Promise Me This (11 page)

“And we are both bound to protect and care for Annie.”

Owen’s words seared Michael’s heart, made it race. He tugged his hand away, but Owen caught it and would not let go.

“There’s no pulling back once you’ve put your hand to the plow, Michael. This is a free gift, with no strings attached, save our bond for Annie. I see the man you are, the man you’re working to become, and that is what matters.”

You don’t know what I’ve done to my own sister, what I let be done. You can’t trust me with yours.

“Mr. Owen—”

“Don’t call me ‘Mr. Owen’ anymore. I’m now your elder brother, Michael. We’ve shaken on it.”

Michael struggled between the joy of obtaining in a moment more than he’d hoped and dreamed, all that he’d ever wanted—a brother, a family—and the shameful, hungry cries of his past. “I’m grateful; it’s just that I don’t deserve this.”

Owen smiled. “What do any of us deserve?” He tilted his head. “Do you know the Lord Jesus, Michael?”

Michael didn’t understand the question. “He’s dead, sir. They killed Him.” It was what he thought whenever he heard people talk about the Sweet Jesus as if He were the neighbor next door.

“No, He’s very much alive, and He wants to know you.”

Michael frowned. He found himself crying out sometimes, crying the “Sweet Jesus” prayer, though he did not expect an answer. He shook his head. “I just don’t understand that, sir.”

“You don’t have to. Our knowledge is not needed, only our belief, our faith. He knew we could never earn our way before almighty God, so He gave His life as an atonement for our sins. That atonement is free for the taking, an unmerited gift.”

“Unmerited.” Michael repeated the word, tasting it in his mouth.

“It means we’ve done nothing to deserve it. It’s grace. Jesus said, ‘I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.’”

Michael could not stop the ache in his throat. He could believe in such a gift for Mr. Owen and Miss Annie, for his mam and da. But he could not doubt that the Good Lord Jesus, the Sweet Lord Jesus, despised him.

He’d visited a church once on the sly from his uncle Tom and had seen the preacher pound the pulpit, had heard him shout eternal damnation, hellfire, and brimstone to sinners. Michael knew he was a sinner. That was one of the few things of which he was absolutely certain. Why else had he had to live through such hellfire and damnation from Uncle Tom?

But he couldn’t reconcile those ideas with the goodness of Mr. Owen and this notion of grace for the taking.

“Jesus said, ‘Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.’

“Think of it, Michael. Do you labor? Do you feel the weight of something, of anything in your life?”

Michael’s breath caught.
Please don’t ask!

“You needn’t tell me anything, Michael.” Owen placed his hand on Michael’s shoulder. “But tell the Lord Jesus. Whatever you’ve done, whatever has been done by others to you. Ask His forgiveness for your own sins, and lay down the hurt done you. Know that He wants to take all that burden from you. He will bear it. He offers rest for your soul.”

A sob escaped Michael’s throat.
Rest for my soul. Oh, God, what would that be like? Could I lay down my hate, my fear of Uncle Tom and Jack Deegan? Could I ask forgiveness for me?

Michael could not speak. He wanted what Owen offered, but he could not believe in such a Jesus. It went against every voice of shame he carried.

At last Owen lifted his hand. “It’s waiting for you, Michael. Like anything we’re offered, we must reach out our hand to grasp it. And if it feels beyond your reach right now, it will remain just where it’s always been . . . right there for your asking.”

Michael did not trust himself to answer.

“So,” Owen continued as though he’d not just told Michael the most astonishing thing he’d ever heard, “first thing tomorrow we shall begin your gardening lessons. By the time we reach America, you’ll know more than one end of a spade from the other. We need to convince Uncle Sean that you’ve an Allen thumb with a Dunnagan name.”

Friday dawned fair and full of promise. Owen and Michael pored over seed packets and roots whenever they found a quiet corner in the general room or a spot along the poop deck. Michael learned the names and properties of each seed. His brow furrowed in attempts to bring to life the image of the blooming flowers that Owen sketched, but he committed to memory everything his mentor said.

Owen ripped pages from his journal and scribbled lists for Michael to study—mixtures of soil and fertilizers, everything he could detail concerning propagation. “I don’t know what garden pests New Jersey battles. Uncle Sean will tell us that.”

Finally Michael held his head.

“It’s overmuch,” Owen sympathized. “It will go better once we’re working, once you feel the earth in your palms and hold new shoots between your fingers.”

“There’s a lot to remember.”

Owen smiled. “At last. You’ve dropped the
sir
—you were making me feel an old man.” He gave Michael’s shoulder a gentle shove. “Anyway, it will all come in time.” Owen folded the lists and stowed them in the back of his journal. “Let’s plot some gardens. Uncle Sean and Aunt Maggie have thirty acres. Uncle wrote that they use ten for nursery plantings, nearly an acre for greenhouses, and an acre or so for their home and storage sheds. The rest of the land is still wooded.”

On a fresh page Owen sketched serpentine paths and half-moons and crescents. He drew circles and ovals and rectangular plots. “There doesn’t seem to be enough business to support the nursery alone, and Uncle Sean and his hired man haven’t been able to keep up with the landscaping jobs they’ve been offered—not enough manpower. You and I will come in handy there.” Owen continued to sketch.

“But I’ve been thinking: what if we clear large plots through the remaining wooded acreage and plant small gardens—a different variety of flowers and roses in each plot, a different name and theme? What if we connect the small gardens with trails through the woodland, forming a long path to wind and twist and turn throughout the property—perhaps add a pond with water flowers and, in time, a fountain maybe, or even a small waterfall?”

Michael’s head spun as Owen dreamed aloud.

“Uncle Sean wrote that the land in New Jersey is flat, that the summers are longer than in England. We could open the gardens to the public and charge admission. Aunt Maggie could sell cut flowers to customers from her own shop, right there in the midst of the gardens, and over the winters we’d all make dried flower bouquets and wreaths and swags for decorating, and any number of savory herb bundles for cooks.”

Michael caught the fever. “And benches in the gardens for sitting, and those things that flowers grow over to cover a pathway.”

Owen laughed. “Excellent! Trellises and arbors! And even gazebos!”

“Mam had one in her garden, one of those over-the-path things.” Michael formed the shape with his hands and looked up but did not see Owen. “I’d forgotten till now.”

“We’ll grow all the American varieties we can, but we shall specialize in Old World flowers and roses.”

“And we’ll bring Annie to America soon,” Michael vowed.

“Yes, Michael, we will. Just as soon as we’re able.” Owen turned serious. “I feel the rightness of all that lies ahead.”

And so did Michael.

On and on they talked, Friday into Saturday. They took turns sleeping and eating and sharing the food one saved from his meal for the other.

Nothing in all of Michael’s life had prepared him for the joy of those days. To imagine that they would continue for the remainder of his life was sometimes too precious to bear, too wonderful to believe. And so he tucked that great hope away in the smallest corner of his heart, where it grew and grew—where, for the first time in six long years, light bloomed.

Dearest Owen,

Your letter, sent from Ireland, arrived by this afternoon’s post. It is so good to hear from you, and to think that it came all the way from Father’s homeland! These have been the longest three days in my memory, and I am glad to have your letter to carry in my pocket. Everything is still so new here.

Miss Hopkins is very nice and not so stern as Aunt Eleanor. She became a bit cross with me the day you left. I shall confess it now—I ran down to the docks to see you off. I was not there long, just at the end, when
Titanic
pulled away, nearly colliding with that ship, the
New York
. But I had to see you one last time! Six months or a year is a dreadfully long time to be separated. I think I caught sight of your cap raised in farewell—at least I want to imagine it was you.

Was Ireland so beautiful as Father said? Were the hills as green? But then, how much could you see from the deck of a ship?

As you may suppose, I am not terribly thrilled that that boy—Tim or Michael or whoever he truly is—found his way on board to you. Stowing away is frightfully bold of him! I think you are much too forgiving and generous, Owen. If anyone was to accompany you to America, it should have been me.

I suppose what’s done is done, though it fuels my fire. I know you mean well and good, but I do not want to “adopt him as our brother,” as you say in your letter. You are the only brother I have ever known or ever want. We are enough for each other. I think you should send him packing. Besides, they probably won’t let him into New York. I wouldn’t.

The only good I can see from it is if he works twice as hard as he looks like he can—scrawny boy that he is—and can help you make a quicker go of Uncle Sean’s landscaping business. Then you can send for me in three months, rather than six!

All the girls will return to school from their Easter holiday soon. Classes begin Monday morning. I suppose I am glad to have had this time alone with Miss Hopkins. It helps me to know her better. Did you know that her first name is Annie?

I am a bit frightened of so many girls coming at once. I am used to being tutored—first by Mother and then by the tutors Aunt Eleanor hired. I don’t know what to say to so many girls, and I do not want to stand out as odd. I fear I may. You had best pray for me, Owen.

Please write very soon. This will be your first letter in America!

Your sister, ever so truly,

Elisabeth Anne Allen

Annie carefully folded the thin pages of her letter, tucked them into an envelope, and sealed it. She penned the address of her aunt and uncle in her best hand and placed a stamp in the corner.

It felt a sacred mission, walking out the door and down the cobbled street to post her first letter to America. Annie pictured her wonderfully tall and handsome brother opening her letter and imagined how he would read it, miss her, and surely remember where his first sibling loyalties lay. At least she hoped he would see her words that way and not compare her jealousies to those of Aunt Eleanor. Annie sighed, kissed Owen’s name once, then dropped her envelope through the slot of the mailbox. “What’s done is done,” she whispered, lifted her head, then returned to the school.