The wagon stopped. And shortly thereafter, a shadow hurtled toward her through the showers. She struggled to her feet.
“Clare!”
“Andrew!”
They cradled each other with all their strength, and Andrew lifted and spun Clare in one fluid movement, laughing full throated in joy. Then they wept together and sobbed with the music of love in each other’s ears.
Pulling back, she touched his cheeks and stroked his hair, making certain he wasn’t some moonlit apparition. But it was her Andrew, real and alive and looking deep into her eyes with longing and passion.
Slowly, he drew her close and kissed her as the water drenched their clothes, hair, and lips. Clare swayed to the sweet symphony of the rain.
Chapter 44
Sowing and Reaping
As the wagon driver Andrew had hired snored in the corner of the room, covering himself with his jacket and using a sack of grain for a pillow, the four of them cuddled around the emblazoned peat fire. Clare clung to Andrew tightly and rested her head on his shoulder, wanting this moment to last forever.
Davin hid behind Caitlin and giggled, and his sister elbowed him.
“What is it, young sir?” Andrew said, his face full of joy.
“Go ahead, Davin,” Cait said. “Tell him what you told me.”
He shook his curly locks with bashfulness, but then spurted out, “You’re the one.”
“I’m the one?” Andrew seemed baffled.
“Yes.” Davin laughed, as if it needed no more explanation. “You’re the one I prayed for. So my sister wouldn’t be alone.”
“Davin,” Clare said with a tilt of her head.
The boy’s face turned serious. “How did God get you here so quick?”
“Oh,” Andrew said with a groan. “I can promise you there is nothing quick about crossing the ocean in that horrible ship. I’m sorry to tell you that your sister Clare has grown fond of a complete coward.”
Clare fisted Andrew on the arm. “Stop that, you.” She turned to Davin. “This is a very brave man, I’ll tell you. He rescues me all of the time.”
“This is true.” Andrew smiled. “As long as it doesn’t take place anywhere in the vicinity of large, dark, breeding pools of tumultuous, nausea-inducing, dreadful salty, fishy water.”
“So,” Clare started, “was that you watching my ship leave the harbor?”
“Guilty, I’m afraid. It was me cowering in the shadows. In fact, if not for the benefit of Irish ingenuity, I wouldn’t have made it on the next ship the following day. Although that one day cost me one month. It was a much slower ship.”
“Irish ingenuity?”
“Actually, it was a bottle of Irish courage. First time I ever drank a drop and hopefully it will be the very last. Being afraid is not a good thing when you’re spending most of your time bent over the rail of a ship.”
“Clare says drinking is the devil’s spit,” Davin said.
“And she, my little friend, is entirely correct. He spit all over me, and me on him. Several times.”
“He’s funny.” Davin giggled.
“And handsome,” Caitlin said with a puckish grin.
“And hungry.” Andrew rubbed his stomach.
“Of course.” Clare sprang to her feet. “How impolite of me.”
“I agree,” he said to Davin and Caitlin. “Maybe she doesn’t want to share her food. What do you think?”
“Clare always shares,” Caitlin said sternly.
“Then it’s a good thing, I suppose, I brought a whole wagon of food to share with you all. Although, at least it started off being full. I met quite a few friends on the road.”
“I’m surprised there’s a bit left at all.” Clare hung a cauldron of water above the fire for the oats she was preparing.
“Clare?”
She noticed a shifting in Andrew’s tone which worried her. “Yes?”
He stood up and squared before her. “I brought something else with me as well.”
“Oh? And what would that be?”
“I have passages back home. For all of us. And a few extra it seems.”
Clare froze. “We are home, Andrew. It’s not much, I know. But we aren’t going anywhere.”
“I know, Clare. I can understand your love and concern for your people. Your land. With all they are going through. But someone needs to tell this story. Maybe that’s what God has been preparing you for all along.”
“I suppose it could be so.” She would have never imagined such a grandiose purpose to her life. “How does one really know?”
He smiled warmly and held her hand. “Just ask Him.”
“My grandmother spoke to God all of the time. They said she was crazy.”
Andrew looked deep into her eyes and then raised an eyebrow. “I believe you’re crazy now as well, aren’t you?”
Clare laughed. “Perhaps. How could you tell?”
“That’s the best news of all for me. Headline. Top of page.”
He was so beautiful to her now, handsome and nurturing, a genuine gift. Then something stirred inside her and she leaned back and stared into the fire.
“So, you’re going to leave us, aren’t you?”
He put his arms around Clare and kissed her on the ear.
“Where you are, Clare Hanley, is where I’ll always be.”
“There have been some . . . concerns regarding your present situation,” Father Quinn said uncomfortably, nodding toward Andrew, who was chasing after Davin in the field.
“Stay out of the field, you fools!” Clare sighed deeply.
She turned to Father Quinn as she shook her head. “What are you talking about? Speak plainly.”
“I’m trying to, Clare. Now just . . . just calm yourself.” He cleared his throat. “There have been some in the town who worry about . . . you know, things that may have the appearance, at least, of some impropriety.”
“Goodness, Quinn. Are you talking about yourself?” Clare put her hands on her waist.
“Well . . . perhaps. You know how I feel about you. How I’ve always felt about you.”
“In that case, you can put your mind to ease, because that man over there is the perfect gentleman.” She gave a double-look and saw Andrew wrestling in the soil with Davin and laughed.
Father Quinn rubbed his chin. “All right. Maybe I’m just a wee bit jealous.”
“That’s the man I know.” Clare hugged the priest. “I always will care for you, Quinn.” She pulled her arms back from him and then straightened out his collar.
He swatted away her hand. “You’re always fussing with it.”
“Hello, Father.” Andrew dusted the dirt off of his clothing. Davin was clinging to his arm with both hands.
“Andrew. This is Father Quinn. Not only is he our priest, but he apparently is part mother as well.”
“So . . . has this”—Andrew pointed to himself and Clare—“been a topic of gossip?”
“Andrew,” Clare said wryly.
“Well . . . uh. Yes. Perhaps. But Clare set me straight.”
“I think it’s scandalous,” Andrew said capriciously. “And I believe you’re just the man to fix this.”
“Are you asking me to . . . ?” Father Quinn looked puzzled.
“Yes. Precisely. I’m saying we’d like to have you marry us. Right here on the land of her fathers.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. Unless you’re thinking about conversion.”
Andrew put his arm on the priest’s shoulder. “Father. Man of God. There are people dying all around us. Are there not greater concerns in times like these?”
“You have a point there, I suppose.” Father Quinn nodded. “I don’t have much time.”
“Then let�
�s get on with it,” Andrew said.
“Are you forgetting something?” Clare raised an eyebrow, bemused by the spectacle.
“What?” Andrew said, beaming in the moment.
“There’s this tradition where the man actually finds out if the woman is even interested.”
“Oh.” Andrew grinned. “She’s interested.”
Davin went hollering toward the house to find Caitlin. “Clare’s got her man. Caitlin. Caitlin! There’s going to be a wedding.”
It took only about thirty minutes for them all to be gathered in the field in their finest clothing, before the setting sun, with Father Quinn speaking as best from memory as he could.
Finally, he gave them a blessing and finished with the sign of the cross. “May God always embrace you tenderly in His arms.”
Then Andrew turned and faced Clare. He kissed her gently, their first time as man and wife.
After meticulously stacking the sacks of foodstuffs that Andrew had brought in the corner of the room, Clare stepped back to do a full inventory of all they had.
Doing a rough calculation, she determined there was enough there to feed the family for about two months. If they rationed tightly, they might be able to stretch it to three.
Then again, this was assuming Andrew would be able to resist the temptation to feed the rest of the community. He already gave three sacks of wheat, Indian corn, and oats to Father Quinn to take with him and distribute “under the Lord’s leading.”
Andrew didn’t seem concerned, but Clare worried enough for the two of them. What it meant was that this crop they were planting would need to be fully harvestable or they were leading themselves down a deadly road.
Somehow, though, even these concerns didn’t trouble her deeply. Even without having much at all for food and possessions, her life seemed so full and complete. The world of loneliness she left behind appeared so distant and foreign, a faded painting on the wall.
Fretting wouldn’t be productive, so she went outside to join her family at their chores.
“How long has it been since you hung laundry?” Clare said to Caitlin, who was pressing clothes against a washboard in a copper bucket filled with soap.
“I’ve kind of missed it,” Cait said. “It’s a fine thing to have clothes to wash.”
Off in the distance Davin was at the neighbor’s scavenging turf logs and adding them to the wheelbarrow.
Heading to the main field behind the house, Clare smiled as she saw Andrew without his shirt, his body glistening. He had his back to Clare and was wrestling the field with a rake.
Yet it only took a few more steps for her to see what he was doing, causing her to freeze in her steps. Then with her hands to her ears she let out a terrific scream.
Andrew spun around in fright, holding his rake like a weapon.
“What is it?” Caitlin said in a panic, running up to her from behind.
Clare stepped over to the stump, slumped down, and covered her face with her hands. The stump was from the same tree she used to swing from as a small child.
Then Clare started to laugh. Harder. To the point of tears. Her stomach convulsed with joy as she struggled to even breathe. When she looked up, her face drenched in tears, she saw three faces looking at her as if she was completely mad.
Davin, who had run from the neighbor’s, pointed over to the field where Andrew had been working. “What are you doing?”
Caitlin let out a squeaking giggle.
“What?” Andrew looked behind him at the field.
“You just raked out everything we planted for the past week,” Clare said, recovering from her bout of laughter.
Andrew looked back. “Oh. Well . . . I wanted to make it all smooth.”
“Come here.” Clare stood and beckoned Andrew with a curl of her finger.
Defeated, Andrew threw down his rake and trudged over to her.
“I love you.” Clare brushed back his hair with her fingers. “And I want you to know something.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“Where you are, Andrew Royce, is where I’ll always be.” She kissed him on the cheek and then turned toward Caitlin and Davin.
“My dear sister and brother.”
They didn’t answer but looked at her with expectation.
“How would you two feel about seeking your fortunes in America?”
Davin’s eyes brightened. “Really? Really, Clare?”
“But . . .” Caitlin appeared disturbed, “. . . what about the family farm? We can’t just leave it, can we?”
Clare pulled her younger sister to her. “My dear. The dirt will be here whenever you wish to return.”
“Well,” Andrew said, “just as I was developing my agricultural talents. I suppose I need to hire a wagon in town. What say you, Davin?”
“Can I ride in the front?”
“All the way to New York.” Andrew took Davin’s hand and they started walking away.
“But I thought we needed to take a ship.”
“I get sick on ships . . .” Andrew grimaced. “This time we’re following the wagon trail.”
Clare sat back on the stump and Caitlin joined her. They were silent for a few minutes as they stared across the field toward the grave of their father in the distance.
“I’m so proud of you, Cait,” Clare said.
“But . . . I lost everyone. Ma. Da. Ronin. Only Davin.” Caitlin started to cry and Clare was reminded again of the weight she left behind.
“It’s not ours to bear, Cait.” Clare stroked her sister’s hair as she looked far as her eyes could reach. “It’s been a hard lesson for me. We just need to be grateful. That’s all.”
“Do you think Da would be mad with us leaving?” Cait said.
Clare thought about it for a moment. “Probably.”
Giving Cait a gentle squeeze, Clare stood. “Pack up, my dear. We’re going home.”
Chapter 45
To Distant Shores
Clare hadn’t forgotten her promise to Pence.
They made an effort to track him down in the city of Cork. Some said he had died, others said he was imprisoned, and a few others believed he had managed to cast away on a ship to faraway lands.
When they finally arrived to the ship, the last-call bells were ringing and the crew was making final preparations. On this passage, there was no steerage space, no crudely converted cargo hull with inhumane conditions.
Although the quarters were tight as could be expected in a transatlantic voyage, Andrew had first-class accommodations for their trip, and Clare and he even had their own room. Though cramped and not as speedy a vessel as the American clipper Clare had taken to Dublin, it would be a much different experience than her first voyage.
Still, as she stood on the deck, pointing out the functionality of the topsail, bowsprit, buntline, scuttlebutt, outrigger, and many other nautical terms to a wide-eyed Davin, Clare felt the surge of expectation as the ship headed out of harbor and into the dark, open mass of sea.
It reminded her of Seamus, and this recollection carried with it a moment of tenderness. So full of promise. Such a precious, gentle, troubled soul. Clare prayed he would be open to God’s leading.
She glanced over to Andrew, who was sitting out of view of the water, struggling with nausea but doing well all things considered.
Down the deck a way, a fiddler began to slide his bow across his instrument and, after a few tuning strokes, played the Irish songs of old.
Caitlin and Davin sauntered over to listen and watch as the passengers were drawn to dancing.
Clare went over to Andrew, sat down, and held his hand in hers. “How are you doing?”
“I was just thinking,” he said.
“About?”
“Look at your people. Unspeakable tragedy. Suffering. Devastation. And yet, they have a spirit above it all. This story needs to be told. And you’re the one to do it.”
“Yes,” she smiled. “I know.”
They sat together for a long time, listening to the creaking of the masts, the flapping of the sails, the lapping of the water against the sideboards, the cries of the birds, and the sweet sounds of uncharted hope.
Then from far in the distance, as if hovering over the sea, Clare discerned an ethereal sound ascending. Or was it the wind? It reminded her ever so clearly of when Grandma Ella would hum a song of reverence. Her nanna struggled to sing fully in key, but it never mattered. The pure adoration in her heart always perfected her music to tones of beauty and grace.
Clare’s memories of the beloved woman gushed and overwhelmed her with a deep empathy for the pain and suffering endured. Had Clare ever been told these stories of grief, betrayal, and disappointment, or was she hearing them for the first time? They were hardships well beyond any Clare herself had faced.
“Nanna?”
There was no answer but Clare’s thoughts were swept back to that agonizing evening when she cared for Grandma Ella as the woman lay on her deathbed.
Words were shared that night that Clare never understood. Until now.
“Clare. Clare.”
“Yes, Nanna.” She gently wiped a cool, wet cloth against the woman’s wrinkled and clammy forehead.
“My dear, dear Clare.”
“Shhhh. Please, Nanna.”
“It’s you! You, sweet Clare.” She struggled to rise from the bed as if she had heard something she was compelled to share. “You’re my reason.”
At the time, Clare dismissed these last few utterances as merely the ramblings of a dying woman. But now they resonated with truth and poignancy. Grandma Ella’s entire journey was to breathe hope into Clare. And for generations to follow.
Into the breeze and with abandonment Clare celebrated with her grandmother, and they wept as one, with immeasurable fondness.
“What’s wrong?”
Flight of the Earls Page 34