Promise Me This (10 page)

“You’re sweet on her, Mr. Owen!” It was a statement of fact and a great astonishment to Michael. Try as he might, he could not catch Owen’s eye.

“Yes, I’m glad to see these shores. Father pined after Ireland, I think—second only to his pining for my mother, once she died.”

Michael was not about to let Owen change the subject. “You
are
sweet on her!”

Owen hesitated. “I met Mrs. Snape and her parents in Southampton. She is a fine lady and a good mother to her young daughter.”

“The sergeant major is
married
?”

“Widowed,” Owen said simply. He turned with unaccustomed sharpness to Michael. “Her name is Mrs. Snape, Michael, and you are to speak of her and to her with the utmost respect, should your paths cross again.”

“Yes, sir.” Michael feigned humility even as a grin crept across his face.

Owen saw it and gave a good-natured, gentle jab to the boy’s arm. “You’ve seen through me, lad.”

“Are you courting her, then, sir?”

Owen sighed. “If she’d have me. Not that I have anything to offer her—not yet.” He straightened. “But I will. If hard work and determination can make such a thing happen, I will.”

They stood, shoulder to shoulder, watching the loading of new passengers—perhaps 150 or so—onto
Titanic
. They saw hefty bags of mail exchanged, and with it Owen’s letter to his sister.

Finally
Titanic
’s three deep whistles sounded. The tenders, carrying their hawkers and mail and those few passengers bound for Ireland, cast off.
Titanic
’s starboard anchor was raised.

“Good-bye, sweet Annie,” Owen said.

“Good-bye, sweet Megan Marie,” Michael whispered in turn.

“And who is Megan Marie?” Owen grinned at Michael. “The lady of your heart, young sir?”

Michael felt his blood drain. He didn’t need a looking glass to know it. He’d not meant to speak aloud.

“Michael?” Owen reached a hand toward the boy. “What is it? What is this pain?”

Michael could not answer. He could not look at Owen, fearful that what he had done and what he’d failed to do in protecting his sister might show in his face.

“Whatever it is, Michael, you must leave it behind. Think of it only to forgive or to ask forgiveness. You’ve a new life ahead of you in America. We both have. We are bound to look ahead.”

As if on cue,
Titanic
, beauty of the sea and ship of dreams, having secured her full complement of first-class highbrows and second-class working folk, her steerage bowels stuffed with immigrants who dared hope for new work and new lives in a new world, glided from Queenstown Harbor and set her bow for the western sea. Strains of “Erin’s Lament” piped sorrowfully from the stern of the ship—fitting and poignant for the departure, but a sharp contrast to the bustle of newly boarded passengers.

Owen and Michael leaned against the railing, separated by their own memories. They watched the dance of sunlight and shadow as clouds played across the shrinking hills of Ireland. They watched as
Titanic
turned and sailed toward the red and gold of the setting sun. They watched until there was nothing but sea.

“Three cups of tea I drank with sugar and cream, and they’d have given me more for the asking! Two helpings of bangers and mash and all the rice and apples I wanted. Can you believe it?” Michael’s spirits had clearly soared since their afternoon on deck, and Owen was glad of it.

“I brought you some bread and butter, and here.” Michael pulled a mug filled with dry hash and sausages from beneath his coat. “There’s more where that came from.”

Owen laughed. “I’m sure that’s quite enough.”

“There’s to be dancing tonight,” Michael confided breathlessly, sounding for the world like a young man about to attend his first dance.

Perhaps,
Owen thought,
he is.
“You go, then, lad, and I’ll sleep a bit more. When you’ve had your fill of revelry, you can take the bunk, and I’ll see what’s abroad.”

“You don’t mind?”

Owen laughed. He’d no desire to dance with anyone but Lucy, and she wasn’t likely to be kicking up her heels in steerage. “Go on with you and God bless you, lad. Just don’t call so much attention to yourself that we’re given the plank to walk.”

Michael pulled a sober face. “I won’t, sir. I’ll likely just watch, sir.” Then he dashed from the room.

When Michael had gone, Owen pulled his satchel from its storage. He spread its contents across his bunk, fingering each packet of seeds, each dry shoot carefully wrapped in brown paper. He pulled out the roots of his favorite roses, the double white ones he had propagated and the two his father had developed, naming them for his wife and daughter, the Lady Helen Cathleen and the Elisabeth Anne. They were promises, needing only a bit of earth, a gracious sun, and the bountiful rains of heaven to make them root and grow and flourish. He shook his head to think that a man’s future lay in things so small as those spread before him.

Owen knew each seed by name and each root, each shoot, for the flower that it was. He knew the Latin and the common names. He understood their weaknesses, their strengths, their susceptibilities. He knew what each particularly craved in nourishment, what made each one flourish. He understood what was spread before him better than he hoped to understand most humans.

Owen had not labeled the packets. There was no need when a man knew their names and properties as well as he knew himself. But that evening he took a pencil from his pocket and labeled each one. On the back he listed the date he would have sown the seeds in England, the height they were bred to achieve, the amount of sunlight they required each day, the best mix of soil and sand and peat and fertilizer, whether they would show best in a border or a bed, and the names of plants they were happy to grow beside.

“I’ll teach him, Lord—all I am able.” Owen scarcely realized he’d spoken aloud or that two hours had passed since he’d begun his task.

Before Owen finished his prayer, the Swede had broken into the room, eyes glazed and bearing the rank smell of vodka. He gestured toward Owen, then turned his back and ripped apart his duffel, strewing its contents across his bunk. Owen wondered if the man was sober enough to find whatever it was he sought. At last the Swede raised a bottle high and turned to Owen in jubilation. Though his eyes shone bright with drink, his brows peaked in curiosity at Owen’s packets and notes. The man’s eyes narrowed in puzzlement, then opened wide.

Owen pulled together his packets, feeling strangely exposed with the Swede staring down on him. He knew his bag held not only his future, but that of Annie, of Uncle Sean, Aunt Maggie, and now of Michael. It held his hopes for Lucy, or for someone like her, someday.

He knew, too, that there were dozens of farmers headed for the fertile soil in America, possibly the Swede among them. Any one of them would find a select stock of seed, free for the taking, a temptation. They would have no way of knowing the difference between common seed stock and the results of four years plus his father’s life work.

Owen’s bag no longer felt a secure hold for his precious cargo. It was not as though he could take his lot to the purser’s office and ask that his valuables be locked in the safe. He would be laughed from the cabin.

He turned his back on the Swede, hoping the man would return to his drinking, but it seemed to Owen that he dallied. Owen tucked the bag between himself and the wall, lay the full length of the bunk, and made as if to go to sleep. Still the Swede stayed, and it felt to Owen like waiting.

The minutes ticked by and Owen found himself struggling to keep awake after a long day and precious little sleep the night before. He’d nearly dropped off when he felt the man’s presence too near. He opened his eyes to find the Swede standing above him. The man stepped back. Owen sat up and stared as the big man fumbled for his coat sleeves and stomped from the room, color in his cheeks.

As soon as the Swede’s footsteps died down the corridor, Owen pulled a sewing kit and linen nightshirt from his bag. Ripping the shirt into a dozen pieces, he began to stitch pockets, deep and wide, to the inside of his jacket and more along the inner front of his heavy coat.

Owen was still sewing when Michael burst in. “You’re awake, Mr. Owen! Do you want to have a go at the dancing?”

“No, I don’t. I want you to put my jacket on and keep it on.”

“Your jacket? But why, sir?”

“Because I said so,” Owen snapped.

Michael waited.

Owen tossed the hair out of his strained eyes and cracked the tension from his neck. He jabbed the needle sideways through his coat and all but swore at the tenth bloodied prick of his fingers.

“Do you want me to sew that for you, Mr. Owen?”

“Can you run a stitch?”

“Aye, I can, sir. I’ve had some practice on my own shirts. Mrs. Cairn taught me.”

Owen didn’t know who Mrs. Cairn was, but he blessed her and gladly turned the needle over to Michael.

“But why am I sewing patches inside your coat, sir?”

“Pockets, not patches—to hold the seeds and roots and shoots I’ve collected from my flowers and roses in England. They’re the beginning of our Old World garden for America. Without these my help won’t mean much to Uncle Sean.”

“Are you afraid someone might pinch them? Is that why we’re sewing them inside?”

“You’re quick.”

Michael shook his head and bit off the end of thread. “Experienced, sir. Experienced.”

Owen tried not to smile. “Good, then. You understand.”

“It’s the Swede, ain’t it? He’s a shifty-looking fellow. I don’t trust him, not from the minute I laid eyes on him.”

Owen raised his brows.

Michael shrugged. “Just a feeling come over me.”

“Always listen to those feelings, Michael, those instincts. They’ll not mislead you.” Owen filled the pockets as Michael fashioned the remaining pieces of linen into safe havens.

When they’d finished, Owen hefted the overcoat for inspection. “A bit heavier, certainly, but it doesn’t look too bulky. I don’t think anyone will suspect as long as I don’t button it—let it hang loose.” He picked up the jacket. “This is all right too. You’re a good man to have in a pinch, Michael Dunnagan. Well done.”

Michael beamed.

Owen considered. “I was going to wait until morning, but I think now is a good time to have a bit of a talk.”

“Yes, sir?”

Owen wished Michael did not eye him so anxiously. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Michael. I only wish to form our plans, to make certain we are agreed.”

Michael let out his breath. “Yes, sir.”

“It’s about the gardens I’ve planned. In the remaining days of our voyage I mean to teach you what I can about the seeds and roots we carry—which is which, how to care for them. And I want to begin working on some garden designs together.”

Owen spread the coats across his bunk. “Planting time will go quickly when we get to Uncle Sean’s. We’ll need to get these beauties in the ground right away. The roses will take a couple of years to develop enough to propagate, but most of the flower seeds ought to bring fine, big blossoms and new seeds the first year.”

“You really mean this, don’t you, sir?”

“Mean what?”

“For me to work with you and with your uncle, to try and make a go of it all.”

“We must make a go of it; our lives—and Annie’s—depend on it.”

Owen sat beside Michael. He spread his palms before him. “Do you see these? These are green fingers to match my green thumbs. Everything I touch grows and thrives. And now I’ve touched you, Michael Dunnagan.” He smiled. “So you’ve no choice but to grow and thrive as well. And if I have it my way, Uncle Sean and Aunt Maggie will welcome you not only into the business but into the family. Would you like that?”

Michael stopped breathing. It was plain.

“Michael? Is that not what you want?”

Michael began to speak, stopped, and began again. Owen saw the pleading in his eyes. “Please don’t say it, sir, ’less you mean it.”

Owen knew to keep his voice steady. “I mean it 100 percent. We cannot know what will happen in New York, what will happen with the authorities there. But I shall do all in my power to get them to release you, into my care if necessary. And I do mean it about working together. I’ve no doubt Uncle Sean will welcome us as a team. I cannot speak for them for the family part, though I cannot doubt it. But I can speak for me, Michael Dunnagan. And if you are willing, and if you are wanting it, we shall be always as brothers.” He gave his hand in promise.

Michael stared, his eyes wide, at the hand offered him.

Owen pulled his hand back. “There is only one thing, and that is Annie.”

“Annie?”

“My sister.”

“Yes, Annie.” Michael’s face fell.

“Annie must come first, before either of us take a penny from the business. I’ve given her my word to bring her to America just as soon as the business is stable and as soon as I raise funds. Every penny of our earnings must go first to bring her to join us in New Jersey. Do you understand?” Owen offered his hand again.

“Yes, sir. I do, sir. Annie must come to America.” His hand remained by his side, but Owen lifted and pumped it.