Cinders to Satin. Fern MichaelsЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Chapter Four

      Elizabeth Erin Kelly Thatcher was her name. Elizabeth for her grandmother, Erin for her great-grandmother, and Kelly was her maiden name. The Thatcher was from her husband of four years. A weary smile played around the corners of her soft mouth. Patrick Willard Thatcher, and he had become her world. Pat and little Paddy were her reasons for living. As tired as she was, ailing though she may be, her heart could still flutter wildly when Pat looked at her as he was doing now. She knew without doubt that he wanted to be off exploring this seething, overcrowded city of Liverpool. His exuberance to fill each moment of this, the greatest adventure of his life, was evident in his energy and the excitement in his eyes. Beth was the one who saw the rubble, felt the crush of milling hordes, smelled the stench of their leavings. She saw the desperate eyes, the thin, wasted bodies, and the carefully guarded pokes that contained all of life’s possessions, while Pat saw only hope, determination, and a splendid future that he would carve out for Beth and Paddy. He wanted to experience all there was to see and do and know, but he realized Beth needed him here with her. He would remain at her side, the dutiful, loving husband. They were sitting in a relatively sheltered corner of Albert Docks Commonhouse. The Albert Dock was the largest and most opulent of all the Liverpool docks, with its cast-iron Doric pillars and polished marble floors, muddy and wet now from the tread of thousands of people. Pulling the rolled blankets fastened with leather straps that contained all they were taking to America, Beth smiled with forced vitality. “Go along, Patrick. See what it is that makes this place bubble as it does. Paddy and I will be just fine.”

      Patrick Thatcher needed no urging. His Beth never said anything unless she meant it. She was giving him free rein to search out this cauldron of humanity, and the temptation was too great to refuse. This was a part of his future, and he didn’t want to miss a moment of it. He failed to notice the thin, white line of exhaustion around Beth’s mouth or the dark smudges beneath her frightened eyes. His bright gaze passed over the six month’s protrusion under the dark, ugly cape she wore to disguise her pregnancy. Beth would be fine, he assured himself. She had Paddy, and at three years of age the little tad would discourage any bounder from flirting with his mum. Patrick dropped a light kiss on Beth’s head and tousled Paddy’s coppery curls. “Be back in a shake, darling’,” he told her happily as he tugged his worn cap more securely on his head.

      Beth watched her husband stride away, admiring his tall, straight back and the way he maneuvered his slim, agile body through the crowd of people. Everything will be fine, she told herself for what seemed like the thousandth time since arriving in Liverpool the day before. Pat will take care of us and see to everything. If only she could sleep. Really sleep. Without feeling as though all the world were watching for her to let down her guard. Beth was a very private person, and living and eating and performing necessary functions amidst a world of strangers was agony. Being pregnant accentuated her instinctive nesting habits, as Pat liked to call her devotion to home and family. She should be home, in her own little house, cooking and cleaning and making a comfortable life for the ones she loved. Only there was nothing left to cook and no house to clean. They had lost everything they held dear in Killaugh, a country town sixty miles from Dublin. The crops had failed and so had their livelihood.

      Beth had become so lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed Paddy wander off. It wasn’t until she heard his croupy cough at some distance from her that she became alert. Heaving herself up from the floor, she rushed to him, calling his name, warning him not to go another step.

      By the time she reached Paddy his face was flushed red from his attack of congestion, and he was having difficulty catching his breath. She gathered him close to her knee, rubbing his curls and patting his back. She should stoop down to pick him up into her arms, but she was so cumbersome that she might fall off balance. She crooned softly to her son until the coughing stopped. These attacks always left Paddy exhausted. She herself felt light-headed and weak—if only everyone wouldn’t stand so close, if only they’d give her room to move, air to breathe . . . She felt herself sway, felt Paddy clutching her leg more fiercely. She couldn’t give in, she couldn’t. Everything was tilting, fading in and out of focus, and she was distantly aware of a firm grip holding her arm. Startled, she raised frightened eyes, expecting to see some roughneck hoping to sell her something she didn’t need, or one of those ragged skalpeens looking to pick her pocket or steal her wedding ring. Paddy was whimpering, his hold on her leg a death grip, but he released his frantic hold to stare wide-eyed at the young girl who was holding his mum steady. “Where are your things?” Callie asked, tilting her head. “Where can you sit down with the boy? Can you walk?”

      “Over there,” Beth indicated with a lift of her chin. Callie kept her clasp on the young woman secure as she reached down to take the little boy’s hand. Paddy raised trusting chestnut eyes, and it was all she could do not to burst into tears. Paddy was no older than the twins she had left behind.

      “What about your baggage?” Beth asked in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

      “It will take but a second to get you comfortable. If anyone even thinks of helping himself to my goods, he’ll have me to deal with,” Callie said fiercely. Beth believed her.

      Guiding Beth and Paddy over the sheltered corner that was indicated, Callie was quick to catch the movements of two youths curiously poking about the unguarded baggage. Beth saw them too. “That’s Patrick’s satchel!” she cried helplessly.

      Spurred into motion, Callie steadied Beth on her feet and pushed through the edge of the crowd, shouting at the top of her voice. “You there! Leave that be! Get away from there!” In the space of a moment, she was flying at the culprits, struggling for possession of the satchel, fighting them off with coltish kicks and pounding fists. A string of epithets spewed forth, taking the youths by surprise. She wrenched Patrick’s bag from the taller of the two, kicking out with all the force she could muster. The adolescent clutched his groin and doubled over. “You come one step closer,” Callie warned, “and you’ll get more of the same!”

      Grabbing the hem of her skirts, Callie displayed the length of her knitted-stockinged leg. Strapped to the calf was a bone-handled knife. The weapon shone bright and lethal, and the look in the girl’s eyes said she would not hesitate to use it.

      There were grunts of approval from several men who had witnessed Callie’s show of bravery before they turned around, intent on their own affairs. She had been in Liverpool two days now, and it always amazed her how, by turning their thoughts inward, people could attain a kind of precious privacy amidst a throng of thousands.

      Beth’s gratitude embarrassed Callie. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said softly. “I know Patrick will want to thank you also.” Beth’s hand was pushed against the swell of her belly, and her complexion was still white.

      Callie took charge. “Here, you sit right here while I get my own poke. I’ll come and sit with you and the boy.” Obediently Beth sank to the floor, leaning on one of the blanket rolls. Quickly, leaving Paddy with his mother, Callie retrieved her own poke. She stacked the baggage neatly against the wall, away from the temptation of any other thieves, and sat down beside Beth. Introductions were made. “I’ve lived in Dublin my entire life,” Callie said. “My family still lives there.”

      “Are you going to America all by yourself?” Beth asked in amazement.

      “Yes. The streets are paved in gold, don’t you know?”

      Beth missed the sarcasm in the girl’s voice. “You sound just like Patrick,” she told her, a false excitement ringing in her tone. Then allowing the guise to slip, she said wearily, “We had nothing left in Ireland. Nothing. And the failure of it was eating away at Patrick like a worm in an apple. I’m frightened, Callie. So very frightened. But I mustn’t stand in Patrick’s