Wild Irish Rose

by Jeanie P Johnson

  WILD IRISH ROSE

  Jeanie Johnson

  This is a fictional story based on historical events.

  All characters, except for historical people mentioned,

  are out of the authors imagination, and any resemblance

  to anyone living or dead is mere coincidence.

  Story by

  Jeanie Johnson

  Copyright 2013

  All rights reserved.

  CHAPTER ONE

  1867

  I listen as the judge reads the verdict. “Guilty of treason. At sunrise, you shall be hung by the neck, until dead.”

  A tear slowly slips down my cheek and I watch the guards usher both my father, Bobby Mitchel, and my husband, Ferrell O’Riely, out of the court room. The sound of their shuffling feet, as they leave the court room, will remain in my head forever, I think. I can’t believe they are going to be hung. I am trembling inside with anger and fear. The heartless English had taken our land from us, then rented it back to us to work the farms for them, and when we object, their answer is to hang us.

  Ferrell looks over his shoulder at me and I see a tear leaving his eye as well. I will never see him again. I won’t come to his hanging because I don’t want that to be my last memory of him. Only my last memory of him in the courthouse, shackled and helpless, being prodded by the guards, will still haunt me as much.

  I am only eighteen and tomorrow I am going to be a widow. I have been married to Ferrell since I was sixteen. I have known him all my life though. He is the only man I could ever love, and once he is dead I know I could never love again.

  I shuffle from the court house, along with all the other witnesses that came to watch the trial. No one knows I am related to the two men, except for Randy O’Neil, who is Ferrell’s best friend. He is standing next to me and he takes my hand as we leave the court house but I don’t look at him.

  “What are you going to do?” Randy asks. “You can’t work the farm all on your own.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Randy,” I say in a low voice. My throat is so tight I can barely get the words out. “I don’t want to think about it. We are prisoners in our own country and slaves to the English. Farrell never should have gotten involved in trying to change everything. History proves it can’t be done!”

  “That is what we have been fighting against. We need to change history,” he tells me.

  “And what good has it done, Randy? I have heard all the stories just like you. My own Da was related to John Mitchel who was hung leading the Young Irish Movement, back in the 1790’s. It’s the same thing all over again, right down through the ages, until now. That was 76 years ago, and we still have not been able to get Ireland back to its own people.”

  “But this new movement is different, Rose. It’s barely got started, but they think by hanging your Da and Ferrell, they are going to nip it in the bud. They got another think coming, Rose. We’re more organized now. Even the American Irish are going to come help us.”

  “I have to go, Randy. The landlord is coming to make me vacate the farmhouse, unless I can pay him rent, which I can’t.”

  “You can come stay with us, Rose,” Randy offers.

  “Your farmhouse is already full with everyone in your family, Randy. There’s no room for me. Maybe I’ll get a job as a maid or something, in one of the big houses.”

  “Just be glad you don’t have any bearins to care for, Rose.”

  “Three years of marriage and I never had a bearin one,” I murmur.

  “What about the funeral? Who’s going to take care of the burying?”

  “I suppose the prison will do it. They took them from me. I can’t afford a burial.”

  “You have to claim the bodies though, or they’ll throw them on a heap, with no marker or anything.”

  “You can be sure no one will let them be buried in the church yard, since they are traitors and criminals,” I mumble. “Where would I put them?”

  “And we don’t have a spot of land to bury them on. The English own it all,” Randy grumbles.

  “I’ll ask my landlord. Maybe he’ll let me bury them near the farmhouse somewhere.”

  Randy lets go of my hand and I climb up in our little trap and whip up the pony. I want to block everything out of my mind. I want to wish myself out of here. Out of this lowly existence of barely surviving and working so hard we end up dying young. My future is bleak now that both my father and husband will be gone. I don’t know what will become of me.

  I pull the trap up to the sod farmhouse. It isn’t a big house. Just one bedroom, but Da slept on a cot in the front room. I think it is good I didn’t have any children or there would be no place to put them. I see a horse and rider coming up to the house. I know who it is without even looking.

  It is Jason O’Malley, our landlord. He hasn’t been the landlord for long. His father, Matthew O’Malley, had been the lord over the land before him, only he did not live in Ireland, even though he owned a big manor on the hill. He lived in England, and had someone else lord over the land for him but when he died, his son came in his stead, and took over keeping tabs on the farms. What is an Englishman doing with the name O’Malley, I wonder?

  I have only seen Jason O’Malley once, from a distance when he came to speak to Da about the rent. I didn’t want to meet him then, but now I am going to have to meet him.

  I step down from the trap and straighten my tattered dress. I know I look a mess with my red flyaway hair blowing around my face, and my eyes all puffy from crying. I don’t care though. Jason O’Malley knows of our situation but he probably doesn’t even care. All the English care about are themselves and how much money they can get out of their farms.

  I watch him climb down from his sleek black hunter. He should ride a tall horse like that, I think to myself. The horse dwarfs the little pony that is pulling our trap, my trap now, I think. He is tall himself. He is what is called the Black Irish. Black hair. Deep green eyes. I think he probably has a black heart as well. His mother is English and when his father married her, he went to England as well and became one of them. I don’t care what Jason’s sir name happens to be. To me, he is English through and through. He proves it the moment he opens his mouth because an English accent comes out instead of an Irish one.

  “Are you Rose O’Riely?” he asks. He knows I am Rose O’Riely. Who else would I be? I’m right here at the farm my Da and Ferrell had been working up until now. I just come from the trial. Everyone knew about the trial. He must have been there, seeing as how we are his tenants, and if his tenants are put to death, they can’t work his farms.

  I just nod, as he towers over me. I notice how muscular he is in his fine coat and his hair all tousled in the wind from riding. He doesn’t wear a hat.

  “You need to come with me,” he informs me.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “You are now my ward. Since your only kin are to be executed, you have no way to work the farm and no family to go to. I requested the court to make you my ward until you can find a new man to take care of you.”

  “I am not looking for a new man.” I give him an angry glare, beneath my lashes. “I shall never love anyone but my Ferrell,” I state boldly.

  “You don’t need to love someone for them to care for you,” he says flatly. “Regardless, you will be my ward until you do find a man to care for you. I’ll help you get one, if you wish.”

  “I don’t want you looking for a husband for me. Not the likes of you. What kind of choice could you make for a true Irishwoman?” I give him a long appraising look, the same as he seems to be giving me.

  “I may not sound Irish, but I was born here, and I bare the name O’Malley, which makes me as Irish as you, my dear.”

  “Y
ou have an English heart and I want no part of it. I can care for myself without your help,” I insist, finally gaining the courage to stare him in his striking green eyes, that seem to keep changing shades, as the light hits them.

  “And where would you be staying, if not for my farm? I need to fill it with someone who can work the land. Therefore, you cannot stay here.”

  “I’ll find a position in one of the big houses,” I tell him, to let him know I do not need his guardianship.

  “My house is big,” he smiles. “Come along, Rose. If it’s a big house you are wanting, I can accommodate you,” he chuckles.

  “You need a maid then?” I ask with a smirk.

  “If you want to clean, you should be cleaning your own home. Finding a husband for a maid, and finding one for a lady, are two different things. Whether you like it or not, I am going to turn you into a lady, so your next choice will not be some lowly farmer working someone else’s farm,” he astounds me by saying.

  “And just why would you be wanting to do this?” I ask, figuring he has some ulterior motive.

  “Just say I feel responsible to my tenants,” he smiles.

  “No English Landlord ever feels responsible to his tenants,” I spit back. “Turning me into a lady will not get me a high bred husband, since I don’t have a drop of blue blood in my veins,” I point out with practicality.

  “I am not English,” he reminds me. “Only half, and the other half has concern for his own people. Just because you don’t have any blue blood doesn’t mean you can‘t marry well.”

  “So do you take in every homeless tenant as your ward?” I ask. I still don’t trust him, and am thinking there is some trick he hasn’t told me about.

  “No. Just you. You are the one with no kin and your folks are dying as martyrs. Ireland will remember them for what ever effort they made. I understand your father is related to John Mitchel, the man who started it all,” he chuckles.

  “Why should you care? If Ireland wins back its land, the English will be booted out of here,” I point out.

  “Like I said, I am not English, and my manor has been owned by the Irish since its beginnings, so I won’t be one of the dreaded English who are booted out. However, since my mother is English, it does give me certain privileges, and making you my ward is one of them.”

  “What if I won’t come?” I ask testing him.

  “You have no choice. You see, the English fear that since your Husband was part of the rebellion, you might decide to follow in his footsteps. Therefore, they want someone watching over you, to make sure that does not happen. They are trying to nip this in the bud, so to speak, and you are lucky they did not execute you just on principal.” He gives me a stern look. “I will be your guardian to make sure you become a lady and rid yourself of any desire to join a rebellion, seeing as how your social life will not have any room for such occupations.”

  “My social life?” I start to laugh. “That is fanciful thinking!”

  “Rest assured, you will have one. You are rather sweet looking. The young men will find you attractive enough, and the young women will envy you. Invitations will be pouring in, once you are introduced to society, Which I plan to do. Consider it a gift, along with my guardianship. While you are mourning your husband’s death, you can learn how to function at a social affair.”

  “Speaking of my husband’s death,” my voice trembles, and I take in my breath, trying to remain brave, as long as I have his attention. “I need a place to bury him and my Da’s body.”

  “It will be taken care of. If there is anything in the house you need, you had better get it now. We will be going straight to the manor from here.”

  I look at him in wonderment. I am not sure I can trust him, but I am beginning to think living in his big house would be preferable than remaining in our little cot. I go into the house and he follows me, like maybe he thinks I am going to take something that doesn’t belong to me, or something. He looks around the single room that serves as the front room and the kitchen. I don’t know what he is thinking. Actually, I don’t care what he is thinking. I will not be staying under his roof long if I can help it, I tell myself. I am just not sure, at the moment, what other choice I have.

  I don’t own much. Just a few dresses. When he sees me gathering them he clears his throat. “You won’t need those,” he says. “I will furnish you with more becoming clothes.”

  “Then there is nothing here that I need, except for one thing,” I say, as I grab up a small tintype of Ferrell and place it in my pocket. Then I turn from the room.

  He follows me to my trap. “Just follow me then,” he says, and swings up on his black hunter, then starts off in the direction he had come from.

  I have seen his manor before. It sits on a hill overlooking the farm land. It is huge and made of stone, not sod. I always wonder why the elite need such big houses? We live in this little farmhouse with barely enough room to turn around and no room to raise a family, yet the landlord has a house so large you could raise ten families in it and have room to spare. Half of the place must be taken up to house the people needed to care for the place, I think. If it wasn’t so big, they would not have to hire so many people to keep it up, I think in my practical brain.

  The divide between the rich and poor is a wide gap. It seems one could never completely understand how the other one lives. While I don’t enjoy being a poor farmer’s wife, I have no desire to live the way Jason O’Malley lives either. I am not going to enjoy a social life, the way he wants me to. I am not going to choose another man to take care of me. But for now, I will go with him because I have no other choice. I feel so numb inside that just getting Ferrell and my Da buried is all I can deal with at the moment.

  When we reach the house, which looks bigger close up then it does from the distance I have always seen it, a groom comes to us and takes Jason’s horse and another one gets up in the trap and drives it off. I follow Jason in through large double doors, which two footmen opens for us. The butler greets us as we walk through the doors. He gives me a disapproving look.

  “Malcolm, please escort Mrs. O’Riely to the room we have prepared for her,” he tells the butler. I think he knew that my family would be executed for their crimes and prepared for this in advance. The thought irritates me, because I believe he may have had some hand in it, somehow.

  Jason O’Malley takes my hand and bows his head over it, and then departs without a word. The butler motions for me to follow him. The entrance is overgrown in size and I am craning my neck to look around it, as our footsteps echo on the polished stone floor. The grandeur of it all is overwhelming. A huge crystal chandelier dominates my view when I glance up. Pictures in, gilded frames, hang about the walls. Huge urns, holding plants as large as small trees, beside pillars bracing the doorway into the great hall, greet us. I am barely able to glance into the Great hall, as we pass, going towards the staircase that leads to the second floor. Statues abound, along with shields and swords, that hang on the wall, following the staircase up to the second floor. A large grandfather clock meets us at the first landing and its sudden chiming makes me jump.

  After we travel down a picture lined hallway, the butler opens a door and nods for me to go in. “I will send up some water for your bath,” he informs me. “You are to choose what you wish to wear from the wardrobe.”

  “How did he know my size?” I ask.

  Malcolm raises his eyebrows. “I have no idea, ma’am,” he tells me, and then turns away.

  I go into a room that is almost as big as our farmhouse. My anger rises when I see the difference between how Jason O’Malley and his like live, compared to our own lowly circumstances. The sweat of our brow furnishes this kind of living for him, and what kind of living are we given? It makes me hate Jason O’Malley all the more. Not for just being part English, but for being wealthy to the point of over indulgence, as far as I am concerned. I go to the window and push aside the filmy drape. I can barely see our small farmhouse from here. I loo
k over all the land that the O’Malley’s own and it takes my breath away.

  Why has he brought me here? I was nothing before this moment. I am still nothing and he wants to turn me into a lady. To please the courts, or to please himself, I wonder? Just who is Jason O’Malley? There is a tap on the door and I let the curtain fall and go to it. It is several footmen with a tub and some water, which they bring into my room. They put the tub down in a corner and fill it with water. There is a small table next to where they put the tub that holds soaps and shampoos, along with body powder and perfumes.

  The door closes and I turn, taking in the room, before I let my shabby dress drop to the floor and step into the tub. I have never bathed in a tub like this before. In the summertime I bathed in a river and in the winter time it was just a wash cloth and a pan of water. I sink into the warmth of the scented water and close my eyes, but all I can see is Ferrell looking over his shoulder at me with a tear escaping his eye. That look will haunt me for the rest of my days, I am thinking. No matter what Jason O’Malley offers me, it will never change my sorrow.

  I start reliving my life with Ferrell in my mind. All the childhood games we had played together and the first time he ever made love to me. We always knew we would marry. It just seemed natural, us growing up together over the years. Then, when I got to a marriageable age, it was a given.

  After a year, I finally got over my disappointment in not bringing forth any children and contented myself with knowing I could make love to Ferrell for the rest of my life, every night, if I wanted to. But that never happened either. Because we worked so hard, we were usually too tired to make love the way we wanted to all the time.

  Our life settled down to the regular routine of a farm life and I often thought, if it weren’t for Ferrell, I would have nothing to look forward to in life. Now I know I have nothing to look forward to, no matter what Jason says about me becoming a lady. You can’t make a silk purse out of a sows ear, I remind myself.