Cheryl St.John - The Wedding Journey

It was a workday, as was every day in County Beary, except the Sabbath, and the landlord didn’t take kindly to a day off.

“I still be missin’ your beautiful mother,” a long-time friend told her and enveloped her in a warm hug. “Colleen and I were dreamers, we were, as girls, but these times steal a woman’s dreams. Don’t let anythin’ or anyone take your dreams, lassie.”

The woman joined her daughter and together they walked through the knee-high grass.

After extending their sympathies one at a time, the rest of the mourners headed back down the green hillside toward their homes and fields.

With the ocean pounding below, the Murphy sisters stood on the lush green crest above the village until they were the only ones remaining.

“Mr. Bantry already has someone waiting to move into the cottage, he does.” Nora spoke of their landlord. “We’d better go pack and clean.”

Maeve set her jaw. “I’ll not be cleanin’ the house that ill-mannered tyrant’s forcing us out of.”

“Our mother kept that cottage clean all the years she lived within its walls, and we’ll not be shaming her by leaving so much as a speck of dust.”

Nora was right, of course. She was always right.

“What’s to become of us, then?” Bridget asked.

“Mrs. Ennis said we could board with them temporarily.” Nora showed them the wrapped bundle she held. “She gave us a loaf of bread.”

“They have seven mouths to feed as it is.” Maeve took off down the hill and her sisters followed. A startled grouse flew out of the tall grass.

“Our neighbors gave me coins.” Bridget extended her hand.

The three of them compared what they’d received. The total was pathetically insufficient and would barely purchase a week’s food. Their cupboards were empty. That morning they’d shared two partridge eggs Maeve had found.

Maeve led the way around a field bordered by a low rock wall. They crossed a stone bridge over a creek and continued toward the only home they’d ever known. The stone cottage greeted them with a lifetime of memories. Their mother had died here ten years previous, during the worst of the influenza epidemic. Their father had repaired the thatched roof numerous times, and the newest foliage showed up distinctly against the old.

Inside, Nora set the bread on the scarred cutting table. Bridget removed her bonnet. The three of them gathered around and studied the golden brown loaf reverently. “The Ennises couldn’t afford to part with this,” Maeve said.

“Our neighbors are a generous lot, they are,” Nora agreed. “The Macrees brought bramble jam earlier. We could each have a slice with it now.”

Bridget shook her head. “We should save it. I’m not very hungry.”

“My stomach is tied in knots, as well,” Maeve agreed. “We’ll want it later. It will last us through tomorrow.”

Nora wrapped the bread in a clean square of toweling. She brushed her hands together. “Very well. We’ll pack.”

“Pack. Where shall we go?” Bridget asked.

Nora placed her hands on her hips. “We must each find a husband immediately.”

“And not marry for love?” Bridget asked with a horrified expression. She placed her hat on a hook by the bed they shared. “We should stay with the Ennises. We’d still be near the village and the young men we know.”

“No proposals have been forthcoming yet,” Nora reminded her. “All the men here are as poor as we are. None can afford to take a wife and work a piece of land on his own. Honora Monaghan married one of the Kenny brothers, and now she has to live with his whole family.”

“Perhaps Mr. Bantry will allow us to work this land ourselves,” Bridget suggested. “We’ve worked it alongside Da all these years. We’re as capable as any man.”

“Mr. Bantry has his own kinsmen waiting to occupy the land,” Nora replied.

Maeve picked up her mother’s Bible and touched the worn cover. “May God turn Bantry’s heart, and if He doesn’t turn his heart, may He turn Bantry’s ankle, so we’ll know him by his limping!”

“Mind your tongue, Maeve Eileen Murphy,” her eldest sister admonished. “And spoken while you’re holding our dear departed mother’s Holy Bible.”

“I learned the saying from her, I did.” Maeve laughed, the first sound of merriment in this house for many weeks. “We’ll simply have to find work,” she told them logically. “And you know as well as I there’s not a job to be had in all of County Beary. We must travel to County Galway.”

“We can use Mother’s trunk.” Nora removed an oil lamp from the top and pulled the trunk into the center of the room that served as their kitchen and living space. “We’ll have to sort out all the things we can’t take.”

They found a few neatly pressed and folded aprons, a piece each of their baby clothing, a bundle of letters and a few daguerreotypes, one in an aged frame.

Nora picked up the likeness of their beautiful mother and caressed the frame with farm-roughened fingers. “What would Mother have done? She was practical above all else.”

“Where did practicality get her?” Bridget asked. “She never had a day’s happiness.”

“Romantic notions won’t put food on the table.” Holding the frame too tightly, Nora’s fingers poked through the fabric backing. She turned over the frame and examined the hole. Peering more closely, she worked three folded pieces of paper from inside. “Whatever are these?”

The younger sisters crowded in close for a better look. The first paper Nora unfolded was a letter, the second some type of legal document and the last a pencil drawing of a house. “How odd.”

“Read the letter,” Bridget coaxed and reached to take the drawing.

“‘May 1824,’” Nora began. “‘My dearest Colleen, I know you have made your choice. My heart is broken, but I understand your decision. I’ve gone to America, to Faith Glen, the village in Massachusetts we spoke of so often. The town was founded by an Irishman. It is just ten miles from Boston, yet I have heard it is so much like Castleville, though, of course it is another world. I have purchased a small home for you—’”

“Who’s the letter from?” Maeve stepped in closer to have a better look at the handwriting.

Nora waved her away. “Let me finish. ‘I have purchased a small home for you on the water’s edge. Should you or your kin ever be in need of a place to go, know this house is yours. With undying love, Laird.’”

The three sisters stood in stunned silence for a full minute.

“I told you she whispered the name Laird with her last dyin’ breath.” Bridget looked up from the letter to Nora’s tense expression. “But the two of you insisted she was just trying to say love.”

“We didn’t know any Laird,” Maeve said.

“Until now.” Bridget gave a satisfied nod.

“What’s this mention of undying love?” Maeve asked.

“Dated a year before I was born, ’tis.” Nora turned her attention to the pencil drawing Bridget held, and the three of them studied the depiction of a home near the ocean. The artist had even drawn flowers blooming in gardens on two sides.

“Mother was in love with this man!” Bridget’s expression showed her shock. “He bought her a house in America, but she stayed and married Da? I can’t conceive of it.”

“There must be a logical explanation,” Nora said.

Bridget’s hazel eyes were bright with excitement. “The cottage sounds ideal. We should go there.”

“They say there’s so much land in America that anyone can own a share.” Maeve took the deed from Nora’s fingers and examined it. “The soil is rich and there’s plenty of rain. There are schools and jobs. Western men are hungry for wives.”