The Promise Read online

  The Promise

  By

  Amanda McIntyre

  Chapter One

  1857 Passage from Ireland to New York

  "Is it far to Uncle Stephen’s flat, Da?"

  Brady glanced down at his ten-year-old son Danny through bleary eyes. They’d been crammed like sardines in the bowels of the merchant ship for weeks unable to go topside due to trade regulations. It had taken most of their savings to attain passage from Ireland to the Americas.

  "’Tis not far, as I’ve been told. Your ma's uncle Stephen is very gracious to take us in. We should be grateful for his kindness." Brady raised his chin over the sea of disembarking passengers, most immigrants like him and Danny. They carried few possessions, if any, wrapped in crude knapsacks or rolled blankets.

  "Da, do you miss Ma?" His son repositioned his tweed cap, knocked askew by a passerby.

  Brady’s heart twisted with fresh grief. His Mary Margaret had taken ill two years before they were to set sail. It was in the few months before their dreams were to come true that she took a turn for the worse. The physician had said that it was the virus attacking her body, weakening her. There was nothing more that could be done, except make her comfortable for as long as she had.

  As long as they had. They’d known each other since they were children, skipping stones along the pond that bridged their families’ farms. He’d known her longer than most married couples—that was how he justified the pain of losing her at such a young age.

  One of their last intimate moments played teasingly in his mind. He recalled how bright the moonlight had shone through the window that night as they’d lain in a bed they’d shared for eleven years.

  "Think of Christmas in America, Brady. Can you imagine? I’ve heard no one goes hungry there, and every man owns his own flat."

  Her gentle sigh had, as always, made him smile. He loved her fiery auburn curls--by day coiled in a soft halo around her head, and at night set free to tumble luxuriously over her shoulders. Even now, his hands ached to brush her hair, remembering how precious were those days.

  Brady had known the odds were slim that her health would remain strong until they could save enough for passage. He hesitated to tell her that he’d already reconsidered the journey.

  "Promise me this, Brady." Her voice, even weak, held an authoritative tone. He’d always teased her about being too bossy.

  He breathed in the soft, ocean-kissed scent of her skin. "What is it, my love? Is it that you’ll be needin’ a new wardrobe before we take passage? Or is it that the spinning wheel is to be mended before we give it to your sister?"

  "Nay, none of those things." She sighed again, giving him a half-hearted slap to his bare chest. Her palm, small and warm, rested over his heart, quickened by their bout of lovemaking.

  "Then what is your wish, my dear wife? And since it is nearly the holidays, I suggest you choose your words carefully."

  "Aye," she whispered. “Truly, this is my fondest wish."

  "Then pray, woman, tell me before the dawn rises."

  "Promise me that you’ll take Danny to America, no matter what happens."

  Brady kissed the top of his young wife’s hair, hoping to quell her concerns as well as his own. The thought of losing Mary Margaret was inconceivable.

  "And promise me something else, Brady."

  Chilly fingers of dread tickled his neck. "What is that, love?"

  "Promise that you will marry again. You are much too young and Danny will need a mother."

  Brady drew her close, holding her tight. "Hush, Margaret. “‘Tis a bad omen to speak like this. You and I--together--will be taking our son to America."

  "Aye, I know ‘tis our plan, Brady, but promise me, anyway."

  "I cannot promise such a thing. You’ve no right to ask such foolishness."

  "Is it not foolish to hide the facts, Brady McCormick?"

  "These are not facts, Mary Margaret, only fearful musings and I insist that they stop." He rested his chin in the warmth of her hair, his heart now pounding for a different reason. He could not lose her. "I will promise that we will make this journey and we will make it together.”

  From that Christmas on, her health had declined to the point where Brady kept her in bed, tending to her needs as he alone handled the duties of his job and Danny. Many were the nights he’d lain awake on the couch, listening to her cough. She’d insisted that he sleep elsewhere, not wanting to subject him to her illness any more than necessary.

  She was taken from him in her sleep on the eve of the spring festival. Brady reasoned it was as she wished, but it did not ease the pain of the husband and the young son she left behind. Brady took his time considering whether to stay or keep the promise his wife had asked of him. Finally, by late June, Brady had begun the tedious task of sorting their belongings, giving away what he couldn’t take on the trip, and packing a few meager belongings in a knapsack for him and Danny. Mid autumn, just the two of them--father and son--boarded the crowded ship to America.

  ***

  The port authorities on Ellis Island detained them for hours, first holding them on the ship, then in boarded stalls, shuffled like cattle through registration. Next, they were taken to a special area where their hair and teeth were checked for lice or other abnormalities. Through it all, Brady believed his beloved Mary had watched over them. Much to Brady’s delight, authorities allowed them to retain the name of McCormick, as it was easy to spell. Yet many were forced to alter their names for ease of registration. He kept a firm grasp on Danny’s hand as they rounded the corner of the great brick building. A bitter wind assaulted him and nearly snatched his hat from his head. He had no idea what day it was, or what time, except that it was night. Small frozen pellets grazed his cheeks, falling from the inky black sky. Tears stung Brady’s eyes. "Aye, your ma would have loved this, Daniel. She’d have looked on it as a great adventure." He clamped his arm around his son’s neck and drew him to his side. "This is what she wanted most for you, Daniel."

  "Is this what you wanted too, Da?"

  His son’s bright blue eyes, the color of his mother’s, looked up at him in child-like wonder. How could he tell him that what he wished for most wasn’t possible? "It was a dream we shared, Daniel, and I shall to my last breath make it come true for you—for us.”

  Daniel stared at his father as though pondering his answer. He smiled, the way a child does when they know their parent is struggling inside.

  "Where is Uncle Stephen?" Daniel asked, with ease changing the subject.

  Brady regarded his son’s strength with pride. He swallowed back a lump in his throat and searched above the crowd for a man with a large sign. “He said he would meet us at the corner.” Brady scanned the sea of humanity huddled together, pressing forward against the bitter wind. Did they all have family waiting for them?

  "Say here, chap. Can you retrieve our bags and take them to our carriage? It’s right over there."

  Brady heard the man and pulled Daniel closer as he searched for Uncle Stephen.

  "Excuse me, young man, but I’m speaking to you."

  Brady felt a tap on his shoulder and glanced back. “I’m sorry, I’m not a porter—

  His weary gaze landed on the face of an angel who studied him with blue-violet eyes, the same color as her refined wool cape. For a moment, Brady lost his ability to think, much less to speak. He blinked, realizing he had been staring at her. His eyes darted to the elderly gentleman standing beside her.

  "Father, it is clear that this gentleman and his son are not peddlers looking for work," she said, holding Brady spellbound with those eyes.

  "My apologies." The older man tipped his derby and turned his attention to finding a dock porter.

  "Have you just arrived in America?"
>
  His angel regarded him with a pleasant smile.

  Brady nodded automatically.

  "Do you speak English?"

  Her voice held the clarity of one accustomed to fine linens and expensive china.

  A tug on his arm broke him from his odd trance. "My son and I have just arrived from Ireland—yes." As an afterthought, he tore the boy’s cap off his head and his own in one quick sweep, suddenly self-conscience about his thick brogue. The angel turned her attention to Daniel, her deep blue cape swirling as she leaned down to address him.

  "And do you celebrate Christmas where you come from?"

  Her hands were tucked in a white fur muff and for reasons he could not explain, he envisioned placing his warm palms over her rosy cold cheeks.

  Daniel stared up at him as though he’d lost his mind. "Da?"

  "Pardon, Miss. We’re here to meet relatives. Just the same, if you’re needin’ some help, my son and I would be happy to oblige."

  She straightened, pinning him with a curious look and a slight tip of her dainty head.

  "That would be most kind of you, Mr.…?"

  "McCormick, Miss. Brady McCormick. And this is my son, Daniel."

  She pulled her small hand from the fur and held it boldly out to Daniel.

  "My name is Saran--Saran Reichardt. And this is my father, Mr. William Reichardt.”

  So she wasn’t married, Brady thought, and as quickly shoved the wayward thought from his mind. "Come along, Daniel. Let’s help the Reichardts with their things."

  Brady gathered up two small carpetbags, shoving one under each arm, and grasped two more bags with his free hands. Daniel shifted the rolled duffel to his back and picked up a hatbox.

  "My carriage is waiting over there. May we offer you a ride to your relatives’ home, Mr. McCormick?" she asked.

  An ebony carriage, as black and sleek as the thoroughbred horses attached to it, stood at the curb. The carriage fairly gleamed beneath the glow of the gaslight, its brass fittings shining wet with the fresh snow.

  "Thank you, Miss Reichardt. I’m sure they’ll be along any moment."

  He hauled the bags on the carrier, stacking them neatly at the back of the coach.

  "Thank you for your kindness, Mr. McCormick." She hesitated by the carriage, her gaze steady on her father’s face.

  He cleared his throat and pulled out a small leather coin purse.

  "My daughter and I very much appreciate your generosity, sir." He held out three coins.

  Brady had seen American currency once in a pub in Dublin. He held up his hand. "’Tis our pleasure--there’ll be no need of that."

  The elderly man’s bushy brows arched and disappeared under the edge of his hat. He grabbed Brady’s hand and stuffed the coins in his palm.

  "Then make it a good first Christmas in America for your boy."

  Brady tipped his hat, his ego slightly bruised that he was ill prepared to do such a thing on his own. "Bless you, sir." He took Daniel’s hand and steered them away from the reminder of what they did not have—and perhaps never would.

  ***

  Saran’s gaze followed the man and his son into the crowd until she could see him no more. Not in all her days had she seen such loneliness in a grown man’s eyes. She had to suppress the desire to pull him into her embrace and let him know that all would be well. But would it? How could she be sure? Every day the papers reported more violence among the immigrant population. What would become of them?

  “Come along, Saran.”

  She turned her attention to her father as he settled in beside her. He’d aged severely in the few years since her mother died. He found his solace in his work and in the short trips they took together--this latest a trip to London, where they’d taken in museums and theater. Despite the means to travel abroad, Saran was not like her friends who came from wealthier families. She chose her clothing with care, and might alter a gown in lieu of buying a brand new one each season. When her mother died, she gave a great deal of her clothing to shelters for the poor. And seeing a need, Saran began to spend her free time from teaching to help create small libraries for children in the poor districts.

  Despite the economic downturn, many of the families once connected by wealth stayed so for social purposes of creating proper matches between their sons and daughters. To that end, and out of love, her father, each year, nudged her gently to become more involved in the social events of the holidays, even though he himself still had trouble enjoying the season.

  "It will be good to spend Christmas in New York. Do you have plans to meet with your friends this year?" her father asked.

  His gloved hands rested comfortably on the silver head of his walking cane. The open carriage jimmied over the cobblestone, shifting the bags at Saran’s feet. She thought again of the strange Irish man and his son.

  "It's doubtful, Father. They hardly enjoy my talk of sending their surplus belongings to the needy.”

  Her father sighed and gave a slight nod. She knew he was concerned that she would find a man to marry, and to meet a proper beau required being involved in the society affairs. But the galas and parties were not of interest to Saran. Her ideal man would be her equal, not her caretaker.

  Fresh pine garlands and bright red bows decorated the gaslights along the street. Ethereal flakes of snow swirled in the soft radiance of their light. Though the weather and gay trimmings gave her a sense of joy, the scene of the homeless outweighed her joy. She thought how wonderful it would be to get home, where it was warm and safe. Still, she could not dismiss the fear in that little boy’s eyes. "Do you think they will be well, Father?" She watched out the window, noting how the snow covered the walks.

  "The immigrants, you mean?"

  Her father followed her gaze. "Some will find work—maybe already have something lined up with relatives who’ll provide for them until they can get on their feet."

  A shiver ran across Saran’s shoulders, and she tucked her lap blanket tighter around her legs. Her father patted her knee.

  "No doubt Mr. McCormick and his son will fare just fine. This is America, after all. He appears to be a resilient fellow.”

  She glanced at her father with a smile. He has a sense of knowing her thoughts and she could not deny that regarding Mr. McCormick, she agreed with him.

  Chapter Two

  Pain ricocheted between Brady’s shoulders—the result of being curled all night in a cramped fetal position on the short cot. They’d placed it in a small room off the kitchen, an old pantry converted to an extra sleeping chamber. It was not an ideal arrangement, but the benefits of being in America—the land of opportunity and freedom—made it bearable. And while he hadn’t seen any "streets of gold," he had two hands, a strong back, and an even stronger determination pushing him to make a better life. Her name was Mary Margaret.

  "Are you awake, Da?" Daniel peeked around the thick tapestry curtain that blocked the small room from the kitchen. Beyond, he heard the clatter of dishes and smelled the mouth-watering scent of bacon frying in a skillet.

  "How’d you sleep, boy?" Brady scratched his scalp and raised his arms high over his head to work out the kinks in his broad shoulders.

  "Great, Da. They’ve got hotcakes and bacon, Da, and look here." The boy held out an ivory-colored ironstone mug. The aroma wafting above the cup was heaven to Brady’s senses.

  "Real coffee, Da."

  He accepted the cup, its warmth sliding through his fingertips. "You’ve had your breakfast, then? Where might your Uncle Stephen be?"

  "The cook fed me straight away. She said that I could help her with the day's activities, if I promise to not get in the way. Can I help her, Da?"

  There was little else for the boy to do today. Perhaps he could help earn his keep. If nothing else, it would keep him from wandering into trouble. "Mind the cook, then, and be a good boy."

  The boy grinned with delighted anticipation and quickly turned on his heel.

  "Mind your manners, Daniel." Brady followed
his parental warning with a long swallow of coffee.

  Daniel nodded and cast a weary glance to the ceiling. "Aye, Da."

  Taking a moment to savor the pleasantness of waking to his fist cup of coffee in America, Brady closed his eyes and imagined Mary Margaret smiling across from him. His eyes stung with a painful awareness of her absence. The woman loved Christmas almost more than Daniel, and though they never had much, she somehow managed to create a feast and a home that radiated with hope and joy.

  Brady had not been able to muster anything close to a holiday celebration of any kind since her death, though not once had Daniel ever complained.

  "You plan to sleep away your first day in a new country, Brady McCormick? My cook is getting frustrated with trying to keep your food warm."

  "I’ll be right along, Uncle Stephen. My apologies to you and your cook." He shifted his suspenders over his cotton undershirt and searched for a water basin. A small pedestal with pitcher and bowl stood in one corner of the room, a shaving cup and toothbrush on the small table beside it. A cracked mirror in a wooden frame hung over the basin. For the first time since the passage, Brady looked in the mirror at his disheveled face and saw the ravages of time and the long journey. He knew they were a handful of the lucky ones who’d made the trip. Many had died along the way. Fortunately, he and Mary had planned carefully how they would make the voyage. Brady had followed the plan explicitly.

  Wishing he had more time to shave off the mangy growth on his chin, Brady splashed the warm water over his face and swiped the toothbrush over his teeth.

  "Come along then, nephew, day’s wastin’ away. I’ve a man you’re to go see at the shipyards. The pay is adequate for a starter, and it’s honest work. I told him you’d be by."

  Running a hand through his hair, Brady stared at his image in the mirror. "Be with me, Mary Margaret," he whispered.

  ***

  "No, thank you, Estelle." Saran covered her teacup as the cook attempted to fill it.

  "Ma’am." The petite woman, who had been with their family since Saran was a little girl, gave her a quick glance.