Leaving Ireland

by Ann Moore

  Grace blinked, surprised. “How do you know they’re still living?”

  “My mother writes once a year.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, Captain, ’tis a strange way for a man to be with his very own mother. Have you done something awful, then, that she won’t see you?”

  “Of course not! She’d like to see me.”

  “Then why, in Heaven’s name, have you not gone in all this time?”

  He hesitated. “I’m not sure,” he said, at last. “I think about it. I do miss her. Miss the place.” He stopped, and shook his head firmly. “But I’m a sea captain. My life is different now.”

  “If you had Liam, you would’ve gone back,” she reminded him. “Why can you not go on your own?”

  He frowned, very uncomfortable under the scrutiny of those green eyes. “If I took Liam there, I’d be a father instead of a son. They couldn’t expect me to stay. But if I go alone …” He sighed, exasperated. “They expect too much. She expects too much. And now she’s old. I won’t be able to walk away a second time.”

  “How did you in the first place?”

  “She packed my bag, led me to the door, and pointed out the road,” he recalled. “She made me go. Said she knew I was no farmer and would never be happy there.”

  “And you can’t forgive her for that?”

  “No!” he exclaimed. “I’m grateful to her.”

  “So grateful that you’d never let her see you again?” Grace gave him a look she saved for foolish children. “All, now, Captain, no one tells a man what to do—he does what he wants.” She nodded. “Your mam is old and living with all the choices she did or didn’t make. She doesn’t want you to come home to stay, only to look upon you and see the man you’ve become, to look in your eyes and see if you’re happy with your life. Because if you are, then, Captain, that’s a choice she made right and her heart can be easy with it.”

  Reinders felt her words pierce his heart, and he replied defensively. “You don’t look old enough to be dispensing wisdom about mother’s and sons, Missus Donnelly.”

  “I am twenty years,” she told him, the weight of her life rock steady in her gaze. “And I know about mother’s because mine was the finest that ever walked the earth. She died young and her mother became my mother, the finest that ever walked the earth. And if either one of them were alive even now—sitting by a fire, waiting for me—I would go, no matter where on earth I was. I would go. I am who I am because of them.” Her eye caught the unfurled charts on the table. “A man cannot navigate his life without understanding where he came from and where he might be headed. Oh, aye, Captain—if I had a mother still alive on this earth who had never done me a bit of wrong, I would not forsake her in her old age.”

  Guilty, he judged himself, guilty as charged.

  “I’m not saying you’re guilty,” she continued. “But you are her son, and mother’s love their sons. I know about that, as well, you see—I’ve buried two, and left one behind.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

  “Left one behind?” Reinders was surprised. “In Ireland?”

  “He was newborn,” she explained hesitantly. “And sickly. I was afraid to bring him. Afraid ’twould be the death of him.”

  “So you lecture me about abandoning my mother, but you see nothing wrong with abandoning your own son?” He heard the harshness in his voice, but was unable to temper it. She had wounded him.

  “I see everything wrong with it,” Grace amended quietly. “And every day, I curse myself for not having had the courage to stay behind.”

  “Where is he? In an orphan asylum?”

  Grace winced. “He’s with my da.”

  “So you abandoned both your son and your father?” Reinders shook his head. “So much for family loyalty.”

  “I love my family with all my heart.” Grace lowered her eyes, refusing to let him see her pain.

  “Well, Missus Donnelly, if that’s the way you love your family—especially your son—maybe I’d better rethink putting Liam in your care.”

  Grace looked at the captain’s hard face and wondered how she’d managed to anger him so quickly. Her eyes searched his, and she knew suddenly that she would have to tell him the truth.

  “I had no choice when it came to leaving my son behind,” she said resolutely. “A mother across the sea is better than a mother hanged.”

  That got his attention.

  She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I’m wanted in Ireland,” she confessed. “For killing an English guard.”

  Reinders stared at her, stunned. “Did you do it?”

  “Aye,” she said evenly, though not without remorse.

  “I’m speechless.”

  “I only hope you’ll stay that way.” She smiled, ruefully. “And that you’ll not judge me so harshly. You’ve no idea what it’s like, Captain—how many dead, how many turned out of their homes. ’Twas my own home about to be tumbled, my old da shot by a greedy land agent, and I did what I had to do,” she said determinedly. “There’s many of us did what we had to do to keep our families alive. There’s no living to be had in Ireland, Captain, without a piece of ground to grow your food. The English want the land, all of it, and they’re not about to feed those who occupy it. So we fight them, or we die. Or we leave.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and he was.

  “I’m not asking for your pity.” Grace lifted her chin. “I’ve made my own choice and I’ll live with it. I pray I’ll see my son before his first year is out …” She bit her lip. “But anything could happen, and I only hope that even if he grows into a man without me, he won’t hate me for my hard choice, but understand that it broke my heart. And I hope he’ll seek me out so that I can tell him not an hour passed without my yearning to see his face.”

  Reinders let out a long, slow breath and regarded her anew. “This is why you took Liam—because he’s a lost son.”

  Grace nodded, fighting back her tears. “I’ve told you more than I should have.” Her hands trembled with the enormity of her confession.

  “You risked it for the boy. And because you want me to go visit my mother,” he added, wryly.

  “Aye.” She laughed a little, wiped her eyes. “Will you then?”

  “I guess I’d better.” He patted his pockets, hoping a handkerchief would magically appear. “I swear to you, Missus Donnelly,” he offered instead. “What you told me today will never leave this room. You have my word on that.”

  Grace nodded, still shaken.

  “I’ll do everything I can for Liam,” he assured her. “Tell him to start calling you Aunt so that it becomes natural.”

  “I will.” She was embarrassed now, drained. She set her cup on his desk, stood and smoothed her skirt, her hair, resettled her shawl.

  He stood, too, and came around. “I … I enjoyed our conversation,” he said awkwardly. “And I’m glad we’ve come to a resolve.”

  Grace gave him a shaky smile and put out her hand, which he shook warmly. What remarkable eyes, he thought again.

  “My da told me once they were the same as the great pirate queen Grainne O’Maille—though how he knew, I can’t say. ’Twas for her he called me, and he never does tire of the story.”

  Reinders nodded, embarrassed to realize he’d spoken aloud.

  “Anyway, I’m grateful to you, Captain.” She let go of his hand. “’Tis a hard thing for the boy, losing his mother.”

  “Good-bye, Missus Donnelly,” he said gently.

  “Good-bye, Captain. Thank you.”

  After Grace had gone, Reinders sat down again and took out his log. He wrote nothing, however, simply sat in his chair and stared at the wall—thinking, thinking. So caught up was he in thought, that he missed the creak of Boardham’s stealthy tread as the steward disengaged himself from the shadows of the narrow hall and crept past the door to which his ear had been pressed until Missus Donnelly took her leave.

  Seventeen

  “YOU came
!” Danny bounded across the room and shook Sean’s good hand. “The lovely Miss Osgoode’s here,” he added confidentially.

  Sean shoved him off. “Shut that great gob of yours, will you?” He glanced around self-consciously. “God forbid she should hear your blather and think me an eejit like yourself.”

  “Ah, now, boyo.” Danny put his arm around Sean’s shoulders and steered him into a corner. “You may have it all over me in the matter of brains and the like, but when it comes to matters of the heart”—he tapped his own chest—“I’m your man.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you love me, then, Danny?” Sean asked with a straight face. “Because you know I’m fond of you and all. I just don’t think of you that way.”

  Danny laughed and punched him. “You’re daft, man! You know you’re not my kind!”

  “I’m not anyone’s kind.” Sean glanced ruefully at Marcy standing in a circle of admirers. “Look at them—big, strapping Swedes and Germans. Who’d want a crippled Irishman can barely earn his keep?”

  “It’s true you’ve got an ugly mug,” Danny allowed. “And you’re not the mightiest of men, with your arm like that and your big shoe, you live above a saloon, your clothes are all patched—”

  “I feel so much better now,” Sean interrupted. “Hang on while I go over and ask her to marry me.”

  “As I was saying.” Danny grinned. “You might not think you’ve got a lot to offer, but you’re forgetting one thing.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Your charm.” Danny crossed his arms with satisfaction. “You’re grand company, O’Malley—especially when you’re buying.” He winked. “A true gentleman is what you are, and folks feel a little sharper, a little brighter when they’re around you.”

  “All right. How much do you want to borrow?” Sean pretended to pat his pockets, looking for money.

  “Ah, now, you know ’tis true! You’ve a gift! Why I’ll wager you could even charm Police Captain Callahan, that oily snake.”

  “I wouldn’t want to get close enough to try,” Sean told him. “That’s one man whose notice I’d like to avoid.”

  “Wish I could—isn’t he the new landlord, and our rent just gone up?” Danny shook his head, disgusted. “Sent over a couple of Bowery B’hoys to shake us up a little, let us know we’d best pay or get out. We’ll have to take in another man to keep the room.”

  “You’ve already got six in there! Is the window still broken?”

  Danny nodded. “Aye, and the rats are coming through the hole in the wall, but he won’t be making repairs anytime soon—instead, he’s adding on more rooms in the back.”

  “How does he get away with that?” Sean was indignant. “Aren’t there inspectors? Isn’t the city supposed to be trying to clean that place up, provide decent lodgings?”

  “Ah, not really.” Danny shrugged. “That’s just talk for the papers. I been there two years now and it only gets worse, not better.”

  “Why don’t the tenants speak up?”

  “Who’d listen? Hundreds pour off those boats every day willing to rent a space on the cellar floor if that’s all they can find—better to take it, then rent half to some other poor bastard and get ahead. It’s all bribes and payoffs, anyway. No one wants to rock the boat, and get kicked out.” He rolled his eyes, wearily. “Getting fed up with it myself. ’Tis no way for a man to live, scrambling over each other like the rats.”

  “It’s beating you down, then.”

  “Aye, ’tis. I’m a rough man—not like you, with all your charm—and I’m only getting rougher.” Danny glanced at the yellow-haired girl at the refreshment table. “Ellen LaVang, over there, she likes the thought of taming me, and I’m starting to like the thought of letting her.”

  “Must’ve been a hard day,” Sean joked.

  Danny didn’t laugh. “They’re all hard. And soon enough I’ll be a hard-drinking man like those who share my room—just another poor, dumb Irishman came to the new land and made nothing of himself.”

  Sean drew back in surprise. “Danny, I …”

  “Ah, never mind.” Danny threw an arm around Sean’s shoulders. “Just crying in my beer, is all. But I’m serious about Miss LeVang,” he said. “And by the way, she’s let me in on a little secret.”

  Sean eyed him suspiciously.

  “Your Miss Osgoode hasn’t a moment of care for those lunky farm boys. Seems she’s got her heart set on a high-minded city boy—an Irishman, no less!” Danny squeezed him.

  “I don’t believe it.” Sean pulled away. “Its not true. And even if it were—her father’s a solicitor and an Elder of the church. He’d never allow it.”

  “You don’t know that!” Danny insisted. “The man dotes on her, being motherless and all, and I’ll wager what’s important to her is important to him, as well.”

  Sean looked across the room just as Marcy turned to look at him; their eyes met and she smiled warmly, kindly, then excused herself from her companions and started toward him.

  “Oh, my God,” Sean muttered in alarm.

  “Just talk to her,” Danny advised. “If there’s one thing you know how to do in spades, my friend, it’s talk. Good evening, Miss Osgoode! You remember my pal Sean O’Malley?”

  “Of course I do.” She smiled again and Sean found he could not take his eyes off her.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to say hello to Miss LeVang before the meeting starts.” Danny bowed politely, then turned and slid Sean an encouraging wink before he left.

  “I’m glad you found your way back to us, Mister O’Malley. Danny told us at the last meeting that you’d had bad news from home.” Marcy hesitated. “The death of your friend. And your sister’s ship is still not in. We’ve been praying for you.” She touched his hand briefly.

  “Thank you,” he said, gratefully. “It’s been heavy on me, true enough. Morgan was like my own brother, and Grace …” He stopped; this was not the light conversation of courtship.

  Marcy watched him intently. “You must be feeling quite alone, then. If it’s any comfort, I hope you know you have a family here. With us.” She blushed, and looked down.

  “Are you sure there’s room for an Irishman?” he asked pointedly. “We tend to be the odd men out in families such as this.”

  “Not at all!” she exclaimed. “We don’t think like that! We’re not Norwegians or Germans or Swedes or Poles or Irish … but Americans! All of us, American, coming together to worship as one body. One family in God.” Her eyes glowed intensely, and she leaned closer to him. “And you are a welcome part of that family, Sean. If you want to be.”

  “I do,” he said, caught up in her fervor, the intimacy of the moment, the closeness of her body to his.

  “I’m so glad.” She took his arm—his crippled arm—and this meant more to him than anything else. “Will you sit with me tonight while Father speaks?”

  He nodded and allowed himself to be led across the room, oblivious to Ellen’s satisfied nod and Danny’s thumbs-up; he sat beside Marcy, breathed in the clean, soapy smell of her, and didn’t hear a word her father said, but felt—for the first time in a long time—the unassailable comfort of belonging.

  Eighteen

  DOCTOR Draper found the arrangement more than satisfactory: a regular supply of good whiskey in return for providing Mister Boardham with a place to do his business—a brisk, stealthy trade in extra food, water, blankets, spirits, tobacco—thereby undermining the authority of the captain, a man he had come to loathe. Draper’s wife and youngest son had fallen ill, and while the captain allowed him to tend them, the doctor was not permitted to leave off his other duties. His laudanum gone, he depended upon the whiskey to see him through each long night, and so found himself beholden to the steward, a hard little man true enough, but sympathetic to the doctor’s plight.

  He was a little drunker than usual tonight, but what did it matter? The patients—indeed, most of the passengers in the hold—were sound asleep; the only others still awake
were Mister Boardham and his lady friend. Lady friend. Draper snorted. Not all those who wanted extras had the pennies or trinkets to trade and were, if men, out of luck. But if women … He listened to the sniggers, the sound of rustling clothes—oops, a tear! A gasp! Draper scooted his chair a little closer to the curtain that separated his private space from the rest of the ward, and cocked his head toward the sounds—more urgent now, Boardham’s low voice demanding, a girlish squeal. Aroused, the doctor swigged from his flask and closed his eyes to better imagine what was happening not five feet away. There was the undeniable rip of cloth and a yelp from the girl, followed by a fleshy thud—the back of Boardham’s hand, most likely. A little slap and tickle, Draper told himself, that was all it was, all the steward wanted in return for a loaf of bread, nothing wrong with that. The girl had come willingly; she knew what was expected. Draper licked his lips and considered peeking around the end of the curtain; certainly things had progressed, the thrashing and moaning louder now.

  “What’s going on?” Grace’s voice, rough with fatigue, startled the doctor, who opened his bleary eyes and frowned at her.

  “Go away. This doesn’t concern you.” He took in her own rumpled state of undress, the loosened ties of her blouse. “Unless, of course, you’re next.”

  She saw the flask in his hand, took in his drunkenness, the sounds of struggle, and stepped toward the curtain.

  He stood, knocking the chair back, and blocked her way. “It’s none of your business,” he said sharply, recognizing her. “You.”

  There was a hard thump against the wall or floor, and the girl cried out, was slapped hard, and cursed viciously.

  Grace looked at the doctor, then realized he would do nothing to help and stepped around him, flinging back the curtain. The girl was pinned beneath Boardham and turned a pleading face toward Grace—her lip split and bloody, eye swelling, the front of her dress torn open, the skirt pushed up. Boardham turned too, furious now, at the interruption.