Songs of the Shenandoah (16 page)

The reverend beckoned them up to the podium, which wasn't much more than a crudely constructed platform with a couple of steps. Now it was Clare's turn to feel embarrassed, but they were no longer in control of the situation, and surrendering to the moment they moved to the reverend's side.

They stood close to one another, facing the large gathering. Although it was clear that the members of this church weren't affluent by any means, Clare was struck by how well they were all dressed for their Sunday service. She could only imagine how much of their monthly earnings had gone into the clothes they were wearing.

Clare recognized a few of the people gathered, ones who had been at Zachary and Cassie's wedding. Ten years ago they had gotten married in a small ceremony. This was before Zachary started his church, and not too long after he had escaped from a plantation in Savannah.

“Y'all may not know who these folks are.” The reverend put his arm around Andrew and pulled him so abruptly, it made his glasses tilt on his face. “This good man right here is the publisher of the
New York Daily
.”

A gasp burst from the group and they exchanged glances.

Andrew pressed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose and glanced nervously at Clare.

“Now I know many of you aren't readers yet, but there are enough of you to know there isn't a greater friend to our cause than the
Daily
.”

Clare could see by the responses that many of them were not only aware of the
Daily
, but of the stance it had taken on behalf of the abolition movement and the treatment of blacks in Manhattan. The work she and Andrew had done was never for recognition. It was always about saying what was in their hearts and minds. The only feedback they had received to date was having angry customers pulling their advertising.

“And this lady here.” Zachary walked over and released his deep chortle. “This fine woman. This is Clare Royce and I think you all know—”

Before he could finish his sentence, his loud voice was drowned out by spontaneous cheers and shouts from the audience, and they rose to their feet and applauded and some hopped and raised their arms.

This continued for so long that Clare realized they weren't only honoring her family, but they were celebrating their victories, their advances. How many of these standing before them had suffered in their road to freedom? How many had struggled to persevere not only against those who wished to enslave them, but those of her own people, the Irish, who had made them feel most unwelcome?

Clare began to cry, and though many emotions surged through her, disappointment drove to the surface. They could be doing so much more. More stories. Pressuring the community's leaders with their commentary. She looked over to Andrew and knew he was sharing her thoughts.

Forgive me, Lord. Here I have been thinking we've been struggling and suffering, yet we haven't even started. We haven't even begun the fight.

Once the cheers and shouts died down, Cassie guided them down the steps, and several of the congregants gave up their seats so the four of them could sit front and center. It was the last thing Clare wanted to see happening, but there was no use in turning down this act of kindness and generosity.

“I feel as if we should all sing again, our deepest thanks for our Lord's provision. For His deliverance. What say you, my brothers and sisters?”

The answer came in a burst of singing, first a few in the back rows, and then within moments the entire church was shaking at its beams, clapping and stomping.

Can you feel the ground, it's rumblin'?
And there's whispers in the wind.
Can you feel the ground, it's rumblin'?
And there's whispers in the wind.

Clare's family didn't know the words, but they joined in the best they could, and although they had never done so in a church before, they clapped their hands as well while many sitting behind them patted them on the shoulders and heads.

What was most remarkable to Clare was the expression on her husband's face. He had taken off his glasses because they were fogged up with tears. It reminded her of the day she had first met him, when he was singing hymns of praise under the evening sky.

For that sweet day is arrivin'
When my Jesus comes again.
Yes that sweet day is arrivin'
When my Jesus comes again.

So many years had gone since she had seen so much joy in the man she loved. Even Garret and Ella were swept by the spirit of the moment, and this made Clare profoundly happy.

As she glanced around to those around her, she saw something here so powerful, which was unfathomable. Here gathered in this room were some of the poorest, most oppressed people in the entire city. But rather than hearing the cries of bitterness or anger, she heard something so rare to behold.

The sweet sound of gratitude.

Chapter 18

Soup Kitchen

“It's Father!” Ella exclaimed in response to the sudden noise in the front hallway. She leapt up from the bay window and sprinted toward the door.

“Don't tell him our surprise,” Clare hollered after her.

“Don't tell me what surprise?” Andrew entered rubbing his hands. His old black wool jacket was crusted with snow and his cheeks glowed bright red.

“You didn't walk all of the way home from the office, did you?” Clare stood up from the fireplace she was tending and grabbed his coat and hung it on the brass rack. “You poor soul. What a dreary day to be out in the cold.”

“The snow in March is lovely. I wanted to enjoy it with a brisk tour of the city.”

“That's quite a long tour, Mr. Royce.” Clare felt his cold face with the back of her hand. “You should have hired a cab.”

“Nonsense. Other than the fact it delays me from coming home to my family, it truly is a wonderful way to get a feel for the heartbeat of this town.”

“Ma is fixing something special.” Ella clasped Andrew around his leg.

“Come on, Da.” Garret grabbed his father by the hand and dragged him toward the warmth of the hearth.

In the fireplace, a crackling fire was raging, with sparks flying and the embers at the base appearing as glowing red worms. Hanging over the fire by an iron hook was a large black kettle.

“That's Grandmother's!” Andrew's face lit up with childish glee. He unwrapped a scarf from around his neck.

“Have a seat, Da,” Garret said. “We put the chairs close to the fire. We're going to eat dinner here like a picnic.”

“Strange weather for a picnic.” Andrew plopped down in the leather chair and lifted his legs as Ella slid a footstool under his ankles and then took her father's shoes off.

She giggled. “Da's got a hole in his sock!”

Andrew wiggled his big toe. “This one has broken free from jail. Call the coppers!”

“Ella, are you forgetting something?” Clare propped her arms on her hips.

“Oh yes!” Ella skipped off.

Garret chased after her. “I'm going to get it first.”

“Garret,” Clare shouted. “Let your sister do it.” But they both scurried out of the room with a pounding of feet and playful screams. She let out a deep sigh and slid her chair next to Andrew's and held his hand.

“What is all this?” Andrew looked tired.

“You don't remember?”

“Hmmm.” He pursed his lips and traced his eyes to the ceiling. Then he raised his hands. “Don't know.”

“It's your birthday.” She squeezed his hand.

“Oh that. I thought we both agreed to stop celebrating those.”

“I never agreed to such a thing. Besides, we could certainly benefit from some celebration.” She placed her hand on his cheek, rough with stubble. “I am so proud of you, Andrew. You know that, don't you?”

He grimaced. “What for? What is to be proud about?” He panned the room that had lost so much of the luster and richness it once had. “This isn't what you agreed to. I mean . . .” He paused for a moment. “You deserve so much better, Clare Royce.”

“Hush, you.” She pressed her finger on his nose. “Now how was your day? Despite almost perishing in the blizzard.”

His eyes widened and he wagged a finger. “Actually . . . there was some good cheer for us today. We got MacPherson back today. Signed a contract for a year.”

“I thought that horrible Sean MacPherson said he wouldn't advertise in the
Daily
even if it was the last newspaper in the world.”

“Did he say that?”

“He did, and worse.”

Andrew cupped his hands and blew into them. “Well, apparently he now has a more favorable opinion of our fine publication. And he said it was because of you.”

“Oh, that man is so fickle. He'll be cursing us in the morn.”

“Your story about the Irish Regiments. The 63rd. The 69th. The 88th. What you said about them getting the worst of all assignments on the battlefields and how they should be admired for their bravery, but the generals ought to be . . . How did you say it?”

“That the generals ought to be cooked in oats for using the sons of Ireland as the battering ram of their imbecilic strategies.” Clare shook her head. “But if MacPherson was astute, he would have complained how the
Daily
's supposed war correspondent spends little of her time on the battlefields.”

“Aww . . . you write those stories as if you're holding a smoking musket in your own hand. Besides, we'll be able to afford a full-time field reporter soon. That is, I hope.” He started to stare into the fire, but then his face brightened again. “Anyway, apparently MacPherson has a nephew in the 69th and said truer words ne'er been spoken. Oh, and that wasn't the only news.”

“Really . . . do tell.”

“Your man stopped by for a visit.”

“My dear Cyrus Fields. No doubt to pay his thanks for my article shouting down the naysayers of his Atlantic Cable. I hope you told him it was unnecessary to thank me and that I was merely doing my job.”

Andrew smiled at Clare in the way that always made her feel loved. “He made his offer to us once again.”

“For stock in his company, free of charge in gratitude for my continued belief in his dream. And, of course, you told him?”

“That my dear wife appreciates his kindly gesture, but it would conflict with her journalistic sensibilities, her integrity of
reportage
.” Andrew let the last word roll off with his poor French accent.

She swatted his arm. “I have so much fondness for that man. He is a model of perseverance, especially in all of the opposition he is facing. To be a dreamer, you must always first be a fool.”

“Well, I hope it didn't injure our integrity, but I did tell him he could thank us by giving us some grace on his paper invoice.”

“Are we behind again?”

“I wish that was the only bill we were behind on.” Andrew's shoulders drooped. “There are times when I just want to give it all up.” He grabbed her hand. “But then I think of you and the children, and it's all I need to keep me going another day.”

Clare leaned forward and kissed him.

“Hey,” Ella shouted, startling them both. “You can't kiss the king!”

“Of course I can kiss the king.” Clare stood. “As I am the queen.”

“Give it to me.” Garret reached for something Ella was hiding behind her back.

“Garret.” Clare raised an eyebrow at her son.

Ella walked over to Andrew, pulled out the handmade crown she was hiding, and reached up to put it on her father's head, but she couldn't quite reach. Andrew bent down and she placed it with care.

“Now you can make me your knight.” Garret grabbed a poker from the mantel and handed it to Andrew.

“That is covered with ashes.” Clare clenched her jaw.

“What would an Irishwoman know about kings and knights?” Andrew held the poker like a sword before his son, who was already on one knee with his head down. “I now pronounce you Sir Garret Royce, Duke of New York.”

Clare moved over to the fireplace and peered into the simmering stew. “I would only agree to my son becoming Duke of Roscommon. He most certainly would be an Irish lord.” She dug into the boiling liquid with the long metal spatula and stirred it around, being careful not to splash the hot liquid on her. It had been some ten years since she had made pottage over a fire, and the scents of the potatoes, leaks, carrots, and broth brought her back to the old country.

“Where did you find that old kettle?” Andrew asked.

“In the back shed.” Clare lifted the spatula, swiped her fingertip on it, and tasted the meal. “Ummm. Good. Yes. It's really a beautiful pot.”

“Grandmother used to cook in that all of the time,” Andrew said for the benefit of all.

Ella climbed up on the chair and curled up next to him, tucking her head against his shoulder. “You had a grandmama too?”

“Yes. Even me.” Andrew rubbed Ella's back. “Such sweet times we had together in this house.”