks and towards the city he looked across at her with genuine interest.

  ‘People in Killaree knew. And Lord Clanmar and Isabel and Kieron.’

  He was about to ask who Isabel and Kieron were but she gave him no opportunity.

  ‘And who were all those people? Why did they want to know about our marriage? Why should they think I was one of Lord Powerscourt’s daughters?’

  ‘They were journalists,’ he said dismissively, noting how her hair shone in its restraining silken net.

  ‘But why … ?’

  ‘Look over there. That’s where Charlie Schermerhorn’s grandmother lives.’

  Exercising almost super-human self-control she looked in the direction he was indicating. Curiosity overcame her hurt indignation. ‘Who is Charlie?’