Nora gave her a perplexed look. “Did you just change the subject?”
“No. That verse was about gifts, was it not? All good gifts come from God. When we give out of love or kindness or compassion, those are good gifts.”
Bridget had come up with a plan to erect a tent over the crate where Grace slept, so she’d be protected from the sun. She had cut a cast-off skirt and was hemming the edges. “No gift is more valuable than another as long as it’s given in love. That’s what I was thinking.”
“Like the widow who gave her last mite,” Aideen agreed. “And Jesus said she’d given more than the rich people who put many coins in the offering. The widow was poor, yet she gave all she had.”
“So an egg and a dress are really of the same value,” Mrs. Kennedy added.
Nora threw up her hands. “All right. You’ve all convinced me. It would be prideful to say no.”
Bridget clapped her hands and gave Aideen a hug. “Oh, my! A new dress. I can hardly conceive of it, can you, Maeve?”
Maeve shook her head and placed Grace in the shaded bed. “’Tis a blessing indeed.”
She couldn’t remember ever having a dress that wasn’t made over from one of her older sisters’ or fashioned from coarsely woven wool. “I’m so thankful it’s not raining like yesterday. We’d have had to spend another day below.”
“They say it rains more in America,” Aideen shared. “We might be surprised by the climate.”
A group of children ran past, Emmett McCorkle dragging a rope with a stick attached to the end. The others tried to step on the stick. Sean brought up the rear with a barely discernable limp. The boys drew up short when they nearly ran into a family out for a stroll.
“Hello, Miss Murphy,” a dark-haired man said with a bright smile.
Beside him, his wife, dressed in a lavender dress with lace inserts and cuffs, spoke to the three daughters accompanying them. “Greet Miss Murphy, girls.”
“Hello, Miss Murphy,” they chorused.
The youngest separated from the others and ran to stand before Bridget. She wore a dress made in a royal shade of purple, with contrasting white lace at the neck and wrists and a sash at her waist. “We saw fishes jumping in the water!”
“You did?” Bridget sounded interested. She turned to encompass those around the fireplace. “Mr. and Mrs. Atwater, these are my sisters, Nora and Maeve.” She introduced Aideen and Mrs. Kennedy, as well. “Ladies, this is Mr. and Mrs. Atwater, Laurel, Hilary and Pamela.”
Pamela was the one looking up at Bridget with a bright smile. The other two hung back and only spoke to appease their mother and at her urging. All three girls wore stiff-brimmed bonnets with satin ties, and their mother wore a broad-brimmed hat festooned with silk flowers and bright artificial cherries.
“Your mother hasn’t joined you for your stroll?” Bridget asked Mr. Atwater.
“She’s having tea on the foredeck. Enjoy your afternoon, ladies.” Mr. Atwater tipped his bowler in a formal gesture and led his family on past.
“His mother is traveling with them,” Bridget explained once they were out of earshot. “Her name is Audra, and frankly, she is more friendly than those two. Mr. Atwater’s name is Beverly and she’s Miriam. They’re nice, don’t get me wrong. It’s just very plain that I’m the hired help.”
“The young ladies are all pretty, with their father’s dark hair,” Aideen said.
“I do admire their hair,” Bridget agreed. “Each day when I help them dress it, I long for tresses that stay within their bounds and don’t defy pins or ribbons.”
“You and your sister do have riotous curls,” Aideen agreed. “But both of you have hair that is lovely. Yours is dark and lustrous, and Maeve’s is bright and catches the sun.”
“Thank you,” Bridget told her with a grateful smile.
“Will you accompany us to our stateroom later?” Mrs. Kennedy asked. “We will look through trunks and select material for your dresses.”
The sisters agreed.
“Tea sounded good when it was mentioned,” Maeve said. “I believe I will put on a pan of water.”
A squabble broke out a few cook fires away; three passengers argued over their ration of oatmeal. In these close quarters, it wasn’t unusual to overhear the occasional quarrel.
“I’m so glad we have you for neighbors,” Mrs. Kennedy said.
On their other side, a gentleman and his nephew kept to themselves. The Murphys spoke to them occasionally, but they weren’t overly friendly. Another passenger had stopped to sit with them, and it was apparent they knew each other.
Mrs. Fitzwilliam and her manservant, Stillman, strolled past, with Stillman holding her parasol over her head. He gave Maeve an almost imperceptible nod, but Mrs. Fitzwilliam kept her gaze straight ahead.
The children ran up behind them and carefully maneuvered around the two adults.
“What’s this game you’re playing?” Mrs. Fitzwilliam called.
The boys halted and doffed their hats.
“It’s tag, but with a stick of wood,” Sean explained. “Me brother Emmett is the fastest boy on the ship, so he keeps the stick away from the rest of us. ’Specially me. I ain’t as fast as I used to be.”
“You’re the young man who was injured on the dock, are you not?”
“Yes’m. I’m all better now. The doc and Miss Murphy took real good care o’ me.”
“Have you proper food and lodging?” the woman asked.
“Real good food,” Sean replied. “What’s lodging?”
“Your sleeping quarters,” Stillman clarified.
“Oh, yes! We got real comfortable bunks. Ain’t never had blankets and pillows afore. We like it here.”
Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s harsh expression softened. “See that you don’t mow down adults strolling the deck now.”
“No, ma’am.” Sean stuck his hat back in place and the children clamored away. Mrs. Fitzwilliam and her manservant walked on past.
Seeing Sean playing with the other children blessed Maeve. She offered a silent prayer of thanks.
The ladies drank their tea, and Nora fed Grace. Bridget read a book while the others worked on Grace’s underslip and dress, made from the embroidered front of one of the doctor’s shirts.
“Dr. Gallagher’s shirts are cut from fine linen and obviously well made,” Aideen commented.
“One of the other ladies told me he’s from an extremely well-to-do family,” Mrs. Kennedy replied. “They own a home in England, as well as an estate in Galway. It’s a mystery what he’s doing here.”
Aideen’s attention shifted away, and her fingers grew still on her sewing. Maeve followed her gaze. A man in a wide-brimmed felt hat stood at the rail, a cheroot between his teeth, gazing out over the ocean. From the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes, it was plain the cowboy squinted into the sun as a habit. Maeve had read of the men who herded cattle and horses across the American West, but she’d never seen one.
This man wore the hems of his trouser pants tucked into tall boots, and leather galluses crisscrossed his back. His mustache and sideburns would be the envy of all the young men in Castleville.
At a commotion farther down the deck, he turned his head to observe his surroundings. Spotting the women seated around their fire, he touched the brim of his hat.
Aideen blushed and fixed her attention on her needlework.
Maeve and Bridget exchanged a look, and the man took his time walking away.
“You’re the doctor’s assistant, aren’t you?” the visitor beside them called to Maeve.
“I am,” she replied, twisting her upper body to face their neighbors. “Maeve Murphy.” She introduced the others.
“Michael Gibbon,” he said. He didn’t share their Irish brogue. “I’ve been visiting family in County Kirk and am on my way home.”
“You’re not Irish, then?” Maeve asked.
“English by birth,” he replied. “But I’ve been in America for the past nearly twenty years.”
“I know it well. My wife and I lived there until her death, and then I moved to Boston.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Maeve and Nora said at the same time.
“Thank you, ladies.”
“Please tell us about Faith Glen,” Bridget begged.
“It’s a lovely little community,” Mr. Gibbon replied. “The people are friendly. It’s over an hour’s ride from Boston, and I never tire of cresting that last hill and gazing down upon the village. There’s a town square with spirea and lilac bushes that bloom in the spring. You first notice the white clapboard church facing the square. The General Store and Rosie’s Boardinghouse sit on either side of it. If someone had painted the scene, he couldn’t have done a better job of creating a welcoming atmosphere.”
Maeve released a sigh of longing. “I cannot wait to see it,” she breathed.
Nora spoke up. “Since you lived there, perhaps you know a man by the name of Laird O’Malley.”
“I knew him, yes,” Michael said.
The sisters all sat forward. “Tell us!” Bridget coaxed.
Michael searched each of their faces. “Was he someone important to you?”
Maeve’s heart sank.
“Was?” Nora asked.
“I’m afraid he’s been dead for several years,” the man replied.
Maeve met Bridget’s crestfallen expression. “Apparently, he deeded a house to our mother,” she told the man. “We have the deed in our possession.”
The man’s face changed with recognition. “Your mother, you say?” He rubbed his knee as he continued. “There was always talk in the village about a woman Laird had loved and lost. He kept to himself and never got close to anyone that I know of. Lived in that cottage by the ocean and tended his garden. Roses, herbs, all manner of flowers and trellised vines. His garden drew a lot of attention.”
He looked at the sisters one by one. “So, your mother was the woman he loved? She must have been a beauty.”
“She was beautiful,” Bridget agreed.
“Is the cottage still there?” Nora asked.
“Is it occupied?” Maeve asked.
“I couldn’t say,” Michael answered. “It’s been several years since I was in Faith Glen, and I haven’t kept in touch. You have the deed, you say?”
Nora nodded. “We’ve set our hopes on a place to live.”
“Well, I hope for your sake it’s still there. From what I remember, it was a charming little place.”
“So Laird never married?” Bridget asked.
“No, no. He died alone.”
Michael’s news put a damper on their mood that evening.
“This was the risk we took,” Nora told them later. “We had no way of confirming who Laird O’Malley was or if he still lived.”
“We won’t be able to ask him how he knew Mother,” Bridget said.
“But we still have the deed,” Maeve insisted. “Whether he’s alive or dead, we have a legal document and a letter.”
None of them mentioned the cottage might not remain.
“‘Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature?’” Aideen quoted. “You’re here now.”
“Aideen is right,” Maeve said. “Worrying about it won’t gain us anything except wrinkles. Between the sun and worry, we’ll turn into old crones if we’re not careful.”
The other ladies laughed.
“Let’s finish here and go select fabric.”
Aideen and Mrs. Kennedy took the Murphy sisters to their stateroom and opened trunks filled with the most exquisite bolts of material any of the sisters had ever laid eyes upon.
With Aideen’s help, Nora chose a vivid blue linen.
“Nothing fancy,” Nora said.
“We’re going to play up your tiny waist,” Mrs. Kennedy told her. “The current fashion is perfect for you, with a fitted bodice.”
“And a high neck,” Nora insisted.
“Yes, of course. A high neck is daywear. And I think a paisley shawl with fringe will complement the dress. We can add a matching sash to a hat.”
Maeve had difficulty even picturing her eldest sister in something so exquisite. She couldn’t wait to see her in a dress worthy of her stately beauty.
“And now you,” Aideen said to Bridget.
“With that dark auburn hair and those hazel-green eyes, she should wear green or gold,” Mrs. Kennedy advised.
“I have the perfect thing!” Aideen announced and searched through stacks of rolled fabric. “Here!”
The fabric she chose was a striking green sateen. “We can add gold ruching and she can carry off ruffles and a crinoline,” Mrs. Kennedy decided. “Perhaps even ribbon streamers at the elbows.”
“It’s beautiful.” Bridget’s eyes sparkled with delight.
Maeve hadn’t seen her so happy for a long time. She and Nora looked at each other with tears in their eyes.
“I can’t believe I’m going to have such a beautiful dress.” Bridget touched the material in awe.
“And now you,” Mrs. Kennedy said to Maeve, pulling her forward. “You’re too tiny for ruffles or pleats. We don’t want to dress you like a Dresden doll. And your hair requires specific shades that don’t clash.”
“May I suggest something?” Aideen asked her aunt. She went to yet another trunk and opened it. The roll of fabric she removed took Maeve’s breath away.
“It’s French silk plaid,” Aideen told her. “You’re small enough to carry it off, where on a larger person we could only use it for trim or the interior of pleats. It’s taffeta.”
Maeve touched the orange, yellow, green and blue plaid reverently. “It’s so beautiful, I don’t know what to say.”
“Simply say whether or not you like it.”
“I like it very much.”
“What would you say to trimming it with braid?” Mrs. Kennedy asked Aideen. The two women were completely caught up in their plans and held a discussion about the placement of the braid.
“And perhaps you could add one of your fancy-work collars,” Aideen replied. “We’ll need something for her hair that matches. Not a hat, because it would dwarf her, but a small headpiece. Lace and ribbon, I think.”
“The maturity of the style will complement your petite stature,” Mrs. Kennedy assured Maeve.
Maeve had often been mistaken for a girl, so wearing a dress that showed her off as a mature young woman would be a joy. The idea of fashionable new dresses was still so foreign, she had to get used to it.
She wondered what Flynn would think of her in a pretty dress, but captured that errant thought. He would certainly never look twice at her when he had the lovely and elegant Kathleen interested and available—and many other women besides. Women with money and social standing. Maeve was the hired help.
Why she even thought about him puzzled her. She hadn’t come on this journey to snag a rich husband. Even had she wanted to, she didn’t stand a chance.
They visited in the stateroom for another hour and eventually bade their friends good-night to go above deck and observe the luminous water in the dark. When the moon was bright, the ship seemed to glide through liquid fire. Maeve could watch it endlessly, but her sisters tired and went to their beds.
She strolled the deck, occasionally greeting one of the other passengers. Two women approached, walking the opposite direction, and in the gaslight below the chart house their forms and faces came into view. Mrs. Fitzwilliam and Kathleen’s conversation halted when they spotted her.
“Good evening, ladies,” Maeve said.
Kathleen leaned toward the other woman but didn’t bother to lower her voice. “I can’t normally say this, but the darkness improves that dress.”
Mrs. Fitzwilliam said nothing, and they walked past as though Maeve hadn’t spoken.
The women’s rudeness and Kathleen’s insult stung. Maeve swallowed the hurt, dismissed their insults and continued on. Finally, she stopped at the rail near their cooking area to enjoy the play of light on the water. Her thoughts traveled to Aideen’s reaction to the cowboy and Michael Gibbon’s description of their new home.
“Good evening, Maeve.”
At the sultry deep voice she turned to discover her employer. The moon glimmered on his black hair.
“Good evening, Flynn.”
Chapter Eleven
“Did you enjoy your Sabbath day?” Flynn asked.
“Indeed. Did you see many patients?”
“Only two who complained of fevers and stomach pain.”
“What did you do for them?”
“I checked the water in their cabins and found it rancid, so I had fresh brought to them. I’m thankful the water supply is sufficient for the trip. And we’ll be making a stop for fresh very soon. Some don’t realize the harm contamination causes.”
Maeve studied the moon. “We met a man from Faith Glen.”
“Did you now. Did he tell you about your new home?”
“He told us Laird O’Malley has been dead for quite some time. He had no current information about the house, though when last he saw it, he said it was charming.”
“Now you’re concerned it might not be there or that your deed isn’t binding.”
She nodded.
“My offer stands, Maeve. I won’t have you or your sisters left without a proper home. I’ll see that you’re taken care of.”
“Taking advantage of your charitable nature would be my last choice, but I do thank you and will remember in case we have no other option.”
They stood in companionable silence for several minutes.
“How did you keep from laughing when that woman sprang from her seat in fear of the cat this morning?” he asked. “You went to her aid as though her indignant tirade was the most natural thing in the world.”
She shrugged, but a grin inched up one side of her lips. “I don’t know. I’m always the first to jump into a situation without thinking. It’s a character flaw.”
The Wedding Journey Page 10