Introduction

TRAVEL FROM IRELAND TO NEW YORK IN THIS COMPELLING HISTORICAL ROMANCE OF HEARTBREAK AND SECOND CHANCES SET IN THE EARLY 20TH CENTURY.

"An expansive, breath-taking tale . . . Rose’s voice is eloquent and lyrical, the writing glorious, and the historical detail superb." - Fiona Davis, New York Times bestselling author, The Spectacular

"Hope Tarr's IRISH EYES is romantic, lyrical, and rich with historical detail. Readers will root for the brave Rose as she navigates the immigrant experience in an ever-expanding New York City. A compelling read!" - Heather Webb, USA Today bestselling author, The Next Ship Home

"Tarr writes beautifully, with great pacing, settings, sensitive love scenes, plot twists, just the right amount of period-specific language, and a superb epilogue...The American Songbook series is off to a great start. Highly recommended." - Marlie Wasserman for The Historical Novel Society

December 1898.

In the aftermath of America’s war with Spain over Cuba, eighteen-year-old Rose leaves her beloved Inishmore and boards a steamer for New York City in search of the Yank soldier who swore to marry her. Herded through the temporary emigrant landing depot at The Battery, abandoned and alone, she discovers the New York streets are no more paved in gold than those of Galway.

To survive, she must ford through Lower East Side tenements and sweatshops, Fifth Avenue mansions and tony hotels, tangling with Tammany Hall for the soul of the husband with whom her fate is inextricably linked while fighting her feelings for the first love who still holds her heart. Just as she begins to make peace with the past, the Great War erupts in Europe, threatening to topple the dynasty for which she has sacrificed so much.

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Excerpt

Saturday, 10th September 1898

It was in every way a usual Saturday night, the pub thronged with men arguing over tides and fishes and the price of kelp in Connemara, their raised, rapid speech mostly in Gaelic with the odd English dropped in. Even after all these years, I can close my eyes and conjure that bustling, beloved taproom. The wattle walls stained peaty from centuries of pipe smoke and turf fires, the fishing nets and oilskins slung upon hooks. The damp air thick with sweet tobacco and wet wool. The oil lamps flickering over flushed faces, animated or weary, depending upon whether the week’s catch had been bountiful or meager.

Caught up with refilling tankards and passing plates of boiled potatoes and salted herring down the line, I felt him before I saw him, his regard like gentle fingers upon my face. I looked up from the pitcher I was drawing, thinking to find Cam and Brendain O’Conor smiling sloppily at me from over the rims of their pints. Only the brothers were both bent over their beers, too busy arguing over who’d caught the most fishes to trouble me with their awkward overtures. Looking beyond them, my gaze found its way to the front of the room – and the tall, blond stranger, standing hat in hand upon the threshold.

Despite the walking stick he gripped, he held himself steely straight, the crown of his head clearing the lintel, but barely. Even across the breadth of that noisy, smoke-filled room, everything about him was beautiful to me, from the hank of wheat-colored hair fallen over his brow to the lanky grace of his broad-shouldered, long-limbed body, the poverty of flesh at odds with his simple but costly clothing.

Splashing at my feet snapped me back to the bar and the mess I’d made of it.

Beside me, Colm shook off his shoe. “Jaysus, Rose, have a care. You’re pourin’ out our profit.”

The overflowing pitcher and widening puddle upon the floor bore witness to my silliness, as did my beer-stained skirts and soaked-through sandals. Once dried, sure, I’d stink like a brewery.

“I’ll fetch the mop and pail,” I said, thinking to escape to the kitchen and tidy myself.

But Colm had other ideas. “Hold here, I’ll do it. Only mind you keep your wits upon your pourin’ and your peepers upon the bar.”

He tossed me the dish towel and disappeared into the back.

I spent the next several minutes sopping up the worst of the spillage and refilling the mugs flagged in my face. The sensation of being not so much stared upon as studied had me looking out once more. And then, dear Lord, the thrill of it, the stranger was striding toward me, the hitch to his gait and the satchel slung over his shoulder slowing him not a whit.

Well, ’tis a boozer we’re in, and like as not, he’s thirsty, I told myself, tucking my nail-bitten hands beneath the bar as he drew up before me.

Setting his cane upon the rail, he eyed the hinged pass-through as though contemplating joining me on the other side. Over the cloud of peat and pipe smoke, his scent met me, conjuring fantasies of finely milled soap, leather-bound books, and another slightly musky aroma I suspected was himself alone. I inhaled, tasting him on my tongue, and for the first time in my life, I understood what it was to be drunk, not on whiskey or beer, but on the elixir of another human being.

The mad mix of feelings, and his nearness, spurred my heart to racing. “Failte. Is it thirsty you are, stranger?”

A nod answered, the motion sending fair hair flopping over one eye, the iris the same vivid blue as the spring gentians that bloom wild in even the rockiest bits of our island. He lifted a hand and pushed the errant lock back, and it was then that I saw it – the fresh scar slashing one side of his otherwise smooth brow.

“What do you recommend?” he asked, his accent, whilst top-drawer, marking him as a Yank.

Mentally running through the limited libations on offer, I chewed my lower lip, the skin split from previous mistreatment. “A pint of plain suits most,” I finally said, fluttering nervous fingers toward the taps.

“Beer would be bully, thanks.” He leveled me a lopsided smile, drawing my eye to his mouth. The teeth, white and even, might owe to means, but the full lips framing them were a pure and powerful gift of nature.

I reached up and drew a clean pint down from the rack. Keenly conscious of himself minding my every movement, I tilted the glass forty-five degrees, held it under the spout, and slowly pulled down upon the tap handle, filling it just above three-quarters. Tempted as I was to rush, I made myself wait for the beer to settle, the cascade of gaseous bubbles calming to create the perfect cap of creamy foam. Only then did I top off the draught and set it before himself, taking care not to spill so much as a single tawny drop.

Breath in my throat, I let myself look up. “That’ll be five p’s.”

He slid a hand inside his coat and brought out a fistful of coins. “Help a fella out? I’m still learning the currency.”

I poked at his outstretched palm and picked out the closest correct coin. “I won’t be a moment,” I said, turning to the till for his due.

He waved me off and shoved the rest into his pocket, then picked up his beer and took a long swallow. “Holy moly, that’s good!” Expression rapturous, he set the glass down. “I should probably introduce myself, if only to save you from calling me ‘stranger’,” he added, teasing tone belied by the sudden seriousness of the eyes meeting mine. “I’m Adam. Adam Blakely.”

I stared, feeling as if the floorboards must be buckling beneath me.

“I’m guessing you’re Danny’s sister, Rose?”

His polite prodding pulled me back to myself. “Moira Rose, though everyone calls me Rose. It’s pleased I am to make your acquaintance, Private Blakely.” I held out my hand, still sticky with beer.

He took it, his long fingers and broad palm engulfing mine, his skin smooth, not callused as our men’s, the neatly trimmed nails devoid of dirt.

“The pleasure is all mine, though I’m a plain mister now.” He released my hand, his warm one sliding away. “For better or worse, my soldiering days are behind me,” he added, casting a rueful look to the cane.

“Did Danny speak much of home?” I asked, hoping his answer would be yes.

“He did, fondly and often. Of you, especially.”

“What did he say?” I asked, warmed, to be sure, but wary too, for I winced to think the moniker of “wilding” might have made its way to the other side of the Atlantic.

“That you’re an ace seamstress, for starters. ‘Rare canny with needle and thread’ was how he put it.” The smile he flashed me didn’t quite reach his eyes, shadowed with sadness.

“That’s all?” I asked, sensing it wasn’t.

“Not exactly, no.” He took a deep draught of beer as if calling on his courage. Wiping the foam from his lips, he admitted, “He read me your letters.”

“All of them?”

I’d dashed off a weekly missive all that May and June, keeping my brother abreast of our wee world’s doings – pub happenings and village squabbles and dress patterns I’d copied and sewed. Silly prattle meant for Danny alone.

A sheepish look answered, “By the time we boarded The Vigilancia for Cuba, I felt like… well, like I knew this place. This village and all of you. I hope you don’t mind.”

Had I known, I would have minded. I would have minded terribly. Not so now.

“I’m glad he had yourself to bear him company,” I answered, the familiar grief frogging my voice, the sentiment sincere, though it hardly mattered now. “He spoke of you, too. In his letters home.”

Adam shot me a mortified look. “That must have been boring.”

I shook my head. “Not at all. I think… he looked up to you.”

From Camp Black in Hempstead, Long Island, where Danny mustered in, to the training and embarkation camps in Lakeland and Tampa Heights, Florida, not a letter arrived that didn’t make mention of his new best mate. Adam scissoring through the lake, cutting a lap fast as any fish. Delivering a “knuckle sandwich” to a recruit he’d caught abusing a horse. Scribbling in his journal, which he meant to make a book of someday. The praise had piled on until Adam Blakely seemed larger than life, a hero the likes of which I’d only ever met in books. Only now, he was here, his flesh-and-blood self but a bar’s width away from me.

Changing the subject, I asked, “How do you come to be in Ireland, Mr. Blakely? Are you on holiday with your family?” I stole a glance at his ring finger, happily bare, though not every married man was keen on wearing the proof of it.

“Adam, please – Mr. Blakely feels like you must mean my father – and no, I’m here on my own, unless you count the lumbering piece of luggage I parked inside your doorway.”

He shot a glance over his shoulder to a smart campaign case, covered in honey-hued leather and fitted with what looked to be brass handles. A clutch of younger lads gathered round it, taking turns testing its heft.

Rather than break away to rescue it, he turned back to me. “Truth is, I’m here to see you.”

Yet another surprise. “Myself? But why?”

He shifted the shoulder bearing the satchel as if suddenly minded of the burden, “Because… well, Danny asked me to. Made me swear, actually.” Several silent seconds ticked by, his gaze tethered to mine, and then he shook himself as if awaking. “Pardon my staring, but you’re not what I pictured.”

Despite the blush scalding my cheeks, I mustered the nerve to ask, “What is it you pictured?”

“More of a kid, I guess. And… skinnier. Fencepost was how Danny put it.”

I glanced down at myself and then back up at him. “And how is it you’d… put it?”

His gaze veered from mine, dipping to the bar top. “Well, miss, I’d say you were just right. Perfect.”

Perfect. I fancied the sound of that, though the wee devil perched upon my shoulder hissed he was only being kind. Wreathed in blushes though I no doubt was, curiosity won out. “What else?”

He looked up. “That you were ginger-haired, same as him, though I’d call yours more of a… burnished copper.”

I resisted the urge to run a hand over my hair, the riot of corkscrew curls caught back with a bit of velvet ribbon, trimming left over from the jacket I’d just finished sewing. “Burnished copper, sure, that’s very poetic.”

Was he in earnest or a shameless flirt? In my inexperience, I’d no way of knowing, though the color climbing his cheeks seemed to favor the former.

Shy-eyed, he shook his head. “Thanks, but I lifted that line. Not that I couldn’t come up with one just as good if I had the time. Oh, and he mentioned your complexion – peaches and cream.”

“He did not!” My hand flew to my face, the stubborn freckles bridging my forehead and nose a scourge no amount of lemon juice could lighten.

He slanted me a smile. “Okay, you’ve got me there. He said freckled. The peaches and cream part’s all me.”

From the side of my eye, I saw Cam signaling for another round but pretended not to see. “Anything else?” I asked, hoping to keep this oddly entertaining interchange from petering. Stacked against my usual male company – islanders who expressed themselves with glasses banged upon the bar and single-syllable asks and answers – Adam Blakely afforded a feast of canny conversation. Starved, I stood prepared to devour his every word, no matter that some were over my head.

He tapped two fingers atop the bar, making a show of considering, teasing me as one of my brothers might. “Hmm, let’s see.” His dancing fingers stalled, and his gaze swept my face. “He said your smile could light up a January sky. Boy, he sure hit the nail on the head with that one,” he added, pinning me with eyes so earnest, I forgot to breathe.

“Rose!”

I whirled to see Colm bursting forth from the back, blistered cheeks a match for his hair.

Scowling, he dropped both mop and pail and sidled up to my side, “We’ve a roomful of thirsty men who just got their pay, and a pub down the street that serves Guinness and porter and rye whiskey same as ourselves, only the service is swifter.”

Adam rose to defend me, “Please don’t blame Rose – Miss O’Neill. The fault’s mine for monopolizing her.”

Colm’s dark look deepened. Ever since Danny had left us for America in ’92, he saw Yanks as second to the devil, and the glare he gave Adam bore out the ill feeling. “What affair’s it of yours, stranger?”

I laid a hand upon Colm’s forearm, fuzzed with copper as Danny’s had been. “Mr. Blakely soldiered with Danny in the American war with Spain. You’ll recall him from… the letter.”

Pulling upon his mustache, he eyed Adam. “You’re the lad who fought beside our Danny?”

Adam nodded. “We mustered in together.”

Colm opened his mouth as if to ask more. Before he could, our father emerged from the kitchen, an apron tied about his winnowed waist. Since Danny’s dying, he’d dropped a stone at least.

“I can hear the pair of you clear to the pantry. What’s the trouble?” he demanded, dividing his gaze between my brother and myself.

I gestured to Adam. “Da, this is Mr. Adam Blakely, who served with Danny in Cuba. He’s come all the way from…”

“New York City,” Adam supplied, sounding strangely shy of it.

My father’s craggy countenance softened. “You’re Danny’s mate? The one with him at… the end?”

Expression solemn, Adam nodded. “I am, sir, and a finer, braver soldier and better friend I’ve yet to know.”

Da’s lower lip quivered. For a heart-stopping few seconds, I steeled myself for him to break down, something I’d seen him do but once, on that terrible eve when I’d read him the American army captain’s letter.

Rallying, he looked to Colm. “Give the call we’re closing early, with a final round on the house.” To Adam, “You’ll take supper, will you?” Before an answer might be made, he turned to me, “Rose, lass, draw Mr. Blakely another pint – that is if there’s aught left of the keg after your watering the floor with it – and we’ll hear what the young man’s come to say.”

Copyright © Hope C. Tarr 2023 view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

From the author:

1. Irish Eyes is told in Rose’s voice, the story seen through her eyes. Throughout the novel, much is made of the class difference between herself and Adam. Does this reflect a realistic perception of the mores of the time or her own insecurities?

2. Adam proposes to Rose and almost immediately asks her to stay behind in Ireland while he returns to New York to “pave the way” with his family. Outcome aside, do you think his was a reasonable request given the class constraints of the era?

3. Though Rose never encounters a “No Irish Need Apply” sign, her Irish accent and appearance elicit implicit forms of prejudice from the moment she first arrives. Put yourself in her shoes – better yet, pampooties – and imagine walking into a store to ask for work, knowing that your speech and clothing, hair, and face instantly brand you as Other.

4. Joe Kavanaugh has been called a “striped character” – equal parts hero and antihero. As a fireman, he repeatedly demonstrates selfless bravery, but as a politician and husband, he can be selfish, bigoted, and at times, cruel. By the end of the novel, does he redeem himself or is it a case of too little too late?

5. Moira’s commitment to the cause of women’s suffrage is a thread that runs through the latter part of the story. Given the global Women’s March movement, do you see parallels to today’s world?

6. At the heart of Irish Eyes is the Adam–Rose–Joe “love triangle.” Both men struggle to free themselves from their backgrounds – Joe as a “dumb mick boxer” from Orchard Street and Adam from the codified constraints of high society in the age of Mrs. Astor’s “Four Hundred.” Which man do you think had the most to overcome? To what extent was each a prisoner to social expectations and male gender roles of the era? Who, if either, did you root for to win Rose – are you Team Adam or Team Joe?

7. Until the Covid crisis, the influenza pandemic of 1918 was arguably the most destructive “plague” since The Black Death of the Middle Ages. While the actual death toll remains unknown – numbers reported at the time are generally believed to be gross underestimates – it may well have topped 100 million. Then, everyday people from all walks of life and political persuasions pitched in to enforce health code requirements and promote responsible behavior such as masking, refraining from shaking hands, and so forth. How does this response differ from ours during Covid?

8. Several historical figures appear throughout the book, including Tammany Hall kingpins “Boss” Charlie Murphy, Timothy Sullivan, and Tom Foley, whose names are still seen on many of the buildings, streets, and squares of present-day New York City. Even humble Irish-born fruit seller, Jane Noonan, is taken from real life, depicted courtesy of first-person accounts and a surviving photograph of Jane presiding over her stall outside the Castle Garden gates. Do you enjoy “meeting” real-life characters from history in the pages of fiction? Or do you prefer that the characters in a novel be purely made up?

9. Tammany Hall is integral to the second half of the book, almost a character in its own right. To what extent are the “greed and graft” engaged in by certain Tammany leaders specific to the organization versus a sign of the times? Did Joe’s endorsement of “honest graft” surprise you? Or was his reaction consistent with his hard-knocks upbringing? How much, or how little, have politics changed from the early 1900s to now?

10. Did you find the ending of Irish Eyes satisfying? Realistic or fairy tale? What would you have liked to see happen for the core characters? ?

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