Page 64 of Road Trip
“I read that more than three million people came through this port over the years, from the 1600s until the 1960s,” she said. “They’d come off the trains and board the ships docked outside.”
“Wonder how Kathleen got here?” Therese mused.
The sisters toured the museum exhibits, watched a short film about the emigration experience, and then found their way to the information desk for the appointment Maeve had booked with a volunteer genealogist named Christy.
To their surprise, Christy was not a twenty-something young woman. Their Christy was a large, genial older man with a white crew cut and a brogue so thick the sisters struggled at first to understand what he was telling them.
Maeve had emailed him what information they had about their great-grandmother, Kathleen, and now, Christy’s pudgy fingertips flew across his computer keyboard with surprising speed.
“My aunt tried, unsuccessfully, years and years ago to find our great-grandmother’s birth or baptismal records,” she explained. “But the church in the village where she would have been baptized didn’thave any record of her. Our aunt found the baptismal records for Kathleen’s younger brother Tommy, and two baby sisters, though.”
He nodded but kept typing. “Not unusual.”
Christy glanced at the printout of the information Maeve had submitted online. “So. Mother’s maiden name was Bridget Eileen Sherlock. I see the father’s name is John Joseph Connor. Parish church is St. Bonaventure, in Wicklow County. What year was your great-grandmother born?”
“In 1908, according to what the family has been told,” Maeve said.
“Right. Well, here’s the parents’ marriage certificate from St. Bonaventure in 1908.” He tapped some more keys. “Ah, here’s our Kathleen.” Christy turned his computer monitor so the sisters could see a photocopy of the handwritten church record.
“Not a baptismal record, but this is the confirmation certificate for Kathleen Rose Connor from 1920,” he noted. “You should know that these old church records are notoriously unreliable. Everything depended on the parish priest, or more often, the elderly spinster who worked in the rectory keeping house for the good padre, so that could explain the lack of a baptismal certificate.”
Therese spoke up. “We’ve recently learned that Kathleen’s biological father was Lord Edward Rossington.”
Christy let out a long, low whistle. “Well now, that explains some things, don’t it? Possibly the priest refused to baptize her, given the circumstances. Tongues wagged, you can be sure.”
“And then Lord Rossington’s sister Lady Delia informally adopted Kathleen. She was raised at Tarrymore, the family’s estate, as Lady Delia’s…” Therese looked to Maeve for clarification.
“It sounds like something out of a Gothic novel, but I guess Kathleen was considered Delia’s ward,” Maeve said. “This week we went to see her brother Tommy’s daughter. She’s an old, old lady, but she told us Kathleen lived at Tarrymore until 1926, when Delia paid for her passage to the States.”
Christy began tapping away at the computer keyboard again. “You say 1926?”
“That’s what we were told.”
“Your relative had that part right. Kathleen Rose Connor embarked on theCedric, July 25, 1926.”
He touched a fingertip to the screen. “Here’s her name on theCedric’s passenger manifest. Of course, theCedricwas a White Star ship, same line as theTitanic.”
“Our aunt has an old postcard of the ship,” Maeve said.
Both women craned their necks to read the tiny typewritten entry on the monitor.
“Kathleen Rose Connor, unmarried female, age eighteen. Final destination, New York City,” Christy said.
“I’ve got tingles,” Therese said, looking around the museum. “For the first time, being here in Ireland, here at this port, seeing the last views she would have seen of Ireland. And now here we are, over a hundred years later.”
“We hear that a lot,” Christy confided. “Now, what other questions do you ladies have for me? I’ve hardly broken a sweat with your inquiries so far. Give me a challenge, would you?”
The sisters exchanged a wary look.
After a pregnant pause, Maeve spoke up. “There’s this portrait. It’s been in our family for as long as anyone can remember. It hung in our late mother’s house, and our aunts tell us that it hung in their grandmother’s house too. Our mom always claimed the woman in the portrait was our ancestor, Lady Geraldine Fitzhugh. The artist is quite famous, and so, if it’s authentic, it could be very valuable.”
Christy raised a bushy white eyebrow and rubbed his hands together with glee before returning to his computer.
“Ah yes. Here is your Lady Geraldine Cressida Fitzhugh. Born in Surrey, married Charles Lord Rossington, in 1857.” He looked up and winked. “DeBrett’s. The Fitzhughs were definitely posh. And you ladies say you have this portrait, by an artist named Valerian DeJongh?”
“Correct,” Maeve said.
“But there’s a complication,” Therese said. “Two, actually. The first one is, that same portrait, by the same artist, was auctioned offrecently, for one point two million. And then, when we toured the estate, we learned that the portrait was part of a trove of the family’s priceless art collection that was supposedly stolen during an IRA raid at Tarrymore, in the 1970s.”
