Chapter 4

31 Orange Street, No. 13
Lower Manhattan, New York
Paradise Square/Five Points District

Ciara Halley pulled back the dingy white lace curtains from the single window in the small room. North of her abode, sunlight landed on the red-slated roof of The Old Brewery. Dark smoke chugged from three of its chimneys.

Movement from below drew her eyes downward.

Paradise Park or Paradise Square, depending on who you talked to, was choked with the crush of the poor of humanity of all races. The buildings, old and decrepit lined the mass of people, imprisoning them. The prisoners were merchant vendors, gang members, laborers, factory workers, construction men, maids, night soil men, prostitutes, carriage drivers, and others passing each other in the street.

All fighting for survival within its confines however they could.

“How long are ye gonna be gone, wife?”

At the sound of Brendan’s voice, Ciara let the curtain fall away.

“Och, I dunno,” she said as she lifted a threadbare gray shawl and wrapped it around her pale, washed-out blue blouse. She went over to the small oval mirror by the door. “Meessus Knight’s a kind soul. She pays me better’n what’s I’d get from one o’ those hoity toity madame’s, I’d tell ya. Meester Knight’s doin’ better for my help.”

Brendan grunted, rubbing his short dark beard. “Ya would do better workin’ for one of them.”

“I’m sure.” Ciara patted her hair, taking a last look at her appearance. Thinking of Mrs. Knight, she knew she couldn’t compete with that woman’s finery. The blouse was several years old, her dark green skirt tattered and patched in places. A single petticoat kept the material from rubbing against her skin.

“But then they wouldna been as kind as Meessus Knight.” Inwardly she shuddered. Most Irish women who had come over had to endure harsh employment contracts from employment agencies. Blessings to Saint Brigid, one of the patron saints of the poor, for guiding her path to placing her with a scrupulous agency who treated the Irish women that came to their door fair.

She sashayed over to where Brendan stood and lifted her arms to wrap them around his neck. “‘Cause of ye, I don’ have to be workin’ for one of them. And ye can have yer wife whenever ye feel like it.”

Brendan’s hands reached down and grabbed her bottom, lifting her up for a deep, hard kiss. “Aye, there is that,” he smirked, his dark eyes gleaming.

She liked that Brendan always looked at her as if she were the most beautiful woman that ever lived, although they both knew she wasn’t.

Ciara had never been a beauty. Too skinny, too gaunt, and too pale. And that was before the Famine swept over the country.

In fact, if she’d been a pretty woman, she never would have met her Brendan.

“If I wanted a fine colleen, I’d gotten any o’ them,” he’d told her that day long ago, as they lay naked in the tall, thick grass under the shade of a sprawling tree on the outskirts of her village. A handsome man with dark hair and features, his eyes nearly black, he’d drawn the attention of young women like bees to pollen.

Only she was the one to draw his eyes. “It’s ye I want, Ciara, mo leannán. Forever.”

Though they’d just been reunited for six months after two and a half years apart, she never doubted Brendan’s fidelity to her. He was an honest man. Had she found a woman lying next to him in bed, stark naked as the day she was born, Brendan would be fully clothed with a knife between them.

“Well, ye know what’s best.” Brendan patted her bottom as she drew away to get ready to leave. “That Meessus Knight ain’t did us wrong none. She did give ye the name of the man and I got that job at the factory.”

“Aye,” Ciara said slowly, the corner of her mouth tightening.

Although Brendan got the job at the factory, it had come at a cost to those who worked there. The owner, one of the few to embrace the idea of a workman’s union, had fired most who were native non-union workers and hired a slew of Irish in their stead, Brendan being one of them. Which only exacerbated the grievances against Irish.

Nativists, elite or not, hated them, distrustful of their Catholic faith and allegiance to Rome and the Supreme Pontiff.

What were they supposed to have done? Should her people have simply stayed in their homeland and died? Thousands were dying every day, whole villages decimated.

Ciara thanked the Holy Virgin that she’d not had a child before the Famine came. While she waited for Brendan to send for her, she’d seen too many children in her village die. Blight destroyed the potato crops of which their livelihood was dependent on.

Many villages stank with the scent of the dead and the hopelessness. It was either stay and die or leave and live.

She glanced toward the window again. She and Brendan were fortunate to have an end unit of the row house to see outside. Others who lived above and below them hadn’t such luxury.

In the village she’d grown up in, she’d been surrounded by fresh air, and the scent of the fields, the warmth of the sun. Hard living, yes. But nothing prepared her for living in the city.

Twelve weeks across the ocean in crowded steerage, fighting to survive against those who would take advantage of her. When Ciara landed in New York Harbor, she was thrown into an alien existence of a place that pulsed, screamed, and reeked.

“We canna go worryin’ ‘bout the rest of it, mo leannán.”

Ciara blinked, coming out of her thoughts. Seeing Brendan’s understanding gaze, she shook her head, amused as always that her husband seemed to read her mind. The issues of the day, such as they were, filled her mind with worry.

“I know. Now dontcha be goin’ to the saloon tonight, Brendan. It’s yer one day off and when I get back, I want ye to myself.”

Brendan’s dark eyes sparked at the subtle invitation. “Talk like that will get ye in trouble, woman. If ye hurry back, we’ll go to the Bowery. Forrest is there tonight.”

Ciara squealed with glee. “Och! Brendan, you scoundrel!”

She ran and jumped into his arms. Easily he lifted her, holding her tightly with one arm around her waist and the other gripping her hair as he held her still for a long kiss. When he’d had his fill minutes later, her legs weak and wobbly, he set her down and pushed her towards the door. Ciara stumbled, her pale cheeks finally flushed with blood.