An Embarrassment of Riches

by Margaret Pemberton

  With the sea once again calm the mean little area was massed again with emigrants. For the past four days he had spent long lengths of time leaning on the deck-rails looking down unseeingly at them. Now he looked at them with fierce attention.

  They were a sorry sight. Despite it being the beginning of July there was a chill breeze blowing in from the ocean and not one of them had a coat. Their only protection against the vagaries of the Atlantic were coarse shawls and not all of them even had one of those. Despite the many pails of seawater where soiled linen was being washed, the women themselves had an air of grubbiness that he found nauseating. He remembered the stench as they had pressed close to him at the docks and shuddered. If his marriage was going to defeat his father, and was not merely going to be a form of marriage that his father could easily have annulled, then it would have to be consummated. The prospect was horrendous.

  He gritted his teeth and scanned the weary faces, looking for one that wasn’t encumbered with a child; looking for one that wouldn’t be too objectionable in his bed. Face after face stared back at him, weather-beaten and worn with fatigue, yellow-toothed, lank-haired.

  ‘Christ …’ he muttered beneath his breath, ‘there must be one …’ He remembered the girl who had stayed on deck during the previous day’s storm and his spirits soared. Although obviously an emigrant she had been remarkably clean and neat. He remembered her glossy dark hair, its heavy weight coiled into a knot in the nape of her neck; her blue black-lashed eyes; her creamy pale skin. He scanned the crowded deck but there was no sign of her.

  After an hour of waiting for her to emerge from the companion-hatch he began to think that he was going to have to retreat below deck and cross the barrier dividing steerage from the rest of the ship. He deferred the evil moment, willing her to appear, knowing that five minutes in steerage would reduce him to a nauseated wreck. Just as he was beginning to think that there was no hope for it but to search below deck and just as he was steeling himself for the ordeal, she emerged from the companion-hatch, a small child in her arms.

  His disappointment was colossal. He watched her as she threaded her way between her fellow-passengers searching for a scrap of space. Her dark blue, almost black, dress was without any tears or rents and with rising optimism he saw that the child was clad in an exceedingly tattered and indistinguishable garment. She didn’t have the face of a woman who would put her own needs before that of her child. Perhaps the child wasn’t hers. With renewed hope he watched as she found a place to sit. The crush around her was so dense that he could now only see the top of her head.

  He chewed the corner of his lip, wondering what to do next. She was too far away for him to call out to her, and even if she were nearer he had no name by which to address her and attract her attention. There was nothing for it but to vault down from his own lofty position and confront her face to face. He peered over the rail, looking for a stanchion. The drop was a good twenty feet and he would need something to slide down. Seeing one that would suit his purpose he positioned himself above it, vaulted the rail, keeping hold of it while his legs found the stanchion. Though he had his back to the steerage deck, he knew from the concerted intake of breath and the shouting that had broken out that every eye must be on him.

  Nervously, aware that he could put very little trust in the strength of his legs, he slid down to the lower deck to a cacophony of whistles and catcalls. On the far side of the steerage deck, behind their own partitioning barriers, the men were in uproar. Vociferous calls of ‘What do ye think ye’re doin’, boyo?’ and ‘He’s in with the wimmin! Call a sailor and get’im out!’ rang in his ears as he brushed his hands on his trousers and turned to track down his quarry.

  ‘And what’s a young swell like you doin’so far from ‘ome?’ a young woman with crooked black teeth asked him cheekily, posturing in front of him, her hand on her bony hip.

  Alexander ignored both her and the raucous laughter that her remark occasioned among her fellows.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said tautly, mindful of head and body lice and reluctant to force a way through the crush.

  For a long second no-one moved and then, out of habitual deference for a person of his class, the women made way for him while their menfolk continued to shout loudly for someone in authority to come and evict him.

  Although he could not see the object of his search he knew exactly where she had been sitting and he made his way there unerringly. As the last intervening spectators broke ranks to allow him passage he saw that she had risen to her feet and that she was staring at him, a mixture of concern and bewilderment in her eyes.

  All the while he had been walking, the crowd had closed in behind him. Now, as he stood in front of her, an indignant murmur began to run from one woman to another.

  As he looked down at her he was aware of two things. One, that she was just as blessedly clean as he had judged her to be, and two, that she was far younger than he had first supposed.

  ‘I’d like a word with you,’ he said peremptorily.

  She looked up at him and there was no sign of shock in her eyes at being so singled out, none of the natural deference to a person of his rank that he had expected.

  Not wishing to remain on the steerage deck a second longer than was necessary, he said, coming straight to the point, ‘May I ask if the child is yours?’

  ‘Shame!’ the old woman jostling his elbow expostulated and the cry was energetically taken up by those around her.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand,’ the girl said, puzzled. ‘I thought you were a passenger. Are you a member of the crew? And why do you ask?’

  The infant on her knee was staring at him wide-eyed and with a trembling lower lip. He prayed to God that it wouldn’t start to howl and said with increasing impatience, ‘Could you please tell me if you are married or single?’

  She stared at him as if he had taken leave of his senses and then said, ‘I’m single.’

  He felt himself almost sag with relief. ‘And the child?’

  ‘His mother is ill. Sea-sick.’

  Alexander passed his hand across his brow. ‘Then I would like to talk to you. Could you deposit the child with someone else for a little while and meet me at the steerage barrier below deck?’

  Without waiting for her to reply he turned on his heel, knowing that he could not possibly return to the first-class deck by the route by which he had left it and knowing that he was going to have to pick his way through the horrors that lay beyond the steerage companion-hatch.

  He didn’t bother to look behind him to see if she was following. He had given an instruction and he took it for granted that it would be obeyed. He descended the rungs leading down into the stifling communal living and sleeping quarters and within seconds a fresh outbreak of jibes and taunts broke around his head.

  ‘The saints preserve us, if it isn’t Prince Albert himself come to pay us a call!’.

  ‘Jesus, Joseph and Mary! Am I asleep or is it dreaming I am?’

  ‘Sure, but it must be an emigrant from ’ 61 returning from a visit home. In a couple of months we’ll all be dressed as grand!’

  Alexander paid them not the slightest heed. There were bowls of slops and vomit on the floor and it was difficult to skirt them without stepping on to someone’s makeshift bedding.

  ‘What the devil …’ a new, authoritative voice called out in the gloom. The voice belonged to a burly seaman and, as his eyes focused on Alexander, his eyebrows nearly shot into his hair. ‘Christ Almighty, sir! How did you get down here?’

  Alexander didn’t trouble to answer him. ‘Just get me out as quickly as possible, if you please,’ he snapped tersely, terrified that at any moment the stench would be too much for him and his stomach would let him down.

  ‘Clear the way, please! Let gentleman through!’ the seaman bellowed, leading Alexander amid the throng and out into the companion-way that led to second-class accommodation.

  ‘One moment,’ Alexander said as they reached the barri
er with the words steerage on one side and third-class on the other. ‘I wish to talk to the young woman who was following me. She seems to have fallen behind. Could you perhaps see if she requires assistance?’

  ‘A first-class young lady?’ the seaman queried, deeply disconcerted. ‘I wish you had told me earlier, sir. Steerage is no place …’

  ‘A steerage passenger,’ Alexander said irritably. ‘Dark hair, a blackberry-coloured dress …’

  The seaman had gone and in the welcome emptiness of the companion-way Alexander breathed in a deep, thankful sigh. The most difficult part was over. He had his plan and he had found a not-too-obnoxious peasant girl who would enable him to carry it out. Something nagged at the back of his brain but he couldn’t think what it was and he dismissed the niggle, overcome with relief at having left the steerage quarters firmly behind him.

  ‘Is this the young lady, sir?’ the seaman said emerging into the companion-way, the girl perplexedly following in his wake.

  Alexander nodded.

  ‘I’m not sure …’ the seaman began doubtfully.

  Alexander didn’t wait to find out what it was he was not sure about. He withdrew his pigskin wallet from the inner pocket of his reefer jacket, withdrew five dollars and deposited it into the already outstretched hand.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Anytime I can be of assistance, sir. Will you be needing me any longer, sir?’

  Alexander had no desire to have the seaman within earshot while he conducted business matters with his soon-to-be bride; on the other hand, the companion-ways were a warren and there was still third- and second-class accommodation to traverse. He decided to risk his luck. There would be other seamen about to help him back to his stateroom, perhaps even an officer.

  ‘No,’ he said abruptly, wondering for the first time just how he was going to broach matters with the future Mrs Alexander Karolyis. Surely all he would have to do was mention a sum of money? He certainly wasn’t going to explain himself. To explain himself would be to speak of Genevre and he wasn’t going to sully her memory by discussing her with scum Irish.

  ‘Yes?’ It was the girl. Her forehead was puckered in a puzzled frown and she was looking at him with a mixture of uncertainty and concern, rather as if he were ill and she were wondering what the best course of action might be.

  He cleared his throat. They had another seven days at sea. If a priest was aboard there was plenty of time to arrange the marriage. If no priest was available then he would have to make arrangements for the marriage to take place the instant they berthed in New York.

  ‘You are an emigrant?’ he asked, wondering how best to phrase his request.

  She nodded, her puzzlement deepening.

  ‘And Irish?’

  ‘I was born in County Wicklow, but I fail to see what business it is …’

  ‘And a Roman Catholic?’

  Her puzzlement had become open consternation. ‘Are you an emigration official? Is there something wrong? I paid for my passage myself. I don’t have a criminal record and …’

  He dismissed her anxious queries with an impatient movement of his hand. ‘I’m not an official. My name is Alexander Karolyis and I have a proposition to put to you.’

  All puzzlement vanished from her eyes. Hot angry colour flushed her cheeks.

  ‘You have made a very gross mistake, sir!’ she said in indignant fury, spinning on her heel and hurrying away from him.

  For a moment he was so dumbfounded that he simply stared after her and then, realizing that if she once reached the confines of steerage accommodation he would have to follow her, he sprinted after her down the companion-way, seizing hold of her arm.

  ‘You’ve misunderstood!’ he gasped, swinging her round to face him. ‘The proposition I have to put to you is perfectly respectable. I want you to marry me.’

  Her eyes widened. For a long moment she continued to stare at him and then understanding flooded them. She said gently, ‘I think that perhaps you are unwell. The sea can be very disorientating …’

  Again there came a faint niggle of worry. He dismissed it irritably. The idea of offering her a sum of money without any further explanations no longer seemed viable.

  He said succinctly. ‘I’m twenty-one years old, wealthy in my own right and heir to a fortune. My father despatched me on a Grand Tour of Europe with the instruction to come home married. This I have failed to do. I’m asking you to marry me so that my father’ – he floundered, wondering what on earth he could say that would seem reasonable and that might gain her co-operation – ‘so that my father might die happy.’

  She was now beginning to look extremely perturbed. ‘I’m sorry, I really can’t help you …’ He still had hold of her arm, and her eyes darted beyond him, up the deserted companion-way.

  He said quickly, knowing that she was on the verge of calling out for help, ‘The captain will vouch for my credentials. I’m offering you a whole new way of life.’ He remembered the mud cabins in the Irish countryside and the squalor of Queenstown. ‘A way of life you can’t even begin to imagine. Have you a job to go to in America? Family?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘The streets of New York aren’t paved with gold, no matter what you might have been told to the contrary. There are hundreds of thousands of other emigrants, all desperate to make a decent living, the majority failing abysmally. If you marry me you will have prestige, status …’ He broke off. It was useless using words that she wouldn’t even understand. ‘I will pay you ten thousand dollars in cash on the day that we marry, another twenty thousand when we have visited with my father. After that I will settle a monthly allowance on you …’

  ‘Please stop.’ She tugged her arm free of his hold. ‘You have made an awful mistake, Mr Karolyis. If you are looking for a wife then I suggest you first fall in love. Wives are not items that can be purchased like tea and flour. Good-day to you.’ And, turning on her heel, she walked swiftly away from him.

  This time he did not follow her. She had put on a very good show, but he was certain that was all that it was. No Irish emigrant, travelling alone and with no job or family waiting for her, could afford to turn down the kind of offer that he had made. Was she holding out for a higher financial reward? Incredible though it seemed, it could well be the case. Powerscourt and his guests had often discussed the crazy, unrealistic workings of their tenants’ minds.

  He began to walk down the companion-way in the direction of third-class accommodation. He would let her mull over his offer and then he would approach her again. He could easily up the payments he had offered. Thirty thousand dollars was less than he had paid for his last brood mare.

  When he eventually ran a ship’s officer to earth he said, ‘Could you take me to Captain Neills? I would like a word with him.’

  ‘I’m sorry sir,’ the officer began, assuming him to be a second-class passenger.

  ‘The name is Karolyis. Alexander Karolyis.’

  ‘Of course, sir. Right away, sir.’

  Alexander accepted the change of attitude brought about by mention of his name as being no more than his due. By now Captain Neills should have ascertained whether or not a Catholic priest was aboard. If one was, arrangements could be put in hand immediately. And if the girl proved to be unnaturally obdurate, then a word from the captain, confirming the status and wealth attached to the Karolyis name, would be all that was necessary to bring matters to a satisfactory conclusion.

  ‘We have a priest travelling in steerage, Mr Karolyis,’ Captain Neills said, looking exceedingly unhappy. ‘However, I really do not think …’

  ‘That is all I needed to know, Captain. I would greatly appreciate it if you informed him that I wished to be married aboard ship.’ As an afterthought he added, ‘And would you tell him that though my bride-to-be is Roman Catholic, I am not.’

  Captain Neills’unhappiness deepened into visible distress.

  ‘Mr Karolyis. Excuse my presumption, but I feel I really must give a word of advice. To marry ab
oard ship would undoubtedly cause your family distress and …’

  ‘My personal life is no affair of anyone’s but myself,’ Alexander snapped crisply.

  Captain Neills took in a deep breath through his nose and compressed his lips tightly. After a moment, when he had recovered his composure, he said as indifferently as he could manage, ‘Father Mulcahy will need to know the young lady’s name.’

  Alexander stared at him blankly and then, collecting his wits, he said smoothly, ‘I’ll inform Father Mulcahy myself of her name and let it come as a surprise to you. Good-day, Captain Neills, and thank you for your help.’

  As he strode back along walnut-woodlined companion-ways to his stateroom he wondered what on earth his future bride’s name was. He hoped to God she was called something truly awful, such as Bridget. At the thought of the headline MR ALEXANDER KAROLYIS WEDS BRIDGET O’FLAHERTY or O’Connor or some such, splashed across the society pages of the Herald and The New York Times and New York Post, he smiled grimly to himself. That sight alone would be enough to render his father catatonic.

  He let himself into his stateroom and flung himself exhaustedly down on his bunk. He had had an exceedingly busy and fruitful morning. Today was Tuesday and he had no doubts whatsoever that by the end of the week he would be a married man.

  Chapter Nine

  Maura hurried quickly down the companion-way, certain that at any moment she would be seized hold of again. No swift, aggressive strides followed in her wake. With relief she stepped through the companion-hatch leading into the steerage quarters and was immediately met by a wall of curious stares.