Newgate Prison Copper Mines and the Irish Lass Colonial America Romance

Chapter Eleven

Christina's heart thundered against her ribs as the wagon approached the massive Connecticut River. The sight of it always took her breath away. Simsbury had a few smaller streams and rivers, such as the Hop Brook which powered the mill, but nothing like this. Nothing of this grandeur and power.

There was no way to ford it. No way to bridge it. It was an insurmountable barrier, running all the way from Springfield to the far north, down to the very ocean itself.

She had never been to either, of course. Windsor was the furthest she had ever journeyed, and even then only a handful of times. There had simply been no need.

She thought of her mother, sailing nearly three thousand miles in the hold of a creaking ship for three long months, facing drowning, disease, and worse. Her mother had been just eighteen when she came; younger than Christina herself was now.

Her mother had stepped foot in a foreign land. She had trusted that God would set the path.

The reverend was riding alongside them on his own steed. He pointed down the street. "Over there. That's the White Eagle."

The tavern was a two-and-a-half-story saltbox structure painted white, with a covered porch across its front. A sign hung by the front door showing a white eagle against a dark blue background.

The reverend climbed down from his horse. "You two stay here. I'll go in and check."

Christina wanted desperately to go in and hear for herself, but she nodded in understanding and stayed with her father. She had a sense that the barkeep might be less willing to talk openly with a young woman present in his establishment.

The traffic around them was busy, shoppers, pedestrians, travelers enjoying their day. All seemed to relish the bright, sunny Saturday with the knowledge that true winter was not far off. This was the stuttering gap of the season, the breath of warmth before the snows came back for good. Soon the snow would blanket the ground thick, up to her knees or higher, and it would not fully abate until spring warmed the earth again in March.

The reverend came back out from the tavern. His gaze seemed to be shadowed.

Christina's heart leapt up into her throat. "What is it? Is William all right?"

He mounted his steed. "The doctor's house overlooks the river, some ways to the south. Follow me. I'll guide us there."

Now Christina could barely breathe. Clearly something was wrong. The reverend set his horse in front of theirs, rather than alongside, and Christina wondered if it was to forestall any conversation until they reached their destination. It made her worry rise to even more staggering heights.

The thicker density of tavern and shop fell away to houses and farms, and there to one side was a small, white schoolhouse with stables alongside. And still they rode. Across the wide river, the woods were thick and lush. Seabirds called out as they sailed on the air high above.

One thought beat in Christina's mind.

Something had happened to William.

Had the horse been spooked by something during their training, and kicked out? Maybe shod hooves had found forehead and William had been left unconscious. Maybe he had been trampled, his ribs crushed. Maybe, like her beloved brother Patrick, his body had been broken ... broken ... and there would be no repairing him ...

They came up a rise.

The house was stunning.

It was a full three stories high, white, with ebony black shutters on all windows, even the dormers in the roof. It had two separate chimneys, one on each end. The front porch was elegantly covered and had a lantern hanging on either side. The land was cleared for a good space on all sides, and the split-rail fencing demarking the land was in good repair.