July 7, 1729
Blair glared with annoyance at his brother and Samuel walking next to him. He had wanted to keep his rendezvous with Janet a secret, but these two had been set on going to the Market House. They wanted to seek out ship captains’ agents, who could always be found inducing people to leave for the colonies. When they reached Market Square, Blair looked toward the churchyard, just a few feet away. How could Ronald consider leaving the land where their father was buried?
“I’ll see ye back home,” he said as nonchalantly as possible.
“Where are ye going?” Ronald asked.
Blair’s eyes unwittingly shifted for a second toward the castle ruins.
“I told ye Janet didna care for Gilroy!” Ronald laughed. He removed Blair’s cap and tousled his hair. “At what time are ye meeting her?”
Blair swatted his brother’s hand away. “Half an hour.”
“Ye have plenty o’ time. Come if ye want yer cap back.”
Blair groaned and trudged along. It had been years since the Market House, where all of Lisburn’s linen transactions took place, had been busy. The number of people there that day was half what it used to be, and most of them were not even there to sell or buy linen. A crowd near Blair, Ronald, and Samuel surrounded a well-dressed man who expounded on the wonders of the colonies. “Pennsylvania is a bonny country, with cows, sheep, horses, goats, deer, beavers, fish, and fowl. There’s plenty of good land to be had, or you can receive good wages as a laborer, double or treble what you would receive here, or set up your own shop. A lass gets four shillings and sixpence a week for spinning linen.”
Groups had formed around other men too, each who sang the praises of a different township in Pennsylvania or Delaware. Ronald and Samuel walked over to one of them, and Blair grudgingly followed. The man’s clean white shirt, green waistcoat, and red frock coat and breeches gave him an air of respectability and prosperity.
“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Neal Montgomery,” he said. Blair scoffed. An Englishman, not to be trusted. “I wish to help you improve your circumstances,” the agent continued. “I propose a voyage to America. A ship leaves Belfast in two days, bound for Philadelphia, a land that will provide you with all of life’s necessities. The King George is a three-hundred-ton brig with eight carriage guns, three swivels, and small arms in proportion. I’ll gladly endorse strong young men and women to Captain Nathaniel Stokes, an able and kind captain who hails from London.”
At that moment, a loud rumbling burst on Blair’s right. A man brought both hands over his stomach, embarrassed, and waited for his empty belly to settle. Blair studied the man’s pale face and sharp cheekbones, knowing that soon, Ronald, his grandfather, his mother, and he would be forced to cut back on meals.
“Passengers will be divided into messes of five,” the agent continued, “and each mess will be provided with beef, two and a half pounds of flour, and half a pound of plums, four days each week. Two days each week each mess will receive five pounds of pork, two pints and a half of peas, and one day two pounds and a half of fish and half a pound of butter. Every person will receive seven pounds of bread per week, and three pints of beer and two quarts of water per day.”
Blair swept his gaze over the crowd. Eyes that had been hollow with hopelessness moments earlier now glimmered. Ronald seemed transported.
“How much is passage?” Samuel asked.
“Lad,” Montgomery said to Blair, pointing at another agent, “ask that gentleman how much his captain charges.”
Blair crossed his arms. “I’m no going tae America.”
“I’ll ask him, sir,” Ronald offered, bounding to the agent and back. “Six pounds.”
“My captain will charge five.”
The crowd’s budding hopes deflated with an audible groan.
“Not to worry,” Montgomery said. “If you can’t pay for passage, when you arrive you’ll be bound to work for a kind master for a term of four years. He’ll provide lodging, meat, and drink, and when your term expires, you’ll receive freedom dues: two suits of clothes, one new and one used, one new ax, one grubbing hoe, and one weeding hoe. Prosperity awaits all kinds of tradesmen: bricklayers, shoemakers, tanners, bakers, smiths, joiners, bookkeepers, clerks, and even weavers.”
At the word weavers, every man stood a little taller. Ronald nudged Blair in the ribs.
“Dinna do that,” Blair said.
Montgomery addressed the women. “Lassies who are good seamstresses or cooks, who wash and iron and are good with children, will find good employment.” The agent paused, allowing the promising news to seep into everyone’s hearts and minds before finally opening the door of salvation. “Those wishing to go must meet me here Thursday at noon. We’ll leave for Belfast, and the King George will sail the next day, weather permitting.”
Ronald turned to Samuel. “Shall we go?”
The enthusiasm in Ronald’s eyes made Blair’s stomach turn. Samuel immediately answered, “Aye.”
Blair planted himself in front of his brother, inches from his face. “Ye promised ye’d take me tae Donnybrook next year.”
“Ye can’t compare Donnybrook with Pennsylvania. Things were hard enough when Da was here. Do ye think we alone will manage tae save our land? Uncle John has his own land tae worry about.” Ronald sneered. “Our land, his land. We have no land. I’ll take the chance tae be a landlord one day, rather than be bound tae one till I die.”
“Why then would ye encourage me tae woo Janet?”
“There’ll be other girls in America; I’m yer only brother.”
“I dinna want another—” A bell tolled, announcing noon. Blair gasped. “Ye made me late!” He took off running. As usual, several couples were lounging under the two huge elms on the grounds of the ruins of Lisburn Castle. Blair jogged from end to end of the overgrown gardens, passing still more couples, but Janet wasn’t there. Thinking she might want to avoid being seen to prevent word getting back to her father, he looked in the ruins, but she was not there either. He returned to the entrance and waited another half hour. Furious at Ronald, but more at himself, he finally gave up and headed home. When he walked into his cottage, his brother was sitting at the dining table—and though their grandfather, mother, and aunt were also there, he stormed up to him, ready to blast him with reproaches. But before he could let his frustration explode, he noticed that his grandfather’s nostrils were flaring, and his aunt and mother were each holding handkerchiefs, their eyes puffy and red.
“He’s leaving with Samuel on Thursday,” Blair’s grandfather said bitterly.
Blair stared at his brother in disbelief. “What about yer American wake?” If Blair couldn’t persuade him to stay, maybe the requisite week to say goodbye to friends and family would.
“I saw everyone at the dredgy,” Ronald said calmly.
“What does Ma say?” Blair asked. He knelt at his mother’s feet, looking at her questioningly.
“Blair,” she said as tears streamed down her cheeks, “I’ll be brokenhearted tae see both o’ ye go, but ye’re only fifteen and have been through two famines. Dinna wait for the next one, and the next. Believe me, they’re coming.”
Blair’s grandfather slammed his hand on the table. “Ye dinna ken that!” After a long, shocked silence, the old man spoke again. “Will ye leave Janet?”
Before Blair could answer, his mother interjected. “Good-father, do ye truly think the English will ever recognize a Presbyterian wedding?” She looked earnestly at Blair. “I never told ye or Ronald this, but scarce a week after we were married, a pair o’ men burst through that very door, and me and yer father were dragged tae an Anglican court and tried as fornicators. Was the worst day o’ my life.”
“Dinna tell them!” Blair’s grandfather begged, but she continued.
“All our bairns were declared bastards.”
Blair and Ronald looked at each other, stunned.
“It means nothing!” Blair’s grandfather said, livid. “Ye both are Eakins proper, never forget that.”
“They are,” Blair’s mother agreed. “And they deserve better. Blair, if ye marry Janet, ye’ll always wonder when that day will come. Go find some good land and send for her. She’ll wait.”
Ronald looked at him and mouthed please. Blair could hardly think. He stood up, his legs stiff and his ears ringing. “I’m no abandoning Ma or Janet.” He walked out of the cottage and slammed the door. Almost immediately the door opened and Ronald stepped outside.
“Blair, what else do ye—”
“Dinna talk tae me. Thanks tae ye, I have tae apologize tae Janet and hope she forgives me.” Just as he stepped onto the road, he saw Janet’s oldest sister running in his direction, a stricken look on her face. He rushed to meet her.
“Ye should come with me,” the girl said, but she refused to answer when Blair asked what was wrong.
The two started up the road.
“What are ye doing?” Blair asked when Ronald caught up with them.
“I’m coming with ye.”
Blair could not argue any further. Outside Janet’s cottage her other sister sat quietly on a bench. Ronald remained outdoors while Blair went inside. Mr. Ferry was pacing, eyes fixed on the floor. When he looked up, the murderous glint in his eyes froze Blair on the spot.
“Is Janet awricht, Mr. Ferry?”
“Na, she’s no awricht.”
“What happened?”
As Janet’s father formed the words, they seemed to make him gag. “She was raped.”
The room lurched around Blair. His hand grasped the edge of a table, vertigo pulling him sideways, his breathing shallow and fast, his skin and scalp crackling with a sharp stinging.
“Where?”
“By the mill.”
“Who?”
“She wilna say.”
“What? Why?”
“She says he knocked her senseless. But I ken my daughter. She’s no telling the truth.” For the first time since walking in, Blair realized Mr. Ferry was looking at him with deep suspicion. “She’s protecting someone.”
“Mr. Ferry,” Blair said, calmly meeting the man’s smoldering gaze, “I was all morning with Ronald and Samuel. Ye may ask my brother; he’s outside. And I’ll die afore I hurt yer daughter.”
Mr. Ferry’s eyes shone with tears of rage, but his shoulders relaxed and the sharpness in his voice was no longer aimed at Blair. “I believe ye.”
“Please, may I see her?”
Mr. Ferry opened the bedroom door a crack and whispered something. A moment later Blair was inside, Janet’s mother quietly closing the door behind her. The girl lay under the covers, head on a pillow, eyes closed. Blair remained by the door for a full minute, squeezing his cap in his hands, eyes fixated on a vertical cut on Janet’s swollen and bruised lower lip. She slowly opened one bloodshot eye; the other was a dark, ugly shade of purple, swollen shut. She stretched an arm toward him. He knelt next to the bed and gently took her cold hand.
“Ach, my dear lassie.” He brought her hand to his cheek and closed his eyes.
“I’m so happy ye’re here,” she said, her voice weak and hoarse.
“I asked ye tae meet me.”
“It’s no yer fault.”
They remained in silence for a long time, Blair holding her hand, his head resting on the bed. He finally raised his head and looked at her. “Tell me who did this.”
“I dinna ken.”
One look in her eyes and Blair knew her father was right. “Who was it?” he asked, his voice even.
“I dinna ken!”
“Was it Gilroy?” Simply uttering the name made Blair’s insides curdle.
“No!”
Blair stared at the window. The more he thought about Gilroy, the more certain he felt. He got to his feet.
“Where are ye going?” Janet asked. When Blair’s hand was on the doorknob, she finally blurted out, “I’ll tell ye!”
Blair sat on a chair next to the bed. Tears gushed from her eyes. “It was one o’ Bishop Hutchinson’s clerks.”
Blair blinked, unsure he had heard correctly. “Who?”
“One o’ Bishop Hutchinson’s clerks. He offered me a job in the bishop’s kitchen if I yielded tae him. I told him no.”
“Why are ye protecting him?”
“I’m protecting my father. I’m protecting ye.”
Blair stared uncomprehendingly.
“I knew both o’ ye would beat him tae within an inch of his life,” Janet said. “Then ye’d rot in jail or hang. What would my family do without my father? What would I do without ye?”
Blair looked into her desperate eyes, admiration mingling with his fury.
“Please dinna tell my father.”
Blair’s chest heaved. He had to do something. “I could go tae Captain Spencer, but if I go on my own, yer father will find out.”
Janet covered her face with her hands.
“Lass, think o’ the harm he can do tae other girls if he’s allowed tae go free.”
“Fetch my mother. Only she can convince my father.”
#
The horse grunted, unaccustomed to Mr. Ferry driving it at such a fast pace. In the box of the cart Blair ground his teeth as he seethed with rage. He looked up to find Ronald studying him with concern. The cart slowed as it pulled up to the pub where Captain Spencer usually had his dinner, but before it had even come to a full stop, Blair had jumped down. As soon as he opened the door, he spotted the captain, sitting at a table with two of his constables.
When the tavern keeper’s son realized where Blair, Ronald, and Mr. Ferry were headed, he nervously stepped in front of them. “Mr. Ferry, ye shouldna bother them. I just put their food on the table.”
Mr. Ferry placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “They’ll understand.”
The captain and his men looked up with annoyance as Blair, Ronald, and Mr. Ferry approached. Mr. Ferry apologized for the intrusion and explained the situation. “Captain, please, ye must arrest the man.” His hat trembled in his hands, but his voice was steady. The captain’s nose twitched every time Mr. Ferry spoke, as if catching a whiff of something foul.
“Yer peasants mix the King’s English with Scots so much, I can barely understand,” he muttered.
Blair and Ronald looked at each other with loathing for the man. Mr. Ferry ignored the comment.
“Whom does she accuse?” the captain asked.
“One of Bishop Hutchinson’s clerks,” Mr. Ferry answered.
The captain raised his eyebrows. “Is she sure?”
“Aye.”
“I can’t do anything. I suggest yer take better care of yor family. This is what happens when women are allowed ter attend fairs at unseasonable hours and become accustomed ter drinking and consorting with men.”
An acrid heat gushed from the pit of Blair’s stomach. He tried to take a step forward, but Ronald’s arm blocked him.
“I’ll go tae the high sheriff,” Mr. Ferry said.
“My dear Mr. Ferry,” the captain said, “Bishop Hutchinson’s English clerk will never be prosecuted on account of an Irish girl.”
Mr. Ferry’s voice quivered, not from fear, but from rage. “She’s no Irish, and she’s only fifteen. Ye must have yer constables arrest him. It’s yer duty.”
“Don’t tell me what my duty is, autem prickear.”
Blair, Ronald, and Mr. Ferry cringed at the curse words. A few patrons looked at the captain scornfully, but no one said anything. “Dissenters, papists, ye’re all the same,” the captain continued. “Get yor arse out of here, or I’ll have me constables do it.”
“I fought the papists at the Siege o’ Derry when ye were but a wain,” Mr. Ferry growled. “My first wife and daughter died o’ the smallpox, and I survived on rats and tallow. Dinna ever again compare me tae papists.”
“So ye’re familiar with stoicism, Mr. Ferry. This is the time ter be stoic.”
Mr. Ferry’s lips trembled and his eyes glimmered with tears of fury. He walked toward the door, his movements slow and uncertain, like a sleepwalker who has opened his eyes to find himself in a dark, unfamiliar street. Blair stared at the captain insolently.
“I take it the girl is yor sweetheart,” the captain said without sympathy. He stood up, and his constables rose with him. He lowered his voice. “Will she take yor family name, or will yer continue yor henpecked men’s tradition of allowing yor wives ter keep their own?”
“We’re no henpecked,” Blair said, also in a low voice.
“Ronald, take yor carrotty-pated brother with yer.”
Ronald grabbed Blair’s arm, and Blair allowed his brother to guide him to the door. It had been a mistake to come to the authorities. But if the captain wouldn’t handle things, Blair would. He would deal with the clerk himself. Crashing sounds and yelling at his back made him turn his head. The tavern keeper’s son was on the floor as two patrons stood over him, kicking him. Blair, Ronald, and Mr. Ferry rushed back inside just as the tavern keeper placed himself between his son and his assailants and pleaded with them to stop. Captain Spencer and his constables approached the scene, looking exasperated, broken glass crunching under their boots.
“This here thief,” exclaimed one of the attackers with a London dialect, pointing with the ivory tip of his cane, “tried to shortchange us.”
The tavern keeper tilted his son’s head back and wiped the blood off the young man’s face with his apron. “My son wouldna try tae rob our patrons.”
“A didna,” the young man said, the blood in his mouth thickening his brogue. “It wis done in a mistak.”
Blair watched in disbelief as Captain Spencer ordered his constables to take the young man to jail over his father’s appeals. The tavern keeper stood just outside the open tavern door, staring after his son, shoulders heaving. Anger and impotence pulsated through the tavern. A couple of patrons walked over to the tavern keeper and talked to him in low, comforting voices. The captain turned to Blair, Ronald, and Mr. Ferry.
“And yer stay away from that clerk!” he snarled. “If anything happens ter him, I’ll know who ter arrest.”
#
July 9, 1729
Mallie and thirteen additional prisoners sat on wooden benches in the bail dock—the roofless patio of the Old Bailey courthouse—waiting to be tried. A bird had perched itself between two of the spikes protruding from the top of the wall that surrounded the bail dock, and Mallie looked at it longingly as it flew away. Raindrops made her blink, and she wrapped her arms as best she could around her doll. At least the courthouse was next door to the prison, so she had been spared the shame of a long walk in shackles. Lizzie was on the other side of the patio, ignoring her.
The first two men to be led into the courtroom were tried together for murder. In the space of twenty minutes, evidence was presented, the men were allowed to speak in their own defense, and the jury deliberated and returned their verdict. One man was acquitted; the other was found guilty of manslaughter and sentenced to be branded in the palm of his right hand. The next trial took ten minutes. A woman was found guilty of stealing a silver can and other pieces of silver plate and was sentenced to death. Mallie bit her nails, unable to make sense of the sentences or guess what she might expect for herself. A sudden and horrible screeching jarred her from her thoughts. Two guards were dragging a woman back from the courtroom to the bail dock.
“My curse and God’s curse go with yer!” the woman screamed. “I would rather be hanged! Living in foreign parts is worse than a disgraceful death at home!” When the guards dumped her on the ground, she threw a few ineffective punches at them, and Mallie saw she was missing one hand.
“Transportation,” someone muttered.
When Mallie’s case was called, a cold chill ran down her back. She cradled her doll in her arms as she followed Lizzie into the large, high-ceilinged courtroom, her head barely clearing the bar where the accused were to stand. A crate was brought in for her to stand on while a court officer fidgeted with a rectangular mirror set on two tall legs on the bar. The officer tilted the mirror until it reflected light onto both Lizzie’s and Mallie’s face.
Six male jurors sat to the right of the bar, six to the left, the same twelve that would hear all of the day’s cases. Court officers and privileged spectators looked on from balconies flanking both sides of the courtroom. Beyond the Doric columns holding up the upper floors, the yard was filled with observers from all walks of life. Mallie’s heart dropped as she recognized, in the sitting area directly in front of her, the very man she and Lizzie had tried to rob and the constable who had arrested them. Eight justices were on the judges’ bench along with the Lord Mayor and the recorder. The clerk read the indictment. The victim and the constable were placed under oath and told their version of events, after which the Lord Mayor asked them a few questions before turning to the accused.
“How do you respond, and do you have any friends to speak on your behalf?”
“I’ve no witnesses to call, m’lord,” said Lizzie.
The judges looked at Mallie over their nosegays, imposing in their white wigs and black robes, like crows hovering over a mouse.
“I’ve no witnesses to call, m’lord,” Mallie parroted. The Lord Mayor gave a brief summary of the case, and the jury disappeared to the deliberation room while Mallie and Lizzie waited where they stood. Barely five minutes had gone by when the jury returned with a verdict.
“Prisoners at the bar, you stand convicted of picking the pocket of David Lillo of a silk handkerchief. Have you anything to say?” the Lord Mayor asked.
“No, m’lord,” replied both.
“Elizabeth Batt, for picking the pocket of David Lillo of a silk handkerchief and for having been branded before, you’re found guilty of grand larceny and are hereby sentenced to death.”
A sob escaped Lizzie’s lips. Mallie shuddered. She was halfway down to her knees, determined to beg for her life, when her sentence was read.
“Malvina Ambrose, for picking the pocket of David Lillo of a silk handkerchief valued at ten pence, you’re found guilty of petty larceny and are hereby sentenced to seven years’ transportation to the American colonies.”
Mallie blinked, relief and uncertainty pulling at her in opposite directions. Transported where? Back in the bail dock, the one-handed woman’s words kept ringing in her ears: I would rather be hanged. Living in foreign parts is worse than a disgraceful death at home. The final prisoner was tried, and all inmates were led back to Newgate. When they reached the gate, they yielded to a cart exiting the prison. The cart stopped for a moment in front of Mallie, and she recoiled and screamed; it was full of corpses.
“Yer see?” observed a female inmate sarcastically. “Why fear the noose? The fever or starvation will have us all snug in a pit in the churchyard of Christchurch before the next collar day.”
#
Mallie watched as the barber cut another woman’s hair. He was gathering his things when she approached him timidly. “Sir, would yer . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“What?”
“Cut my hair?”
“Sit down, then.”
Mallie held her doll in her lap while the barber tied her hair in a ponytail. The scissors made a dull scraping sound as they sliced through. The barber held the severed ponytail up and admired it. “A peruke maker will give good money.”
Remembering the gaoler who had fingered her hair, Mallie pulled a lock to the tip of her nose. It was still too long. “Can ye shave it all?”
“If yer wish.”
She winced as the straight razor glided over her scalp. The barber wiped her head with a rag, and she flinched when she saw the lather laden with lice. She put on her grimy cap and approached Lizzie, who had been moved back to the condemned hold to await execution.
“Lizzie.”
Lizzie stared straight ahead.
“Thank yer for not throwing me out on the street when me mum left,” Mallie said. Lizzie rolled her eyes, but they gleamed with tears.
Mallie turned to keep herself from attempting to hug Lizzie, walked to the door, and slapped her palm on it three times. The gaoler on the other side opened the door and stuck his head in. Mallie held out some coins.
“I want ter go ter the Second Ward,” she said, and immediately wished her voice had sounded more confident. But the gaoler happily took the coins and took her up one floor. She was surprised to see the Second Ward’s door wide open and unguarded.
The gaoler said, “Yer can walk about, but ye’d better be back by nine.” Just as he spoke, two male inmates nonchalantly walked past them and into the cell. She hesitantly stepped inside. Other than the moldy straw strewn on the filthy floor, and the fact that it was larger, Mallie could see no difference between this cell and the condemned hold. But she found what she was looking for: the girl who had been begging next to her.
“I remember yer,” said the girl. “Yer look like a damned goblin.”
Mallie went straight to business. “I ‘eard yer say ye appealed yor sentence.”
“Wot about it?”
“I was sentenced ter transportation. How do I appeal?”
“Yer write ter the Lord Mayor asking ter receive corporal punishment instead o’ being transported. That’s all.”
“Which corporal punishment?” Mallie asked with suspicion.
“A whipping.”
Mallie was well acquainted with a bucking paddle: first her mother and then Lizzie had wielded one with regularity and gusto. The fear she felt as she saw them coming at her was just as acute every single time, but the pain eventually subsided. She surely could withstand one single whipping. “Will yer write it for me?”
The girl snickered. “With the lovely handwriting I learned from me private tutor? A schoolmaster writes them for tuppence.”
“I’ll give yer a penny if yer take me ter ‘im.”
“Wot’s yor name?”
“Mallie. Yor name is Edina.”
The girl smiled. “Ye’re a clever one.” She guided Mallie to the first floor, to the men’s Middle Ward. Several groups of men and women stood around or sat on the oaken floors, most of them stinking of gin. Snores rose from what seemed like slatternly piles of dirty laundry crumpled on bunks and a couple of men sprawled out on the floor. Edina approached a man sitting at a table and reading a newspaper by candlelight. Mallie stopped in her tracks when she spotted a male inmate sitting in a corner, his back propped against the wall, a woman straddling him, her skirts fanned out, grinding her hips. She looked away and brought the doll to her face, feeling safer behind it. Edina motioned with an impatient wave of the hand, and Mallie caught up.
“Schoolmaster,” Edina said, and the man put his paper down and smiled pleasantly. “Mallie ‘ere wants an appeal letter.”
#
Blair sat with Janet on the bench by the front door of her cottage, choking on the words he had come to say. He had spent the night conjuring all manner of revenge fantasies, the image of Janet’s rapist gutted like a lamb exquisitely satisfying, while Ronald snored softly next to him.
“I ken what ye’re thinking of,” Ronald had said at midnight when he woke up after his first sleep and found Blair staring into the ashes of the fireplace. “I would help if things were different.”
Blair knew this to be true: his brother would have relished taking justice into his own hands.
“Dinna allow that bastard tae ruin yer future,” Ronald had begged. “Ye’ll hang.”
An hour later, Ronald was deep in his second sleep, and Blair was in misery, dwelling on the same ideas over and over. As the night wore on, he felt trapped, helpless and hopeless, and he became so overwhelmed with anxiety that he wanted to throw up. In the morning, his grandfather had taken one look at him and read his thoughts. Blair had expected a barrage of incriminations, but the old man’s defeated expression was much worse than anything he could have said. Blair had no words to explain how much it pained him to make this decision. It was cold comfort to see his mother’s reaction: the line of her shoulders visibly relaxed as soon as he broke the news that he was leaving.
“Come with us, Ma,” he had urged. She had chuckled sadly.
“I’m too old; I’ll end up in the ocean like Samuel’s mother. I’ll stay here and watch over Janet for ye.”
Now, Janet’s good eye searched his face anxiously. Seeing her misshapen face made him want to throw away his plans and kill the clerk. But he would not allow that bastard to ruin their future. “I have tae get ye out o’ here, lassie. I need tae find a good place tae build a good home for us. I’m leaving with Ronald. Tomorrow.”
Tears gushed from Janet’s eyes. Her shoulders shook, but she hardly made a sound.
“I wish ye could come with me, even without yer father’s blessing. But I dinna ken where I’m going tae live, what I’m going tae do. I canna take care o’ ye yet. I promise I’ll return in four years. Promise ye’ll wait for me.” Blair held his breath.
She finally spoke, her voice still hoarse. “I promise.”