The Irish Bride by Alexis Harrington Page B

least
that was what she’d overheard from Mr. Quisenberry. Trying to
follow in the footsteps of St. Brigit, Farrell had assumed the job
of seeing after the passengers, and they were happy to have one of
their own dosing them. She couldn’t do much for them, but she did
her best with the medicine chest at her disposal.
    “ Must ye see to them
tonight?” Aidan asked.
    “ St. Brigit would have me do
no less.”
    Of all the saints on the calendar,
Brigit was Farrell’s favorite. True, Father Joseph taught them that
Brigit had become a nun after St. Patrick baptized her. But
Farrell’s elderly Aunt Kathleen had told her that Brigit had been a
loving and powerful Celtic goddess long before that, and the early
people had worshiped her as the mother of the earth, goddess of
healing, the crafts, fire, poetry, and farming. In Kildare, a
sacred, eternal fire had been kept burning in her honor, attended
only by women. Later, when the Church realized that the Irish would
not abandon Brigit, they canonized her and built a convent on the
site of her shrine. At least that was what Kathleen had told
her.
    When Farrell had asked Father Joseph
about her aunt’s story, he’d sternly dismissed it as “pagan
blather,” and ordered her to say a Hail Mary for her impious
questions about one of God’s chosen handmaidens. He’d also
instructed her to pray an entire rosary for her aunt’s soul. But
secretly Farrell liked Kathleen’s story best, one about the strong,
loving mother of earth and poetry and fire. It fit so well with her
own sense of connection to the land and healing. In her pocket she
always carried the little carved figure of the goddess-nun as her
talisman.
    There was at least one pregnant woman
aboard, Deirdre, who would most likely give birth before they
reached America, and although she had no real knowledge of
midwifery, Farrell checked on her daily because she was so gaunt
and pale. Her sense of helplessness was eased a bit by the
attention she was able to give the woman, and in knowing that other
women below were watching after her as well.
    “ I suppose ye’ll do what you
see fit,” Aidan replied.
    “ I’ll bring your meal after
that.” She swallowed and clutched the lifeless chicken in her
hands. “T-to Morton’s cabin?”
    He gave her a knowing smile. “Aye.
I’ll leave a handkerchief tied to the door so you’ll know which it
is. I’ll be waiting for ye.”
    * * *
    Once she’d served the chicken stew,
Farrell hurried over the damp deck and down to the hold to see
Deirdre Connagher and Mrs. Dougherty. Expecting to be stopped by
other passengers, though, she also carried with her things from the
medicine chest that she thought she might need—brewed chamomile,
quinine, turpentine, laudanum, lemon syrup for cough (the lemons
she’d snatched from the crew’s supply), a special treat for
Deirdre, and two bottles of patent medicine. These she’d put in a
handle basket covered with a cloth.
    Coming down the ladder, she heard the
buzz of murmured conversation, crying children, and a few voices
raised in angry tones. After the sun went down, widely-spaced lamps
swaying from the overhead timbers provided the only light. With its
yellow-white gleam, the lamplight gave every face a slightly
bilious appearance. The stench wasn’t so strong this evening, but
bad enough.
    People sat in their little bunks,
which were not much more than shelves built against the hull of the
ship—six feet long but only two feet wide. Others perched on
overturned kegs, boxes, or creepies, three-legged stools brought
from faraway firesides. Here and there, lines had been strung on
which to dry clothes and babies’ nappies, adding to the stifling
humidity.
    She made her way to the space assigned
to Mrs. Dougherty. She was sitting up with her feet dangling from
the second-row bunk. Her hair hung in limp, gray plaits on her
shoulders, its color nearly matching her face. Her clothes were as
drab and travel-worn as the others’.