The Wedding Journey

“Where did practicality get her?” Bridget asked. “She never had a day’s happiness.”

“Romantic notions won’t put food on the table.” Holding the frame too tightly, Nora’s fingers poked through the fabric backing. She turned over the frame and examined the hole. Peering more closely, she worked three folded pieces of paper from inside. “Whatever are these?”

The younger sisters crowded in close for a better look. The first paper Nora unfolded was a letter, the second some type of legal document and the last a pencil drawing of a house. “How odd.”

“Read the letter,” Bridget coaxed and reached to take the drawing.

“‘May 1824,’” Nora began. “‘My dearest Colleen, I know you have made your choice. My heart is broken, but I understand your decision. I’ve gone to America, to Faith Glen, the village in Massachusetts we spoke of so often. The town was founded by an Irishman. It is just ten miles from Boston, yet I have heard it is so much like Castleville, though, of course it is another world. I have purchased a small home for you—’”

“Who’s the letter from?” Maeve stepped in closer to have a better look at the handwriting.

Nora waved her away. “Let me finish. ‘I have purchased a small home for you on the water’s edge. Should you or your kin ever be in need of a place to go, know this house is yours. With undying love, Laird.’”

The three sisters stood in stunned silence for a full minute.

“I told you she whispered the name Laird with her last dyin’ breath.” Bridget looked up from the letter to Nora’s tense expression. “But the two of you insisted she was just trying to say love.”

“We didn’t know any Laird,” Maeve said.

“Until now.” Bridget gave a satisfied nod.

“What’s this mention of undying love?” Maeve asked.

“Dated a year before I was born, ’tis.” Nora turned her attention to the pencil drawing Bridget held, and the three of them studied the depiction of a home near the ocean. The artist had even drawn flowers blooming in gardens on two sides.

“Mother was in love with this man!” Bridget’s expression showed her shock. “He bought her a house in America, but she stayed and married Da? I can’t conceive of it.”

“There must be a logical explanation,” Nora said.

Bridget’s hazel eyes were bright with excitement. “The cottage sounds ideal. We should go there.”

“They say there’s so much land in America that anyone can own a share.” Maeve took the deed from Nora’s fingers and examined it. “The soil is rich and there’s plenty of rain. There are schools and jobs. Western men are hungry for wives.”

“That may be so, but it takes more than we have to purchase ship’s fare and travel there. Fanny Clellan sold both her cow and her mother’s brooch to buy a ticket. We don’t even have a cow.” Nora snatched the paper back. She pointed to the date. “This deed is over twenty-five years old, ’tis. The house is most likely occupied—or it could have been destroyed.”

Maeve went to the coffee tin and dumped out the contents on the kitchen table. Bridget added the coins they’d received that morning, and the two of them tallied the amount.

“This could get us to Galway,” Nora pointed out.

“But we’d have no food or lodging,” Maeve argued. “We have something we can sell to buy tickets to America.”

“Don’t even speak of it.” Nora gave Maeve a cautionary glare.

Maeve went back to the trunk. “Once we land we could find an inn and secure jobs. We can look for this house in Faith Glen and learn if it’s still there. Think of it! We might have a comfortable place to live just waitin’ for us.” She knelt and took out several objects that had been packed in fabric at the bottom.

Bridget unwrapped one and held up a silver sugar bowl, followed by the teapot. “I never saw Mama use these.”

“I never did, either.” Maeve unwrapped a creamer. “They’ve always been in the trunk.”

“They’ve been there as long as I can remember,” Nora said. “Da once told me Mama got them from a woman she worked for. He said she had saved them for a rainy day. Even when times were the worst, she held on to them.”

“This is the rainiest day I can think of,” Bridget commented.

Maeve gave her eldest sister a pleading look. “It would be a fresh start, Nora. We have nothing left here.”

Nora looked about the barren room, her concern clear, but her resolve crumbling. “Even selling that, the tickets would take every last penny.”

“Perhaps there are positions aboard one of the sailing vessels. None of us minds a good day’s work.” Excitement laced Bridget’s tone.

Nora refolded the papers and carefully tucked them inside the Bible. “I suppose it can’t hurt to go see how much the tickets actually cost and learn if it’s even possible for us to hire on.”

Bridget shot a delighted bright-eyed gaze to Maeve. A broad smile lit her sweet face. Reaching for Maeve’s hands, she squeezed them until Maeve winced. “We’re going to America! Can you conceive of it?”

“Only if we can afford to buy fare,” Nora reminded.

Maeve tried to hide the jitters weakening her knees. If they didn’t have enough, they’d have to find a way by the end of the week. They couldn’t remain here. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. What did three simple village girls know about traveling aboard a sailing ship? What if the deed truly was worthless and there was no place for them once they arrived?

The sense of hopelessness she’d lived with for months had lifted, however. They were taking action to change their situation. Even if the house was gone, anything was better than this. God had already seen them through difficult times. All they had to do now was trust Him.

“Into Your care we place ourselves, Lord,” she prayed aloud. “Show us the path You would have us take and bless us as we seek a new home and a new start. Thank You for hope.”

Chapter Two

Two weeks later, Minot’s Ledge, Port of Galway, Ireland

“Move aside!” A barrel-chested man carrying an enormous crate on his shoulder jostled passengers awaiting their turns to board the Annie McGee. Overhead, gulls with black-tipped wings cawed and swooped.

Maeve and her sisters backed out of the way. All of their earthly possessions had been whittled down to the trunk, which had been stored aboard earlier, a few crates, a donated bandbox and a battered satchel. The pungent smells of fish and brine burned Maeve’s nose.

The rude man set down his burden at the foot of the gangplank and headed back to a wooden cart, which interrupted the line of waiting passengers. The harnessed mule jumped nervously at the man’s approach, and the fellow picked up a switch and waved it in a threat.

The mule sidestepped, rocking the cart precariously.

“Stand still, you good for nothin’ bag o’ bones!” His accent plainly emphasized a lack of Irish heritage.

With a loud bray, the frightened animal kicked out with his hind feet, solidly connecting with the cart and tipping the entire thing backward.

Crates toppled onto the ground as a piercing cry rose.

“There’s a lad beneath the cart!” someone called.

High-pitched screams raised the hair on Maeve’s neck.

The burly man grumbled and, together with several bystanders, righted the cart back onto its wheels.

“Aren’t you the doctor’s assistant?” a gentleman in a black suit asked the grumbling bear of a man. His face showed noticeable concern. “The lad here’s bleeding.”

“Filthy urchin shouldn’t have been beggin’ on the wharf,” the big man snarled. He picked up one of the spilled crates and headed for the gangplank without a backward glance.