Donnelly's Promise

“Rory Gilchrist, miss.”

Boyle cut in. “That be enough lollygaggin’, Gilchrist.” Boyle gestured to the coir the donkey had dumped on the ground. “Get to pickin’ this up if you hope t’ eat dinner.”

“Yessir.”

Darcy studied the child. Bits of fiber stuck to the lad’s striped clothing, and he looked scrawny enough to blow over in a hearty gale, but he bent to his task. Darcy glanced at Vaughn, gauging his reaction.

Vaughn set to work, too, scooping an armful of the fibrous material that had burst from the bale. “A cart might serve ye better than the beast, lad. Show me where to stack this.”

Assured that Vaughn would take care of the boy, Darcy returned to her job. She carried the basket inside and made more sandwiches. After placing the food on the long tables, she carried out a bushel basket of apples and fresh water.

She rang the bell outside the kitchen door, and women stopped their tasks to gather for the meal.

These were not dangerous criminals. Most of them had been imprisoned for stealing or sent here from the workhouses for the mere crime of being poor. Or many were like Rory, in prison because he was unfortunate enough to have no one who cared about him…except a kind-hearted mason.

As the women sat to eat, Darcy picked up two wrapped sandwiches and glanced toward the scaffolding, to which Vaughn had returned. Her stomach quivered with nervousness, but she headed toward him.

Chapter Two (#ulink_27352ad3-f8ee-5849-a08c-98bf707da35e)

“I’ve brought a sandwich for you, Mr. Donnelly.”

With surprising agility, Vaughn climbed down and jumped the last several feet to stand before her. He removed his slouch cap and stuffed it into his back pocket. “’Tis a generous kindness you’ve provided. Thank you.”

She handed him his lunch. On the other side of the wall, the bell rang for the men’s dinner.

He unwrapped the bread and paused. His dark hair had a decidedly reddish cast in the sunlight. “Thank You, Lord, for providing nourishment. Bless the hands that prepared this food. I am Your grateful servant.” He glanced at her. “I’m happy to share.”

“Thank you, but I have a meal waiting for me. I just wanted to thank you for intervening on Rory’s behalf.”

“The real crime is holdin’ children in these places. What could the boy ’ave done to deserve such a harsh punishment?”

“I heard he ran from the Bristol workhouse.” She glanced at the rock walls. “I can understand why he ran. Who wouldn’t want to leave this depressing place and not look back?”

“Many of our countrymen go to the workhouse simply for meals and a bed,” he said. “For them this prison is far better than starvin’ to death.”

“Aye,” she replied. “I am thankful for a home and food.” She studied him a moment. “This is the first you’ve been back to Castleville in several years.”

“I was thankful for the opportunity. This job lets Da enjoy the comfort of our own cottage. The travel and harsh conditions are gettin’ more difficult for him. We go where there’s work, and sadly the only work is adding wings to overcrowded prisons.”

“’Tis not the country of our youth.” She hadn’t meant to sound wistful.

Vaughn’s expression remained stoic, but he swallowed hard and looked at the sandwich he held. “Seems there’s somethin’ we should do.”

“About the plight of our country?”

He fixed his blue gaze on her. “Not the entire country, lass. Not much we can do about that. But we may’t make a difference for one person at a time.”

He meant a small defenseless person like Rory Gilchrist. She gave Vaughn a somber nod. The scrawny lad had touched her heart, too. It was frightening to feel all alone in this world. She had to do something for him.

“I can’t say what good it will do, but I’ll speak with my father.”

“You needn’t concern yourself with prisoners, Darcy. Your attentions should be focused on your job.”

“I never shirk my tasks, Father. Please, I simply want to know more about the Gilchrist lad.”

Ambros Keegan searched a drawer in his tall wooden file cabinet and pulled out a few papers.

“Ran the whole way from the Bristol workhouse naked, he did. He was arrested stealing trousers and a shirt from a wash house in the village.”

Darcy tilted her head in thought. “Seems he’s a clever lad. Prisoners are charged with stealing the clothes they’re wearing if they leave.”

Her father ignored her remark.

She pushed on. “He left the clothing behind so as not to break the law. That’s commendable.”

“Leave it to you to reach that conclusion.”

“But why was he at the workhouse in the first place?”

“That’s not our concern.”

“You treat them all as though they’re hardened criminals. He only needed clothing. There must be something we can do about this one boy.”

Ambros returned the folder and closed the drawer with a loud click before going back to his desk. “It’s not your place to question the laws, Darcy. Rulings are in place for a purpose. We have decent jobs here. We have a home. If you must look the other way, then do so. This is our livelihood.”

His expression told her there would be no further discussion on the subject. Stiffly, she turned and marched from the room, wishing it was this village she was fleeing and not merely her father’s office.

The only difference between herself and the prisoners was that she went somewhere else to sleep at night. But even at home she cooked and cleaned and did her father’s bidding.

But not for much longer. She’d been saving for two years. She almost had enough funds stashed away to leave Castleville and start a new life in a place where hard work earned appreciation—if there was such a place.

She lived for that day.

Thinking of Vaughn’s compassion for Rory in contrast to her father’s, she pulled the office door closed and went in search of the boy. She found him pouring water into a trough. “Hello, Rory.”

He pulled off his blue-and-white cap and straightened.

“Do you think we could speak for a moment?”

“Long as I keep workin’. Mr. Boyle don’t take kindly to jabberin’ on the job.” He jammed his hat on and untethered the donkey.

Darcy followed him as he tied the animal in another spot. “Do you mind telling me how you came to be at the workhouse?”

He shrugged a bony shoulder. “Me da died and the landlord put us out from our cottage. Mother couldn’t find work, so we went to the workhouse for food and beds.” He watched the donkey drink. “Then Mother took sick…and she died, she did. They buried her in a grave with no stone a’tall. I marked it meself when no one was lookin’. A neat piece of cunning, it was.”

Her heart went out to him. “I’m sorry about your mother, Rory. I…I lost my mother, too.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “I heard landlords was hirin’ footmen, so I stole clothes. I got caught, though, so here I be.”