Leaving Ireland

by Ann Moore

  “No?”

  She shook her head sorrowfully, and the look on his face was so forlorn that when he opened his arms, she stepped instantly into them.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered against his chest. “God knows I am.”

  “So am I.” He rested his chin on the top of her head. “I’ve been a fool. A right eejit, as you so eloquently put it.”

  Her laugh was half sob, and when she tipped her head up to look at him, he gently kissed her mouth. She pulled back and started to speak, but he kissed her again, and it was so soft and warm and tender that he thought he might drown in it.

  “Be with me,” he murmured against her ear. “I need you, Grace.”

  She searched his eyes, then gently took his hand and led him into the bedroom. He watched, hardly daring to believe, as she began to undress, and then he moved her hands away, untying her blouse and pulling it up over her head, turning her around and kissing the back of her neck as she let down her hair, burying his face in the weight of it, cupping his hands around her breasts.

  They kissed again, and he carried her to bed, tenderly setting her down on the top of the smooth sheets. Then he went to the window and lowered the shade, bathing the room in a dim glow. He undressed quickly and lay down beside her, running his hand over the lovely curves of her body, wanting her so much and afraid to begin.

  “Is this all right?” he whispered, brushing the hair away from her face, looking into her eyes, those eyes that swallowed him like the sea.

  “Aye.” She reached up and pulled him down to her again.

  He kissed her deeply then, and took her in his arms, folding her into him. A cool breeze blew across the bed from the open window, the curtain fluttered, and outside, birds soared toward home, calling their farewells through the delicate radiance of a twilight sky. Peace, he found the word at last—this was peace.

  Later, she lay in his arms and he told her the story of his life—of leaving his family’s farm and falling in love with the sea—only to be humbled when she told him the story of hers. He wrapped his arms more tightly around her, struggling to imagine this woman married to a cruel man, burying her infant sons, fighting for survival through starvation and illness, and finally marrying the one great love of her life, only to lose him forever. And then to lose his son. He pressed his lips to her cheek and tasted there the dampness of her silent tears.

  “Marry me, Grace,” he whispered, his heart pounding.

  She wept harder then, turned and buried her face in his shoulder, and he knew that she could not, that her heart still belonged to McDonagh and that she was too honest to pretend otherwise.

  “It’s all right,” he murmured, smoothing her hair—down now, loose on the pillow, heavy beneath his hand. “I can wait. I’ll wait.”

  They drowsed against one another, and when he awoke, Grace was dressing. It was so late, she said, the Ogues would be worried, she had to go now. He got up quickly and pulled on his own clothes, then held her one more time by the window, kissed her and studied her face in the moonlight. Taking her hand, he led the way down the dark staircase, through the kitchen, and out to the stable, where he lit a lantern. She stood near the door while he saddled his horse, then climbed up, with him behind, his arm around her waist.

  Slowly, the horse carried them through the hot summer night, down the lamp-lit streets, past the eyes of those who leaned out windows or gathered on rooftops to catch the breeze, past the open doors of noisy saloons, the dark alleyways, the quiet parks. Reinders wished he might always hold this woman against him, breathe in her scent, see the world through her eyes. He dropped his mouth to her neck and kissed her, lingering there.

  They passed the butcher’s shop, rounded the corner, then turned down the alley. Reinders pulled up outside the door and dismounted, lifting her down, but unable to let her go.

  “You won’t reconsider?” he forced himself to ask lightly. “Redeem me from the fires of Hell? This is your chance.”

  “Do you believe in Hell, then, Peter?” She stepped closer to see his face in the glow from the open door.

  “I think I do.” He was serious now. “Hell is what you lived through in Ireland. And Lily in Georgia. Hell is starvation and slavery and war.”

  “And what would Heaven be, then? In your mind, I mean?”

  “Marrying you,” he said simply.

  She put her arms around him and laid her head against his heart.

  “You’re a good man, Peter,” she whispered.

  “Not good enough, though.” He kissed the top of her head. “But two years is a long time. Things could change.” He pulled back and looked at her. “Will you write to me, Grace?”

  “Aye.”

  “And will you … think about it?”

  She bit her lip, then nodded.

  He kissed her, one last time, as long and as passionately as he dared, and then he just held her. I won’t lose this woman, he told himself, however long it takes, however many letters. I won’t give up.

  “I hope not,” she said, looking into his eyes, and then she let him go.

  Forty-two

  “WHERE are you taking me then, you old fool?” Barbara complained good-naturedly.

  “You’ll see soon enough.” Abban led the way through the woods, managing his crutches on the trail as if he did this every day. “Have a little faith, why don’t you, girl?”

  It was a beautiful day for it, she had to admit; the wood was cool after a long afternoon’s work in the hot sun, the ground a carpet of springy moss beneath her aching feet, the chatter of birds and squirrels—a bit of wildlife come back for now.

  He was always full of surprises, her one, always doing the little things: bringing her something to delight in, to wonder over, to think about; fixing her a meal or a cup of tea; drawing buckets of water, then heating it over the fire—hours of work and all after dark—just so she could have a private bathe in the community tub. She didn’t deserve it, she knew that to be true, not after what she’d done; but oh, how she’d come to love him and his familiar ways.

  They emerged at last in a little clearing, then made their way through a patchy field full of wildflowers, and up a short rise to a deserted cabin, its door ajar. She was sweating now, the hair damp against her forehead, her shirt sticking to her back.

  “Is this what you wanted to show me?” she asked, squinting against the light. “Whose is it, then?”

  “Well, ’tis ours,” he said, eyes twinkling. “If you want it, I mean.”

  “Ours?” She peered at him. “Are you daft? We’ve no money for cottages and land.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong!” he laughed. “Julias just sent us some. As a wedding present,” he added pointedly.

  “What?” She was baffled. “Have you got heat sickness, then? We’ve never wed!”

  “Not yet.” He put his finger to his lips, shushing her. “You can come out now, Father,” he called over his shoulder, and a priest disengaged himself from the shadow beyond the doorway. “This is an old friend of mine, Barbara. Meet Father Brown.”

  “I’m happy to know you at last, Miss McDonagh.” Father Brown put out his hand congenially. “I married your brother, you know, to Gracelin O’Malley. Fine people, those two, none better. I admired your brother very much.” Sorrow flitted across his heavily lined face. “I am honored to be here today.”

  “‘But do you …” She turned to Abban. “Does he know about …”

  “Oh, aye.” Abban grinned. “And you did promise to marry me if I found a priest willing to do it in light of the situation. You’ve not changed your mind, have you now?” He put his hand to his heart, pretending alarm.

  “Well, no, but I …” She looked at the priest. “Are you sure, Father?”

  Father Brown put an arm around her, leading her toward the house. “I’ll hear your full confession first,” he explained cheerily. “And then we’ll have a wedding.”

  “Here?”

  “There’s a lovely little shrine next to t
he road over there.” He pointed across the field. “I believe our Lord will be very pleased.”

  “Abban?” she asked, her eyes swimming.

  “Go on now,” he urged gently. “You first and then myself.”

  She followed the priest into the house, knelt before him, and poured out her heart, all her worries, all her doubts, all her sins. He listened carefully, and then he absolved her—in light of years of hard circumstance and endless struggle, their dear Lord would gladly forgive all trespasses. She wept with relief and when she came out, drying her eyes on her sleeve, Abban placed in her arms a bridal bouquet of brilliant wildflowers, plucked from the field while she’d unburdened her soul.

  It was twilight when they stood before the little shrine, holding hands, the priest performing the ceremony; then it was over, both of them laughing through their tears, and Father Brown—before he disappeared back into the countryside—wished them a long and happy life, many children, and peace in the Lord until the very end of their days. Amen.

  Forty-three

  GRACE and Liam set out right after breakfast for Orange Street, Seamus’ weekly pay in Grace’s pocket. They were later than usual, and it was already hot, but Grace didn’t mind. Despite Sean’s absence and Captain Reinders’ imminent departure, she felt more peaceful than she had in a long while.

  Tara and Dugan had been waiting anxiously when she’d come home late two nights ago, worried that something else had happened. Grace had told them what she’d learned from Marcy, and then she’d confessed—hesitantly, though not shamefully—what had happened with Captain Reinders, except that she called him Peter now, and there was a protective tenderness in her voice. If the Ogues were shocked, they didn’t show it. Dugan had proclaimed him an honorable man, good in a tight situation. Tara declared she’d known all along, and wasn’t it about time the two of them did, as well. Grace insisted that she and Peter had no understanding, only that they would write to one another until he returned. He’d be coming round to say good-bye to Liam, she warned, and they were, not to say one word about love and weddings and such. Though clearly disappointed, they’d given their word.

  And then she’d asked if she and the children might stay, despite Sean having gone; she’d realized that Liam’s father would no more allow his son to go to Illinois than to San Francisco, and she could never leave him. Tara and Dugan had said immediately she should stay, she could live with them all her life—especially as it appeared she’d never marry, they couldn’t help adding with a nudge.

  She laughed, remembering that. “Hurry up,” she called to Liam, who’d paused in front of the candy shop. “I might find a penny for you on our way back.”

  They walked block after long block, Grace pressing a cloth to her nose and mouth as they drew close to Seamus’ alley. Coming toward them was a health inspector and two policemen—trying to close down a building, most likely, or remove the children of a family too desperate to care for them anymore. She linked her arm through Liam’s and reined him in closer.

  Despite the filth in the courtyard, makeshift tents had been pitched on the ground—homes for newly arrived immigrants who couldn’t find or afford even the lowliest rooms. They hovered over cooking pots too near the outhouses, their children playing barefoot in the slime.

  Liam led the way up the stairs, then down the hall to number nine. How Seamus survived in that room was a mystery to Grace, and she harbored a hope he might pull himself together enough to move out, to do something other than drink himself to death, to finally know the boy who was his son.

  When he saw Missus Donnelly come trudging up the street, Boardham broke away from Draper’s group and trailed her into the wooden barrack, knowing she had money in her pockets. He’d had a disastrous week himself as there’d been no extra work—Callahan was cutting him off, he feared—and he’d lost what little cash he had on the dogs. He’d been looking out for possible shakedowns, but the few pennies he’d get from these bone-boilers didn’t seem worth the effort. Now, however, his luck had changed. He stood in the hall, outside number nine, listening to the sound of their voices, and then he pushed the door open.

  “Good morning, old man,” he said meanly. “Morning, Missus Donnelly. Boy.”

  They said nothing, frozen, but their eyes reflected their fear.

  “I’ve come to collect the rent.” Boardham put out his hand. “Now.”

  “I already paid.” Seamus’ ragged voice quavered.

  “Went up. Shortage of quality rooms, you know. Haven’t you seen them camped out in the yard?”

  “Give it to him,” Seamus said wearily, already defeated. “There’s nothing for it.”

  “We could call the police,” Grace bluffed.

  Boardham called her on it. “Be my guest. Inspectors right outside. That’d be your old friend, Doctor Draper. You remember him?” He smiled thinly. “The police with him work for me, too. So call all you like, no one’ll come.” He considered what he’d just said. “And no one’ll interrupt us, either.”

  Grace glanced at the door behind him. Boardham turned and locked it, then leaned against it.

  “Come here, boy, and bring me that money.”

  Liam looked at Grace, who hesitated, then nodded.

  When Liam was within reach, Boardham grabbed him, his arm like a vise around the boy’s neck. With his other hand, he pulled from his belt a long, thin blade.

  “Let’s have a little fun,” he invited, licking his lips. “Been a long time since you seen a woman, eh, Kelley, you old drunk? Take off that dress,” he barked at Grace.

  “No,” she retorted, her heart pounding.

  Boardham narrowed his eyes and brought the point of the knife up to Liam’s cheek. He flicked it and the boy gasped, a line of blood now trickling down his face.

  “Leave him be,” Seamus growled, moving forward.

  Boardham flicked again, and Liam cried out. Seamus froze.

  “Let’s be reasonable,” Boardham cajoled. “What’s a little cunny compared to this sweet face?”

  “All right,” Grace said instantly. “I’ll do it. But not in front of the boy. Let him go first. He’ll wait in the hall. He won’t make any noise, I promise.”

  “Oh, you promise, do you?” Boardham drew the blade delicately across Liam’s throat. “I don’t think so. More fun if he watches. Now take it off,” he snarled.

  Grace began to unbutton her vest, fingers shaking. Boardham laughed and put the knife between his teeth; then—still holding Liam tightly with one arm—he reached down and unfastened his own pants.

  “Ready when you are,” he snorted, the knife once more in position against the boy.

  Blinded by tears of frustration and fear, Grace could not get the last buttons undone. Seamus watched her struggle, then sized up his son and the position of Boardham’s knife. Giving a battle cry, he charged, crashing against them with his full weight, smashing them into the door and knocking Liam loose. Seamus locked his arms around Boardham, dragging him to the ground, the steward cursing now and fighting back.

  “Run!” Seamus yelled to his son. “Run, boy!”

  Grace didn’t hesitate, but grabbed Liam, threw back the bolt, and opened the door. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Boardham plunge the knife into Kelley’s chest again and again, and heard the agonizing cry of the old man’s last.

  They ran full out, she and Liam, through the courtyard, down the alley and into the street, where they nearly collided with Draper and his escort. They all stared at one another, openmouthed.

  “Murder!” Boardham shouted from behind. “Stop! Murderers!”

  Grace grabbed Liam by the arm and they tore off in the opposite direction from home, careening through alleyways and the tangled labyrinths of the tenement district, unable to slow until at last they emerged down by the waterfront. There, they huddled in a doorway, sides heaving, trying to catch a breath. Grace looked down, saw her state of undress, and silently repaired it.

  “I don’t know where we are,” she a
dmitted then. “Are you all right?” She touched his bloody cheek.

  “Aye.” He winced. “And I can get us home from here.”

  She nodded and he led the way down the secret trails of little boys who roamed the city, coming out across the street from Eberhardt, the butcher. They watched until the shop was momentarily empty, then ran over and slipped inside.

  “We have to use the tunnel,” Liam called to Missus Eberhardt, not waiting for an answer but throwing open the cellar door and going down.

  He moved the barrels and boxes out of the way, then ducked his head and led her through to the other side, into the dim coolness of Dugan’s cellar.

  “Stay here,” she directed from the bottom of the stairs. “We don’t know who’s up there. If I yell, run as fast as you can to Captain Reinders. Tell him what happened and ask him to hide you.”

  She felt her way up the dark stairway, pushed on the door, and realized it was bolted from the outside. She had no choice. Banging as softly as she could with the heel of her hand, she called low and insistently, “Dugan! Dugan Ogue! Tara! Hallo!” Unexpectedly, the bolt slid back and the door opened.

  “Good God Almighty, what’re you doing down there, Grace?” Dugan was astonished. “I thought you were out with Liam?”

  “Oh, Dugan!” She fell against him and began to sob.

  “Here now, girl!” He patted her back. “What’s all this, then? How long’ve you been stuck down there?”

  “’Tisn’t that.” She pulled herself together with a hiccup. “Have the police come?”

  “Not since they ransacked the place looking for your brother.”

  “They’ll be back.” She looked up at him, stricken. “Seamus is dead. Boardham did it, but he’s blaming it on me and Liam. We were there when it happened.”

  “Wait, don’t move.” He disappeared, then reemerged with Captain Reinders right behind.

  “Peter!” Grace wept fresh tears. “Thank God you’re here!”

  He put his arms around her. “I came to say good-bye. What’s happened?”