Cinders to Satin. Fern Michaels
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learn a new language from their native Gaelic and live with the hope of saving themselves and the ones they loved from certain starvation.
In Dublin, the people were better acquainted with the English language than with Gaelic. When they read the posters, they needed no priest to translate for them; however, it was to their religious leaders that they turned for the last blessing before leaving the home soil. They cried as they boarded the boats that would take them across the Irish Sea to Liverpool, England, where packet steamers and sailing schooners were crossing the Atlantic to America. Survival was their hope, but it was without joy. They were severing themselves from the places of their birth, their homeland, from all they knew and loved. It would have been easier to tear an oak from its roots than to separate an Irishman from his country.
“The Tynans left early this mornin’ on the D & L. That’s the last we’ll see of them.” Peggy sighed, telling Callie of the emigration of their neighbors and friends. “It’s as though they dropped off the face of the earth, for it’s certain we’ll never see them again.”
Peggy busied herself near the stove, stopping in her preparation of tea to adjust the blanket on the baby who was sleeping in the old cradle near the fire’s warmth. Joseph Aloysius James was now nearly three months old, and he was robust and alert. All the children had improved in health, thanks to what Callie liked to think of as her resourcefulness.
It had been a long time since Peggy last asked her oldest daughter where this bit of tea had come from, or that string of sausage, although she now looked at her first born with a deep sadness in her eyes. Ever since they’d seen the last of the money Byrch Kenyon had given the children, Callie had seen to it that there was food on the table when the need was the greatest. How she came by her windfalls Peggy could not bring herself to ask. Her admonitions to Callie were strong; she had even begged, fearing for her child’s very life. Whenever she’d hear of someone being sent to prison or in many cases hanged by the neck, she took great pains to relate the news to Callie. It seemed to make no impression on the girl. Whenever she’d bring home a bit of this or a piece of that, it was with a deadly calm, as though she’d just found the parcels on the doorstep. Peggy’s worry and concern grew deeper.
From time to time Thomas would look at Callie with questions in his eyes, but he never put them into words. Whatever he thought she was doing to ease the cook pot, he dared not ask.
“Your Aunt Sara is coming this morning to bring her ironing,” Peggy said matter-of-factly, averting her eyes from Callie.
“So? She comes every Thursday morning, doesn’t she? I swear, Mum, it sets my insides churning when I think of you mending her drawers and pressing her fine linens. You should have those things, too! There’s lots of things we Jameses should have.” Her tone was bitter; there was a flash in her clear blue eyes. “I suppose now that cousin Colleen is keeping company with that English corporal things are looking up for the O’Briens.”
“Hmmm. So one would think,” Peggy said distractedly, smoothing her hair before nestling the worn iron kettle onto the hob. “Somehow, though, I’ve a feeling something’s preying on my sister’s mind.”
“Perhaps it’s guilt,” Callie offered snidely. “With all the comforts and security she enjoys she doesn’t seem disposed to share even a crumb with you, her own flesh and blood.”
“So, is it charity you’ll be wanting?” Peggy retorted. “Sara pays me well for the bit of laundry I do for her.”
“According to what standards? She’s familiar, I’m certain, with the prices of things. In better times, Mum, what she pays you would be enough and fair. Not in these times, though, and well you know it.”
Peggy met her daughter with flinty eyes. “I’m asking you, child, what is it you want Sara to do? Bestow charity?”
Callie looked away, ashamed, her argument quelled. Peggy knew her child well. Charity had a bitter taste for her. “I was talking to Mrs. Tynan the other day,” Peggy reintroduced the subject of the neighbors who had emigrated to America. “She told me that they’ve distant relatives over there and that will make all the difference. Already Kevin has expectations of a job and so does their oldest son. Did I ever tell you I’ve a cousin who lives in New York? Cousin Owen and a fine upstanding man he is, or so I’ve heard. Do you remember him, Callie? You were only a little girl when he left Ireland.”
“And if I did remember him? What’s he going to do, tear up some of the pavement from those streets of gold and send it to us? Listen, Mum, I’ve got it on good authority that America isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. Things are hard for the Irish over there, too.”
“Oh, yes, this good authority would be Mr. Kenyon, wouldn’t it?” Peggy’s tone implied that she not only remembered who Mr. Kenyon was, but she also disapproved of the circumstances under which Callie had met him.
“Now, Mum, no more scolding. Must you relate everything say to something else?”
“If that ‘something else’ can put a rope around your neck or send you to prison.” Peggy’s tone was hard, her eyes accusing.
There was a sound at the door and then a knock. “Hurry and put out the cups, Callie, that’ll be Sara now. Oh, I hope she doesn’t wake the children.” Peggy tugged her apron into place and hurried to admit her sister.
Aunt Sara bustled into the James’s kitchen on a breeze of perfumed air and flying flounces. A plump woman, small of stature, with light golden hair styled into dozens of sausage curls at the back of her head, she was a younger, prettier, better fed version of Peggy.
“Margaret, you do look well,” Sara complimented. “I don’t know, childbirth and mothering seem to do you the world of good.” She moved over to the cradle beside the stove to coo down at the baby. “How I envy the ease with which you can bear children. Having Colleen nearly took my life, as you well know. I don’t believe I’ll ever recover! It’s because my bones are so small, don’t you know?”
Callie appraised Aunt Sara’s wide expanse of buttocks as she bent over the cradle and almost laughed aloud. Small bones, indeed! Always making herself out to be so delicate, just like the ladies she enjoyed reading about in those penny novels. It was Peggy who possessed that slim, elegant length of bone that made each movement so graceful. “Like a dancer,” Thomas liked to say.
“Callandre, child, how are you?” Aunt Sara bestowed a perfunctory kiss. “You’ve grown since the last I saw you. How is your position at the mill?”
“It’s not a position, Aunt Sara, it’s a job! And you know they’ve cut hours as well as wages. Those who don’t like it are invited to leave. There’s plenty of cheap labor coming into Dublin from the countryside.”
“Tsk, tsk. That’s what your Uncle Jack was saying just the other night.” Sara settled herself at the table and allowed Peggy to pour tea for her. “Of course, we wouldn’t think of hiring anyone and not paying them fairly. You know that, don’t you, Margaret? We’ve taken on a new man, came here from Cork with his family.”
Peggy and Callie exchanged glances over the top of Sara’s head. The O’Briens had hired another hand for their dry goods business and had never given a thought to Thomas. Heartless, Callie thought nastily.
“How is Colleen?” Peggy managed to change the subject.
“Feeling much as you’d expect.” Sara’s ringed fingers dug into her reticule, extracting several little parcels of sugar. Passing one to Callie and one to Peggy, she liberally added the light brown granules to her own cup. “Callandre, did you know that Colleen is to be married in a week’s time? There’s so much to do, so little time. I’ll be imposing myself on you, Margaret. There’s table linens to be laundered and ironed, and I was wondering, if you’ve the time, would you mind coming over to the house to measure the hem on Colleen’s new gown? Wait till you see it, the palest shade of blue—”
“Blue?” Callie asked. “Don’t you mean white?”
Sara looked at her sister. “It seems that