The Irish Bride

by Alexis Harrington

  Now, with a nod from McCorry, Aidan and several other men stepped forward to hoist the plank to the gunwale. Mother and child, bound together in their burlap winding-sheet, slipped over the side into the cold, indifferent arms of the Atlantic. Farrell bowed her head as tears slid down her cheeks. Not one among them was a newcomer to death and loss, but she could not get accustomed to it. She’d not even seen Michael properly buried. She felt it keenly that the matter was dispensed with so easily.

  This poor young woman and her baby, with only strangers to mark their passing—no one would ever know what had become of them. It brought home to her Aidan’s comment that night at The Rose and Anchor: she was an orphan and he was as good as one. She swiped the back of her hand over her tears, but her own determination to survive was shaken by this burial at sea.

  The mourners began to drift away, dispirited and solemn. The steady, cold rain had been falling for hours, and now the wind had picked up. Farrell’s shawl was soaked through.

  She looked at the vast expanse of gray-green water beyond the rail, searching in vain for some hint of land but saw nothing but the same monotonous view of ocean, rising and falling, rising and falling. Even the sea birds had forsaken them several days earlier, as the ship ventured deeper into the open sea. Overhead, the rigging creaked and groaned in the wind.

  During the hardest years of her life, Farrell had wondered occasionally what it would be like to sail the seas and visit distant lands. She hadn’t wanted to leave Ireland forever. Mostly, she’d just wanted to see if there was a place where existence wasn’t as dire. Now, as she stood on the rolling, pitching deck of the Mary Fiona, Farrell felt that it was not much more than a barrel overflowing with humanity and all of the related miseries that came with an ocean voyage. If there was a better life somewhere, she couldn’t picture it. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing left on earth but this ship and the ocean.

  In Skibbereen, they’d heard fragmented and alarming tales of “coffin ships,” the vessels that had carried starving, evicted Irishmen from their famine-stricken home to America during the height of the plague. Disease and starvation had run rampant aboard many of them. Some ships were lost in storms, others landed with most of their passengers gone, having been buried at sea. Might that happen to them? After all, they’d lost three people so far. Would they be picked off, one by one? The fear and uncertainty nearly drove her to her knees right there on deck to pray for God’s protection.

  “Ye ought to get out of the rain. There’s a fair spot against the galley wall.”

  She heard Aidan’s voice beside her, low, rich, familiar. But she couldn’t take her eyes off the rolling swells. She gripped the railing, cold and salt-sticky beneath her hands. “We’ve come on a fool’s errand, Aidan. God Himself couldn’t find someone out here.” Her words sounded bitter, even to her own ears.

  “What are ye going on about?”

  She turned and lifted her gaze to his familiar face. “At least when someone dies on land, there’s a priest to pray over the poor thing, a grave to visit, a place to put wild flowers. But here . . . there’s no one. Deirdre was dropped into the ocean and no one can come to mourn over her. Ever. D’ye know what I mean?”

  He paused before answering. His own dark hair hung in damp tendrils and his thin, ill-fitting coat clung to his shoulders from the wet. “Aye, I know.” She saw understanding in his eyes, as if he’d thought of it as well. “I think the girl would have died anywhere. She was sickly and as thin as whey. But I’ll tell ye, we’re not on a fool’s errand. This is a trial, to be sure, one that we’ll survive. America will be grand and we won’t live in poverty anymore. We’ll have plenty to eat and a place to live that doesn’t flood in the winter or bake like a cow flop in the summer.”

  This tenderness and understanding was not something she expected from the Aidan O’Rourke she knew in Ireland. Without thinking, she reached up to push a wet lock of hair from his forehead, then snatched her shaking hand away, startled by how easily the gesture had come to her.

  “Do you really think it can be so, Aidan?”

  “I’ll see to it, and make no mistake.” He took her elbow. “Come along, little red one. It’s a tea day.” Twice per week they were allowed tea, sugar and molasses. “Go to the galley and make yourself a cup.”

  “Mrs. O’Rourke!” Mr. Morton was bellowing at her over the sound of the rain and wind from his place on the quarterdeck. “There’s a storm brewin.’ If you’re going to do any cooking, you’d best see to it. The fire will have to be put out shortly.”

  She nodded at him, then looked at the group gathering outside the galley. They reminded her of so many baby birds, waiting for their mother’s return with food. “Aye. As soon as I cook the morning meal.”

  * * *

  Aidan shook the rain from his hair and coat, and remained at the railing, standing beside the spot so recently occupied by Deirdre Connagher and her child. Farrell had not been the only one affected by the woman’s death. Although he had not known her, Aidan felt it just as keenly, but for very different reasons. Yes it was tragic that she’d been put over the side, buried at sea with no marker for her grave. But people died every day, often long before their time. If the famine hadn’t proved that, nothing else would. He was still plagued by nightmares about some of the gruesome scenes that had taken place in Skibbereen on a regular basis, and not so many years past.

  No, Deirdre’s death had brought home to him another realization: the vulnerability of a pregnant woman.

  Aidan had railed and cursed at his missed opportunity to bed his wife last night. He burned for her with a desire that he’d never felt for any other woman, and he’d had her right there in his arms, warm, responsive, firm and yielding to his touch. For the moment, her anger with him had been put aside, and she’d lost that high-nosed look she sometimes gave him. Then Morton had come knocking.

  After they’d gone below, the second mate had reclaimed his cabin, only too happy to escape the gamey quarters of the forecastle. Chances were slim that he’d be willing to bet it again in a card game.

  But if they had not been interrupted, and Aidan had consummated their marriage, suppose a child had resulted? he wondered, staring at the vast emptiness of water. He had plans, grand plans, for their future. They would travel from New Orleans to New York and begin a new life. But he didn’t know the exact distance between the two cities, how they would get there, or how long it would take. He wanted to give Farrell a safe, secure place to bear his children. He glanced at the empty deck next to his feet again, remembering the burlap-wrapped bodies. If he lost her because of his own selfishness, his own impatience, well, it would be the worst sin on his soul. Worse than causing Michael Kirwan’s death. Worse than anything.

  He looked up at Farrell, standing in the galley doorway and handing out this morning’s breakfast to the ragged, silent passengers. Despite her own sorrow and the gloom of the day pressing down upon them, she was as fair as a June dawn in County Cork. He knew this promise he made to himself would chafe in the days and nights to come.

  But for Farrell, it was a promise he swore he would keep.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Have ye ever seen the like of it?” Aidan asked as he stripped off his thin coat. He stood wedged beside Farrell at the railing, jockeying for a place among all the other passengers who’d crowded up to have a look. His eyes were full of an almost childlike wonder.

  “No. Not even in my dreams,” she answered, but she was a bit apprehensive.

  Coming up the wide Mississippi River, the Mary Fiona passed grand homes sheltered by trees that bore gently waving gray curtains of some vegetation. The weather was unlike any Farrell had ever experienced. Simply breathing seemed to require effort—the air was as moist and heavy as a wool blanket just pulled from a hot kettle, and perfumed with the cloying scents of various plants and exotic flowers in full bloom. Some plants were giants, boasting leaves the size of umbrellas, and grew in great, intertwined snarls that stretch
ed languidly skyward.

  This wasn’t simply another country. This place was so strange and bizarre, if Farrell had been told that she’d journeyed over the Atlantic to the land of Tir na nOg, she would have believed it. That mythical place held a treasure of gold and silver and jewels, of wine and honey. The trees bore fruit, blossoms, and green leaves, all at the same time, year round.

  Though the sun was not overly hot, perspiration dampened her body, making her clothes cling in sticky patches. The coolness of the Mississippi and the wind that pushed them upriver were little help in this steamy climate. The other passengers on deck began shedding caps and tugging at their collars.

  After more than three months at sea, Farrell had had a desperate craving to reach America. Although they had lost no other crewmen or passengers, the chore of cooking, of being confined to a ship that seemed to grow smaller with each passing day, and the monotony of the voyage had her nearly screaming for journey’s end.

  Water rations had been cut two weeks earlier, seawater had to serve for bathing, which was almost worse than no bathing at all, and though everyone had eventually pooled their rations, they were nearly out of food. Landfall was not only anticipated, it had become necessary to survival.

  Now, here was America, and it was not what she had imagined. Well, she didn’t know exactly what she’d expected, but this wasn’t it.

  Toward late afternoon, New Orleans came into view in the distance, and Mr. Quisenberry gave orders to the crew to make ready for docking. The buildings grew bigger along the wharf and Farrell saw other ships and swarming activity. People, cargo, mules, horses, wagons—they all hustled to and fro. As the lines were cast and tied, she heard a babble of languages and strange accents. Some of the words sounded like English but she couldn’t be certain. But whether in English or some other tongue, the cursing was unmistakable.

  And what odors. There were the smells of wood smoke, tar, and old fish, of cooking, sweat, and overflowing chamber pots. The river gave off its own scent, and Farrell supposed that neither she nor Aidan were very clean, either. God, for a bath with fresh water and even the crudest soap, she thought.

  As they docked in New Orleans, the gangway was opened and they disembarked. Some knelt and kissed the grimy dock planks and crossed themselves in thanksgiving. Others wept openly, grateful to have lived through the voyage and reached their destination. At least the journey was over. They were here at last, even if the weather was suffocating. Carrying her own bundle, Farrell tottered drunkenly against Aidan, surprised to find her legs as unsteady as a new foal’s. Around her, others were having the same difficulty.

  “Let’s get out of the crush,” Aidan said, taking her arm. Almost as unsteady, he led her to the wall of a warehouse to stand amid big, stacked bales of tightly packed white tufts.

  “All those weeks on that bloody ship have taken my balance! People will think we’re as drunk as pigs that’ve been at the mash.”

  He laughed at her outburst and leaned against the wall next to her. “Aye, we’ve got to get our land legs back. But it’s good to have our feet on firm ground again.”

  “It is.” She looked at the bales. “What would this be, then?” she asked, touching a hand to the soft fleece.

  He bent his dark head to study it a moment, then reached out to feel it. “I think it’s cotton.”

  “Cotton!” She’d never known what it looked like in its natural state. “It puts me in mind of clean lamb’s wool.”

  “It’s probably bound for the mills in England. Mr. Morton told me a lot of cotton comes from this part of America.” He gave her a quick head-to-hem glance. “Have ye got your pins back under you?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. Morton also told me about an inn where we can get a room.”

  Farrell picked up her bundle again when a shocking sight caught her eye. Two groups of very dark-skinned people, men in one and women in the other, were chained to each other and being prodded along by men with riding crops and sticks. The prisoners had obviously just disembarked from a ship anchored at the dock, a far more miserable-looking specimen than the Mary Fiona.

  They wore barely enough to cover their most private aspects, and nothing that even approached decency.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, will ye look at that?” she exclaimed in a low voice. “What class of crimes have they committed, I wonder? Theft? Murder?” She shrank back, intimidated by the large group of what must be very dangerous people.

  Aidan stared at the scene, his brow lowering. “They’re not outlaws. They’re slaves.”

  “Slaves?”

  “Or they will be soon. Morton likewise told me there’s a big slave market here. He said they snatch these people from their homeland—Africa and such—and sell them into slavery. A wee bit more straightforward than what the English do to us, but much worse.”

  She gaped at the shuffling, unhappy-looking group. “What becomes of them?” She spoke in hushed tones, as if discussing a vile secret.

  He shook his head. “Some rich landowner buys them to work in his fields to grow this.” Gesturing at the cotton, he added, “And other crops like tobacco and sugar cane.”

  “But for how long?” She was familiar with the stories of James Oglethorpe’s debtors, and bond servants who came to America to work for masters for a fixed number of years. “When are they freed?”

  He watched them, a troubled, faraway look in his eyes. “When death releases them.”

  She followed his gaze and listened to the clanking chains. They made her think of souls at the gates of heaven, judged, rejected, and condemned for eternity, dragging their shackles with them. “How horrible, God help us,” she whispered.

  “God help them.” He turned and took her elbow. “Come on, Farrell, let’s find that inn.”

  * * *

  The inn they found, L'Hôtel Grand De Vue, was not nearly so fancy as its name implied, but after weeks at sea with no privacy, no proper beds, and a floor that moved constantly under their feet, it was a small paradise. The desk clerk, a haughty Frenchman with oiled hair and a shiny coat that was thin at the elbows, lifted a disdainful brow as he turned the register for Aidan to sign.

  Aidan stared at the man until blood rose to the tips of his ears and he looked away. It was petty, he realized, but it gave him satisfaction. He knew that he and Farrell looked like scarecrows—he was particularly aware that her face was not as gently rounded as it had been before they left. For his part, the clothes that had been too small when he bought them now fit.

  “Will monsieur require anything more?” The snotty tone made Aidan long to grab the man’s greasy forelock and smash his head on the counter. He forced the impulse into a small box in his mind and closed the lid on it. Someday soon, he vowed to himself, no man would dare to look down his nose at Aidan O’Rourke or his wife. Certainly not some froggy who was dressed little better than they were.

  He replied, “Aye, laddie. I’d like meals for my wife and me, and a bath brought to our room.” He pushed a gold half-eagle across the counter. “This should cover everything.” Five dollars was far too much to squander on luxury, but Aidan thought they deserved it after what they had been through. From the corner of his eye, Aidan caught Farrell’s expression of surprised delight, and decided it was money well spent. He smiled and picked up the key to their room, leaving the clerk to goggle at the coin.

  After a climb to the second floor, Farrell’s sea legs felt as thick and shaky as a brick of headcheese. Aidan unlocked the door and ushered her into a room that held a big iron bed, a chifforobe, a small desk, a washstand, and an upholstered chair and footstool, all far past their prime. The late afternoon sun was dimmed by shutters on the windows that cast stripes of bright light across the pine floor.

  He crossed the floor to open the shutters and looked out. “Hotel Grand View, eh?” he commented, his hands braced on either side of the window frame. “It looks like an alley down there to me, and it smells like a privy in this heat. Must be the chic
kens someone is keeping.” The sound of enthusiastic clucking drifted upward through the window, along with noises from the street and neighboring businesses.

  She dropped the bundle of her belongings on the floor and sat on the bed. “Ohhhh,” she uttered, unable to stifle a sound of pleasure. “A real bed to sleep in. Even in Clare’s house I slept on a pallet with the children. This will be like heaven after—”

  She glanced up suddenly at Aidan, who had turned to look at her. His gaze upon her felt like two hot coals burning through her chest.

  There it was again, that look in his eyes, unsettling, possessive, hungry. She wished she’d been able to demand a separate room, but she couldn’t defend the cost. Besides, she didn’t believe that her husband would agree to such an arrangement, although he had made no other advances after the night in Morton’s cabin. She was glad of that, she told herself. Yes, glad. Her heart still belonged to Liam, even if he hadn’t loved her as she’d have wanted. She thought of him every day and she didn’t know when that would end. Or if it ever would.

  Of course, Aidan had had no real private moment with her on the ship, although she knew that some couples had contrived to find hiding places in the cargo hold to be alone. Thank heavens he hadn’t suggested something like that. Yet, a contrary part of her wondered why he hadn’t. There had been nothing—not one more kiss, not a peck on the cheek. He hadn’t even tried to hold her hand. After that one display of passion, she might have expected . . . Perhaps he’d found her lacking or displeasing that night, compared to the other women he’d known. The possibility vexed her in a way she didn’t care to analyze.

  With another glimpse at his eyes, gleaming blue and feral, she jumped up from the bed as if it were on fire. Sitting there might suggest an invitation that she hadn’t meant to extend.

  “You’ll take the bed,” he said gruffly. “I’ll sleep in the chair.”

  The tension in the room was as thick as the humidity. “N-no, t’would not be fair. I shouldn’t have the bed every night. You must share it with me—I mean we can take our turns.” She could imagine him watching her in the darkness from that chair. But more shameful still, she had a guilty curiosity about what it would feel like to have him lie beside her in the night.