the rail and looking out over the uncaring sea for hours on end, oblivious to the numbing wind. She ate little and hardly slept at all, although she dutifully lay in the bunk that had been provided to her and closed her eyes for hours at a time. Several times a young ship’s officer tried to engage her in friendly conversation. Once he offered her a tour of the Carpathia, which she declined. She preferred to remain within the confines of the deck, like a prisoner who’d sentenced herself to a narrow cell. She preferred to be alone.
It was on the Carpathia that Tara realized she’d lost her money pouch the night of the sinking. It was doubtless resting on the floor of the ocean, forever out of her reach. Sure, she felt guilty for even thinking of money when she’d lost so much more—her brother—but she was now penniless. It made her miss the little farm back in Ireland all the more, because now she had nothing to show for it. The hard work her mother and father had put into it, and the labor she herself had endured, just to keep it going all those years after her father died—it was all for nothing. The farm might never have existed.
The crew and passengers of the Carpathia lavished kindness on the bedraggled souls they’d plucked from the sea. Toothbrushes, combs and articles of clothing were donated; some passengers even sewed jumpers out of steamer blankets for the children. Tara accepted the small offerings that came her way graciously, if without enthusiasm.
If only she could travel back in time and change what had happened. She and Paddy could have gone and lived with Aunt Bridey and Uncle Kevin and their noisy brood. Or, she’d have kept the farm somehow, to turn over to Paddy when he was old enough to manage. She’d betrayed her father, casually discarded the land he’d worked so hard to own, and had been punished for it. Was it God’s hand in this? Or the devil’s?
She rarely saw Mrs. Rutherford, who was comfortably ensconced in First Class quarters. The older woman spied Tara on the deck once and waved to her, calling out, but Tara pretended not to see her. She wanted nothing to remind her of the night Paddy died. When Tara discovered the loss of her money pouch it did cross her mind, briefly, to ask Mrs. Rutherford for a small loan. Just enough for food and lodging during her first few days in America. She quickly rejected the idea. It wouldn’t do at all. Mrs. Rutherford might take such a request to mean that Tara expected her to be grateful for pulling her out of the water that night—that Tara had only done it because she knew Mrs. Rutherford was wealthy.
She’d go hungry before she asked for charity.
On the deck one day, Tara encountered Dominic’s grandmother, accompanied by a somewhat younger woman she knew must be his mother. When she tried to break through the inevitable language barrier and ask about him, both women dissolved into tears. “No let-a men inna boat…no let-a men inna boat,” the mother cried, over and over again. So Dominic was dead. It was one more thing she couldn’t bear to think about.
One morning Tara passed the dining saloon and failed to notice a small, nervous woman seated inside who shrank back in alarm. The woman tossed a shawl over the face of the child sleeping beside her. When Tara was safely past, the woman shook her charge awake, took him by the hand and hurried away. If Tara had turned around she would have noticed an unusual scar on the back of the child’s hand: a rough-textured, berry-colored mark that looked like the result of a bad burn, long since healed over.
But Tara didn’t turn around. She resumed her customary place at the rail and watched the foaming, churning wake spin out in twin streams behind the ship.
The Carpathia steamed on relentlessly toward the New World.
Chapter Seven
“H ey, lady! Watch where yer goin’!”
Tara leaped out of the path of the horse-drawn wagon that careened toward her. Its driver scowled impatiently as
It was on the Carpathia that Tara realized she’d lost her money pouch the night of the sinking. It was doubtless resting on the floor of the ocean, forever out of her reach. Sure, she felt guilty for even thinking of money when she’d lost so much more—her brother—but she was now penniless. It made her miss the little farm back in Ireland all the more, because now she had nothing to show for it. The hard work her mother and father had put into it, and the labor she herself had endured, just to keep it going all those years after her father died—it was all for nothing. The farm might never have existed.
The crew and passengers of the Carpathia lavished kindness on the bedraggled souls they’d plucked from the sea. Toothbrushes, combs and articles of clothing were donated; some passengers even sewed jumpers out of steamer blankets for the children. Tara accepted the small offerings that came her way graciously, if without enthusiasm.
If only she could travel back in time and change what had happened. She and Paddy could have gone and lived with Aunt Bridey and Uncle Kevin and their noisy brood. Or, she’d have kept the farm somehow, to turn over to Paddy when he was old enough to manage. She’d betrayed her father, casually discarded the land he’d worked so hard to own, and had been punished for it. Was it God’s hand in this? Or the devil’s?
She rarely saw Mrs. Rutherford, who was comfortably ensconced in First Class quarters. The older woman spied Tara on the deck once and waved to her, calling out, but Tara pretended not to see her. She wanted nothing to remind her of the night Paddy died. When Tara discovered the loss of her money pouch it did cross her mind, briefly, to ask Mrs. Rutherford for a small loan. Just enough for food and lodging during her first few days in America. She quickly rejected the idea. It wouldn’t do at all. Mrs. Rutherford might take such a request to mean that Tara expected her to be grateful for pulling her out of the water that night—that Tara had only done it because she knew Mrs. Rutherford was wealthy.
She’d go hungry before she asked for charity.
On the deck one day, Tara encountered Dominic’s grandmother, accompanied by a somewhat younger woman she knew must be his mother. When she tried to break through the inevitable language barrier and ask about him, both women dissolved into tears. “No let-a men inna boat…no let-a men inna boat,” the mother cried, over and over again. So Dominic was dead. It was one more thing she couldn’t bear to think about.
One morning Tara passed the dining saloon and failed to notice a small, nervous woman seated inside who shrank back in alarm. The woman tossed a shawl over the face of the child sleeping beside her. When Tara was safely past, the woman shook her charge awake, took him by the hand and hurried away. If Tara had turned around she would have noticed an unusual scar on the back of the child’s hand: a rough-textured, berry-colored mark that looked like the result of a bad burn, long since healed over.
But Tara didn’t turn around. She resumed her customary place at the rail and watched the foaming, churning wake spin out in twin streams behind the ship.
The Carpathia steamed on relentlessly toward the New World.
Chapter Seven
“H ey, lady! Watch where yer goin’!”
Tara leaped out of the path of the horse-drawn wagon that careened toward her. Its driver scowled impatiently as
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