The Wedding Journey

by Cheryl St. John

  He had to wonder, however, what she and her sisters dined on this evening. The daily allotment consisted of meal and usually another staple, sometimes ham or bacon because it could be stored in salt. Perhaps he could beg a dish of lobscouse from Martha Conley to carry back for her.

  From across the opposite side of the table, Kathleen gave him a generous smile, while her mother chatted with Martha. Martha Conley had apparently invited the Boyds because she’d known Flynn for years and knew his family and hers were close. His father had suggested Flynn marry her, but Flynn didn’t have those kind of feelings for her.

  He could never look at Kathleen with love or passion. She was indeed lovely, educated and brought up to run a household. Any man would be fortunate to gain her attentions. Her social status made her appealing to a man, and her family was wealthy, qualities that would make her a good match one day soon.

  Flynn couldn’t think of marrying again. He did not feel at ease with the idea—and especially not with someone he considered a friend.

  Currently, he divided his time between Boston and Galway, with lengthy trips to Edinburgh, where medicine was beginning to advance and he had opportunities to work with colleagues and study the groundbreaking practices of Joseph Lister.

  There would come a day when he wanted a family and a home, but he couldn’t work on it now, even if he did become a bookish recluse. Perhaps one day he’d find a woman content with his overzealous commitment to medicine, but it wouldn’t be Kathleen.

  He couldn’t marry for love: love hurt too much. Nor could he marry someone he didn’t love, even though that sort of marriage might neatly and efficiently preclude any chance of additional hurt or grief. It was plain he couldn’t marry for any reason.

  “How is the McHugh woman?” the captain asked.

  “She’s doing very well. I confide I didn’t have a good feeling when I first saw her, but her husband and several sailors put out the flames before her skin was badly damaged.”

  “The good Lord was watching over her, He was.” Martha placed a bowl of golden brown custard on the table.

  “I agree, Mrs. Conley. There’s no other way she could have been spared from a worse fate, but by divine intervention.”

  “Is that dwarfish person still assisting you?” Estelle Boyd asked.

  Flynn blinked in consternation. “Who?”

  “The girl with the blinding red hair.”

  “You must mean Miss Murphy,” Martha said. “I think she’s a lovely little thing, and her hair is as bright and pretty as can be. ’Tis a true Irishwoman who has skin and hair like that.”

  Estelle’s caustic comments about Maeve didn’t sit well with Flynn.

  Kathleen gave him an apologetic smile.

  “Did you notice the ships to the south this day?” Captain Conley asked, changing the subject.

  “I didn’t see them myself, but I heard they were in sight.”

  The captain nodded. “By tomorrow we should be able to make them out and recognize the vessels.”

  “Will you be staying in Boston for any length of time after this voyage?” Estelle asked. “Kathleen and I are planning to host a celebration once we find a suitable home.”

  “What will you be celebrating?” Martha asked.

  “Our move to America,” Estelle replied. “So many of our friends and acquaintances have moved to London or New York or Boston that we’ve been sorely alone. The merchants haven’t been stocking items we require, and even the sempstresses have taken other employ.”

  “Sempstress sounds so primitive, Mother,” Kathleen chided. “In America they use the word seamstress.”

  Estelle rolled her eyes. “Seamstress, rather.”

  “Aye, these tryin’ times have been hard on Irish in all walks of life,” Martha agreed. “Shipping or sailing seems to hold the most promise.”

  “They say the cities along the coast of America are brimming with jobs, and merchants are doing well,” Captain Conley said. “Immigrants are heading west, and they need supplies for travel.”

  “I should warn you we’re not considered the cream of society in America,” Flynn told Estelle. “The English have been there for quite some time, and they’ve already set the standards.”

  Estelle didn’t appear pleased by his pronouncement, but he thought it better she be forewarned to the snobbery that prevailed.

  “We are people of means,” she informed him. “We shall buy a home and prove ourselves in the community.”

  He hoped she was right, but he felt no assurance of that.

  Flynn was enjoying a bowl of custard when there was a hard knock at the door. “Cap’n, sir!”

  “What is it? Come in.”

  The sailor entered and stepped to the captain’s chair, where he leaned to say something in his ear.

  Conley shot his gaze to Flynn. “Excuse us, ladies. The doctor and I are needed.”

  “Thank you for the exceptional meal, Mrs. Conley,” Flynn said, standing. “Excuse me, Kathleen, Mrs. Boyd.”

  Outside in the corridor the captain turned to Flynn. “Seems someone’s found a young woman’s body. Do you know who it is?” he asked the sailor ahead of them.

  “No, sir.”

  On deck, the crew had considerately rigged canvas to hide the girl’s body from the eyes of the passengers. She lay in what would have been plain view where she’d fallen. This wasn’t the area where the passengers had their fires, so only a few passengers who’d been strolling the deck stood nearby.

  Flynn glanced up. “Looks like she fell from the forecastle onto the deck.”

  “Passengers aren’t allowed up near the crew’s quarters,” Captain Conley said.

  “Nobody saw her or knows what she was doin’ there,” the nearest crew member told him.

  Flynn stepped closer. It had been obvious even from a distance that the girl was dead, but gathering all the details was part of his job. Her curly mane of dark wavy hair was matted with blood. He brushed a skein from her neck and pressed his fingers against her vein. No pulse, as he’d expected.

  “She’s dead.”

  “Does anyone know this girl?” Captain Conley asked.

  A young woman of maybe sixteen or seventeen who clung to her mother’s hand, raised stricken eyes. “I—I have talked to her before.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “She told me her name is Bridget.”

  Flynn’s heart stopped for half a minute. Maeve’s sister? The one working for the Atwaters? His chest felt as though someone had rested a weight upon it. Maeve would be devastated.

  How was he going to tell her?

  Chapter Eight

  A knot formed in Flynn’s throat. “Bridget is the name of one of the Murphy sisters.”

  “We’ll lay her out before you get the others,” the captain said. “This isn’t a pretty sight for her kin.”

  Flynn waited with the captain while several men brought a coffin with holes drilled in the side and sand in the bottom. He’d seen burials before, but the box was still a shock. He helped place the body in the coffin, and waited while the deck was scrubbed clean.

  When all was presentable, he went in search of Maeve.

  * * *

  “I’ll be fine sittin’ here, Miss Murphy. You go eat your supper.”

  “She’s had another dose of laudanum, so she will sleep a couple of hours,” Maeve told him. She left Goldie’s husband seated at his wife’s side and called on the last women on her list before joining Nora for a meal of stirabout and dried apples beside their firebox. Maeve held the squirming baby while Nora cleaned their dishes. Bridget had gone to have dinner with the Atwaters.

  “I called on half the possible women aboard this vessel today,” she told her sister. “To no avail. Mrs. Conley took the other half of the list, so I still need to meet with her.”

  “She took her milk and slept in her sling most of the day. I even had a few minutes here and there to cut some of this fabric in preparation for sewing her clothing.”


  “That’s what newborns do.” Maeve changed the square of flannel the child wore for a diaper. A few of their fellow passengers had generously given them scraps of material and a few pieces of cast-off clothing. “Right now she’s easy to care for. Meet her needs and she’s happy. Will you have time to wash these tomorrow?”

  “I thought I’d wash them out tonight, while we have a fire going. I can hang them in the morning. Laundry days are designated on Mondays and Thursdays, unless someone has a baby. If there are diapers that need to be laundered, we can hang them any time we please.”

  “I’m sure that rule is in place as a favor to everyone,” Maeve replied with a smile. “Isn’t she the prettiest little thing? Look at her silky fine hair. I hope it’s not curly.”

  She bundled the infant in a lightweight square of cotton to keep her secure and protect her head from the breeze. It was still light enough to make out her features and her delicate fingernails. Maeve touched her incredibly small, soft hands with wonder.

  Nora finished her chore and came to sit beside them. “She is indeed a pretty baby. I’ve been thinking, Maeve. Our grah mo chee needs a name.”

  “She probably has a name already,” Maeve said.

  “No one has claimed her, and it looks unlikely that you’re going to find her mother or anyone who knows of her existence. For now we’re all she has, and we can’t go on calling her baby.”

  “You call her grah mo chee,” Maeve added.

  “Her name isn’t sweetheart. She needs a real name.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Maeve waited, because she knew Nora had already thought it through.

  “I was thinking Grace or Faith.”

  “I like them both.”

  “Grace it is, then?”

  “Grace is a fine name.”

  Nora took the baby and nestled her close. “Baby Grace, we are going to take care of you. You have our promise.”

  Maeve smiled at her sister. She couldn’t have anticipated Nora’s fascination with the little one. She was quite obviously besotted with the child, as were Maeve and Bridget. No baby ever received so much attention and affection in their first day as this one.

  They hadn’t been paying attention to their surroundings, so the swift approach of booted feet upon the planks caught Maeve unawares. She glanced up, even more startled to find Flynn, his stark expression serious.

  “Dr. Gallagher!” she said. “What brings you here this evening?”

  “Please. Stay seated.” His forehead was wrinkled with concern at the sight of her and Nora sitting together, and he looked around, as if he’d hoped to see someone else with them. “May I join the two of you?”

  “Yes, of course. Have you eaten? I can offer you tea.”

  “Nothing, thank you. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

  “What is it?” Maeve asked. “Is it Goldie? She was sedated when I left, and her husband was right at her side.”

  “No,” he answered. “That’s not it.”

  Maeve waited for whatever it was he had come to say.

  “This is going to be difficult.” He glanced from side to side, as though reconsidering or perhaps not wanting their neighbors to overhear. His expression was decidedly pained. “Perhaps this isn’t the best—”

  “We have a guest? How delightful!”

  The feminine voice caught Flynn’s attention, and he turned as Bridget approached. She wore a bright smile, and as usual her hair had escaped its confines and trailed down her back.

  “The Atwaters chose to share the evening with their daughters, so I was dismissed after supper. Their cook is traveling with them. We had the most delicious fish and potatoes.”

  Color drained from Flynn’s face. He jumped to his feet and stared at Bridget. “You—you had supper with the Atwaters?”

  “Yes. I’ve just left there.”

  “Why, I—I don’t know what to say.” He grasped Bridget’s shoulders and tugged her to him, hugging her soundly before releasing her. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  Even in the semidarkness, Bridget’s blush was apparent. She was quiet for a full minute, which plainly showed her astonishment.

  Maeve was dumbfounded, as well. His demonstrative behavior was completely out of character,

  “Forgive me,” Flynn said, his voice low. “That was forward of me, but I believed… Well, I…”

  Maeve and Nora were on their feet now. “What did you think?” Nora asked the doctor.

  “I was so glad to see your sister alive and well,” he explained. “You see, there was an accident earlier. A young woman who looks just like Bridget here fell from the forecastle and was killed.”

  Bridget gasped, and Nora hugged the baby to her breast.

  “How dreadful!” Nora exclaimed.

  “And you saw this young woman?” Maeve asked.

  “Aye. She had the same hair as your sister. Similar clothing.”

  “And that’s what you’d come here for? Thinking you were going to tell us our sister had fallen to her death?”

  He nodded, clearly disturbed.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Maeve breathed.

  “That was kind of you, Dr. Gallagher,” Nora said. “And very brave. Thank you. Now I’m believing some other poor girl’s family will be grieving her this night. Let’s pray.”

  And just like that, the Murphy sisters joined hands, Maeve and Bridget taking his on either side. Maeve’s hand was small, the bones delicate in his palm, though her grasp was strong, and she had small calluses at the padded bases of each finger. He tried to picture her with a pitchfork or behind a plow, but couldn’t get the image to gel.

  Nora led them in a simple, but heartfelt prayer for the family of the deceased girl.

  “And thank You for our friend, Lord,” Maeve added, squeezing Flynn’s hand. “Bless the good doctor’s hands as he treats patients and assists You in healing Your people. Amen.”

  The sisters chorused their amens. Visibly shaken, Flynn sat at their fireplace with them, as much for the tea as to steady his turbulent emotions and jumping nerves. Nora refilled his cup. “I must return and let the captain know we haven’t correctly identified the girl.”

  “As soon as you’ve finished your tea,” Nora insisted. “You had a bad scare.”

  Flynn experienced broad relief that all three sisters were alive and well. The captain would need to search for someone who knew the identity of the dead girl. The fright he’d had while thinking it was Bridget Murphy was more stress than he needed this night. He sipped his tea and focused on remaining calm.

  * * *

  The weather was appropriately dismal the following morning. Dark clouds hung over the ocean and a fine mist dampened hair and clothing, chilling those who stood on deck. Both Bridget and Maeve had secured their curly hair with nearly an entire tin of pins and wore hats, as well, since their tresses turned into unruly corkscrews in this wet, bleak weather.

  There was much ceremony, and faces were somber as Captain Conley and the crew prepared to deliver the coffin into the sea. Those who’d brought instruments along played hymns. Bundled passengers lined the deck in wait. As mostly Irishmen were aboard, the eerie sound of bagpipes floated across the dreary gray ocean.

  News had come that an accounting of passengers and crew had turned up the identity of a young woman traveling alone. As coincidence would have it, the dead girl’s name had been Bridget Collins. Her belongings had been stored in hopes of finding relatives once the ship docked. No one the captain had spoken to remembered much about her. She stayed to herself and cooked her meals alone, not speaking to the other women in her cabin. Everything about her was a mystery.

  Maeve had come above deck with Flynn and the McCorkle brothers. They stood together, watching as the plain coffin was raised with rope and swung out over the water.

  “What’s them holes for?” Sean asked.

  “So the box takes in water and sinks faster,” Gavin replied quietly.

  Sean’s Adam’s apple chu
gged up and down several times. He reached for Maeve’s hand and squeezed it. The sailors maneuvered the ropes so the coffin slid out of the loops and into the water.

  A woman passenger with a fair, lilting voice began a hymn, “‘Fairest Lord Jesus, ruler of all nature. O thou of God and man the Son.’”

  People joined in the singing, Maeve and her sisters included. “‘Thee will I cherish. Thee will I honor, Thou, my soul’s glory, joy, and crown.’”

  Beside her, Flynn’s deep baritone joined in. “’Fair are the meadows, fairer still the woodlands, robed in the blooming garb of spring. Jesus is fairer, Jesus is purer, Who makes the woeful heart to sing.’”

  Everyone who’d spoken of the dead girl had lamented over the fact that no one had known about her or her circumstances. Some said she’d deliberately jumped to her death; others speculated she’d been dallying with a crew member. In any case, it was a sad and lonely way to die and be buried.

  The sound of the bagpipes caused Maeve a healthy pang of homesickness, but she soon recalled the hunger and suffering and reminded herself why they’d cut ties and set sail aboard the Annie McGee. It was a harsh fact that not all who had boarded would set foot in Massachusetts. But she’d do her best to assist the doctor in making sure as many arrived safely as it was in their power to help survive.

  She made her way through the dispersing crowd to where Martha Conley stood. “I apologize for not coming to see you last night. The day was longer and more exhausting than I could have expected.”

  “Don’t give it another thought, dear. You had your hands full.” She tucked a strand of gray hair under her cap. “I didn’t have any luck. How about you?”

  Maeve shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “Could be someone’s lying,” Martha suggested. “Or the baby’s mother might not be listed on the manifest.”

  Maeve met her eyes. “A stowaway?”

  Martha shrugged. “We get plenty of ’em. You did your best, child. I’m just thankful you and your sisters are willing to care for the babe.”