Can you feel the ground, it’s rumblin’?
And there’s whispers in the wind.
Clare’s family didn’t know the words, but they joined in the best they could, and although they had never done so in a church before, they clapped their hands as well while many sitting behind them patted them on the shoulders and heads.
What was most remarkable to Clare was the expression on her husband’s face. He had taken off his glasses because they were fogged up with tears. It reminded her of the day she had first met him, when he was singing hymns of praise under the evening sky.
For that sweet day is arrivin’
When my Jesus comes again.
Yes that sweet day is arrivin’
When my Jesus comes again.
So many years had gone since she had seen so much joy in the man she loved. Even Garret and Ella were swept by the spirit of the moment, and this made Clare profoundly happy.
As she glanced around to those around her, she saw something here so powerful, which was unfathomable. Here gathered in this room were some of the poorest, most oppressed people in the entire city. But rather than hearing the cries of bitterness or anger, she heard something so rare to behold.
The sweet sound of gratitude.
Chapter 18
Soup Kitchen
“It’s Father!” Ella exclaimed in response to the sudden noise in the front hallway. She leapt up from the bay window and sprinted toward the door.
“Don’t tell him our surprise,” Clare hollered after her.
“Don’t tell me what surprise?” Andrew entered rubbing his hands. His old black wool jacket was crusted with snow and his cheeks glowed bright red.
“You didn’t walk all of the way home from the office, did you?” Clare stood up from the fireplace she was tending and grabbed his coat and hung it on the brass rack. “You poor soul. What a dreary day to be out in the cold.”
“The snow in March is lovely. I wanted to enjoy it with a brisk tour of the city.”
“That’s quite a long tour, Mr. Royce.” Clare felt his cold face with the back of her hand. “You should have hired a cab.”
“Nonsense. Other than the fact it delays me from coming home to my family, it truly is a wonderful way to get a feel for the heartbeat of this town.”
“Ma is fixing something special.” Ella clasped Andrew around his leg.
“Come on, Da.” Garret grabbed his father by the hand and dragged him toward the warmth of the hearth.
In the fireplace, a crackling fire was raging, with sparks flying and the embers at the base appearing as glowing red worms. Hanging over the fire by an iron hook was a large black kettle.
“That’s Grandmother’s!” Andrew’s face lit up with childish glee. He unwrapped a scarf from around his neck.
“Have a seat, Da,” Garret said. “We put the chairs close to the fire. We’re going to eat dinner here like a picnic.”
“Strange weather for a picnic.” Andrew plopped down in the leather chair and lifted his legs as Ella slid a footstool under his ankles and then took her father’s shoes off.
She giggled. “Da’s got a hole in his sock!”
Andrew wiggled his big toe. “This one has broken free from jail. Call the coppers!”
“Ella, are you forgetting something?” Clare propped her arms on her hips.
“Oh yes!” Ella skipped off.
Garret chased after her. “I’m going to get it first.”
“Garret,” Clare shouted. “Let your sister do it.” But they both scurried out of the room with a pounding of feet and playful screams. She let out a deep sigh and slid her chair next to Andrew’s and held his hand.
“What is all this?” Andrew looked tired.
“You don’t remember?”
“Hmmm.” He pursed his lips and traced his eyes to the ceiling. Then he raised his hands. “Don’t know.”
“It’s your birthday.” She squeezed his hand.
“Oh that. I thought we both agreed to stop celebrating those.”
“I never agreed to such a thing. Besides, we could certainly benefit from some celebration.” She placed her hand on his cheek, rough with stubble. “I am so proud of you, Andrew. You know that, don’t you?”
He grimaced. “What for? What is to be proud about?” He panned the room that had lost so much of the luster and richness it once had. “This isn’t what you agreed to. I mean . . .” He paused for a moment. “You deserve so much better, Clare Royce.”
“Hush, you.” She pressed her finger on his nose. “Now how was your day? Despite almost perishing in the blizzard.”
His eyes widened and he wagged a finger. “Actually . . . there was some good cheer for us today. We got MacPherson back today. Signed a contract for a year.”
“I thought that horrible Sean MacPherson said he wouldn’t advertise in the Daily even if it was the last newspaper in the world.”
“Did he say that?”
“He did, and worse.”
Andrew cupped his hands and blew into them. “Well, apparently he now has a more favorable opinion of our fine publication. And he said it was because of you.”
“Oh, that man is so fickle. He’ll be cursing us in the morn.”
“Your story about the Irish Regiments. The 63rd. The 69th. The 88th. What you said about them getting the worst of all assignments on the battlefields and how they should be admired for their bravery, but the generals ought to be . . . How did you say it?”
“That the generals ought to be cooked in oats for using the sons of Ireland as the battering ram of their imbecilic strategies.” Clare shook her head. “But if MacPherson was astute, he would have complained how the Daily’s supposed war correspondent spends little of her time on the battlefields.”
“Aww . . . you write those stories as if you’re holding a smoking musket in your own hand. Besides, we’ll be able to afford a full-time field reporter soon. That is, I hope.” He started to stare into the fire, but then his face brightened again. “Anyway, apparently MacPherson has a nephew in the 69th and said truer words ne’er been spoken. Oh, and that wasn’t the only news.”
“Really . . . do tell.”
“Your man stopped by for a visit.”
“My dear Cyrus Fields. No doubt to pay his thanks for my article shouting down the naysayers of his Atlantic Cable. I hope you told him it was unnecessary to thank me and that I was merely doing my job.”
Andrew smiled at Clare in the way that always made her feel loved. “He made his offer to us once again.”
“For stock in his company, free of charge in gratitude for my continued belief in his dream. And, of course, you told him?”
“That my dear wife appreciates his kindly gesture, but it would conflict with her journalistic sensibilities, her integrity of reportage.” Andrew let the last word roll off with his poor French accent.
She swatted his arm. “I have so much fondness for that man. He is a model of perseverance, especially in all of the opposition he is facing. To be a dreamer, you must always first be a fool.”
“Well, I hope it didn’t injure our integrity, but I did tell him he could thank us by giving us some grace on his paper invoice.”
“Are we behind again?”
“I wish that was the only bill we were behind on.” Andrew’s shoulders drooped. “There are times when I just want to give it all up.” He grabbed her hand. “But then I think of you and the children, and it’s all I need to keep me going another day.”
Clare leaned forward and kissed him.
“Hey,” Ella shouted, startling them both. “You can’t kiss the king!”
“Of course I can kiss the king.” Clare stood. “As I am the queen.”
“Give it to me.” Garret reached for something Ella was hiding behind her back.
“Garret.” Clare raised
an eyebrow at her son.
Ella walked over to Andrew, pulled out the handmade crown she was hiding, and reached up to put it on her father’s head, but she couldn’t quite reach. Andrew bent down and she placed it with care.
“Now you can make me your knight.” Garret grabbed a poker from the mantel and handed it to Andrew.
“That is covered with ashes.” Clare clenched her jaw.
“What would an Irishwoman know about kings and knights?” Andrew held the poker like a sword before his son, who was already on one knee with his head down. “I now pronounce you Sir Garret Royce, Duke of New York.”
Clare moved over to the fireplace and peered into the simmering stew. “I would only agree to my son becoming Duke of Roscommon. He most certainly would be an Irish lord.” She dug into the boiling liquid with the long metal spatula and stirred it around, being careful not to splash the hot liquid on her. It had been some ten years since she had made pottage over a fire, and the scents of the potatoes, leaks, carrots, and broth brought her back to the old country.
“Where did you find that old kettle?” Andrew asked.
“In the back shed.” Clare lifted the spatula, swiped her fingertip on it, and tasted the meal. “Ummm. Good. Yes. It’s really a beautiful pot.”
“Grandmother used to cook in that all of the time,” Andrew said for the benefit of all.
Ella climbed up on the chair and curled up next to him, tucking her head against his shoulder. “You had a grandmama too?”
“Yes. Even me.” Andrew rubbed Ella’s back. “Such sweet times we had together in this house.”
“Garret, hand me your father’s bowl there from the table, will you dear?” She lifted the ladle resting against the hearth, then dunked it into the pottage and emptied it into the bowl her son held out to her. She filled it a bit too high and watched with concern as Garret carried it to his father with two nervous hands.
“Oh, Andrew, isn’t this just marvelous?” Clare motioned to Garret to get her the rest of the bowls from the table.
Andrew brought his nose close to the pottage and closed his eyes. “Yes, this smells delightful.”
“No. Not the stew. I mean that, you know, with Muriel and Caitlin leaving to serve the soldiers and Cassie so busy these days. I know it’s made it difficult for us, with me having to write from home as much as possible. But it’s been splendid for me to spend more time with these little ones. And for us to create sweet memories. It’s just, I believe it’s better we don’t have a nanny. It’s a blessing from God. That’s what it is.”
He laughed. “Well I should have gone broke a long time ago then.”
“Please, Andrew. Don’t talk about such in front of the children.”
“I already know we’re broke,” Garret said. “That’s why Ma had me ask Mr. Catton for some wood today. I brought it myself. Do you like the fire, Da?”
“I do. Very much, son.” The defeat returned to Andrew’s voice. “Let me pray over our meal. Father, we thank You for this day. Your ways are a mystery to us, but we trust You, and love You. Thank You for the many blessing You provide for my family, despite my . . . many inadequacies. Amen.”
“Amen,” Ella and Garret echoed.
Clare filled the other three bowls and handed one to each of her children and then sat next to her husband, who remained silent as he slurped his food.
Finally he spoke, his voice trailing. “And the stove?”
Her heart ached. Clare was hoping to make it through the night without explaining. She wanted his birthday to be the one day when Andrew wouldn’t have to worry so much. She glanced up to see that her son and daughter were busying themselves with their meal.
She whispered, “Mr. Barnes said he wouldn’t extend any more credit. It won’t heat without coal, as you know.”
“What’s next?” His eyes watered. “For my children to march through the snow following the coal carts, hoping for something to fall?”
“If that’s what we must do, we will. You are doing fine work, Andrew Royce, and we are behind you.”
“Here I am trying to save the world when I can’t even feed my own family.” He sighed and shook his head. But then he smiled sweetly. “I love you, Clare. More than you’ll ever know.”
And that was it. He was finished being outwardly despondent about the coal bill. Andrew returned to playful conversation with the children.
After they finished their supper, Andrew threw some chestnuts in the coals of the fire. It took about five minutes, but they finally exploded, which were met with yelps, screams, and then laughter.
Then Clare shared stories of growing up in Ireland, and Ella asked to hear more about the grandmother she was named after.
The children fell asleep, leaving Clare to be cradled in her husband’s arms as he ran his fingers through her hair. It had been a long time since she felt this content.
Chapter 19
The Fields
Taylorsville, Virginia
March 1862
Ashlyn pressed the spade into the soil, and she lunged poorly and in turn felt the pain driving through her spine and up through her hands. She let out a deep moan.
“What is it, Ma?” Grace had a hoe in her hand and eyed Ashlyn with concern.
“Oh, still trying get accustomed to the spring work.” Ashlyn rubbed her wrist and noticed a blister on her thumb had breached and was oozing.
“Or the winter work, or summer or fall.” Grace wiped the sweat off of her forehead.
Ashlyn observed her daughter. At fifteen, she was sprouting into a beautiful young lady. She had noticed a big change in the girl since Seamus had preached that Sunday. And even more so when he left to join General Jackson’s army. “You are a hard worker, Grace. I don’t know how we would ever make it without your help around here. And I was so fearful you would hate living out here.”
The girl shrugged. “I suppose we’ve all got to do our part.”
“How are you doing?”
Grace shrugged and dug her hoe into the soil.
“With your father being gone.”
“I try not to think of it too much. He did say it wasn’t dangerous being a chaplain in the war.”
“If your father said it, then it’s true.” Ashlyn tried to sound confident but she worried about him as well. How could anything be safe about being in a war? She tried to talk Seamus out of his decision, but he was right. They had few choices. If he hadn’t enlisted as a chaplain, then he would have lost the opportunity to serve on his own terms. He didn’t buy into the Southern ways, and how could she blame him? It was a difficult subject for her as well, and she had grown up around slavery all of her life. Yet she did love the land and she cared for her people, even if they did have it all wrong.
And with Union troops pressing down in the valley, even Seamus had changed his attitudes about the Confederacy. This war had become so much more complicated than merely the cause.
Most of all, she supported Seamus in his decision because he was convinced he was being called by God. It had been so long since he spoke in those terms, it was like having her husband returned to her. The man she so loved. Ashlyn was so encouraged to see the spark again in his spiritual fervor. She was willing to embrace any journey of his that would bring him closer to having those flames burn brightly again. At least, this was the belief she was using to try to comfort herself and bring peace to the worries that caused sleepless nights.
Seamus had blamed himself for abandoning their ministry of La Cuna in San Francisco, but as she told him many times, she was ready to move on as well. They had help and resources and the orphanage probably was ready for fresh, new leadership.
Ashlyn’s passion for the Shenandoah Valley and its imperfect people had never faded, and something inside her was uncomfortable with how she had left Taylorsville to avoid shame. Being back home again brought closure and
healing for her. Now she prayed it would come to her husband too.
She knew it was unchristian for her to feel this way, but she couldn’t see herself forgiving Davin for the hurt he caused Seamus. Although they were living without much financial margin in their lives, she was grateful they had weaned themselves from being dependent on Davin’s support. In fact, they were far along in saving enough money to be able to pay him back for all they borrowed.
Ashlyn looked over to Tatum and Mavis who were off in the distance working on the farm. Where would they have been without those two? They had become more than friends. They were part of the Hanley family.
She surveyed the field. There was so much work to be done. Although Seamus didn’t give himself much credit for being a farmer, his strong back and work ethic were greatly missed. Would they yield a proper harvest this year without him? They had no choice. They must. Just as many other women in the valley, she and Grace would need to labor harder.
Glancing toward the gateway leading onto their property, she saw dust rising from the road. Ashlyn squinted and saw a familiar cart heading their way. “Oh, dear, what now?”
“What is it?” Graced looked up from her work.
“It’s that horrible man.”
“Mr. Fletcher?”
“What could he want now? As if he isn’t already squeezing as much out of us as we can bear.”
“You’re talking about Anders’s father, Ma.”
Ashlyn scowled at her daughter. “I would rather you run off with a pirate with a termite-riddled wooden leg than have anything to do with that family.”
“Anders is so sweet and kind. He’s not like them. Besides, Mr. Fletcher has been so much nicer since Da left.”
This was something Ashlyn couldn’t argue. Since his son had been conscripted, Fletch had been somewhat of a different man. Still, she didn’t believe someone like him would be able to change enough to make him palatable to civilized society. Fletch had been Fletch since she was a little girl. Seeing him as anything else but a greedy, thieving bootlegger would take more faith than she had.
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