After the Storm (5 page)

“I went to the Children's Aid Society a couple of months ago.” That was stretching the truth a bit, because she had gone more than three months before, but she could guess, even when her head was hurt so badly, what his next question would be.

He asked, just as she had assumed he would, “How is it the children were gone for so many weeks before you missed them?”

“They weren't living with me.”

“Where were they?” Again his eyes slitted, and she wondered if he was thinking the children had been taken from her in New York. They had been, but not as he must assume.

Quietly, Cailin said, “I'd left them with my husband's family while I sought work so we could have a home of our own. New York City was so expensive, we soon spent every coin we brought from Ireland.” She did not dare to hesitate before she added, “I saw them only on my half-day each week, for I was working in a house many blocks from where they were staying. Then, one afternoon I came to visit them at Mrs. Rafferty's home, and their grandmother told me the children were elsewhere visiting with friends.”

“And you weren't suspicious?”

“I should have been, but I was so glad the children had new friends, I never questioned her, even when the children weren't there the following week or the week after that.” Staring at her folded hands, she whispered, “I was just glad they were happy.”

“But …”

Cailin looked at him as steadily as her aching head would allow. “But my children had been turned over to the Children's Aid Society. The people there were told my children were orphans.” A sob bubbled in her throat, but she did not let it escape. “And my children obviously were told I was dead.”

“Why would their grandmother do such a thing?”

“I've asked myself that a hundred times over each day.” Even though she did not let any tears fall, she took the handkerchief he held out to her. A linen handkerchief she had not suspected a farmer would own, but, again, she reminded herself how little she knew about American farmers. How many more times was she going to be betrayed before she realized how different this country was from the Irish countryside she had known all her life?

His voice became gentler. “The children told me that not only were they told you were dead, but that they were being sent to stay with someone you'd arranged for them to live with.”

“What? That was a lie!” She did not give voice to the plagues she wished would fall on everyone in that house where social standing meant more than anything or anyone.

“Of course it is, I can see now. They were put on the orphan train by the Children's Aid Society and sent to live among strangers.”

She closed her eyes and whispered, “They must have been so frightened.”

“They were.” He did not give her a chance to respond before he added, “It appears both you and the children were fed many lies by their grandmother.” He appraised her anew. “What did you do to incur such wrath?”

“She wasn't pleased with discovering she had a daughter-in-law and grandchildren from Ireland.” She looked down at the handkerchief so he would not guess she was revealing only part of the truth. She must be as careful when speaking with the children. She could not let them know the appalling thing their father had done—the very act that she had been blamed for by his mother. A child should respect his
athair
, even if his actions were wrong. How many times had she spoken of what a wonderful man
do athair
—your father—was? She had believed that at the time.

“There must be more to all this than that.” His frown returned. No one could accuse this man of hiding his emotions.

Knowing she had to bring this conversation to a close before she said something that would reveal more than she wished him to know, she said, “Mr. Jennings, I thank you for all you've done in watching over my children and me, but this is a problem I have to deal with myself.”

“Quite to the contrary. Your problem became mine the day I brought the children here from Haven. I won't have them hurt so badly again.”

Cailin nodded cautiously. “I understand.” She must take care he did not use words to trip her up and cause her to betray herself and her shame. “I don't want them hurt either.”

“You might find in here some answer to the riddle of why your children's grandmother sent them away.” He held out a folded sheaf of papers. “These are the papers I was given by the Children's Aid Society the day the children arrived. I haven't read them since, so I don't know if you can discover some clue to the truth.”

“If the Children's Aid Society had any idea they had been lied to, the children wouldn't have been here.”

He nodded. “I thought of that, but if our situations were reversed, I can assure you that I would scrutinize every possible page for any hint.” He set the papers on the table when she did not take them. “I can understand if you want to wait until you feel better to read them, so I will leave these with you.”

“Thank you.” She stared at the papers. If there was a clue among the many words, she would not be able to uncover it. Although she recognized most of the letters, she could not decipher the combinations written in a neat hand. She gasped when she heard young voices through the window. “My children!”

A wry smile tilted his lips. “They stayed quiet longer than I'd guessed they would.” Standing, he said, “Mrs. Rafferty, I'll go and quiet them so you may rest. The doctor said that would be the best thing for you.”

“The doctor? A doctor was here?” Her fingers grasped the quilt. She would have drawn it to her chin, but it was tucked in too tightly at the end of the bed.

“Your modesty wasn't compromised during his examination, I assure you.” He paused, then said, “Doc Bamburger wouldn't have allowed that.”

A flame scorched her face, and she looked down at her hands. As she released her grip on the quilt, she said, “Forgive me, Mr. Jennings. I shouldn't have suggested otherwise.”

“Of course you should have.”

Cailin's head snapped up as she met the abrupt amusement in his eyes. “Pardon me?”

“You don't know me from Adam, so you don't have any reason to trust me.”

“Except that you've taken care of my children.” Her lips curved in a smile. “Or so you assure me.” Another screech came through the window. “It sounds as if they're hale.”

“And tormenting each other as only siblings can.” He motioned toward the tray. “I'll leave this here in case you're thirsty.”

“Thank you.” She was unsure whether she could lift the cup on her own because a thick lethargy was dropping over her. “I appreciate all you've done for us, Mr. Jennings.”

Only when he took her hand did she realize she had raised it in his direction. His fingers were warm and rough-skinned and broad—just perfect for a farmer. Again a pulse of something exciting rushed through her, but this time she had not been thinking of her children. She had been thinking of him.

She slid her hand out of his and curled her own fingers around it to hide how it trembled anew. Not just with the weakness left from being ill. It was another weakness, she feared, one she had hoped she had banished forever.

“You're welcome, Mrs. Rafferty. I—”

The scream coming through the window was obviously one of frustration.

Smiling, he said, “If you'll excuse me, I'll go and figure out what's got Lottie upset now.”

“Lottie …” she whispered.

Mr. Jennings must not have heard her because he walked out of the room, shutting the recently painted door behind him. His footsteps grew distant, and then she heard him call to the children. Their eager voices revealed how happy they were to see him.

Cailin leaned back against the pillows, then slowly slid down onto the mattress, so she could stare once more at the ceiling. She had found her children. That was all that mattered. She had found her children. And now …

The pain erupted once more, but this time not across her head. This pain came from her heart. While she had been searching for the children, she had been able to put aside her grief at what had been waiting for her when she arrived at Mrs. Rafferty's house.

Although she did not want to remember, the scenes emerged from her memory. She had been tired and filthy after traveling from the harbor. Her attempts to look her best had been stymied because she had not been able to take a real bath since she boarded the ship for America. As soon as she entered the front hall of the house, she had known all her paltry efforts had been wasted.

The fancily turned spindles on the staircase and the thick rugs on the brilliantly polished wood floors were only the beginning of the splendor. Dark red velvet curtains were drawn back from a wide doorway opening off the hall. Gold tassels matched the thick braid along the curtains' edges. Not curtains, she had learned later, but portieres that could be released to keep drafts out of the parlor. That day, she had not considered that. She had been too awed by the grandeur around her.

When a maid led her into the parlor, Cailin saw more furniture in this one room than would be found in several houses in Ireland. She had never seen a table with a marble top or so many prisms hanging from a lamp. The sofas—for there were a trio in the room—were covered with flowered fabric, the deepest shade matching the velvet curtains. Pictures hung on the wall above a black hearth with a mantel supported by what looked like golden women wearing little more than a drape of fabric.

Behind her, she had heard Brendan and Megan whispering in astonishment. She hushed them, not only to remind them of their manners, but because Lottie slept in her arms.

They had been kept waiting a long time, standing in the middle of the luxury but not daring to sit after the maid warned them to touch nothing. At the time, Cailin had blamed the maid for failing to deliver the message quickly, but she had learned later that leaving unwanted guests unmet in the parlor was a sign of contempt.

She had known the white-haired woman was Abban's mother the moment she entered the parlor. Mrs. Rafferty possessed the same self-assured motions, but she had not been wearing Abban's easy smile.

“Who are you?” her mother-in-law had asked.

“Cailin Rafferty.”

“Rafferty?”

She should have noted the stiff sound of his mother's voice, but she had been too eager to see her husband again after almost four years of separation. So she had answered, “Yes, ma'am. These are Brendan and Megan, and the youngest is Lottie—Charlotte,” she had corrected when the woman's scowl tightened.

“Charlotte? That's my name.”

“Yes, ma'am.” She hesitated, for she had thought Mrs. Rafferty would say something else. When the older woman was silent, Cailin added, “They are your grandchildren. Is Abban here? He has never seen our baby, and—”

“You cannot be his wife.”

“Excuse me?”

Mrs. Rafferty looked down a nose that was as patrician as Abban's. “You heard me. If you think you can crawl in off the boat and invade this house, you're sadly mistaken. Leave now, or I shall ring to have the police called.”

“If you'll call Abban instead, he can tell you that I'm being honest.”

“No. Leave, or I shall have the police arrest you.”

Shocked, Cailin had set Lottie on the closest sofa. She heard a sharp intake of breath but ignored Mrs. Rafferty as she dug into her bag for the papers that confirmed that she and Abban were married. The priest had read everything aloud before the wedding, so both she and Abban had a chance to be certain this was the step they wanted to take.

Holding out the crumpled pages, she said, “This proves that I'm being honest.”

Mrs. Rafferty had taken the papers, scanned them, and then reached for the bellpull. Before Cailin could speak, she said, “Be silent, you silly girl. I'm not ringing for anyone but a maid to take these children to rest while we talk.”

Bidding her older children to follow the maid who answered the bell, Cailin had reluctantly placed Lottie in the servant's arms. She turned back to speak with her mother-in-law, but not before she saw the maid's nose wrinkle in disgust as she fingered the thin blanket around the little girl.

That had been the last time she had seen all three children together.

And the last time she had believed happiness awaited her in America, for Mrs. Rafferty's next words were, “Before you say anything else, I have something to say to you. My son is dead.”

Three

“Good morning!”

“Good morning!”

“Good morning, Mama!”

Cailin woke as the bed bounced along with the happy voices. With a cry, she held out her arms. Her three children tumbled into them like a litter of puppies. She hugged one, then the next, pressing her face close to theirs, drinking in their luscious scents, remembering every moment she had held them close. She had treasured those memories, when she had feared she would never see them again, and she treasured them even more now when her children were in her arms again.

She stared at each of them as they sat in front of her. She would never take the sight of their charming faces for granted. Not ever again. Her memories of them faded to tepid copies of these vibrant children. Brendan, who looked even more like her father than before, and whose dark eyes could go from one emotion to another in the midst of a single word. Megan, who—as always—watched over her younger sister, making sure nothing happened to her. Lottie, who had grown from a baby to a little girl since Cailin had seen her last.

All those months had been lost and would never be regained. Megan had two more missing teeth on top, and her second teeth on the bottom were growing in to tower over the others. Brendan had a scar on his elbow that might have been a recent scrape or the remnants of a deeper wound. And her dear, dear Lottie had not grown too big to fit into her arms … if Lottie still liked to cuddle.