Freedom's Touch [Legacy of the Celtic Brooch Book 2]

by Sarita Leone

  "We are,” she said, nestling her head against his shoulder. “Didn't you hear what John Winthrop said in his speech? And he spoke so forcefully too, even with the deck beneath his feet pitching like it was settin’ to burst open and swallow him—and us, with him. That man, the one who leads this expedition, he's a man of faith. Determination. Pride. If we stay with him and his followers ... why, there's naught but for us to find the colonies. I can still hear his voice ring out, still hear his speech in my head. ‘...Therefore let us choose life...’ So we choose life—a free life—in the new world."

  "It's as simple as that, is it?"

  "It is."

  A couple of the men had taken up instruments and the first strains of a familiar tune could be heard above the sounds of the storm. Babies calmed as they were pressed to pallets and comforted. The ship listed, then righted itself, as its occupants attempted to gain control of the only thing they could control—themselves.

  "Well, then, I have no reason to worry, it seems. So long as I have you and you have the brooch, all is well. We'll be walking on the free soil of the American colonies in a mere matter of weeks. I'll bet Winthrop will be leading us to this free world with another speech or two, so I'd best forget the past and look toward the future. Especially seeing as how I've got everything I need right here in front of me."

  Deirdre took a deep breath and looked up into his eyes. “And I have all I need to begin a free life in this new land. I have you, my dearest love and the brooch—and one more thing besides,” she said. Reaching down to her side, she patted the small bulge in her skirt pocket.

  "Aye, that's right,” Patrick covered her hand with his own. “How could I ever forget? You've got the wee bit ‘o home with us, now don't you?"

  Confident that the package in her pocket was safe, she twined her fingers with his and held him tightly.

  "That's right. I checked it this morning and the snippet of me Grandmother's rose bush is doing just fine. I wrapped it in some soft moss and have been keeping it moist and it's looking as fit as if ‘twere still in Granny's garden. It'll plant up nicely in that fertile new soil, I expect."

  Aside from the brooch, the rose cutting was the only item Deirdre had insisted on carrying with her. It had been faithfully cared for during the long months and had begun to sprout a few spindly white roots. Its tenuous grip on the Irish moss would, she hoped, sustain the cutting until she had a chance to plant it properly.

  "I expect you're right on that count, too. And ‘twill be a nice reminder for you—mayhap you won't feel too lonely for home with the rose nearby,” Patrick said. His eyes searched hers, looking for any sign she regretted their choice to join up with John Winthrop and his group of religious freedom seekers. He found none.

  "Ach, but you're a silly man sometimes, Patrick Sullivan. I won't be pining for home at all, because we're going to be home. Don't you see? Anywhere you be, that's where my home is, too. And the rose? Why, I'm going to give it a name fitting a thing of beauty growing in a new land so that when it blooms everyone will know what to call it. Aye, and when the red-and-white striped buds open I'll remember what Gran always told me about them. Red is for the blood that runs in our veins and the pure white signifies our faith—and that freedom, for man nor beast, cannot be found without a mixture of both. And Gran's blossoms will fill the air with a fragrance so lovely, so sweet and enticing, that no one will wonder where the scent comes from, either,” she said. The lilting voice had attracted attention and several of their fellow passengers listened to her speak with faraway expressions on their faces, as if they, too, could picture a sweet-scented, fully-blooming rose bush.

  "And what will you be calling this new rose bush of yours, sweet Deirdre?"

  Her gaze found his as she smiled. “Why, it's to be called the American Rose, of course."

  Chapter One

  Chambersburg, Pennsylvania

  April 1863

  Spring touched the land in the Appalachian Valley more gently than anything else had that year. It was deceptively sweet, bringing fluttering whisper-winged butterflies, fat butter-yellow daffodils and warm, fragrant breezes. A poignant reminder of the bucolic existence they had enjoyed before the fighting began; there was no one in town who didn't smile at the melting snow. Even the muddy streets couldn't take away the lightness that spring brought with it.

  But despite the flowers and birdsong, there was no way to forget the Civil War raged on. No longer a thirty-day skirmish, as had been predicted, but well into its second year, there was no end in sight. And although the war wasn't in their peaceful, fertile land yet, there was no one in town who didn't wait for it to come.

  No, they waited. They watched. And they planned. For when—surely there was no if regarding the war's arrival—the war touched a deadly finger to their homes, they wanted to be ready.

  Kay Lane was certain she wanted to be ready more than anyone else did. For her, preparedness for the war's touch was more than a lifestyle change, more than a face-to-face reckoning with the horrors she'd imagined for the past months. For her, it was much more. Because she had a secret. A very big secret. One that impacted not only her own life but the lives of many others.

  Thankfully the early-season chores kept her too busy to dwell overlong on the burdens her deception brought to her. With her father, Frank, and brother, Frank Junior, gone with the 16th Pennsylvania Cavalry, and her intended, Marsh Nolan, a lieutenant in the same regiment, it fell to Kay to run the family dry-goods store. Business wasn't nearly as brisk as it had been before the war but it was good enough for her to keep the store open. Besides, without the store to occupy her mind and body she thought she just might lose her mind waiting ... and wondering.

  "What do you think? Shall we put the blue and pink cottons in the front window? Or do you think that would look too ... I don't know, babyish?” Kay's sister-in-law, Arden, patted the growing mound that was her belly, smiling down at her stretched linsey-woolsey as she kept her other hand on the bolts of fabric. With the sunlight streaming through the wavery pane of glass she looked like such a vision of motherhood that the sight of her brought a lump to Kay's throat.

  She smiled and shook her head. “I don't think it's babyish at all, Arden dear.” A lock of deep chestnut hair escaped her hair clip and she pushed it off her cheek with the back of one hand “In fact, if you add the bolt of yellow ... there is a bolt of yellow in that packet, isn't there? The invoice says we received one length of yellow cotton."

  "It's here, beneath the blue dotted. See?” She pulled the cheery fabric from the brown paper wrapper and held it up to the light. It was as pale as a buttercup and looked just as fresh. “Oh, it's very spring-like, isn't it?"

  "That's what I was hoping for,” Kay said with a smile. She'd practically been raised in the dry goods, and she knew how best to arrange the merchandise. Even when buyers were scarce, it paid to keep up appearances. Some days she felt as if appearances were all they had left to them. “Put the three lengths in the window, draped around some of those children's caps. Who knows? Perhaps we'll entice some of the ladies to stitch up new summer clothes for their little ones."

  "I don't know.” Arden's tone was dubious as she began to arrange the items on the newly-dusted window seat. “We sold hardly anything for Easter, aside from a few measures of ribbon. No one, I think, aside from the Widow Warner, had even a new shift for the holiday. Depressing, isn't it?"

  "Only if you let it be, dear. We must remember that the Widow Warner's contribution to Chambersburg's fashion update was a grey shawl and two black petticoats—definitely not something to notify Harper's Weekly about. And aside from that, we did sell a fair amount of ribbon and the re-trimmed hats on Easter morning were a glorious sight indeed. Don't you think so?"

  Kay moved to stand beside Arden in the window. She tugged a bit of the pink fabric further off the bolt, giving it an additional drape in the display. Whether it was a subconscious gesture or not, she hoped Arden and Frank Junior's first child would be a
girl. Even now, standing so close to the new life that would soon become a focal point of their family, she felt a burst of longing, a flash of tenderness.

  Someday. Someday Marsh and I will have children of our own. Until that time, I'm going to coddle Frank and Arden's babies. I'll be the best auntie around and who knows? Maybe I'll even make the wee one a quilt with this pink fabric. But if it's a boy? Perhaps I'd best wait to make quilts until the babe arrives. Although the green and yellow would go nicely, especially if I added little bits of—

  "Kay!"

  "What?” She started at the sound of her sister-in-law's voice. When she turned, Arden had a broad smile on her face.

  Not exactly a comely woman, yet not overly homely either, her sister-in-law had the type of face that could best be described as ‘dependable.’ With ordinary features, mousy brown hair and an overbite, she looked less like a sleek racehorse than a plow horse, more like an everyday dish than a piece of fancy crystal. But what the woman lacked in beauty she more than made up for in personality and disposition, and her open, loving heart was legendary. Her sense of humor, too, was well known and at this instant Kay's scowl sent her into peals of laughter.

  "It's a miracle that we get anything done around here, with you dallying by the fabric the way you do,” Arden teased. “Why, anyone would think you were planning baby quilts or some other such fancy bit of nonsense in your head by the way you were staring into space."

  Gathering up the empty brown wrapping, Arden slowly made her way to the counter and smoothed the paper with a block of wood kept on the counter for just that purpose. When she was satisfied that most of the wrinkles had been pressed out, she carefully folded and stored the material. It would be used again—and probably again after that, even. In these days of shortages, nothing went to waste—not even in the North.

  "So, is that what you were up to?” she asked, turning to face Kay. “Planning baby things? Isn't it enough that I'm consumed with thoughts of the baby? Now I've got you daydreaming about the new arrival too."

  There was a time when Kay would have protested, would never have admitted her true, sentimental feelings. But those days were gone—long gone. So many hardships, so much sacrifice in the name of freedom, for others and by others, had befallen them that any mention of the ordinary, sweet pleasures of life was to be embraced.

  "That you have, I'll admit it freely,” she said, moving to stand behind the counter again. She piled the receipts she'd been tallying in a neat bundle and tied them in a length of twine. “Sometimes I think I'm more intrigued with that baby of yours than you are, Arden. Honestly, how can you be so calm about it all? I think I'll be jumping out of my skin when I'm waiting for the arrival of my firstborn. No, I take that back—I don't think it, I know it. I'm going to be too excited to be as serene as you are."

  Stroking her stomach, Arden smiled and looked dreamily toward the ceiling. “Oh, I'm excited, believe me. But I can't help thinking this all would be so much more thrilling if Frank were here to see it. I write to him nightly, but still..."

  "It's not the same.” Her evening letters to Marsh helped bridge the distance between them, but only marginally. Parchment and sealing wax were no substitute for a warm body. “I know, honey, how you feel. But who knows? Maybe this infernal war will end soon and our men will come back home to us. Then we'll have a wedding, as well as a birth, to plan."

  "From your mouth to Heaven's ears,” said Arden.

  Their conversation ended when the small brass bell that hung from the entrance door tinkled.

  The only males remaining in town were either elderly or very young. Jack Conrad was one of the former, a stout, white-haired gentleman. He was usually accompanied by his manservant, Jacob Parker, who carried a long hearing tube with him everywhere he went. Shouting into it sometimes got a point across to him but communicating with the old man was a matter of intricate sign language. Most times Captain Conrad translated for his companion, who was, most suspected, more a friend than an employee.

  Today, however, Mr. Parker was nowhere in sight. The Captain entered the store, his walking stick sounding like a series of shots as it struck the worn floorboards. He required a slow-paced, face-to-face conversation to hear all that was said, but he stopped short of requiring a horn or raised voices.

  Having served in the War of 1812 and having never relinquished his military title, the dapper man carried himself with as much of a stiff-spine swagger as his arthritis allowed. Still faithfully polished and gleaming from hilt to tip, the sword he'd carried into battle hung from his left hip, making a dull thudding noise as it struck the man's boot with each step he took.

  He was one of Kay's favorite people.

  "Captain Conrad, it's so nice to see you today,” she said very slowly. “How are you?"

  "Fine, I'm just fine, thank you. And you? How are you ladies today?” His gaze flashed over Arden's ripe body quickly as he nodded his greeting to her, adhering to the prevailing notion among men that lingering on her physical appearance could be construed as rude. He flushed slightly, cleared his throat and turned to face Kay again, firmly focusing his stare on Kay's eyes. “You are both well, I trust?"

  Nodding, Kay smiled. “We're fine, thank you."

  "Nice weather we're having,” he said as he poked through the meager offering of books piled beside a pencil-filled glass jar. Opening books at random and scowling at the small print, he snapped them closed one by one and re-piled them, in reverse order now that he'd examined, and discarded, each one. “About time we had some warm weather. My old bones, they enjoy the heat. This all the new reading material you've got?"

  He looked up at Kay, his gaze dropping to the round silver brooch pinned above her heart before locking on her eyes. In that instant, when he touched a look to the only valuable piece of jewelry she owned, she realized the man had made his way to the store for more than a new source of entertainment. They'd done this enough for her to suspect the exact purpose of his visit. Now that he'd given their private signal, the fast look at the brooch she was never without, she knew to wait for news.

  She didn't have to wait long.

  "I hear there's a parcel expected soon. Perhaps there will be something a tad more interesting in it."

  "Yes, new shipments are due to arrive before long,” she murmured. Busying herself straightening the stack of books, she concealed her racing mind behind a businesslike façade. “We're fortunate, Captain Conrad. Our orders and shipments are still finding their way to us without any problem. Perhaps we'll soon get in one of those history volumes you so enjoy. Or even something by that Jules Verne fellow. I know that would suit you better than what I've got to offer here."

  "Well, since I'm still reading Silas Marner by that woman ... what was her name? A woman—and she writes fairly well, at that—but with an odd name ... a man's name..."

  "George Eliot?"

  He waved a large hand in the air between them, his gnarled fingers still thick and sturdy-looking enough to crack walnuts if he'd had teeth enough to chew them. “That's right—George Eliot. Anyhow, I'm not quite finished with her book so I'll wait, then, and see what comes in the next shipment."

  "That sounds like a sensible plan, Captain Conrad,” Kay answered, nodding. Looking up, she asked, “And how soon do you hope the new shipment will arrive? That is, to suit your reading purposes."

  Pausing, he cocked his head and stared into the space beyond the window as if in deep contemplation. To anyone passing by it would appear the trio was discussing any mundane topic rather than a life-and-death issue. “Oh, I haven't many pages to go, and it will probably be a long, leisurely evening of reading for me, so...” He brought his gaze down and met hers. “By the morning, I'd hope."

  "Ah, that soon. Well. I'll keep an eye open for something new for your reading pleasure, then,” Kay said.

  "Thank you, ladies,” Captain Conrad said, tipping his hat genially, first to Kay, then to Arden. Clutching the large carved eagle-head knob on the top of his walki
ng stick, the courtly gentleman headed for the door as he pushed his wide-brimmed brown felt back onto his white locks. “Have a pleasant afternoon, now."

  "And you too, sir,” answered Arden. She rubbed her stomach, as if to soothe the suddenly-active child within, as they watched him leave. When the door was closed behind him and the women were once again alone in the shop, she turned to Kay with an expression that was a combination of fear and excitement. The look made her seem almost attractive.

  "By morning,” she said, keeping her voice low despite their being alone. “Did you hear, Kay? Another shipment by morning."

  "I heard.” Already her mind was racing—as were her heart and pulse. She put her hand over the brooch she wore and, as she considered all that had to be done by nightfall, she traced the curves of the piece with her fingertip. The metal felt cool beneath her touch and, in that moment, it calmed her, as it always had.

  * * * *

  The darkness was absolute, but Kay pulled her dressing gown tightly about her body and walked through the yard as easily as if she was in the glare of the noontime sun. The faraway twinkling points threw no illumination from their field of velvety blackness.

  Just inside the entrance to the barn she stopped. Holding as still as she could, she strained to hear any noises aside from the two horses, Molly and Mike. Only whickering and soft stamping carried to her on the wholesome hay-scented air.

  Approaching the closest stall, she reached a hand over the top rail to rub Molly between the eyes. After doing the same for Mike, she squeezed into the space between their stalls and crept sideways to the wall of the barn.

  She placed her mouth to a crack in the wood and took a deep, steadying breath. “It is ... a friend of a friend."

  With barely a discernible sound, a panel slid open, its uppermost edge on a level with Kay's hips. Crouching, she pressed into the opening before the panel skimmed back down.

  As her eyes acclimated to the gloom, Kay made out the shapes of the fugitives who were now in her care. She'd been a conductor on the Underground Railroad for twenty-three months and had helped many on their journey to freedom, but every time she got a new shipment in her station a thrill coursed through her veins, shivers shot up her spine. The courage of those she sheltered never failed to bring a flutter to her heart.