Gracelin O'Malley

by Ann Moore

  After the performance, they walked slowly in the cool midnight air, crossing the River Liffey on slender Halfpenny Bridge, stopping midway to look at the lights reflected in the water.

  “Happy?” Bram asked, taking her hand.

  Grace nodded, then smiled up into his face. “Aye, ’tis like a tinker’s dream, so full of wonder and shine. Sure and isn’t it a fine thing for Ireland to have a grand city such as this?”

  Bram frowned slightly. “One day, perhaps, I’ll take you to see a truly grand city—London, perhaps, or Paris.”

  “I should like that true enough.” She sighed in anticipation.

  “But first we shall smooth your edges a bit,” he said as if amused. “Rid your speech of those charming colloquialisms.”

  Grace hit her lip. “Sure and I don’t understand what it is you’re saying?”

  Bram smiled briefly, then mimicked her speech. “‘Sure and I don’t understand … Faith, ’tis but a tinker’s dream …’” He raised his eyebrows. “See what I mean?”

  Grace straightened herself ever so slightly. “I’m too country in my talk, is what you’re saying. I give you away for marrying low.”

  “Now, now,” he soothed. “Not too country. Just too Irish.” He took her arm. “Pay closer attention to my speech and try to copy it, so that people might understand and take you seriously. Is that too much to ask?”

  “Nay,” Grace said, then corrected herself. “No, it’s not too much to ask, and certainly I can learn to speak correctly.” She clipped off the ends of her words in perfect mimicry.

  Bram laughed delightedly, then bestowed a smile full of fondness upon her. “Well done! You’re quick. I’ll give you that. No one could tell, simply by looking at you, that you’re fresh up from the barnyard.”

  Grace turned away, pretending to look over the edge of the rail into the water.

  “And the men!” He laughed again, then reached into an inner jacket pocket for his cigar case, opening it and selecting one. “They can’t take their eyes off you, did you know that? You’re the Irish version of a beauty, my dear. All high color and flyaway curls.”

  He felt for his lighter and held the flame to the end of the cigar, puffing until an ember glowed at its end and thick, strong smoke curled into his hair. He bent over her then, holding the cigar away from her hat, and kissed her lightly on the corner of her mouth.

  Grace did not understand the emotions rising within her, but suddenly she was angry, and before she could control herself, she’d wrapped both arms around him tightly and kissed him with all the passion she could muster in order to erase the acidity of his words. When she’d done a thorough job, and her anger was spent, she let go and stood back, hands on her hips, hat askew, triumph lighting her face.

  It took him a full minute to regain his composure, after which he glanced up and down the bridgewalk. It was empty but for them; still, he turned a stern face upon his wife.

  “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”

  Grace’s look of triumph faltered and her hands fell away from her hips, but her tone was determined. “I just wanted to remind you that I’m here while you’re talking about me, Mister Donnelly. And that hard words spoken well still hurt when tossed about.”

  “Ahhhh. You’re a sensitive girl—is that it?” He took several short puffs of the cigar, eyeing her as she stood against the rail, her back up, head held high. “Well, before you start correcting me, my dear, you’d do best to work on yourself.” He looked at the half-finished cigar, then tossed it into the water, where it spit and went out. Quick as lightning, he yanked her into his arms and kissed her forcefully until she began to struggle, unable to catch her breath. His teeth ground against his own lips and hers, and she tasted blood. She shoved at him with both hands but could not break his embrace until, at last, he was finished. One arm still firmly around her, he tipped his head to one side and spat in the water, then touched the back of his hand to the cut on the corner of his lip, eyeing the blood that came away. “Is this what you’re looking for, then, my little maid? A little roughness? A tumble like those with the stable boys in your father’s barn?”

  “No!” Grace said in astonishment, her mouth still throbbing in pain.

  “Because I’m happy to oblige, my dear,” he continued, pulling her tightly against his chest. “Don’t misunderstand me—I’m quite fond of boldness and high spirit. I like a woman who can take what she wants. Who can give me what I want.” He pressed his mouth against her ear, so that the words hissed. “But not in public. Ever. Is that clear?”

  “Yes,” she whispered against his chest, fighting back tears.

  “And one other thing. A minor point. It’s Squire Donnelly. Not ‘Mister.’”

  “Squire,” she repeated softly.

  He relented then, but still held her head firmly against the silky cloth of his jacket. “I fully intend to give you a good life, my dear,” he said softly. “But you must respect me in all things. At all times. You will do everything the way I tell you to do it, because you are living in my life now.”

  She nodded, but said nothing, walking along in silence back to the hotel. He seemed not to notice, chatting away about the magnificent dinner and the evening’s performance. Later, in bed, he was even more gentle with her than the night before.

  In the morning, it was as if no battle of wills had ever occurred, and Grace was sobered. She had not realized her anger could rise so quickly, or that it would be met by an iron fist. Was she willful and disrespectful, or merely young and naive? And had her husband been right in his correction of her? Certainly, she felt older this morning than she had the day before, and a lesson in restraint had been learned. But his words still troubled her; were they not meant to share this life together … or had she—as he’d said—only entered into his; hers to be left behind? Her new maturity whispered that he would always be separate from her on some level, something that she had never considered in a marriage. Perhaps it was best. Maybe a wife should not know all that went on in her husband’s head. And, by the same token, perhaps she should learn to keep a private room within herself, as well. These thoughts left her confused and wary, but as the day passed, his charm and seeming devotion won back her heart and convinced her that she had overreacted, that her youth had led to foolish fancy and that she had no more knowledge of the ways of men and women than a hen.

  The honeymoon resumed smoothly, and over the course of a week, they visited Christchurch Cathedral and Dublin Castle, strolled with other couples in Phoenix Park, taking refreshment in the tea-house at its center, and attended the first classical music concert Grace had ever heard. The symphony from England performed concertos by a man called Haydn, and the soaring strings moved Grace to yearn for some untenable thing; she had not realized she wept until Bram nudged his handkerchief into her fingers.

  There was only one place in Dublin that had soured her spirit, and that was the old church of St. Michen’s, where, preserved almost perfectly by the limestone that surrounded them, a number of ancient skeletons and mummies were set out for general viewing. The muscle and tissue had deteriorated, of course, and papery skin fell tightly over sharp facial bones; fingernails and hair had grown long and dry. Grace had stood and stared, both mesmerized and disturbed, until Bram said in no low voice, “There they are, Grace, the warrior kings of Ireland, your noble ancestors. Still hoping for a drop to warm their bones before Judgment Day.” He had laughed helplessly over this poor joke, wiping at his eyes, before halfheartedly apologizing. Grace had had a moment of revelation then, had looked for a brief moment through the part in the curtain, and knew it came to this: His English pride would always ride roughshod over her love for her own countrymen; he would always attempt to trample down what he thought was the lesser life, never mind that his wife came out of it and that his children would carry the song of it in their hearts. This would always come between them, unless she cast herself in another mold. She had looked again upon the poor beggars lying out in
the cold stone room, and her pity turned to compassion. The nobility of her ancestors lay in their spirit, not in their shells, and her husband could not be blamed for his blindness—he was English, after all, and everyone knew that the English had no gift for seeing within.

  She had begun to grow weary of Dublin after that; her head was loaded down with sight and sound, her heart raw with new emotion. It was too much for a girl who’d only had the market town of Cork City once a year, and she hoped they would soon travel home to begin their real life together. She’d watched and kept mental note on how to give orders and speak to servants, what was needed for a squire’s housekeeping. Bram had given her money for her purse on one of the days he had to spend at the solicitor’s, and with it she bought presents for her family: an Indian cashmere shawl for Granna, a woolen fisherman’s sweater for Sean, a shirt and vest for Ryan in which to be married, silver candlesticks for their wedding gift, and a pocket watch for her father. Back at the hotel, she wondered at her amazing fortune to be mistress of accounts that could provide such bounty simply by asking for it.

  It was on this same afternoon that Grace put the last piece of her new self into place. Alice had come to hang up two dresses, just delivered, and was showing Grace the proper way to wear her new things.

  “What a lovely pattern.” She held up a cotton dress with flowers scattered across the skirt. “And isn’t the blue just perfect with your eyes and that fine hair?” She smiled at Grace, then tipped her head and studied the young woman from head to toe.

  “And why are you peering at me in such a way?” Grace asked, touching her face instinctively.

  “Would you mind a piece of advice, Missus Donnelly?”

  Grace bit her lip. “Sure and I’d trust you in anything, Alice. What is it I’m doing wrong, then?”

  “Nothing, ma’am … It’s your hair, you see, ma’am.”

  Grace’s hands flew to the thick dark hair pulled back and twisted so that it hung in a thick rope over her shoulder.

  “Braids is fine for a young girl,” Alice continued. “But married ladies don’t wear them, as a rule.”

  “What a country clod I am.” Grace yanked on the braid. “Of course they don’t. I’ve seen nary a braid on any of the fine women about. Thank goodness the Squire’s not caught that one yet.” She grimaced. “How should it look?”

  Alice came around behind her and coiled the braid up into a bun. “It should come up high, like this, only softer,” she said. “You’ve got a fine neck, so you can wear it better than most.” She took a few pins from her pocket and secured the bun, then stepped back to look. “That’s not bad, but you need someone does it proper to show you.”

  “Can you not do it, Alice?” Grace asked anxiously. It was a beautiful hairstyle and made her look far more sophisticated, but she was afraid of being intimidated by a true ladies’ maid.

  “There’s a woman comes to do hair for other ladies in the hotel,” Alice said, reading her thoughts. “A nice woman, not a bit snobby. You’d like her, ma’am. I could ask her to see you this afternoon before the Squire comes back, and then you could wear it dressed when you dine out tonight.”

  Grace agreed and the hairdresser came up shortly with pins, combs, and brushes. She was an older, grandmotherly woman and her eyes lit up with delight when she saw Grace’s beautiful thick hair. She patiently showed Grace how to brush it up from the neck, twist it, and secure it high with the ends tucked in, then had Grace do it herself to make sure she understood. A few wisps escaped at Grace’s temples and at the nape of her neck, but this only added to the attractiveness of the style. Grace thanked the woman profusely and put a few coins in her hand, earning a grateful smile.

  She had agreed to meet Bram in the lobby of the hotel and was gratified by his stunned expression when she glided down the staircase. He remained speechless during the short walk to the restaurant and throughout the appetizer course. Food revived him, and he proceeded to tell her an amusing story about a man he’d met at the races, but still, he shook his head often and broke off from what he was saying to tell her how very beautiful she looked tonight. This was the final transformation she’d needed, and now, feeling taller and more refined, she was ready to face her new home.

  Four

  THE honeymoon ended, and a weary Grace gladly boarded ship the next morning. The wind was high, making it a fast trip to Clonakilty Bay, where they spent a night in Roscaberry before taking a carriage back up to Macroom.

  Coming up the avenue to the big house, Grace realized with a shock that she was now truly mistress of the manor and in charge of the servants who stood waiting on the porch. Bram was a working squire and had a keen interest in his farms and mills, but he still lived in grand style.

  It was an entirely different life from the one they’d lived in Dublin, but at least she was on familiar ground and had a better understanding of her husband. She knew that he loved his position as landowner and rode out daily to look over his holdings, checking tenant land and his own close in, sometimes working alongside the field hands. His solid body and good looks earned him admiring glances wherever he went, and Grace did not miss these, seeing him afresh in the eyes of others. She found she had pride in her husband, and determined to follow his wishes about her dress and manner; indeed, about all the ways their life was to be run. He was older, he was wiser, he’d known married life. She’d put herself completely in his hands and trust his advice.

  “Welcome to your new home,” he’d said, helping her out of the carriage. “This is my housekeeper, Brigid Sullivan”—he indicated the woman who stood next to the door—“and her husband, Jack, my butler and driver.” A tall, thin man with hooked nose and reddened cheeks bowed stiffly. “Their son Nolan, the stable boy.”

  “Welcome home, ma’am,” they all murmured, then stepped down off the porch to gather the trunks and boxes from the carriage.

  Bram took her through the front door and into a great hall. “This is not a house full of servants,” he said. “I don’t believe in supporting that kind of expense just for show.”

  Grace nodded, looking around at polished woodwork and brocade curtains draped at the windows, family portraits and ornately framed hunting scenes. It was a cavernous house, a man’s house, handsome and strong.

  “Brigid and her husband live in the gamekeeper’s cabin down in the glen behind the barns. I like my privacy and those two have more children than I can count, though I believe they’ve stopped at Nolan. The others are completely unruly; I won’t have them about the place at all except as seasonal hands.”

  Grace nodded again, unable to think of what to say. She knew the Sullivans. She’d gone to school with some of them and never thought them rude or wild, although the older boys had a bit of a reputation. There had been two daughters after Nolan, both dead at young ages, she vaguely remembered, but she said nothing to Bram of her familiarity with the family.

  They came into a great room where a big log fire burned and a tray of sherry and biscuits sat on a side table.

  “This is the kind of nonsense I despise.” He walked over to the fire and kicked it apart with the toe of his boot. “It’s wasteful to burn good logs or even turf on a summer day. Brigid likes a fire and she’ll burn one in every room if you let her.” He looked over his shoulder at Grace and said pointedly, “You’ll have to have a firm hand in running the house.”

  “Yes, Bram.” Her voice was soft.

  He nodded. “Now”—he rubbed his hands together—“meals are simple around here, no need for a cook. Brigid sees to that and the house. She’s got a girl in to help on laundry day and when she does the heavy work. Sullivan acts as butler when we’ve got formal guests, but there aren’t enough of those to keep him in tails every day. He cleans and stores the game, keeps up the wine cellar, and pokes about in the garden, although we’ve got to do something about that. Their oldest boy’s usually out of a job.” He stroked his chin. “Or Nolan can take it on … days are longer now. Ah, it’s good to be home.”r />
  “What would you have me do, then?” Grace asked, mentally checking off all the tasks that would be done for her.

  Bram crossed the room and put his arms around her. “You, my fair bride”—he nuzzled her hair—”will concentrate on giving me an heir.”

  Grace smiled. “That takes care of my evenings,” she said, and was pleased to see his eyebrows go up at her boldness. “But how will I fill my days?”

  He cocked his head. “You’ll run the household, of course: plan the menus, do a little cooking if you wish—God knows we could use a change—oversee the kitchen garden and the pantry, the laundry, general housekeeping. I suppose you’ll go calling, and receive, as well …” He frowned. “Though, not too frequently, I hope. These old ladies in the neighborhood like gossiping to new brides; I would discourage intimacy. Do be polite,” he warned. “Social connections are important, and we’ve got your humble beginnings to contend with.”

  Grace was dizzy from all the instruction. “I’ll not embarrass you,” she murmured.

  Bram poured her a small sherry, then showed her the rest of the house. Compared to the great houses of Dublin, it was small, but to Grace, it was enormous, the big rooms square and high-ceilinged, long windows set into paneled walls. The main floor was laid in stone, layered with thick carpets in the drawing room, runners down the wide hallways, a large, faded Turkish rug in the center of the dining room on which sat a grand polished oak table surrounded by twelve chairs and over which hung a brilliant chandelier, and yet another carpet—this one simple and threadbare in places—in the entry where they’d begun. Grace found herself wondering how many days each month were occupied with the taking up and beating of these rugs.

  There was an entirely separate room at the back of the house for preparing and cooking the food. No rugs covered the flagstones, though she noticed a colorful rag braid in front of the chair by the cookstove. That was where Brigid must sometimes sit of an evening, Grace thought, seeing now the work bag of mending tucked into the corner. Beside the great black cookstove, there was an open fireplace with a kettle hook, and this was a relief to Grace, who had never cooked on anything else! A thick wooden safe sat in one corner, away from the stove and fireplace, and there was a basin built into a table set underneath a water pump. Pots and pans hung from a rack over her head, and a series of shelves housed the crockery and utensils. In the middle of the room sat a huge wooden worktable with four stools pushed under. Grace was stunned at the size of the kitchen, which was nearly as big as her entire cabin, and at the array of cooking tools. She had always loved preparing meals and she would have pushed up her sleeves right there and then, had Bram not steered her back out into the entry and up the stairs.