“It’s da grandchildren ye’re looking to,” he said, winking at Eli. “Did ye see her cry as they said their vows? Saints preserve us when Nora marries.”
Maggie snorted. “I don’t know if that girl will ever marry, but I thank the good Lord every day for my children. Sam is settled now with Dottie, and Clayton will be married soon to Genie. I’ll have grandchildren soon enough.” She patted Eli’s cheek. “I won’t be henpeckin’ ye to put on the leg shackles.”
“How’s yer grandmother?” asked Paddy. “Maggie says she’s had a chill.”
Elijah nodded, a pang in his chest as he thought of Grandmama sitting alone. “She was disappointed to miss the wedding. Sampson thinks she’ll be fine after some rest. And Maggie’s soup, of course.”
***
Cheapside, London
Elijah set the bowl of soup on the side table, then turned to tuck the quilt around his grandmother. Her cheeks had color again, her hazel eyes brighter. “You look better, Grandmama.”
“Thanks to you, dear boy. How did I manage without you?” she asked, her fingers stroking the silver plait trailing down her shoulder.
“You didn’t need me before,” he replied, kissing the top of her head. “Can I get you anything?”
“Tell Mrs. O’Brien the stew was excellent. I owe her some tarts for her trouble.” She patted Eli’s hand, her eyes traveling up and down his frame. “You’re a fine-looking boy, and I’m proud of you. Your mother would be too.”
His heart skipped a beat when she mentioned his mother. Losing her at the age of five had been devastating. He hadn’t understood the finality of death, hoping for the first year with the O’Briens that she would walk through their door. He used to dream it had been a mistake, she and Pa laughing at the joke they had played on him.
Maggie O’Brien had seen through his smiles and optimism. When the sadness threatened to overtake him, she always seemed to know. Come here, dearest, she would say. I need some comforting today.
Elijah would climb onto her lap or sit next to her on the chaise longue, and she would wrap her arms around him. He would be enveloped in her love, chasing the uncertainty away, rocking and singing to him as he let the tears silently fall. Once he had dried his face, she would declare he had made her feel so much better that she must reward him with a biscuit. They would walk to the kitchen, his small hand in hers, while she chattered away.
Maggie never pushed him to talk about his past but was always there to listen. Even when he told her how he wanted to find his mother’s family.
“I wish you could have known your uncles,” his grandmother said, bringing him back to the present. “They would have loved you like they loved your mother.”
“And I would have loved them,” he repeated for at least the hundredth time. “But what’s more important is that we have each other.”
Elijah’s two uncles had both died in the Second Anglo-Maratha War as the British slowly claimed dominance in India. His grandfather had died shortly before Paddy had discovered Eli’s family. Mrs. Norton had been left with a debt-ridden tavern and no available funds.
A blessing it was, you finding me, she’d said that day three years ago. She’d known Elijah immediately, stating he was the mirror image of his mother as she cradled his face in her hands. With her first hug, he had made a silent promise never to let her go. He loved the O’Briens, no less than he loved Grandmother Norton, but there was something special about looking into someone’s eyes so like his own. An unspoken connection, an immediate bond of blood and love.
With his position at Bow Street, Eli had managed to find a small place for both of them. The O’Brien clan had swooped in to help, and Maggie O’Brien now stopped by for a weekly tea with Mrs. Norton.
“What are you thinking about?” asked Grandmama quietly.
“Us, our lives the past few years.” He smiled and winked at her. “How lucky I am to have found you.”
“Fate is a funny thing,” she said. “I thought I was alone, destined for the grave sooner than later. Then a knock on my door restored my hope for the future. You’re a good boy, Elijah.”
They sat before the hearth, a cheerful fire cracking and popping to fill the silence. The faded blue rug beneath them warmed his stockinged feet. He studied the miniature portraits that lined the mantel. The family he would never meet. Eli saw his likeness in the faces of his uncles. The portrait of his mother, who would remain forever young.
“Tell me about the wedding. I want to hear every detail,” said his grandmother. “Harry and his titled lady make such a beautiful couple.”
Eli told her about the ceremony, of the feast afterwards, and the dancing. He described the gowns, his artist’s eye remembering every color and accessory.
Grandmama let out a contented sigh. “The water should be hot by now. Shall I get the tea?”
“I can get it.” Eli went into the kitchen and retrieved the chipped porcelain teapot, one of his grandmother’s prized possessions. He poured in a bit of steaming water from the copper kettle, swished it around to warm the teapot, then dumped it into the dry sink. He added tea leaves to the bottom of the pot, then poured more hot water over the leaves and replaced the lid to let it steep.
Maggie had taught all her boys how to make a good pot of tea. Only heathens can't make a good pot o' tea, she always said. There’ll be no heathens under my roof.
He chuckled to himself as he used the nippers to break some sugar off the loaf, placing it in a small bowl with tongs. By the time he carried the tray into the parlor, his grandmother was snoring softly. Should he wake her?
Setting the tray down on the small table between their chairs, he saw Grandmama’s eyelids flutter.
