Zeke frowned. “You already have the respect, man. If it’s a home you’re needing, I’m happy to help with that, just tell me where and when we start.”
“I’d hoped to have enough to buy land by now, but I’ve sent almost all I have back East to accommodate Norah’s keep with her great-aunt.”
Zeke appeared a bit surprised. “Her kin charges her for room and board?”
“Aye,” Seamus sighed. “But at least I know she’s safe and bein’ cared for.” He glanced at his friend. “I had hoped that by now she would have saved enough with the little extra I’d been sending to take a train out here. But I’ve not heard a peep from her.”
Seamus raked his fingers over his jaw in thought. He wanted to do right by her. Make her proud of his accomplishments. Make up for the pain he’d caused by leaving her the way he had. He’d tried several times in every letter to tell her that he hadn’t had a drop to drink since the day Hardt had showed faith in his abilities and offered him a position. It had been a step in the right direction after a long journey of miserable stops in small towns and odd jobs along the way. At first, his naïve excitement had caused him to see himself as an adventurer. His letters back then to his wife still conveyed the hopes and dreams he’d shared with her. But the idealistic view soon gave way to the reality that unscrupulous men were not exclusive to New York. After he’d lost all of his money and what few possessions he’d had, he no longer believed in dreams, but in determination and survival. It had only been since seeing the weddings recently in Noelle that he’d had the gumption to try again to save his marriage—if there was even one left to save.
“Maybe it’s time your wife heard from Genevieve. She’s been working on that letter you asked her to write. You could add a note of your own in it and let’s get it sent.” Zeke slapped Seamus on the shoulder. “We’ll convince her to come to Noelle, my friend. You’ll see.”
Chapter Two
New York City 1877
“Norah? Norah Francis!” The insistent little bell echoed through the silent house, too much of a tomb for Norah this late winter day. She turned her gaze heavenward.
Four years. Not a single word from Seamus. He could be dead, though surely, she would have been notified somehow if that had been the case. Or worse, what if he’d found someone else? Four years…as an indentured servant to her great-aunt.
“Norah Francis?” The screech of the old woman’s brittle voice caused a chill to rake over Norah’s heart. She should be grateful. The woman had taken her in even after her great-uncle passed. That had been the family connection to her da back in Ireland, but the woman was more than willing to bring her to America, offer her a better life. Norah had been reminded of the woman’s charity often, in particular when Norah spoke of perhaps going to seek out her husband’s whereabouts. At one point she even considered returning to her homeland, but there was little for her back there. Both parents now deceased, the farm sold off. No family able to take her in. No one.
Until she’d met Seamus. Walking along the market vendors near the docks one afternoon, she’d seen him unloading a ship. When he looked up and those forest green eyes had met hers, she’d lost her heart. He had a quick smile, eyes that twinkled with life, and a body that made her yearn. His youth and strength only enhanced his passion. Soon after, they began to meet in secret. He had filled her head with dreams of a better life, of how he wanted to have his own business one day, to make a life together so that when she walked down the street, people would say, “That’s Mrs. Malone.” He was tenacious and bull-headed, and when he’d looked at her with that twinkle, she’d have believed anything. And so, it was not long before she’d given him both her heart and virginity. Aghast when she’d discovered their clandestine meetings, her aunt had referred to Norah’s behavior as “no better than a whore.” Using her financial powers to save her social standing as well as Norah’s soul, her aunt had arranged that the two be married in a private church ceremony by Monsignor Stephens who was an old family friend. Norah knew the she must have tithed handsomely to receive the church’s acceptance on such short notice. With a handful of witnesses—one or two of her great-aunts’ trusted friends--they were married after midnight on St. Patrick’s Day. Norah had committed to memory the flickering glow of the candles on the altar, and the stony expression on the priest’s face as he spoke the sacred vows of marriage. She thought also how back home the wedding would have been forbidden during the Lenten season. The belief that the union would be cursed. She’d even taken precaution to offer her husband a traditional drink on their wedding night and she recited a Gaelic charm of protection to ensure his fidelity. Still, it had not been the happy wedding she’d always imagined.
But there’d been one bright spot, something that made living in servitude to her curmudgeonly great-aunt bearable: Seamus Malone’s smile. In it, her heart took wing that anything was possible.
But now that smile was gone. And where once there’d been hope, she now felt her heart beginning to turn to stone. She feared facing a future alone, feared that she would turn into a lonely, selfish woman like her great-aunt. Except for six months of wedded bliss—bliss in bed, if nothing else—her future now seemed stagnated in caring for this ungrateful woman whom she never was able to please.
“I’ll be there shortly, Mrs. Mulligan,” Norah said. She hated that there’d never been any familial ties with her aunt. The woman had insisted on treating her like a stranger even though Norah’s father and uncle had been related. Her Uncle Gerald Mulligan had left Ireland several years before with enterprising ideas to build his own fleet of ships. Hard work and tenacity had led to association with the likes of wealthy men such as John Jacob Astor, who had brought her uncle along during the boom in free trade with China. As a result, he’d made a fortune. When he passed, he’d left his shrewd widow holding a say within the company and social status that placed her in the elite sector of New York business.
From the day Norah had arrived on her doorstep with her few possessions, her great-aunt had made clear Norah’s place. Shortly after her arrival, all but one of the servants had been relieved of duties-- replaced by Norah, but without compensation.
“Young woman, you are aware that I prefer my tea precisely at half past the hour. Is it too much to ask that you plan your day accordingly?” her aunt said in her demeaning tone.
Norah cast an eye to the heavens, wondering if the Almighty had simply forgotten about her. To be sure, it appeared her husband had done that very thing.
She checked the cup, placed it on the silver tray and carried it carefully into the parlor. The dark gray skies of late February had precipitated a fire in the brick fireplace to ward off the chill in the room.
Her aunt sat by the fireside in her favorite chair. Her shawl was wrapped tightly around her shoulders and one foot—the one bothered by bunions—was propped on a footstool. Her legs were covered by a lap blanket.
“My sincere apologies, Mrs. Mulligan. I thought I should check the linens on the line to see if they would ready for pressing.”
American-born Mary-Margaret had had the good fortune of being raised in an affluent family compared to everyone that Norah had known. She’d attended a finishing school and had met her husband-to-be at a social gathering given by the Astors, who’d been looking for investors in the shipping business. Suffice it to say that Mary-Margaret had never had to make her own tea.
The old woman took a sip and her face puckered in a grimace. “It’s nearly like ice.” Her silvery brows knit as she frowned. “Take this back at once and bring me a proper cup of tea.”
Norah nodded and then noticed the small bottle hidden beneath her lap robe. “Yes, mum.” She ignored the woman’s sneaking whisky in her tea. At least it made her drowsy enough to nap, easing Norah’s day for a bit.
“And I want to see the menu for Sunday supper. I hope I don’t need to remind you of the very important guests we have coming. Monsignor Stephens is bringing a visiting seminarian and I want to make a good
impression.”
“Yes, mum,” Norah said. “As soon as you approve the menu, I’ll take care of everything. She enjoyed having an excuse to cook. It gave her a sense of pride and purpose over and beyond the daily routine of rigid housekeeping.
Starting early on Sunday before mass, she put on a roast in a rich stock of potatoes, onions, carrots, and turnips—a favorite of the elderly priest who had married her and Seamus. The aroma of freshly baked Irish soda bread filled the house and she made an apple cake with custard sauce for dessert.
She both served and dined with the guests, relieved that, an hour into the meal, her aunt had not yet made a negative comment about her absent husband.
“Delightful meal, child. Simply delightful,” the elderly priest praised Norah’s cooking.
“I quite agree, Mrs. Malone,” the young seminarian stated politely. He was older than many seminarians, having decided later in life to join the priesthood. He had but a few months left before he completed his graduate work in seminary before his ordination.
“What prompted you to join the church, Father O’Flanagan?” Norah asked. She received a stern look from her great-aunt.
“Norah Marie Francis, I’ll not permit such a question of a man of the cloth,” she scolded.
Father Timothy O’Flanagan waved his hand, dismissing her aunt’s concerns. He smiled, the lines at the corners of his dark eyes deepening with his smile. “No harm done, Mrs. Mulligan. It is, indeed, a logical question. Many of my classmates in seminary are considerably younger.” He dabbed his mouth with the napkin. “After university, I traveled a bit and I met my wife. She and our child died less than a year after we married. I was devastated. Lost.” He paused as though collecting his thoughts. “I suppose it was then that I was drawn back to the church. I found peace there, and purpose. For a time, I reflected on my choices, and that led me to seminary. I’ll finish soon and then receive my ordination.” He smiled at Norah. “Not an exciting story, but there you have it.”
“Well, it’s encouraging to see that you’ve found a way through your loss,” Norah said quietly. She did not miss the look of concern on his face. The rest of the evening Norah studied the man. He was not overly handsome—any more than any man she’d seen, with exception to her Seamus. He was tall, broad-shouldered with a firm jaw and dark brown hair trimmed above his ears. What set him apart was his eyes—the contentment she saw in them. She would realize later as she stared at the dark ceiling of her room that it was that same contentment she sought in her life. He’d spoken directly to her, his kind gaze holding hers as though he’d sensed the hollowness of her soul.
The next day as Norah was carrying a bundle of folded bed linens to the stairway, a knock sounded on the door. Her aunt, who’d taken a sniffle, had chosen to remain in bed that morning. This meant Norah’s schedule would be upended with running to fetch for her aunt.
She placed the linens on the foyer table and opened the door to see a solemn-faced postal carrier dressed in a blue coat to ward off the incessant rain the city was experiencing.
“Mail delivery,” he said, handing her a stack of letters. Many had to go to the local post office to pick up mail. Her great-uncle had made certain that his mail was delivered directly into his hands.
“Thank you.” Norah took the bundle.
She stood at the open door, her gaze glued to the neat penmanship. A police whistle down the street pulled her from her reverie. She closed the door and walked into the parlor.
Sitting down, she held her breath as she stared at the letter. It was addressed to her. The return address indicated the name of a Mrs. Genevieve Kinnison. Curious, she opened the note and unfolded the paper.
Dear Mrs. Malone,
Norah’s breath caught. Seeing her married name in writing gave her a start.
I am writing on behalf of a Seamus Malone, who is not only a cherished friend of my husband and I, but a well-respected businessman in our town. I have only known Mr. Malone for a few months after arriving with a group of prospective wives to this lovely mining community.
Norah couldn’t understand why Seamus had asked this woman to write on his behalf.
Mr. Malone, after a number of failed attempts to reach you, has asked me to intervene on his behalf. His hope is that an objective assessment of his character might persuade you to respond.
Several attempts? Norah’s eyes blurred with watery tears and she had to blink to clear her vision.
Mr. Malone has, for these past four years, run one of the most prominent businesses in our town, The Golden Nugget Saloon, owned by Charlie Hardt, Noelle’s esteemed mayor and owner of our productive mine. Mr. Malone has confided in me the dreams he has to further expand the business into a successful hotel as a shining example of Noelle’s hospitality.
“A saloon?” Norah muttered, feeling as though the joy she’d felt was short-lived.
Please know that Mr. Malone was very respectful of your marriage. I find him to be a man of great integrity. He is hard-working, generous, and kind, as is evidenced by the earnings he has continued to send to you these past four years. I believe there was as many as a dozen (parcels) sent, each containing funds he requested be saved and used to join him here in Noelle when you are ready.
Norah’s hand flew to her mouth. What had happened to those letters? To the money? Norah searched the letter…
As was also stated in previous letters, Mr. Malone wished me to reiterate that he remains sober, having not touched a drink since the day Mayor Hardt hired him to manage his establishment.
You may wonder why he would ask me to write. That would be a fair and logical question.
First, these things I write are not being dictated to me. As head of the Benevolent Society of Lost Lambs, a church-based mission in Denver, it is my profession to observe, to study, both men and women. It is, I am humbled to say, in part why so many of the women I escorted to Noelle this past December have entered into successful unions. From my observation of human nature, I wish to assure you that whatever problems you may have experienced in the past can, with time and true, hard work, be turned into a life of immeasurable joy.
As such, Mr. Malone has scores of friends in Noelle, is respected as a businessman, and runs the saloon with the utmost pride and character…
Tears rolled down her cheeks, stinging the dryness from the harsh soap her aunt insisted she use to wash her linens. She read on.
Enclosed, you’ll find money Seamus asked me to send, with yet another request to join him in Noelle.
I do hope you will consider the heart of his request, as it is very evident to me he yearns for your companionship and has not ceased since we met in speaking of your beauty, strength, and intelligence. Most certainly, Noelle would welcome you with open arms, just as your husband would. I pray to hear from you. Whatever decision you make, I will respect, as will Seamus. He wants only your happiness, and if that means staying in New York, he has conceded to that possibility and will accept it.
This will be the last you will hear from him. He does not wish to interfere in your life if there is no love for him left in your heart. I do hope you will think carefully before choosing.
Seamus asked that you convey his regards to your aunt. He hopes that she is doing well and that the money he has sent over the years has been adequate in covering your room and board, as well as allow you to save for a train ticket.
Norah’s hand dropped into her lap. Cold dread in the pit of her stomach slowly turned into hot anger. In haste, she searched the last lines of the letter.
Norah, my love. I hope this finds you well. Words cannot express how my heart aches when I think of you. Your happiness is all that matters to me. But know, whatever you decide, I will forever hold you in my heart.
Your loving husband,
Seamus Malone
The chair she’d been sitting in fell over as she shot to her feet. Clutching the letter, she bypassed the stack of linens as she climbed the winding front stairs. The sound of her determined f
ootsteps echoed in the empty hall.
She stopped in front of her aunt’s door, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and asked the good Lord not to allow harm to come to the wretched woman. Straightening her shoulders, she pushed open the door.
The startled old woman pushed upright, her face puckered in a grimacing frown. She fished for her spectacles on the night table. “What has gotten into you, child?” she grumbled, adjusting the glasses on her face. She blinked and peered at Norah, her unhappiness wrinkling her face like a prune.
“I want to know where my husband’s letters are. And further, what you’ve done with my money.”
Her aunt stared in silence for a moment, and then her chin lifted in the pious look she often wore when speaking to Norah. “You are better off without that scum, Norah Francis. He’s nothing but a drunk and always will be.”
“What right do ye have to be keeping all his letters from me? All the times he wanted me to join him? The money he sent and ye ne’er said a word? Not ever? Wasn’t it my choice to make?”
Her aunt dismissed the comment with a wave of her hand. “Bah, what sense do you have? Then or now, it would seem. Look, girl—look around you. Do you think he can offer you this?” She huffed. “A back room behind that saloon he runs…that den of sin, you can be assured?”
Norah couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “The money he sent—it is rightfully mine. It was meant for my travel. What have ye done with it?”
Her aunt let out an unladylike snort and, swinging her feet over the side of the bed, stood in her nightdress and cap. She pinned Norah with a nasty glare. “You ungrateful child. I welcomed you into my home. I fed and clothed you. Saw to it your soul is saved with communion each week. And this….” She tsked. “This is what I get in return?”
Norah’s ire rose and she prayed God might forgive what she was about to say. “Oh, you most certainly welcomed me. That much is true, but it was not for my sake that you took me in, but your own. From the day I arrived you’ve seen me as no more than a servant. Indeed, you sent all others away and left me to do your bidding from laundry to meals to running for you, hand and foot. I have worked my fingers to the bone, taken your selfish orders and been the brunt of your piety for the last time.” Norah held up the letter. “I am leaving now, Aunt Mary-Margaret, on the first train going west. And I do hope God gives you all you deserve.”
Norah- A St. Patrick's Day Bride Page 2