Newgate Prison Copper Mines and the Irish Lass Colonial America Romance

Chapter One

You never miss the water

until the well has run dry

- Irish Proverb

Simsbury, Connecticut Colony
October 31, 1773

Christina kept a steady hand on the reins as the wagon made fresh tracks through the ever-deepening snow. The pale afternoon sun was barely visible through the gray clouds and tumbling flakes around her. She tucked her flame-red hair back beneath her cap and pulled her cloak in against her fawn brown hemp dress. In all her twenty-four years, she'd never seen a storm come up as quick as this. There'd been no hint of it when they left the house for church this morning.

And now on their return trip, only four hours later, here they were, deep in the thick of it.

Beside her, her father pulled his blanket more tightly around his frail body, his rheumy eyes barely peering out through the folds.

She pressed her lips together. Somehow they would make it home.

She wished for the hundredth time that Seth had been with them at church. Her fiancé knew well that he could be fined for non-attendance; the rules here in Connecticut were more stringent than they were in his native Rhode Island. She had no doubt that it was his overseer at the copper mines who had violated the Lord's Sabbath and forced Seth to work.

She offered her gratitude to God that the mines were finally closing down. Seth would be free of Mr. Richardson for once and for all. And then, in a few weeks when they were married, there would be plenty enough to keep Seth busy.

After all, the roof needed mending before winter came on full force. The barn could use its share of repairs, too. When spring finally arrived, they'd have his strong hands and back available to properly plow the fields. To plant the tobacco. To turn the farm back into a healthy, solvent enterprise.

The wagon skidded, and her heart hammered against her ribs. She gently called out, "Careful there, Esther. Mind your footing."

The mare whinnied and moved back on course.

Christina willed her shoulders to relax. One more mile. One more mile and they'd reach the two-and-a-half-story saltbox which her grandfather had built with his very own hands. She'd get the horse and wagon into the barn, get her father settled in his chair by the fire, and at last she'd be able to ease. She'd read to him his favorite passages from the Bible. Maybe of the Exodus. He always enjoyed that, perhaps because it mirrored his own parents' flight from Ireland.

Or maybe, on a snowy afternoon like this, he'd prefer the Song of Solomon. It always brought back memories for him of her mother – his beloved wife, who had died in childbirth along with Christina's stillborn younger brother.

Christina had only been five. Still, she remembered how joyful the family had been up until that moment. How she and her older brother had eagerly looked forward to the arrival of the bairn.

And now she was the only one left.

She squinted against the snow and kept a steady hand on the reins.

Just one more mile. They were close.

The mare stepped steadily through the deep snow, each hoof leaving a deep furrow in its wake.