by Lyn Andrews
‘Where’s Lizzie?’ he asked.
‘She went with Bridie to see the new lambs in the far paddock.’
‘Good. At least she was far enough away from here not to see anything that might disturb her.’
When she’d gone he sat down and poured himself a brandy. It was something he rarely did. It was all too easy a habit to acquire, drinking during the day, but he often felt like it. He frowned. Dinny Casey was getting out of hand. The man had terrified Mary and if he hadn’t been there God knows what would have happened, although he’d meant what he’d said to her. Dinny wouldn’t intentionally set out to harm her. But she could have ended up in the canal and perhaps have drowned. He had a mental vision of her struggling in the cold treacherous water. Seeing her in such danger and so vulnerable and terrified had disturbed him greatly. He had such respect and admiration for her . . . but was it something more? The incident had shaken him and now forced him to look more closely at his feelings for her. Yes, he was fond of her. She had brought so much into his life, but was that all it was? You fool! he thought irritably. What else could there be? She was a married woman with three children. She was of a different class, background and religion. There could be nothing more and not just because of those reasons.
Julia Moran was very concerned about Mary as she fussed over her in the kitchen.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ she pressed.
‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine now.’
‘You still look very pale.’
‘Don’t worry.’
‘I don’t want you to be thinking about packing your bags.’
‘Mr O’Neill asked me the same thing. I’m not. Why should I leave here because of . . . that?’
‘Well, I’m glad of that, Mary.’
Mary sipped her tea. ‘Why did he say those things?’
‘Ah, his brain is addled! The old eejit!’
‘But why does he hate us so much?’
Julia sighed. ‘I once told you this is a country with a troubled past but many look to the future too. I don’t approve of violence but there’re many who will resort to it. Oh, I’m not saying we don’t have grievances, we do. We lack so many basic rights.’ She looked reflective, choosing her words carefully. ‘We’re not even free, Mary. We can’t govern ourselves, make our own laws, decide our own future. Every country has that right. We’ve never taken to English ways; we have our own. Our culture, religion and even language - though few now speak it. We can’t own our own land; our wealth is taken from us; we can’t hold high office. Yet we have a right to all those things. We have a right to justice, Mary. Can you understand that?’
Slowly Mary nodded. She was beginning to comprehend. It wasn’t just a matter of land and money, it was far more.
‘I never really grasped it. I don’t suppose I ever needed to before. But what about everything . . . else that man said?’
‘Put it out of your mind, Mary! Forget all about it! Now, we’d better get cleaned up before the children arrive home.’
Mary nodded, although she was still troubled. However, she could see by the set of the older woman’s lips that there was to be no further discussion. The subject was closed. Julia had said all she was going to say.
Later that night, when Mary sat alone in her small sitting room, she watched the shadows of the flames from the fire making patterns on the wall. She’d drawn the curtains and pulled her chair close to the fire. It wasn’t often she chose to sit in here alone. She usually preferred the warmth and the company in the kitchen. Tonight was different. Tonight she felt the need to be alone with her thoughts.
The events of the afternoon had deeply disturbed her. Not just Dinny’s attack but his words, his accusations. She did understand more now, thanks to Julia Moran, but could she sympathise with or fully understand people who resented and even hated the monarchy? Never in her life had she questioned the monarch’s right to rule her and the countries within his kingdom. But far worse were Dinny’s accusations against Richard O’Neill. Were they true? Did he have a wife he kept locked up because she was mad? His instructions about never going to the upper storeys because of their dangerous state of repair came back to her. No, it couldn’t be true! she told herself firmly. Mrs Moran and Sonny would surely have let something slip, nor could you keep anyone a prisoner in a house without some sign of it becoming apparent. She had never seen or heard anyone going up to the rooms beneath the five huge chimneys. And food would have to be taken up and she saw everything that was prepared in the kitchen and she cleared up. It was nothing more than the ravings of a man unhinged by a lifetime of heavy drinking. She’d seen it happen before in Liverpool. There had been too many old men staggering from the pubs, shouting abuse, in the neighbourhood she’d lived in.
She sighed and covered her face with her hands, trying to blot out the images, but failing. She’d never seen her employer so angry or act with such violence and it disturbed her. Yet when it was over he had shown such concern and gentleness that he couldn’t be a bad man. Her cheeks flushed as she remembered how she’d clasped her arms tightly around his waist on the horse and then clung to him as he’d helped her across the yard and into the house.
She got up and leaned her head on the mantelshelf. Stop it! Stop it! she told herself firmly. There was no use tearing herself apart like this. She was still married to Frank and she didn’t love Richard O’Neill! She should just be so thankful that she had a good job, a little money saved, a comfortable home and a good life for her children. She must control her feelings and her imagination. He was her employer. He was an educated man. He was of a station in life far above her own. He was a different religion. She must never, never, let stupid, irrational feelings rob her of all that good fortune had showered on her.
Life settled back into its normal routine and she put the incident to the back of her mind, but she noticed that Richard O’Neill seemed less talkative and somehow subdued towards her, and it made her feel uneasy and strangely hurt. It’s your imagination, she told herself sternly, you’re reading far too much into this relationship, which, when all’s said and done, is only that of master and servant.
Easter came and went and the weather became warmer. The evenings drew out and she often sat on the river bank while Katie and Lizzie played nearby and Tommy fished. It was so peaceful with only the sound of the rushing water, the lowing of the cattle in the water meadows, the birds in the trees and hedgerows and occasionally the sound of church bells in the far distance.
Once or twice Richard O’Neill had walked past them and as always had stopped and spoken kindly to Tommy and Katie and bent to make the strange signs with his hands that he had taught Lizzie to use. He’d have made a good doctor, she thought once, seeing Lizzie smile as she’d had the strange ‘conversation’ with him. The children all looked so much more healthy. They had grown taller and sturdier and their cheeks were rosy. Tommy was a great help to Sonny; he was now quite competent at driving both the trap and the cart and was similarly proficient at fishing, which he delighted in. Katie often helped her and Mrs Moran and had developed a friendship with Bridie, who seemed to have no friends of her own. But it was Lizzie whose progress gave her the most satisfaction. She, too, had grown physically but it was the confidence the child now seemed to show that made Mary so thankful and grateful to Richard O’Neill, for the time and patience and interest he gave unstintingly to Lizzie. Lizzie in return offered him a devotion never before given to anyone other than Mary herself. The child had come on in leaps and bounds and was now capable of things Mary would never have dreamed possible when they’d left Dublin.
One morning in mid May, Sonny came bursting into the kitchen with the post. ‘There’s your usual one from herself in Liverpool, Mary,’ he said, passing over Nellie’s letter, ‘but none from Dublin.’ He took a keen interest in everything that was delivered; Mrs Moran had often remarked that if you didn’t keep your eye on him he’d have the letters over the kettle to steam them open.
Mary wiped he
r hands on her apron, took it from him and sat down at the table to read Nellie’s news.
Mrs Moran was plucking a chicken for the evening meal but she stopped and let the bird fall into the stone sink as Mary groaned and covered her face with her hands. The letter fluttered to the floor.
‘Mary! Mary, what is it? Bad news?’ she cried.
‘The Lord save us!’ Sonny exclaimed, crossing himself.
‘Mary?’ the cook pressed.
Mary looked up. ‘Frank, my husband, has had an accident on the docks, where he works.’
‘Oh, God have mercy on him! Is it bad?’ Mrs Moran sat down opposite Mary.
‘Yes. Nellie says he’s lucky to be alive. They say he’ll never walk again. He’s broken something in his back.’
‘Is he in the hospital?’ Mrs Moran was very concerned.
‘Yes, but when he comes out Nellie says he will need someone to look after him day and night and . . . Oh, I wish this had never happened!’ she cried in anguish.
‘Who has he?’ Sonny demanded.
Mary shook her head, tears filling her eyes at the decision she must now make. ‘No one.’
‘Not a sister nor brother nor cousin?’ Mrs Moran demanded.
‘No. Just . . . me.’ It was a whisper.
‘Ah, Mary, no!’ Julia Moran cried as the full implication of the situation dawned on her. ‘Didn’t he throw you all out? Didn’t he make no attempt to stop you coming here? He’s not written a single line to you in all this time! How does he know if you’re alive or dead and the children too?’
‘I know! Oh, Mrs Moran, I know all that, but . . . but it must be terrible for him and he is the children’s father.’
‘He’s no right to expect you to leave everything and go to him, no right at all!’
‘I’m his wife. “In sickness and in health . . .” Isn’t that what Father McGrath will tell me?’
‘He will and I’ve never gone against a priest of God in my life before, but, Mary, that man cut you out of his life and for no good reason. What right has he now to expect you to come running and wait on him hand and foot?’
Mary dropped her head in her hands. She agreed with every word the woman said. She didn’t want to leave here. She never wanted to leave here and return to the tiny slum house in the narrow, crowded streets of Liverpool. Back to poverty and hardship and despair and with the memory of the life she had here always to torment her. But what choice did she have? Even if Frank didn’t want her to go back - and Nellie hadn’t said that he did or that he’d even asked for her - he had no one but her and she had stood by her wedding vows despite everything. Suddenly, the sunlight had disappeared; the day had become dark and so very depressing.
‘Sonny, where’s Himself?’ Mrs Moran demanded of the handyman who was just staring at the two women in stunned disbelief.
‘In the stables, I think.’
‘Then I’m after going to see him. You put on the kettle and make some tea. Sure, she’s had a terrible shock and is in need of a cup.’
Mary raised her head and cried out but she was too late, the cook was already out of the door and halfway along the passage.
Sonny made the tea and she sipped it slowly, waiting in some dread for Mrs Moran to return and praying her employer wouldn’t be two paces behind. The last thing she wanted was to have to face him with both Sonny and Mrs Moran in attendance.
‘He says will you go to him in the dining room in five minutes,’ the woman announced on her return.
‘What did you tell him? What did you say?’
‘Exactly what I said to you! That that man has no right to expect your help now.’
‘Oh, God!’ Mary groaned.
‘Off with you and get yourself changed and tidied up and, Mary, will you promise me something?’
‘What?’
‘Will you listen to what Himself has to say? Really listen?’
Mary nodded and went to change her dress and apron with a sense of dread hanging over her.
Heedless of the state of his boots Richard O’Neill strode across the hall and into the dining room. He threw his jacket across the table. Damn! Damn and blast the man to hell! Judging by the garbled tale Julia had told him, he certainly agreed that Mary owed this man no loyalty. And he didn’t want to lose her. He didn’t want her to take her children back to Liverpool. Yet he had to listen to Mary’s side of it.
Oh, to hell with it! he swore to himself, pouring a large whiskey and downing it in one gulp. He’d tried to keep her at a distance. Tried to keep her out of his mind, out of his thoughts, but it hadn’t been easy, especially through the long lonely hours of the night. But what could he say to her? He had no right to beg her to stay and definitely no right to tell her that he loved her.
‘You . . . you asked to see me, sir?’
Mary’s voice interrupted his thoughts. He’d forgotten to close the door and she was standing just inside it. The bright sunlight streaming in through the large window fell directly on her and he thought she’d never looked more beautiful, even though she was pale and her green eyes were haunted.
‘Mary, is it true?’
She nodded. ‘It is, sir. He . . . Frank will be a cripple and he has no one but me.’
‘Is everything that Julia told me true? He threw you all out? Let you be handed around and kept by the neighbours? Didn’t stop you coming to Ireland and has never made any attempt to contact you or provide for you or his children since? And all because of some imagined infidelity?’
‘Yes, it’s all true, sir, and believe me there was no infidelity! I did nothing wrong at all. I’ve never been unfaithful to him.’
‘I believe you, Mary.’
‘I don’t want to go, sir! I’m so happy here, we all are, but . . .’
‘Then don’t go, Mary. Stay. You owe him nothing.’
‘I can’t, sir! My conscience won’t let me!’ she cried, stricken by his pleading tone.
‘What about the children? What will happen to them back there, Mary? What will happen to Lizzie? She’s doing so well! I understand her, I can help her, I have helped her.’
‘Oh, you have indeed, sir! More than I could ever have done.’ The tears were falling unheeded down her cheeks now and she looked so vulnerable.
He couldn’t stop himself. He crossed to her side and took her hand. ‘Mary, please reconsider. I need you here. You’ve made this place something it has never been for me - a home. Don’t go, Mary, don’t leave me. Don’t take the children away from me too!’
She was totally confused. ‘Sir . . . Sir, I . . .’
‘Forget the bloody “sir”! Can’t you call me “Richard”? Oh, Mary, there are very few times in my life when I have been reduced to begging but that’s what I’m doing now. Don’t go! Please, Mary, don’t leave me.’
She couldn’t speak. A wave of emotion engulfed her. What was he saying? Exactly what was he telling her? She felt suddenly faint and light-headed and yet there was a surge of elation too. Something she had never experienced before in her life.
‘Richard . . . Oh, Richard . . .’ she stammered.
He threw caution to the wind and took her in his arms and held her tightly. ‘Mary, don’t go,’ he whispered into her hair. ‘I can’t live without you! I won’t live without you!’
She clung to him. She could never deny it now. She loved him.
Without warning he suddenly released her and she looked up and saw the changed expression on his face.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ she said, confused.
‘What do you want, Bridie?’ he snapped.
Mary turned, her cheeks burning, and saw the girl standing in the doorway with Lizzie clinging to her hand.
‘Me da says Mary’s had a letter from Liverpool and she’s leaving! Is she?’ Bridie demanded, upset, red-faced and very disconcerted by what she’d just seen.
‘Ask Mary,’ he replied curtly, turning away. Silently he cursed the girl. He’d been so preoccupied that he hadn’t closed the door. A
few more seconds, just a few more seconds and he knew Mary would never have left him. Now . . .
Suddenly Lizzie snatched her hand away from Bridie’s grasp and ran to him, throwing her tiny arms around his knees and burying her face in the gabardine of his riding breeches. She had understood more than anyone realised and her little world was crashing around her.
Mary could stand no more. With a heartbroken cry she fled from the room, ran blinded by tears down the passageway to her bedroom, slammed the door behind her and threw herself on the bed sobbing.
Chapter Eighteen
IT WAS MUCH LATER in the day when Mary at last appeared in the kitchen, red-eyed but calm. Just before lunchtime, Mrs Moran had knocked and called through the door that there was no need for Mary to serve lunch or dinner, Mr O’Neill was going out and wouldn’t be back until late that night.
She had cried and cried until there were no more tears left. How cruel was fate! Until this morning she had never been happier. She had everything one could wish for and on top of that had discovered that she loved him and that he loved her. Oh, he hadn’t actually said it, but he’d begged her not to leave him or take the children away, and he’d held her in his arms and said he couldn’t live without her: what further proof did she need? But with that came the realisation that she wasn’t free to love him. She was married to Frank even though he didn’t want her. She could have ignored her duty, her religion and the censure she would certainly face from even the likes of Mrs Moran, Sonny and Bridie, and stay here and live with Richard O’Neill as his mistress, but deep down she knew her conscience would never allow her to do that. And what kind of example would that be for her children? How could she teach them right from wrong, living in sin as she would be? That was the most powerful of the arguments she had with herself. But he’s so fond of the children, part of her cried. Look at how he cares about Lizzie, really cares. Frank had never shown such affection or patience with the child. And what were they returning to? A house that held no love, no happiness. Where food would be scarce, comforts few. The dark, dirty streets would be their playground not the fields and woods and rivers. And how would she cope? Oh, the neighbours would all rally round and help, as they always did, but she would have to work, slave more like, to keep a roof over their heads and with nothing, nothing to look forward to. Why? Oh, why had this had to happen now? But if she stayed would it really be any better? Even though she loved him, she could never have him. Could she live like that?