by Ann Moore
Sean was still, then slowly he nodded. “You’re a better man than myself, McDonagh. I’d grab my chance and run. Will you forgive my badgering?”
Morgan smiled. “Always do.”
“I had high hopes there for a minute. Don’t we already love you like one of the family?” He smiled, too. “Even if you are thick with the priests.”
Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Not so thick now, boyo. I knew your da would never let a Catholic marry his daughter, so I’ve been thinking and reading on my own this past winter. Don’t think your badgering falls on deaf ears.”
Sean stared. “Go on with you! You’d never leave the church?”
Morgan shook his head. “No—Da would cut my throat if I did—but a man must do his own thinking if he’s not to be a fool, and some of these priests act like thinking’s a sin. Are they not men, after all, and no different from us in the eyes of God?” He stopped to think. “What’s that verse in First Corinthians you wrote out for me?”
“‘Know ye not, that they which run in a race run all, but one receiveth the prize?’”
Morgan nodded. “‘So run, that ye may obtain it.’” He paused. “And the end bit, ‘I therefore so run, not as uncertainty; so fight I, not as one that beateth the air: But I keep under my body, and bring it into subjection: lest that by any means, when I have preached to others, I myself should be a castaway.’”
“You’ve taken it to heart,” Sean said softly.
“Aye.” Morgan looked around at the wild landscape. “And I understand what it says: Those that preach the word of God should strive to be among the best of men, and yet they should be humble and serve the people of their church, as Christ served God.” He paused and looked at Sean. “I must run in this race. Not just as part of the church, but as a servant to my people. God’s servant.”
“How did you come by a Bible?”
Morgan laughed. “Your gran had one belonged to her mam, and she insisted I take it, though she swore me to secrecy and begged me hide it away somewhere my da wouldn’t find it.”
“I wondered where that had gone!” Sean laughed, too. “Faith and she’s a sly old thing.”
“Aye,” Morgan agreed. “But I love her dear. Mam doesn’t know what I’m at, just sees the candle lit at night, and she boasted to Father Brown that her Morgan is quite a reader thanks to that bit of schooling with the Brothers. He’s taken it upon himself to keep me well-provided now with pamphlets on modern farming and personal cleanliness.” He laughed. “Wouldn’t he be clutching at his heart, now, and fearing for my salvation if he knew I was puzzling through the Good Book on my own!” The smile faded. “Sure and it’s a hard thing, though, making sense of it all.”
Sean nodded. “Aye, you have to live in it before it starts to become clear.”
They fell silent then, watching the black water, the shadowy shapes of the salmon swimming beneath the surface, now and then a glint of their silver sides. Sean felt a tug on his line and played it, bringing it in slowly but with an expert hand. Morgan waded out and caught it on the gaff, then took the hook out of its mouth and tossed it to the bank, where Sean hit it once with a club. When it was still, he ran a stick through the mouth and gill, and secured it in a shallow pool to keep it fresh. He went back to his place and cast his line again, looking over to where Morgan stood under the chestnut trees, white blooms drifting down lazily from the tall cathedral of branches.
Morgan looked up and caught his eye. “I’m not speaking against the church, mind you now. I’ve known more good priests than bad, and Father Brown is one of the finest men alive, priest or no.”
“He’s a good man, I’ll give you that,” Sean conceded. “He’s made a life among the people, doesn’t hold himself apart.” He paused. “It’s the mixing up of religion with politics gets me so angry. What right have they to tell the people who to back?”
Morgan played his line, then waited. “I don’t know that you can separate one part of who you are from the other part.” He waited. “If we’re to be Christians in this world, we cannot hide ourselves away from the business of it. We cannot pretend that our neighbor’s plight is not our own.”
“True enough,” Sean agreed. “Why then do they bully the people, telling them to pay rent when their children are starving or face the wrath of God for not rendering unto Caesar? Is it right, do you think, to tell them that oppression and famine are the will of God and they must accept it silently, with heads hung humbly down?”
“No.” Morgan frowned. “A man must pay what he owes in good faith—that’s rendering unto Caesar—but there’s little good faith to be had in Ireland anymore. These swaggering agentmen go about collecting higher and higher rents for landlords who don’t even come down to the country! How can a man living in Dublin, let alone England, understand the suffering of people he never sees? God does not want His people sacrificed for sheep and cattle, or for another man’s rich life. No, He does not.” The hazel eyes flashed. “He wants us to rise up and insist on a Christian country where all can count on a plate of food at the end of the day and a man’s family is not turned out on the road in the dead of winter, his house and belongings smashed for all to see … a place where life is not so desperate.” He stopped and lowered his voice. “Men like Father Brown use their persuasion to rally support for O’Connell and the Repeal Movement, and that’s a good thing. But we cannot, in good faith, continue to be part of the great silent mass.”
“I can hardly believe what I’m hearing, Morgan, man.” Sean squinted at his face. “Are you true serious?”
“Ireland is coming upon harder times, still.” Morgan bent over and cleaned his fingers in the clear water. “I feel it. She can’t be pushed much further. There’s been too much famine in the past, too much fever, too much work … too little hope.” He stood and wiped his fingers on his trousers. “Whatever comes, I had thought to have Grace beside me as my wife and you as my brother. My heart fights against it, but I’m trying to accept the Lords will in sending me down another path.”
Sean looked at Morgan. “Can it be His will, truly Morgan, do you think? About Grace, I mean?” He paused, then said with great discomfort, “Have you not heard the talk? Da says it’s lies put out by jealous men. But, faith, I … I don’t know.” He shook his head. “It troubles my heart to hear it. I lie awake hours at night in worry.”
“What talk is that?”
Sean’s face turned red with embarrassment. “Have you heard nothing, then? About the way he … they say he visits houses in the city, in the North, and that he.… he mistreats the girls there.” His eyes filled with anguish. “And what about the truth of two wives dying? The second in such a way that no one speaks of her but in a whisper. Who is this man that will take away our Grace, and how will I be able to help her, should she need it?”
Morgan’s face had grown still with anger and he stood straight, shoulders back, strong hands clenched at his sides, his voice deadly calm when he spoke. “I’d not heard that about the women in the North. Though it’s a dull man doesn’t wonder about the fate of that poor English girl he married second time around.” He thought a minute. “Talk or no, we’ll keep an eye on him. And if he’s a minute less the man he should be with our Grace … well, then, won’t we put himself straight, you and I together? You have my word on that.” He put out his hand. “God as my witness.”
Sean took Morgan’s hand in both of his, and they stood bound together, one boy strong and broad as the Shillelagh oak, the other bent and twisted as a blackthorn hedge, drawing courage from one another as around them the trees swayed in the wind and the river hurried out to the sea.
Three
GRACE’S wedding was like nothing she’d ever imagined—there was no singing of the old songs, no room full of family and neighbors drinking poteen and offering toasts in Irish, no tinkers with their ballads, and no dancing: No animals stood at the windows, staring in at the commotion, no small children ran through the crowded room, excitement blooming in their cheeks, fl
ower garlands atop their heads. It was, instead, a solemn day: the tall, stately minister at the front of the chapel; her family all in a pew behind her, sitting straight-backed in stiff collars and vests; the rest scattered throughout other rows, all unfamiliar faces—Bram’s gentry crowd, along with fellow businessmen and English officers, and of course, the wives. Grace wore her mother’s long ivory dress unpacked from the trunk and smelling of lavender, aired in the sun and made over to suit Grace’s longer neck and waist. There was a garland of spring roses and ivy, and Irish lace to cover her face. Bram’s wedding gift to her had been a short strand of beautiful pearls that had been delivered in a velvet case by young Nolan Sullivan, his stable boy. Grace had opened the case gingerly and lifted it out for her family to admire, wondering inside about the man who would choose such a costly gift. They had yet to meet; it had been his wish to negotiate their future together completely through her father, so that when she first saw him, it would be at the altar.
The morning was overcast, and the hills glowed with green intensity against a low gray sky. Delicate berry blossoms scattered pink and white petals across the lane; hedge roses added their deep color to the day. It was the kind of light that heightened Grace’s awareness of beauty’s ache, that filled her heart and tore at it in the same moment, and all of this made even more poignant by the sense she had that she looked upon it for the last time, that today she would be forever changed. And then, when she’d thought she could not bear a minute more, and must certainly tear off the dress and run away to the fields on the hill, the sun broke through with its promise of calm, and the carriage was at her door.
She followed Granna out into the light, holding her skirts carefully above the dirt and grass, waiting while Granna was handed in by Nolan, whose father, Jack, drove the team; Grace was aided by her own father, who then walked back to the tub cart and climbed in with Ryan and Sean, ready to follow the carriage to Macroom. All of the neighbors had come out of their cabins to see her off, and she waved to Julia Ryan, who stood clutching Katty O’Dugan’s arm and weeping, the children shouting and jumping up and down while the husbands doffed their caps, Tad O’Dugan shuffling his feet and looking embarrassed by all the display; out came Old Campbell Hawes, wobbling in the doorway, his nose red from drink and emotion as he shouted a blessing, his wife telling him to shush now and don’t embarrass the girl; the Sheehans and the Dalys stood together—Fionna and Shane close at the shoulders, though not touching; there were the Kellys, Irial with his fiddle, son Kealan on the pipe—all lined the lane to see her off, tossing flowers and beseeching God to bless this happy day. The young men fell into a group behind the carriage, singing “The Paisteen Fionn,” and Grace was sure she could hear Morgan McDonagh’s strong, familiar tenor among the voices that followed to the end of the lane, behind the steady clip-clop of the horses’ hooves. They stopped walking as the carriage turned onto the avenue, and she closed her eyes, straining to hear the last of the beautiful song:
“O! You are my dear, my dear, my dear.
Oh, you are my dear and my fair love!
You are my own dear, and my fondest hope here,
and oh, that my cottage you’d share, love!”
She blinked back the tears she’d been fighting all morning, then turned stiffly in her dress to look out behind, but the singers had faded back into the lane.
“Homesick already, are you?” Granna chafed Grace’s cold hand between her two warm ones. “There’s naught to fear, you know,” she said softly, mindful of Jack Sullivan, who was known to gossip. “Are you not to be married this day to a fine man, and wouldn’t your mam be ever so proud?”
“I’m not afraid, Gran,” Grace answered softly in Irish. “Sean says God’s angels will fill the church and Mam will be among them.” She smoothed the beautiful skirt across her lap, steadying her hands.
“Faith and the boy is full of fancy,” Granna said fondly. “But as you’d be the one to see her, mind you show me where she sits so I might have a quiet word and catch the scent of her again.” She paused, then laughed self-consciously. “And would your one not be having a change of mind if he heard us speaking of such things? And in Irish, as well! We’d best keep your gifts to ourselves and speak only the Queen’s English, or he’ll be wondering what he got himself into!”
Grace joined the laughter. “Won’t he be wondering that anyway after a few days of living with me, now?”
Granna’s eyes sparkled with love. “Sure, and you’re the finest girl in the county, Gracelin. In all of Ireland, true enough!” Her smile faltered and she glanced down at her hands, fussing with the unaccustomed gloves, a blush coming up in her cheeks. “I’ve not yet spoken to you as a mother should, Grace, for I could not find a time with no one about.”
Grace frowned, puzzled.
Granna shook herself and said firmly, “I’m talking about your wedding night, agra. Are you in a way of knowing about it?”
It was Grace’s turn to blush. “Sure and I’ve heard the wedding shouts all my life,” she stammered. “And the cows and sheep …” Her voice trailed off.
Granna slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Put that out of your head. ’Tis not like the animals a’tall, but a thing of beauty, the coming together of man and wife.” She glanced at Grace’s downturned face and plunged on. “When the time comes, he’ll leave you alone. Put on your nightdress and get into bed to wait for him. Don’t mind your shyness. He’ll understand.”
Grace’s face was intensely red and she dared not look at her grandmother.
“What comes next is natural and God’s way for man and woman. Trust him to do what’s right and let it be done. Find pleasure in his love for you and know that your love for him will grow out of this. And won’t it give you children, which are such a blessing to a man and his wife?”
Grace looked up quickly, her eyes wide in alarm. She threw her arms around the old woman’s shoulders, clinging to her. “Can you not come with me?” she begged.
“And what exactly is it you’d have me do, then? Stand at the foot of the bed and whisper encouragement?”
They stared at one another, picturing it, then burst out laughing.
“Ah, now,” Granna murmured when both had sobered again. “I should’ve spoken up long ago, and the shame’s on me for it.” She straightened Grace up, and smoothed her hair and gown. “Don’t vex yourself now, child. A bride must shine like the sun on her wedding day if she’s to warm her husband’s heart.”
Grace nodded, but her smile was tense and fleeting. She took up Granna’s warm, familiar hand and held it all the way to the chapel.
Clouds now blew in tatters across the sky, alternately masking, then revealing sharp glints of sunlight that streaked the hills and valleys. Grace’s composure had returned and she felt fairly steady as she stepped out of the trap into the brisk spring breeze. She gently shook free her fluttering skirts, smoothed the fitted bodice, took a deep breath, then entered the church on her father’s arm. But the sight of her future husband waiting at the altar turned her knees again to jelly and sent her vision swimming. It was an endless walk down the aisle, even with Patrick’s reassuring face and firm grip on her arm.
“You look every inch a queen, and wouldn’t old Grainne, the pirate, be pleased with the sight of yourself?” he whispered, his breath moist with the warm, woody smell of whiskey. He winked at the surprised look on her face. “Can’t have your old da fainting from nerves on your very own wedding day, now, can you, darling girl?”
Her heart swelled with love for him, and impulsively she kissed his cheek, catching the glint of tears in his eyes as they reached the altar and he put her hand into that of the man who stood waiting.
And there they stood, side by side, listening to the words of the minister as he spoke about Christian marriage and the duties of husband and wife. She stole a quick glance through the lace of her veil, expecting to see formidable sideburns and a sober countenance. Instead, she was surprised by his youthfulness—a face that was
tanned and fit, lines only at the corners of his eyes and mouth, no sideburns, but a full mustache of sandy hair, lighter than that on his head. He turned slightly and she saw that his eyes were as pale blue as the high summer sky, and was startled when suddenly he winked at her. She bit her lip and blushed, turning quickly back to face the minister, who was asking them to state their vows. Shyly, she repeated the words after him about loving and cherishing her new husband, and obeying him in all things, answering soberly that she would do so until death parted them. When it was the Squire’s turn, she heard the amusement in his voice, and felt the firm squeeze upon her arm when he announced loudly, “I do!”
They turned to one another as directed, and he slipped onto her finger a wide gold band with an inset diamond, then lifted her veil and looked into her eyes before bestowing upon her a kiss so gentle, it was as if a feather brushed against her lips.
Listening to the minister finish his blessing, she was acutely aware of her new husband’s solid presence beside her, the smell of him and the feel of his good cloth coat against her arm. The clarity that had come over her with her mother’s death now swept through her again: Life would never be the same. Then, it had come with an overwhelming sadness; now, it came with excitement and a sense of destiny. God had chosen this man for her helpmeet. Her children would be educated in a proper school and never want for food or clothing, and her new position meant that she could now help her family and her neighbors. She stood tall, then—shoulders back, chin up—and all who looked upon her as she left the church on the arm of her new husband were taken with the light that seemed to radiate from her face, the confidence that shone in her eyes.
Too quickly, the ceremony was over and the wedding breakfast eaten. With Gran’s help, Grace changed out of her beautiful dress and into traveling clothes for the journey to Dublin. It would take two days, as Bram had business on the way. She bid farewell to her family, then set off in a trap for Cork Harbor, where a light boat awaited them. She had never been on a boat in all her life, though she’d spent many pleasurable hours watching sails hoisted in the harbor.