by Ann Moore
Their land and all that around them was part of Squire Donnelly’s estate and it was to his agent they paid their rent come Quarterday. The squire, son of an English Lord and twice widowed, kept to himself at Donnelly House, sometimes traveling to the North where he had business. Talk was, his youthful escapades in London and lack of obedience to his father had earned him banishment to the family estate in County Cork, but it seemed he’d come to savor independence and had made Donnelly House his home. His rents were fair enough, though he’d raised them twice to support the new mill in Galway, and it was supposed he sent a fair portion back to the family home in England. His agents were curt, but not rude, and no family was turned out but of their own accord. He’d got a name for himself as dry and humorless, but it was not followed by a mean spit in the dirt, as were the names of so many other squires.
A man like Patrick could not dream of buying land even if it were to be had, so he paid his rent on time and hoped to hold on to the farm for his sons and their families. He’d counted on farming with both Ryan and Sean when they came of age, perhaps even gaining the hands of a son-in-law when Grace married. He would have divided the land among the children as they settled into family life, keeping a small plot for himself and Kathleen. Now he only hoped to hold on until Ryan married and assumed the responsibility, but he had no hope of a future for Sean. He could barely stand to look the boy in the face, and it pained him to see his young son bent awkwardly over a needle. The money Sean and Grace brought in was a help; it clothed them and bought additional food, but it was not enough to save. The money Kathleen had hoarded pennies at a time was long gone now due to Patrick’s indecision and poor judgment. He had not her head for figuring costs, and his impatience was terrible. Two divided acres had been leased out to cottiers, but the daily work of keeping up the rest was taking its toll. He was not the kind of man to content himself with scratching out a lazy bed of potatoes and leaving it at that. He’d seen fields abandoned because the soil simply had nothing else to give after repeated plantings of the same crop, so he rotated, which gave the local men no end of knee-slapping amusement. Dawn to nightfall saw him out plowing, tending sheep and pigs, planting, hoeing, mending the haggard, in all kinds of weather, mostly rain. Other men found relief of a kind in the shebeens that dotted the network of lanes connecting the farms, but Patrick was not a drinking man, taking a small glass only at weddings and wakes, or when he fell ill. Ryan worked steadily beside him until nightfall, then set off to the O’Douds’ to court the comely, outspoken Aghna. The sour look had left his face, replaced by one of moony lovesickness. Patrick kicked at him and said his work was worthless, so distracted had he become. They could all see his need to marry.
Granna got the porridge together in the mornings and made the daily soda bread. Grace, now fifteen, saw to supper, laundry, the kitchen garden and food preserving, sweeping out the house, and to farm chores like egg gathering and milking. Sean was able to help some in the kitchen garden and had become an expert fisherman, pulling his body into the cart and lying across the seat to drive the mule to the river or, when the salmon weren’t running, to the lake. He’d roll out of the cart, then drag his leg behind him to the edge, where he’d fish for salmon or trout. They had enough to eat, but Patrick’s setbacks had cost them. He’d invested in cattle, hoping to export salted beef, but his timing was bad and prices fell once England turned to America’s cheaper market; he’d slaughtered the heads he couldn’t afford to feed, and took a loss on the local market. Then, he’d tried wheat and barley, but the Irish considered those grains animal fodder, so he’d lost his investment there, too. Now they kept only the milk cow, some sheep, a few chickens, and two pigs. One pig would be sold, the other butchered.
There were doctor fees and medicines for Gran, who’d suffered a stroke, and for Sean, who was also sick with a deep, racking cough in his chest through that damp, blustery autumn and most of the cold winter that followed. Granna was still weak and sat down often during the day, despite the bowls of beef tea Grace kept simmering over the fire. Sean also recovered slowly, the sound of his breathing like bare winter trees groaning in the wind; he was terribly thin and pale, and his spirits lagged. Even the sight of Morgan, blowing in wet and muddy on a cold day, singing good cheer, could not rouse him. Grace would walk into the silent kitchen after an afternoon of cutting turf on the bog, full of fresh air and a high heart, and there they’d be, sitting still as statues, minds elsewhere, and she’d shake with fear that they’d both give up their will and leave her. She chattered tirelessly to them about the promise of spring, bringing in every new blossom she found, leaving the doors and curtains open so that the warm light might shine on them, cooking all day to tempt their appetites. She traded a day of washing muddy work clothes for a bucket of clams from Cork City, and made Granna a rich chowder. She emptied the storehouse, and combed the woods and streams for ingredients to make chicken and ham pie, mutton pie, Sean’s baked salmon with sorrel sauce, Finnan Haddie and hot buttered toast, roast rabbit, fried mushrooms, boiled bacon and cabbage, potato cakes, colcannon and dulse, soda bread, brown bread, boxty, and pratie oaten. She gave them endless cups of tea, which had become dear and depleted her bargaining chest, and she made them scolleen on damp days or in the evenings when the hot milk, butter, honey, and whiskey warmed them through and picked up their spirits. She felt as if it were her sheer will that kept them going, and when spring ended and summer began, she found her reward in their ability to walk slowly out of doors, in bodies that had finally begun to fill out, in faces that bloomed with the promise of renewed vigor, and in eyes that shone with love whenever she walked into the room.
“You brought them through the winter alive, girl,” Patrick said to her one evening as she sat milking in the barn. “’Twas your own hard work done it.”
Grace kept at her milking and said nothing, unused to her father’s praise.
“Not that it’s of much use, themselves being what they are.” He wiped a hand tiredly over his face. “Faith and they’ll be lucky to see another year. Your granna’s gone old now, and our Sean …” He sighed.
Grace looked up, aghast. “How can you say that, Da?” Her cheeks burned with anger. “Granna is old, true to you, but Katty O’Dugan’s grandmother still rocks in her chair and isn’t she a one to remember Brian Boru himself?”
Patrick snorted.
“And Sean will get better, he’s stronger every day!” She raced on. “It’s that shoulder hunched in makes the chest take cold so easy.… Could we not take him to Dublin, to the hospital there?”
Patrick shook his head. “There’s no more money for travel or doctors, wee girl, so don’t pin your hopes on that.”
Grace bit her lip. “Blood and ounse, Da! You can’t just give up as if he’s already dead and buried!”
Patrick frowned. “There’ll be no cursing in my house nor my barn, and you’d best not forget that, or feel the sting of my belt.”
Grace lowered her head, contrite. “Sorry, Da.”
Patrick allowed her a small smile. “Your mother let fly a good curse now and then, and don’t you sound just like her?”
He took away the full bucket and handed her an empty one to put under the cow’s udder. “It’s not that I’m giving up on our Sean, agra, I’m just not fooling myself about it, either, is all. If he gets well, praise God, and hope He sends answers for the other worries.”
“What other worries, Da?”
“Well, for one thing, who’s going to care for him when Granna and I are dead and gone?”
“Who do you think?” Grace looked at him in surprise.
“Maybe you’ll have a husband. who’ll take in your crippled brother,” Patrick said pointedly. “And maybe you won’t.”
Grace’s eyes widened in anger. “And do you think I’d be such an eejit as to marry a man who wouldn’t have my own brother in the house?”
“Might have no choice in the matter,” he said evenly. “As it stands, will I not be pressed to mak
e the best marriage I can? Contrary to your own way of thinking, a girl’s brother is not considered part of the usual dowry.”
Grace ducked her head and yanked on the cow’s teats.
Patrick picked up a hay straw and fiddled with it. “He’ll stay on here at the farm, is what I’m thinking. He’ll live with Ryan and Aghna, and—God willing—he won’t be too big a burden.”
“‘Twill be the other way round, like as not,” Grace muttered into the cow’s warm flank. “And anyway,” she spoke up. “He’ll not be needing their help, or anyone’s—he’s going to get stronger, he is, and be healthy, as well, and have a fine life and a wife of his own, and many, many children!”
“Hah!” Patrick got up from his stool. “Sure of that now, are you, girl?”
She held his gaze fiercely, and he softened.
“All, well, that’s fine for you. Hope is for the young.”
He left her to finish the milking and cool her anger, but for many days after that, Grace thought of their conversation and took extra pains to see that Sean got rest and food, that he exercised his weak limbs. He did get stronger, if only through a desire to find a purpose for his life. Granna had given him Kathleen’s Bible and he pored through it when his father was not in the house, searching the scripture for guidance. He began to believe that God would set before him a meaningful life when the time was right, but that he must be ready for it, and he studied the verses as if deciphering a secret code.
“‘I love those who love me; and those who diligently seek me will find me’.” His voice was a whisper, barely heard above the hiss of the fire in front of which he and Grace sat. “‘Riches and honor are with me, enduring wealth and righteousness. My fruit is better than gold, even pure gold. And my yield than choicest silver. I walk in the way of righteousness, in the midst of the paths of justice, to endow those who love me with wealth, that I may fill their treasuries.’” He marked the spot with his finger. “Did you hear that, Grace? ‘My fruit is better than gold.’ That’s the Lord talking to me. Do you hear?”
Grace nodded, her fingers doing the fine work automatically as she looked up at him. “I hear you, Sean.” She had to laugh at the earnestness of his face, the zeal that lit up his eyes. “You’re thinking of riches again.”
“Ah, no, sister, ’tis more to it than that.” He closed the book on his finger and leaned over the pile of cloth in his lap to make himself more clearly heard. “He says He’ll fill our treasuries, and all He wants in return is our love.”
“Have you not said often enough that things like love and honor, faith and charity, cannot be bought?” Her fingers smoothed the threads of a woman’s embroidered cuff. She tied a tiny, nearly invisible knot and snipped off the end. “Here I thought my brother a noble man, only to learn that his greatest desire is to be a rich landowner. Did you not read out just this morning that it is to be the meek themselves who inherit the land?”
Sean frowned and started to rise, then winced with the pain of pushing up on his foot. He reached down to massage the knotted flesh. “You’ve got it all wrong, Grace. You’re not thinking deeper than the words themselves. He says that those who love Him despite reward will be the ones to gain. And as for owning my own bit of land, dear sister, you know that’s not in my future, short of some blessed miracle.”
“Miracles happen all the time,” Granna commented from her place by the window. She seemed content these days to merely watch their faces and listen to their conversation; sometimes it was as, if she wasn’t in the room at all.
“Aye,” Sean nodded. “True enough. Look at us sitting here, well again.” He turned back to Grace. “But I’ll not keep fighting to live in order to spend my days doing piecework by the fire just to earn my keep. The Lord will give me work worthy of His name. I have faith in that.”
“Faith is nothing more than stubborn wishing. How do you know the Lord doesn’t want you to stay right here and do humble work?”
Sean’s face fell. “Sure, and that could be true, Grace. That could be true, indeed.”
He shook his head so sadly that Grace reached out and patted his leg.
“I’m not saying it is. Haven’t we always said God’s got grand plans for our one, Gran?” She looked over her shoulder and smiled at her grandmother, whose head rested against the back of her chair, mouth slightly open in a twilight sleep.
“Could be you’ll face a long life of struggle,” she whispered to her brother.
“I don’t mind struggle,” he said thoughtfully. “I’m not afraid of that. Struggle can be good if it strengthens our faith in God. It’s the struggle without meaning that buries a man before he ever dies.”
“Like Da.”
“Aye.” He nodded. “Da’s given up on a meaning for his life. He just works until he’s tired enough to sleep. Then he gets up and works again.”
“But he believes in God, true enough!”
“He believes in God, but he’s lost his faith. There’s no finding it on your own when you’ve suffered a blow like Da. If he had a church life, there’d be a chance of finding it again.”
“Are you saying I’ve got no faith because I’ve never been to church?” Grace set down her needle and frowned at him. “And yours is strong because you’ve been a handful of times?” She shook her head. “That’s faith in the church you’re talking about, not faith in God.”
“You’re partly right and partly wrong. When Christians use the church for their own end, it becomes no more than a councilhouse. But when they use the church for the good of God, it is a mighty place with power to lift us all. We’re meant to seek out such a place as that. God says we must be part of a Christian community—’tis the body of Christ, after all.”
“And are we not a community here ourselves?” she asked.
“Aye, we are. But who leads us? Who is our shepherd? Not Da. He won’t have anything to do with religion, nor will he let us seek it out on our own. He’s respectful of God and he’s shown us that road, true enough, but it’s a long, long road and he’s given us no manner of map for the journey.”
Voices came from outside, loud over the sound of the rain. Sean pushed open the basket that held his threads and needles, and slipped the Bible down into the very bottom, picking up the linen collar and resuming his work as the door opened.
“It’s pouring buckets out there,” Patrick said as Grace got up to take his dripping oilskin.
“Ryan’s not coming in?” she asked as she hung the slick on a peg.
Patrick shook his head. “Make up a pail of food for him, will you, Grace? I’ll take it when I go back out.”
“Where is he, then? I thought I heard him.” Sean set down his basket and moved over on the hob, making room for Patrick to sit and warm himself.
Patrick stood instead, his back to the low flame. “The ewes are lambing and there’s a vixen in the wood makes us edgy. He won’t leave them. If comes a break in the rain, we’ll bring them to the shed.”
“No Aghna tonight, then?” Sean smiled. “And won’t they enjoy a night of peace over there, not that our Ryan is the talker of the match.”
Patrick frowned. “O’Doud’s fond of the boy and it’s clear enough Aghna’s set her cap for him. He speaks of marrying come summer, and wonders about bringing her to live …” His voice trailed off and he looked down at his boot tops.
“Aghna’s always been a one for getting ahead. She’s a proud girl,” Granna said. “I don’t suppose she’ll be wanting to start off her married life in a small cabin with an old woman and a young girl in the way of her housekeeping.”
Patrick, his body warmed, settled on a stool nearer to Gran and lit his pipe, sucking vigorously on the end of it and cursing the damp tobacco. “He says she has dreams of getting off the farm, going west to her mother’s people in Galway, though not to the fishing life. It’s the towns and all, fills her head.” He paused to draw on his pipe. “Our Ryan, he’s no townsman, but what can he offer so terrible smitten he is?”
“H
e’ll not go away from us, will he, Da?” Grace asked, worried.
“I’ve said I’ll add on here once we get a little coin in our purse. The bait of a lovely room all their own, plus independence here, might turn her eyes closer to home. With most of us moving on, they could have the place to themselves soon enough.”
Sean looked at Grace, then his father. “What do you mean ‘moving on,’ Da?”
“Well, won’t I soon be out of the way, an old woman like myself?” Granna put in, smiling comfort at Grace, who rose to protest. “Faith, and it won’t be too many more years, agra, before you’re married into a home of your own, as well, with no more need of this one.”
“Aye, you’ll both go and leave me here to sit by the fire, sewing till my hands go blue, bouncing all the babies on my one good knee like a good uncle.” Sean smiled around at them, but it was as twisted as his arm and there was no mistaking the bitterness in his voice.
Patrick puffed on his pipe and narrowed his eyes at the boy. “You’ll be lucky to have it, you will. Fed and cared for by your brother and his wife. Where in the world else would you go, crippled as you are?”
Grace’s head was down over her work, but she could see Sean’s hands clench together in his lap, although he, too, kept his head down. She put aside the stitching and said quickly, “Supper’s been warming in the pot and there’s plenty of bread and fresh butter to go along.”
“Some of that good stew, I hope. And your buttermilk scones like clouds. That’s all a man needs at the end of any day.” Patrick pulled too hard on his pipe and began to hack, finally spitting black juice into the fire and wiping the sweat off his forehead.
The other three watched him. Something was wrong. They gathered quietly around the table and began eating when Grace filled their bowls, Granna and Sean watching Patrick make small talk as he’d never done before. Even Grace seemed aware that there was something her father wanted to say, but could not.
At the end of the meal, Grace brought out a bowl of stewed plums.