A Bride for Donnigan

by Janette Oke

  No, it seemed that he was really the only one of the three who had struck out. And he couldn’t blame it on the young Kathleen. He had been surprised to hear her declare that she was seventeen. Though still young, she was older than he had thought. He had feared that she might be closer to fifteen. Almost eighteen, she had said. Donnigan had known many girls who were married by eighteen. It was Kathleen’s size that had fooled him. She was so tiny. So frail.

  No, actually she wasn’t that frail anymore. Oh, she was still a small, dainty woman, but she wasn’t frail. She looked much better than when she had first arrived. And she was much stronger than she looked, he granted her that.

  She had said that he treated her like a child, and with a flush to his cheeks, he admitted that he had. He had such a time thinking of her as anything else. But he was working on it. He really was.

  They were invited to share Christmas with Lucas and Erma. Kathleen was sure that Lucas’s invitation had come in response to Erma’s pleading. But she was just thankful for the opportunity to get out of the house for a day.

  The weather cooperated. It was still cold, but the wind was not blowing, and the sun was weakly sharing its rays with the world. Kathleen wore her favorite of the new garments and wrapped her warmest shawl closely about her shoulders. She saw Donnigan toss a couple of warm blankets in the sled, but he refrained from telling her that she should wrap up in them.

  Erma was still not “showing”—except in her face that seemed to glow. Again Kathleen felt envy wash over her. Erma had so much.

  Lucas, always the good host, had arranged a complete turkey dinner for them to eat in the hotel dining room rather than up in the suite. “Food odors sometimes bother Erma,” Lucas explained.

  But Kathleen cared not where she was served. It was so good to get out. So nice to be with other people.

  After the dinner, Lucas needed his cigar, so he and Donnigan stayed to chat in the dining room while Erma and Kathleen went to the rooms above.

  “I can hardly wait to show you all the baby things,” Erma enthused as they climbed the stairs.

  Lucas had been right. Erma had already filled a chest with carefully stitched little garments. Kathleen wondered how she would fill her next six months.

  “You are really happy, aren’t you, Erma?” Kathleen could not help but say.

  “Oh yes!” exclaimed the young woman. “It has made so much difference to be—to be waiting for a child. My hours have meaning now. The days aren’t nearly so lonely. And Lucas—Lucas comes home every morning, promptly at ten, so that I can get some fresh air and some exercise.”

  At Kathleen’s puzzled look, Erma hurried to explain.

  “It isn’t proper for a woman to be out on the streets alone,” she said, “so Lucas comes home and takes me for a walk.”

  Kathleen could only stare. Poor Erma had been virtually a prisoner in her own suite of rooms.

  “When I get too—too—obvious to be on the streets of town, Lucas says that we will drive to the country, tie the carriage, and go for a little walk down some private trail.”

  Kathleen’s mouth fell open. She quickly put aside her envy. At least Donnigan allowed her some freedom.

  “Oh, Lucas has been reading up on it,” Erma hurried on, not understanding Kathleen’s expression. “One must have fresh air and exercise—for the sake of the mother and the baby.”

  For all Donnigan’s fretting about her coming down with a cold, it was he himself who came in from chores with a flushed face and a sore throat.

  Kathleen racked her brain for a home remedy that would keep the man on his feet, but came up empty.

  The next morning he was dreadfully fevered. When he forced himself from the bed and tried to pull on his flannel shirt, Kathleen saw him shaking.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, fear in her voice.

  “I’m all right,” he insisted.

  “You’re not all right,” Kathleen flung back at him. “You’re shaking all over.”

  “Just the chills,” he responded. “I’ll be fine.”

  Kathleen threw back the warm blankets and bounded to her feet.

  “You won’t be fine. Look at you.”

  She crossed to him and reached her hand up to his forehead. “Sure, and you’re burning with fever!” she exclaimed, fear gripping her.

  She pushed her feet into knitted house slippers to ward off the chill of the wooden floor.

  “You’d best get back to bed,” she instructed. “I’ll see to the fire.”

  “I can’t,” argued Donnigan. “I’ve got to care for the stock.”

  “I’ll care for the stock,” responded Kathleen, already reaching for her warmest skirt.

  “But you can’t—” began Donnigan.

  “I can—and I will,” said Kathleen with boldness, the determination in her voice unmistakable. “That is—if you’ll be good enough to tell me what to do.”

  Donnigan did not miss the challenge. He stared at Kathleen for a moment, seeing the dark flashing of her eyes.

  He removed the shirt from his shoulders and tossed it on the floor by the bed.

  “I’ll tell you,” he said meekly and climbed back under the covers.

  Carefully and fully Donnigan explained the chore procedures to Kathleen. From time to time she nodded her head as an indication that she had understood. By the time he had finished his explanation, he was drenched in a cold sweat. Even he had to admit that he would not have been able to get up.

  “If you need help, go for Wallis,” he managed before lapsing into a fit of coughing.

  “I won’t need help,” said Kathleen firmly. “I’ll bring you something for your throat—then you stay put.”

  Donnigan was dreadfully ill, and Kathleen was dreadfully worried. She had none of the things that had been used in her London home to fight colds and influenza. She really didn’t know what to do for Donnigan except to try to relieve his mind concerning the stock and to sponge bathe him to bring down his fever. She offered him soup and tea as often as she could coax him into taking a few swallows, but found it difficult to get him to try food.

  It was almost two weeks before Donnigan felt strong enough to stir around the kitchen. Kathleen had put in many, many long hard days. The weather had not been kind. She had needed to fight the elements as well as his illness. And the chores had taken much of her strength and time. There had even been a cow who had calved out of season. Kathleen had put her in the barn, managed to quiet her, and promptly informed her that she would from henceforth be responsible to provide them with milk.

  “She’s never been milked,” argued Donnigan when Kathleen told him that she had herself a milk cow.

  “She has now,” announced Kathleen and thrust a custard pudding in his hand.

  “But how did you—?” began Donnigan.

  “I bribed her with chop—and tied her legs,” replied Kathleen simply.

  “What about the calf?” asked Donnigan.

  “The calf is drinking fine from a pail. There’s plenty for all of us.”

  Donnigan could only shake his head and smile.

  At last Donnigan was strong enough to return to the chores. Kathleen did not argue but inwardly she knew that she would miss the choring. She wouldn’t deny that it had been difficult work. But it was a nice change to get out of the house. And she enjoyed working with the animals. She even chatted as she curried the horses or milked the now-cooperative cow. She did not look forward to being shut up in the kitchen again. In spite of the additional work, Kathleen concluded that she had never in her life really felt so good.

  Much of it was due, she was sure, to the lift on the shoe. It did help her whole body to have her spine kept straight as she moved about. And when each of those long hard days came to an end, she slept as never before.

  “We need to talk,” said Donnigan, pushing back his empty supper plate.

  Kathleen’s head came up. Donnigan had now returned to his chores. Had he discovered something she had left undone? Or
not done right? She found her mind scrambling to try to sort out where she might have failed.

  “I did a lot of thinking while I lay there in bed,” said Donnigan.

  Kathleen still stared, not sure where he was headed.

  “You said I think of you as a child,” said Donnigan, and Kathleen drew in her breath. So, after all the weeks that had passed, they were finally going to go back to their quarrel. It appeared that Donnigan had a long memory. Kathleen had hoped that they could forget what had been said that evening. Now it seemed that Donnigan was going to open old wounds. Kathleen turned to face him, her chin lifting.

  “I think of you as a child,” he repeated. “How?”

  It was the wrong question. Kathleen felt the color rush to her cheeks. She lifted eyes filled with hurt and defiance. She was right back to where she was when she had flung the parcel at him and headed for the bedroom.

  “How?” she spat at him. “How? In every way, that’s how.”

  Donnigan cursed under his breath. He was going at all this the wrong way again.

  “You—you—” Kathleen was suddenly so angry again that she could not find the words to accuse him.

  Donnigan reached out to touch her arm, and she flung his hand off as she faced him.

  “I’m only asking so I can find out what I need to correct,” he said quickly, but there was a bit of bite to his words as well.

  Kathleen just stared.

  Donnigan rose to his feet and began to pace the room. He rubbed his hands together in front of him as though deeply seeking answers—direction.

  “I don’t know about you,” he said at last, still pacing, “but I’m not exactly happy with this marriage, and I might as well say it.”

  Kathleen sucked in her breath again. She felt that she had been slapped. She had tried so hard not to make fusses. Not to demand and now—

  “And I’m not putting the blame on you,” Donnigan hurried to explain. “Truth is”—he stopped pacing and faced her—“I haven’t known how to be a husband.”

  His honest and frank confession caught her totally off guard. She had expected him to point the finger at her. Instead, he stood before her with a look of shame and embarrassment.

  “I need your help, Kathleen.” There was pleading in his voice.

  She lowered her head so she wouldn’t have to see the pain in his eyes.

  “You were right,” he confessed further, resuming his pacing again. “I—did think of you as a child. I still—still fight it. But I know—I’ve seen—that you are a woman. A woman that I would like to share my life with—but I need help.”

  All of the anger drained from Kathleen. She sat motionless except for the trembling of her shoulders.

  “What’s wrong with us, Kathleen?” he begged. “What are we doing wrong? Why aren’t we happy—instead of—of just living together?”

  Kathleen sat for one moment, observing the bent shoulders of the strong young man before her. She had been braced for a fight. She could not fight this.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered, her defenses crumbling. All her loneliness and longing tumbled in upon her. Her hands came up to cover her face, and the tears dripped between her fingers.

  In two quick strides he was there, gathering her into his arms, holding her close against his chest, pressing kisses against her hair.

  “Oh, Kathleen,” she heard him murmur over and over. “Kathleen, I do love you. I really do. Help me to show you. Please, Kathleen.”

  She cried against him until she had no more tears. He brushed them away with his fingers and wiped them on his shirt sleeve. When she was finally able to look up at him, she noticed tearstains on his cheeks as well.

  “We’ll make it,” he whispered. “We’ll make it—but I want us to be happy. Both of us.”

  He pulled her even closer and kissed her again.

  “So what do we do?” asked Kathleen with a trembling voice as soon as she was able to speak.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. “I don’t have the answers—but I think we need to talk.”

  Talk. Oh, how Kathleen longed to talk. To really talk. Not just to say, “Good morning. Did you sleep well? Please pass the biscuits.” No, really talk.

  She nodded and wiped her nose on a handkerchief from her apron pocket.

  “Where do we start?” she managed.

  “I don’t know.” Slowly he released her. “There is so much that we still haven’t said. So much we haven’t shared.” Then he dared to go on. “I have longed to talk, but I thought you—you weren’t ready to share your past—your heart. I was waiting—”

  “And I wanted to talk,” Kathleen laughed shakily, “but Madam always said a man didn’t want a—a chatterer.”

  “Chatterer? That was one reason I sent for a wife—so I wouldn’t have to talk to Black.”

  Kathleen laughed again. So he talked to the animals, too. It seemed funny. Ironical.

  He sat down on a kitchen chair and pulled her onto his knees. “Let’s talk,” he said with a grin. “Let’s talk all night if we want to. Let the dishes wait. I want to know all about you. I want you to know all about me.”

  Kathleen put her arms around his neck and drew his head against her. It was almost surprising for her to discover that she didn’t hate him after all. She had never felt such deep, fervent love.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Erma

  Once the door had been opened to real communication, Kathleen felt that she could not get enough. At times she wondered if she really was becoming a chattering woman, but Donnigan seemed to enjoy it. He nodded and smiled and made comments of his own, and night after night, before they knew it, the evening was gone and it was time to retire again.

  “How much more quickly time goes when you have someone to talk to,” Kathleen mused.

  “Is Black missing your conversations?” she teased Donnigan one evening as they sat by the fire, she with a sock to darn and he with one of his old newspapers.

  He grinned. “I talk to him now and then just so he won’t feel left out,” he teased back.

  Kathleen chuckled. “And I still talk to Polly when I milk her,” she admitted.

  Kathleen had insisted that she be the one to milk the cow morning and night. It was good to get out of the kitchen and breathe a breath of fresh air. And Polly was milked in the barn, so it was never too cold.

  They were silent while Kathleen threaded her needle. But the silence was no longer cold and threatening. They both knew they could break it if they had an idea they wished to discuss, a thought to share, or just an event of the day to tell about.

  Donnigan’s eyes went back to his paper.

  “What are you?” Kathleen asked suddenly, causing Donnigan’s head to lift.

  “What am I?” He hesitated. “A man—I hope.”

  Kathleen chuckled. “I mean—what nationality? What were your kin?”

  Donnigan shrugged carelessly. “I dunno.”

  “Donnigan sounds Irish,” Kathleen commented.

  “You know an Irishman named Donnigan?”

  Kathleen made another stitch. “No,” she admitted. “But when I first saw your name on that piece of paper, I thought maybe it was Irish.”

  “Well, I’ve never met another man—or boy—in my whole life who answered to the name,” said Donnigan, his tone ironic.

  “I wonder what nationality it is. Where it came from,” Kathleen said as she placed another stitch.

  Donnigan shrugged again.

  “Don’t you care?” asked Kathleen. “I mean, I’m an O’Malley. I’ve been told that all my life. My father made me feel proud to be Irish. And you don’t even know what you are. Doesn’t it matter at all to you?”

  “Guess not. I’ve never given it much thought. What difference does it make? Men are—men. People are people. No difference.”

  Kathleen glanced up at him, surprised by his attitude.

  “But wouldn’t you like to know if you are French or German or
British—or Irish?” she asked in mock exasperation.

  “Don’t think I’m Irish,” Donnigan returned.

  “Sure now, and you definitely are not,” said Kathleen pertly, her accent strengthening for the first time in a long while. “An Irishman knows what he is, and that’s the pure truth of it.”

  Donnigan smiled.

  “Sure now,” he tried to mimic her.

  Kathleen threw the newly darned sock at him and he rose quickly from his chair, chasing her around the kitchen and stuffing the mended sock down the front of her gown.

  “You can never be serious,” she accused him, though she knew it wasn’t true.

  “I’m serious,” he answered, but his voice still held teasing.

  “Then tell me where you ever got a name like Donnigan.”

  He still held her around the waist. “I don’t know,” he replied. “My mother named me, I was told. Where she got it—or why she liked it—I’ll never know.”

  “Don’t you like it?”

  He released her then. “If you had any idea how many fights I had as a youngster over this name of mine—”

  “But why?”

  “I’ve no idea. It’s just—just different.”

  “Then why haven’t you changed it? You could go by Don or—or—”

  “Guess that’s the reason I fought. Fellas were always trying to call me something else. Pin a nickname on me. And I kept insisting that my name was Donnigan—and that they call me that.”

  In their short time together Kathleen had heard Donnigan correct a storekeeper who didn’t call him by his full name. He had not been rude. Just simply stated, “The name is Donnigan.” At the time she had been surprised that he would make an issue of it. She was especially surprised now when he confessed he didn’t even like the name.

  But Donnigan had become serious. “I lost my mother when I was very young,” he said with deep feeling. “My name is the one thing I have from her. Guess that seemed reason enough to fight for it.”