Newgate Prison Copper Mines and the Irish Lass Colonial America Romance

Chapter Three

Christina sat by the large cast-iron pot in the kitchen, her heavy apron in place, carefully stirring the lye. She had been at odds and ends since she awoke, and with the bright sun now bringing a gentle warmth to the snowy landscape, it seemed the perfect time to get this chore done. She was glad she only had to make soap once a year, for the process was long and her hands often ended up raw as a result. But the efforts were simply part and parcel of maintaining the household.

The lye itself took all year to collect. All the ash from the house fireplaces was carefully gathered each Saturday night and put into the wooden hopper out back. She had spent the last hour pouring water through the container, separating the lye out from the ash.

Now it was time to refine the lye.

Preparing the lye was more art than science, but her Nana had been something of an alchemist in this regard. Christina wasn't sure which parts of the secret recipe passed to her were fact and which were steeped in faerie myth, but she diligently followed each step as if it were set in stone.

The lye had been slowly heating for several hours over flames just the color of her hair. And the perfect moment was approaching. She carefully stirred the mixture, watching for it to take on the proper viscosity. Thicker than river water ... thinner than full-moon cream ...

She had to be careful ... careful ... it needed to be just right. She had a fresh-laid chicken egg alongside her, for the final test. When the egg was able to float, the lye would be ready.

It was nearly there –

A heavy, preemptive knocking came on the door.

Christina sighed in frustration. Her father was asleep in his chair before the fire, and thankfully the rapping did not seem to have intruded on his sleep. Perhaps the caller would go away -

The knocking came again.

Christina put down her spoon and wiped her hands down on her apron. She hurried over to the door. The snow sparkled in the afternoon sun, the heavy drifts reaching her knees.

Mr. Richardson stood there, hat in hand, his gray eyes gleaming from his angled face. His blond hair had been slicked back. "Miss O'Donovan. Might I come in?"

She glanced to her father's sleeping form. "My father is indisposed, and I'm in the middle of soap-making, so if you didn't mind –"

"I don't mind waiting for him at all," Mr. Richardson smoothly said, stepping in and closing the door behind him.

Christina held in the frisson of annoyance and hurried back into the kitchen, taking up her spoon again. If she spoiled this batch of lye, she'd be forced to trade some of her best chickens to the Williams for some of theirs. And she'd been carefully planning the meat out to last her and her father the full winter.

Mr. Richardson followed her in to the kitchen, tossing his hat on the table. "It is All Soul's Day, Miss O'Donovan."

"Oh, is it? I'd barely remembered." She leaned over the pot and continued to stir. Indeed, she hardly knew what day of the week it was. All she knew was that the funeral was tomorrow, and her fiancé would be put down in the earth. Not in a temporary place like the mines, where he descended and emerged every day. But a permanent resting place, one from which he never could escape ...

Mr. Richardson reached into his pocket and drew out a folded handkerchief. She could see a red R stitched into its top corner. He held the folded shape out to her. "I have brought you a gift. In honor of the dearly departed. We can pray together for the everlasting salvation for those we have lost."

The lye was approaching just the right point. She carefully tested it with her spoon. "You didn't need to bring me a present," she absently demurred. "I do appreciate the thought."