Gracelin O'Malley

by Ann Moore

  Julia eyed Grace, who glanced at the spot where Julia’s purse was hidden behind folds of cloth. Julia nodded imperceptibly; they had enough.

  “All right, then,” Julia announced. “You’ve made a good case and we’ll trust that you’re an honest man simply looking out for our—and your cousin’s husband’s—best interests. You may deliver us to the King George Hotel.”

  The driver replaced his cap, grinning around the cigar. “At once, ladies,” he said, and moved the horse out into traffic.

  It wasn’t a long ride, but enough for Grace to realize that they had probably been saved from a miserable night. The carriage moved slowly down the cobbled streets, wheels clattering, hooves clopping, faces appearing, then disappearing in the foggy gloom. Here and there, she caught sight of a door opening to groups of travelers and, on the floor, ragged bundles she realized were sleeping bodies.

  Through grimy lighted windows, some beneath street level, she saw the same scene over and over again—cheap lodging for immigrants who were probably grateful, most of them. Somewhere a fiddler played, and gangs of young men huddled in the alleyways, passing a bottle. Now and then a girl—young or old, hard to tell with the white powder and red lip paint—stepped out into the streetlight as the carriage approached, only to slip back into the shadows as the carriage passed. Then the buildings began to change. Gas lamps were more frequent and more frequently lit, doorways were cleaner, the occasional guard turned a corner, and at last they stopped in front of a small, well-lit and clean-looking establishment over which hung a crown-shaped sign proclaiming KING GEORGE HOTEL.

  The driver escorted them inside, carrying their bags up to the desk, where he proudly introduced his wife’s cousin’s husband, Albert Wood. Mister Wood welcomed them heartily to the King George and urged them to settle themselves in the comfortable chairs by the fire while he made sure a clean room was readied for them. Grace sank into hers with relief, and Mary Kate crawled into her lap. They watched as the two men shook hands, Mister Wood passing the driver a handful of coins, which were immediately pocketed—a share of the night’s good fortune.

  “Enterprising family,” Julia murmured wryly, observing the same scene. “I think we’re in good hands, though.”

  “God’s hands.” Grace dropped a kiss onto Mary Kate’s head.

  They were shown to a cozy room with a bed big enough for the two women and a trundle pulled out for Mary Kate. It was over the great room below and plenty warm from the chimney running along their wall. They undressed quickly and slipped under the covers, Julia snoring softly before the lamp was turned down, Mary Kate slipping quickly into a light, uneasy sleep. Though fatigue throbbed deep within her bones, Grace’s mind was flooded with images and sleep eluded her.

  Was it just last night, she thought, that I looked down upon Dublin town from the hotel window? Only a week since I bore my wee boy, and a day beyond that I learned of his father’s death? She turned her face into the pillow, willing sleep to come, begging it to relieve her heart of its heavy burden, but instead the faces of her beloved family flickered before her—dead or gone, all of them: all but Sean, who waited in America; all but her father and the baby left behind in Cork. She had to leave him—she knew she did—there was no other way. And yet, and yet …

  Again she turned in the bed, wincing, her body sore, her heart heavy, her mind aching. How could she have done it? In the night, in the dark, there was no convincing herself that a mother is ever right in abandoning her own child. But she had and—in the night, in the dark—she wondered how on earth she’d find the strength to live with it.

  “How, Father?” she moaned, and His answer came in a tender vision that took her breath away: For there—down the long road of her memory—were the tinkers, driving their horse caravan on the lane past her cabin. And there she was—that must be her, that happy young thing with dark hair streaming and cheeks gleaming from the spring air—running in the woods, down to the bog with Morgan and Sean to squish the mud between their toes, behind them the sound of Mam’s teasing laughter and sweet singing; the gentle, practical voice of her gran telling the old stories; the smell of her da’s tobacco as he swept her up into the air; the sight of his strong back as he worked the field behind their cabin.

  And then the cabin itself—the wooden table around which they all sat each day, a turf fire to keep them warm, her mam’s picture cards on the walls, a rug on the floor, curtains at the windows, fresh and sweet, happy and safe, the lane outside so lushly green and dear with flowers in spring, berries in summer, nests of birds filled with song from morning till night, the river nearby rushing, tumbling, flashing with salmon, the woods behind full of game. And Gracelin running barefoot through it all, eating her fill, laughing out loud at the sheer beauty of her world, the joy in her heart.

  And then she was falling asleep at last, drawing deeply from the well of a childhood sustained by love. Her hand fell down beside the bed, seeking the warm shape of her own daughter, stroking the cropped, tangled hair before coming to rest protectively on the child’s shoulder.

  The tension in Mary Kate’s little arms and legs washed away with this touch; she sighed and sank into a deep and restful sleep—her mother was there, guarding over her, and guarding over them both, she knew, was the ever-wakeful countenance of the Lord.

  Two

  THE world Grace occupied in her sleep was shattered by the sound of a morning well under way. Horse carts clattered noisily in the street below the hotel window as deliveries were made, foods and sundries bought and sold, directives given, orders placed. Doors swung open with a bang, windows creaked, dogs barked, and servants called to one another as they emptied bedpans in the lane, shook out cloths, argued with the baker over the price of buns. Grace listened to it all, remembering where she was and what she was doing there, then prayed quickly for protection through another day.

  “Wake up, wee girl.” She leaned over and stroked Mary Kate’s cheek with the back of her fingers. “’Tis morning time.”

  The girl’s eyes opened immediately. “Will we eat?” she asked midst an enormous yawn.

  “Aye,” Grace reassured, even as her heart ached for a child whose first thought on waking would always be for food.

  The door opened then, and Julia—fully dressed and marshaled—pushed her way in with a tray.

  “I thought we’d have something up here before facing the world.” She kicked the door closed behind her, then set the tray down on a little table by the window. “Who’s for tea, then?”

  “I,” Mary Kate said shyly, sitting up.

  “Of course, I!” Julia smiled warmly at her, took a cup of milk, and put in a generous spoonful of sugar before adding the tea. “And a warm bun, I should think, as we’ve got another long day ahead of us. Come sit here at the table, Mary Kate. Put that blanket round your shoulders.”

  Mary Kate did as she was told, bowing her head quickly in prayer before biting into the bun, her eyes wide at the sweetness of it.

  Julia brought two cups of tea and two buns on a plate over to the bed, handing one to Grace, then sitting down gingerly beside her.

  “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news,” she said quietly. “I’ve been to confirm your passage on the Eliza J, but departure has been delayed. They had a stormy crossing and the ship needed repairs. It’s taken longer than expected. We’ve got to wait four more days.”

  “Doesn’t sound promising.” Grace looked at the window and the cold, dark sky outside.

  “No,” Julia admitted. “It doesn’t. But of all the ships departing to America, this one’s the most reputable. William’s contact here booked your passage and the captain comes highly recommended. He’s part owner, and American—they say Americans run the tightest ships—so we know he’s making proper repair. I’ve heard stories of these captains who simply patch up and sail off, unwilling to lose even one voyage in a year for the cash of it. Plenty of those go down only God-knows-where—they get lost and run out of provisions, or hit an iceberg this t
ime of year, or sink in a storm and no one ever really knows what happened.”

  Grace stared at her, aghast, cup partway to her lips.

  Julia winced. “Sorry. My father always says I’m as tactful as a hurricane. Never mind me.”

  They sat for a moment, not looking at one another.

  “All right, then.” Grace rested her cup in its saucer. “Four days. Maybe longer. And winter’s coming on, so crossing will be risky, at best, and of course, there’ll be fewer boats making the trip.”

  Julia nodded.

  “So will we find room on another that’s leaving right away then, or will we wait for this one to be repaired? And is there money to be had for lodging if we decide to wait?”

  Julia bit her lip. “There’s the money to buy extra provisions and clothing,” she said. “And it’s generous—William contributed and so did … the others.”

  “Meaning you?” Grace asked.

  Julia ignored the question. “You could probably stay here for a week and still have enough to buy extra provisions for the two of you, maybe warmer cloaks and boots, a blanket.”

  “And if the boat’s not ready in a week?”

  “I don’t know. If you stay on here, you’ll run out of money eventually, of course, though it’s one less mouth to feed as I’ll have gone back to Ireland.” Julia frowned, thinking. “I could send someone back with more. But the longer you stay, the riskier it is.”

  Grace glanced at Mary Kate, who was absorbed in watching the street life below their window. “Aye,” she said quietly. “’Tis the lion’s den here.”

  Julia nodded soberly. “We’ll keep an eye on the sailings this week so that if the Eliza J isn’t ready, you can book passage on something else and we’ll get word to Sean.”

  Grace was silent, considering. “Or Mary Kate and I simply get on another boat today.”

  “No,” Julia said, firmly. “The Eliza J is seaworthy and well-captained, and it’s common knowledge that any yahoo with a boat these days is in the immigrant business. It’s best to bide our time a while longer. Boarding the Eliza J is our first choice. Our best choice.”

  Grace looked around the small room and took a deep breath. “I’m trusting you to know what you’re talking about here, Julia, though Lord knows you’re not getting on that boat with us.”

  Julia understood, but didn’t waver. “We wait. That’s the right decision.”

  “All right, then,” Grace said. “And what is it you want me to do while we’re waiting?”

  Julia stood and began gathering up the breakfast dishes. “I want you to rest here while I go out and round up a few things for the trip. You’ll need a small trunk to store your things, with room for food.”

  “Does not the cost of passage include our board?” Grace handed over her teacup.

  “It does. We’ve booked you a private cabin and you’ll take your meals with the other passengers in first. The rest of the passengers get weekly rations, which they prepare themselves. But rations run out if the ship is overbooked, or if you hit foul weather and the trip takes longer than expected, or if the captain is not as honest as we’ve been led to believe.…” She caught herself. “Sorry. There I go again. I don’t mean to make you more anxious than you already are, but from all accounts, the crossing is not an easy one in any weather, and extra food and drink, a blanket or two—it’s winter at sea after all—medicines … all will most likely be put to good use.”

  “Aye, you’ve convinced me,” Grace said. “Get whatever you think we might need to survive this and I’ll thank you for it every time we open that trunk, sure and that’s the truth.”

  “Let’s hope you won’t have to,” Julia said, and left the room with her cloak over her arm.

  “Grace.” A hand shook her shoulder gently, but insistently. “Grace, wake up. You’ve got a visitor.”

  Grace opened her eyes and saw that Mary Kate was still napping beside her on the bed; outside it had begun to snow. She turned over and looked up.

  “You’ve got a visitor,” Julia repeated and stood aside, revealing a woman dressed in a long velvet cape, her face hidden deep within the hood.

  Grace swung her legs carefully off the bed and moved up, wiping her eyes and mouth with the back of her hand, and smoothing her skirt, self-conscious in front of this well-dressed woman and more than a little put out at Julia’s lack of discretion.

  “How do you do?” she said quietly, putting out her hand.

  The hand that clasped hers was smooth and white, its long fingers decorated with several beautiful rings. With the other hand, the woman lowered her hood.

  “Do you not know me, then, Gracelin O’Malley?” she asked with the hint of a smile.

  Grace gasped. “Aislinn!” Her eyes flew to Julia’s face, then back again. “I can hardly believe ’tis you standing in front of me! ’Tis Aislinn McDonagh!” she said to Julia. “Morgan’s sister!”

  Julia laughed quietly. “I know who it is, or why do you think I’ve brought her here?”

  “Well, where on earth did you find her?” Grace asked, astonished. “Where did she find you?” she asked Aislinn, and then began to cry.

  Both women came to Grace immediately, but it was Aislinn who held her and whispered in Irish, calling her “sister.”

  “You know, then?” Grace asked. “About … everything?”

  Aislinn nodded sorrowfully, her own eyes filled with tears.

  “Mam.” Mary Kate was awake and sitting. “Who’s that, Mam?”

  “Your mam was a dear friend of my brother, of all my family,” Aislinn said gently. “I wanted to see her before you went away.”

  “To America,” Mary Kate said gravely.

  “Aye, ’tis a wondrous place and you will like it there very much.” She let go of Grace and came toward the little girl. “May I give you a present?” she asked. “Something for luck?”

  Mary Kate looked at Grace, who nodded.

  Aislinn slipped a ring off her little finger and held it out to the girl. “The silver is in the pattern of a sacred knot,” she said. “And do you see the green stone in the center?”

  Mary Kate nodded, eyes riveted to the ring.

  “It’s from Connemara, in the west of Ireland,” she explained. “I had that ring made to remind me of home, and now I want to give it to you to remind you of home when you are far away. Will you have it?”

  “Oh, aye.” Mary Kate’s eyes were wide and she took the ring reverently. “Thank you.”

  “You’re most welcome.” Aislinn touched the girl’s thick hair. “You remind me of my little sister. Fiona was a pretty maid, as well.”

  Mary Kate ducked her head shyly, but they could see her smile.

  “Come, little miss.” Julia picked her up off the bed. “Let’s you and I go down and have our tea by the great fire, shall we? We’ll leave your mam and her friend to talk together, and then we’ll come up to say good-bye. What do you say?”

  Mary Kate nodded her head, always happy for the chance of a meal. She waved at them as Julia carried her out of the room, the door closing softly behind them.

  “I can’t stay long, but I wanted to see you before you left.”

  “How did you find us?” Grace went to the little window and sat beside it. Outside, snow fell softly, clinging to the leaded glass.

  “Julia.” Aislinn took the other chair. “Morgan asked her to find me, and last summer she did. But after I explained my situation, she agreed it was better I stay … missing. She sent word ahead that you would be here, but kept it from you in case I was unable to come.”

  “Unable?”

  “I am the mistress of a very powerful man. A man who saved my life, actually, or what was left of it. He agreed to let me come, as long as I am discreet.” She hesitated. “You’re shocked.”

  “Ah, no, Aislinn, no,” Grace insisted. “I just can’t get over seeing you alive, is all.”

  Aislinn reached out and took Grace’s hand. “I know,” she said. “About Mam and Da. And the
girls. Julia told all.”

  “Barbara’s still alive. She’s called Sister John Paul at the convent.”

  “Of course she is! Always the saint, Barbara.” Aislinn scowled, revealing a bit of the girl she’d been before leaving home.

  “I’ve nothing but love for your sister,” Grace said. “She delivered me of my son, called John Paul Morgan after the two of them.”

  “Julia says you wed.” Aislinn shook her head. “I could hardly believe it true.”

  “Father Brown married us in secret seven months ago. Another man was there, as well.” She smiled wanly. “He gave Morgan the ring off his own finger. I wear your mam’s.” She held her hand out.

  Aislinn took it, kissed the ring, and smiled. “Ah, Mammie. I did love her.” She looked up at Grace. “She’d be so happy to know you wear this, Grace, so happy you and Morgan were wed. And that you have a son of your own.”

  “We had only the one night together, but ’twas enough.”

  “Did he know?”

  “Aye.” Grace closed her eyes briefly, and there was Henry’s face. “An English soldier helped us. He smuggled Morgan’s letter out of prison, but was killed in bringing it to me.” She pulled the letter out of its place behind her vest and offered it to Aislinn.

  “I can’t read, Grace,” the young woman admitted. “Morgan and Barbara both tried to teach me my letters, but …” She shrugged and smiled wryly. “Always had my mind on boys and the like, didn’t I now?”

  Grace slipped the letter securely back into its place near her heart. “He says he’s glad for our baby, but knows he won’t live to see it, to make a life for myself and our children, and not to mourn forever as he’ll see me again one day. In Heaven.”

  “And so he will, Grace. So he will.”

  “I never knew he loved me all that time.” Grace’s face twisted in anguish. “Or it’s him I would’ve wed first. I married Bram in good faith, the Lord knows I did. ’Twas worth everything to have our Mary Kate. But …” She paused, shaking her head. “It ended badly.”