by BJ Hoff
Terese looked at her. “You don’t mean Roweena and wee Evie, do you?”
Jane waved a hand. “No, not them. Sweet Roweena would die for the man, she’s that devoted. And the little one—Gabriel is the only father she has known, and hasn’t he been a fine one, at that? No, those two are blessed to have such a home as he provides, and sure, they seem to be grateful entirely.”
She leaned back then, eyes closed. Thinking that all the talk might be tiring her, Terese grew silent. She had learned to let Jane doze whenever and wherever she could, for the woman managed little enough sleep as it was.
For a few minutes more, she went on with the massage, her thoughts drifting past the hushed room to Brady. She wondered if she would hear from him again soon. Miffed because he had taken a good month to write, she deliberately hadn’t answered his letter. Of late, though, she was beginning to think she might be cutting off her nose to spite her face and decided that tomorrow she would pen a note to the address in Limerick.
Terese had found herself missing him more than she would have expected. She didn’t like to admit that just possibly she was in love with Brady Kane. She found the very idea almost frightening. Love was not for her, at least not yet. There was too much she had to do, too much ahead of her. She had a future. She must not allow anything to divert her from that.
Besides, if this was love, she wasn’t at all sure she wanted any part of it. So far she had seen nothing of the lightheartedness, the giddy happiness others seemed to associate with the condition. More often these days, she felt glum and weary, dragging through her work almost like an old woman. And there were her moods—they seemed to swing from testiness to out-and-out rage, though she could seldom single out the object of her resentment. At times she simply did not feel well at all, and these were the times she almost wished she had never set eyes on Brady Kane’s insolent face. Perhaps he wasn’t directly responsible for her malaise, but if not him, then who?
Still, she did have feelings for him, feelings she couldn’t simply dismiss. And there remained the possibility that Brady would eventually take her with him to America, even though he seemed to be in no hurry at all about going back—and even though he had made it clear enough that he wasn’t even remotely interested in anything permanent between them.
She gave a long sigh, suddenly angry with this ongoing war between her thoughts and her emotions.
“What are you going to do about the child?”
The sharpness of Jane’s words startled Terese out of her introspection. When she looked up, Jane’s eyes were wide open and probing.
“What?”
“Ach, girl, surely you’ve realized by now that you’re carrying his child! And what are you going to do about it?”
Terese gaped at Jane, too stunned to reply, suddenly numbed by a sense of her own stupidity. Had she known all along but denied what was too devastating to admit? Quickly her mind calculated the time, the way she had been feeling—the fatigue, her treacherous stomach. And hadn’t her mother been the same when she carried baby Mada?
Terese froze. No. No, it can’t be true…it mustn’t be true…
But it was true. She knew it instinctively, felt the certainty of it closing in on her, could almost hear the sound of the lock turning in the gaolhouse door.
32
LAMENT OF THE LONELY
None care why the colour from my wan cheek has fled—Lonely and bitter are the tears I shed.
LADY WILDE (SPERANZA)
“I don’t suppose you know how far along you are?”
Terese blinked, then shook her head. Without warning, a searing blade of shame ripped through her. She scrambled to her feet and turned away from Jane, unable to bear the gaze of those astute hazel eyes.
Instinctively, her hands went to her belly, and she stood in the middle of the room, hunched over, clasping herself as if she might fly apart.
“Two months?” Jane prompted sharply. “Three? You must have an idea, girl!”
Terese tried to think. “I—a little more than two, perhaps,” she choked out. “No more.”
“Will he marry you, do you think?”
Terese whipped around, her hands dropping to her sides. “Marry me?”
Jane was watching her, her expression unreadable. “When he learns about the babe—do you think he’ll marry you?”
In spite of the humid closeness of the room, a wintry cold began to seep into Terese’s bones as she remembered her last night with Brady, the argument, the things he had said to her…“Marriage isn’t for me…Not now, maybe not ever…”
But surely a child—his child—would change his feelings…would change everything…
“No,” she heard herself saying before she had time to build any false hope. “I think not. He’s not the man for marriage.”
Jane’s eyes glinted with anger. “And knowing that, you lay with him anyway? How could you be so reckless, girl? Didn’t you once think where it might lead?”
Terese made no reply. She hated the way Jane was looking at her, with a mixture of pity and something akin to contempt, as if she might as well try to reason with a fool.
And at that moment, a fool is what Terese felt herself to be.
“No doubt you’re right,” Jane rambled on. “The Yank does not seem inclined to tie himself down to home and hearth fire. So, then—how will you manage?”
Terese thought she would surely scream if Jane hurled another question at her. She shook her head. “I don’t know yet. I will have to think.”
Even as she said the words, a part of her recoiled at the very idea of her circumstances. She would have to make plans, of course—but what sort of plans?
“Perhaps you should speak to Gabriel,” Jane offered. “He might be able to advise you.”
Terese twisted her mouth. “You mean condemn me.”
Jane was immediately defensive. “Gabriel would never condemn you, nor anyone else. He lives his life and allows others to live theirs.”
“He makes no secret of the fact that he doesn’t approve of me,” Terese pointed out. “His face turns to stone every time I walk into a room.”
She found herself squirming under Jane’s studying gaze.
“Perhaps your conscience makes you see things that are not there. If you’re not comfortable in Gabriel’s presence, I submit the fault is yours and not his. He is not a man to be deceived.”
“And what does that mean?” Terese spat out. “Faith, Jane, if you think me such a terrible person, why do you keep me on?”
Jane made no reply but instead regarded Terese with an expression that was not unkind, in spite of her brusque words. “I keep you on because I need a girl, as Gabriel himself was so quick to point out. Don’t forget that it’s him you have to thank for having a roof over your head at all, no matter how much you may begrudge the fact. Gabriel seemed to think I should take you in, and I did so because I trust his judgment. You might consider doing the same.”
Resentment built in Terese, and she tried to hold a steady gaze. At last, though, she had to look away. She could not shake off the humiliation, the burden of shame. As difficult as she found Jane’s obvious censure, she could not imagine having to endure the big fisherman’s. And no matter what Jane said, Terese was certain he would be openly disapproving.
Jane’s next suggestion absolutely appalled Terese. “I expect Gabriel could convince your worthless Yank to marry you, if that’s what you want.” Her expression was strangely conspiratorial as she added, “In any event, you’d best be sending a letter off to Limerick to tell him of your condition.”
The idea of Gabriel strong-arming Brady to the altar made Terese cringe in shame, but Jane was probably right about the letter. She nodded and began to gather up the towels and oil to put them away. That done, she then helped Jane into her nightclothes and braided her hair. Neither of them spoke until they had finished with the nightly routine.
“Will you be wanting the chair tonight,” Terese asked, “or shall I help you i
nto bed?”
Jane waved her off. “Just leave me here for now.”
Terese was reaching to set a cup of water on the table next to her when Jane caught her arm. “Listen, girl,” she said, not quite meeting Terese’s gaze, “you can stay here as long as you want. You needn’t worry that I’ll be putting you out because of the child.”
Surprised, Terese had to blink back the quick tears that filled her eyes. Immediately, Jane withdrew her hand and looked away. “You’ll have to tend to your work all the same, mind. I can’t afford to feed an idle girl, and won’t you be eating more than ever now?”
It suddenly dawned on Terese, and she could have wept at the realization, that Jane’s gruffness was all a sham. That hard-edged exterior hid a heart that was far more tender than she would allow the world to know.
Overwhelmed for a moment, Terese fought to keep her voice level as she replied. “Thank you, Jane. I’m…obliged. And you needn’t fret about the work. I’ll not be slacking off on you.”
Later that night Terese lay in her bed wide awake, trying to decide what to do. Thoughts swarmed in her mind like angry bees, yet she could focus on none of them. From time to time she put a hand to her middle as if to give substance to the fact that she was indeed carrying a child. Brady’s child.
But Brady wasn’t here, and only God knew when he would be. For a moment Terese nearly crumpled under the fear and shame sweeping through her. She choked on the unshed tears burning her throat, but instead of weeping—or screaming—she bit down on her pillow until she could finally breathe again without sobbing.
She had to think, make plans. But first she must write to Brady.
Why? She did not dare to hope that a baby would really make a difference. Brady was a wanderer by nature, a sweet-talking love whisperer. She knew that by now. He seemed to fancy himself without roots, without responsibilities—and perhaps without a conscience as well, came the bitter thought.
No, that wasn’t true. Brady was simply…Brady. Terese even allowed herself the tenuous hope that once he learned of her dilemma he wouldn’t merely cast her aside. First thing in the morning—no, yet tonight, for who could sleep?—she would write to him. He would come as soon as he learned, she was sure of it. He would come back, and together they would decide what to do. He would not leave her to face this alone.
It occurred to her that he might even be happy about the child. Proud, perhaps. The idea of fatherhood changed some men, didn’t it? Perhaps this was the very thing that would give Brady roots, give him purpose and make him stop his foolish roaming.
And perhaps the bay will turn to wine before sunup, came the hateful whisper at the edge of her mind as she pressed her mouth against the pillow and wept.
That night, for the first time in a very long time, Terese dreamed of Cavan. They were standing on opposite sides of what seemed to be an immense, yawning canyon. Far below, a great waterfall roared over yet another cliff, its raging current flinging uprooted trees and pitiful, bleating animals into a dark abyss where its waters could no longer be seen.
Behind her, snarling and pawing the ground, a pack of slavering wild dogs circled, waiting to close in on Terese. Cavan was shouting at her, motioning that she should jump across the chasm to him, while Terese shrieked that she would surely fall to her death, that she couldn’t possibly make such a leap.
“But you must jump!” Cavan pleaded with her. “The dogs will be on you any minute! Jump, Terese! Jump!”
Whether he was deafened by the thunder of the water or simply chose to ignore her protests, he continued to urge her to jump. Terrified, her heart hammering savagely, Terese shot a look over her shoulder to see the dogs leering and drooling, inching their way toward her. When she looked back to Cavan, he had moved as close to the edge of the cliff as he dared, arms outstretched as if to catch her.
Behind her she could hear the dogs snapping their teeth and growling, edging in on her. They were so close now that she could smell their wildness, hear their excited panting. She stepped dangerously close to the edge of the cliff, and Cavan cried out to warn her. She looked over her shoulder to see the leader of the pack—a great, red-eyed beast—charging toward her at a full run. She screamed, over and over again, but still could not find the courage to jump—
“Are you all right, girl?”
Jane’s voice cut across the room, startling Terese out of the nightmare. She sat bolt upright, her body drenched in perspiration. In the clammy darkness, she heard only her own labored breathing and the squeak of Jane’s chair as she stirred in it.
“I’m fine, Jane, thank you. ’Twas only a bad dream. I’ll be all right now.”
The other made a small sound of acknowledgment but said nothing else.
Terese lay awake the rest of the night, unable to sleep, thinking about the dream—thinking about Cavan, wishing he were with her. What would it be like to have someone—an older brother, someone who cared—to look after her, advise her, help her make the hard decisions? At the same time, she supposed she ought to be grateful that Cavan wasn’t here to see her disgrace.
By dawn she was thoroughly exhausted, yet too tense and anxious to even doze. At last she forced herself to consider the one possibility she had been avoiding throughout the long night. She had heard that there were women in the city who would rid one of an unwanted child, for a price. She had the money she had been saving from her wages—money for her passage to America—though she doubted it would be enough. And there would be no time to save more. Even with the little she knew about such things, she was certain that the sort of procedure she was contemplating would have to be done soon.
Without warning, Terese began to tremble almost violently. The blood pounded in her head as she stared into the darkness. Such a thing was surely evil. The devil’s doing, her mother would say. A thought from the pit of hell itself. How could she allow the dread idea to even enter her mind? Yet how could she allow herself to be chained to this desolate place by a child she had never thought of—a child she didn’t want? And chained she would be as she grew large and unwieldy. Then, when the child was finally born, there would be no escape for her. She might just as well be in prison. She would raise a child of shame, both of them shunned, viewed with disgust and condemnation by their neighbors. By then, her only escape would be death itself.
Jane had been kind to allow that she could stay as long as need be. But bile rose up in Terese’s throat as she tried to imagine living out her life in the Claddagh, with its suffocating rules and strange customs, while she went on working for the poor, twisted Jane—who had more than enough of her own troubles.
She stopped trembling and drew a ragged breath. She could not, would not, consign herself to such a life! And what about the babe growing inside her? Would it thank her for giving it life under such circumstances? Better for it to never see the light of day than to be chained to a life of utter hopelessness.
But the question remained, could she do such a thing? Could she actually do away with her own child?
Over and over she argued the same thoughts until she finally convinced herself that she had found the solution, the best solution—the only solution—both for herself and for the child. She would go into Galway day after tomorrow. Tomorrow Jane would give her her week’s wages, and she would have a bit extra to take with her. The thought of using her hard-earned money for anything besides passage to America made her stomach wrench, but there would never be a passage to America if she did not take care of the unborn child.
Terese went on planning. It occurred to her that if she could find a place in the city where women entertained men for money, she would almost certainly be able to find someone who knew how to take care of such things.
Best to get it over and done with right away, before anyone else learned of her situation and tongues began to wag. Before Brady came back…if indeed he did come back. Somehow Terese knew he would not take such news cheerfully. It might change everything between them. He might even think she had done i
t deliberately, in hopes of binding him to her.
She almost managed a bitter smile at the thought. Small chance of that. If anything, a babe might serve to drive him away forever!
Then she thought of Jane and wondered if she could possibly accomplish the act without her knowing. Later, she could pretend that she had lost the child, and Jane would never need to know the truth.
For a moment, Terese realized the route her thoughts had taken, the web of deception that was already drawing her in, deeper and deeper. Scalding rage and self-disgust at her own stupidity almost choked her. She felt sick and even a little frightened. Sick of herself, of the folly—her mother would have called it sin, but it was not Terese’s word—that had led her to the untenable place in which she found herself. And she was frightened that whatever she did, she would have to go through it alone.
But then she remembered her choices, the life she would lead if she did not get rid of the child—and she made her decision.
It was her decision to make, after all. It was her life, and no one else could tell her what was wrong or right. No one.
She squeezed her eyes closed, as if to shut out the image of her mother’s hollow-eyed, mournful face.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered into the darkness, thinking of her mother but bringing a hand to her belly.
I’m sorry…
33
STORM IN THE HEART
The conscience still speaks,
But the heart has grown deaf.
AUTHOR UNKNOWN
The next day, a horrendous rainstorm broke the heat wave’s stranglehold on the countryside. Thunder, lightning, and torrential rain hounded Brady all across Limerick, on through Clare, and the rest of the way into Galway. The coach got stuck in mud outside Athenry, and Brady—the only passenger left after two merchants got off at Ennis—had to help the driver dislodge the wheels so they could continue.