“I was born in Ireland, in a seaside village called Kildaire. I married my sweetheart, Davey when I was fifteen. We were tenant farmers, like my parents.” Bronnah speaks softly in a wistful tone, remembering home, but her voice grows stronger as she speaks of the past. "Davey was seventeen and full of spit and fire," she grins when she speaks of him.
"As tenant farmers, we were not allowed to keep what we farmed, only enough to feed our families. When the famine came, we couldn't grow enough to cover the rent to live on the land. If you couldn't pay, you couldn't stay, and Davey fought back when they came to evict us. He was killed on the spot." Screams fill the night, sobs ripping from her soul and she closes her eyes against the memories pushing them away and looks out the window going silent for a moment.
Clearing her throat, she continues, “I was one of the lucky ones. The Sisters recognized a spark in me for learning and offered to educate me. In truth, they kept me on much longer than they should have. I was taken to England where they educated me and trained me as a nurse. I learned to hide my accent, and after six years I became very good at it, except when my temper gets the better of me.” She smiles at him.
Chase feels ashamed as he listens to Bronnah talk about the famine, death, and tragedy. Yet she smiles when she speaks of her home and family. "When I found out I had to leave, my best friend and I decided to take a chance and come to America as brides. The Chen Matrimonial company made promises that I felt were too good to be true, but desperation makes us do desperate things."
"Why not just marry again? Why come all the way to America to find a husband? You are gorgeous, Bronnah. It should have been easy for you," Chase asked not bothering to sugar-coat his questions.
“Because, Chase, I am Irish. An Irish widow living in England holds no value except on her back. Nothing but a biddy,” she explains bitterly.
“I don’t understand, what’s a biddy?”
"The English believe the Irish to be beneath them, and apparently so do people in this country. I thought I was escaping the prejudice." Her voice grows hoarse, and she stops speaking.
Chase pours her a cup of water, and she sips quietly before continuing.
“This wasn’t about me. I wanted to bring my parents and brother to America with me. The government is offering land for homesteaders.” Excitement fills her voice as she explains the plan to him. “Those who can farm it for five years get to own the land.” Leaning forward she glows when she talks about the possibilities. “It’s my father’s dream to own his own land. To be able to keep what we grow, Chase.” Once more she gets up and waves him off when he tries to help. She paces back and forth careful to keep her voice down.
“You don’t know what it’s like to watch people fade before your eyes. To become living skeletons. My own hunger wasn’t nearly as bad as watching my family suffer, grow weaker, and die. America was supposed to be the land of opportunity and hope.” She is oblivious to the tears tracking down her face.
“I do know the horror of famine, Bronnah. Hunger is something soldiers lived with daily,” Chase replies hoarsely. Her eyes meet his with an intensity he will never forget.
"No, not hunger, Chase. Starvation. The kind of hunger that you would do anything to satisfy. I've never once in all my life been able to just… be. In England, the Sisters taught me to hide my accent, my hair, avoid the women and the men. In America, I'm told I should hide, well, everything. I've grown weary of being a shadow. No more. The knowledge I have can't be tossed aside and forgotten and knowing they're getting away with it, is killing me.
“They lured you here with lies. Bronnah, I promise you they will pay.” She angrily wipes her tears away with the back of her hand.
"There's more to it than that." Bronnah crawls across the bed and sits carefully on the edge of the bed. "Chase, they are luring girls from all over the world with the same lies. We are sorted, drugged, cleaned up, dressed and shipped out, against our will, to become whatever it is they decide we should become. I am no one's plaything, Marshall. I intend ta make sure they are stopped."
"That's why I'm here, Bronnah. Four young women were killed and stuffed into a train with my families' name on it. Each of them wore clothing only a prostitute would wear, and each one of them had a mark on their wrist."
Bronnah lifts her arm and shows him her wrist. “Like this?”
Chase is appalled. “Yes, exactly,” he answers gruffly.
"What does it mean? What is it?" She watches him closely. When he hesitates and looks out of the window, she stands up and moves closer to his legs. Bronnah touches his face, guiding his eyes back to hers.
“Tell me,” she pleads.
“I think it is a way they identify their property.” She flinches and begins to rub violently at it.
“No…” she whimpers and twirls away. “I want it off.” Desperate, she goes to the bowl and grabs the damp rag and tries to scrub it off. Sobbing now, she scrubs harder, trying to wash away to the symbol of her ownership. “They don’t own me!”
Chase steps behind her and his large hand closes over hers, stilling her. He leans down and soothes her as he would a wounded animal. “It’s going
