Tide and Tempest (Edge of Freedom Book #3) (4 page)

“True,” Amelia said, averting her gaze, “but you know we haven’t had as many residents since Ana and Cara left, not to mention Breda and . . .” Her voice lowered. “Well, Deidre.”

Tillie shivered as she recalled the mystery that had hung over the boardinghouse last season. Since then, both of her friends had been forced into hiding and Breda had moved, which meant that of the six rooms Amelia let out for rent, only two were filled. She held in a sigh. Perhaps soon it would be safe enough for her friends to return. She hoped so. She had much to tell them. In the meantime . . .

Her stomach sank as the realization of Amelia’s situation struck. “I planned to go by the church this afternoon,” she said. “I can make inquiries then.”

“That would be grand. Thank you.” Smiling, she resumed her stitchwork.

Tillie bit her lip, thinking. “Perhaps I can see about drumming up boarders, too. There are plenty of able-bodied women at the shelter, many of whom would be glad of a situation such as this, only . . .” She paused. The women at the shelter faced the same problem as Amelia. “Most have had a difficult time securing employment in these hard times. What jobs there are to be had are filled by men.”

Amelia’s mouth turned in a scowl. “And after all that natter during the presidential election of tariffs boosting our country’s industry. I’d have thought by now they’d have taken effect.”

Hoping to ease the frustration in Amelia’s voice, Tillie smiled. “There now, it is only July. President McKinley has barely had time to settle into his office. Things will get better, for sure and for certain.”

But would they? Even as she spoke, worry brewed in her
stomach. McKinley’s campaign promises might hold true, but perhaps not in time to help Amelia, and not if she lost another boarder.

For the first time, Tillie considered what her plan of opening an orphanage and moving out of the boardinghouse would do to her friend. It left her anxious and unsettled as she collected her bonnet and gloves and set out for the church. The feelings intensified when she passed the land office with an advertisement for a six-roomed farmhouse taped to the window.

She looked away. For now, she’d forget about the orphanage and focus on helping Amelia. That meant talking to Father Ed and the women at the shelter. But only briefly, she told herself. Only until she’d found a way to help Amelia.

Even with her mind made up, a niggle of disappointment tightened her throat. Ignoring the sentiment, she lifted her chin and quickened her pace. Before long, she’d left the land office with its window advertisement far behind.

A briny wind lifted the tips of Morgan’s hair and whipped it into his face, stinging his eyes. He raked it away with an impatient tug of his fingers. Blast the length! He was determined to have it trimmed by the end of the day, even if he had to whet a knife and cut it himself.

Reaching up toward the gunwale, he closed his fist around a length of rope and swung himself onto the deck of the
Caitriona Marie
, ignoring the ladder slapping against the bulwark
.
The resulting thump of his boots against timber bolstered him, reminding him that solid footing wasn’t only found on land.

Belowdecks, the cries of his crew echoed from the bay. He turned that way and then halted midstride. Donal hurried along the dock from the direction of town. The morgue perhaps? Morgan shoved closer to the ship’s rail. With any luck he’d been able to wrap up the details of Doc’s burial.

“Well?” he asked when Donal scrambled aboard. “What news?”

For a split second a glimmer of distress widened Donal’s eyes and creased his forehead. But then he stood up straight,
his feet braced apart, his lips parted in a wide grin, and Morgan wondered if he’d imagined it.

“The deed’s done, just like you ordered, Captain.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the rail. “Just come from the morgue. They’ll be sending someone to collect the remains.” He shuddered and ripped the cap from his head and jammed it into his pocket. “Foul place. Wouldn’t want to be going there again anytime soon.”

Morgan pulled a watch from his jacket pocket and flipped open the lid. Five o’clock. Plenty of time for Donal to have accomplished his task. “You were able to find kin, then?”

“Aye, sir,” Donal said. “Went by the harbor master and asked a few questions first. That’s how I come by the name of Doc’s cousin.” He lifted his chin, almost defensively. “Weren’t easy, though. Took me quite a while to track him down.”

Morgan took his time returning the watch to his pocket. Donal fumbled with his shirt, where beads of sweat rolled from his cheek and neck to dampen his collar. Now, what reason could he have for appearing so nervous?

“If, uh, if you’ll not be needing me, sir—” he cleared his throat and pointed over his shoulder at Cass, who was emerging from the cargo bay—“I’d best see to helping the crew.”

And since when had Donal ever been anxious to attend to his duties? He was capable, all right, and he did what he was told quick enough, but he’d never been one to hasten to his responsibilities. No, it was Morgan’s own presence he was anxious to be shed of, that much was clear.

Morgan searched Donal’s face for clues. Finding none, he shrugged and waved him off. “Be about it, then, and see to it you tend belowdecks. I want the
Marie
fit and scrubbed before nightfall.”

“Aye, sir.” With a nod and a scurry, Donal disappeared belowdecks.

“Hello, Morgan!” Cass’s voice boomed from midship. In his hand he carried a stack of logbooks. He thrust his chin in the direction Donal had taken. “What was all that about?”

Morgan frowned and took the books Cass shoved at him and tucked them under one arm. “Not sure yet. I don’t like it, though. He was nervous as a scalded cat and twice as ugly.”

“I could say the same about you.” Cass snorted through his nose and crossed both arms over his chest. “Where were you all afternoon? I ’bout got all the log sheets finished and balanced.”

“You
could
say it,” Morgan said, responding to the first part of Cass’s sentence and ignoring the rest, “but then I’d have to wallop you.” Fighting a grin, he sauntered down the deck toward his quarters.

Cass loped at his heels. “Are you forgetting the last time you and I fought? I nearly bested you then. You’re older and slower now.”

“You forgot wiser.” Morgan shot his boot out and nudged a crate into Cass’s path, causing him to stumble and nearly fall trying to avoid it.

“Mugger!” Cass cried.

“Toad!” Morgan retorted, ducking into his cabin but leaving the door ajar.

Cass followed him inside, his mirth fading as he eyed Morgan across the crowded berth. Morgan took his time stripping off his coat and hanging it on a hook fastened to the wall. Under his feet, the ship rocked gently on the waves of the harbor, a far cry from the rolling, pitching troughs they’d forged crossing over from Liverpool, but still not the
terra firma
for which his legs, and soul, longed.

“Well?” Cass folded his lanky length into an overstuffed chair Morgan had given to their father as a joke. “Did you find her?”

He dropped onto the hard edge of his bunk, the troubling conversation with Miss McGrath replaying in his head. “Aye. I found her.”

“And?”

He offered a one-shouldered shrug.

“Morgan—”

“How long before we finish the off-load?”

Cass blinked and pushed up in the chair. “A day, I guess. Maybe two. Why?”

“And then?”

“We’ll refresh our supplies and see to any needed repairs.”

Morgan did a quick calculation in his head. “So, a week or more before we’re ready to set sail?”

“I suppose so.”

He stood and crossed to a teak cabinet, where he removed a metal mug. He filled it with water from the pitcher on the sideboard. The tepid drink hardly refreshed, but it did give him time to clear his thinking. Turning back to Cass, he said, “Get with Bozey. Have him go over the inventory with you and order any supplies you think we’ll need.”

Cass lifted an eyebrow. “Isn’t that normally your job?”

Morgan shot him a scowl. Aye, it was his job, and under normal circumstances, heaven help Cass or any other mate who dared tread anywhere near the inventory. But these were far from normal circumstances. He set down the heavy mug with a thud. “Haven’t you been hankering for a taste of running the ship? Well, I’m going to need you to oversee a few things while I finish up in town—unless you’re not sure you can handle it, in which case I can always get Bozey—”

Cass rose to the bait as eagerly as a trout to a worm. “I can handle it.”

Aye, he could. Morgan felt a niggle of surprise at the realization. It was quickly replaced by another rush of gratitude
at having his brother on board. He reached over and clapped Cass’s shoulder. “I knew I could count on you.”

A corner of his mouth dipped in a frown. “Did you?”

“I do now.”

Giving a snort, he shrugged from Morgan’s grasp and veered for the hatch. Before he reached it, Morgan called him back and motioned toward his desk. “Cass, a moment more, if you dinna mind.”

He purposely added the last. As ship’s captain, he could order that Cass remain, but this was a conversation he’d been meaning to have with him as his kin.

Cass returned to sit at the desk, his fingers steepled and resting against his lips. “I’ve seen that look before. You and Da always did wear your worries on your face. Is it that bad?”

Morgan slid into the chair opposite his brother. “Actually, ’tis a good thing.”

Cass merely grunted.

“It’s the bottomry,” Morgan continued. “I know you were opposed to it.”

Cass sat up quickly. “Only because Da would never have approved using the ship as collateral to finance this trip. Not because I didn’t trust your judgment.”

He acknowledged this with a nod. “I didn’t have much choice, finances being what they were.”

“Is that what has you so troubled?”

“No, it’s not—”

Cass jerked to his feet and began pacing. “I have some money stashed away. It’s not much, but it will help until we can—”

Morgan held up his hand. “Cass!”

He drew to a halt, his brow furrowed.

“It’s not that,” Morgan said. “The cargo should fetch a handsome price, plenty to pay off the bottomry and then some.”

Cass returned to his chair. “Then why the worry, Morgan?”

“Because I have a request, and as my brother—” he paused and looked Cass in the eye—“and my partner, you should have a say in it.”

He explained the details of his visit with Tillie, and his offer to provide her with passage back to Ireland. “I should have spoken to you about it first,” he said, “but at the time, I thought it better to keep you from getting involved.”

“And now?” Cass lifted an eyebrow. “Why bother sharing it with me if she’s already told you she wants to stay?”

Heat crept up Morgan’s neck into his cheeks.

Cass drew back in his chair. “I see. You still want to help her.”

“I owe it to her, Cass. It’s my fault she’s even in this mess.”

“So, now it’s our fault? What happened to it being Doc’s fault?”

Though Cass’s use of the plural gratified him, Morgan frowned.

“Right,” Cass said, a trifle apologetically. “You’re the captain.
Everything
that happens aboard this ship is your fault.”

“That’s how it must be. Our passengers and crew have entrusted themselves to me. Their lives depend on the decisions I make.”

Even as Morgan spoke the words, the weight of his responsibility bore down on his shoulders. He took a deep breath and squared his chin. “Which is why I think we should use some of the profit from this trip to help Miss McGrath. She told me today she intends to stay in New York and volunteer in some kind of church shelter. Surely we can help her cause.”

Skepticism creased Cass’s face. “From what you’ve told me so far, this woman doesn’t seem the type to accept charity. What makes you think she’ll allow your help?”

Morgan scratched his head. The same thought had oc
curred to him. “I’ll have to find a way to give her the money without her seeing it as a gift.”

Cass’s eyes narrowed as he peered at Morgan across the desk. “Exactly how much are we talking?”

He shrugged. “I won’t know until after the final tally. But don’t bother yourself about the money.” He rose and circled the desk. “I’ll take it out of my share, no one else’s. You and the crew—”

It was Cass’s turn to raise his hand. “You know I wouldn’t have that. I’ve known you my whole life. I understand about your taking responsibility for the crew. That’s what you do, what you’ve always done.”

By the look in his eyes, Morgan knew he was referring to their father’s death and his subsequent care of the family.

“What I don’t understand,” Cass continued, “is why this girl? You barely know her.”

Turning from his brother’s questioning stare, Morgan directed his attention to the scuttles. “I explained that, Cass.”

“No, you explained why you felt obligated to visit her in the first place. What I want to know is why you keep wanting to help her even after she turned your offer down.” He came around to stand at Morgan’s shoulder. “’Tis more than just that you feel responsible for what happened to her, big brother, whether you care to admit it or not.”

Though he opened his mouth, the answer he readied failed to come. Instead he kept his back to Cass and shook his head. A moment later, the hatch groaned as Cass stepped through and shut it behind him, leaving Morgan to wonder what his brother knew, and what he himself refused to recognize.

“Careful!” Sister Agnes hurried across the kitchen and rescued the pot of cooked carrots from Tillie’s limp fingers. “That there pot is heavy. Wouldn’t want you scalding yourself.” She slanted her a questioning look. “You all right?”

Tillie rubbed the crook of her fingers. Truthfully, she didn’t know. Since Captain Morgan’s visit that morning, her thoughts had been scattered, plagued by memories she’d believed long forgotten.

“I’m sorry, Sister. Just a little tired from working all day, I guess,” she muttered. By way of apology she grabbed the bowl of freshly churned butter and began spreading a thin layer over a tray of steaming biscuits. Not even these tempted her, despite the fact that she’d skipped lunch.

“And no wonder.” The nun snorted and set the pot of carrots down with a thump. “This makes the fifth time this week you’ve been by to help with supper. And that after your regular duties at the milliner.” She dipped her head to peer at Tillie from under her wimple. “Not that we don’t need the help, mind you.”

Tillie eyed the massive bowl of potatoes yet to be mashed and simmering water waiting to be made into gravy. Aye, they
needed the help, which was exactly why she made the effort to come day after day. Guilt nudged her heart. Well, perhaps that wasn’t the only reason.

Finished with the biscuits, she set them aside and began carving a ham into thin, even slices. “How is Father Ed coming with the plans for the parsonage? Has he found anyone to do the work?”

No doubt, the wily nun wasn’t fooled by the change of topic, but today at least, Sister Agnes was inclined to play along. While she spooned the carrots into a large bowl, she clucked her tongue and gave a sad shake of her head.

“There’s another thing what could use a bit of prayer. We sure do miss Eoghan and his skill with a hammer.”

The door from the washroom flew open, and the much younger—though still advanced in years—Sister Mary barged through, balancing a basket stuffed with linens. Lye assaulted Tillie’s nose.

“What’s this?” Sister Mary demanded. “Who misses Eoghan? What are we talking about?”

Tillie winced. While the nuns were privy to the truth behind his disappearance along with Ana and Cara, Sister Mary did sometimes forget herself and say more than she ought—even in the relative safety of the church.

Sister Agnes shot Sister Mary a withering glare. “Hush now. Mind your tongue.”

Tillie rounded the table and patted Sister Agnes’s arm. “We were just saying ’twould be nice for Father Ed to have someone he could depend on helping him with the plans for the new parsonage.”

Sister Agnes’s scowl lessened slightly. She raised the spoon and waved it at Sister Mary, paying no heed to the carrots that plopped on the table and floor. “Whatever made that man think he could take on such a task is beyond me. In fact”—she
dropped the spoon and crossed herself—“the man’s stubbornness is enough to drive me to confession.”

Sister Mary snorted. Shuffling to the closet, she deposited the linens, then went to stand next to Sister Agnes. “And I’d have to join ya there.”

With their heads together and both of them cackling, the two resembled a pair of giant blackbirds. Tillie dipped her head to hide a smile.

Sister Mary ambled to the pantry and took down a jar of pickled beets to add to the supper. Seeing them reminded Tillie of Amelia’s predicament and her promise of help. She grabbed a bowl and carried it to Sister Mary. “Will this hold them?”

“Aye, that’ll do the trick.” Sister Mary opened the jar, releasing a fragrant cloud of pickling and spices. Closing her eyes, she took a deep whiff. “Ach, but the smell of these beets fairly makes me mouth water. They’ll go well with our ham.”

“We were running low, last time I checked,” Tillie said.

“We’ll have fresh soon enough,” Sister Agnes said. “The harvest will be here before we know it.”

Tillie nodded. “True, but in the meantime, if you’re needing anything for the pantry, would you mind letting me know? Amelia has a few things she’d like to sell.”

Sister Mary’s eyebrows disappeared into her wimple. “From Laverne’s kitchen? Aye, we’ll let you know. No offense, Agnes.”

Sister Agnes scowled in her direction. “Right. I’ll remind you of that the next time you’re stuffing yourself with me biscuits.” She turned to Tillie. “What’s Amelia doing selling canned goods? Everything all right at the boardinghouse?”

Tillie shrugged, her thoughts troubled. “Aye, far as I can tell. I know she could use a couple of boarders. It’s not good for a boardinghouse to have empty rooms.”

“True enough.” She motioned toward Sister Mary. “We’ll ask around the church.”

“Thank you, Sisters.” Tillie went back to the table, picked up the knife, and resumed carving the ham.

The nuns’ banter continued for some time, but with her thoughts preoccupied elsewhere, Tillie paid them little heed. Gradually, however, the conversation quieted and a floorboard creaked behind her.

Sister Mary broke the silence with “What’s up with her? She feeling all right?”

Sister Agnes’s spoon stopped dragging across the bottom of the pot she was stirring. “Well, she has been a touch distracted most of the afternoon.”

“Did she say why?”

“Wouldn’t I say so if she did?”

Tillie looked up at them.

“You all right, lass?” Sister Mary asked.

Both nuns peered at her, worry drawing their brows into identical peaks.

She started to nod, then stopped and shook her head. No longer able to contain her unhappiness, she put down her knife. “May I ask you something?”

Their heads dipped in unison, and then Sister Agnes circled the table, clasped Tillie’s hands, and drew her to a stool near the counter. “Ask anything you’d like.”

Embarrassed, Tillie swallowed a lump that rose in her throat. “Well . . . uh, neither of you ever married, ain’t that so?”

They glanced at each other and shook their heads.

“But if you had, if you’d married and then decided you wanted to become a nun . . . could you have still done it? I mean, would that have been allowed?”

“Ain’t no rule against it.” Sister Mary gave a puzzled frown,
then shot a questioning glance at Sister Agnes, who tightened her grasp on Tillie’s fingers. “Why are you asking, dearie?”

Her gaze bounced back and forth between the two sisters. “Oh no, it’s not . . . I mean, I’m not—”

“Not thinking of making your vows anytime soon?” Sister Mary gave a bark of laughter and smacked Sister Agnes on the arm. “Relax, Agnes. No novices here.”

“As if you weren’t assuming the same thing,” Sister Agnes retorted, though it appeared a bit of the hopeful gleam in her eyes had faded. She released Tillie’s hands and claimed a stool next to her. “So, if it’s not the order you be thinking of . . .” She trailed into questioning silence.

Tillie’s shoulders drooped. Now what? She’d unwittingly dashed their hopes, and her real question still lingered unasked on her tongue. Her thoughts went immediately to Braedon and the fact that they’d never married. “What I really meant to ask . . . uh, I guess what I want to know is, if God wasn’t your first choice, and you didn’t . . . well, how much is He willing to forgive?” She blurted the last, sensing rather than seeing the two nuns exchange a glance.

Sister Agnes’s voice lowered to a soft murmur. “Something in particular you’d like to talk about?”

Tillie fidgeted uncomfortably on the stool. Much as she loved these two women, she’d never found the courage to tell them about Braedon or the child she’d conceived out of wedlock. Fear snaked up from her belly. What if they felt differently about her once they learned the truth?

Sister Agnes’s chin jutted slightly while Sister Mary retrieved her basket. “I’d best be about my chores.”

The door closed behind her with a quiet click. Though Tillie hadn’t expected her to go, she was grateful. Her shame was easier to bear with only one nun present.

“Why don’t you tell me about it?” Sister Agnes said.

Compassion shone from her face, but instead of taking comfort in it, it brought tears to Tillie’s eyes.

“We had a visitor today, at the boardinghouse. Someone I met a long time ago, before ever coming here.”

“And his presence stirred up painful memories for you?”

Her thoughts winged to Braedon again, to her parents’ refusal of him, and the desperation that had driven them to flee in order to be together. She sighed. “I’ve made some poor decisions in my life, Sister. They’ve affected more than just me.” Pain stabbed her heart as she thought of her child.

“Bad decisions usually do, despite what we tell ourselves when we make them.”

“But . . . when it comes time for punishment for our sins, surely it’s only the person who’s done wrong who’s expected to pay?”

Sister Agnes smiled. “Not even them, if they’ve accepted the Savior.”

Confusion muddied her thinking. She’d done wrong, that much she’d accepted. To think she’d not be expected to suffer was too much to hope for. She grasped her guilt and held tight.

“But,” she continued stubbornly, “if we accept our penance and carry it out without complaint, God is satisfied, aye? His law is met and no one else . . . no one . . .”

Sister Agnes’s gnarled hands closed around Tillie’s and squeezed. “Is that why you’re always about, working dawn till dusk, day after day? Lass, what is it you’ve done to think you deserve such a penance?”

Tillie licked her dry lips. Maybe she could still enjoy their acceptance if she told her some things . . . about Braedon. But not the baby. Not her child.

“I left home and disobeyed my parents to be with a man.”

“You loved him?”

“Aye.”

“And they objected?”

“He was a Fenian. They were afraid for me, especially when so many of them were imprisoned or executed for trying to free their comrades.”

Sister Agnes’s mouth firmed into a thin line. “Is that why you left Ireland?”

Tillie nodded. “Braedon thought we could come here, possibly help organize the efforts in America.”

“And you?”

She bit her lip against a rush of pain. “I just wanted to be with Braedon.”

To her relief, no judgment welled in Sister Agnes’s eyes. Only tears. “But without your parents’ blessing.”

And without vows. Though she left it unspoken, Tillie knew she understood. She lowered her head in shame.

Sister Agnes rose, fetched a towel, and held it to her nose, then offered the other corner to Tillie, who took it with a sniff.

“Child, I’m going to tell you something that I hope you will accept as coming from someone with a wee bit more experience.”

Seeing the twinkle in her eyes, Tillie smiled. “All right.”

Her lined face softened, and her voice, like a balm, soothed Tillie’s spirit.

“Sometimes, talking about our sins makes them easier to bear. Have you considered making your confession? It may be the penance Father Ed prescribes is much less wearisome than the one you’ve laid upon yourself.”

Tillie shuddered inwardly. She didn’t want a less wearisome penance. Sister Agnes only thought so because she hadn’t told her everything. If she had . . .

No. Braedon’s death, and that of her baby, were her punishment, and no penance, no matter how severe, would ever be enough. Wasn’t Captain Morgan’s reappearance proof of
that? What other reason could there be for his coming except that God wanted to remind her of her guilt?

Thinking of the brief happiness she’d enjoyed while imagining herself buying the orphanage brought a wave of fresh shame. The orphanage was just one more way of repaying God for what she’d done. It was not meant to make her happy, for that was an emotion she’d never be blessed with again.

Ever.