“She wasn’t pleased with discovering she had a daughter-in-law and grandchildren from Ireland.” She looked down at the handkerchief so he would not guess she was revealing only part of the truth. She must be as careful when speaking with the children. She could not let them know the appalling thing their father had done—the very act that she had been blamed for by his mother. A child should respect his athair, even if his actions were wrong. How many times had she spoken of what a wonderful man do athair—your father—was? She had believed that at the time.
“There must be more to all this than that.” His frown returned. No one could accuse this man of hiding his emotions.
Knowing she had to bring this conversation to a close before she said something that would reveal more than she wished him to know, she said, “Mr. Jennings, I thank you for all you’ve done in watching over my children and me, but this is a problem I have to deal with myself.”
“Quite to the contrary. Your problem became mine the day I brought the children here from Haven. I won’t have them hurt so badly again.”
Cailin nodded cautiously. “I understand.” She must take care he did not use words to trip her up and cause her to betray herself and her shame. “I don’t want them hurt either.”
“You might find in here some answer to the riddle of why your children’s grandmother sent them away.” He held out a folded sheaf of papers. “These are the papers I was given by the Children’s Aid Society the day the children arrived. I haven’t read them since, so I don’t know if you can discover some clue to the truth.”
“If the Children’s Aid Society had any idea they had been lied to, the children wouldn’t have been here.”
He nodded. “I thought of that, but if our situations were reversed, I can assure you that I would scrutinize every possible page for any hint.” He set the papers on the table when she did not take them. “I can understand if you want to wait until you feel better to read them, so I will leave these with you.”
“Thank you.” She stared at the papers. If there was a clue among the many words, she would not be able to uncover it. Although she recognized most of the letters, she could not decipher the combinations written in a neat hand. She gasped when she heard young voices through the window. “My children!”
A wry smile tilted his lips. “They stayed quiet longer than I’d guessed they would.” Standing, he said, “Mrs. Rafferty, I’ll go and quiet them so you may rest. The doctor said that would be the best thing for you.”
“The doctor? A doctor was here?” Her fingers grasped the quilt. She would have drawn it to her chin, but it was tucked in too tightly at the end of the bed.
“Your modesty wasn’t compromised during his examination, I assure you.” He paused, then said, “Doc Bamburger wouldn’t have allowed that.”
A flame scorched her face, and she looked down at her hands. As she released her grip on the quilt, she said, “Forgive me, Mr. Jennings. I shouldn’t have suggested otherwise.”
“Of course you should have.”
Cailin’s head snapped up as she met the abrupt amusement in his eyes. “Pardon me?”
“You don’t know me from Adam, so you don’t have any reason to trust me.”
“Except that you’ve taken care of my children.” Her lips curved in a smile. “Or so you assure me.” Another screech came through the window. “It sounds as if they’re hale.”
“And tormenting each other as only siblings can.” He motioned toward the tray. “I’ll leave this here in case you’re thirsty.”
“Thank you.” She was unsure whether she could lift the cup on her own because a thick lethargy was dropping over her. “I appreciate all you’ve done for us, Mr. Jennings.”
Only when he took her hand did she realize she had raised it in his direction. His fingers were warm and rough-skinned and broad—just perfect for a farmer. Again a pulse of something exciting rushed through her, but this time she had not been thinking of her children. She had been thinking of him.
She slid her hand out of his and curled her own fingers around it to hide how it trembled anew. Not just with the weakness left from being ill. It was another weakness, she feared, one she had hoped she had banished forever.
“You’re welcome, Mrs. Rafferty. I—”
The scream coming through the window was obviously one of frustration.
Smiling, he said, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and figure out what’s got Lottie upset now.”
“Lottie …” she whispered.
Mr. Jennings must not have heard her because he walked out of the room, shutting the recently painted door behind him. His footsteps grew distant, and then she heard him call to the children. Their eager voices revealed how happy they were to see him.
Cailin leaned back against the pillows, then slowly slid down onto the mattress, so she could stare once more at the ceiling. She had found her children. That was all that mattered. She had found her children. And now …
The pain erupted once more, but this time not across her head. This pain came from her heart. While she had been searching for the children, she had been able to put aside her grief at what had been waiting for her when she arrived at Mrs. Rafferty’s house.
Although she did not want to remember, the scenes emerged from her memory. She had been tired and filthy after traveling from the harbor. Her attempts to look her best had been stymied because she had not been able to take a real bath since she boarded the ship for America. As soon as she entered the front hall of the house, she had known all her paltry efforts had been wasted.
The fancily turned spindles on the staircase and the thick rugs on the brilliantly polished wood floors were only the beginning of the splendor. Dark red velvet curtains were drawn back from a wide doorway opening off the hall. Gold tassels matched the thick braid along the curtains’ edges. Not curtains, she had learned later, but portieres that could be released to keep drafts out of the parlor. That day, she had not considered that. She had been too awed by the grandeur around her.
When a maid led her into the parlor, Cailin saw more furniture in this one room than would be found in several houses in Ireland. She had never seen a table with a marble top or so many prisms hanging from a lamp. The sofas—for there were a trio in the room—were covered with flowered fabric, the deepest shade matching the velvet curtains. Pictures hung on the wall above a black hearth with a mantel supported by what looked like golden women wearing little more than a drape of fabric.
Behind her, she had heard Brendan and Megan whispering in astonishment. She hushed them, not only to remind them of their manners, but because Lottie slept in her arms.
They had been kept waiting a long time, standing in the middle of the luxury but not daring to sit after the maid warned them to touch nothing. At the time, Cailin had blamed the maid for failing to deliver the message quickly, but she had learned later that leaving unwanted guests unmet in the parlor was a sign of contempt.
She had known the white-haired woman was Abban’s mother the moment she entered the parlor. Mrs. Rafferty possessed the same self-assured motions, but she had not been wearing Abban’s easy smile.
“Who are you?” her mother-in-law had asked.
“Cailin Rafferty.”
“Rafferty?”
She should have noted the stiff sound of his mother’s voice, but she had been too eager to see her husband again after almost four years of separation. So she had answered, “Yes, ma’am. These are Brendan and Megan, and the youngest is Lottie—Charlotte,” she had corrected when the woman’s scowl tightened.
“Charlotte? That’s my name.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She hesitated, for she had thought Mrs. Rafferty would say something else. When the older woman was silent, Cailin added, “They are your grandchildren. Is Abban here? He has never seen our baby, and—”
“You cannot be his wife.”
“Excuse me?”
Mrs. Rafferty looked down a nose that was as patrician as Abban’s. “You heard me. If you think yo
u can crawl in off the boat and invade this house, you’re sadly mistaken. Leave now, or I shall ring to have the police called.”
“If you’ll call Abban instead, he can tell you that I’m being honest.”
“No. Leave, or I shall have the police arrest you.”
Shocked, Cailin had set Lottie on the closest sofa. She heard a sharp intake of breath but ignored Mrs. Rafferty as she dug into her bag for the papers that confirmed that she and Abban were married. The priest had read everything aloud before the wedding, so both she and Abban had a chance to be certain this was the step they wanted to take.
Holding out the crumpled pages, she said, “This proves that I’m being honest.”
Mrs. Rafferty had taken the papers, scanned them, and then reached for the bellpull. Before Cailin could speak, she said, “Be silent, you silly girl. I’m not ringing for anyone but a maid to take these children to rest while we talk.”
Bidding her older children to follow the maid who answered the bell, Cailin had reluctantly placed Lottie in the servant’s arms. She turned back to speak with her mother-in-law, but not before she saw the maid’s nose wrinkle in disgust as she fingered the thin blanket around the little girl.
That had been the last time she had seen all three children together.
And the last time she had believed happiness awaited her in America, for Mrs. Rafferty’s next words were, “Before you say anything else, I have something to say to you. My son is dead.”
Three
“Good morning!”
“Good morning!”
“Good morning, Mama!”
Cailin woke as the bed bounced along with the happy voices. With a cry, she held out her arms. Her three children tumbled into them like a litter of puppies. She hugged one, then the next, pressing her face close to theirs, drinking in their luscious scents, remembering every moment she had held them close. She had treasured those memories, when she had feared she would never see them again, and she treasured them even more now when her children were in her arms again.
She stared at each of them as they sat in front of her. She would never take the sight of their charming faces for granted. Not ever again. Her memories of them faded to tepid copies of these vibrant children. Brendan, who looked even more like her father than before, and whose dark eyes could go from one emotion to another in the midst of a single word. Megan, who—as always—watched over her younger sister, making sure nothing happened to her. Lottie, who had grown from a baby to a little girl since Cailin had seen her last.
All those months had been lost and would never be regained. Megan had two more missing teeth on top, and her second teeth on the bottom were growing in to tower over the others. Brendan had a scar on his elbow that might have been a recent scrape or the remnants of a deeper wound. And her dear, dear Lottie had not grown too big to fit into her arms … if Lottie still liked to cuddle.
With a start, Cailin wondered if the differences were only physical. The children had suffered the greatest blow any child could—believing they had lost both father and mother within weeks of each other after their arrival in America. She had been not much older than Brendan when she had lost her own mother, and the pain still lingered. She had been among friends while she grieved. Her children had had only each other.
“Look, Mama!” cried Brendan, jumping down off the bed and tugging up the sleeve of his clean, well-pressed shirt. “See how big my muscle is now.”
“It is mór.” When he gave her a quizzical glance, she said, “It is truly big.” She had become accustomed to using English after she married Abban, and the children understood very little Gaelic. In New York, with the other maids, she had spoken Gaelic, a comforting link to home. “You’ve grown a foot since I last saw you.”
Lottie looked over the side of the bed. “He’s got only two feet, Mama.”
With a laugh, Cailin drew her youngest closer. “I mean he has grown so tall. And look at you!” She had hidden her shock at seeing spectacles on Lottie’s nose, but she would ask Mr. Jennings about them as soon as the child was out of earshot. “You’re a big girl now.”
“Almost as big as Megan!”
Cailin held out her hand to her older daughter. With a heart-wrenching sob, Megan threw herself into Cailin’s arms and wept. Stroking Megan’s hair, which was curly just like Cailin’s, instead of straight like her brother’s and sister’s … and their father’s, which had been a brown so light it was almost blond, she said nothing. Megan had never been able to hide anything she was feeling, and that had not changed.
Cailin knew she should say something to the children. She had been awake half the night trying to decide how she would explain what had happened. If she had devised some wise words, they had fled from her head the moment she opened her eyes to see her dear children.
“I have missed all of you so much,” she whispered. “I’ve missed seeing your smiles and listening to your laughs while I told you stories before bed.”
“Mama,” said Megan as softly, “Mrs. Rafferty told us you were dead.”
“She was mistaken, a stór.” How she wished she could spill all the anger in her heart, but she must not. There had been enough sorrow already. She would not create more for the children by telling them of their grandmother’s treachery.
“Her name is Megan,” Lottie announced, sitting cross-legged on the bed. “Samuel says we all should speak directly.”
“Correctly,” Brendan said with a roll of his eyes. “Mama, Lottie always talks like this when she’s excited.”
“A stór means darling, and Lottie is just learning more new words, right?” Cailin tapped Lottie on the cheek, the motion almost sapping her strength.
“Oh.” The little girl considered it for a moment, then said, “Dahi and I like that word.”
“Dahi? Who is Dahi?”
Before Lottie could answer, Brendan said, “Mama, we’ve got a rabbit! We caught it yesterday, and Samuel let us keep it. We built a house for it. As soon as you’re better, I’ll take you to see it.”
“And I’m going to take it to the fair.” Megan grinned through her tears.
“Who told you that you could take my rabbit to the fair?”
“You’ve got your silly old cow to take. Samuel said I could take the rabbit if I wanted.”
“I didn’t say you could!”
Although even their spat was a wondrous sound to ears that had missed every aspect of their voices, Cailin said quietly, “Arguing will gain you nothing. Can we talk about this when I’m up and about?”
“Are you still sick, Mama?” asked Megan, as always the one most concerned with someone else’s welfare.
“I’m getting better every day.” She smiled as she had not since she had reached Mrs. Rafferty’s house in New York and thought her journey was over. “Just seeing the three of you is the very best medicine I could imagine.”
“I wanna show you the rabbit,” Lottie said with a superior smile at her sister and brother.
“I want to see your rabbit. We’ll all go and see it together.”
Cailin took Megan’s hand as Lottie cuddled next to her. Holding out her other hand to Brendan, she blinked back tears when he grasped it. She had been afraid he would think he was now too old for such a show of affection. Closing her eyes, she said, “Thank you.”
“For what?” Mr. Jennings’s voice intruded on the perfect moment.
Straightening her borrowed shirt, which was now buttoned properly from top to bottom, Cailin said, “Dia duit.”
“That means good morning, Samuel,” Brendan added, grinning. “See, Mama, I remembered it! Deartháir. Brother.” He pointed to himself, then to his sisters. “Deirfiúracha. Sisters. And mama is máthair.” He pointed to her. “And papa is athair.”
“Yes, your father is do athair.” She put out her hand to calm Lottie, who was bouncing about again and babbling. “Hush, Lottie,” she added. “Let your brother finish.”
“My father is mo athair. Right?”
; “Yes.”
Brendan glanced at the man in the door, and she flinched before he added, “Mo athair. Samuel, did you know I could speak Irish? See how much I remember, Mama?”
She did not answer, other than giving him a tremulous smile, for her gaze could not escape Mr. Jennings’s cool one. Brendan had called him Samuel but had looked toward this stranger when he said the words mo athair. Only when Lottie jumped off the bed and ran to him did his eyes warm. If his questions had not shown her how much he cared about her children, the grin he offered Lottie would have.
Again her opinion of him had to be adjusted. He might treat her with a polite chill—and why not? She had arrived at his house so ill he had had to send for a doctor. But he had a warm heart that he had opened along with his house to her children. She owed him more than she doubted she could ever repay. If he had not been willing to take all three children, they would have been separated, and she might have taken far longer to find them.
Everyone was astonished when Samuel offered to have the three children placed out with him. Three children for a bachelor!
The strange voice within her head startled her. She had forgotten those words until now. Why hadn’t she remembered them last night before she asked Mr. Jennings about his wife? Her head had throbbed then. It was better now, so why couldn’t she recall the woman who had said those words? She searched her memory, but she could not put a face with the voice. In astonishment, she realized she could remember nothing but desperation from the time the train stopped at the station in Haven. There had been a small town and people, but they were all faceless, and the buildings might have been any color. She did remember the sound of thunder spurring her feet to reach her children before the storm broke around her.
“Good morning, Mrs. Rafferty.” Mr. Jennings set the tray where he had put the other one yesterday. When had he come to retrieve that one? “I trust you’d like some breakfast, for you haven’t eaten since you got here.”
Lottie clambered across the bed and picked up a piece of toast off the tall stack. Sitting back on her heels, she started to take a bite. She paused, and with a glance at Mr. Jennings, she held it out to Cailin.
Moonlight on Water Page 32