“Dublin is still a mess because of the conflict,” her father told her. “I see they haven’t accomplished much since I came here to fight.” Fiona tried to imagine her father armed with a rifle, taking part in the uprising—and couldn’t.
“Will the Black and Tans let us go to America?” she asked.
He gave a short laugh. “Oh, aye! They’ll be more than glad to see two more Irish leave. They’d be happy to see every last one of us go. And tomorrow morning we will.”
Fiona felt a sense of loss—and yet anticipation. Fear and sorrow and joy were all mixed together in a stew, and she couldn’t sort them out. She also felt very much alone. She had her father, true, but Fiona had never quite learned to trust him.
“God go with you,” her mother had said. Funny, but Fiona had always thought of God as living in St. Brigid’s church, back home. Yet as she stood on the busy street corner in Dublin, feeling lost and frightened, she realized that God didn’t just live in St. Brigid’s church—He was everywhere. Mam’s words reassured her, and Fiona whispered them to herself as a prayer as she prepared to bid good-bye to Ireland.
“God go with me… please…”
They sailed on St. Brigid’s Day, the day dedicated to the saint who was known for her kindness and for her miracles. It was Fiona’s special day, too—February 1, her eighteenth birthday.
“Are you sure the boat won’t sink, Dad?” she asked as she stared up at the huge ship. It lay anchored at the end of a long dock, with a boarding plank for the steerage passengers spanning the choppy gray water.
“What kind of a question is that?” he growled as he tugged their belongings down the pier.
“When I was in school, the sisters told us how a grand big ship sank and all the people died.”
“There was a war on when the Lusitania sank. That war is over with.”
“Not that ship, Dad. It was before the war, when I was nine or ten years old, I think. The nuns at school told us to pray because a big fancy ship full of rich people got stuck in the ice and sank. Thousands of people drowned. Will there be ice on the way to America?”
Rory glanced at her, shaking his head as they waited in line to board. “Fiona, lass—why don’t you put that wild imagination of yours to good use planning our future instead of worrying about things that happened years ago.”
Yes, she decided, she would think about her future. America was the land of promise, a place where she could live in luxury and ease. But first she had to cross the cold, wide ocean. It occurred to her that this journey might be a bit like dying: She would leave the known world and traverse the unknown—and end up in paradise! Yet if this was truly a trip to paradise, Fiona quickly discovered that her voyage must be purgatory.
Nothing Fiona had ever experienced prepared her for life onboard the steamship. Their allotted place in steerage was in an overcrowded, windowless hold packed with hundreds of bunk beds. Many of the families rigged curtains for privacy around the space they’d claimed, but she and her father hadn’t thought of that ahead of time. The other steerage passengers came from a variety of foreign nations and languages, and the babble of voices added to the confusion and chaos. Most passengers had packed food from home for the journey, and the hold soon reeked of garlic and onions and strong, sour cheese. These families seemed even poorer than Fiona’s, with dozens of shabby, howling children. Everyone stank of body odor and sweat. The moment Fiona entered the hold, she longed to turn around and flee outside into the fresh air and sunlight, but she knew she would have to get used to it. This would be her home for the next few weeks.
Once the ship was underway, Fiona spent as much time as she could outside on the steerage deck, even though the wintry air was raw and the tiny deck was nearly as crowded as their space below. Her father began disappearing for long stretches of time; she didn’t know where, nor would he tell her why. Steerage passengers weren’t allowed to roam the ship, but that’s what he seemed to be doing, sneaking off at midday or during the supper hour, then scribbling on a wad of paper he carried in his vest pocket when he returned. Fiona glimpsed the pages over his shoulder one evening and saw incomprehensible lists of numbers.
A week after the ship sailed, Fiona was sitting outside on the steerage deck one afternoon when her father beckoned to her. “Come with me, Fiona. I want to show you something.” He led her inside, then up a forbidden staircase to the deck where the lifeboats were secured. She could glimpse the first-class passengers strolling around on the upper deck.
“I don’t think we’re allowed up here,” she said when she saw where he’d taken her.
“Be quiet, Fiona, and listen to me. Do you know the difference between those wealthy people and us?” he asked, tilting his head in their direction.
She could think of plenty of differences—they had lots of money, plentiful food, a life of ease and luxury… and smooth hands. Their hands weren’t all cracked and red like hers were from scrubbing laundry. But she shook her head, knowing that Rory Quinn didn’t really expect an answer.
“Clothes, Fiona. The only difference between them and us is the clothes they’re wearing on their backs. You and I aren’t dressed in fancy garb the way they are, that’s all.” He turned to her with a rare smile on his lips and gently smoothed her windblown hair from her face. “But if you were to put on a lovely gown like that lady’s wearing over there, with your hair all done up like hers, you would stop the heart of every man on this ship. All we need are the right clothes.”
She watched the rich passengers for a moment, strolling around in their finery and winter wraps. Several wore fur coats. Fiona shivered in her thin shawl and wondered how it would feel to be wrapped in fur.
“Will we buy fine clothes when we get to America, then?” she asked.
“I have a better plan.” He bent his head close to hers and whispered, “I’ve been watching the fancy staterooms, you see—keeping track of all the people coming and going, and counting how many are sleeping in each one.” He patted the vest pocket where he kept the wad of paper with its lists of numbers. “I’ve also been watching to see what time they go up on deck or to the dining room to eat, and how long they’re away. I know exactly which rooms I’m going to tap. But I’ll need your help.”
“Tap? W-what are you talking about?” But Fiona was afraid that she knew the answer. He intended to steal from the rich passengers’staterooms, and he needed her help. She wondered if he had stolen the money for their passage to America, too.
“Believe me, girl, this wealthy lot has so many clothes they’ll never miss the few piddling things we’ll be borrowing.”
“We’ll be giving everything back, then?” she asked hopefully. The idea of borrowing sounded much better than stealing. Rory made a face, waving away her question without answering it. He led her down a staircase and into a forbidden hallway. It was spotlessly clean and smelled of fresh enamel paint.
“Now, I’ll need you to wait in this passageway and keep watch while I slip inside that first room, you hear? Make noise for me if someone comes.”
“Dad, no!”
“Shh… !” He clamped his hand over her mouth to quiet her. “Hush, girl, and do as you’re told. I need you to create a diversion.”
“H-how do I do that?”
“Use your charm and your beauty, Fiona. Flirt with the stewards and distract them. Tell them you’re lost and can’t find your way out. You can do it, girl.”
“But people are sure to make a fuss when they discover that some of their things are missing. What if the stewards search our bags?”
“Don’t worry yourself. I won’t be taking so much from any one room that they’ll even miss it—a tie from one, a shirt from another. Do you see?”
“The nuns said that stealing was—”
“Hush, lass. The nuns don’t need to bother themselves about what clothes they’ll be wearing, do they now?”
Fiona was certain from what she’d been taught in school that stealing was a sin. But another of God??
?s commandments said that she had to honor her father and mother. What was a girl supposed to do when two of God’s rules disagreed with each other that way?
“Let’s go, lass,” Rory said, nudging her down the hallway. “We have work to do.”
Fiona did as she was told. The first day that she and her father worked together was the scariest, with Fiona jumping at every sound, her heart pounding so hard she was certain it would burst. When they finally returned to their bunks in steerage, Fiona lay down on hers and wept with relief. Each day after that, it became easier and easier for her to stroll down the deserted passageways, looking lost and bewildered while her father broke into the rich passengers’staterooms—especially when she saw the beautiful clothing and jewelry he picked out for her to wear.
Two or three times a passenger exited one of the other rooms while Fiona waited in the narrow hallway, and at first she thought she might faint. But experience soon taught her to smile prettily and say “Good day” as if she had every right to be there. Only once did a steward approach her, and Fiona did exactly as her father had instructed.
“Oh, I’m so glad to see you,” she told the steward, speaking loudly enough for her father to hear. “I’m afraid I’m terribly lost. Could you please show me which passage to take?”
As the days passed and their loot accumulated, a rush of excitement replaced the fear Fiona once felt. Each time she entered one of the narrow corridors and smelled the scent of enamel paint, she would smile and feel the delicious thrill of danger. She felt closer to her father than she ever had, and they returned from their adventures each afternoon laughing with exhilaration from the risk they’d taken. They weren’t even in America yet, and already Fiona’s life was more interesting than it had ever been back home in Ireland. Even so, when Rory came to her one day and said, “We’re done, girl. We have all the clothes we’ll be needing,” she felt relieved.
Her relief was short-lived. The next day the sun shone warmly for the first time in days, and all the decks—first-class as well as steerage—quickly filled with people. “Scrub your face and fix your hair,” Rory told Fiona. “I want you to dress yourself in one of your new outfits.”
“Won’t someone recognize their own clothes?” she asked.
“Not if you pick something plain to wear—like that dark skirt and white blouse.”
“But it’s chilly up on deck. I’ll freeze!” Rory borrowed a beautifully embroidered shawl from a Bohemian woman they’d met in steerage and wrapped it around Fiona’s shoulders.
Even with the shawl, she couldn’t stop shivering with fear.
“No, Dad. Please don’t make me do this. I’m scared to death that we’ll get caught.”
Rory pushed her along, ignoring her protests. “There’s nothing to it,” he insisted. “Just walk up the stairs and onto the main deck as if you belonged there. Hold your head up high. Believe me, everyone will be looking at your beautiful face, not at your clothes. And nobody ever asks a lovely woman such as yourself to show them her first-class ticket, that’s for certain.”
“W-what will I do once I’m there?”
“Stroll around a bit, then come back. That’s all. This is for practice, Fiona.” She was afraid to ask what she was practicing for. She did as she was told, her knees trembling as she climbed the stairs.
The first person Fiona passed was a steward who bowed slightly in respect as she swept past. When she glanced over her shoulder at him she saw that he had turned around to gaze at her. When he saw she had caught him staring, he hurried off, his cheeks bright. Fiona gained courage, pleased with the effect she’d had on him. Next she passed an older gentleman who tipped his hat to her and said, “Good afternoon, miss.” She smiled sweetly in return. At last she reached the ship’s rail, where she paused, hanging on to it for dear life until she could stop shaking.
The salt air was warm, the sky clear, and the first-class deck was so wonderfully different from the overcrowded steerage deck down below that, like her father, Fiona suddenly knew that she wanted this life, not her old one. She drew a deep breath and released her grip on the rail, ready to take a leisurely stroll down the length of the deck and back again.
Fiona walked past people lounging in wicker deck chairs, their legs covered with warm rugs as stewards served them tea and scones. She longed to lounge there, too, but didn’t dare. She kept walking, passing a nanny tending two small boys and then a group of men in overcoats, talking and smoking cigars. The gentlemen tipped their hats to her and said, “Good afternoon.” She noticed that the women all wore hats or carried parasols to protect their skin from the sun. She must tell her father to steal a hat for her. The thought made her smile. She’d been horrified at his plan at first; now she was getting particular about what he stole.
Fiona walked down to the end of the deck as far as she could go, swaying her hips as if she had the entire day at her leisure, then she turned and ambled back. This time she savored the open admiration she saw on all the men’s faces, the envy she saw on the women’s. She was beautiful, welldressed, and they accepted her as one of their own. She inhaled one last breath of sea air, licking the taste of salt from her bottom lip, then swept gracefully down the stairs to where her father was waiting for her.
“Well, lass?”
“I need a hat,” she said. “All of the rich ladies are wearing them.” She held back her smile for as long as she could, then added with a grin, “A slouch hat—made of felt. With a flower on it, if you please.”
Rory Quinn laughed as he lifted Fiona off the ground and twirled her around. “That’s my girl!”
Chapter
23
NEW YORK CITY— 1920
For the first several hours after landing at the immigration center on Ellis Island, Fiona suffered gut-wrenching distress. She would never reach American shores. They were so close—she could see New York City in the distance—but God would surely punish her and her father for stealing from the other passengers onboard the ship. She would be sent to prison… or, worse, sent home.
“What’s the matter with you?” Rory growled as they waited in a long maze-like queue.
“My stomach hurts. I feel like I’m going to be sick.”
“Well, get a hold of yourself, girl. If they think you’re ill, they’ll never let us in the country.”
“I’m scared, Dad. What if they look in our bags and find all the things—”
“Hush! No one’s going to be looking in our bags. They’ll be looking to see if we’re healthy—and you look green around the gills. Stand up straight! Smile at the man, understand?”
“Yes, Dad.”
Fiona watched to see how her fellow steerage passengers fared as she waited her turn and saw that her father was right; the American officials weren’t inspecting the baggage too closely. But the officers seemed illtempered and impatient as they dealt with the noisy mob of immigrants, pushing the uncomprehending masses to and fro the way sheep dogs herded sheep. Fiona felt sorry for the poor souls who didn’t speak English. The cavernous hall had a high, vaulted ceiling and the volume of noise grew louder and louder as the frustrated officials began to shout as if it might finally help the foreigners understand. The American version of the English language sounded so different to Fiona that she had to listen carefully herself in order to understand what the Americans were saying.
When her turn finally came for the dreaded Immigration Service inspection, the official needed only to make sure that she and her father were healthy and that they had a sponsor and a bit of money to support themselves. No one searched their bags. A few hours after landing, Fiona stepped ashore in America at last.
The area around the dock where they landed looked as shabby and derelict as what they’d left behind in Ireland. A crowd of drivers waited with hired drays to transport their things, and Rory bargained with a scruffy-looking man for a ride on his wagon, pulled by a swaybacked horse. She and her father didn’t have much in the way of belongings, but they would have quickly gotten
lost in the enormous city without the driver’s help. He took them to Cousin Darby’s tenement on the Lower East Side, and as soon as Fiona glimpsed the neighborhood she wanted to go home. New York was bitterly cold, with mounds of dirty snow and slush piled along the streets. The tiny patches of sky that she glimpsed between buildings were gray and smoke-filled. She missed the trees and hedgerows and green hills of Ireland.
“This is awful, Dad!” She pulled her handkerchief from her pocket and covered her nose and mouth with it to block out the stench from the open sewers.
“We won’t live this way for very long, lass. You’ll see. We’ll have our mansion in no time.”
But of course it wasn’t true. Even with stolen clothes Fiona and her father weren’t welcomed into the fancy parlors of New York’s upper class any more than they had been welcomed in Ireland. Cousin Darby and his family had ten children and lived in an overcrowded tenement that was as noisy and stench-filled as the steerage hold had been. For the first month, Fiona slept in a bed with three of her cousins and was bitten nearly to death every night by fleas. She had to wait in line for everything, from the shared outhouses to the community water spigot. Rats as big as hedgehogs skittered through the streets, and filthy, poorly clad children crammed the tenement hallways and stairwells and sidewalks, jostling each other, begging for food. This couldn’t be America, the land of promise. Everyone seemed so beaten down, so hopeless. Fiona felt as though she’d boarded the wrong ship, landed at the wrong destination.
“This is worse than at home, Dad,” she said as they walked the garbage-strewn streets near the East River, searching for work. “At least my bedroom at Wickham Hall was clean and I had three meals to eat every day.”
“Give it time, lass. First things, first. Once we find jobs and a place of our own, things will be better.” But even Rory seemed disheartened.
They searched for employment from dawn to dusk, following every lead, going into every factory and business that posted a Help Wanted sign out front. Fiona and her father had two advantages over most of the thousands of immigrants searching for work: they spoke English, and they were much better dressed, thanks to the clothing that Rory had stolen.