by BJ Hoff
And she had given her the ring.
Terese held out her hand and looked at the gold ring Jane had pressed upon her the night before she left. “ ’Twas made right here, in the Claddagh,” Jane had told her. “It belonged to my mother, who passed it to me. My daughter wore it for a time, but she left it behind when she married and left the Claddagh. You wear it now, girl. Wear it to America, and remember Jane Connolly, who gave it to you. Remember me and the Claddagh—and remember Ireland. For Ireland is not only where you come from, Terese Sheridan—Ireland is what you are.”
Terese lifted her hand to study the ring. The Fede ring—the “faith ring,” Jane had called it—displayed two hands holding a heart surmounted by a crown. Cast in fine gold, its tradition was one of love and friendship, honor, loyalty, and the hope of future glory.
It was the only piece of jewelry Terese had ever owned, and she touched it now, turning it a bit so that the two hands and the heart were clearly visible.
Finally, she raised her eyes from the ring for one final look at her homeland. In that moment, she placed a hand over the child who grew within her and quietly gave voice to the longing of her heart.
“Please…merciful Savior…let my child be born to a better life in America…a life of hope instead of hunger…and freedom instead of fear…A better life, Lord, please…a better life…”
Then she turned…turned her back on Ireland, on all her yesterdays. And as she turned her face to the west, to America, she lifted the hand bearing the Claddagh ring, lifted it in farewell to the old life…and in salute to the new.
—BOOK TWO—
Ashes and Lace
PART ONE
LIKE GOLD IN THE FIRE
I go east, but he is not there. I go west, but I cannot find him. I do not see him in the north, for he is hidden. I turn to the south, but I cannot find him. But he knows where I am going. And when he has tested me like gold in a fire, he will pronounce me innocent.
JOB 23:8-10
PROLOGUE
BETWEEN DESTINY AND DESPAIR
Roll forth, my song, like the rushing river
That sweeps along to the mighty sea.
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN
ABOARD THE PROVIDENCE, ON THE ATLANTIC,
LATE SEPTEMBER, 1839
The bunk creaked as Terese Sheridan turned to look at the little girl beside her. Although it was still long before dawn, the child was awake, staring at Terese with those large, still eyes that seemed to hold a river of sorrow. At their feet the girl’s younger brother slept, though fitfully.
Already the children had been marked by the voyage. The girl, Shona, had become frighteningly lethargic, showing no interest in anything except for her little brother, Tully. As for the boy, he had developed a cough that seemed to deepen with each passing day. And packed in as they were among countless others who carried all manner of sickness and ague, there was no telling what they might yet come down with.
Again Terese shifted, hoping to ease the ache in her back. The berths were little more than wooden shelves nailed to the wall, with nothing to cushion the constant, bruising impact as the ship rode the sea. There had been no thought that they would need to bring their own mattresses, and so they had come with only minimal bedding, this provided by the Orphan Friends Society. Their first day out, Terese had tried to soften the bunks by lining them with blankets, but the nights were too cold to lie uncovered, and so they now faced interminable weeks of the punishing bare berths.
By the time they had been at sea a week, some of the steerage passengers had taken to calling the Providence a “coffin ship.” An apt description if ever there was one, Terese thought. It was like a dungeon, this stinking hole: cold and dark, the air foul with the stench of aging timbers, bodies crammed too tightly together, and human waste. In the dim, unventilated quarters, the sounds of light snoring or women weeping mingled with the moans of those who writhed on their bunks in the throes of sickness and the prayers of those still strong enough to storm heaven in search of deliverance.
And always there was the relentless, sickening pitch and roll of the ship.
It only made their cup more bitter still that they had never been meant to travel in steerage at all! Brady had thought to spare them that much at least, arranging, through the sponsorship of his brother’s newspaper, for proper cabins in second class for Terese and the children.
By the end of their first day aboard ship, however, they had been herded off to steerage like cattle, the officer in charge viciously driving them below with a few other “filthy peasants” who had straggled on board after them.
Terese had screamed at him, had even tried to shove her way past him to plead their case with another officer, but the lout easily threw her off, strong-arming her and the children below, where they remained, virtual prisoners with the rest of the poor souls packed in around them.
Terese had existed in a state of barely contained fury ever since, daily blaming Brady for spurning her, for not being man enough to claim responsibility for the child she carried, for not going aboard with them to inspect their accommodations—indeed, she blamed Brady for every imaginable grievance, even for the disgusting food and vile water.
Unable to lie still any longer, she rose, stepped away from their bunks, and stared at the mass of bodies stretched out in all directions. A familiar feeling of confinement, of being caught in a trap and abandoned—cut off from everything and everyone except the underworld of this ship—threatened to overwhelm her. The dank hull of the ship seemed to close in on her, and the passengers sprawled wherever she looked made her want to scream at the futility of her situation.
She almost thought it would be easier to make her way up to the deck and fling herself into the sea than to endure this cursed existence another day. So wretched was she, so nearly defeated with disillusionment and despair, that she might have done just that had it not been for the babe she carried and the two young orphans dependent upon her.
Instead she forced herself to turn her back on the squalor all around her and, squeezing her eyes shut, hugged her arms to herself so fiercely that she shook with the very effort. She reminded herself once again that with every day that passed in this hellhole, she was putting the misery of her past in Ireland behind her.
Unexpectedly, the voice of Jane Connolly, the poor crippled woman whose brittle facade had concealed a surprisingly compassionate heart, rang through Terese’s mind like the wail of the wind, and she lifted her hand to study the gold ring on her finger.
On the night before Terese’s departure, Jane had not only added an extra week’s pay to Terese’s wages but had astonished her with the gift of a solid gold Fede ring—the faith ring of the Claddagh, once worn by Jane and then by her daughter.
But the gift had not been given without a chilling admonition…
“Wear it to America,” Jane had said of the ring. “Wear it…and remember me and the Claddagh…Remember Ireland. For Ireland is not only where you come from, Terese Sheridan—Ireland is what you are.”
Jane was wrong! Ireland was not what she was. Ireland was her past, a past as dark, as cold and bitter, as the bowels of this accursed ship.
With her back still turned to the abominable reality of steerage, she reminded herself that Ireland was behind her, while America—her future—lay ahead. All she had to do was survive this pit of perdition, and she would be free to begin a new life.
And survive it she would. Whatever it took.
If God allowed it…
The whisper in her spirit chilled the heat of her resolve like an icy waterfall. The farther they put out to sea, the more difficult it became to hold on to her already tenuous faith. She could almost feel it slipping away from her, like the waves in the wake of the ship. There were times, usually in the dead of night when the sounds of suffering all around her were heightened by the groaning and creaking of the old ship, when she feared that God might have abandoned her altogether.
What if, because of her sin with B
rady, God had turned his back on her for good? What if there were no future for her and her child, only an unremarkable death in this squalid hole before she even reached the harbor of New York?
The thought made her shudder, and in spite of her determination not to give in to her circumstances, she was suddenly afraid. She began to tremble, her entire body racked by one seizure of chills after another.
Oh, please, Lord, I’ll not be denying that I deserve your punishment, but my babe is innocent of any wrongdoing, he is! Won’t you please help me to survive this horror and give my child something better?
Sweet Savior, at the end of this nightmare, let there be a new life waiting, a future for the both of us, in America!
1
A MOST RESPECTABLE MAN
It’s the jewel that can’t be got that is the most beautiful.
IRISH PROVERB
NEW YORK CITY, EARLY NOVEMBER
Jack Kane sat in his office at the Vanguard, pondering, not for the first time, at what point his fascination with Samantha Harte had deepened to love—and exactly what he was going to do about it.
It was an autumn-apple-crisp Monday morning. The past week, typical of New York, had been wet and gray, but today seemed to promise at least a glimpse of late fall as depicted by the poets: brisk and clear and golden.
Jack’s mood was almost light, if somewhat distracted. He had more than enough work to keep him busy the rest of the day, yet he seemed incapable of concentrating on anything but Samantha.
How had things come to such a pass?
He had scarcely touched the woman, after all, other than an occasional clasp of the hand. The one act toward her that might possibly have been construed as something more than merely a harmless, friendly gesture had occurred weeks ago, when he’d come treacherously close to kissing her: an impulsive move and one quickly halted when Samantha virtually recoiled from him. Ever since, Jack had almost religiously exerted his self-control when they were together.
A priest could not have been more restrained.
But hang it all, he was no priest, and for all his earlier intentions to be nothing more than her employer and her friend, he was more bedazzled by the woman than ever!
He had managed to maintain his self-imposed discipline not merely because he was determined to win her trust—although that was at the heart of it—but perhaps just as much because he feared he might frighten her off altogether. Although Samantha had told him hardly anything about her previous marriage, she had at least confirmed Jack’s suspicion that she’d been mistreated. How badly, or what form the mistreatment had taken, he didn’t know—perhaps never would—for Samantha was obviously either unwilling or unable to speak of it. In fact, she had seemed to indicate that she hadn’t even confided in her parents.
On one level Jack longed for her confidence—he coveted her trust, if not her affection. Yet at times he felt something akin to relief that she had kept her silence, for he wasn’t at all sure he could handle the truth.
He could not bear the thought of Samantha’s being hurt; indeed, he cringed at the very idea. The few times he had allowed himself to wonder about the circumstances of her marriage to Bronson Harte, a treacherous kind of fury would invariably rise up in him. Perhaps he was better off not knowing the details.
He couldn’t help but wonder if this might not be a form of cowardice, but then again, he had no doubt but that if Samantha should ever choose to unburden herself to him, he would be quick to listen and even grateful for her confidence.
The truth was that he desperately wanted Samantha to trust him, no matter what it took to achieve that trust.
He wanted her to trust him. He wanted her to need him.
And he wanted her to marry him.
Jack sighed and leaned back in his chair. He was in a bad way, no doubt about it.
He found himself wondering if his exemplary conduct was having any effect at all on Samantha. Was he only deluding himself that his campaign to win her over was actually working? He could never be quite sure what to make of the woman.
She had a way of looking at a man, Samantha did, that seemed to peel right past any and every layer of subterfuge while revealing nothing of her own emotions.
More than once Jack had been struck by the discomfiting suspicion that she was only too well aware of the effort required of him to play the gentleman. And while he might not go so far as to say she found his attempts amusing, on occasion she would regard him with a certain quirk of the eyebrow that made him wonder if she wasn’t simply biding her time, expecting him at any moment to trip over his newly cultivated respectability.
He let out another long sigh of exasperation, but he couldn’t quite suppress a smile at the thought that he was going to see Samantha today. Indeed, if all went well, he hoped to see her later this morning and again tonight.
His mood brightened considerably at that point, and he pushed away from the desk in anticipation. This could be a very important day in his life, and he didn’t want to waste another minute before getting on with it.
Samantha had been expecting Tommy Ryder with the day’s copy, so she wasn’t surprised when someone rapped on the door a little after eleven.
Tommy was late, which meant that she would have to really push in order to have the proofing ready for the afternoon pickup. Even so, she felt no real annoyance, only a mild relief when the boy finally arrived.
Her smile quickly fled, however, when she opened the door to find not the youthful messenger from the Vanguard but the owner of the Vanguard.
“Jack!”
He stood there, tall and dark, filling the doorway like a lean black bear. Under one arm was tucked the day’s copy; in his free hand, he held a small bouquet of fall flowers.
Samantha stared, her gaze going from his slightly smug smile to the bouquet. Flustered, she couldn’t seem to find her voice.
Even now, after months in his employ and despite the odd—and often confusing—sort of friendship that had developed between them, Jack’s presence still unnerved her.
To say the least.
His smile widened, as if he found Samantha’s discomfiture highly gratifying. “It seems that I’m your messenger boy today,” he said smoothly, extending the bouquet. “May I come in, Samantha?”
Samantha stared at the bouquet without making a move to accept it. “Oh—well, actually, I don’t know that that would be a good idea.”
She thought she had long since passed the time when Jack Kane—or any other man, for that matter—could make her stammer like a schoolgirl, but even as she struggled to regain her composure, Samantha felt her mind go to mush.
She reminded herself that she was not a schoolgirl—indeed would soon be turning thirty—and she could think of nothing less becoming to a mature woman than to suddenly start behaving like a mindless chit.
She supposed she should invite him in; despite the difficulties of their relationship, he was still her employer, after all. But if her landladies downstairs, the Misses Washington, should learn that she had allowed a man inside her apartment, even for only a moment, they would be scandalized.
She suddenly realized that Jack was watching her with a decidedly amused expression, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.
“No doubt you’re anxious about offending your delightful landladies,” he said. “You needn’t worry. I believe the dears actually find me rather charming.”
Samantha stared at him.
“Oh, I met Miss Rena and her sister on the way in,” he said, as if in answer to her unspoken question. “They were bringing in the flowers from the stoop—they seem to think we’ll have frost tonight, you see—and I offered to help. I explained that my call is rather urgent and strictly business, and they were most understanding. And very helpful,” he added, still smiling cheerfully.
“So, you see, Samantha, it’s perfectly all right to have me in. We’ll leave the door open, of course, but I assure you that both Miss Rena and Miss Lily have the utmost confidence in me
. Apparently, I look every bit the gentleman to them.”
He looked, Samantha thought worriedly, like a pirate. A pirate in a perfectly tailored suit, as it were, and with a white posy in his lapel.
But a pirate all the same.
Again Jack extended the bouquet, and this time Samantha practically yanked it out of his hand. “All right, then, I suppose you might as well come in.”
“Why, thank you, Samantha,” he said, making a quick little bow and then breezing by her. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
2
A SMALL HINT OF REBELLION
Something there is in the virtuous heart that rebels if a thing is unfair.
ANONYMOUS
Inside, Samantha put the flowers in water, at the same time groping for something to say that didn’t sound altogether banal. Jack had followed her to the kitchen and, after placing the copy on the table, stood leaning casually against the sink as he watched her arrange the bouquet.
When he reached across her to inspect a wan-looking blossom that looked out of place among the others, Samantha almost stumbled in her haste to step away. He lifted an eyebrow but said nothing as he moved to reposition the drooping flower with great care, gently plucking a leaf or two before bracing it between a couple of larger, healthier blooms.
He straightened and turned back to her with a smile. Only then did Samantha manage to drag her gaze away from his hands.
“The copy is late, you know,” she said abruptly, cringing at the waspish tone of her own voice. “I’ll have all I can do to be finished by two.”
“Well then, why don’t I just stay and help?” he said, making a move as if to shrug out of his suit coat.
“No!” Samantha blurted out, more sharply than she’d intended.
Again one dark brow lifted as he hesitated, half out of his coat.
“I mean—that’s not necessary.” Her words spilled out in a rush as she fumbled to conceal her discomfort. “It won’t be all that late. Besides,” she hurried to add, “I wouldn’t want you to get news ink on your suit.”