Kenleigh-Blakewell Family Saga Boxed Set (Books 1 & 2)

by Pamela Clare

  Dedicated to my sister, Michelle, for a lifetime of laughter and friendship. Everyone says I laugh all the time when I’m with you. All I know is that I love you and feel happy when we’re together. So let’s spend more time together during the second half of our lives than we have in the first half.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This book was my heartbreaker. I spent months researching Ireland during the penal era, then threw myself into writing the story for more than a year. When I was done, I had a manuscript that was almost five hundred pages long. I cherished the story even more than the first book in this series and felt it was much better written. I was so excited when I turned it in to my editor.

  I got a phone call about a month later. The publisher informed me that the book far exceeded their maximum word count. I was shocked and deeply upset to hear that the book would be cut—by at least one hundred pages. I couldn’t imagine what the story would be like without those pages and asked that the publisher make an exception in this case. After all, no one had told me there was a maximum word count.

  I was told that no exceptions could be made. After all, page count determines how many books fit in a box, how heavy those boxes are, how high shipping costs become, etc. I could understand why such things matter to a publisher, but they didn’t matter to me as the author. I was telling a story that needed precisely this many words; to cut it would be to irrevocably change the story. In the end, the cuts were made.

  I cried for a month. The book that was released didn’t feel anything like the book I’d written. Perhaps the colder corners of the publishing industry can look at a novel and just see a product, but for me, a book is about the characters. The hero’s character in particular suffered from these cuts. I hated it.

  My editor suggested I save the manuscript for the day, many years in the future, when I would be a bestselling author and the publishing house would feel it worth the investment to put out the original version of the story. That’s what I did.

  But something happened that no one could have predicted: the ebook revolution. That very revolution brought about the end of that publishing house’s print publication program. They no longer publish print novels. However, it also gave me the ability to dust off the manuscript and share it with readers.

  As I read through Jamie and Bríghid’s story, I fell in love with it again. I never read the cut version, and I never allowed myself to think about the original version. Reading it again was like discovering lost friends.

  And now I share it with you. For the first time, readers can read the novel I wrote, not the butchered version. For those who read the original release, it ought to feel like a completely different story and a new reading experience. For those who haven’t, you’ll never know what you missed—and that’s a good thing. Enjoy!

  Pamela Clare

  Aug. 7, 2011

  A word about Irish Gaelic…

  When I wrote this story, it was very important to me to give the Irish characters an authentic Irish identity. I opted to give them very Irish names and to include Irish Gaelic in the story. However, most of us don’t have access to Gaelic-speaking friends and neighbors. To make reading the story a bit easier, here’s a quick guide to pronouncing the characters’ names and other words that are repeated throughout the story.

  I’ve translated all of the Gaelic except in places where the story is being told from the point of view where the character doesn’t know Gaelic. In those few places, the text remains untranslated. Sometimes in life we just don’t know what’s being said.

  Bríghid — BREEDGE = Brigid in English

  Ruaidhri — RO-ry = Rory

  Finn — Finn (from Finnegan) in English, too

  Aidan — AY-den = Aidan in English, too

  Muirín = MWIR-rin = This has no equivalent in English. It’s a very old Celtic name.

  iarla — EEER-la = earl

  Ailís — eye-LEESH = Alice

  Seanán — SHAWN-on = Shannon

  Niamh — NIEVE or NEEVE (There’s really no English equivalent.)

  Ní — NEE = “Daughter of”

  Maelsechnaill — MALL-shek-nyall

  Uí — for the men (Fionn and Ruaidhri). This means “son of” and is pronounced somewhat like “oy” or the French word “oui.”

  Bainne clábair — Bonnie clabber, a food made of soured milk

  Mo Aisling ghael — Mo ASH-ling GELL = My beautiful dream or vision.

  The Rs are lightly rolled, not the heavy roll you hear in Spanish or Scottish.

  In direct address, the word “a” goes before some names, and the spelling of the name changes slightly in those cases. In the case of Bríghid’s name, it looks like “a Bhríghid.”

  Prologue

  Skreen Parish

  County Meath, Ireland

  January 30, 1751

  Bríghid Ní Maelsechnaill put the bacon and oatcakes on the table, her heart humming with excitement.

  Her father stepped out of the back room, dressed and washed for the day. His gaze met hers, a special twinkle in his blue eyes, and a smile on his face.

  They shared a secret, and soon her father would tell her brothers.

  She smiled back, reached for the butter crock, put it next to the oatcakes, and smoothed her apron. She wanted the breakfast to be perfect, and it was. The oat porridge was thick and hot, but not lumpy. The oatcakes were cooked, but not burnt. The bacon was crisp, but not blackened—just the way her father liked it. There were eggs, fried potatoes, bainne clábair and a pot full of hot tea.

  Her father pulled out his chair, sat, motioned the boys to the table. Like a swarm of locusts, they descended—Finn, Ruaidhrí, and little Aidan. Though not kin, Aidan had lived with them for two years now and was one of the family, as sure as he’d been born into it.

  Bríghid helped Aidan put a napkin around his neck, took her seat, slapped Ruaidhrí’s hand as he reached for the bacon. “Not yet, Ruaidhrí.”

  When all were seated and quiet, her father bowed his head, folded his hands, prayed. As excited as she was, she heard scarce a word of it, but crossed herself when it was done—and waited.

  Her father didn’t serve himself as he usually did after the prayer, but gazed intently at Finn and Ruaidhrí. “Finn, Ruaidhrí, I’ve news for you. Your sister has become a woman.”

  Finn’s blue eyes widened, and he smiled at her. “Well done, little sister.”

  She smiled back, her heart filled with a warm rush of love for him.

  “But, Da’, how can Bríghid be a woman? She doesn’t have big dugs like—”

  From the sudden silence and the pained look on Ruaidhrí’s face, Bríghid knew Finn had pinched him good under the table. She’d pinch Ruaidhrí herself later. She’d have breasts one day. They just needed time to grow.

  Her father fixed Ruaidhrí with a gaze that spoke trouble. “Your sister is a woman now, a maiden chaste and fair as ever there was in Ireland. You’re to show her respect and courtesy, or I’ll know the reason why.” He took a gulp of tea. “She shall have ribbons and lace for her hair—and a trip to the fair come May Day.”

  Bríghid’s heart soared. She might have squealed aloud at this news, but she was fourteen now and mustn’t behave like a giggling girl of seven summers. Instead, she smiled. “The fair!”

  The boys’ faces brightened as well.

  “The fair!” Aidan bounced up and down in his chair.

  “I expect the two of you to protect Bríghid and to guard her virtue, as I’ve no doubt the lads will soon swarm to her like bees to honey. She’s got her mother’s look about her. There isn’t a prettier lady in the county, nor all of Ireland I’d wager. Her safety and happiness depend on the menfolk in her life, and we shall not fail her.”

  Finn nodded, his expression grave.

  Ruaidhrí, looking contrite, nodded. “Aye, Da’.”

  Bríghid felt herself blush to the roots of her hair, but couldn’t hold back a smile.

  “And, Bríghid, you’re to have the back r
oom now. A young lady needs privacy in a household of men.”

  For a moment, Bríghid was speechless. How could her father have known? She’d felt so uncomfortable lately, trying to dress and undress, bathe and sleep with her brothers in the room. “Thank you, Da’.”

  “You’re welcome, mo Aisling ghael.” A smile on his handsome face, he reached for the bacon. “Now let’s eat the fine breakfast you’ve set before us.”

  The food was gone in less than half the time it took to prepare it, but Bríghid knew that meant they’d liked it. She kissed her father on the cheek as he headed toward the door, his lesson books tucked under his arm. His whiskers were rough against her lips, his skin warm with the smells of pine and tobacco—her father’s own special scent.

  “Are you off to gather rushes today, my Bríghid?”

  “Aye, I am. There’s much to be done before tomorrow night.”

  He nodded his approval, started out the door. Then he turned back to her. “Your mother would be right proud of you, so she would.” He tickled a finger under her chin, smiling down at her. Then he turned strode out the door, calling to the boys. “Come along, Ruaidhrí, Aidan. Let’s not be late.”

  As she watched him go, Bríghid felt a pricking behind her eyes, but refused to cry. She barely remembered her mother, as she’d died, weakened by famine, when Bríghid was only three. But Bríghid had tried to be a good daughter, one her mother would have been happy to claim had she lived. To hear her father say such words … The midwife had told her she might have confusing feelings or want to cry more now that she was a woman.

  Bríghid cleared the table, made quick work of the dishes. She placed more peat on the fire—the hearth fire could not go out until after May Day—then took off her apron, put on her cloak and scarf, and set out.

  The day was mild and sunny, as if nature itself shared her joy. Winter seemed to know there was no point in fighting the approach of spring and was in retreat. In places where the sun stayed longest, the grass was beginning to green. The night’s frost had melted into dew on the bare branches of the apple trees. Some ewes had dropped their lambs, and the cows would soon calve. In a matter of weeks, there would be milk, cheese and butter in plenty, and flowers would begin to bloom.

  Bríghid walked down the lane that came up to the door and set across the field to the edge of the lake where the rushes grew tall. As a virgin—and especially since her name was Bríghid—she was the one who must gather the family’s rushes for Imbolg, blessed Saint Bríghid’s special day. The rushes must be pulled by hand by a maiden, not cut with iron. They must be gathered in silence and hidden from the rest of the family until tomorrow night, when they would be woven into crosses for the house and cowshed, made into girdles for the cows and used to make the Brídeog—the little St. Bríghid doll—and a little mattress for the Brídeog to sleep on. Extra rushes would be strewn on the floor and the table to welcome the Saint into the home and hearth.

  “Go down on your knees and do homage, and let blessed St. Bríghid enter the house.” She mouthed the words she would say tomorrow night before the prayers and feasting, wanting to get them right and make her father and brothers proud.

  She knelt in the frozen marsh, began to pull rushes out of the ground. Their edges were sharp, but she had done this many times and knew to wrap a scarf around her hand. They broke free easily, and soon she had a goodly pile. But many more were needed if there were to be enough for both the floor and the table, as she intended. She didn’t mind the work. It was good to be outside, and the day was too lovely for any but happy thoughts.

  The spring fair! She almost laughed out loud with delight, then remembered she must be silent. She’d never been to a fair. She wondered what colors of ribbons the merchants would sell. She wanted blue ribbons and white ribbons and white lace. Perhaps red ribbons, too, if her father had the coin. She would braid her hair, work the ribbons into her braids, tie bits of lace at the end of each.

  She wondered, too, if her father spoke truly. Was she pretty? Would young men be drawn to her like bees to honey? The thought made her belly tickle, her heart beat faster. Perhaps she would meet a handsome young man at the fair. Perhaps she would meet the man destined to become her husband.

  She knew her father wouldn’t allow her to marry until she was sixteen. She’d heard him tell the midwife he felt fourteen was still too young for motherhood. The midwife told him she helped girls of thirteen and fourteen birth children all the time, but her father had stood fast. She would not wed until she was sixteen.

  Because she trusted her father, she was not angry with him. Most country girls were married before they were sixteen, and many had children. But her father was the wisest man she knew. He was a teacher and had read all manner of books. He taught boys and girls to read, do math and to love Irish history. If he believed it best, she would wait until she was older and not complain.

  She wanted a husband, to be sure, a man brave and fair to woo her with sweet words, stolen glances, and wreaths of flowers. He would be strong and tall like Finn. He would be kind and gentle like her father. He would work the land, not spend his days at sea. He would not raise his voice to her or hit her. Nor would he waste himself in drink.

  And they would have children, as was their duty. She wanted four girls and four boys, and she had already chosen their names: Róisin, Ana, Meallá, and Laoise for the girls, and Ciarán, Breacán, Lochlann and—

  She stopped, listened.

  Someone shouted her name. She stood, rushes bundled under her arm, saw Ruaidhrí running down the road, Aidan lagging behind.

  They spied her, dashed through the grass toward her.

  She motioned to Ruaidhrí to stop, but he paid her no mind. She was to gather rushes in silence, and no one was to see them. But now they had come along, and she would have to start over. She started to scold Ruaidhrí, saw the terror on his face, little Aidan’s tears.

  Her stomach lurched.

  “They took him!”

  No. It couldn’t be. “What?”

  “The iarla’s men took Da’!”

  Aidan dashed forward, clutched Bríghid’s hand, sobbing.

  There was a buzzing sound in her ears. The rushes fell, forgotten, at her feet. “What happened?” Her words were a whisper.

  “They found us sittin’ along the hedgerow. They dragged him away in chains! Oh, Bríghid, they beat him!” Tears poured down Ruaidhrí’s cheeks. He dashed them away. “I could not stop them. I tried. They laughed and kicked me.”

  She felt tears gather behind her eyes, felt the tripping pulse of panic in her veins. Then she saw her little brother was bleeding from a cut on his lip. She was a woman now. She must not give in to her own childish tears, but must comfort the others.

  “You were very brave, Ruaidhrí. And you, Aidan.” She wiped the blood from Ruaidhrí’s mouth with her scarf, tried to ignore the sick feeling her stomach. “Come. We must find Finn.”

  Chapter One

  November 10, 1754

  “Cén fáth a’ chuirfeadh Dia a smacht ar bhás linbh?”

  Why would God let a baby die?

  Bríghid slipped the worn leather brogues onto Aidan’s feet, distressed to see how big the holes in the toes had become. “Only God and His saints know the answer to that, a phráitín.”

  She stood, took the little woolen coat from its nail in the wall, and helped Aidan put it on. Its sleeves were too short by several inches. She’d taken the hems out as far as they could go last winter. He was almost ten now, she reminded herself. He’d need a new coat, and a warmer one, as he now spent more time outdoors with Finn learning men’s work. He’d need a new pet name, too. A young man would hardly find it fitting to be called “potato” in front of the other boys.

  “I feel bad for the baby.” Aidan wrapped his red woolen scarf around his neck.

  “Aye, me too.” She felt just as bad for the babe’s young mother.

  Muirín had labored two long days to bring her first child into the world. Brí
ghid, though unmarried, had gone to help, bringing herbs to soothe and calm the mother. There had been little the women could do to ease Muirín’s suffering. They’d held her hand, given her sips of tea, wiped her brow, offered silent prayers, called for the priest. But the child had slipped into the world blue and lifeless, the cord tight around its neck. Muirín’s husband had died some months back of a fever of the lungs, and the child was all she’d had of him.

  The babe’s stillbirth had touched Aidan deeply, and no wonder. His mother had died in childbed. His father had been killed in a skirmish with the hated English when Aidan was four. Only twelve at the time, Bríghid had taken him in and had raised him with the help of her brothers—and, for a time, her father.

  Now it was time to bury the babe and consign its soul to God. With no church, Father Padraíg had called a Mass at the Old Oak. It was remote enough that their chances of being caught and punished were slim. Mass was usually said discreetly in someone’s home or in a cowshed, but all the neighboring families were coming to pay their respects to the child they never knew—and to help Muirín cope with her grief. There wasn’t room for them all indoors. Though Bríghid had seen a church from the outside—a grand building that seemed to reach up to Heaven itself with windows of precious colored glass—she had never been inside one. She’d been born long after the Sasanach had taken away the churches and made it a crime for a Catholic to pray.

  It was a long walk to the Old Oak, but it was the safest place for so many people to gather, and it was holy ground, consecrated by priests and the Old Ones who came before. The ancient remains of a holy well stood near the base of the tree, where some women still left offerings. ’Twas said Saint Padraíg himself had prayed beneath its branches when Ireland was a pagan land.

  Finn wouldn’t be joining them, as one of the cows had taken sick with the milk fever. They needed her milk, and the butter, curds and cheeses that came from it, to make it through the winter. Finn would spare no effort to see the cow cured. He would pay his respects later.