The Legacy. Kate Hoffmann
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soon. To die with her child and join her family in heaven, or to leave the girl on the steps of St. Vincent’s orphanage. Surely the sisters would take good care of such a pretty little thing.
She pressed her lips to Mary Grace’s smooth forehead, then ran her fingers over the wavy dark hair on her head. “You’re a strong little thing, you are. You come from a long line of strong women. We still have time, wee one. We’ll find a way, I swear on all that’s holy.”
Rose reached into the bundle she carried, the sum total of her life tucked inside a tattered scrap of wool. She withdrew a leather-bound journal and carefully flipped through the pages of tidy script. Her family hadn’t had much. No pretty heirlooms to pass down. But her grandmother had given her Jane McClary’s diary, an account of the horrible years of the potato famine in the 1840s.
It had always been passed to the first-born daughter and when Rose had been married, her grandmother had handed it to her, tears swimming in her eyes. “You must keep the story alive now,” she murmured. “This was my most treasured possession. I gave it to your mother on her wedding day and now, it is yours.”
It wouldn’t fetch much, Rose mused. Had it been a brooch or a bracelet, she might have sold it to buy food. But then, a previous generation might have done the same and there would never have been a legacy to pass along. But somehow, Rose knew that this was the way of it, that the words of Jane McClary had been written especially for her…to give her strength, to keep her alive when all hope seemed gone.
She opened to a random page and turned the book toward the feeble light. With the diary had come an education, for Jane had taught her own daughter to read and write, and Rose’s grandmother, Elizabeth, had taught Rose’s mother, Bridgit. And when the time came, Rose would teach her own daughter, Mary Grace, and she would know for herself that she came from a long line of stubborn, independent and courageous women.
10 August 1845
Michael is gone. Bound for Liverpool he is and from there will travel by ship to Boston, America. I made a brave face for his leaving, but my heart felt a terrible fear. The babe growing inside me must feel this too. There are whispers of a blight on the potato crop, but all seems well here. Michael will find work when he lands and then will send for me and our child. I pray for his safe journey and for the day we will see each other again.
Rose had read the diary over and over again since the day it had been given to her. And in the bleakest of times, it had provided courage and perspective. Jane had lived through a famine, nearly starving to keep her daughter, Elizabeth, alive. And Elizabeth had survived and given birth to seven children, including Rose’s mother, Bridgit, and then had raised Rose. Elizabeth Byrne Patrick had lived to the age of seventy-five and died in her sleep six months before Mary Grace had been born.
All her living children had long ago left for America and there had been only one heir who remained to mourn her—Rose. Would she have a long life as her grandmother had? Would she live to marry again and give her daughter brothers and sisters to play with? Or would she leave this earth as her mother had, slipping away at a young age with barely a chance to live?
Rose pushed aside the wool blanket and reached beneath her daughter’s rough linen shift. She withdrew a small gold medallion, then stared at the words written in Gaelic around the edge. “Love will find a way,” she murmured. Jamie had given her the medallion as a wedding gift and he’d worn one just like it, the one she now wore around her own neck. The gold would buy them another week of life, perhaps two. Tomorrow, she would find a place to sell them both.
She closed her eyes, then slowly slid down along the rough stone wall until she sat with Mary Grace cradled in her lap. Drawing the blanket up over their heads, she closed her eyes and let sleep absolve her of her worries. Love would find a way.
The love she had for her daughter was such a powerful thing…it had to count for something.
LADY GENEVA PORTER SLOWLY walked up the steps to Christ Church cathedral. She made a point to visit the cathedral every time she traveled to Dublin, seeking comfort in the grandeur of the Gothic architecture and the beauty of the stained glass. Even on a gloomy day like today, she found warmth and light here.
She always came for the same reason. Her mother had once told her prayers said in a cathedral got to heaven faster than those said in an ordinary church. She’d always hoped that it were true. Reaching into the pocket of her cloak, she smoothed her fingers over the Bible she’d brought with her, then reached out for Edward’s hand.
Her son was no longer at her side and Geneva turned, searching for the seven-year old. He’d wandered over to a large pillar and was staring down at a pile of rags, left in a sheltered spot.
“Edward, come along.”
“Mummy, what’s this?”
“Edward! Come away from there! It’s probably just rags for the charity bin.”
She watched as he kicked at the pile of rags with the toe of his boot. To Geneva’s horror, it moved. Edward jumped back and she rushed over to grab his arm. “Come away, I said.”
“Mummy! Someone’s hiding under there!”
She pulled him along toward the door of the church, but a child’s cry stopped her in her tracks, the sound hauntingly familiar. “Lottie?” she murmured, pressing her hand to her breast.
Geneva turned around and slowly approached the source of the sound, stunned that someone would have left a child amongst a pile of rags. These Irish had no sense of responsibility, Geneva thought, anger bubbling up inside her. But when she reached the spot, she realized that the rags hid both a woman and a child.
“Is she dead, Mummy?” Edward asked, clinging to his mother’s arm.
Geneva knelt and plucked at the filthy blanket wrapped around the woman’s head and face. Once she’d brushed it aside, she found the child, resting in the woman’s lap, whimpering, her grimy cheeks wet with tears. The little girl turned brilliant blue eyes up to Geneva and smiled through her tears. “Mama?”
Geneva felt the breath leave her body and for a moment, she thought she might faint. But then, her heart began to beat again and she reached out and touched the girl. “Edward, run and get Farrell. Tell him to bring the motorcar around.”
“Why?”
“Just do as I say,” Geneva snapped. She brushed dirty hair from the woman’s face, stunned to see how young she was—and how deathly pale “Hello,” she murmured. “Can you hear me?”
The woman stirred slightly, her eyes fluttering open for a moment. “My girl,” she murmured. “Please help my daughter.” With trembling hands, she tried to hold the child out to Geneva. “Keep her safe.”
Geneva carefully picked the child up and set her on her feet. Compared to the mother, the child looked to be in relatively good health, although grimy from the soot and dust that hung in the air. From the child’s size she’d judge her to be two or three years old, but children raised in Irish poverty were often smaller than those raised in the comforts of a good English home.
The girl stopped whimpering the moment Geneva helped her to stand and she held out her little arms and hands to Geneva as she tumbled into her skirts. “Mama,” she said with a soft giggle. “Go home, Mama. Now.”
“Charlotte?” Geneva whispered. Tears flooded her eyes as she remembered the first time she’d held her own daughter, all red and wrinkled, the doctor proclaiming the first Porter child to be in excellent health.
Geneva hooked her finger beneath the child’s chin and examined her face more closely. “You are Charlotte, aren’t you?” Geneva said, her voice trembling. “You called to me and I came. I knew I’d find you again.” She hugged the child fiercely and the girl gave a tiny cry of surprise. “I never stopped looking. Never. I’m going to take you home, Charlotte.”
She felt a hand on her shoulder and she turned to find Edward standing behind her. “Mummy, are you all right?”
Geneva