Honor's Debt

HONOR’S DEBT

Robinhill Farm Series Book 1

by Noelle Clark

Stop Press Publishing

www.stoppresspublishing.com

Honor’s Debt

Copyright © 2014 Noelle Clark

First E-book Publication: November 2014 Secret Cravings Publishing

Second E-book Publication: October 2015 Stop Press Publishing/Noelle Clark Books

ISBN-13:978-0-9944586-0-5

Cover design by Dawné Dominique

Edited by Judah Raine

Proofread by Renee Waring

All cover art copyright © 2014 by Noelle Clark

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

Other Books by Noelle Clark

Honor’s Promise – Liam’s Journey (Robinhill Farm Series Book 2)

Honor’s Legacy – Winds of Change (Robinhill Farm Series Book 3)

Rosamanti

Let Angels Fly

Sands of Time (in the Anthology – A Season to Remember

http://www.noelleclark.net/

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the memory of Eileen and Bridget Kennedy, and my Grandmother, Kathleen Kennedy. Also to my Great-Grandparents, Patrick and Johanna Kennedy, who emigrated in 1879 as free settlers from County Tipperary, Ireland, to Queensland, Australia.

My heartfelt thanks to all who helped me write this story, especially Robyn Dale and Caroline O’Connor.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

About The Author

Chapter One

Ireland, December 1939

The bitter, early-December chill reached into her bones, and they ached as though crushed in one of the giant metal presses in the factory where she worked. A sad, grey mist hung like a shroud over the rough wooden planks of Cobh Wharves. Eileen shivered and pulled her scarf a little closer around her neck and chin to stave off the numbingly cold, damp air.

A deafening blast from the waiting ship’s horn rent the air and swallowed the noises on the wharf. She jumped and her thin shoulders hunched involuntarily as the bleak, forlorn wail twisted the familiar knife of regret in her heart, refreshing her memory—just in case she’d forgotten—of the seriousness of her predicament.

Well, dat’s it, Eileen. Off you go now. Time to board.

She understood her father would want to be gone as quickly as possible. He hated the cold. She bent down and picked up the battered, over-filled, cardboard suitcase, its precious contents kept from bursting out by one of her brother’s brown leather belts. Had she not been so cold—of body and of heart—she would have cried. But she knew there was no use in wasting fussy tears now. The time for crying was long gone.

With her head bowed against the bite of the wind, she put her foot out, ready to take her first step. A step toward her future. A step away from her past.

Wait a minute, girl. His gruff voice made her heart pound in her chest. Please let me get this over with, Da. I got somethin’ for ye.

Eileen turned to see a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper, enveloped by his gnarly old hand. She stared at the package, stained here and there by circles of grease and tied up with the same string her Mam used to truss the turkey every Sunday for dinner. Her eyes stung like acid as they suddenly filled, blurring her vision.

It’s from yer Mam. He thrust the package at her. She glanced up briefly, a reflex, not really keen to see his expression but curious at the same time. His ruddy face, spiked with tufts of white whiskers here and there where he always managed to miss some when shaving, was held high. His faded hazel eyes looked up to the decks of the black, steel hull of the ship.

With steady hands, she grasped the bundle. Da…

Look after ye’self now, girl.

Did she imagine his voice wavered? Perhaps it was just the intensely cold wind that whipped his words away as it whistled through the ship’s rigging and whirled down through the web of ropes that held it fast to the wharf.

An intense ache centered itself in her chest and stole her breath and her words. Another blast of the ship’s horn assaulted her ears. The crowd on the wharf became noisy. She looked around her. People hugged and kissed loved ones as they said their goodbyes. Above her, the gangway swayed as a steady line of passengers filed onto the battered and rusty hull of the steamship. When she turned back to say goodbye to her Da, he was gone.

An agonized sob burst out from deep within, hurting as it played out on her face and in her heart. She tightened her grip on the parcel and the suitcase bulging with her meager possessions, and joined the line of people moving slowly up the gangway. She gazed up at the twin black funnels, black smoke from the coal-fired furnaces flying horizontal in the stiff wind. When she reached the deck of the ship, she delved into her pocket for her passage ticket and, with unsteady hands, tendered it to the young ship’s officer, who looked as shabby and unkempt as the old steamship itself.

Miss Eileen O’Doherty. You’re on E Deck, aft. His aloof blue eyes scanned her from head to toe, then a bored look rolled over his face and he jerked a thumb in the direction of the rear of the ship. She wondered if he noticed the slight bulge to her stomach.

She began to tremble as she walked slowly along the deck toward the faded sign that said ‘Steerage Accommodation’, with an arrow pointing downward. She’d never been any further from her home in County Tipperary than Cork—until today. Very few seventeen-year-olds had. How would she survive the long sea voyage to Australia? The ache in her chest became worse. How would she ever endure life in that faraway land, away from her beloved Mam?

Eileen took a deep, ragged breath, entered the narrow doorway and began the seemingly endless climb down a set of steep, metal steps. Her footsteps echoed in the small chamber as she struggled to hold on to her bag with one hand and grip the parcel and the rusty metal handrail with the other. The smell of grease and oil became stronger, and the noise of the engines filled her ears, louder and louder, the further down she went. The stairs seemed to go on forever, deeper into the hull. The farther she descended into the dimly lit shaft, the more her fear grew like a hard ball in her chest, until finally she reached the lowest accommodation deck of the SS Georgiana.

She stood at the bottom, unsure which way to go. People filled the narrow corridor, shouting out to one another. Mothers, holding fractious babies dragged toddlers and older children by one arm through the pandemonium. Men carried leather suitcases and hoisted trunks up on one shoulder as they forged through the thickening crowd, hell-bent on finding their cabin. She couldn’t see above the heads around her. Rather than fight the stream, she moved along with the river of humanity who, like her, were too poor to be able to afford a proper cabin, let alone to buy a passage on one of the newer diesel ships.

Soon, the heaving crowd sucked her into a room no bigger than their sitting room back on the farm in Tipperary. In the dim light, she saw it contained three narrow iron beds, stacked three high, right up to the ceiling. There was no natural light—she knew they were well below sea level.

Roight, we’ll take these ones. A man in a dull brown suit threw a suitcase on one of the bunks, then turned and picked up each of his children to deposit them, one at a time, on other beds. He finally took the screaming baby from the arms of its frazzled mother and held it awkwardly while the woman hoisted the heavy bags she carried onto another bunk.

Hello, love. The woman studied her with tired blue eyes and used her now free hand to wipe a stray wisp of hair from her face and tuck it behind one ear. Looks like you’re stuck with us. Why not take that one over there in the corner before someone else does?

She glanced over where the woman pointed and saw a vacant, bottom level bunk. A young man rushed into the room and headed straight for it. She felt a shove on her shoulder.

Quick, love.

Without hesitation, she bolted the remaining few feet and threw her battered suitcase on the bed just as the young man reached it. His scowl said it all as black eyes glared into hers.

Looks like the young lady beat you, lad. The kind woman stepped in front of her, shielding her from any further argument. Without a word, he turned around and exited the room.

Eileen suddenly felt faint, and the small, stuffy room began to swim. Strong arms grabbed her and helped to lay her down on the hard, narrow bed. She soon felt a breeze in her face and focused her eyes to see the woman fanning her with her skirt.

What’s yer name? The woman’s angular features softened as she studied her.

Eileen. Her voice came out as barely a whisper.

The woman tilted her head to one side and a motherly, soft smile turned up the corners of her mouth.

How far along are ye, then? she asked gently.

Chapter Two

Ireland, 75 years later

Ice-blue eyes peered back at her from the small, round cosmetic mirror she held up to her face. Long black lashes fanned Honor’s lids, and a delicate arch of dark eyebrows rested above them. Her gaze rested for a moment on the slight puffiness underneath the lower lids, tell-tale signs of sleep deprivation. Then she tilted the mirror down so that she could see her mouth. She raised the lipstick to her full lips. The red cream slid across them easily, making them shine brightly in the otherwise watery sunlight which filtered down from the pale blue sky above Dublin airport. She rolled her lips together, gave her face an extra overall glance, and shut the compact with a click.

A shiny blue hatchback pulled up in front of where she stood on the sidewalk outside the car-hire office. The young man driving it opened the door and came around to her.

Here we go, Miss Quirk. All set. His cheery smile lifted her spirits. Let me help you with your bags. He picked up her suitcase, opened the back hatch-door, and stowed the bag in the back. Are you all right to get onto the motorway from here?

I think so. I’m heading for Carlow.

He pointed to a large green sign. Follow the signs to the M1 then, in about ten miles, you’ll need to get in the left lane and exit onto the N7. Got it?

She flashed a smile at him. Thanks. I’ll muddle my way through.

He held the door open for her as she climbed into the little car. She adjusted the seat, flicked him a wave, and took off. After several roundabouts, she indicated and moved into the left lane. She was nervous. The traffic was fairly heavy, and she didn’t like driving in places she wasn’t familiar with.

Once she had navigated her way onto the N7, she took a deep breath. The traffic flowed smoothly here and the open countryside soothed her nerves. In the distance she spotted a service station. Her tense shoulders dropped. The worst of the traffic was behind her. Just what I need, a coffee. She could almost smell it brewing, she wanted one so badly. A coffee and a chance to study the map and set the GPS co-ordinates. In under thirty seconds she exited the motorway, arrived at the service station, and pulled into the parking lot outside a café.

She grabbed her handbag and some maps, unclipped the GPS from the cradle on the car dashboard, and then went inside. She approached the woman at the counter and placed an order for a long black coffee and a little fruit tartlet that caught her eye as she studied the cold cabinet.

That’s three Euro, love.

The woman’s strong Irish accent reminded her that she was finally here in Ireland, and her heart skipped a beat. The woman’s speech reminded her of her great-grandmother whose Irish brogue had never left her despite so many years away from her homeland. She took out a crisp five Euro note, and passed it over.

Just take a seat. The woman returned her change. Cara will bring it over in a minute.

She turned and inspected the room. Most of the tables were taken, but she spotted one that looked inviting, bathed in a shaft of sunlight near the front window, headed for it and sat down. As she waited for her coffee, she pored over the maps the car hire firm had given her.

A teenage girl, presumably Cara, brought over her coffee and the small cake and set it down on the table.

Mornin’ ma’am. And it’s a beautiful one at that. The girl smiled broadly.

Good morning. She smiled back. It certainly is. Just gorgeous.

The girl’s eyes widened. Ah, now where’re ye from? Australia?

She laughed. I didn’t realize my accent was so obvious.

The girl laughed back. Ah, I can pick tourists a mile away. So, where’re ye headin’?

I’m going to Tipperary. She paused and thought of the fine red lines on the map, spread like a spider-web to link each village and town. Rather than go on the main roads and highways, I’d like to travel on the country roads, away from the traffic. Do you think that’s a good idea?

The girl reached for the map spread open on the table and pointed to a network of lines criss-crossing the countryside. Oh sure, they’re fine. But be careful of coming up too quickly behind old farmer Paddy out there on his tractor. You see, the farmers trundle along on the roads without a care in the world. If you give them a friendly beep of your horn, most times they’ll pull over for you to pass. The roads are very narrow, so just don’t go too fast.

Thanks, I appreciate your help.

It’s no problem. When you get to Carlow, turn right here. The girl’s finger traced along the map. Drive safely now, and enjoy our beautiful countryside.

Relief that she was out of the city, and a good coffee, brought with them good humor. She could now focus on her Irish adventure. Well, hardly ‘adventure’, she thought. Her trip to Ireland was never going to be all vacation. Rather, the idea of a relaxing trip was secondary to the real reason she was here. Once again, she felt the flutter of nerves in her tummy. Despite several letters to her cousins, she’d had no reply. It was disconcerting, to say the least. Either they were very rude, or they just didn’t care if they met their cousin from Australia. She sighed. Whichever it was, she would visit them, whether they liked it or not.

Refreshed from her stop, she was soon driving along the highway, enjoying the green fields of the countryside, and enchanted by the quaint villages that dotted the main road. She found the drive easy, and although she would almost cross the whole country diagonally, it was only a three or four hour drive. For an Australian, this was nothing—a mere work commute for some.

It was midday before she reached the sizeable town of Carlow. She looked for the turn-off the girl had recommended and spotted the sign easily, then settled down to a leisurely drive across country on the lesser-used roads. She was in no hurry—she didn’t need to be in Timpelaire until three o’clock.

The pale blue sky and watery sun, in contrast to the iridescent green fields, gave the countryside a translucent hue and highlighted the old ruins of churches and castles which dotted the rolling hills at surprisingly regular intervals. Large rock structures, like mini Stonehenge arrangements, intrigued her. The hills soon gave way to verdant farmland filled with fat, long-haired, russet-colored cattle. Further on, herds of stout, black cattle with wide white bands around their stomachs caught her eye. She’d read about the Banded Galways. They were striking to look at with their unusually patterned hides. The narrow roadway mostly followed the farm fence-lines, occasionally twisting around as it climbed hills, and each curve revealed a new vista which made her gasp. It was hard to drive and properly see everything. She told herself she had plenty of time to sightsee later, once she’d caught up with her cousins. That was top priority for her. Once she’d fulfilled the task set her, she could relax and enjoy Ireland.

* * * *

The time passed quickly. When she next glanced at the clock on the car’s dashboard, she was surprised to see it was nearly two o’clock. At the next little village she pulled over and looked at the map. She was quite close to Timpelaire. Once again, butterflies flickered inside her and her heart rate increased. Estimating that she was only about thirty minutes from her destination, she decided to phone her cousins to make sure they were home. She rifled through her bag, found her cell phone, and took out the notebook where she had written their details. She took a deep breath and tapped in their number. The phone was silent. One glance at the screen told her there was no signal. Damn.

She climbed out of the car and walked along the main street of the village. Outside a shop advertising newspapers was a cream telephone box with green trim. Unsure about what coins to use, she walked into the store to ask. The small space was crammed with racks of newspapers, books, and even basic groceries.

She almost didn’t see the man who peered at her from behind a counter smothered with an odd assortment of merchandise. Well. He nodded his head in greeting.

Good afternoon. Could you tell me what coins I need to make a phone call in the phone box please?

The man slowly raised a hand and smoothed down the magnificently long moustache that hid his whole mouth. Emergency is it?

Ah, no. Not an emergency.

Yer not from here. Well. His eyes squinted as his gaze scanned her up and down.

No. Um, the phone box? How do I use it please?

He lifted his brown tweed flat cap to expose a shiny pink scalp and scratched his head thoughtfully. Well. That depends on where you’re ringin’.

She tried to stifle a frustrated sigh but failed. It’s a local call. Timpelaire.

His brows shot up to reveal red-rimmed sockets around his pale blue eyes, now wide with curiosity. Well. Timpelaire. Well now. He slapped his flat cap back on his head and his mouth looked as though it was trying to smile. Who in Timpelaire would ye be wanting to phone now?

Her frustration boiled over. Look. I’m tired. I’ve been travelling for a long time. I need to phone my cousins. Can you please tell me how to use the…phone?

A rustling sound came from behind the man, and a stout woman with snow-white hair squeezed past him and stared at her.

Oh move over, Seamus, and let me help the poor girlie. She reached under the shop counter, brought out an old fashioned telephone, and plonked it on the bench. Here ye go. Don’t be minding old sticky beak ‘ere. I’ll take him out back while ye make ye call.

The woman grabbed Seamus by the elbow and dragged him through the door to the back of the shop, all the while berating him for being so obtuse.

Honor couldn’t help but smile. Welcome to Ireland, I guess. She let out a breath, opened her notebook and dialled the number.

O’Doherty. A gruff, deep voice burst down the line, taking her by surprise.

Oh, hello. My name’s Honor Quirk. I sent you some letters.

Silence.

I’m your cousin. From Australia. Her voice faltered. So much for the warm welcome from the Irish cousins, she thought.

What was it you wanted, then, Miss Quirk? Did she detect sarcasm in his curt response? Whatever it was, it was very off-putting.

She cleared her throat and tried to muster some strength from the bubbling anger that slowly seeped through her. As I said in my letters—which you never responded to—I wanted to come and visit you while I’m in Ireland. I don’t want anything. I just wanted to…meet you, and… Maybe I just changed my mind.

Again, there was a long, silent pause before he answered. I’m going out just now, but Dermot will be home. You can speak to him. Goodbye. She heard the click as he hung up.

Chapter Three

Well of all the rude… Blood suffused her face and her hands shook. How dare he? She hung the receiver back in the cradle with a loud bang.

The woman appeared again. All finished, love?

Yes…all done. Thank you.

She pushed open the glass door of the little shop, and, still seething, strode out into