food and where it would come from. Seeing her little brothers and sisters with their scrubbed and shining faces walking beside her, their heads lifted and happily teasing one another, she was glad she’d stolen the groceries. At least their bellies were full and they could laugh and play. Callie was glad she had taken the basket, and if the opportunity presented itself, she’d not hesitate to take another.
Georgie and Hallie ran across the brown, stubby grass to play along a cindered path atop a bulkhead on the waterfront. The waters of the Irish Sea were wind-chafed, rolling endlessly toward shore, pushed by the salty breezes. The sun shone warm, dancing in diamond reflections off the sea, and out in the distance there were freighters and schooners, making their way to Dublin’s wharves. This was Georgie’s favorite place. He always claimed, with the intensity of a seven year old, that one day he would become a sailor and be off to see the world.
Bridget and Billy searched the mottled turf for an elusive four-leaf clover. Granda had convinced the children that if they found a four-leaf clover, it would point the way to the hiding place of leprechauns, and there they would find the pot of gold.
Callie frowned, her finely drawn brows wrinkling over the bridge of her saucily tilted nose. Georgie wanting to see the world, the twins searching for a pot of gold. It was all the same to her. There was no pot of gold, and she’d never see any more of the world than Dublin and the long, austere rows of houses on McIver Street.
Bridget’s light golden curls lifted on the brisk March wind. Her drab green woolen dress needed patching at the sleeve. Billy would be needing his shoes resoled before long. There was no escaping the worry, the everlasting sense of responsibility she felt toward them. Yet at the same time there was an anger, a hostility that she should have to take on such a burden.
The sun shone down on the mud flats exposed by low tide. The overripe smell of rotting vegetation and decaying fish caught in the swing of tide wrinkled Callie’s nose. Huge gray boulders, exposed now, stood starkly against the dark waters of the Irish Sea. Georgie would dearly love to race across the mud flats the way he could in summer. Summer, only months away, and yet no nearer than a lifetime. Summer would come, and with it, Peggy’s new babe. A new James child, a new responsibility. And what hope was there for it? Could Billy or Georgie grow to be fine, educated gentlemen like her savior from the night before, Mr. Byrch Kenyon? Would their shoulders ever be as broad, and would they wear fine cranberry velvet coats? No, she thought not.
Callie had been trying to forget Byrch Kenyon ever since she’d run away from him on the dark corner of Bayard Street, but the memory of his smile and the way he had lifted his dark brows when he laughed drew her thoughts to him again and again.
Somehow, Callie felt that meeting Mr. Kenyon was an important event in her life, even though she almost laughed at herself for thinking it. She was never likely to see him again. He had told her he was returning to America and his newspaper.
Squinting into the late afternoon sun, Callie saw Hallie and Georgie walking toward her, the freshness of the air staining their cheeks rosy. Immediately her eyes went to little Bridget who had given up the game of clover hunting to cuddle her little rag doll and sing softly to it. Swinging about, Callie searched for Billy’s bright blond head.
“Bridget darlin’, where’s your twin?” The little girl looked about, shrugging her thin shoulders.
“Georgie, have you seen Billy?” Even before his answer, Callie knew he had not.
Going to Bridget, Callie knelt down beside her. “Tell Callie, darlin’, where was Billy when you saw him last?” She tried to keep the edge of panic from creeping into her voice.
Bridget stuck her finger into her mouth as she always did when she became frightened. Her pansy blue eyes were widened. “Billy? Billy?” she called for her twin.
“Where was he when you were playing?” Callie purposely softened her tone. “Did you see where he went?”
“Billy found a clover, and he’s gone to find the pot of gold!” Bridget said, pleased that she remembered.
“Yes, darlin’, but which way did he go?” Bridget pulled her finger out of her mouth and pointed back in the direction of Bayard Street.
“Oh, my God! The traffic!” Appointing Georgie to mind the children and not to leave this spot, Callie ran to where Bridget had pointed. Wild imaginings taunted her. Billy was such a little boy, too little to know the dangers of the carts and horses. She could imagine him, small and helpless, being trampled beneath the wheels of a wagon or stomped beneath the flinty hooves of a ragman’s team. Looking for the pot of gold, indeed!
Pulling her shawl tight around her shoulders, Callie ran the length of Florham Way back to the noise and confusion of Bayard Street, searching for a bright blond head. There was a break in the traffic, and across the cobbled street she caught sight of a little figure scooting between the dust bins outside the wheelwright’s shop. Billy! Already her hands itched to smack that little bottom for the worry he’d caused her.
Callie went after him, calling his name. “Billy James, take yourself out of there this minute! Billy James, do you hear me?”
A tall figure dressed in a cranberry coat and buff-colored breeches stood near the corner. The sound of Callie’s calls caught his attention, and he turned in her direction. A sudden smile lit his clean, handsome features when he recognized her. Byrch Kenyon had spent most of his day walking up and down Bayard Street, looking for her. Since she had left him in this neighborhood, he had rightly assumed she lived nearby. His hope was that she would come out either on her way to work or on an errand.
He hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind. To him, Callie was all that was Ireland during these hard times—young, desperate, and yet with that certain quality of determination and a willingness to defend herself. He laughed when he remembered her biting remarks and felt humbled when he thought of her desperation. Would he, given the same circumstances, have found the courage to risk the rope to feed his family?
Unaware that she was observed, Callie ran to where she had last seen Billy squirm between the dust bins. “Billy James, come out of there!” When she moved one of the heavy tin drums aside, expecting to find her little brother crouched behind it, she found herself peering into a narrow cellar window, Billy’s skinny little legs sticking out onto the sidewalk. Before she could gather her wits to grab him by the ankles and pull him out, he slipped forward, head first, into the blackness. “Billy! Billy!”
Byrch Kenyon heard the alarm in Callie’s voice, saw her bending over from the waist, heard the rumble of the tin dust bins as she hoisted them aside.
Callie was down on her knees, stretching, reaching, probing the darkness with her hand. Suddenly she felt herself being lifted aside and was vaguely aware, through her panic, of a tall man leaning through the window while he voiced calming and reassuring words to the howling child.
“Hold on there, boy. I’ve got you. Just let me pull you up. That’s a boy!”
Within the space of a moment, Billy was dragged through the opening and out into the sunlight. It wasn’t until she actually held Billy in her arms that Callie lifted her head and saw that Byrch Kenyon had come to her rescue once again.
“You!” The utterance was a combination of shock and accusation.
“Yes, regrettably so. Knowing how fiercely independent you are, I’m afraid I’ve interfered yet again.” The mockery was there in his voice as it had been before, and Callie could see the humor in his light eyes and the wry smile that played around his mouth. His height, his leanness,
