The Irish Bride (12 page)

When Farrell had asked Father Joseph
about her aunt’s story, he’d sternly dismissed it as “pagan
blather,” and ordered her to say a Hail Mary for her impious
questions about one of God’s chosen handmaidens. He’d also
instructed her to pray an entire rosary for her aunt’s soul. But
secretly Farrell liked Kathleen’s story best, one about the strong,
loving mother of earth and poetry and fire. It fit so well with her
own sense of connection to the land and healing. In her pocket she
always carried the little carved figure of the goddess-nun as her
talisman.

There was at least one pregnant woman
aboard, Deirdre, who would most likely give birth before they
reached America, and although she had no real knowledge of
midwifery, Farrell checked on her daily because she was so gaunt
and pale. Her sense of helplessness was eased a bit by the
attention she was able to give the woman, and in knowing that other
women below were watching after her as well.

“
I suppose ye’ll do what you
see fit,” Aidan replied.

“
I’ll bring your meal after
that.” She swallowed and clutched the lifeless chicken in her
hands. “T-to Morton’s cabin?”

He gave her a knowing smile. “Aye.
I’ll leave a handkerchief tied to the door so you’ll know which it
is. I’ll be waiting for ye.”

* * *

Once she’d served the chicken stew,
Farrell hurried over the damp deck and down to the hold to see
Deirdre Connagher and Mrs. Dougherty. Expecting to be stopped by
other passengers, though, she also carried with her things from the
medicine chest that she thought she might need—brewed chamomile,
quinine, turpentine, laudanum, lemon syrup for cough (the lemons
she’d snatched from the crew’s supply), a special treat for
Deirdre, and two bottles of patent medicine. These she’d put in a
handle basket covered with a cloth.

Coming down the ladder, she heard the
buzz of murmured conversation, crying children, and a few voices
raised in angry tones. After the sun went down, widely-spaced lamps
swaying from the overhead timbers provided the only light. With its
yellow-white gleam, the lamplight gave every face a slightly
bilious appearance. The stench wasn’t so strong this evening, but
bad enough.

People sat in their little bunks,
which were not much more than shelves built against the hull of the
ship—six feet long but only two feet wide. Others perched on
overturned kegs, boxes, or creepies, three-legged stools brought
from faraway firesides. Here and there, lines had been strung on
which to dry clothes and babies’ nappies, adding to the stifling
humidity.

She made her way to the space assigned
to Mrs. Dougherty. She was sitting up with her feet dangling from
the second-row bunk. Her hair hung in limp, gray plaits on her
shoulders, its color nearly matching her face. Her clothes were as
drab and travel-worn as the others’. Farrell’s own clothing had
been so big for her it barely stayed on her body until she’d taken
a needle and thread to it. The stitching wasn’t fancy, only
functional.

“
How are you, then, Mrs.
Dougherty?” she asked, putting her basket on the floor next to
her.

“
Sure I’m in a terrible
state. I swear Mrs. O’Rourke, this must be purgatory we’ve all come
to.”

“
Did you eat the bread I
sent with your husband?”

“
Aye, and I thank you for
it. But now my head aches something fierce, so it does.” She
squinted as though even the low yellow light made her headache
worse.

Farrell nodded. “I might have
something for that.” She reached into the basket and produced the
bottle of lavender water. “Do ye have a handkerchief or a strip of
cloth?”

The woman passed her a piece of what
looked like an old petticoat. It had probably been beautiful once,
but now it would serve as a compress. She dribbled some of the
fragrant water onto the cloth. “Put this on your forehead and try
to rest for a while.”

Mrs. Dougherty lay down on her thin
bedding, and heaved a long sigh. “God bless you, lass. I pray God
will make this journey short—I’m just about worn to a
nubbin.”

“
And I’ll send a prayer to
St. Brigit to speed you back to health.” Farrell patted her hand
and began to pack up her lavender water.

Ryan Dougherty, who had been in a
conversation with some other men, came to see what remedy Farrell
had provided his wife. Satisfied, he asked, “Do ye know if Aidan
has put in a word with the captain for us, Missus?”

“
I know he talked to Mr.
Morton, the second mate. He’s the keeper of the stores. It was no
good. He couldn’t shift him.” She lowered her voice. “But Aidan
said he has another plan, so let’s not give up hope yet.” She
didn’t want to reveal just what he had in mind. Persuasion seemed
to be one of Aidan’s specialties and she decided to leave it to him
to convince others to share their food with families like the
Doughertys.

Intent on seeing Deirdre Connagher,
Farrell was stopped along the way to bind a toddler’s cut knee,
dispense lemon syrup for a man’s deep-chest cough, and prepare a
turpentine chest flannel for his wife’s stubborn cold.

At last she reached Deirdre’s bunk and
what she found was not encouraging. She lay on her side, her eyes
closed. With a sense of panic, Farrell put her hand under the
woman’s nose to feel for her breath. At the touch, Deirdre opened
tired, dark-circled eyes. Her paleness was accentuated by dull,
raven-black hair that she wore in a single, long braid.

“
Oh,
Farrell . . . ye’ve come.”

Farrell reached for her hand
and was frightened by its chill. She didn’t know why, but she felt
special empathy for this poor soul who was seventeen years old,
pregnant, a new widow, and alone. Her husband had died just before
they were to board the
Mary Fiona
in Queenstown. With nowhere else to go and
determined to leave Ireland, she got on the ship to join her
brother and his wife in America.

“
Yes, I’m here,” she
answered, making a brave effort to smile into the small, thin face.
“How are you feeling?”

“
Och, I’m so tired. And the
babe has been kicking me in the back since this morning. It seems
to be getting worse as night comes on.”

Farrell put her basket on the bunk and
opened it. “I’ve brought ye a little something,” she whispered. She
hated not being able to give everyone what they needed and having
to sneak about with morsels of food. She lifted out a crockery cup
of chicken broth that she’d appropriated from the officers’ meal.
It was covered with a square of waxed cloth, tied in place with a
length of twine, which she removed. “It’s not much but it might
give you a wee bit of strength. Drink this.”

Deirdre lifted herself to her elbow
and took the cup from Farrell’s hands. After taking a sip, she
lowered herself again, putting the cup next to her. “Thank
you.”

“
While it’s hot,” Farrell
urged, wishing she had something else to offer. But nothing in her
basket could really help. Looking at the girl, a sudden clutch of
dread squeezed her heart like a fist. She reached into her pocket
and touched her wooden carving of Brigit.

“
Yes, while it’s hot,”
Deirdre parroted in a thin voice. “As soon as I rest a minute.” Her
heavy eyes closed and she was lost again to the dim world between
wakefulness and sleep.

Or life and death, Farrell thought
with an anxious shudder. As she made her way back to the ladder,
she asked a few of the stronger women to keep watch over
Deirdre.

Farrell herself still had a man to
feed in a private room.

* * *

Aidan washed and shaved, then washed
again as best he could in the room that was now his and Farrell’s
for a night. They were allowed six pints of water per day for
drinking, cooking, and washing, and it didn’t go very far. His
clothes didn’t fit very well, and neither did Farrell’s. Hers were
too big and his ran to the small side, but they’d been in a hurry
when they’d bought them in the secondhand shop in Cork City. He
ducked to view himself in the little mirror hanging on the wall. He
spotted a tuft of unruly hair and he licked his palm to smooth it
down. Waiting for Farrell, he felt as nervous and awkward as a boy
bringing flowers to his first colleen. And kept him waiting, she
did. He heard the ship’s bell ring the hour of eight. She would
come, wouldn’t she? he wondered.

Her face and form rose in his mind’s
eye. Her skin was as pale as new cream and bore not one freckle,
despite her coloring. At least none that he could see. She had a
pretty, rounded chin and a slim, fine-cut nose. Her clear green
eyes were fringed with long, dark brown lashes that made him think
of an artist’s sable brush he’d once seen in a Skibbereen shop
window. Her copper hair, well, it was as thick and heavy as a
Percheron’s tail, and he longed to run his hands through it, to
learn if it was as silky.

And, unlike some of the other girls
he’d known, there were strength and courage in her that matched the
attributes of the goddess she so admired. Brigit would be proud of
Farrell, he believed.

He hoped that his wife would come to
care for him, though their marriage would never be a grand passion,
considering the way it began. He suspected that in her heart, she
imagined herself married to Liam. Nor was she the type of woman to
submit to his will without question. Farrell had too much pride and
independence for that. But if he could win her regard, at least it
might be a start.

A tap at the door jerked him from his
musings. He crossed the tiny room and flung open the oak panel.
There she stood in a shawl and clean blue dress that almost fit
her, balancing two plates. It was still raining; droplets clung to
her hair, dim crystals in the lamplight.

“
What’ve ye got here?” he
asked, taking the burden from her hands. He put the plates down on
the small, round table where most recently he’d played cards. She
stepped into the cabin and he reached behind her to close the
door.

“
It’s not proper mash, but I
used potatoes and mixed in some of our oatmeal and a wee bit of
chicken broth,” she replied, taking off her shawl and shaking the
rainwater from it. He could smell the aroma of the food, but he
also detected the scent of ocean and some sweet fragrance, like
flowers swishing from the folds of her skirts. From her pocket, she
produced two pewter spoons.

“
What’s that sweet smell?
Like wildflowers?”

“
Oh, when I was in the hold,
I treated Mrs. Dougherty for a headache. I used a bit of lavender
water for a compress to her forehead. I suppose I got a bit of it
on me.” She looked around the cabin and he could see the relief in
her face.

“
A nice improvement,
aye?”

She nodded, trailing her hand over the
back of a chair, her woman’s eyes taking in the tidy, luxurious
warmth of the place. “Aye, it is.”

“
Here, lass, sit down. Ye’ve
been working hard.” He’d fetched two of Morton’s glasses from a
small rack mounted to the wall and poured lashings of poteen into
each from the small stoneware flask he’d brought with them. He’d
been saving the strong liquor for a special occasion, and if this
wasn’t a special night, he couldn’t think of one better.

“
Where did you get that?”
she asked, nodding at the flask.

He smiled. “Ye didn’t think I’d take a
trip of thousands of miles without bringing a bit of Da’s poteen,
did you? I’ve been perishing for a taste, but saving it since
there’s so little here.” He handed her the cork to sniff and though
her cinnamon brows rose at the strong smell, she smiled too. It was
well known in their district that no one made better whiskey than
Sean O’Rourke, although in the last few years, his failing health
had reduced production quite a bit. Everyone expected either Tommy
or Liam to take up the task of distilling the illegal spirits and
carry on the family tradition.

He lifted his glass and she followed.
“May the good saints protect ye, and the devil neglect
ye!”

She laughed at the toast and took a
cautious sip. “Ohhh!” she gasped, “God, it’s like fire in a
bottle!”

“
Aye, it is,” he agreed
companionably. “But it’s got rounded corners on it so it’ll go down
smooth-like.”

After she took another taste, she gave
him an arch look and a cough. “Smooth, ye say.”

“
Angel’s tears, Farrell.
That’s what Da always called the poteen.”

“
I’d hate to see the eyes
these tears came from,” she retorted, amused. “They’d be
blood-red.”

She looked lovely in the pale golden
light of the lamp. Her smile was full and unfeigned, reaching her
green eyes. God, dimples she had, too. How had he missed
those?

“
Aye, well, some of Da’s
customers had blood-red eyes, as well.”

Farrell dug her spoon into
the mash. “Mmm, this tastes
much
better with the chicken broth.” They both ate
ravenously, enjoying the first bit of nourishment they’d had with
real substance since coming onboard.

When Aidan pushed away his plate,
Farrell said, “I wonder how they all are at home. I think about
them every day, Clare and Tommy, your da,
Liam . . . ”