'Til Morning Light

by Ann Moore

  Feeling as though he had come to a kind of resolve, Reinders closed his eyes and smiled as the sight of the harbor and his little store swam into view. There was Astrid come down to the shore to watch him row in, her skirts tucked up away from the muck, her hair tightly braided and coiled upon her head. Grace would like her; they would all be friends and neighbors—the Sigurdsens, the Eldridges, the Reinderses. He and Grace could build a house up there; Grace had always wanted to live by the sea, he remembered—it was one of the things he loved about her.

  A sense of calm washed over him then, and the last thing he felt was the swoop that comes before dropping away into sleep. It must have been the deepest, most restorative sleep he’d had since coming to the island, because when he awoke, he knew he’d turned the corner. Peter Reinders was well.

  Ten

  From far away, Barbara Alroy looked much older than she was; her once dark hair was now completely gray, and she stooped ever so slightly, though it was from constantly picking up small children and carrying them on her hip, rather than an advancement of years. As one drew closer, her true age became apparent in skin that had retained the tautness of youth and in eyes whose light still shone despite the hard years of famine; though her face was lined, it was as much from laughter and joy as from the struggles of survival. She was a striking woman, Barbara, with the strong dark handsomeness of all the McDonaghs. Had she been able to stand for a moment beside her brother, the resemblance would have been uncanny. She still missed Morgan with a fierce ache that made her hands clench into fists and her teeth grind together, but she did not indulge in the romantic notion that he had somehow escaped Ireland and was imprisoned in Van Diemen’s Land, or was working in Canada, or living among the wild Indians in America. Morgan had been one of the most beloved heroes of the Young Irelander rebellion, and his stature had grown to mythic proportion, which was why each rumor she heard was bigger and more grand than the last. As much as she longed for him to be alive and living anywhere, anywhere at all, she knew that it was as the priests had said—Morgan had died in prison, beaten to exhaustion and sick at heart as well as in body. Barbara was every bit as strong as her brother had been, and she refused to torture herself, accepting instead that she would see him again, but in the next world.

  She stood now in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron, watching as a handsome carriage with trunks tied onto its back made its way slowly up the hill toward the schoolhouse that a dozen children, including the twin boys she had with Abban, called their home.

  “Abban Alroy,” she called over her shoulder, “are you expecting a visitor today? For one’s come calling.”

  He looked up from his mending—a pair of small trousers gone out in the seat—and shook his head. “Not I, Barbara,” he said. “But perhaps the queen herself has sent along a load of supplies, seeing as how we’re caring for her orphans and all.”

  “You better come, then,” Barbara ordered. “As you know, I’m not home to the queen.”

  Abban laughed, then set aside the mending and got out of the chair with the aid of his crutch. It had been three years since he lost his leg, but he still missed it, reaching down at night to scratch a shin that wasn’t there. Having hobbled his way across Ireland with Barbara, from Cork City to Galway, he had learned to maneuver up, over, and around anything that might lie in his way, and now he moved with the speed and grace of a man who had the use of two good legs instead of one, and could dance well besides.

  “Nice carriage.” He shaded his eyes from the weak autumn sun. “Good horses, as well. Is it Julia, do you think? Back from London already?”

  “Her letter said she’d be in Dublin for Christmas and see us after,” Barbara reported. “But look—there’s an arm waving out the window!”

  They both stepped out of the doorway and into the yard as the horses swung the carriage round to the gate. Children stopped playing and stared, as did Gavin Donohue, the young man who helped about the place; visitors were rare, visitors in grand carriages more rare still. As one body, they moved silently to the fence and climbed the rails, straddling posts and beams, heads poking over and under, waiting to see what grand creature would emerge from such a conveyance.

  “’Tis Julia after all!” Barbara exclaimed, rushing to the gate. “Julia!” she called. “We never expected you!”

  Julia stepped down from the carriage and embraced her old friend. “Good to see you, Barbara. How are the boys?” She eyed the youngsters gawking on the fence. “Hello, Gavin!” She waved to the young man, who swept off his hat and bowed as if to royalty, making her laugh.

  “They’re upstairs sleeping with the young ones,” Barbara told her. “And did you bring your wee girl with you?” She tried to peer into the carriage for Julia’s year-old daughter, but Julia put a hand on her shoulder and turned her away.

  “She’s with my father at the Dublin house.”

  “Brave man, your da. Staying home with a crawling infant.”

  Julia laughed. “Ah, now, he’s mush in her hands, completely useless. Only wants to dandle her on his knee and make the most ridiculous sounds. I left a nurse to look after the both of them.” Her face grew serious. “’Tis a quick trip I’m making, Barbara. Hello, Abban.”

  He shook her hand warmly, then kissed her cheek. “Always good to see your face, girl, though we hadn’t a clue you were coming.”

  “It was all very last minute.” Julia took both their hands, her eyes traveling from face to face. “I’ve brought you a surprise. A true surprise,” she added. “Someone you’ve not seen in a long time.”

  They looked at her, bewildered, and watched as she moved away from the carriage door. A young woman emerged, familiar somehow to Abban though he didn’t know her; Barbara, however, gasped, and her hands flew to her mouth.

  “Do you know me, then, Barbara?” the young woman asked gently, eyes hopeful and wary both. “Your troublemaking, runaway, good-for-nothing younger sister?”

  “Aislinn!” Barbara flew forward and wrapped her arms around the young woman in a fierce embrace. “Oh, Aislinn, my darling girl. Of course I know you. Of course I do.” She held her sister at arm’s length to look at her again, then hugged her more tightly than ever. “Oh, thank God! Thank God you’re alive!”

  The two women wept and laughed at the same time, as Abban looked on incredulously and Julia stood grinning.

  “Abban!” Barbara drew Aislinn to him. “This is my sister Aislinn, gone away these many years to London!” She looked at Aislinn again in wonder. “And come back again! Oh, dearest girl!” And she began to cry in earnest, overcome with joy.

  “Let’s go inside,” Abban suggested, taking the arm of his distraught wife and leading the others into the house. “Sit down. Sit down, please, and I’ll fire up the kettle.”

  Aislinn was a younger version of Barbara, Abban realized, only the hair was lighter in color, and her face and figure more full. Certainly, her dress was that of a lady, and there were rings on her fingers, silver earbobs, and ivory combs in her hair. Barbara had never worn a new dress in all the days he’d known her, hadn’t a piece of jewelry to her name save the ring he’d put on her finger, wore her hair in a simple braid down her back like a young girl, and yet she was the most beautiful, elegant woman he knew.

  “I’m afraid we’ve not much to offer in the way of comfort.” He waved his hand over the one great room scattered with chairs and stools, a large plank table in the center. “But you’re welcome to it.”

  “Please don’t apologize.” Aislinn’s voice was thick with emotion as she settled herself in a rickety wooden chair. “My dress is the way I used to live. Not the way I want to live now.”

  “And how is that?” Barbara asked quietly, drying her eyes.

  “With you, Barbara. And with your husband. If you’ll have me.”

  “Oh, aye!” Abban didn’t hesitate. “There’s no question of that. You’re family and you’ve a home with us as long as you want it.”

  “You may not want m
e once you know how I’ve lived,” Aislinn told him honestly. “I’m not proud of it, but I can’t change it now, and I don’t want to lie to you about it.”

  Abban and Barbara shared a look over her head.

  “Did you marry Gerald O’Flaherty, then?” Barbara asked quietly, sitting down beside her sister. “And have you left him?”

  Aislinn was quiet for a long moment, gathering her courage, and then she spoke. “Gerald never intended to marry me,” she confessed. “I bore him a child but could not care for it on my own and gave it up.”

  Barbara reached for Aislinn’s hand and held it.

  “The next year was hard and I cared not for living. I was kept by a married man, wealthy and titled. He was good to me, and I was sorry when he died. The jewels, my rooms, and the money were my own, and I thought I might go on living a quiet life in London.” She shook her head, saddened. “But I was too much alone, and my ghosts haunted me. From Julia, I knew you were alive and doing good work here, and so I hoped … perhaps …” She stopped, determined not to cry again.

  Barbara turned to Julia, astonished. “You knew she was alive? All this time, you knew it?”

  “I’m sorry, Barbara,” Julia apologized. “I ran into her quite by chance the first year I went to London to raise money, and she begged me not to tell anyone what had happened to her.”

  “I didn’t want to shame you,” Aislinn confessed. “I knew I could never come home.”

  “Our mam loved you, Aislinn,” Barbara assured her. “She wanted you with her but said ’twas best you lived away than died at home. Not a day passed, she didn’t remember you in her prayers.”

  “And I, her,” Aislinn said quietly.

  “Was it you, then, sent us the money for this place?” Abban asked.

  “I met Julia in Liverpool before Grace sailed. When you left the convent later on, I asked her to do it in her own name.”

  “So Grace knows you’re alive?” Barbara was stunned.

  “She told me about Mam and the girls, and that Morgan had died …” Here she paused again. “I knew she’d left the baby with you, and she said I didn’t know you very well if I thought you wouldn’t welcome me home again without a word said.”

  “Always thinking of others.” Barbara shook her head. “She was in a terrible way when she left here, weak and exhausted. I worried she’d never survive that trip.”

  “Oh, aye, but she did. She went to Lord Evans in prison before she sailed for America. Do you remember, Julia?”

  Julia laughed ruefully. “How can I ever forget? That was my first and last experience with prostitutes.”

  “What?” Barbara and Abban asked at the same time.

  “Another time,” Julia promised. “That’s a story for a long night and a bottomless glass.”

  “I could use a glass of something myself, right about now,” Barbara admitted. “But I don’t think I’m ready for any more stories. And I’ve got to get the little ones up from their nap.” She stood, still holding Aislinn’s hand, and turned to her husband. “Will you check the big ones in the yard, Abban?”

  “Should I come with you, then?” Aislinn asked. “Seeing as you’ve still got hold of my hand.”

  Barbara laughed with her, and Abban delighted in their resemblance.

  “While you do that, I’ll make our tea.” Julia stood now, too. “I know my way around this place well enough.”

  Barbara led Aislinn up the stair to a wide dormitory set under the eaves. One half of the room was lined with cots for the nine older children; the other side had makeshift cribs for the five young ones, who were just now beginning to stir.

  “Look here.” Barbara leane’d over the nearest crib.

  Aislinn stood beside her, looking down at two boys sleeping in a tangle of arms and legs, dark-haired like the McDonaghs, but with Abban’s nose and chin.

  “Meet your nephews,” Barbara whispered. “Declan, there, with the freckles. And Nally, after our da, bless his wild soul.”

  Aislinn put her arm around Barbara’s shoulders. “Aren’t they the most beautiful boys you’ve ever seen? How wonderful for you, Barbara. What a miracle they truly are.”

  “Oh, aye. Boggles my mind to think on it—the hunger and sickness were so terrible, and yet, without it, I’d never have found my Abban. I wouldn’t have left the order, gotten married, and become the mother of these two lovely creatures. God has blessed me. Despite everything. Oh, Aislinn, I’m sorry,” Barbara said quickly. “Sure and they must look a bit like your one.”

  Aislinn nodded. “I tried to get him back once, but they’d not tell me where he was. They said he’d have a better chance at life without me around his neck, and they were right.”

  “Their intent was right,” Barbara told her. “But had they known your heart, they would have rushed to put him back in your arms.”

  “Thank you,” Aislinn whispered. “’Tis all right. I’m at peace with it now. Sometimes I imagine him growing up with a mam and da who dote on him, who play with him, and teach him things … and I’m glad for it. I’m glad he’ll grow up well.”

  Barbara put her arms around Aislinn and held her. “We’ve lived through some times, Sister, have we not?”

  “We have, Sister,” Aislinn murmured. “We have.”

  “I’m so very glad you’re here. That’s all that matters now.”

  Aislinn’s grip tightened. “I can stay, then?”

  “Can you cook and clean, wash clothes and mend them?”

  “I’m a little out of practice,” Aislinn admitted, “but I’ll do my best.”

  “Good.” Barbara laughed. “Then the job of beloved sister is yours.”

  At the end of the visit, Abban walked Julia out to her carriage. “You’re welcome to stay with us, girl, start out fresh in the morning.”

  “Thanks, Abban, but I’ve got to get as far as I can today. I had no idea Aislinn would be coming back from London with me, and I felt I owed it to all of you to bring her out right away.”

  “You can stop atoning for the past any time now, Julia,” Abban gently pointed out.

  “I don’t think I can, actually,” she admitted.

  “How’s our young Jack doing? Have you heard lately?”

  “I almost forgot!” She reached into the pocket of her skirt and withdrew an envelope. “Letter from Grace. He’s well. Loves Kansas. Cowboys and Indians and all that.”

  Abban shook his head. “I can hardly imagine such a thing, myself. What a life they’re leading out there.”

  “She’s thinking about moving farther west, to the coast, to a place called Oregon Territory.”

  “Is that where the sea captain is? Will she marry him at last, do you think?”

  “He’s south of there, but I don’t know how far. And yes, I think she’s ready to marry now.” Julia thought about it for a moment. “It’s a busy life, but she sounds lonely in her letter. Tired, as well. She’s never really gotten past losing Morgan, and I don’t suppose she ever will. But I think she wants to try.”

  “Not a day passes, I don’t think of him in some way, remember something we did, or a thing he said. He’s not a man fades easy from the mind.”

  “Or heart.” Julia put on her bonnet and tied it under her chin. “Listen, what do you need in the way of supplies? I’ve got a meeting with the Quakers in Dublin, and also the Catholic Charities.”

  Abban called up the eternal list he held in his mind. “We could use seed for next year’s garden. And another shovel—spading’s hard work in this ground,” he explained. “Also clothes for the bigger ones, especially dresses for the girls, and boots. We’ll take any books, as most of them are learning here with Barbara. Slates’d be nice for their writing. Anything, really, Julia—anything a’tall would be put to good use.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” She shook his hand. “Do you get much news of the world out here?”

  Abban shrugged. “The odd paper comes our way now and then, usually wrapped round a fish. I know Meagher and M
acManus escaped the colony and got to San Francisco.”

  “Aye, Terence stayed, but last I heard Thomas went on to New York City and was joining the army.”

  “You don’t say!” Abban looked delighted. “Always had a keen military mind on him, that one. Wish he’d come on back here, but never mind—he’ll show those Americans what the Irish are all about. He’ll be a general before they know what hit them.” He laughed. “And what about Smith O’Brien? Has he escaped, as well?”