“It’s a fine bonnet,” Nora assured her. “Look how nicely that organza is pleated on the inside of the brim. It’s a perfect frame for your pretty face.”
“It was nice once,” Bridget said. She traded it for a sized and wired straw bonnet with the same shape. “This one will be cooler. The crown is lined with cotton.”
Nora took a similar one from the box and Maeve fished until she found the bonnet she preferred. She had replaced the frayed trim with green ribbon only last year. “No one will care which hats we wear.”
She and Nora concurred that they should ask Flynn to accompany them, and Bridget went to find him.
He joined them wearing another of his white embroidered shirts and a handsome straw hat. He remarked about the wisdom they’d used in choosing hats to protect their heads and faces from the sun.
There was no dock, so those wishing to disembark waited in line for small rowboats to take them to the island.
What they found was a tiny fishing village, its brown-skinned inhabitants friendly and in the business of trade. Carts and wagons lined the dirt path from the shore to the rustic little community.
Each of the sisters had brought along a few coins from their wages. They purchased nuts, fruit and dates. Bridget bought a necklace made of carved ivory beads and wore it with her plain homespun skirt and blouse.
There were also prepared foods, native to the people of the island, but Flynn advised them not to eat the unfamiliar dishes, because the questionably prepared foods wouldn’t sit well on their stomachs.
Flynn took time to delve into the undergrowth and pull from the earth a pouch full of roots he claimed had excellent medicinal qualities.
While her sisters looked at carvings, Maeve waited for Flynn at the edge of the junglelike area. He returned and showed her the tubers. She took one, brushed off black dirt, and sniffed it. She wrinkled her nose. “It has an unpleasant scent.”
“I know.” He grinned.
It was the first time she’d seen him smile, the first time they’d shared a private moment, since…the incident. Attractive dimples appeared on either side of his smile.
She recalled Mrs. Conley’s account of the deaths of his wife and child. The information explained a lot. She should let the revelation go; his personal life was none of her business. But curiosity and compassion overcame wisdom.
“Martha Conley told me about your losses.”
Her words took Flynn by surprise. He looked down into her eyes and read sympathy…compassion he couldn’t handle. He knew exactly what she was referring to, and he didn’t want to talk about it. “We should go wait for a boat to take us back.”
“I know what it’s like to lose people you’ve tried so desperately to save.”
“Let’s go find your sisters.” He moved to walk away.
“Flynn.”
She stopped him with a gentle hand on his shirtsleeve. He could have easily moved on, but her touch held him. Her fingers were warm.
“I hadn’t realized you’d been married.”
He stood in place, but looked away, over her shoulder. Her eyes were too much right now.
“What was her name?”
His mouth was dry. “Johanna.”
“And your child—a son or a daughter?”
“A son.” The word pained him. His child’s name was difficult to form on his tongue. His stomach dropped. “Jonathon.”
He hadn’t said it in years. Speaking his little boy’s name made his blood pound in his ears.
“How old was he?”
She was relentless. “Barely three.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said softly, with as much emotion as one who truly understood would display. “You want to run from everyone who speaks of it.”
He nodded.
“When someone tells you your wife and son are in a better place, you rage inside and think, ‘No, this is where they belong. With me. They were robbed of their lives. I was robbed. This isn’t better. It’s not what God intended. It’s wrong.’”
It was like she’d been in his head and heard all his unspoken sufferings. Slowly he let himself look at her. For such a tiny person, she packed a big wallop. His belly felt as though he’d been kicked by a horse.
“When someone tells you Johanna and Jonathon are at peace, you want to scream at them, because though it’s true, it happened too soon. Eternal peace should come at the end of a lifetime, not when it did. Not too early.”
The knot forming in Flynn’s throat wouldn’t go up or down. He swallowed in a futile effort. Anger surfaced, and it was directed at her for voicing those private thoughts—for knowing them, for speaking the names of his wife and son. Who did she think she was, this snip of a girl, to invade his private grief and insinuate her frighteningly accurate assessment of his feelings into his conscious mind?
“Just let it go,” he said, his tone more forceful and his voice thicker with emotion than he’d intended.
She acquiesced with a single nod. “All right.”
That was it? She’d flayed him open like one of Mrs. Conley’s flopping mackerel and then decided evisceration was sufficient? If she knew that much about him, did she know he lived with the guilt of being unable to save them? Did she know what that felt like?
He couldn’t ask.
She removed her fingers from his arm. “Just know you have a friend who understands. And cares.”
He didn’t want understanding, and he definitely didn’t want caring. He was doing just fine being left alone. He didn’t need anyone to dredge up feelings too painful to endure.
She moved ahead of him, back toward the island village. He forced his feet to move, but he walked as stiffly as a tin soldier.
Chapter Thirteen
They didn’t speak much as they tended to patients that afternoon. Brief questions were met with brief answers. And it seemed as though there truly was no escaping the woman, because she was at the captain’s overcrowded dinner table that evening.
The captain and his wife sat on either end, with Flynn between Kathleen and her mother, and all three Murphy sisters on the opposite side of the scarred plank table.
Captain Conley and Martha were down-to-earth, simple people. She enjoyed company and cooking for a variety of passengers. They didn’t distinguish between social classes or they would never have asked Kathleen and Estelle to sit at the same table with the Murphys.
Flynn had never known a meal in this cabin to go severely wrong, so he hoped that would be the case this evening.
However, he could tell already that Kathleen wasn’t happy with the guest list. She aligned her fork and spoon on the tabletop and gave Nora the once-over. “Where is that child you’re always carrying?”
“Our friends are watching her this evening. Grace is an exceptionally good baby.” She turned to Flynn. “A generous passenger stopped me in passing today. ‘I have a spare glass nursing bottle with a gum nipple,’ she said. ‘Would you be in want of it?’ As you can imagine, I was delighted. ‘I surely would,’ said I. Grace has enjoyed two bottles of goat’s milk since then.”
“Well, that is thrilling news,” Kathleen said.
“It’s going to make my life so much easier,” Nora continued with a smile, obviously not picking up on the sarcasm.
“Did you ladies go ashore?” Martha asked, including all the females in her query.
“We did.” Bridget touched her necklace. “I bought this. Someone carved all these beads from ivory.”
Mrs. Conley had probably seen a hundred ivory necklaces, but God bless her, she admired Bridget’s. Flynn had always liked that down-to-earth woman. She got up and dished steaming stew from a black kettle into individual bowls.
“What have you made us this night?” the captain asked.
“Ballymaloe,” his wife replied. A traditional Irish stew. “I bought lamb on the island.” The fare smelled delicious.
She set a bowl in front of her husband and then before each guest. The captain didn’t wait until everyone was served, just pi
cked up his spoon and dug in.
Martha set a crusty loaf of bread directly on the table and tore off a hunk for herself before sitting.
The ballymaloe was filled with tender bits of lamb, onions, barley, parsnips and carrots and smelled exceptionally good.
The Murphy sisters picked up their spoons and tasted the stew appreciatively. “This is delicious, Mrs. Conley,” Nora told their hostess. “What a treat to have vegetables, too.”
“I bring enough to last the voyage, if used sparingly.”
Kathleen and Estelle watched the others for a moment before dipping their spoons into the mixture. Kathleen tasted it. Her reaction amused Flynn. Accustomed to extravagant slices of braised meats and fancily prepared side dishes, this food was not the Boyds’ usual fare. But there could be no objections to Martha’s cooking, as they should have learned the last time.
In the past, Kathleen had been a good companion. They shared a history. Now, he questioned their friendship. He often enjoyed the opportunity to speak of familiar people and places in her company, but when others were around she showed a different side—this unbecoming superior side.
“Very tasty,” Estelle said.
“Did you make any purchases?” Martha asked the others.
“I bought fruit,” Maeve answered.
“I got Grace a gourd rattle,” Nora said.
“We stayed onboard and sent a sailor to purchase shellfish.” Kathleen took a sip of water. “There’s nothing else of value to be found. Only cheap trinkets made by the natives.”
The conversation fell away for a moment.
Bridget’s spoon paused over her bowl, but she didn’t look up.
“I gathered roots,” Flynn mentioned. “A particular sort that are easy to find in the rich, dark soil on the islands and rarely found elsewhere.”
Maeve placed her hands in her lap to address him. “I was wondering. Has anyone ever tried to take a few of those tubers and plant them in America? Transplant them.”
Deep in thought, Flynn set down his fork. “I don’t know. One of the researchers I studied under in England has a greenhouse where he grows hard-to-find species of herbs. Growing these roots may have been done, but if it has, I don’t know of it.”
Kathleen’s sharp gaze moved from his face to Maeve’s, where her eyes narrowed.
“Set aside two,” Maeve told him. “And I’ll try planting them in the garden we’re expecting to have when we get to Faith Glen.”
“Splendid idea.” He reached for bread and tore off a piece.
Maeve resumed eating her meal.
“My dear,” Kathleen said to her. “I’m so impressed with your frugality. The cut of your dress shows that it must be a least a decade old, yet you’ve so cleverly remade it into a serviceable piece. And in such a practical color, too. Who could possibly spot a dusty hem on a skirt of such an earthy brown? Definitely the mark of a sensible nature.”
Flynn glanced from Kathleen to Maeve, inwardly cringing.
“Besides, with that hair of yours, you’ve color aplenty in your appearance. You’ve no need for more eye-catching attire.”
Bridget was the one who appeared incensed at Kathleen’s backhanded compliments. Adding Maeve’s naïve nature to the fact that she gave people the benefit of the doubt, Flynn suspected she didn’t even realize she’d been insulted. He’d been angry with her all afternoon, but that emotion quickly faded as protective anger on her behalf changed his attitude.
Maeve almost lifted a self-conscious hand to her hair, but instead kept it restrained in her lap.
“There’s a lot to be said for a sensible nature,” the captain’s wife said. “Some people set a lot more store by their hair or the cut of their dress than they do kindheartedness. Never read in the Bible that fancy clothing is a fruit of the Spirit, now, have you, cap’n?”
Captain Conley plainly intended to keep out of the conversation. He mumbled something unintelligible and stuffed a piece of bread in his mouth.
“I didn’t wear my best dress, either,” Kathleen said, though she was dressed in an elegant gown of deep blue. “Why risk ruining nice things on this voyage? Tears and stains are inevitable.”
Flynn wondered how Martha had planned this particular group of dinner guests and supposed she had invited the Murphy sisters after he and Kathleen had been invited. She may have forgotten who she’d already asked, but he suspected she rather enjoyed combining incongruent personalities and watching the outcomes.
“And you, dear,” Kathleen said to Bridget. “I’ve noticed you on deck, and tonight you’ve done something different with your hair.”
Bridget’s face brightened. “Yes. One of our new friends helped me.”
“Well, I admire your courage for trying.”
Bridget’s cheeks turned pink. Maeve turned and looked at Kathleen, as though a light had dawned and she’d recognized the intentional barbs delivered with each of the “compliments.” She cast a frown on the dark-haired woman across the table.
“Faith Glen, you mentioned,” Estelle Boyd asked, changing the subject. “Do you have family there?”
“No,” Nora replied and didn’t go further.
“We’ve inherited a cottage,” Bridget supplied. “A lovely place near the ocean, with a garden.”
According to Maeve, the sisters weren’t sure about that, but Bridget wisely made a point of letting Kathleen believe they had a home once they arrived. He could only imagine her remarks if she knew the Murphys were uncertain of their future.
“Well, isn’t that nice?” Estelle said.
Everyone finished their meal and Nora jumped up to help Martha remove the bowls and forks.
Maeve refilled the water glasses.
Accustomed to servants, Kathleen and Estelle remained seated.
Flynn recognized the heavy bowl of baked custard that Martha set on the table. Nora placed small dishes at each setting.
Maeve remained standing long enough to scoop out a serving for each person. Kathleen held up her palm to stop her from placing a bowl in front of her. “None for me, thank you.”
Maeve set down the dish in the middle of the table and took her seat on the bench once again, near Martha at the end.
“You and your sisters are hardworking, mannerly young women,” Martha told her. “Any young man who takes one of you for his wife will be fortunate.”
The sisters looked only at their dessert dishes, and Maeve deliberately refused to lift her gaze. She dug into her custard.
Kathleen looked pointedly at the other women. “I wish I was as brave as the three of you. I go without desserts to fit into my dresses, and it’s clear you don’t give your figures a second thought.”
Each of the Murphy sisters paused in enjoying their custard.
“Why, the bench doesn’t even know a one of them is there,” Martha said with a snort. “They’re light as duck down. If anything, they could use some meat on their bones. Now your mother there, she likes a good custard, she does.”
Having just finished her last bite, Estelle had been eyeing Kathleen’s bowl. She dabbed her mouth with her handkerchief—the captain’s wife didn’t set the table with napkins—and gave Kathleen an apologetic glance.
“Thank you for another delicious meal, Mrs. Conley,” Flynn told their hostess. “I’ve never eaten from your table when I didn’t thoroughly enjoy the fare.”
“Cookin’ keeps me busy,” she said.
“You told me fishing keeps you busy,” Maeve said to her.
“Aye, fishin’ and cookin’.”
“I’ve offered her a house anywhere she pleases, but she’s got the ocean in her blood as much as I.” The captain fumbled on a nearby table and found his meerschaum, which he packed with tobacco and lit.
The fragrant scent curled around them.
“And I’ve told ’im a thousand times I’ll live in a house when he does. We could raise a few sheep, keep a cow and have a little garden, mind you. But the old goat won’t hear of it. I may as well be whi
stling jigs to a milestone.”
It was obviously a conversation the couple revisited often.
“And you, Mrs. Boyd,” Martha said to Estelle. “Where is it you have a mind to settle?”
“In Boston,” the woman replied. “Our barrister has rented something for us, temporarily. Only until we’re sure what the future holds for us, of course.” She gave Flynn a pointed look. “Why don’t the two of you have a walk on deck? It should be a lovely evening.”
Times like this he got the distinct impression Kathleen’s mother would have liked to see the two of them become more than friends. He’d come out and told her on more than one occasion that their relationship wasn’t like that, but she didn’t seem convinced. She probably made Kathleen crazy, too.
Maeve’s blue-eyed glance followed him as he stood and pulled back Kathleen’s chair. Her perusal disturbed him, as did most things about her, and he wasn’t sure why. He gave her a hesitant smile, but she looked away.
He thanked their hostess once again and ushered Kathleen from the cabin.
* * *
Maeve and Bridget took a walk around the deck later, and she was thankful they didn’t run into Flynn or Kathleen. They did discover an interesting sight when they reached Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s fire, however. The woman and her hired man were not alone. Two children sat with them, apparently enjoying some sort of dessert from blue-and-white china bowls.
As the sisters drew closer, Maeve made out Sean and Emmett McCorkle keeping the woman company. Sean was chattering on about a school of porpoises he’d seen that day.
Mrs. Fitzwilliam didn’t look their way or notice the Murphy sisters, so they walked on past.
“Mama used to talk about looking for the good in people,” Maeve said. “Apparently, Mrs. Fitzwilliam has a side we haven’t seen.”
“Well, I don’t believe Kathleen Boyd has a single redeeming quality, no matter what Mama said,” her sister replied.
Maeve lay awake on her bunk that night, her mind in turmoil. Bridget had simmered over Kathleen’s thinly veiled insults for the better part of an hour, but Maeve had simply tamped down her hurt. It was disturbing that another human being could be so unkind…and frightening that Flynn, a decent, honorable man didn’t seem to recognize her glaring flaws.
The Wedding Journey Page 12