Her mother, alarmed, motioned her on. The eyes of her family and the other villagers were upon her.
If only I were a bird, I could fly from here, but I have the feet of a human, and contrary to my heart, they carry me forward. She took a few more steps and arrived at the altar, looking into the stolid face of Federico. The priest asked them to join hands. As she stretched out her hand, the young man and the priest reached for her as she swayed, about to fall. There was a gasp from the villagers, and her father ran to get a chair for her. The priest fanned her face with his prayer book, and Federico stood next to her looking confused. Ottavia finally looked up at the priest and forced a smile. Encouraged, he asked her to rise.
A murmur of relief flew through the little church as the ceremony began. The priest intoned the prayers in Latin, prayers asking God’s blessing upon the two here to be joined as one. When they knelt, she leaned upon the railing for support. Federico, his shoulder touching hers, stole glances at her, but she did not respond. She stared ahead, the incomprehensible yet familiar Latin words putting her in a trance. The priest’s request that they rise sent a chill through her. This was the moment for marriage vows.
Federico took her hand and the priest began. “Do you, Federico, take Ottavia to be your lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”
A cry welled up inside Ottavia, and she longed to scream one word: No!
Federico nodded vigorously. “I do.”
He turned and watched Ottavia as the priest addressed her. “And do you, Ottavia, take Federico to be your lawful wedded husband…?” Her stomach churned at the phrase. “To have and to hold…” Dear God in heaven, spare me! she cried inside. “From this day forward, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health…” The world was closing in on her. There was no time left. “Till death do you part?”
Chapter 6
Maeve cried the day Liam told her they would be going to America. “America!” she said. “It’s the end of the world! We won’t see our dear old parents or my sister Kathleen or your sweet Aunt Mary ever again!”
Liam reminded her that his cousins, the O’Malleys, had gone to America five years before. They had written of the close-knit Irish community, and the opportunities there, where so many had sought refuge after the Great Famine, to find a prosperous new life. Terence O’Malley himself made twenty times what he had made in Ireland as a carpenter, for there was much building going on in New York, and the rich paid no heed to what a good laborer charged.
Liam tried to cajole her with a picture of wealth—promises of beautiful new dresses and straw bonnets for her, and the softest cradle-bed for Dermot. “I’ll make so much money in America we’ll ride in the finest carriage,” he said, holding his arms in front of him as though holding reins, trying to prance like a horse but limping around the cottage. Maeve broke into a smile at his foolishness.
At her smile, he wrapped his arms around her waist and whirled her around until she was out of breath. “Oh, I love ye, Maeve, and I promise that I’ll make ye happy in America. I promise.”
Liam did not tell her what he feared, that if he were found by the Redcoats, he would be jailed, or killed. Maeve said no more about what she feared most, that they would leave their beloved Emerald Isle, never to return. America was forever.
Heartbroken, she walked the floor of their cottage, holding little Dermot close to her. Liam hated the thought of leaving too, but he knew that it might be the only way to save his life.
It was autumn then, but he had to wait until spring. He needed six months to save the money, about eight dollars per person, to travel steerage on one of the big Cunard steamships. He damned his lack of money, which could mean a death sentence if he were caught.
Liam was watchful, careful not to speak to strangers or walk with his telltale limp in their presence. In the potato fields, it became his habit to scan the horizon for soldiers. He and his brother Fenians had a network that ran the length and breadth of Ireland, and reports came to them that the guard who lived had given a description of the men who freed the prisoners. He said he also believed that one had been shot, perhaps in the leg. That was confirmed by a farmer who had seen three men traveling over his field at dawn, one man limping so badly he had to be half carried by the other two.
As word came that the Redcoats were getting dangerously near, he knew he had to leave immediately, but how? A letter from his cousin Terence was an answer to his prayer. Terence sent him tickets on a steamship, prepaid through New York’s Irish Emigrant Industrial Savings Bank. It was perfectly safe, his cousin assured him.
He and Maeve immediately began the painful process of leave-taking. On the eve of their departure, they held their “American wake,” a farewell party that was filled with music and dancing, wailing and melancholy. Maeve and her sister prepared food for the wake, and neighbors brought more—beef, cabbage and potatoes, and huge quantities of whiskey. As soon as darkness fell and Dermot was asleep in his cradle, the party, which was as much a ceremony, began.
Sean and Patrick and their families came, and families from the small neighboring farms. When Maeve opened the door to find her aging parents there, stooped with the weight of her leaving, she fell into their arms and wept, knowing in her heart that she would never see them again.
Patrick brought his fiddle and began to play a frantic jig. The youngest among them, fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds, challenged one another to dance until the others dropped. Liam filled cups with strong Irish whiskey. The music and the whiskey wove their spell, and laughter and storytelling rose in volume until they rivaled the sounds of the fiddle. The laughter drifted upon the surface, a balm that covered the roiling emotions beneath. The revelry had a frenzied air, friends and family looking at Maeve and Liam and feeling a loss rise up in their throats, one remembering when young Maeve ran barefoot in the fields, another the time Liam single-handedly pulled the neighbor’s cart out of the mud when he was only a lad himself.
When Patrick finally laid down his fiddle and took a long drink of whiskey, his brother Dan began to play the flute. He coaxed a melancholy cry like a young girl’s lament from the instrument, and they clustered around Dan to sing, to cry, and to remember. Friends and family stepped forward and recited poems they had composed out of the pain in their hearts, and Liam could remember many of the lines for years.
They partied until dawn, no one wanting to leave, knowing that this leave-taking would be their last. Finally Liam whispered to Maeve to dress the baby for the trip. It was time.
It was time. The words shuddered through the little gathering, more painful than the death of a patriarch. The loss of someone who had led a long, full life had sense and order about it. The loss of these young people and dear baby did not.
Maeve’s hands shook as she buttoned Dermot’s shirt and wrapped him in a blanket. She stopped to wipe a tear that dropped upon the baby’s face as she bent over him. Of the gathering, only Dermot did not seem to mind, being passed from person to person, each one cooing and crying over him, gazing into his placid face and giving him one final kiss before they reluctantly passed him into a neighbor’s arms.
Liam had the bags at the door when the priest arrived to give them his blessing for their journey and their life in a new land. As they knelt before him, he laid hands upon their heads, his prayers echoed by those gathered in the simple cottage. “Heavenly Father, we ask your blessing upon our brother Liam, our sister Maeve, and their wee son, Dermot. As they make the journey that lies ahead and begin life in a foreign land, may they always remember You, O Lord, and lead good Christian lives. As they make new friends in America, may they not forget their friends and family in the land of their birth, fair Ireland. May their countrymen be in their hearts until they meet again, when they will be together for all eternity.” Maeve leaned against Liam during the blessing, and as he helped her up, he was overcome with anger that the hated British and their
domination brought them to this.
There was no time left for recriminations. It was over, and for the sake of Maeve and Dermot he had to keep a cool head, even though he was aflame with bitterness. The men silently helped Liam carry the bags outside and got the wagon ready for the trip to the train.
Her sister Kathleen and her husband were to drive them to the train that would take them to the port of Queenstown in Cork Harbor. Relatives had to part Maeve and her mother as they clung to each other.
Were it not that Liam’s life was in jeopardy, nothing would make him cause Maeve and her dear, frail parents to suffer like this. As the cart trundled down the road, Maeve turned to wave a final goodbye. Her last memory of her mother was seeing her standing in the road, her hands clasped, crying out her name.
During the ride, Maeve and her sister made repeated promises to write, Maeve begging for every piece of news of their mother and father and their village, and Liam asking his brother-in-law for news of the Brotherhood, especially of Sean and Patrick, who had chosen to stay and go into hiding if need be.
As they arrived at the station, a chill winter rain cut short their goodbyes. Maeve was concerned for the baby and wanted to get him inside where it was at least dry, though from the crowd at the station, all bound for the port and the ship to America, it was going to be crushing on the train. They hugged and spoke last words of encouragement, a little cluster among the crowd that was at once bustling and tearful, for there were only two kinds of people on the station—those leaving for America and those left behind.
Maeve and Liam were about to board when Patrick raced to them, reining his horse so close he nearly knocked them over.
“What news have you?” Liam said.
Patrick’s words tumbled out. “The Redcoats, Liam. The word is they’ll be waiting for ye at Queenstown. What are ye going to do?”
Maeve turned to Liam, trembling.
“I’m going to America, with a brief stop at Queenstown. I’ll be there just long enough to get on board.” He patted the gun concealed in the waistband of his trousers. “And maybe give a Redcoat a greeting he richly deserves.”
****
The train hobbled along, burdened with the weight of so many people, so much sadness, so many dreams. In the crush, Maeve was afraid to voice her fears to Liam, for fear some rogue would overhear and report him to the authorities when they reached Queenstown. Liam had the same concern, for he put his finger to his lips for a caution.
Liam’s thoughts crowded in with every clack of the wheels. How many British would patrol, scouting for a man with a limp? Where would they be waiting for him? At the train station? Hiding along the route? Or worse, waiting on the ship?
Maybe all those places. He had to keep his wits. Coming this far, he was not about to fail. It was then he decided. I will not go to jail. I will not let the Redcoats arrest me. I will board that ship today or they will not take me alive.
Chapter 7
The little church shivered in silence. They stood there expectantly, the priest, the bridegroom, and the villagers, waiting for Ottavia. The only sound she heard was her own frantic breathing and the pounding of her heart as Federico and Father Nollo’s eyes searched her face.
She looked away from Federico, fixed her eyes upon the crucifix, and murmured low.
“My child?” the old priest asked, waiting for her to repeat her response.
It was barely audible. “I do.”
“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the priest said, beaming. A broad grin lit Federico’s sturdy face. The townspeople looked at one another, smiled, and murmured their approval.
Everyone in Argiano, crowded inside the little church, smiled at their union and rejoiced for one of the most beautiful brides the village had ever seen. At that moment, Ottavia Rossi Gibelli died inside.
Federico leaned in to kiss her lips before they walked down the aisle, but she turned quickly and his lips grazed her cheek. He seemed not to notice this rebuff and whispered, “Tonight, my beautiful Ottavia.”
They walked down the aisle and into the sunny courtyard, prepared for the wedding feast. Long tables bore colorful cloths, and fruit and flowers rose in the center. Women brought breads they had baked, meats and vegetables, and heaped the tables with their plenty. The townspeople brought their instruments, violins and accordions, and the children were the first to dance. As the wine flowed, others got up to dance as well, while the old people enjoyed watching the dancing as they talked into the afternoon.
Ottavia spent her time visiting with the women, losing herself in their prattle, hoping to prolong the day, all the while dreading the night. But the late September sun gave way to a giant golden moon, and the townspeople, nodding their heads knowingly, began to murmur that it was time for the couple to leave, to be off to the Gibellis’ new love nest, to make love all night long, until the dawn found them exhausted and satisfied.
She still clung to a small knot of women, like a dying woman holding on to life. Then Federico was beside her, grabbing her hand.
“It is time.”
She dragged herself along beside him, longing to be a bird, soaring high, free from earth and its pain. She said nothing, and Federico was content with the silence, his own mind imagining Ottavia naked and lustful, and his.
They entered the house, and Ottavia was glad the Gibellis had not yet returned. At least she did not have to walk past those leering brothers. That was small consolation as they reached their room and Federico snapped the door shut.
The moment they were inside, he pulled her to him and kissed her voraciously. The pressure of his lips on hers was painful, his closeness unbearable. She freed herself, and he eyed her body in her wedding dress, lingering on her shoulders and her breasts.
She could not stand him looking at her that way. “Will you make a fire, Federico?” she asked. “The night is chill.”
“Of course, my Ottavia,” he said. “I want you warm while you undress.”
As he bent before the stone hearth, arranging the logs and fanning the flames that had begun to lick the wood, she plucked at the buttons on her dress, her hope shriveled and lifeless.
The day before, he had picked up and brought here her small trunk with her few dresses and nightclothes, and she bent to pick up a nightdress that lay on top of the folded pile. He was behind her before she knew it, caressing her breasts and forcing himself against her.
“You won’t need that nightdress,” he said, working his hands down to her groin.
She whirled around so quickly she caught him by surprise, and held the nightdress up to cover herself as she inched away from him.
“Oh, you want to play,” he said, and tore off his shirt. He was muscular but squat, and curly black hair covered his chest, his back, and his shoulders, all but obscuring his skin. The hair on his head was long, and he brushed it back with one hand as he worked to release his trousers with the other.
“No!” Ottavia cried, and began to back away, the nightdress still pressed against her breasts. He was out of his pants in a second and stood there, naked and aroused. She backed against the wall, looking for escape. He lunged at her, and as she tried to leap across the bed, he caught her. She was pinned under him now, her head thrashing from side to side as he tried to kiss her. His strength prevailed and, holding her wrists, he kissed her long and hard.
“There, you liked it as much as I did,” he said, still believing her reluctance was a game.
“Do you know what I like?” she said.
“No, what?” he asked, lifting himself on his knees above her.
She was suddenly more angry than afraid. With all her might, she raised her knee to his groin and kicked. He rolled over in pain, and Ottavia flew from the bed. Outside, she heard the Gibellis returning. She knew she could not run from the room. It was over. She ran to the corner by the hearth and stood there, trembling.
“The face of a kitten, the soul of a wildcat,” he said, enjoying the game as he understood it. He jumped
from the bed and started toward her. As he neared the hearth, he started to run, about to leap at her. He missed his footing on the slippery tile and crashed, his head hitting the stone hearth with a thud.
He lay there, his eyes open in surprise, blood matting his dark curls and encircling his head. Ottavia screamed and knelt down before him, now heedless that she wore nothing, and put her hands on his heart. The door burst open, and the Gibellis stood there, open-mouthed.
“Federico,” Signora Gibelli cried, and rushed to her son. Suddenly realizing her nakedness, Ottavia put her hands on her breasts, and the father brought a blanket, put it around her, and helped her up.
She stood there as Signor Gibelli bent over his son and felt for a heartbeat. There was none. He put his arms around his wife and whispered, “Federico is dead. Lord have mercy on our son.”
His mother had to be carried from the room by two of her sons. The father sent the third son from the room and sat on a chair near Ottavia, who was shivering in shock over the accident.
Tears ran down his cheeks. “What happened, my dear?”
“He slipped on the tile and hit his head on the hearth. One moment he was alive, and the next, he was…gone.”
Ottavia began to cry, tears of pity for poor, foolish Federico and his grieving family, and tears of relief for herself.
The father, mistaking her tears for grief, took her hand and tried to comfort her, but he too, began to cry. “How cruel! On your wedding night, when you could have had a lifetime together.”
Even as she cried, her body felt a lightness she had not experienced. She felt that she could float, could fly, like the birds she had envied earlier that day. Moments before she had faced the sentence of a life with a man she abhorred. Now, that was a lifetime away.
In a way she could not have imagined, God had spared her from the cruelest of punishments. She had been set free.
Chapter 8
The train was so crowded they couldn’t see out the windows. They were left to look at each other in silence, each thinking his own solemn thoughts. Liam studied Maeve’s dear face as if to commit it to memory…the fair skin, the blue eyes that reflected her every mood, and the scattering of freckles that were gold, he told her, sprinkled by a playful leprechaun. We are about to start a new life. That thought would have to carry him through the danger he faced.
Choices of the Heart Page 4