at St. Vincent's when I was thirteen years old.”
“St. Vincent's? Is that your church?” She dabbed at her face with his soft old handkerchief, which was filled with the subtle male aromas of tobacco and horses.
“No. It's an orphanage in New York City. The Sisters of Charity took me in when my parents died in an influenza epidemic. We'd just arrived from Ireland a few months earlier,” he added softly.
Her own misery and embarrassment forgotten, Rebekah reached out and laid her grimy hand on top of his. “How tragic to be all alone with no family—especially when you were such a little boy yet.”
“I still had family at first. Three older brothers. But Sean died of consumption. He was the eldest. Ryan and Patrick were too old for the orphanage. They had to leave me there, but they promised to come back for me when they'd made their fortunes.”
“What happened?” Rory Madigan seemed alone in the world now.
“Ryan died in a Comstock silver mine back in sixty-four—in a cave-in. Patrick's ship was lost off the China coast in a typhoon. That's what happens to Irishmen who dream of striking it rich,” he said bitterly.
“I'm so sorry, Rory.”
Her sweet, soft voice brought him back from his bitter memories. “I've never told anyone but January Jones about my family.”
“Is he the little colored man I saw at the fight?”
“He was my manager as well as a good friend—my only friend…until now.”
She smiled shyly as he helped her to her feet in the middle of the ruined patch of garden. “I'd like to be your friend, Rory.” And more than your friend , some inner voice taunted.
He raised her hand in the same elegant salute he had given her that day on the bandstand, ignoring their muddy dishabille as he kissed her fingertips. “I was going fishing, but now I think I'll use the river for a bath instead. Care to join me?” he dared her.
Rebekah looked down at her ruined clothing and the shambles around her. “Oh, my goodness! Look at me, and Mama will be home shortly expecting me to have the garden watered and weeded. I have to finish the weeding and then...oh dear, how will I ever get clean without ruining the bathtub and washroom!”
He picked up a half-filled pail of water and said, “You've done a fair job with the watering part of the project. Let me help with the rest. But you're right—we'll have to hurry, not only because of your mother.” At her puzzled look, he added, “If we let this mud dry on us, we'll crack and break like sun-dried apples.”
Rebekah smothered a giggle behind one muddy little fist. Soon they were working side by side, sprinkling the remaining dry soil and weeding between the rows of half-grown vegetables. He worked fast with sure, strong hands, pulling out thistles and pepper grass, then smoothing the muddy gouges in the earth until all telltale traces of her accident were erased.
“You're an awfully good gardener,” she observed.
“My mother kept a garden back in Galway,” he said with a faraway look.
“That's nice. I never thought of the Irish as farmers.”
“We grow more than potatoes,” he retorted angrily. “My father was the head groom for the Earl of Waltham. My brothers and I took our lessons with his own son's tutor.”
“I didn't intend a slur on your family—or on your being Irish, Rory.” His pride was prickly indeed. How often had her father said the Irish were the stubbornest race on earth?
His hot temper was just as quick to cool when he saw her genuine hurt and bewilderment. “I'm sorry, Rebekah. I'm so used to being insulted for being Irish that I take offense when none's meant. I suppose if there's one true fault of the Irish, it's a rotten
“St. Vincent's? Is that your church?” She dabbed at her face with his soft old handkerchief, which was filled with the subtle male aromas of tobacco and horses.
“No. It's an orphanage in New York City. The Sisters of Charity took me in when my parents died in an influenza epidemic. We'd just arrived from Ireland a few months earlier,” he added softly.
Her own misery and embarrassment forgotten, Rebekah reached out and laid her grimy hand on top of his. “How tragic to be all alone with no family—especially when you were such a little boy yet.”
“I still had family at first. Three older brothers. But Sean died of consumption. He was the eldest. Ryan and Patrick were too old for the orphanage. They had to leave me there, but they promised to come back for me when they'd made their fortunes.”
“What happened?” Rory Madigan seemed alone in the world now.
“Ryan died in a Comstock silver mine back in sixty-four—in a cave-in. Patrick's ship was lost off the China coast in a typhoon. That's what happens to Irishmen who dream of striking it rich,” he said bitterly.
“I'm so sorry, Rory.”
Her sweet, soft voice brought him back from his bitter memories. “I've never told anyone but January Jones about my family.”
“Is he the little colored man I saw at the fight?”
“He was my manager as well as a good friend—my only friend…until now.”
She smiled shyly as he helped her to her feet in the middle of the ruined patch of garden. “I'd like to be your friend, Rory.” And more than your friend , some inner voice taunted.
He raised her hand in the same elegant salute he had given her that day on the bandstand, ignoring their muddy dishabille as he kissed her fingertips. “I was going fishing, but now I think I'll use the river for a bath instead. Care to join me?” he dared her.
Rebekah looked down at her ruined clothing and the shambles around her. “Oh, my goodness! Look at me, and Mama will be home shortly expecting me to have the garden watered and weeded. I have to finish the weeding and then...oh dear, how will I ever get clean without ruining the bathtub and washroom!”
He picked up a half-filled pail of water and said, “You've done a fair job with the watering part of the project. Let me help with the rest. But you're right—we'll have to hurry, not only because of your mother.” At her puzzled look, he added, “If we let this mud dry on us, we'll crack and break like sun-dried apples.”
Rebekah smothered a giggle behind one muddy little fist. Soon they were working side by side, sprinkling the remaining dry soil and weeding between the rows of half-grown vegetables. He worked fast with sure, strong hands, pulling out thistles and pepper grass, then smoothing the muddy gouges in the earth until all telltale traces of her accident were erased.
“You're an awfully good gardener,” she observed.
“My mother kept a garden back in Galway,” he said with a faraway look.
“That's nice. I never thought of the Irish as farmers.”
“We grow more than potatoes,” he retorted angrily. “My father was the head groom for the Earl of Waltham. My brothers and I took our lessons with his own son's tutor.”
“I didn't intend a slur on your family—or on your being Irish, Rory.” His pride was prickly indeed. How often had her father said the Irish were the stubbornest race on earth?
His hot temper was just as quick to cool when he saw her genuine hurt and bewilderment. “I'm sorry, Rebekah. I'm so used to being insulted for being Irish that I take offense when none's meant. I suppose if there's one true fault of the Irish, it's a rotten
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