“Absolutely,” Casey replied, excited about being here for this endeavor. The Agriculture Society had made a real difference, but like everything else in Ireland, it had fallen victim to the continuing violence between religious factions. She wondered if she could steer them away from that.
They agreed to attend the next meeting of the Horticultural Society. Casey went back to work with a lighter step and the feeling she had just made a friend.
That evening, Casey looked up from writing in her time travel journal. Sam was also writing, sitting at the small desk in the parlor, summing up his work day and the progress he was making toward advancing scientific discovery. She smiled to herself, amused as always, at their disparate goals. Her own goals were modest: build a life for herself and have a few friends—Casey needed friends—and perhaps aid the Irish in their hopes for economic prosperity, by helping them build up and nourish their land.
Sam’s goals were grand: to establish in Ireland a think tank and experimental industry, not dissimilar to the future consortium he used to work for. He hoped to advance scientific discovery by at least fifty years, in as many areas as he could. Medicine could have antibiotics and ultrasounds decades sooner, materials science could have alloys and polymers, quantum physics could practically meet itself coming, if he could place a nudge in the right place and the right time. He had to do it all without actually stating what he wanted to do, or inventing things himself, but he always said that’s what good scientists did. They took a half-beaten idea and tinkered with it until it grew up.
Casey had asked him to somehow avoid dependence on fossil fuels, and the disposable society it encouraged, which was quickly destroying their future world. She’d be happier, too, if he could figure out a way to avoid the creation of super weapons. He had laughed.
“We have to split the atom, Casey. It’s essential to everything.”
“I know,” she admitted bleakly. “I know you also can’t control what governments do. But we need to try and keep nationalism or partisanship out of it this time.”
He didn’t bother to tell her it was probably impossible. They were only two people and it was a big world. It was a smaller version of this problem that bothered her now and caused her to interrupt his writing.
“Sam?” She waited until he reached the end of his sentence and looked up. “When I try to figure out what I want to accomplish by joining these societies, I always come back to one central problem. The Protestants and the Catholics. Their disagreements destroy everything good that the country tries to do. How can I do anything about that?”
“Try not to get killed,” he said, turning sideways in his chair to face her. She laughed.
“I’m serious,” he told her. “You start meddling with some of this and you can end up dead faster than you thought about it. Go easy, okay?”
“Well sure,” she agreed, doodling on the open page of her journal. “But they have to understand that they all live in this country. You can only go so far with advancing one group at the expense of the other. Eventually, the other group must advance, as well.”
Sam shrugged. “What are you thinking about?”
She leaned back into the sofa, legs crossed under her, her skirt billowing out in a circle. “They want gardens, to beautify the city and provide fresh produce. But I doubt that any Catholics belong to this society. Yet, they need to have gardens in the Catholic sections, too.”
“I doubt Catholics would be welcome even if they wanted to join,” Sam pointed out and she nodded.
“That’s what I want to accomplish.”
He smiled. “I thought I had a tough job.”
The horticulture society met at the First Presbyterian Church, in the social hall. With some regret that they didn’t see the wisdom of meeting at a pub, like sensible chapters in the future did, Casey went to her first meeting, nervous about a social occasion where, as the ward of a highly-placed manager and scientist at the telephone company, she would be seen as an equal to the others, or nearly so. How many of them would know of her employment at the shipyard, depended she supposed, on the discretion or amusement of Lady Pirrie and Mrs. Herceforth.
They all knew about it. The men didn’t bring it up, but the women all asked her about it, admiring and amused at her foray into the world of men. A couple of the oldest women, still dressing in strict Victorian black, were not quite as pleased, but seemed willing to overlook it, “provided,” Casey heard one say to another, “my grandson doesn’t try to court her.”
That comment was made early in the evening and it amused Casey, allowing her to enter the meeting in high spirits. She sat with Mrs. Herceforth, and played the part of a newcomer, not offering suggestions unless they asked her. She explained about her job at the Palm House, and a little of her background as a horticulturist “in California.” They were pleased, and voted her into the group that night, hoping she might be able to bring in more young people.
“Except for Lady Talbot’s grandson,” she murmured to Mrs. Herceforth as they left, listening to the pealing laughter and feeling generally content with the evening. Casey was startled when the older woman suddenly put a hand on her arm and moved closer to her. At her questioning look, Mrs. Herceforth gestured with her chin to the bottom of the steps.
“Protestors, dear. They are seldom violent, but it’s always wise to remain alert.”
Indeed, there were several groups of men, and a few women, on the cobblestones, effectively blocking them in. It would be impossible to leave without a confrontation. Mrs. Herceforth did not stop, but continued regally down the steps, keeping Casey nearby. The protestors were quiet, content with just passing out pamphlets and urging the society members to concentrate their efforts on loyal Protestants. Casey had just begun to breathe easier when an ominous, familiar figure blocked her path.
She realized later that Sloan might not have recognized her if she hadn’t stopped and looked right at him. She was, after all, wearing “girl” clothes: skirt and jacket, a fashionable wide-brimmed hat with a red scarf tied around it, and her long black overcoat. The shortness of her hair was hidden by the hat. There was nothing about her that looked like the boy who had worked at Harland & Wolff.
It was her face, and the fear she knew it showed, that made him take a closer look, as he paused in the act of handing her a pamphlet.
“Well, I’ll be,” he practically chortled, “it’s Casey Wilson!” His head tilted to the side, an amused and mocking look twisting his mustached features. “Looking proper and all.”
Angry, she snatched at the pamphlet he still held in his hand. “Mr. Sloan,” she said flatly, “do you also disapprove of gardens?”
He managed to look innocent. “Ach no, Miss Wilson, ’course not.” He gave a little bow. “We just want to make sure the society knows our wishes regarding where the gardens should be placed.”
“In no Catholic backyards, I take it?”
“Aye, that would be one place,” he said, without acknowledging her sarcasm. He tipped his hat to Mrs. Herceforth. “Madam. Hope ye are well this evenin’.”
“Marvelous, Mr. Sloan, simply marvelous. How is your brother’s London tour coming along?” Mrs. Herceforth seemed genuinely interested, and Casey stared at her. She had to be asking about the brother in parliament. The one Sam had said was a sectarian bigot.
“He’s a warm welcome wherever he goes, Mrs. Good of ye to ask.”
“So nice to hear it. Do send him my best. Now I must be getting this young lady home. Good night, Mr. Sloan.”