The Irishman's Daughter

Not one district officer had come to question Briana about Addy Gallagher’s death since the sergeant had taken the money. Lucinda convinced her that avoiding the police was wise, especially since she could offer no evidence other than Addy’s enigmatic words as she was dying. Only one time in the past month had she seen Romero Esperanza, and that was far down Charles Street as he darted into a building. He appeared not to notice her.

Her pregnancy made it hard to venture about. As it turned out, there were plenty of Irish where she now lived. Much of the time she took a carriage to work, particularly when the weather was sloppy. Lucinda accompanied her when she could.

October slipped into November and then early December, and she and Lucinda settled into a routine at the Colemans’. Their days were spent at work—Briana at the Building Trades, Lucinda with the Carlisles. Mrs. Coleman watched over Quinlin while her husband and the women were at work. True to his developing spirit, the boy moved to the third floor in mid-November, calling the space among the boxes and crates his own special place. Briana granted him permission on the condition that he study English and whatever else Mrs. Coleman saw fit to teach him.

After workdays, everyone savored happy evenings in the kitchen with generous servings of meat, potatoes, and vegetables, much of it provided to Declan through the generosity of Mr. Peters. These suppers were bittersweet because they reminded her how much she wanted a home for Rory and her growing family.

By mid-December, pine and evergreen boughs appeared on doors and in shop windows. Her thoughts turned to Christmas. Briana had written several letters to Rory indicating their new address at the Colemans’ but decided not to mention Addy Gallagher’s death, the boy, or the attack upon her sister. Those developments would be an additional burden upon him in an already trying time. She preferred to keep an optimistic outlook.

The postmaster had no idea when her letters might arrive in Ireland. Any sailings, now that winter was on the horizon, might not be until late March at the earliest. Also, she addressed them, as planned, to Rory Caulfield, Lear House. Where her husband and father might be was unknown to her. She took the chance that they might be delivered to the general store if the manor was deserted.

Rather than lighten her spirits, the holiday dragged her down with memories of Christmases past when the family was together at the estate. It was all she could do to concentrate on her work and to keep her mood lifted when everyone was gathered for supper. As the winds deepened in Boston to a cold she never thought possible, she wondered if she would ever see her husband and father alive again. What if Rory and Brian never had the chance to see the child she carried? How could she live with herself if they . . . ? It was too distressing to think about.

Those were the dark questions that occupied her mind the evening of December fifteenth as she climbed the drafty stairs to the second floor. She opened and closed the door quickly to keep out the wind sweeping up the hallway. Flames flickered in the fireplace, but the pleasing warmth didn’t alleviate her innate sadness. Outside, a light snow coated the brick buildings and window frames a frosty white. She shivered, dressed in her nightclothes, and crawled into bed.

Lucinda came into the room a few minutes later. “You don’t look well, sister,” she remarked, and drew close to her bedside. She put her hand on Briana’s forehead and then took it away. “You’re burning up. I don’t think it’s wise for you to work tomorrow in this weather.” She looked out the window. “And it may get worse.”

Briana drew the two blankets on her bed up to her neck. Her bones ached, her joints hurt, her stomach rolled with a queasiness she hadn’t experienced since the voyage to Boston, and her nose felt stuffy.

Lucinda lit the oil lamp on the desk and took out a sheet of paper and pen. She began to write as Briana shivered in bed.

Intrigued by her sister, Briana forced herself to ask through chattering teeth, “What are you doing?”

“I’m composing a letter to Father,” Lucinda explained, and then turned back to writing.

“I’ve written them many times,” Briana said.

Her sister turned once again, this time with a frown on her face. “I know. But you may have the grippe with your baby nearly due, and Father and Rory deserve to know.”

“That’s comforting,” Briana said, and rolled over to face the wall.

Lucinda’s words drifted over her. “I also want to wish them a Merry Christmas. This may be the last chance I get.”

She lifted her head and said, “I think about them every night at dinner. You think about them, too, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Lucinda said, her head outlined by the yellow glow of the lamp.

She understood what her sister meant by “last chance”—she had pictured the same horrible consequence of the famine—Rory and her father dead. The cold enveloped Briana, and she couldn’t stop shaking. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep as the pen scratched across the paper.

* * *

Rory sat in the kitchen at Lear House, drawing near to the stove, which provided the only warmth in the manor. From the shuttered library came the sounds of books being thrown about, of the desk chair scraping against the floor. Irritation crawled over him—after all, he had saved Brian’s life, had kept watch on him while his father-in-law could barely sit on top of the pony. He had lugged three bags of Indian corn from the farm near Geesala and then loaded two on his pony and strapped one to Brian’s; he had sheared off the padlock to the kitchen with an ax; cleaned the rat droppings from the stove, table, and cabinets—all for one simple request: Brian was to keep away from the windows, be quiet and calm, and make the best of their tenuous situation.

Instead, Brian raved like a madman. It was not an easy time. The weather had been brutally harsh—snow had fallen in October—the cold and damp seemed to come from the ashen sky in relentless waves. The house sucked the heat away from them into its dark recesses. Rory longed for spring days when he could take a walk with Briana, perhaps see his brother off for fishing in Broadhaven Bay; but in Lear House he was imprisoned with his father-in-law, living like hermits through what promised to be a brutal winter. He was tired of watching for every step, listening for the sound of hooves that might signal the Constabulary or the dragoons come to drag them from their illegal haven, or worrying that smoke rising from the chimney might send a signal at night to the uninvited. He had no fear of the few remaining villagers, or those farmers who might wander back to the estate, because they knew Lear House’s history and could be trusted to keep a secret. Perhaps he could even aid them as well, if circumstances permitted. Outsiders, however, were a different story. They might unintentionally send out an alarm.

He leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on the table, and pulled the sleeves of one of Sir Thomas’s sweaters over his hands. The landlord had so many, Rory imagined he was in a goods store in Dublin the day he and Brian had rummaged through the Master’s clothes. It gave him great satisfaction to see the two of them standing in front of the upstairs looking glass clothed in such finery.

The landlord was soon relegated to the attic of his thoughts as he peered through the dark east window, which looked out upon the shattered remains of the tenant farms. The panes rippled with rain and blocked what little was left of the view; only the closest of the sodden mounds were visible through the glass. Rather than think about sunny days and warm clothes, he was much more concerned with how he and Brian would get through the winter with dwindling supplies and a madness that preyed upon his father-in-law. His actions reminded Rory much of what he had witnessed in Daniel Quinn. He couldn’t help but think it was a madness born of malnutrition, desperation, and loss.

It had taken him days to come to terms with the stillness they had experienced on the road back to Lear House. Was there a living creature stirring? Had they all been eaten—the birds, their eggs, the hare, the grouse, the berries, the roots . . . ? When they’d crossed the river at Bangor, Rory had expected to see people—Irishmen and women—like he was used to seeing on trips to Westport, but the village seemed deserted, as if those who lived there had been eaten by the earth itself. He cringed at the sight of a few dogs along the side of the road. In fact, he felt so sorry for one, he had wanted to coax him to Lear House, but he had nothing to feed any unnecessary animal. The hairy mutt soon joined others feasting upon a corpse partially frozen to the ground.

They had spotted dead along the trail that bordered Carrowmore Lake—not whole bodies but fragments, hands wrenched in the air, naked feet extending from ripped breeches. They passed by the sickening sights numbed by the fact that there was nothing they could do.

On the outskirts of Carrowteige, they came across the hut of a woman whom Rory knew by reputation only. Rumors had swirled that many lonely men and even Sir Thomas had taken refuge there on occasion. The hut had been leveled—the woman missing, perhaps buried under its remains. At the house of an elderly husband and wife, no such supposition was needed. The tangled bodies were intertwined with the sod and rocks, their home their burial mound. Carrowteige was as silent as any village they had traveled through. Through that deserted and deathly landscape, they had arrived at Lear House.

A book banged to the library floor, and Rory cringed. Anger coursed through his body, and he fought to quell it. Brian was ill and not to be blamed, but the older man’s outbursts risked revealing their hiding place.

He left the kitchen, shutting the door to keep in the heat. His father-in-law was sitting at the oak desk, the ledger books piled so high that only the top of his head showed in the dim light.

“Come to the kitchen,” Rory said. “It’s warm.” He looked at the disorderly desk, shaking his head. “Remember your promise.” He might as well have been talking to a two-year-old.

“Why can’t I make sense of these books?” Brian asked. “There should be plenty of money. Sir Thomas shouldn’t be angry with me.” He paused and placed his hands on a stack to his left. “Where’s Lucinda—she has a head for these things.”

Rory moved behind him. Brian had pulled a pair of satin breeches and a silk evening jacket over one of the landlord’s white nightshirts. The sight of the balding man dressed so made him chuckle despite the pathetic situation.

“Don’t you remember where Lucinda and Briana are?” Rory asked calmly.

“They should be inside,” Brian said. “It’s dark and they’ll get the switch if they don’t come in soon.”

Rory put his hand on Brian’s shoulder. “They’ve gone on a trip, but they’ll be back,” he said, attempting to mollify his father-in-law. Sadness swept over him as he watched the man paw at the books and then fiddle aimlessly with the pen.

Brian rubbed his temples. “When did they leave? Where are they?” His eyes grew moist. “Please come back,” he said to the air.

Rather than confuse him, Rory replied, “They’ve gone to find work, and as soon as they do, we’ll join them.” He knew his father-in-law would forget what he’d said by tomorrow.

Brian looked at the shuttered window with an expression of disbelief and then turned to Rory. “A trip? Where are they?”

He was about to guide his father-in-law into the kitchen when a knock on the front door reverberated through the hallway. He put a finger to his lips, skulked to the library door, and peered around its edge. Through the narrow strips of glass surrounding the entry, he observed the dark form of a man lurking in the murk. A shiver raced up his spine.

His father-in-law darted past him into the hall, the silk jacket swirling around his body. Before Rory could stop him he was at the glass, his nose pressed against the window. He put his right hand against the pane as did the figure outside. Brian turned, his eyes blazing with delight. “I know him . . . he’s a friend.”

The man outside the window was Daniel Quinn. Rory had not seen him since the night at The Black Ram at Westport, but his tipsy, happy appearance at that time had disintegrated to something akin to a skinny, bedraggled dog.

“Let him in,” Brian ordered, and shook the door handle, not remembering that it was padlocked from the outside.

Rory didn’t know what to think as he listened to his father-in-law plead on behalf of the poet. Daniel Quinn wasn’t an outsider, but neither was he a villager nor tenant farmer. Upon hearing his poem in the public house, he had wondered about Quinn’s mental state. His suspicions about the poet’s hand in Blakely’s shooting had never abated. He had informed the constable, and now he had the poet in hand. If he was able to get Quinn to confess, he could clear himself. But could he be so callous? He’d have to think twice about sending a man to prison or transport. Blakely, whom he had no love for, had fled to the luxury of his Manchester home leaving the tenants to suffer. In this case, real justice had only nicked the owner.

On the other hand, he had pledged to help people, and Quinn was certainly someone who needed aid. Perhaps the poet could be of service. His father-in-law needed someone to look after him, especially on the days Rory might travel to Belmullet or Glencastle for his remaining shares of plundered supplies.

“My dear friend,” Brian repeated as he clawed at the glass. He turned on Rory and spat at his feet. “You are unkind, sir!” It was the first time his father-in-law had ever spoken harshly to him.

Rory shrugged it off, knowing that the man was not himself, but he knew the mood would turn foul if he didn’t let the poet in. Quinn might also hold a grudge against them if he was denied entry. He remembered the poem at The Black Ram recited in jest to the English sailors. A poet’s revenge could be fatal.

Rory drew close to the window. “Come to the back—the kitchen door.”

Clutching at his satin breeches, Brian raced to the kitchen.

Rory followed, still uncertain whether he had made the right decision. He waited for the knock before opening the door.

Daniel Quinn, shivering, his clothes shredded and soaked, stumbled past the door. His curly, once-black hair had turned almost gray, washing out an equally dreary face; his eyes sat like lifeless black rocks in their sockets. The poet gasped and teetered toward the warm stove.

Rory feared the man might die on the spot. Brian knelt over Quinn as if attempting to retrieve a memory from deep in his brain. It came to him after a few minutes, and he repeated the word “poet” many times without a flicker of recognition from the quivering man.

Rory rushed upstairs for a towel and then returned to strip the wet clothes off the poet. As he fumbled with Quinn’s jacket, the end of a smoking pipe protruded from a pocket, but it was a glint of light off metal that caught his attention. He opened the pocket to find the flute the poet had played at The Black Ram. He had only seen one other like it in his life—at the home of Frankie and Aideen Kilbane.

* * *

The Carlisles were kind people of privilege who embraced their place in Boston society and had a keen understanding of the servant’s role in their home as well. Therefore, Lucinda was expected to be at her station on most days, even when Briana’s condition worsened. She had ingratiated herself to Mrs. Carlisle with the promise that she would be happy to tutor their young son in numerous subjects before he started private school. Mrs. Carlisle took this offer with kind skepticism at first but soon realized that her employee had much to offer as a governess.

Lucinda had also come to respect the kindness, the hard work, and the dark-haired beauty of her landlady, Mrs. Coleman. The young woman would sit with Briana during the day, not only tending to her needs but schooling Quinlin and attending to the wants of her working husband. She became a saint in Lucinda’s eyes, one to whom she would be forever grateful for her attentions to Briana and the boy.

As the days progressed toward Christmas, Briana’s illness took a turn for the worse. What at first had seemed like a bad cold, or the grippe, turned into days of fever, drenched bedclothes, parched lips, and pleas for relief. Declan enlisted the help of Mr. Furey, the Irishman who had dispensed the medication to cure Quinlin, but the tinctures, the potions, and the powders did little to help Briana.

After a grueling night of serving at a festive party to mark the holiday, Lucinda asked Mrs. Carlisle for a few days off after the last of the guests had departed.

“What is this about?” The lady pressed her hands firmly against the waistline of her plaid taffeta dress.

“I’ve told you of my sister,” Lucinda said. “She’s been gravely ill for days now, made even more so by the fact that she carries a child.” Her eyes clouded over as she thought of Briana’s damp face, her hair plastered to the pillow in wet strings. She didn’t want to distress her mistress with details that might be too delicate for her employer’s stomach; on the other hand, she wanted Mrs. Carlisle to understand the severity of the situation. “She’s had trouble eating and sleeping. I fear most for the baby.”

“I had no idea,” the woman replied. “Why didn’t you come to me sooner?” She took a step back from Lucinda and withdrew her handkerchief from her sleeve. “Let the others finish tonight. Please do take the time to nurse your sister, but let us know of her progress.” She covered her mouth with the cloth. “We know of a doctor who may be able to help.”

“I’d be most grateful for your consideration,” Lucinda said.

“Dr. Scott,” Mrs. Carlisle replied almost immediately. “I’ll send him to you tomorrow morning.”

* * *

Dr. Jonathan Scott arrived at the Colemans’ shortly after one the next afternoon. Lucinda heard the door open, as well as the whoosh of the cold draft up the stairs. She opened the door of their second-floor room and peered down at the landing, where Mrs. Coleman was helping a man with his overcoat, umbrella, and bag while he wiped the muck from his calf-high boots. It had rained during the morning, turning what snow was left on the streets into a cold slush.

The doctor was not the man she had imagined. She had expected an aging, balding gentleman of bristling manner with unkempt facial hair and muttonchops. Instead Dr. Scott was a young man, probably in his midthirties, with a full head of brown hair, a finely trimmed mustache, and a light beard. From her first impression, she ascertained that he was confident, assured, but not boastful and ready to take on a challenge. Certainly, the health of her sister presented one.

His light blue eyes met her own as he climbed the stairs. Mrs. Coleman followed to facilitate the introduction. He failed to grasp her hand, possibly for some medical reason related to germs, but conveyed his pleasure upon their meeting with a slight smile and nod of his head. Mrs. Coleman went back downstairs, where she was keeping watch over Quinlin.

The formalities over, Lucinda led him to Briana’s bedside.

The doctor pulled up the desk chair and sat near the bed, studying her sister for several minutes. He placed the back of his hand upon Briana’s forehead and then withdrew it. Finally, he asked, “How long has she been like this?”

“For several days now. Her illness has gotten progressively worse.” Briana attempted to turn in bed but instead cried out in a long moan. The blood drained from Lucinda’s face. She had never felt so alone—not even on her way to England in her years as a governess, or crossing the Irish Sea and landing at Liverpool, or taking the carriage to Manchester to work for people she had never met in her life. In those times, she had always known that her father and sister would be waiting for her at home—at Lear House. Her sister, the only family she had on American soil, was ill and, as far as she knew, could be dying with her unborn child inside her. The possibility of that tragedy struck her like a blow to the heart.

The doctor rose, lifted the sweat-soaked blankets from Briana, and circled his hand first around her wrists and then her ankles. “What treatments has she received?” he asked after completing further examination.

Lucinda lowered her gaze, suddenly feeling ashamed that she’d had to leave her sister alone while she worked.

He must have sensed her distress, for he said, “I know you work for the Carlisles. The lady of the house told me that you had been exemplary on nearly all occasions and that you are quite educated. It’s rare to find so talented and indispensable a . . .” His face flushed.

“Servant?” She blushed as well, embarrassed by her profession. “On nearly all occasions?”

He shook his head. “I’m only conveying the message I received—I meant that you do not have time to properly care for your sister while you discharge your duties. Mrs. Carlisle is aware of your situation and wants to help.”

Had it been another day, she might have sparred with the doctor, telling him how many times she had wished to be anything but a servant in Boston, anywhere but in the employ of a wealthy American family. The Carlisles carried on with hardly a care in the world while her own family had sunk into poverty because of a potato blight. It was degrading to talk about, but Briana’s health was more important than challenging the doctor.

“I wish I could tell you more about her treatments; perhaps Mrs. Coleman can.” She sighed and wrung her hands. “I know she’s been given teas, ointments, warm sponge baths, cold compresses at night to soothe the fever. Nothing seems to help.”

The doctor eyed her, as if taking her in from head to toe. “When is your sister’s baby due?”

“Next month, sometime after the New Year.” She got the distinct impression that he was looking at her as if she was an equal, something she had rarely experienced from men. The feeling was refreshing, even soothing. Her own brother-in-law thought of her as nothing more than a sophisticated upstart, a pretentious social climber.

The doctor turned away and, strangely, inched around the room studying the windowsills and baseboards. At the corner where the north wall met the front of the house, he stopped and bent down. Straightening, he motioned for Lucinda to come over.

“Look.” He pointed to the dusty intersection of the floor and wall.

She saw nothing at first, until she leaned in and stared into the corner.

“They’re mouse droppings,” he said. “The little creatures can be nasty, carrying all kinds of diseases. Your sister may be suffering from an illness carried by vermin.”

“I’ve never seen a mouse here.” She had observed plenty of them at Lear House, particularly in the months following the onset of the blight.

“Have the landlord look for holes. They must be plugged, the mice eradicated.”

She nodded. “That’s fine, but what of my sister?”

His face stiffened, yet still retained the compassion he’d displayed. “I’ll do everything I can, but your sister is in a precarious state. Since traditional methods have failed, I may have to try a new approach—with your permission, of course.” He lifted his bag, which he had placed in front of the bed. “I’m afraid I have nothing here that might help her except willow bark tea, but at this late stage of her pregnancy I don’t think that’s a wise idea.” He paused. “I saw a boy downstairs. He lives here?”

Lucinda nodded.

“Keep him out of this room. Children are more susceptible, and, by their nature, they spread germs.”

“Whatever you can do for my sister,” Lucinda said, her voice wobbling. “I can’t bear the thought of losing . . .”

He took another look at Briana. “I understand. I’ll return tomorrow morning with a serum I hope will help. We should know if it’s successful within twenty-four hours. In the meantime, make her as comfortable as possible.” He bowed.

Lucinda opened the door and walked down with him to the landing. “Thank you again, Doctor.”

He smiled, pulled on his overcoat, and gathered his umbrella. “I’m happy that we met, but I’m sorry it was under unfortunate circumstances. Perhaps tomorrow will be a better day.”

“I sincerely hope so,” she said.

As he grasped the door handle, Lucinda stopped him. “I’m sorry, I did mean to ask . . . in England all jobs are based on references and education. Where did you get your degree?”

He appeared unperturbed by her question. “Harvard.” His eyes twinkled with unabashed pride. “Until tomorrow.” He descended the steps and disappeared down the slushy street.

Harvard? Harvard. She had heard the Carlisles mention the university often with delight in their voices. She climbed the stairs thinking that she could do much worse than meet an attractive doctor from Harvard.

* * *

Dr. Scott returned to the Colemans’ before eleven the next morning. What he withdrew from his medical bag frightened Lucinda because she had never seen anything like it. The vial of red liquid had the thickness and color of blood, but it shone purple at the bottom and pink at the top as if it contained three liquids not yet combined.

“How is she today?” he asked.

“Little changed,” Lucinda said. She had hoped to look better for the doctor than she did. There hadn’t been much time for primping while caring for her sister. Perhaps he would excuse her unkempt hair, the plum-colored circles under her eyes, the wrinkles that rumpled her dress. “I was awake much of the night,” she said, and smoothed her hands down the fabric.

“I’m hopeful that won’t be the case tonight and thereafter.” He sat on the bed and then withdrew a strange-looking apparatus.

“What is that?” she asked, awed by the hollow needle and tubing that he held in his hand.

“Is she coherent? Can your sister speak yet or take water?” He shook the capped vial until the liquids combined in a purplish mix, held it up to the light of the window, and then pointed to the needle. “This is something new to medicine, in fact, invented by an Irish doctor recently. I’ve just started working with them. It injects medicine under the skin. As I warned you yesterday, there’s no certainty in what I’m doing, but we have few choices.”

“Please, do what you must.” Still eyeing the needle, Lucinda replied, “Sometimes she comes around, and I get some soup or water down her, but then after a few minutes she goes back to sleep breathing heavily and moaning.”

The doctor shook the vial again. “This comes from the blood of a woman who has exhibited similar symptoms, yet she recovered from her illness. We don’t understand why, but often the fluids of one who has returned to health can aid the sick.” He grabbed the tubing. “I’ll need your assistance. If your sister was aware of her surroundings she could drink the serum—it would taste terrible—but as she is she might choke to death. We can’t take that risk.”

He uncapped the vial, inserted the tubing over its opening, and then attached the needle to the other end. Holding the apparatus so the liquid couldn’t escape the vial, he sat on the bed next to Briana. “Hold her right arm firmly while I administer the serum.”

Lucinda knelt by the bed and held Briana’s arm while the doctor tapped the skin for a suitable vein. “Her blood vessels are thin. She’s dehydrated. This may take longer than I like . . . be prepared for some blood.”

He leaned forward, again testing the arm before deciding on a spot. He wiped the tip of the needle with a cloth, elevated the vial so a bit of the serum squirted out, and then stuck the sharp point into Briana. Her sister moaned and shifted in bed, but her resistance was so feeble she could muster only a clenched fist.

“Good.” Dr. Scott raised the vial higher. “Hold on while I squeeze the tubing.” He ran his fingers down its length as the serum drained from the vial. He continued to do so for several minutes until it was empty and only a pink film remained on the glass.

He withdrew the needle and placed the cloth over Briana’s arm. A bright red spot blossomed upon it. He dropped the apparatus into his bag and pressed his hand over the wound. Soon the bleeding stopped.

He rose from the bed and looked down on his patient. “It’s out of our hands. We can only hope and pray that God takes pity on her body.”

Once again, Lucinda found herself overwhelmed. Calling upon God was fine, but what if He decided to call her sister to heaven? The loss would kill her, as well as her father and Rory. She burst into tears.

The doctor drew her close and put his arms around her. Lucinda collapsed against his chest, breathing in the warmth of the man. She drew back, startled by the strange electric power coursing through her body. He withdrew as well.

She wiped her tears and started for the desk. “I’ll get your fee.”

He gathered his bag. “You needn’t. The Carlisles have found it in their hearts to take care of everything. Your gratitude should be shown to them. I will call tomorrow—after a prayer for a positive outcome.”

She started to follow him to the door, but he stopped her. “I can find my way out.” He bowed his head. “Good day.” He descended the stairs and was soon out the door.

Lucinda returned to Briana’s bedside and prayed over her. Oddly, her sister seemed more at peace than she had been in several days.

Cheered by her observation, she rested on her own bed only a few feet away, and soon the warmth and crackle of the fireplace lulled her to sleep.

* * *

Briana awoke during the night with a terrible moan. Her eyes fluttered open, and she jumped with fright, for she was unaware of where she was. Everything in the room was in focus: The dying embers from the fireplace cast an orange light on the ceiling, the windows were glazed with frost. She turned her head to see Lucinda sleeping. It was as if she had awakened from a fevered dream that had lasted years. She shifted her body, and her fingers clutched bedding sopped with sweat. When she touched her forehead, perspiration cooled her fingertips.

“Lucinda?” The name came out in a hoarse gasp. She called it again, but there was no answer. She lifted herself on her elbows and looked across the room. She sensed a familiarity about a house with two windows. They faced west toward the setting sun, but the room was dark now; her bones ached, and her stomach was knotted by cramps. She reached for her belly and found the round swelling. What? A child. Memory came flooding back—Boston, a boarding house, a family. What was their name?

Needing to relieve herself, she swung her legs over the bed. The cold wood smarted against her feet, and she lifted them back to the bed. She blurted out her sister’s name again several times.

Finally, Lucinda stirred and then leapt from her bed. “My God,” she exclaimed, “our prayers have been answered.”

Briana’s foggy mind was in no state to talk of prayer. “I need to go to the privy,” she said.

Lucinda leaned over her. “It’s too cold to go outside. I’ll get the chamber pot.”

Briana lay back while her sister fetched the pot from under her bed.

She lifted her night clothes and moved herself onto the cold porcelain as her sister turned away. When she was done, Lucinda cleared the pot and then sat next to her on the bed.

“How long have I been sick?” Briana asked.

“Days—longer than you’ve ever been before.” Lucinda clutched her hand with warm fingers, almost hot to the touch. “I feared the worst, but a kind doctor administered a serum that helped you get over this awful illness.” Tears glistened in her sister’s eyes from the embers’ dying light.

“I remember you writing a letter at the desk. I grew hot with fever, and then everything seems a blur.”

“You hardly spoke . . . but don’t worry about that now. You must rest and get better. The Colemans will be glad to know you’re recovering. Everyone’s been so worried.”

Colemans. Of course. The fog was beginning to lift, the room, the house coming into focus. “Can you bring me a glass of water?”

“Of course. I’ll get it.” Lucinda grabbed her coat, for the path to the kitchen would take her outside through the alley.

She drifted off only to awaken to Lucinda’s soft touch on her shoulder. Her sister stood over her, water cup in hand, like a guardian angel who would nurse her back to health.

* * *

The recovery was slow, but Briana soon was able to walk a few steps, converse, and eat meals, which Mrs. Coleman delivered to her room. She met Dr. Scott the morning after the fever broke and was impressed with his manner and his devoted attention to Lucinda. Before leaving, after a promise to continue his visits, he referred to Briana as “his miracle.” The next day, Lucinda returned to work at the Carlisles’ with a pledge to give many thanks to her employers.

Each day Briana grew stronger, and on Christmas she was able to join her sister, Quinlin, and the Colemans in celebrating the holiday. Declan had paid for a large turkey, and all of them feasted on the meat, squash, and potatoes prepared for the occasion. She had always loved the taste of potatoes and the various ways she could cook them in Ireland, but this year the sight of them turned her stomach and brought up bitter memories. She picked at her helping and then spooned them to the boy. How hard it was to be happy on this day when all she could think of was her husband and father! Were they cold and starving? She’d received no letters and had no communication with anyone who might know them. What if they were—?

She blanked out the thought and concentrated on getting well for her baby. The time was coming soon and she wanted to be prepared, both physically and emotionally. Worry could wait until after her child was born. In the meantime, she needed to eat and rest.

Mr. Peters paid a surprise visit on Christmas Day, which cheered her. Her employer dropped off a present for Quinlin—a large tin soldier—and told Briana that he wanted her to take several months off after the birth of her child. Another job would be waiting at the building trades office if she chose to come back. “And I hope you do,” he added.

* * *

“Push,” Dr. Scott prodded. He spread her legs apart until she thought she would split open.

Nothing much mattered, because her body shuddered with pain, as if she had been lowered into a fire pit. None of the preparations seemed to matter: The ointments, the salves, the compresses on her head were of little use against the agony banding her belly like hot iron. The room she had lived in for weeks faded in a white haze.

Lucinda sat bedside, facing her, and clutched her hand in an unrelenting grip.

“Breathe,” the doctor ordered, and expanded his own lungs with air. “It shouldn’t be long now.” He stuck his head under the sheet that covered her legs. “I can see the baby’s head. Keep pushing. Steady . . . steady.”

She gulped air and pushed again. A fiery pain shot in a line from her belly to her brain and then something snapped, and after one excruciating moment her legs trembled and then relaxed, quivering upon the bed.

A baby’s sharp cry split the air, and the doctor yelped with joy.

Delirium swept over her as her body sank into the mattress.

“It’s a girl,” the doctor announced after emerging from under the sheet. He wrapped the baby in a towel and handed her to Lucinda. Briana reached out for her child, and Lucinda obliged her wishes before carrying the baby to the washbasin to bathe her.

The doctor sat next to Briana. “She’s a beauty.”

At 2:32 in the afternoon of Tuesday, January 5, 1847, under the care of Dr. Jonathan Scott, Shona Caulfield was delivered into the world. The baby weighed less than the doctor would have liked, but otherwise he pronounced the girl in good health.

After the bath, Briana held the little one in her arms as the birth was announced to those waiting outside the door. Mrs. Coleman cheered, and a timid smile broke out on Quinlin, who had been dismayed that he might be thrown out of the house because of the new arrival. Briana had assured him that no such measure would be taken because she had grown to love him, along with the memory of his mother.

The baby had fine red hair and blue eyes like her father. Still, she retained characteristics of her mother, long of limb with a delicate nose and cheekbones. The girl lay against her mother’s breast, warm and contented, as the birch logs blazed in the fireplace. Spits of snow filled the air, but Briana didn’t care. Her daughter was born in America, and it was a blessing. She had now fulfilled her promise to Rory to keep the baby safe from harm. Briana cradled Shona close as the others left her in peace with her child.

In the quiet, she looked down at her daughter’s face and then out the window at the thin, flat clouds. In the spring, she would travel with Shona to Ireland to bring her father and Rory back to America. Her daughter had been born, and it was clear what she needed to do. Shona’s father deserved to see his child and his wife. She and her baby would survive the famine.