by BJ Hoff
“Where will you go?” Brady blurted out.
The girl whipped around, eyes narrowed. “Wherever I please, I should think.”
“But…do you have a place to stay?”
Her nostrils flared, and again Brady thought of a restless young mare.
A thoroughbred.
“I expect that is my affair.”
She was a scrapper, this one. But somehow her brass didn’t irritate him as much as it might have coming from another, perhaps because of the fear he saw lurking in those enormous eyes. He was beginning to suspect that her sauciness was mostly show—a defense. The girl was obviously hungry, more than likely homeless and on her own. She had to be frightened.
Gabriel had been silent throughout this exchange, had merely stood, quietly watching the unlikely thief as if taking her measure. Now he spoke, his voice giving no hint of what he might be thinking. “It was bad on the islands, they say.”
The girl looked at him.
“The big wind,” he explained.
“How would you be knowing I’m from the islands?” she challenged, her tone defiant.
The big man shrugged, his gaze flicking over her as if her clothing were explanation enough. Brady realized that he had seen similar apparel on some of the other women wandering around Galway City: the long scarlet skirt against bare legs, a tattered shawl, and that strange multicolored sash at the waist.
“The Big Island, I expect?” Gabriel said.
After a slight hesitation, the girl nodded. “Aye. Inishmore.”
Unwilling to be excluded, Brady posed a question of his own. “What about your family?”
She shot a look of impatience at him, making no reply. Clearly, she found him of less importance than the mighty Gabriel.
Understandable, certainly. Even so, he couldn’t resist vying for her attention one more time. “If you need a place to stay, there are rooms to let at my flat. Mrs. Hannafin’s rents are fair.”
The girl’s look would have quenched a live coal. “And would she be letting out rooms for free, then?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Brady saw Gabriel begin to dig down in his pockets. But apparently he came up empty-handed, for he remained silent.
Brady had a little cash on him, but he sensed that to offer it would invite yet another rebuke. Besides, Gabriel had already succeeded in engaging her in a brusque dialogue—one that again excluded Brady.
“Are you on your own keeping, girl?”
“I am,” she said, the strong chin lifting a bit.
“The storm took your home, did it?”
She looked at him, a hard look that dramatically altered her appearance, adding years to her features. “Aye,” she said, the word sounding as if she’d forced it out between clenched teeth. “The storm took it all.”
Brady saw with some interest that the Big Fella’s expression had gentled considerably as he went on questioning the girl. “And what has brought you to Galway, then?”
“I mean to find work to pay my passage to America.”
Gabriel crossed his sturdy arms over his chest. “But you have found no work, so you resort to stealing, is that so?”
Her mouth curled downward, her eyes betraying a great depth of bitterness.
There was a long silence, during which Gabriel continued to study the girl closely, as if gauging her mettle. When he finally spoke again, his words were a surprise.
“You will come home with me for a bite to eat,” he said.
It was not an invitation but a command. Brady had known the cryptic giant long enough by now to have learned that the Big Fella did not ask. He spoke, and others obliged.
The girl was a stranger, however, and either she did not realize she had just been given a direct command or, if she did, she chose not to acknowledge Gabriel’s authority.
“I will not, but my thanks to you all the same.”
Gabriel scowled at her. Not for the first time, it occurred to Brady that nobody could scowl quite as fiercely as Gabriel, except possibly his brother, Jack.
“Then you will starve,” the big fisherman said flatly, as if he cared little one way or the other.
“Perhaps I will; perhaps I won’t.”
“Pride goes before a fall,” Gabriel said in the same even tone of voice.
She glared at him. “I do not go off with strange men to their houses.”
Brady almost strangled. Good heavens, did the girl actually think Gabriel was propositioning her?
He glanced at the Big Fella, somehow finding it impossible to imagine the dour giant with a woman. Why that should be the case, he wasn’t sure. Gabriel wasn’t an old man, by any means—he was probably no more than forty, if that—and though some might find his size intimidating, he wasn’t a homely man, not even a plain one. In fact, he might actually be considered good-looking by the women, especially if he were to smile every now and then.
Perhaps it was the presence, the bearing of the man, that seemed to place him above the needs or weaknesses of mere mortals, Brady thought, intrigued. Somehow Gabriel seemed to exist and move within his own sphere of power, drawing, even trapping, those around him in its force. So compelling was the giant’s persona that Brady had seen others actually shrink back when the giant came near. At the same time, there seemed to be a fundamental decency about the man—a sense of goodness and an innate morality to which others, even Brady, invariably responded.
But even if Gabriel had been inclined to lasciviousness, Brady doubted that this half-starved runaway would entice him. She was all angles and planes, for one thing—too thin by far. The riotous mane of hair was badly tangled, her face smudged, her clothing shabby, and, splendid as she was with that fiery temper and brave show of dignity, at the moment she wasn’t exactly a sight to turn a man’s head. Besides, Brady sensed that she was also very young. Perhaps younger than she would want them to know.
Gabriel appeared to dismiss the girl’s shaded insult. “You are to be commended for your virtue, lass,” he said dryly. “But I do not fancy scrawny little girls.”
Her face flamed, and she was clearly about to spit out some venomous retort, but Gabriel ignored her indignation. “I do not live alone,” he said. “There are others at my house—a girl older than yourself and a wee wane—and we will take this strapping young Yank along for your protection, if you like.”
The girl cut Brady a scathing glance before turning back to Gabriel. “Why would you do such a thing?” she challenged.
“Our Lord bids us feed the hungry,” said the big fisherman, his tone mild. “You are hungry, I think. So come along now, before you faint here in the street. I have no wish to carry you the rest of the way.” With that, he started off.
The girl watched him, and Brady watched her. He could almost see that monumental pride warring with her body’s obvious privation. Then, as if conceding defeat, she gave a short nod and started off, scurrying to keep pace with Gabriel’s long stride.
Brady, having received an invitation of sorts, followed after. As he hurried along behind the two, a portion of Scripture came to mind. Of course, the only Scriptures Brady knew were those his sister, Rose, a nun, was fond of quoting. This particular verse was one of her favorites—Jack accused her of pulling it out every time a stray beggar came to the door, so as to justify the lack of good sense in taking a stranger into their midst.
It had something to do with “entertaining angels unawares.”
Brady grinned to himself as he watched the haughty girl with the thoroughly disreputable appearance take off after the Big Fella. No angel, that one, he would warrant. But wasn’t she fascinating all the same?
11
IN THE HOUSE OF THE FISHERMAN
What change has put my thoughts astray
And eyes that had so keen a sight?
W. B. YEATS
Terese Sheridan was her name. She pronounced it T’reece, her tongue merely grazing the first syllable before lingering on the second. She was seventeen years old, she said, and the
only surviving member of her family, other than an older brother who had emigrated to America years before.
Brady listened to the girl recite the basic facts about herself as they ate their midday meal of potatoes and buttermilk. The room was dim, for there was only one window, too narrow to admit much light. Both the Sheridan girl and Gabriel sat on stools pulled up to the rough-hewn plank that served as a table, while across from them Brady perched on a boss—a low seat made of straw. The child, Evie, sat beside him, wide-eyed and for the most part ignoring her food as she took in the conversation.
As was frequently the case, Roweena declined to share the table. Instead, she busied herself at the fire, watching over a fresh pot of boiling potatoes, then tossing them into the kish—a wicker basket—for straining. Brady knew from experience that when she eventually got around to eating, she would seat herself on one of the stone benches by the hearth, her milk and potatoes set out neatly beside her as she watched the exchange taking place around the table.
It still puzzled him—to some extent annoyed him—that Roweena so seldom participated in a meal but instead behaved as if she were a servant, compelled to wait table for others. He had carefully broached the subject of her odd behavior with Gabriel on one occasion, but the big man had simply shrugged and replied, “That is her way.”
By now, this small, humble cottage had become comfortably familiar to Brady. After his recovery from the head injury, he had returned to help restore the roof, as a way of thanking Gabriel for taking him in. During that time, he and the Big Fella had become almost friendly, at least tolerant of each other. While Brady was no longer intimidated by the taciturn giant, he still had a tendency to tread with care when his host fell into one of his tight-lipped moods.
He hadn’t expected that he would actually come to like, even admire, the big fisherman, especially in so brief a time. Incredibly, he found himself coveting the man’s approval; the fact that that approval didn’t seem to be forthcoming puzzled, even irritated, Brady more than he cared to admit.
Roweena puzzled him even more. At first he’d suspected that her subservient behavior must be Gabriel’s doing, had wondered if the man had deliberately consigned her to a housemaid’s role, perhaps as a way of payment for providing her a home.
It hadn’t taken him long to realize that wasn’t the case. Although the big fisherman made a show of sternness with both girls, he was much more a father figure to them than a master. With Evie, especially, he could be surprisingly gentle, in spite of his occasional feigned severity.
When it came to Roweena, Gabriel’s conduct was somewhat more complicated. Although he was kind to her and openly protective, at the same time he seemed to maintain a certain distance between them. Whereas he would tease Evie, and even rough and tumble with the child, with Roweena he became more a patriarchal figure: watchful, often stern, though never bullying or impatient.
Now he seemed to have adopted a similar stance with the Sheridan girl. At the moment, he was studying her with that fixed gaze of his that seemed to discern everything while revealing nothing. For her part, Terese Sheridan appeared to have steeled herself against the giant’s scrutiny and brusque demeanor, answering his questions succinctly, and once or twice a little sharply.
Mostly, she ate. Brady hadn’t missed the eager way she eyed the food when they first pulled up to the table. But instead of digging in, as he suspected she was longing to do, she partook of the meal with an admirable measure of restraint, as if she were too proud to call attention to her hunger.
Gabriel didn’t seem in the least offended by the shortness of her replies but went right on questioning her. He added little to the conversation but mostly sat listening to her replies with the poker-faced expression Brady had come to know well by now.
Although the two frequently lapsed into the Irish as they spoke, Gabriel would occasionally glance at Brady and steer the conversation back to English. Brady was able to catch the gist of their exchange well enough. Apparently, Terese Sheridan was on her own, had lost her entire family except for the brother in America, and had survived the killing windstorm with no more than the clothes on her back. It sounded to Brady as if she had made her way here from her island home by sheer spunk and her own wits.
When she calmly declared her intention to join her brother in the States, there seemed no reason to doubt that she would do just that. Despite her disheveled, half-starved appearance, the girl’s iron will and strength of purpose were blazingly evident. Even so, Brady suspected she would find her course a difficult one, for by her own admission, she was penniless.
“I had my own money, you see.” The reply to Gabriel’s question about her circumstances was given without hesitation, though her tone was not without an edge of bitterness. “Money I’d saved from what my brother sent. But didn’t my aunt Una steal it away from me? All but two dollars, which are now gone. That’s why I must find work, and find it soon. Not only for my keep, but to earn my passage.”
“Your aunt stole your money?” Brady put in. “What kind of woman steals from a member of her own family?”
The girl shot him a look that clearly questioned his knowledge of human nature. “A spiteful, greedy woman, it seems to me.” Her lips curved slightly in a cold mockery of a smile. “But a Christian woman, you understand.”
Brady stared at her. There was the same hard edge he had seen earlier. It was gone as quickly as it came, but not before the thought occurred to him that while Terese Sheridan might be only seventeen, she seemed to be more woman than girl—and one with a marked streak of cynicism, at that.
“So…what do you mean to do now?” he asked casually.
She looked at him but offered no reply. Instead, she turned back to Gabriel. “Is there work to be had in the Claddagh?”
He shrugged. “The work of the Claddagh is fishing. We go out in our boats, and we fish.” He studied her. “Still, there might be something for a strong girl who is willing to work.”
The girl leaned forward slightly on the stool. “I am strong, though you may not see it in me today. I am strong, and I am not afraid of hard work.”
The big man rubbed his chin. For a moment he lapsed into the Irish, but with a quick glance at Brady, reverted to English. “There is a woman. Not wealthy, mind, but not poor either. She’s not an old woman, but her man is dead—died at sea, God rest his soul. The daughter married outside the Claddagh and moved away to Australia.”
He paused and sat stroking his heavy black beard in a reflective gesture. “Jane has a sickness in her bones,” he continued, “that grows worse by the day. Her hands are drawn and knotted like old tree limbs, her legs, too—she can scarcely walk at all but must use a chair most days. She can no longer tend the house or do her own marketing. She suffers in a bad way, Jane does.”
He shook his head, then went on. “Roweena goes and helps sometimes, but I can’t be sparing her every day. She has work enough to do here, and there’s the little one to look after. Besides, it makes it difficult, her not being able to hear. I expect poor Jane would pay if she could find a reliable girl to do for her.”
This was by far the longest speech Brady had ever heard from the big fisherman, and he stared at him in surprise.
“This widow woman—do you think she would hire me?” Terese Sheridan watched Gabriel closely for his reply.
He gave a shrug. “She will or she won’t. We will take you to her and let Jane speak for herself, if you want.” He paused. “But the woman is in a bad way, mind. On her worst days, you would have to do for her almost as you would a babe. And then the house needs care and the cooking done. If you’re shy of sickness or lowly work, don’t be volunteering yourself.”
The girl pressed forward even more, her meal seemingly forgotten. “I’m not too proud to care for a poor sick woman. And there is no work I would not do. Would you be taking me to her, please?”
Gabriel regarded her for a long moment. “First you will finish your food and warm yourself,” he said. “After
ward, Roweena will help to make you more presentable.”
Brady saw the girl’s face flame, but she said nothing, merely glanced down over herself with a rueful look. “And then you will take me to this woman?” she pressed.
Gabriel’s steady gaze continued to measure her. Finally, he gave a short nod. “Then I will take you to Jane.”
Brady studied the big fisherman, somewhat puzzled by his ready acceptance of the intriguing young thief. But then, Gabriel was a constant enigma to him. One minute the man seemed little more than a sour-tempered hermit, the next, a kindly benefactor. The Big Fella had myriad facets to his nature, all of them unpredictable.
Despite his many peculiarities, however, he had been decent enough to the “bothersome Yank,” as he sometimes was wont to call Brady. So long as Brady did not annoy him with too many questions—or pay Roweena excessive attention—the Big Fella seemed tolerant of his presence. In fact, Brady suspected that the only reason he and his sketchbook were allowed to roam at will among the Claddagh community was because Gabriel had first accepted him at his hearth fire.
That the big fisherman wielded that sort of influence among the colony’s inhabitants had become obvious to Brady early on. Gabriel might not be the “king,” as they referred to their official governor, but he clearly held a great deal of power in his own right.
It hadn’t taken long to discover that Gabriel—if the man had a last name, it was his secret—was a man of great importance in the Claddagh. There was his formidable physical presence, of course; it was difficult not to be awed by the giant. But there was much more to this man than mere brawn. For one thing, the people of the settlement seemed to view him as a sort of healer. They brought him their ill children, the occasional accident victim, and even sought his advice on ailing animals. Apparently, the big fisherman had a way with such things, for more often than not his “patients” went away much improved.
Brady had noticed an abundant supply of dried herbs and tins of medicine stored on shelves above the painted dresser. He had also seen the Big Fella, with Roweena’s assistance, set a broken arm or foot. Less frequently, Roweena might be summoned to help with a birthing. At those times, Gabriel would sign some hurried instructions, then send her off with a small valise that looked like a physician’s case.