Song of Erin Read online

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright ©1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, IL 60189 USA. All rights reserved.

  Verses marked NIV are taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by the International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  Verses marked NASB are taken from the New American Standard Bible ®, © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission. (www.Lockman.org)

  Cover by Koechel Peterson & Associates, Inc., Minneapolis, Minnesota

  Cover photos © Keith Nolan / Fotolia.com; Koechel Peterson & Associates

  BJ Hoff: Published in assoication with the Books & Such Literary Agency, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409-5370, www.booksandsuch.biz.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  SONG OF ERIN

  Copyright © 1997/1999 by BJ Hoff

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hoff, B. J.

  [Cloth of heaven]

  Song of Erin / B.J. Hoff.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7369-2352-1

  ISBN-10: 0-7369-2352-7

  1. Irish Americans—Fiction. 2. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Hoff, B. J., Ashes and lace. II. Title. III. Title: Ashes and lace.

  PS3558.O34395C57 2008

  813’.54—dc22

  2007044409

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Contents

  Book One: Cloth of Heaven

  Part One: The Big Wind

  Prologue: The Silence

  1. Terese

  2. Brady

  3. In Search of Shelter

  4. Terror on the Wind

  5. The Weary and the Wounded

  6. Jack

  7. An Encounter between the Strong and the Strong

  8. Too Long Apart

  9. To Catch a Thief

  10. Angels Unawares

  11. In the House of the Fisherman

  12. Jane Connolly

  13. Regarding Women

  14. A Letter of Opportunity

  15. Key to a Dream

  16. Possibilities

  17. The Woman is a Puzzle

  18. The Princess and the Pirate

  19. Quest or Conquest

  Part Two: In the Crucible

  20. Different Kinds of Men

  21. A Cloak in Which to Wrap the Fire

  22. Star of Destiny

  23. Reverend Ruthless

  24. A Moment Between Memories

  25. A Meeting on Mercer Street

  26. A Day of Surprises

  27. Among the Shadows

  28. Sad and Unexpected News

  29. The Familiar Face of Despair

  30. A Parting without Good-Byes

  Part Three: The Storm’s Edge

  31. Price of Dreams, Penance of Folly

  32. Lament of the Lonely

  33. Storm in the Heart

  34. An Unexpected Welcome

  35. A Plan for the Future

  36. Confrontation with Evil

  37. Of Lawyers and Lawsuits

  38. Cloth of Heaven

  39. Samantha’s Smile

  40. Of Silence and Shadows

  41. Into the Night

  42. A Place for Memories, a Time for Secrets

  43. Vigil at Bellevue

  Epilogue: Gifts of Gold and Grace

  Book Two: Ashes and Lace

  Part One: Like Gold in the Fire

  Prologue: Between Destiny and Despair

  1. A Most Respectable Man

  2. A Small Hint of Rebellion

  3. Shadows of the Heart

  4. What Kind of Welcome?

  5. A Meeting in the Marketplace

  6. Uneasy Lies the Heart

  7. Between Friends

  8. Encounter with Darkness

  9. In the Harbor

  10. A Bitter Hope

  11. A Futile Search

  12. Faces in the Crowd

  13. A Shelter from the Storm

  14. Tearing Down the Walls

  15. A Divided Heart

  16. A Plan Conceived in Darkness

  17. Rogues’ Gathering

  Part Two: Too Close to the Flame

  18. Looking Past the Veil

  19. An Unexpected Proposal

  20. Samantha’s Secret

  21. David’s Search

  22. Children of Loneliness

  23. Long Night’s Vigil

  24. A Meeting in the Mission House

  25. Through the Eyes of the Beholder

  26. Uneasy Dreams, Unholy Plans

  27. An Ill Wind over the Claddagh

  28. A Darkness in Heaven

  29. Encounter with Evil

  Part Three: On an Altar of Ashes

  30. A Subtle Threat

  31. Before the Storm

  32. Suspected Enemies

  33. A Procession of Visitors

  34. Eye of the Storm

  35. Truth and Betrayal

  36. Darkness and Deception

  37. I Would Give You the World…

  38. In the Crudble

  39. Second Chances

  40. Wise Men and Kings

  41. Christmas Eve in the Claddagh

  42. Out of the Ashes

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  —BOOK ONE—

  Cloth of Heaven

  PART ONE

  THE BIG WIND

  And a mighty windstorm hit the mountain. It was such a terrible blast that the rocks were torn loose, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. And after the earthquake there was a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire there was the sound of a gentle whisper.

  1 KINGS 19:11-12

  PROLOGUE

  THE SILENCE

  Deadly still was the heavy air,

  Horrible silence was everywhere…

  THOMAS D’ARCY MCGEE

  IRELAND, JANUARY 6, 1839

  On this day in Ireland there were those who searched the sky with anxious frowns, as if they half expected to see an omen or perhaps a hint of some dark, unnatural force lurking behind the clouds. The warm stillness of the winter day was unnerving, no matter how welcome a change from the bitter cold.

  Epiphany Sunday had dawned upon a hushed world of white, blanketed by the heavy snowfall of the night before. By afternoon, the day had warmed to unthinkably mild temperatures. Men stood at the crossroads in their shirtsleeves, making conjectures about the odd weather and what, if anything, it might forebode.

  The women across the island had no time for such speculation. Instead, they busied themselves throughout the afternoon preparing what few savory dishes they could manage, given their meager budgets. Cottages grew steamy from hours of baking, and children turned more restive by the hour in anticipation of the coming evening. If entire villages seemed to hum with excitement, it was
to be expected, for festive occasions were all too rare in the Irish countryside. Of late, the sound of the funeral dirge had become far more familiar than the lively tunes of merrymaking.

  On this day, even in the most remote and primitive counties, every warm moment seemed a gift, a respite from winter’s gloom and the general climate of dread that had long clutched at the very heart of Ireland. For a few hours this evening, those families fortunate enough to still have a roof above their heads would gather around the hearth fire and enjoy their blessings, blessings all the more precious for their scarcity. Tonight, at least, Irishmen would lay aside their worries about rising rents and unnerving tales of eviction while their women donned brave smiles and bright colors as they, too, attempted to forget their fears. There would be laughter and songs and prayers for God’s keeping, and at the heart of it all, the deep music of living—a music created from centuries of sorrow, a longing for freedom—and hope.

  Yet there were some whose hope rested not in the evening’s lighthearted festivities nor in the ancient land of their birth—nor even in the God of their fathers or in the faith that had sustained their families for ages past. Instead, their hope clung solely to the idea of escape.

  These were not always the ones who spoke most often of leaving the “poor old island” behind. They did not necessarily shudder by the fire at the thought of forsaking home and country for a harrowing voyage across the sea in search of a better life. More often they had no homes or at least knew the threat of eviction upon the daily horizon, and they shuddered more from the reality of winter’s cold and encroaching starvation than from any fear of crossing the great Atlantic.

  For these, escape had become their hope. For many, it was their only hope.

  1

  TERESE

  But the haunted air of twilight is very strange and still,

  And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my mind.

  EVA GORE-BOOTH

  INISHMORE, ONE OF THE ARAN ISLANDS

  IN WESTERN IRELAND

  Terese Sheridan stood in the hulking shadow of Dun Aengus, watching night gather over the ocean. The day had been warm, unnaturally warm, and so close that the flame of a candle wouldn’t have flickered. But now a light breeze had picked up and was playing along the stones, while in the distance a random flare of lightning illumined the sky.

  The huge stone fort towering overhead had been there forever—since long before the coming of Patrick, according to the Old Ones in the village. With its vast rings of stone walls and what must surely have been thousands of jagged stones placed upright to ward off ancient attacks, it loomed over Inishmore and the island’s people like some colossal, magnificent creature risen from the sea, turned to stone by its long centuries of vigil.

  In its permanence and hovering immensity, the fort had somehow become to Terese not only a sentry to the entire island but a kind of personal guardian as well. Dun Aengus was the only thing of any real stability in her life. But tonight she was bidding it farewell. She had walked out from her aunt’s cottage in the village to say good-bye to the fort and to Inishmore; before first light dawned tomorrow, she would be gone.

  She and her best chum, Peggy O’Grady, had been planning their departure from the island for months. Tomorrow they would go. Yet, despite her eagerness to get away, Terese could not entirely ignore the heaviness of heart that had settled over her throughout the evening. There had been many partings in her life—too many by far—and for all the bitterness and sorrow she had known in this place, there were memories here, whispers of her life, of the family she had lost, the all-too-rare times of love and warmth they had known together.

  At seventeen, Terese was the only one of her entire family left on this side of the Atlantic. Both her father and her brother, Cavan, had made the crossing to America more than six years ago, leaving behind nothing more than a promise that within a year they would send for the rest of the family to join them.

  The streets in America, however, had turned out to be paved not with gold, as was rumored, but with animal droppings instead. The fine jobs that were to have ensured ship passages for the family—and perhaps even a house in the new land—had never materialized. Their father had died less than a year after leaving Ireland, and Cavan had ended up in a place called Pennsylvania, digging coal below the ground with their uncle Tibbot and his sons.

  Within a year of her father and brother’s leaving, Terese and the rest of the family, unable to keep up the rent, had been evicted. Forced to spend most of the winter living in a rock cave by the shore, baby Mada and Terese’s older sister, Honor, had both died of exposure and pneumonia. Within a week of their passing, their mother was also dead, leaving Terese, not quite twelve years old at the time, completely alone.

  Ill from the cold and nearly dead from starvation, Terese had gone to beg a bed with her aunt Una in the Field of the Horses, a tired little village close to the sea. The first time she went, her aunt had turned a deaf ear to her plea for shelter. “And how would I be making room for one more mouth to feed?” Aunt Una had asked. “There’s no room and no food. You’re a fine big girl now. You’ll have no trouble finding work to keep yourself.”

  There had been no work on the starving island, of course. More desperate than ever, Terese had finally swallowed her pride and gone to Aunt Una again. This time, whether out of guilt or some newly remembered trace of family feeling, her aunt had relented, allowing her niece a smelly pallet in the corner where the pig sometimes slept and a cramped place at the table among her five cousins.

  Not a day had since passed that her aunt had not reminded Terese of what a burden she was and her incredibly good fortune in having Christian kin willing to give her a roof over her head, and at such a sacrifice to themselves. And not a day passed in the ensuing years that Terese did not burn with resentment as she counted the money that had finally begun to arrive from Cavan, carefully hiding it away with the intention of amassing enough to escape Inishmore and her aunt’s “Christian charity.”

  There had been times during the worst of her loneliness when she wondered if she might have been better off to have died in the cave with her mother and sisters. But she could always rouse herself from the temptation of self-pity with the reminder that there was something better in store—something out there, across the Atlantic, just waiting for her to claim it. She had only to endure her aunt’s spitefulness, her uncle’s indifference, her cousins’ ridicule for a time, not forever. Repeatedly she told herself that she could endure anything so long as there was hope for something better.

  In truth, Terese had kept herself alive through hope. It was all she had, this fierce hope of hers, the anticipation of a time when she would finally escape the squalid poverty of her existence for that “something better.”

  Now that time had come. By this hour tomorrow she and Peggy would be in Galway City. From the money Cavan had sent her over the years and her earnings in the kitchen at Corcoran’s Inn, Terese had managed to squirrel away almost twice again the amount she customarily handed over for her keeping. At last she had enough for her passage to America. Enough for a new life.

  Suddenly, the melancholy that had been pressing in on her throughout the evening lifted, almost as if hope itself had come swooping down and borne it away on the wings of the wind. Terese felt a sense of release, of deliverance, that made her want to shout her impending freedom to the entire island.

  At that moment, an unexpected squall of wind came wailing across the shore, followed by a crash of thunder and a stunning display of lightning. The air turned sharply chill, and Terese wished she had worn her coat instead of her cousin Nancy’s thin sweater.

  She realized it was growing late—surely past eight by now—and with a last glance at the stone fort, she turned to start back toward the village. Without warning, another gust of wind, this one stronger, roared in on her, howling like a banshee over the treacherous stone walls of the fort.

  Terese looked to the sky, ink dark and heavy with t
he threat of rain, then back to the shore, where the tide had risen. Farther out, waves surged and rolled with mounting fury. A storm was blowing in, and with incredible swiftness, it seemed. The wind slapped at her face and shoulders, and she hugged her arms to herself against the cold as she turned to run toward home.

  2

  BRADY

  “I am of Ireland…”

  W. B. YEATS

  GALWAY CITY, WESTERN IRELAND

  After a long day in Galway City, Brady Kane wandered into the district called the Claddagh. He had read about the place, had heard Jack speak of it through the years, but nothing could have prepared him for its strangeness.

  He felt as if he had stepped into another world, another age. Here, in this southernmost quarter of the town at the mouth of the harbor, lived a colony of fishermen and their families that time and the world seemed to have forgotten. Everything about the area and its inhabitants spoke of the past. Winding lanes and squares of thatched-roof dwellings, the quaint, colorful clothing of the inhabitants, and their language—Brady had heard more of the Irish spoken today than he had heard during his entire month in Dublin—gave the observer a sense of a people and a culture unchanged for centuries.

  He stopped and looked over the bay. A few small boats were in the water—the small, primitive curraghs mostly, and a couple of brown-sailed rigs—but for the most part the harbor was deserted.

  The sudden puff of wind blowing in off the water felt good. The day had been surprisingly mild until an hour or so ago, but now the waves were beginning to churn as the breeze picked up, and Brady welcomed the cooler air.

  This was his first trip to Ireland, and he had had to fight Jack all the way for it. Brady wasn’t sure why his brother was so set against the idea, but he had his suspicions. Somehow he didn’t think Jack’s opposition had anything to do with the flimsy excuses he’d been mouthing for months—We’re too busy at the paper; I can’t possibly spare you, not now…Don’t forget I’m going to be in Boston for two or three weeks soon, and you’ll have to take over for me at the paper and at the publishing house as well…We have manuscripts coming in, authors to meet with…Then there’s all the work at the Committee…