Flight of the Earls (48 page)

“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?”

She turned to Andrew, who looked at her with confusion and concern.

Clare laughed and rested her head softly against his tall shoulder.

“There's nothing wrong,” Clare whispered. “Far from it. It's just she's been waiting for this moment all of her life.”

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