Gracelin O'Malley

by Ann Moore

  “You’re going to be a fine wife, Gracelin,” Patrick said, then suddenly put down his spoon and wiped his eyes.

  “What is it, then, Da?” Grace asked gently. “Has something gone wrong?”

  “Are we to be evicted?” Granna covered Grace’s hand with her own.

  Patrick remained silent, staring down at the table.

  “Tell us, for God’s sake,” Sean demanded.

  “There’ll be no taking in vain of the Lord’s name in this house.” Patrick looked up angrily.

  “There’s none of the Lord’s name in this house as it is,” Sean answered defiantly.

  Patrick rose up off his stool. “Listen here, boy. Have I not told you more times than I care to count? The word ‘Irishman’ existed long before anyone ever thought of adding ‘Catholic’ or ‘Protestant’ to it. Although they’d like you to think it, they’ve not cornered the market on belief, you know.” He slammed his fists down on the table. “I’m Irish, by God. That’s my religion. You’d make it yours, as well, if you had any sense!”

  Sean lowered his eyes, chastised.

  Patrick sat down again, the high color leaving his face as he calmed himself. He picked up his spoon, then put it down again. Finally, he cleared his throat, not looking at Grace.

  “It’s good news, it is, and now it’s ruined by fight.” He glowered at Sean. “Might as well just say it straight out.” His gaze moved around the table, stopping on Grace. “I’ve found you a husband, and a better match no father could make for his own.”

  Grace’s eyebrows rose to her hairline. She looked immediately at Sean, whose mouth had fallen open in amazement, eyes fixed on his father’s face.

  “A husband for me, Da?” Grace said, then turned to Granna. “But I hadn’t yet thought of marrying,” she added quietly.

  Granna’s face was as shocked as Grace’s, but she quickly regained her composure, nodding as though the wisdom of the decision were suddenly clear to her. “Aye, you seem so young to us who love you, but fifteen is not a child anymore.” She paused, then said gently, “Your mother was but fifteen when she married your da.”

  Grace shook her head as if to clear it. She looked at her father. “Who is it I’m to be marrying?”

  Patrick was still again for a moment. “Squire Donnelly,” he said at last.

  Dead silence fell upon the table as they all stared at Patrick.

  “He’s thirty if he’s a day!” Sean burst out. “Closer to your age than hers! And he’s married twice before. The man has no reputation for keeping a wife!” He looked pointedly at his father. “You know what I mean, Da. Grace can’t be marrying the likes of that one!”

  Patrick slammed down his pipe. “Have I not fixed it for him to marry her, and not yourself? Have you not caused enough trouble here tonight?” He stopped and took a deep breath. “The man lost his first wife in childbirth, and the second to fever—can he not lose a wife without blame coming upon him? Have I not lost a wife myself?” He paused again, then seeing no acceptance in their faces, lost his temper. “It’s not as if he’s making her his tallywoman, for God’s sake—he’s asked for her hand in marriage! Squire Donnelly is the largest landholder in the county, and the son of a lord! Use your head, boy—think what this will mean!”

  “Is that it, then?” Sean’s good hand gripped the edge of the table. “You’ve sold her out to him for a break on our rent?”

  Patrick knocked back the stool and was up in an instant. He leaned across the table and grabbed the front of Sean’s shirt, yanking him up, face to face. “Don’t you ever talk to me like that again, boy, do you hear? Who in the name of God do you think you are?” He shoved Sean back down onto the bench. “I’ve not sold her out. I’d not do that to my own daughter. We’ve made a bit of a deal, ’tis true.” He looked to Granna for support. “But it’s all to the good for Grace. She’s got no dowry except what she’s sewed for herself, and who else is she to marry but some poor pegeen who can’t understand a word of English and can’t give her anything but lots of children and maybe a few young years.” His eyes pleaded with them to understand. “She’ll never get a chance like this again in her life. It’s a wonder he picked her at all, him being a squire with plenty of choice from the other big houses. But it’s Grace he wants, he’s made that clear. And it’ll help us all if she marries him. We’ll keep the farm, no matter the year; Ryan and Aghna can come to the house and he’s offered to build on new rooms, as well as a new plow horse. He’ll give Grace everything she deserves—a big house, lots of help, a doctor for the babies … a decent life!”

  “But she doesn’t love him,” Sean said quietly.

  “And what would you know of that but what you’ve read in books?” Patrick demanded. “Isn’t there more to marriage than love or would none of them last? Love grows out of respect, and sure enough, it’ll come once they’re wed.”

  Grace heard herself ask, as if from far away, “Why is it me he’s chosen? Does he even know the look of me?”

  “He saw you at the bonfire on St. John’s Eve. Brigid Sullivan told him who you were, and when he came back from the North, he asked after you.” Patrick smiled at her with pride. “Some of the other squires’ wives and daughters been showing off your needlework and telling what a gift you got. He says it’s the best he’s ever seen, and he travels, you know, to England and Scotland.”

  “Are you telling us he wants to marry her because of her embroidery?” Sean narrowed his eyes at his father.

  Patrick shook his head. “Of course not, you eejit,” he said. “But her having a talent like that lifts her up above other folk, not to mention she can read and write a bit, and her English is as good as her Irish. She’s not just some country girl living in a rough with pigs and sheep to keep her warm at night.” He waved his hand around at the walls of their cabin. “Hasn’t your mother made a reputation for living a better life, and isn’t Grace her mother’s daughter? He’s been told what a fine cook she is and that her mead is as good as Kathleen’s. He knows she’s young and strong, and the man’s desperate for an heir.” Patrick looked at Grace as if they were the only two in the room. “I’ve been to see him. He’s made a generous offer to the family in consideration for your hand. You’ll never want for anything, agra. He’s given me his word as a man of honor.”

  “A man of honor,” Sean spat. “He’s a landowner. And a bloody Englishman, for all that. They hand their word to the Irish like a piece of meat—fresh today, but rotted before week’s end.”

  “His word’ll pay for a doctor to look at your leg there, boy, so don’t be so quick to condemn the man. Who are you a’tall to sit in judgment?” Patrick rose from the table and reached for his slick. Grace got up immediately and helped him into it, then brought him the pail with Ryan’s dinner. He took it, laying his hand over hers.

  “You don’t have to marry him, Grace,” he said, suddenly weary. “I did what I thought was best for you. He’ll be wanting an answer come morning.”

  Grace looked at her father’s dear face and didn’t hesitate. “I’ll marry him, Da. You can tell him that.” She kissed him quickly on the cheek, then rubbed the stubble affectionately with her open hand. “It’ll be all right. And haven’t you done fine by us all, then?”

  He pulled himself up straight and smiled into her pretty face. “You’re a smart girl, like your sainted mother. It’ll be you raises the name of O’Malley to its rightful place.”

  Grace watched him disappear into the driving rain, then returned to the table. Sean had pushed away his uneaten plums and sat staring at the wall. Granna picked up his bowl and carried it slowly to the sideboard.

  “Have you nothing to say to me, then, the two of you?” Grace asked when the silence had grown thick around them all.

  Sean looked up at her and shook his head, sandy hair falling into his eyes. “There’s nothing to say, now you’ve made up your mind.”

  Granna turned, leaning on the edge of the table. “Do you not want to think more upon this, Grace? Isn
’t he a squire, after all, and an Englishman, as your brother says? They’re different from us. Will your life not be changed forever?”

  Grace looked from one face to the other and back again. Her eyes filled with tears. “My life will change no matter who it is I marry, and am I not to trust the good judgment of my father in this? How can I know what is best for myself when I still act like a child?” She bit her lip, blinking hard. “At St. John’s Eve, Morgan McDonagh stood close by, and when he tried to hold my hand, I near jumped into the flames myself! I couldn’t get home fast enough, could I? Dreaming is a fine thing, but one day you must wake up. Sure and I thought married life lay far down the lane, but here it is—knocking at my very door!” She wiped her eyes, then stared at her damp fingers. “Look—dirty and ragged. Not gentle hands, these.” She sighed and hid them under her apron. Then her face changed, the misty eyes grew determined, and her chin rose firmly. “But can I not learn to be the wife of a gentleman, as I would’ve learned to be the wife of a farmer or a shopkeeper, a teacher or a baker?” she asked. “Am I not blessed to have for my husband a man of good fortune? A man to provide us with peace of mind, so that we all might know comfort. Through him, I’ll be able to do for the both of you—warm clothes and meal in the winter, medicine and doctors …” Her voice trailed off at the sight of their forlorn faces.

  Granna stepped forward and put her arms around the girl. “There now, child. Of course you will—we’ve no doubt of that. And as for learning to be the wife of the Squire, why, you’ve got the makings of a lady in your heart already, sure enough, and wouldn’t your own dear mother be proud?” She held Grace out to look at her. “You’re a fine girl, and you’re doing right by your father and mother. We just want your happiness in the bargain, don’t we, Sean?” Granna stared him down until he gave up his glowering look. “He’ll make a fine husband. Hasn’t he had plenty of practice, then?” Granna’s eyes twinkled and even Sean laughed, despite himself. “Your mother, too, seemed young at fifteen, but she had a strong character, just like yourself, and a noble heart like yours, as well.”

  Grace looked up into her grandmother’s face. “She and Dad had love.”

  Granna nodded. “Faith, they did.” She squeezed Grace’s shoulders and said firmly, “But more’s the marriage that begins like yours. Love will come, as your da said—the Squire would have to be blind and dumb not to fall for such a one as you, and we know he’s not that.”

  Sean pushed himself up from the table. “I’m tired,” he said abruptly. “My leg hurts tonight.” He managed a weak smile before bumping out the back door to the lean-to that was his room.

  “Gran?” Grace watched the door bang shut.

  “It’ll be all right, child,” Granna whispered. “He’s had you to himself all these years, and he’s not been thinking of giving you up so soon.”

  “I won’t be far,” Grace said. “Donnelly House is but a half-day’s ride.”

  “It’s a world away, child, and you might as well get used to that.” Granna sighed and untied her apron. “I’m going to bed now, too. Kiss me when you come in?”

  “And now, as well.” Grace brushed her lips against the papery cheek that smelled of potato flowers and onions, and her heart surged.

  After Granna had gone, Grace finished cleaning the dishes and putting away the food. She filled a pot with cold water, added oats, and covered it, ready to fire in the morning. Then she set aside oats for the laying chickens. When this was done, she paused and looked around the cabin with its whitewashed walls and stick furniture. In the dying light of the fire, it felt snug and safe, and she was filled with a terrible ache at the thought of leaving it. There was a smudge on the chimney from the smoke; nearby lay a pile of turf ready to throw on; her stool and work basket stood next to that. A sampler hung on the wall and curtains she’d fashioned from bawneen brightened the windows. There was the rug Granna had made from old, torn rags, and the shelves Sean had nailed a little lower than the rest so that she might easily get at the pots and pans without a stool. Picture postcards from her mother’s youth were nailed up on the walls, landscapes, mostly: the Mourne Mountains sweeping down to the sea—Heartache Hills, her father called them, claiming to have hiked them as a boy; there was one of goats grazing the cliffs near Kilkee; and another of the Golden Vale’s rich grasslands, which her mother had loved best and which hung in the kitchen; and near the front door of the cabin, a larger picture of the fiery, sun-going-down sky above Bantry Bay, sitting in the shadow of Hungry Hill. All testimony to her parents’ love of the achingly beautiful Irish land, a love they had passed on to her. She would miss the cabin and her quiet life in it, but it came to her then that she might finally see the rest of Ireland for herself. She might even travel to other countries. The thought steadied her, and she turned to speak to Sean, but saw only shadows in the corner where he usually sat.

  She crossed the room and stepped out of the kitchen into the cold, evening air, walking quickly through the mud to the outhouse. It had stopped raining, and on the way back, she lingered, looking up at the sky streaked with dark clouds, just a hint of the starlight that would be so bright later on. Lamplight shone through the oilskin window of Sean’s room and she tapped quietly on the door.

  “Who is it?” Sean barked.

  Grace had to smile. “And who was it you were expecting, then, Mister O’Malley, sir?”

  She heard him limp across the floor to open the door. “I’m worn out, Grace,” he said, and looked it.

  “Sean.” She touched his cheek, serious again. “Are you angry with me, then?”

  He bent his head, trapping her hand between his face and his shoulder for just a moment.

  “Musha, Gracie.” He brushed the hair out of her eyes. “How could I ever be angry with you? Don’t I love you more than anyone on earth? Many’s the night I’ve wished the Lord would take me home, but for you, Grace. You and Granna. Gran giving me Mam’s Bible has helped, but it’s you that’s shared most of these long days with me … even teaching me to stitch!”

  “For which you’ve cursed me ever since,” she teased.

  He laughed, too. “But I’ve always been grateful for your company.”

  “And I for yours. You’re a fine brother, teaching me to read and write, and figure my numbers, and telling me about Mam.”

  They were quiet, listening to the night settle around them, the cow lowing in her stall, the rustle of chickens in the coop.

  “Life will change now,” Sean said softly. “You’ll be a married woman. No more gossiping over the needle with your old crippled brother.” He smiled, but Grace could see the sadness in his eyes. “I’m happy for you, really I am. Jealous, too, I’m thinking. You’re off and away to a new life … and I’m going to miss you, is all.”

  Grace hugged him tightly to her. “You won’t have time to miss me, eejit. I’ll be seeing you more often than not.”

  Sean suddenly squeezed the breath out of her, his face in her hair.

  She pulled away from him. “Won’t I?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Why won’t I be seeing you, Sean O’Malley? What’s going on in that ever-whirling head of yours?”

  He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I’ll stay long enough to see you settled in your marriage, and to make sure Squire Donnelly lives up to his promises.” Now he did look at her. “But you can’t ask me to stay here forever. I fetch so little coin, it barely pays for the doctor and laudanum.”

  “But we’ll have money for that now!” Grace whispered urgently. “We’ll be able to take you up to Dublin, to the hospital there. A modern doctor will straighten your arm and leg, and you’ll walk properly again!”

  Sean tipped his head, and with the lamplight behind, he looked like an angel.

  “You’re not to think of going out on your own, Sean, do you hear me?” Grace shook his good arm. “What about Gran? It’d break her heart to lose the two of us all at once!”

  “Granna knows I must make a life for myself.”<
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  “But where will you go?” Grace said frantically. “What will you do?”

  Sean shrugged, but there was strength in his face. “The Lord has plans for me, but He’s not going to hand me a piece of paper with instructions. I’ve got to go out into the world and be ready. Ryan and Aghna will be having a family, and just looking at me makes Aghna shudder. She thinks I’m cursed. I can’t live with that every day. It’d be miserable for all of us.”

  “Then you’ll come to live with me at Donnelly House,” Grace said firmly.

  Sean smiled, but shook his head. “I could no more live with your squire than he with me, Gracie, and you know that’s the truth of it.”

  He saw the desperation in her face and weakened. “Fifteen,” he said gently. “I forget what a slip you are. How is it possible you’re to be someone’s wife?”

  Grace sighed. “I don’t know. It’s not real. I can’t do it if you’re not here.”

  “All right, then, wee sister. I won’t go anywhere until you tell me it’s time. But then I’ll have your blessing as I take up my pack for Scotland … or maybe even America.”

  Grace pulled him close to her again and held him for a moment before saying reluctantly, “That’s a promise, then. You won’t leave until I say.”

  Sean eased out of her embrace. “I promise.” He scowled at the look on her face. “I made the promise! I won’t break it,” he insisted. “I’m not going to disappear before morning, if that’s what’s worrying you. I’ll see your married off to old man Donnelly first.” He puffed up his chest and looked down his nose. “The wealthy landowner, don’t you know. I’ll be calling you Missus Donnelly, your ladyship, now.”

  They both laughed; then Grace kissed him on the cheek and whispered good night. She slipped back in the kitchen door, taking off her muddy boots and shaking out her skirt. Her father would be in any time, so she left hot water in the kettle and a piece of bread and cheese on the table, then went to the back of the cabin, where she shared a wide pallet with Granna. She took a candle with her, pausing in the doorway, the mellow light falling across the sleeping figure in the bed. At the foot of the mattress sat a wooden chest filled with her mother’s handwork and some of her own—things to take when the time came to marry. Setting the candle on the sill, she bent over the chest now and lifted out a set of clean folded sheets with the edges turned and hemmed; pillowcases with wildflowers twisting up the open edge; a tablecloth Kathleen had given her to embroider and which she’d edged with dancing men and women, singers and musicians. There were doilies and sachets, samplers and napkins, lace collars, underslips with roses and hearts, and a long white nightgown, a gift from Granna two years ago, that Grace had stitched with birds and flowers cascading down the front to a beautiful field of goldenrod and daisies. This last she lifted out and held up to herself. She’d not thought of wearing it for years yet, and a blush rose to her cheeks at the thought of her wedding night. A country girl, she knew the ways of getting life, but being the youngest in the family, she’d never seen her mother pregnant or bearing children, and suddenly she was afraid of what she didn’t know. She undressed quickly and pulled on the nightgown. It was meant to be worn on the night her new life began and, she decided, that was tonight. The fabric was heavy and cool against her skin, the front ties silky in her fingers. She smoothed down the folds of fabric, then unbraided her hair and brushed it as the vision in the corner had done on so many nights.