When she regained her composure, she sat down on the window seat and pressed her palm to her chest. There would be no references. And without references, there would probably be no job. Who would hire her? Geneva was right. She was sick. And she had a daughter who wasn’t yet old enough to take care of herself. Her choices were no better than they had been that day when Geneva found them on the front steps of the church.
The money she’d saved would last them three or four months at the most and after that, they’d be right back to where they began. There would have to be another way to hold on to her daughter. Rose took the clothes back to the wardrobe and carefully hung them up, then noticed the diary sitting on the top shelf.
She closed her eyes and hugged it to her chest. This would be the way. Since she’d arrived at Porter Hall, she rarely opened it. But now, she’d begin reading it to her daughter. And if the day came when she was no longer in this world, then her daughter would know where she came from. And she would remember.
She opened the leather-bound book and began to read a passage, the words coming back to her, renewing her strength. She would go on one more day, and after that, another. And no matter what disaster or tragedy befell her, she would carry on for as long as God let her live on this earth.
13 September 1845
I know not where to begin. Michael is gone a month already and I imagine him standing onboard a wonderful sailing ship, on his way to America and a new life for us both. But life back here in Ireland has grown troubled. We’ve begun to dig the crop and a terrible thing has happened. After but a day or two out of the earth, the potatoes begin to putrefy. None are fit to eat and I am forced to take what is left from the rest of our garden patch. Without the cow to provide milk, my belly is hungry most of the time. I pray that Michael will send for me as soon as he arrives in America, for our life—the baby’s and mine— becomes more fragile with each day that passes.
“IT’S BEAUTIFUL. LOOK AT ITS little ears. Oh, Edward, it looks so real.”
Edward held a tiny carved rabbit up on his palm and Grace studied it more closely. “I like it better than the turtle I made for you,” he offered.
“I think all your animals are wonderful,” Grace said.
“What would you like me to make now?” He spread the carving tools in front of him and picked up a small piece of wood that Dennick had brought him. “I’ve wanted to try a horse, but I think the legs would be hard to carve.”
Grace lined up her small menagerie, rearranging the animals on the blanket that they’d spread on the grass. He hadn’t many friends, but he could count Grace as his best. Sure, she was only six years old, but she was a lot like Charlotte, always interested in what he was doing and thinking. In truth, since she’d come to Porter Hall, Edward had nearly forgotten Charlotte and all the sadness that had followed her death.
His mother had been happier than he’d seen her in a long time, her dark moods coming only occasionally now. And though Malcolm barely tolerated Grace, he’d become too busy with his own school chums to care much about what either of them did. In truth, it had been a relief when Malcolm had decided to continue his studies at a private school in Dublin. He left early each morning and returned right before supper, then spent the rest of the evening working on his studies.
Edward’s father had insisted that Edward be enrolled as well, the argument going on for days before a final decision was made. In the end, Geneva had won out and Edward continued on with his tutor. But the fight had caused the two factions in the Porter family to become even more distant. Edward was Geneva’s son and Malcolm belonged to Henry and decisions would be made accordingly.
He wanted his father to love him as much as he loved Malcolm. But there were qualities in his father and brother that he could never understand—or accept. They were both self-centered and cold-hearted, with a cruel streak that ran deep. And they considered themselves above others, especially the Irish. Edward had never been able to understand their hatred of a people that he found warm and charming and kind-hearted.
“Oh, make me a kitten,” Grace said.
He picked up the block of wood. “Are you sure? Wouldn’t you like a jungle animal? I could try a lion.”
Grace nodded, a wide smile on her face. “Yes. A lion then.” She continued to play with the little animals, walking them across the blanket and talking to them. When she’d made a gift of the carving tools, he’d realized how well Grace knew him. There was no one in the world who knew him better.
“What do you have there?”
Edward turned around to find Malcolm standing over them. He was thirteen now and had grown so much bigger since his last birthday. But he’d also become lazy and unkempt, unconcerned with his appearance. He wore his school uniform, the jacket rumpled, as if he’d slept in it, and the trousers were stained with mud. It looked like he’d been in another fight at school.
“Wood carvings,” Edward muttered, turning back to Grace.
“Wood carvings,” Malcolm mimicked in a high-pitched voice. He bent over Grace’s shoulder and plucked the rabbit off of her palm.
She jumped up and tried to get it back, but Malcolm grabbed the wooden animal by the ears and pulled, then let the pieces fall to the grass. A tiny cry slipped from Grace’s throat and she knelt down to pick up the broken rabbit.
A blinding anger filled Edward’s head and with a primal growl, he tossed aside the tool and hurled himself at Malcolm’s legs, driving his older brother to the ground. The tackle caught Malcolm by surprise and knocked the wind out of him, giving Edward time enough to land a few decent punches to the face. When he bloodied his brother’s nose, Edward sat back on his heels.
“You ugly piece of shite,” Edward muttered, twisting his brother’s arm around his back. “What would you do that for? Why would you hurt her feelings like that?”
“Get off me!” Malcolm shouted, twisting beneath him. But no matter how he struggled, Edward kept hold of him. Though he’d fought with his brother in the past, the fights had always ended with one of their parents stepping between them or with Edward surrendering. But he had an advantage now and he wasn’t going to give up.
“Apologize,” Edward demanded.
“Get off,” Malcolm shouted, kicking and punching at Edward. Though he landed a few hard jabs, they didn’t hurt, the anger coursing through Edward dulling the pain. This time had been coming for a long while, the chance for Edward to stand up to his brother’s cruelty, the chance to stand up for Grace. But Edward knew that he’d only bested him through a surprise attack. He was still far too small to do so on a daily basis.
“Stop,” Grace begged, trying to pull the two of them apart. “Please, Edward, stop. You can make me another rabbit.”
“No,” Edward growled. “Not until he apologizes.” Edward twisted Malcolm’s arm again and his older brother cried out in pain.
“All right,” he muttered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I broke your bloody bunny. Now let me go.”
Edward released his hold and rocked back on his heels. Malcolm scrambled to his feet, then gave his younger brother a shove, sending him back into the grass. “Don’t you ever put your hands on me again,” he threatened.
“Then stay away from Grace, and stay away from me.”
Malcolm brushed the grass off his trousers, then strode back toward the house. Grace bent down beside Edward and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Why does he have to be so mean?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he replied. Before Charlotte’s death, Malcolm had been so different. They’d all cared about each other, protected each other. But now, he had an anger inside of him that grew stronger every day. And he seemed to delight in taking it out on the nearest vulnerable target. Usually that was their mother,