She regathered her thoughts and stealthily glided through the partly darkened house until she came upon the man on the verandah inspecting the day’s handiwork. She could see from the tightness around his mouth and the deep thrust of his hands into the pockets of his breeches that he was more than a little perplexed by what he saw. Her gaze narrowed on him. Hopefully, he wouldn’t prove too much of an obstacle in her quest with Jessica. If he did, then he would be the one worse off for interfering…
She moved to stand slightly behind and to the left of him so she could see the painting, too. As she studied it, her hand came up and ran lightly through her waist-long, copper hair, patting it into place. Then she fiddled with the kerchief around her neck, straightening it to her satisfaction. Aye, a pretty piece of work it was—
She was right proud of having helped Jessica paint it, only her protegeé hadn’t known that she was directing the brush strokes until the work was finished. Then the lass had had a kind of turn and gone for the grog. Oh, well, she’d get used to doing her bidding. It was necessary and she would not be letting herself go soft over the fact that she needed the lass’s help.
Her gaze settled on the last face, the unfinished likeness of young Timothy Cavanagh. With a sense of impatience, she quelled the tinge of sympathy that brought a mistiness to her eyes. She gave a harsh, silent laugh at her own momentary lapse. How foolish she was!—all compassion had been wrung out of her a long time ago. Her gaze moved towards the first figure and locked onto the image.
A deep abiding hatred began to blaze in her blue depths, while a vein at her temple beat in time to the rage that rose within her whenever she thought of him. It was a fair likeness of the devil himself, for he had been the ringleader of the other three. Of them all she hated him the most. The others had simply been spineless fools who’d done his bidding. Yes, a tear sprang to her eyes as the memories came flooding back. If that devil Elijah Waugh hadn’t crossed her path one sunny day, Sarah Flynn’s life would have been very different…
CHAPTER NINE
1849
The breeze off the water, moist and salty, brushed Sarah’s face as she stood for a moment on the porch of Ma Hingerty’s boarding house in Canal Lane to adjust her bonnet, after which she settled the cape about her shoulders. She could see the mist over the docks lifting to reveal the tall masts of several ships, their pennants flapped eerily through the grey vapour. From experience Sarah knew it would be a fine day, at least for a while. Springtime in Dublin could be changeable, she had learned, having lived in the city from the age of eleven.
The footsteps of her practical, lace-up working boots echoed on the cobbles as she made her way into Queen Street, which led to the dock area and bordered both banks of the River Liffey. Though it was barely dawn, folks were already abroad, going about their early morning chores. The lamplighter snuffing candles in the street lamps saluted the butcher, who was shouldering a wicker basket of carcasses destined for the chopping block. Several street urchins noisily played hopscotch which caused a charwoman to tell them to hush up, and workers such as herself, whose job went from six in the morning until six at night, were heading towards their various destinations around the waterfront.
Bridget Muir, with whom she shared a room at Hingerty’s, should have accompanied her, for they both worked at the same establishment: ‘Seamus O’Toole, Ship Chandler and Provisioner’, but Bridget had come down with a feverish cold and Ma, fusspot that she was, had ordered her back to bed. Seamus would be displeased, Sarah knew but while the crusty ex-seaman tried to disguise his kind heart, he had a soft spot for Bridget, with her fine black hair, slim figure and pleasant smile. Actually, Sarah suspected Seamus had quite a yen for Bridget, who was eighteen years his junior, and though Bridget herself pooh-poohed the possibility, she’d noted that her roommate’s eyes would light up when their employer came into the provisioning section of his store, where Bridget worked.
Sarah Flynn was in no way similar to Bridget, which was probably one of the reasons they got on so well.
Unusually tall for a woman of seventeen, and full-figured, she could stand eye to eye with most men. Her bright red hair, once romantically called russet by her father, but thought of as copper-coloured by most people, was thick and lustrous and, despite her attempts to tame it into the latest fashion, tendrils tended to escape and spring into tight curls about her hairline. Candid blue eyes shone with good health and confidence and told anyone with the sense to discern their expression, that she’d take no nonsense from them. Sarah had, in her five years of employment at O’Toole’s, risen from lowly paid counter worker to assistant to her employer, an achievement of which she was eminently proud.
Life had not always been so good for Sarah Flynn. In Armagh County, where she was born, she and her parents, Mary and Robbie Flynn and her older brother, Paddy, had worked a small farm leased to the local landowner, Sir Godfrey LeStrange, as thousands of families did throughout Ireland. Daily life on the land was hard, the soil ever poor from overplanting. In the winter of 1842, Robbie Flynn contracted a chill, then pneumonia and, despite her mother’s nursing skills which, for a plain country woman, were considerable, had died a week later.
The remaining Flynns tried to keep the farm going. Paddy, then sixteen and fully grown, struggled manfully to put food on the table and to scrounge enough coppers to pay the rent. Somehow the family managed to do this until the following spring.
Then, in a situation repeated many times across the Irish countryside, two weeks in a row the Flynns couldn’t find the rent money, and Sir Godfrey’s estate foreman, armed with a legal paper and two members of the local constabulary to back him up, saw them evicted from the only home Sarah had ever known.
Arriving in Dublin, young Paddy had waited just long enough to see his mother and sister settled—Mary secured a position as housekeeper to a Doctor Shaun Bryant—and then he was off, shipping out as a cabin boy on the Lady Mantilla, an ageing Spanish barque bound for the Americas. With a promise to write, which he didn’t keep, and dreams of settling in America and sending for them to join him, Paddy was off on his great adventure. Two and a half years later, news reached Mary and Sarah that the Lady Mantilla had foundered off the coast of Peru with all hands lost.
That sad news had been the beginning of the end for Mary Flynn, who had already endured much: many years of hardship with Robbie, losing their home, humble as it may have been, and now the death of her son. Her health went into a decline and, despite Dr Bryant’s ministrations, six months after Sarah began work at O’Toole’s, Mary passed away in her sleep. Dr Bryant, a compassionate man, offered to employ Sarah as assistant to the new housekeeper, but Sarah, her decision forged by the family’s hard times, was determined to make it on her own and to owe no one a single penny. In spite of the doctor’s objections, at the age of fourteen she moved into Ma Hingerty’s boarding house mainly because it was close to her place of work.
Due to being a quick learner, having an affinity with people and being able to add and subtract accurately, as well as having a natural canniness that recognised a beneficial deal when one came along, she had become invaluable to Seamus O’Toole.
‘Top o’ the mornin’, Miss Sarah,’ Linus O’Keefe, Sarah’s right-hand man, greeted her. Tall and wellbuilt, Linus spoke mid-stride as he hefted one large wooden box on top of another. ‘Where’s our Bridget today?’
Sarah believed that Linus, like Seamus O’Toole, had a slight yen for Bridget. ‘She’s ill,’ she replied as she undid the bow on her bonnet and set her hair free. ‘You finished the work I allotted you yesterday, Linus?’
‘Of course,’ his tone was respectful and slightly surprised that she even had to ask. They both knew he was the best worker at O’Toole’s.
‘Mr O’Toole won’t be in today, he’s away on business,’ she informed him as she put her apron on and tied it around her waist. ‘I’ll be wantin’ you ta organise the dray ta pick up orders from several merchants. You’ll be havin’ the list as soon
as I write it. They’re needed today ta fill a provisionin’ order for The Wild Swan that’s sailin’ on tomorrow mornin’s tide.’
‘I’ll get to it straight away and be hitchin’ up the dray then.’
‘Some of those barrels and crates are mighty big for one man to lift,’ Sarah acknowledged thoughtfully. ‘You’d better get Charlie ta be lendin’ you a hand.’
Linus tapped his forelock and muttered, ‘Aye, then Miss Sarah, I’ll be off to organise the dray.’
Within minutes Sarah had the list written for Linus and was about to go and find him when, as she moved through the store, she glimpsed by the front door a man coming up the worn stone steps. He took his time opening the door, which gave her the opportunity to study him by standing in the shadows of shelving crammed with produce of all kinds.
The red and white uniform he wore proclaimed him to be a soldier of the crown and an impressive one at that. He stood several inches taller than she, and the breadth of his shoulders made the fabric strain at the seams. She also noted that there was nothing hesitant in his gait as he walked straight up to the counter, removing his hat as he did so.
‘Morning, Miss. I’d be seekin’ the proprietor, if I may?’
His brogue was thick, and it reminded Sarah of the village from which she’d come so many years ago. She wondered if he, like the Flynn family, had been forced off the land and if he, like so many young Irishmen, had joined the young Queen Victoria’s army to make a living. She came into the light that burned from an oil lamp above the counter and recognised his corporal’s stripes.
‘Yes, Corporal, how may I help you?’
Corporal William O’Riley’s eyes mirrored surprise. This young slip of a thing couldn’t be the proprietor, he’d stake a month’s pay—miserable as it was—on it. But, oh, Sweet Mother Mary, she was a looker. For several moments he stood slack-jawed, staring at the young woman, until the good manners his ma had drummed into him, over many a cuffing and scolding, returned to him.
‘Beggin’ your pardon, Miss, I…I…My superior officer has asked me to get provisions for our ship. I’ll be havin’ to talk to your employer, Mr Seamus O’Toole, about…the various items.’
‘Mr O’Toole is not available today. You may deal with me, I’m the assistant manager.’ Sarah smiled as she delivered this information. She was familiar with men’s responses when she told them her position in O’Toole’s business. First a look of disbelief would come over their faces, and then, most of the time, a slowly dawning respect.
‘But you’re a woman. ’Tis unseemly to be doin’ business with, I mean…’ Will suddenly realised his gaffe and shut up.
Sarah’s amused laugh, held back till now, erupted from her. ‘Oh, Corporal, really! If I owned a tavern or ran a tailorin’ shop, would you find it hard ta deal with me?’
Will scratched his head, grudgingly appreciating her logic. ‘I suppose not,’ he conceded. She was so lovely he found it hard not to stare at her. And she also seemed intelligent. He was used to dealing with commonplace tavern wenches and the occasional serving woman, and thus his confusion increased. Feeling his cheeks flush with embarrassment, he shifted from one foot to the other in obvious discomfort.
Surreptitiously, beneath her long red lashes, Sarah was doing her own appraising. She liked what she saw. A large, blonde-haired man, not exactly handsome but pleasant to the eye none the less. His moustache and beard, neatly trimmed, she noted, were a shade darker than his hair, and he had the kindest hazel eyes she had ever seen. To her surprise a tremor of…what? excitement, anticipation?…ran through her body, and it was so strong it took her breath away.
After a moment’s lapse, she roused herself from such foolish thoughts and remembered her job. ‘Perhaps you could be allowin’ me ta glance at your list ta see if I can be assistin’ you.’
‘Aye, of course. My name’s Corporal O’Riley of her majesty’s 67th Foot Regiment. Will O’Riley is what most folks call me,’ he introduced himself. He watched her hold out her hand and, for a moment, he didn’t know why until he recalled her offer. The lass has addled me brains, he thought with a mental curse. And then, with more haste than grace, he freed Captain Stewart’s list from inside his tunic and handed it to her.
Sarah ran down the list, written in almost perfect copperplate writing. ‘’Tis considerable items you’ll be wantin’, Corporal O’Riley,’ she said, glancing up at him. ‘It will take a while ta fill all your requirements.’
‘Aye, the Captain said it would,’ Will said with a nod of his head. ‘We sail in two weeks’ time on the Raven’s Wing, which is presently being re-masted.’
‘Oh, yes, I’d heard it was dismasted in a storm off the Shetland Islands. O’Toole’s is supplyin’ the new sails for the Raven’s Wing.’
‘’Tis true. They were lucky not to founder, so says the first mate.’
‘Captain Stewart is the ship’s master?’ Sarah queried, in case she needed to speak to him about any of the items on the list.
‘No, miss…?’ his eyes asked the question.
‘Sarah Flynn.’
‘Well, Miss Flynn,’ he gave her a tentative, but engaging grin, ‘Captain Stewart is my superior officer. Our regiment will be sailin’ on the Raven’s Wing for duty in Australia.’
‘So far away…’ the words popped out before Sarah could stop them.
‘Aye. But,’ his eyes twinkled, ‘’tis a land of opportunity out there, Miss Flynn. Hard work though it be an’ there’s dangers too.’
‘Danger, Corporal O’Riley?’ she asked, wide-eyed.
‘To be sure. Poisonous snakes an’ spiders in the bush. An’ there’s them devils the blackfellas. But there’s the land, aplenty for all that’s got the strength an’ the yen to go an’ tame it.’
‘You make it sound excitin’, Corporal.’ Sarah said, catching his enthusiasm. ‘Have you been there before, then?’
‘Aye, in 1845.’ But then he shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Listen to me yammerin’ on. The captain’ll be displeased. I should be about me duties, Miss Flynn.’ Though the fact of it was he was loathe to leave. Talking to her was an enjoyable occupation, and looking at her was, too. Those big blue eyes, the rich red hair. What would he give to run his fingers through her locks? Anything, not that he had much of monetary value. He gave himself a mental shake and stared pointedly at the captain’s list. ‘So I can be leavin’ this with you, Miss Flynn, can I?’
‘You surely may, Corporal O’Riley.’ She thought for a moment, then added, ‘Please, if it is convenient, do call in a few days’ time so I can let you know how we’re going with the provisionin’.’
He beamed at her. ‘I’d be happy to, Miss Flynn.’
Will about-turned and marched out of the store, happier than he’d been since…he couldn’t remember. He had just met the woman he wanted to marry, and he had two weeks in which to convince her that he’d make Sarah Flynn the best husband in the world. Swallowing his amazement at the swiftness of his feelings for the woman he’d just met, he recalled that Ma had said it sometimes happened that way. Like a bolt from the blue.
Out on the street, Will spied a dray driven by a husky-looking lad. It moved around to the side dock of the building. Assuming that the lad worked for O’Toole’s, he approached the driver, intent on prising out some information on the lovely Miss Flynn.
For a promised pint and a meal at the best tavern on the waterfront, The Bull’s Head, after he finished work, Linus O’Keefe said he’d be pleased to tell the young officer about Miss Sarah Flynn.
Will took to calling into the chandler’s shop on a daily basis on one pretext or another, making his interest in Sarah Flynn plain for all to see. On Sunday he sat behind her at mass and cleverly managed to escort both her and Bridget Muir back to Ma Hingerty’s, where he wangled a seat at the dinner table, courtesy of Ma’s romantic inclinations. Then, after exacting a promise from Sarah that she would dine with him the following evening after work, he took both women back to O’Toole’s, wher
e they worked until dusk.
As Sarah adjusted her bonnet and pulled on her gloves, she saw Bridget regarding her from the doorway, a knowing smile on her attractive face.
‘You look beautiful, Sarah.’ Bridget was unstinting in her praise and admiration for her friend. After sharing a room for three years, they were as close as some sisters might be.
‘I see you’re wearin’ your ma’s brooch.’ A twinkle entered Bridget’s eyes. ‘This must be serious. You only wear her brooch on special occasions,’ she couldn’t help but tease.
Sarah blushed and said naught to deny it. She looked at her reflection in the small mirror, patted her hair into place and then studied the brooch. It was the only thing of value her mother had left her, apart from wonderful memories of family life and enduring love. Consisting of a large pearl set in gold and surrounded by small seed pearls, the brooch had been in the Flynn family for three generations and, no matter what the hardship, no Flynn woman could ever be made to part with it. Extraordinarily attractive and of French origin, it complimented the creamy Brussels lace collar of her cuffs and gown.
‘You really do like the young Corporal, don’t you?’ Bridget commented as she watched Sarah sparingly dab droplets of rose water behind her ears, at the base of her throat and on her wrists.
Sarah thought for a moment on Bridget’s question. For days she had been practically unable to think about anyone or anything else. Even Mr O’Toole had remarked on her uncharacteristic forgetfulness. She had been courted before, or at least two other young men had attempted to court her, but she had rejected them because she’d felt not a whit attracted to them, but Will…He stirred something inside her, a deep, warm, wondrous feeling that confused, delighted and at times frightened her because of its intensity. She hadn’t known that such depth of emotions could exist in people, until now.
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