Читать книгу Cinders to Satin - Fern Michaels - Страница 10

Chapter Four

Elizabeth Erin Kelly Thatcher was her name. Elizabeth for her grandmother, Erin for her great-grandmother, and Kelly was her maiden name. The Thatcher was from her husband of four years. A weary smile played around the corners of her soft mouth. Patrick Willard Thatcher, and he had become her world. Pat and little Paddy were her reasons for living. As tired as she was, ailing though she may be, her heart could still flutter wildly when Pat looked at her as he was doing now. She knew without doubt that he wanted to be off exploring this seething, overcrowded city of Liverpool. His exuberance to fill each moment of this, the greatest adventure of his life, was evident in his energy and the excitement in his eyes. Beth was the one who saw the rubble, felt the crush of milling hordes, smelled the stench of their leavings. She saw the desperate eyes, the thin, wasted bodies, and the carefully guarded pokes that contained all of life’s possessions, while Pat saw only hope, determination, and a splendid future that he would carve out for Beth and Paddy. He wanted to experience all there was to see and do and know, but he realized Beth needed him here with her. He would remain at her side, the dutiful, loving husband. They were sitting in a relatively sheltered corner of Albert Docks Commonhouse. The Albert Dock was the largest and most opulent of all the Liverpool docks, with its cast-iron Doric pillars and polished marble floors, muddy and wet now from the tread of thousands of people. Pulling the rolled blankets fastened with leather straps that contained all they were taking to America, Beth smiled with forced vitality. “Go along, Patrick. See what it is that makes this place bubble as it does. Paddy and I will be just fine.”

Patrick Thatcher needed no urging. His Beth never said anything unless she meant it. She was giving him free rein to search out this cauldron of humanity, and the temptation was too great to refuse. This was a part of his future, and he didn’t want to miss a moment of it. He failed to notice the thin, white line of exhaustion around Beth’s mouth or the dark smudges beneath her frightened eyes. His bright gaze passed over the six month’s protrusion under the dark, ugly cape she wore to disguise her pregnancy. Beth would be fine, he assured himself. She had Paddy, and at three years of age the little tad would discourage any bounder from flirting with his mum. Patrick dropped a light kiss on Beth’s head and tousled Paddy’s coppery curls. “Be back in a shake, darling’,” he told her happily as he tugged his worn cap more securely on his head.

Beth watched her husband stride away, admiring his tall, straight back and the way he maneuvered his slim, agile body through the crowd of people. Everything will be fine, she told herself for what seemed like the thousandth time since arriving in Liverpool the day before. Pat will take care of us and see to everything. If only she could sleep. Really sleep. Without feeling as though all the world were watching for her to let down her guard. Beth was a very private person, and living and eating and performing necessary functions amidst a world of strangers was agony. Being pregnant accentuated her instinctive nesting habits, as Pat liked to call her devotion to home and family. She should be home, in her own little house, cooking and cleaning and making a comfortable life for the ones she loved. Only there was nothing left to cook and no house to clean. They had lost everything they held dear in Killaugh, a country town sixty miles from Dublin. The crops had failed and so had their livelihood.

Beth had become so lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed Paddy wander off. It wasn’t until she heard his croupy cough at some distance from her that she became alert. Heaving herself up from the floor, she rushed to him, calling his name, warning him not to go another step.

By the time she reached Paddy his face was flushed red from his attack of congestion, and he was having difficulty catching his breath. She gathered him close to her knee, rubbing his curls and patting his back. She should stoop down to pick him up into her arms, but she was so cumbersome that she might fall off balance. She crooned softly to her son until the coughing stopped. These attacks always left Paddy exhausted. She herself felt light-headed and weak—if only everyone wouldn’t stand so close, if only they’d give her room to move, air to breathe . . . She felt herself sway, felt Paddy clutching her leg more fiercely. She couldn’t give in, she couldn’t. Everything was tilting, fading in and out of focus, and she was distantly aware of a firm grip holding her arm. Startled, she raised frightened eyes, expecting to see some roughneck hoping to sell her something she didn’t need, or one of those ragged skalpeens looking to pick her pocket or steal her wedding ring. Paddy was whimpering, his hold on her leg a death grip, but he released his frantic hold to stare wide-eyed at the young girl who was holding his mum steady. “Where are your things?” Callie asked, tilting her head. “Where can you sit down with the boy? Can you walk?”

“Over there,” Beth indicated with a lift of her chin. Callie kept her clasp on the young woman secure as she reached down to take the little boy’s hand. Paddy raised trusting chestnut eyes, and it was all she could do not to burst into tears. Paddy was no older than the twins she had left behind.

“What about your baggage?” Beth asked in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

“It will take but a second to get you comfortable. If anyone even thinks of helping himself to my goods, he’ll have me to deal with,” Callie said fiercely. Beth believed her.

Guiding Beth and Paddy over the sheltered corner that was indicated, Callie was quick to catch the movements of two youths curiously poking about the unguarded baggage. Beth saw them too. “That’s Patrick’s satchel!” she cried helplessly.

Spurred into motion, Callie steadied Beth on her feet and pushed through the edge of the crowd, shouting at the top of her voice. “You there! Leave that be! Get away from there!” In the space of a moment, she was flying at the culprits, struggling for possession of the satchel, fighting them off with coltish kicks and pounding fists. A string of epithets spewed forth, taking the youths by surprise. She wrenched Patrick’s bag from the taller of the two, kicking out with all the force she could muster. The adolescent clutched his groin and doubled over. “You come one step closer,” Callie warned, “and you’ll get more of the same!”

Grabbing the hem of her skirts, Callie displayed the length of her knitted-stockinged leg. Strapped to the calf was a bone-handled knife. The weapon shone bright and lethal, and the look in the girl’s eyes said she would not hesitate to use it.

There were grunts of approval from several men who had witnessed Callie’s show of bravery before they turned around, intent on their own affairs. She had been in Liverpool two days now, and it always amazed her how, by turning their thoughts inward, people could attain a kind of precious privacy amidst a throng of thousands.

Beth’s gratitude embarrassed Callie. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said softly. “I know Patrick will want to thank you also.” Beth’s hand was pushed against the swell of her belly, and her complexion was still white.

Callie took charge. “Here, you sit right here while I get my own poke. I’ll come and sit with you and the boy.” Obediently Beth sank to the floor, leaning on one of the blanket rolls. Quickly, leaving Paddy with his mother, Callie retrieved her own poke. She stacked the baggage neatly against the wall, away from the temptation of any other thieves, and sat down beside Beth. Introductions were made. “I’ve lived in Dublin my entire life,” Callie said. “My family still lives there.”

“Are you going to America all by yourself?” Beth asked in amazement.

“Yes. The streets are paved in gold, don’t you know?”

Beth missed the sarcasm in the girl’s voice. “You sound just like Patrick,” she told her, a false excitement ringing in her tone. Then allowing the guise to slip, she said wearily, “We had nothing left in Ireland. Nothing. And the failure of it was eating away at Patrick like a worm in an apple. I’m frightened, Callie. So very frightened. But I mustn’t stand in Patrick’s way. He’s a good man. He wants so much for us. We’ll find it in America, he knows we will.”

“And so you will,” Callie assured her. “Look about you. All these people can’t be wrong, can they?” Even to her own ears her confidence struck a false note. “Sit back and rest, Mrs. Thatcher.”

“Please, call me Beth. That’s Patrick’s name for me.”

Callie smiled; whenever Patrick Thatcher’s name was spoken a soft, loving glow came over Beth’s face. It reminded her of the way Peggy’s face and tone softened whenever she thought of Thomas. She fervently hoped that Patrick Thatcher was more of a doer than a dreamer. Thinking about Peggy and Thomas made Callie homesick. For distraction, she looked to little Paddy.

“Would you like to sit up on one of these barrels?” she asked.

Paddy nodded, and Callie slipped down and lifted the child onto the barrel beside hers. She was stunned at how thin and frail he felt in her arms. The layers of clothes he wore made him seem more robust than he was. She didn’t need a doctor or the child’s mother to tell her he was consumptive. Poor tyke. The wet, damp sea journey would do him no good, and from the looks of Beth, it wouldn’t do her any good either. Her pregnancy was advanced, and if she could hold it that long, the babe would be born in America. If there was one thing Callie knew about, it was pregnancy. Hadn’t she watched her own mother through five of them?

Callie settled Paddy and then propped up several pieces of the soft baggage beneath Beth’s head. “It was wise of your husband to limit the baggage,” Callie said approvingly. “I’ve only been in Liverpool two days, but I can tell you it pays to travel light. I’ve seen those with too much baggage who cannot move about without the aid of carts and wagons, and I’ve seen those who were as good as nailed to the spot because they had to sit guard on their boxes and trunks.”

“My Patrick is as smart as men come,” Beth agreed. Not for anything did she want to think about all the household goods Patrick had sold to buy passage across the Atlantic. Not for anything did she want to remember the huge family Bible that had been passed down to her from her mother’s mother, or the fine linen tablecloths, or Paddy’s first pair of shoes, and the low, wooden cradle into which generations of Kellys had placed their newborn babes. Gone, all of it. Never to be seen again.

“Why don’t you take a short nap until your husband comes back? I’ll care for the boy. I’ll tell him a story the way I used to do for my own little brothers. You can trust me, Beth.”

It never occurred to Beth that Callie couldn’t be trusted. Her eyes were already half-closed, and it was a great relief to leave Paddy to another’s care. She knew this pregnancy was a terrible drain on her. She should have convinced Patrick to wait until after the baby was born. But his arguments had made so much sense. “A babe in the arms is more difficult and more vulnerable than one in the belly,” he told her. And what of washing dirty nappies? And where would they find milk if hers gave out as it had with little Paddy? “And besides, think of it, Beth. The first Thatcher born an American citizen!”

Beth had wanted to argue, to find some other answer, but she couldn’t destroy Patrick’s dream. She would never deprive him of anything he wanted or needed. Whatever was best for Patrick was best for her and Paddy. Patrick loved them, so it had to be right.

Paddy cuddled against Callie, and soon he too was asleep. Glancing down at him, she was touched by the delicate blue lines in his eyelids and the unhealthy bright spots in his cheeks. She was certain he was feverish. Tenderly she cradled him closer, remembering tiny Joseph and his lusty, demanding cries. Surely Mrs. Thatcher realized her son was ailing. Or did she, like so many others, attribute her child’s puniness to the hard times they’d suffered?

The day was becoming colder, the wind whipping the relentless rain into wet and clinging curtains. The steamer trip from Dublin to Liverpool had been a trial of endurance. There was no shelter for the passengers; the hogs and poultry between decks enjoyed better accommodations. The inner layers of Callie’s garments were still damp, and the waistband of her drawers and petticoats chafed her slender body.

Leaning back against the cold masonry wall, Callie sighed. She knew she should be down at the Black Ball offices seeing to her own passage instead of playing sentry for Beth and Paddy Thatcher. In the two days she had been in Liverpool, she had learned the hard facts of being an emigré. First, no ship sailed until its hold was filled with cargo. In the case of the Yorkshire, the ship on which cousin Owen had booked her, it would be at least another day till sailing. The agent in the ticket office where she had to confirm her passage had pointed out the tall, masted ship as she lay at anchor in the Mersey River, her furled sails hanging like shrouds in the bleak light, her hull lolling in the muddy waters like a huge, black sea bird. Callie had never seen such a preponderance of ships and steamers of all description. The muddy Mersey was trafficked by an endless line of steamers plying up and down the river to various landing places. Steam tugs and small boats with familiar dark red or tan-colored sails that were oiled to resist the wet darted in and out of the larger ships like scurrying insects. Yachts and pleasure boats rode at anchor, the commercial packet boats having precedence for dock space. Most common of all were the small black steamers whizzing industriously along, many of them crowded with passengers.

Resisting the impulse to close her eyes in sleep, Callie decided the ticket agent and the validating of her passage could wait. She was needed here to watch over her charges, to protect them should a cutthroat approach them demanding money or worse. If only there was somewhere to go to eat a proper meal and sleep in a proper bed. Such a thing was impossible, Callie knew. Thousands of people were stranded in the city, many of them seeking nonexistent employment or living the best way they could. Too often a man would find himself the victim of robbery or a poorly dealt game of cards, stripping him of the money he would have used to purchase packet tickets, leaving him and his family with nowhere to go.

The dark and dingy streets were peopled by the poorer than poor. Women openly nursed children at their breasts; men, haggard and often drunk, wandered the roads and byways, sleeping in doorways. Sick and dirty children begged on street corners. It seemed that every few steps there were taverns, and the buildings were plastered with placards advertising strong drink and food. It seemed to Callie that the entire city was geared to the business of emigration—Ship brokers, provision merchants, eating places, and public houses. And everywhere were signs advertising the Cunard Line, the Black Ball Line, and various ships. Public-service posters were squeezed in every available space. One especially chilled Callie to the bone:

TO EMIGRANTS

CHOLERA!

CHOLERA having made its appearance on board several Passenger Ships proceeding from the United Kingdom to the United States of America, and having, in some instances, been very fatal, Her Majesty’s Colonial Land and Emigrations Commissioners feel it their duty to recommend to the Parents of Families in which there are many young children, and to all persons in weak health who may be contemplating Emigration, to postpone their departure until a milder season. There can be no doubt that the seasickness consequent on the rough weather, which Ships must encounter at this Season, joined to the cold and damp of a sea voyage, will render persons who are not strong more susceptible to the attacks of this disease.

To those who may Emigrate at this season the Commissioners strongly recommend that they should provide themselves with as much warm clothing as they can, and especially with flannel, to be worn next to the Skin; that they should have both their clothes and their persons quite clean before embarking, and should be careful to keep them so during the voyage, and that they should provide themselves with as much solid and wholesome food as they can procure, in addition to the Ship’s allowance to be used on the voyage. It would, of course, be desirable, if they can arrange it, that such persons should not go in a Ship that is much crowded, or that is not provided with a Medical Man.

By Order of the Board

S. WALCOTT,

Secretary (sic)

Someone was making a bad joke, Callie frowned. Clean clothing, extra food, uncrowded ships! Whoever S. Walcott was, he evidently had no idea of the circumstances of the people in Liverpool. Take poverty, add cholera, and you’ve got disaster.

Closing her eyes momentarily, Callie fought back the rush of terror that had been picking at her bones ever since she’d left Dublin. In her thoughts, she could see Peggy at the stove, lifting the kettle onto the hob, little Joseph asleep in his cradle. The golden heads of Hallie and Georgie and the clever child-play of the twins. And it was her father’s sweet tenor voice she heard singing a gay tune while he stropped his razor before shaving.

A tear of loneliness coursed down the side of her nose, and she quickly brushed it away. What’s done is done, she told herself firmly. There’s nothing to do but get on with it. God willing, she’d be able to send money home to Peggy and Thomas very soon. Cousin Owen, they said, was an accomplished man who would help her find work and look after her.

Paddy squirmed, whimpered in his sleep and then quieted. Callie smoothed his hair tenderly. His head had cooled to the touch and a fine beading of perspiration dampened his hairline. “Dear God,” she murmured, raising her clear, bright gaze heavenward, “help this little child.” Unaware, she was mimicking Peggy’s intonations whenever one of the children was sick. “And help me too, Lord, I’m so scared. I suppose You think this is just punishment for what I did, but You should have known I was only trying to help the little ones.” The heaviness in her chest blossomed to a throbbing ache. She was angry, angry at the injustice of it all. “And don’t think you’re foolin’ me, Lord. This is hell. Liverpool is the real hell.”

Strong white teeth bit into her full lower lip. The salty taste of her own blood did nothing to appease her fright or her anger.

Early twilight gave way to darkness and still her two charges slept. There was no sign of Patrick Thatcher and Callie knew a thrill of apprehension. She’d been out on the streets and knew the dangers. What if someone had slit his gullet and stolen his wallet? Worse, what if Mr. Thatcher decided he didn’t want the responsibility of a wife and child? It would be so easy for a man to board ship and sail away. It had been done, she knew from gossip she’d overheard outside the common house where posters were hung inquiring as to the whereabouts of this man or that.

Not six yards away a card game started up with five men. Callie tried not to watch. Just this very morning she had witnessed a card game, and when money ran out, so did tempers. There were accusations of cheating, and all that remained of that particular game was a sticky pool of blood. It was the winner’s blood that soaked the planks on the wharf. It was obvious to Callie that there were no winners in Liverpool. That was where she had come by the knife. It had been lying off to the side, still stained with the dead man’s blood, unnoticed by the gaping crowd. It had been so easy to pick it up and hide it under her shawl. She hadn’t known why she had wanted it except that she felt so defenseless in this lawless city. Now she was glad she’d taken it and tied it to her leg. It had given her authority when those two louts had tried to steal the Thatcher’s baggage.

The sounds from the card game awakened Beth, and she struggled to a sitting position. Her eyes looked about wildly and calmed immediately when she saw her son nestled in Callie’s arms. The sweetest of smiles touched her lips, and her eyes regarded her new little friend warmly. “Paddy slipped off just after you. I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t sleep most of the night.”

Smoothing her thick, dark hair and pushing it into a coil at the back of her head, Beth asked anxiously, “Did my husband return?”

Callie shook her head. “There’s so much to see, and everywhere you go the crowds are so thick. And if Mr. Thatcher has gone to the ticket broker’s, there’s no telling how long it will be. People are in line there from early morning through most of the day. Mr. Thatcher wouldn’t have gotten there till late in the afternoon, would he?”

“No. He’d only just left before you came to help us.” Beth’s tired eyes thanked Callie. She knew there was nothing she could do but wait. “I’ll take Paddy now. Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”

Carefully, so as not to disturb him, Callie lifted the child and placed him in his mother’s arms. “If I’m to sleep, perhaps you’d better keep this handy,” she whispered. She reached for the knife strapped to her leg. Beth’s eyes widened in shock. Now she knew why the two ruffians hadn’t pursued the baggage.

Reaching for the knife with trembling fingers, Beth asked, “You don’t think anything has happened to Patrick, do you?”

Callie forced conviction into her voice. “Of course not. He’ll be here soon, you’ll see.”

That she should rely so completely on this young girl’s opinion was a puzzlement to Beth. Yet Callie seemed so able to take care of herself. She was younger than Beth by at least five years, yet she seemed to know so much and seemed so in control.

“You’re right, Callie,” Beth said with forced brightness. “I’m just being silly. It’s just that Patrick means the world to me. I’m certain nothing’s happened to him. Pat is so smart and so strong.”

Callie wondered if the word “selfish” also applied to Mr. Thatcher. It was unforgivable of him to be gone so long. What if she hadn’t been there to help Beth and Paddy? What then?

“He’s so good, Callie,” Beth said with undisguised adoration. “I can’t wait for you to meet him. He’ll like you, Callie, and he’ll be forever grateful for what you’ve done for us.”

This talk about the absent Mr. Thatcher was making Callie uneasy. Beth was so much like Peggy extolling Thomas’s virtues. Attempting to change the subject, she asked, “What ship are you sailing?”

“The Yorkshire. Patrick says she’s the fastest ship in the Black Ball fleet, and her commander, Captain Bailey, has a reputation for kindness and attention to his passengers. He’s taken the Yorkshire across the Atlantic in sixteen days!”

“I’m sailing the Yorkshire, too,” Callie told her. It would be good to know someone aboard ship. The knowledge calmed some of her fears, and she smiled at Beth with genuine cheer.

“You’re frightened too, aren’t you.” It was a statement rather than a question.

“Mum says we’re always frightened of the unknown,” Callie soothed.

“Patrick says we should look upon this as an adventure.” Beth said this with more confidence than she felt. “Going to America is his dream. For years, even before we were married, he’s been talking about it. Now, with the way things are in Ireland, the choice was made for us. It’s all he ever talks about, a new life, a new beginning for us. He’ll make it happen, Callie, I know he will. It wasn’t his fault that we lost the farm. You can’t stop Patrick Thatcher. If he says he’s going to do something, he does it.”

It seemed to Callie that the only time life sparkled in Beth’s eyes was when she spoke of her husband. She prayed she wasn’t a fool about the man as so many women were, her mum included. “He sounds wonderful. A loving man,” Callie said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as skeptical as she felt.

Patrick Willard Thatcher arrived with the dawn, his eyes shining like newly minted copper. The relief on Beth’s face wounded him. He shouldn’t have stayed away so long, but there had been so much to see, so many people to talk to. His glance went to Paddy sleeping in the arms of a strange young girl. Beth nodded to show that it was all right.

Sitting down beside his wife, Patrick spoke in a rush, trying to tell her everything he’d seen and done since leaving her. “We’ve our tickets confirmed for the Yorkshire,” he told her. “That took half the night; the lines at the broker’s office were that long. Beth, I tell you, Liverpool is beyond imagining. It’s a carnival; something is happening every minute. Aren’t you excited, Beth?”

Callie woke at the sound of his voice. Just like a man to ask such a stupid question. Did he really expect her to dance a jig after sleeping on the floor all night? Not to mention worrying about Paddy’s health and being with child to boot! Callie had no illusions about a woman’s role in life, nor about her worries or her heartbreaks. Her lessons were learned early at Peggy’s knee.

Callie sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Quickly Beth introduced Patrick, relating to him the help Callie had been to her. Patrick gravely thanked her and upon learning that Callie was also to sail on the Yorkshire, quickly offered his protection.

Paddy woke, stretching his thin arms. Spying his father, he squealed his delight and immediately said he had to pee. Patrick laughed, calling him a big boy to keep his pants clean and swung the child onto his shoulders to take him outside.

“We’ll meet you back here, Patrick,” Beth was saying. “I think Callie and I need a wash and a comb ourselves.”

“There’s a public outbuilding through those doors,” Callie pointed to the rear of the warehouse they were in. She looked from Patrick to the stacked baggage, but he didn’t seem to be aware that if he didn’t take a few bundles with him, she and Beth would have to carry it all themselves.

“I’ll meet you back here, then,” Patrick told them. “C’mon, Paddy boy, hold on for another minute, won’t you?” Off he strode with Paddy riding high on his shoulders, all the baggage left to Beth and Callie.

Slinging two pokes over her shoulder and carrying another in each hand, Callie left the lightest ones for Beth. “I’m afraid Patrick isn’t the most practical of men,” Beth apologized. “I’m certain he never gave a second thought to the baggage.”

The rain had ceased, leaving huge lakes of muddy water along the paths and walkways. The lines outside the public privy were long, and Callie knew Beth was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. At last their turn came, but to their dismay there was no pump for clean water with which to wash. The stench of sewage from the cesspool was an abomination. Quickly they skipped over the puddles, trying to keep their shoes dry, and went back to the corner of the warehouse where they’d spent the night.

Callie settled down and removed a comb from the drawstring bag she carried. “I’ll comb your hair, Beth, and you comb mine.” Beth took the pins out of her long dark hair, allowing it to fall freely down her back, the bright auburn glints highlighting it like the sleek flanks of a roan pony. Callie, too, pulled the combs and pins from her hair, running her fingers through her chestnut tresses. She would have Beth braid it for her; it would stay neater that way and be less of a problem.

“Patrick says he loves my hair,” Beth told her shyly. “Men,” she said impishly, “love to run their fingers through a woman’s hair. I suppose it’s because their own is kept so short.” Callie laughed aloud as Beth braided her hair into a long thick rope that hung down her back. “The Lord alone knows how ugly I’d be without my hair,” Beth confided. “I do believe it’s what made Patrick notice me out of all the girls in the village who were smitten with him. Even when we were children he loved to pull it. He’s even said it was the reason he married me,” she laughed happily. Callie thought about it and decided the man she would marry had better want her for more than her hair.

When Patrick returned he brought them each a large, round biscuit and a paper filled with bits of ham trimmings. He offered the food to Beth as if he were offering a gift to a queen. “Look! One of the spirit vaults, that’s what they call taverns here in Liverpool, is handing out food for the hungry,” he said. “The barmaid took a liking to Paddy and handed him an extra biscuit! Isn’t that right, son?”

Paddy beamed, shyly handing his biscuit to Beth. “No, you eat it, dear,” she told him lovingly. “That’s a good boy.”

“Yesterday I had the opportunity to talk with a ticket broker,” Patrick told them between mouthfuls. “Weather permitting, the Yorkshire should make the journey in under three weeks. Think of it, Beth, in less than a month we’ll be in New York!” Paddy clapped his hands in glee, infected with his father’s excitement. “The agent also told me that each passenger on the Yorkshire is allotted two pounds of fatback and five pounds of biscuit flour each week. There are stoves for the passengers.” Patrick sounded confident and pleased with what he’d learned. It was as though he were going on a pleasure cruise, Callie thought.

“Two pounds of fatback, Patrick. It hardly seems enough,” Beth said hesitantly.

“It’s more than enough! Two pounds each for me and you and Paddy. Added with Callie’s two pounds, that makes for eight pounds altogether. Whenever did we eat eight pounds of fatback in a week?”

Beth shrugged, still doubtful. “Did the agent tell you anything else?”

“Oh, just some nonsense about taking along some stomach medicine and herb teas. And he mentioned peppermint for the digestion. And, of course, we all have to go to the medical examiner to have our tickets stamped.” This last he said hurriedly, rushing through his words, trying not to make his concern for Paddy’s health obvious. They must go to America. They must! Instinctively, his hand went to his breast pocket where his father’s silver watch was hidden. It was all he had, and he had been holding onto it for an extreme emergency. Bribing one of the doctors might just be that crisis.

As Patrick’s hand went to his breast pocket so did Callie’s hand go to the little pouch pinned to the inside of her bodice. In it rested eight shillings, given to her by Aunt Sara. With it she was to purchase coffee beans, dried peas, and tea to fortify her during the crossing. Along with the ship’s allotment, it would be more than ample, Aunt Sara had told her. She had come by her knowledge first hand from a customer at their dry goods store who had made the voyage several times.

“When does the Yorkshire sail?” Callie asked.

“Any time now. You know she won’t sail until she carries a full load of cargo. We’re to watch the posters outside the broker’s exchange.”

Callie repeated what Aunt Sara told her about bringing extra provisions. “I’ve eight shillings,” she told Patrick, “and since my cousin Owen will be meeting me when I land, I won’t be needing to put anything by for when I reach the other side. Have you seen a place where I can buy what I need at cheap prices?”

“Eight shillings! That’s a princely sum!” Patrick whistled. “I’ve less than that, and there’s three of us! We can’t afford to indulge ourselves now, we’ve got to save what we have for New York.”

“Patrick,” Beth said softly, “perhaps just a pound of coffee or just some tea. Think of Paddy, won’t you?” Worry lines creased Beth’s fair brow.

“Beth, my darlin’, I am thinking of Paddy. Now, don’t worry. The ship’s allotment will be more than enough.”

Once their simple meal was finished, Patrick settled himself with Paddy in his arms. The child was almost instantly asleep, the alarming spots of red flushing his cheekbones. “He’ll be fine once we get to America, Beth. Trust me, won’t you? It’s going to be the answer to our prayers. We’ll thrive, and Paddy will grow fat and jolly. We’ll have to work hard, but we aren’t afraid of hard work, are we, Beth?”

Callie looked away from them. She had never seen such naked devotion in anyone’s eyes as when Beth smiled at Patrick.