by Ann Moore
“You mustn’t spend the Squire’s money on presents for us,” he said by way of thanks.
“The coins he puts in my purse are my own,” Grace answered firmly. “And so they are yours, as well.”
They had begged her to stay the day long, to share a meal at least, but she’d not had the liberty. Granna reassured her, saying they’d see her again soon, but in her heart, she suspected the Squire had already set about weaning his beautiful young wife from her tenant family.
That had been many weeks ago, in June. St. John’s Eve had come and gone with no one feeling much like riding down to the bonfires, and Lug’s Day was a week past, the cold room now filled with potatoes and no one but Ryan with much appetite. His wedding was two weeks away, and although she tried to keep her mind on the festivities and Ryan’s happiness, Granna could barely contain the fierce longing she felt to see Grace’s shining face in the room again.
Ryan had become nearly impossible to live with, determined as he was that everything should be perfect for his new bride. The stones were quarried and masons had been hired to build on the new room that he and Aghna would share, a luxury by neighborhood standards.
“’Tis a wedding gift from Grace and the Squire,” Granna told each neighbor who put a head through the window to marvel at the addition and wonder at the cost. “Such a good girl, our Grace.”
“Only one of the lot,” Patrick would mumble. He’d stopped speaking to everyone now that Ryan had announced his intention to convert.
“Bad enough you marry a Catholic girl who’ll fill the house with priests and nuns,” he’d yelled. “But you let her browbeat you into joining that herd of cattle!”
“Mind what you say!” Ryan had yelled back, a shock to them all. “I’m doing what’s right by her and God, and that’s all there is to it!”
“I’m still head of this household,” Patrick warned the boy.
But Ryan had found confidence in his new position as husband-to-be. “Have I not earned my right to half this house?” he spoke boldly. “Working with you as I have, day and night, never asking for naught? And I’m not asking now. Aghna and I will worship God as Catholics, and we’ll not be treated as whipped pups because of it. Do you hear me, Da?”
Patrick had kicked over a chair in disgust, grabbed his hat, and gone out into the rainy night. He’d stayed gone two days, but when he returned, it was with the masons and the quarry stone, and without a word to anyone, he’d begun building the extra room.
Sean and Granna poured their spare time into stitching a cover for the newlyweds’ bed, keeping at it as the silence hung on around them.
“Being Catholic’s not the end of the world,” Granna whispered after Patrick had gone out.
“It is to Da,” Sean said. “You know how he hates the priests and bishops, even the nuns! He says it’s unnatural and an affront to the life God puts in a body. He says Ryan will never find happiness in that church.”
Granna clucked her tongue. “Sure and he will.” She pulled at the thread in her needle. “He’s not a deep thinker, our Ryan, and he’ll not question the authority of the church, just as he’s not questioned your da’s authority all these many years.”
“Could it be that, then, what’s making Da so angry?” Sean asked. “The church taking his place in Ryan’s eyes?”
Gran nodded. “’Twould be your da’s way of thinking, sure enough, but I don’t see it myself. Themselves are cut from the same cloth as ever there was, and Ryan could never depart from your da, despite the shouting and hard words.” She shrugged. “And besides, a little religion will be good for the boy. He needs something other than your father’s word as law. A wife and church life will round him out, bring him into his own manhood.”
“Hard to picture our Ryan in church, saying his rosary, isn’t it, Gran?”
They both laughed at the image of tall, gawky Ryan scrunched down on his knees on the hard stone floor.
“He’ll go for a while, to prove out your da; then he’ll let Aghna take over that side of their marriage.” She was quiet for a while, bent over her work, then said casually, “And so, everyone is getting married around you, Sean.” She waited for him to look up so she could see his eyes. “How is that for yourself?”
He set down his cloth and picked up the cup of tea that sat at his feet, blowing away the steam, then sipping at it gingerly. “I’m happy for the both of them,” he said, evenly. “And I’m looking forward to being an old uncle.”
Granna kept her keen eyes on his face. “Do you not think about marrying yourself one day?”
Sean set the cup down again, shaking his head. “No, Gran. I do not.” He met her eyes. “The Lord has blessed me in many ways, so I’m not looking to Him for a wife, as well.”
Granna started to speak, but he stopped her.
“Who would have me, Gran?” he asked directly. “Even if some poor girl took a fall for my wonderful self—and what girl wouldn’t want a man who could keep her in dresses,” he said with a smile, “her family would never allow it. Look at me. I’m small and thin and twisted. I don’t look as though I’d survive my wedding night, let alone find work and support a family!”
“I pray every night that the Lord will send someone to love you, my boy,” Granna whispered.
Sean reached over and took her hand. “Hasn’t He though, Gran? Haven’t I been given you and our own Grace?”
“Aye, you have, though ’tis not exactly the love I’m speaking of, as yourself knows good and well,” she minded. “Ah, no … I miss the girl, I do. So good she was at keeping up your spirits.”
“My spirits are fine, Gran. Don’t worry about me. Though I’d not mind seeing her face about the place a bit more myself.”
“I thought she might have come again by now, but it’s to be later rather than sooner, by the looks of things.”
“It’s just all that fine cooking you’re missing,” Sean teased. “She spoiled us, she did, waited on us hand and foot.”
Granna laughed. “Remember that hot, buttery whiskey she’d bring us in the night, and her good brown bread with a little coffee, when we had it?”
Sean grinned. “I miss that sauce she’d put on salmon, and her colcannon.”
“Oh, and her wild berry jam—we’ve none of that this summer,” Granna said sorrowfully. “Nor none of her singing while she makes it.”
Sean rose stiffly and filled her teacup. “Well, old woman, you’ll just have to make due with bitter tea, boiled bacon and cabbage, and my own sour self for company.”
“Ah no, agra. The tea’s never bitter, I’ve lived on boiled cabbage more than once in my lifetime, and as for yourself …” Granna roused herself. “I’d not trade you for any other man.”
“She’s promised to come to the wedding. Maybe we can get her to cook something for us then!”
Granna laughed again. “I wouldn’t be counting on that,” she said. “The Squire will not want to see her scraping in the kitchen of her old cabin home.”
Sean frowned. “I hope he’s good by her.”
Granna nodded. “I, too, boy. She looked well enough, though a mite tired. It’s clear he’s generous in the way of her dress. We’ll see if his kindness lasts the honeymoon. For her sake, I hope they soon have a child.”
The days flew by and the new room was finished. Into it, Patrick moved the large bed he’d shared with Kathleen, and Granna covered it with the new embroidered spread. Aghna was not used to more than a shared straw tick in the back of a cabin, a cloth hung from the ceiling for a wall, so Granna knew she’d be pleased and her desire for a bettered life well met. Sean had stuffed two pillowcases with moss and herbs, and the room smelled as bright and fresh as it looked. Ryan was pleased, going back to look at it every time he came in the house.
The night before the wedding, he made an announcement at the dinner table.
“Aghna comes tomorrow,” he said, as if they might have all forgotten. “And, Granna …” His face was worried. “She’ll be wanting to ta
ke on the householding.”
“Fine by me, boy,” Gran said and smiled down the table at Sean. “We’ll be looking forward to a good meal around here again.”
“How’s her colcannon?” Sean winked.
“Ever bit as good as Grade’s,” Ryan insisted. Then he paused. “You don’t think Grace’ll show her up at her own wedding, do you now? She won’t be coming in that fancy dress with her hair all done up, will she?” His face creased with alarm.
Sean waved his spoon in the air and scowled. “What are you saying, you thickheaded eejit? Our Grace would never put on airs!”
“She’s a squire’s wife now,” Patrick said, eating steadily, eyes on his plate. “She’s got no choice but to dress like one.”
They waited for him to say more, but he just finished his meal, pushed away his plate, and said he’d be going to bed now, with tomorrow’s long day before them.
When Granna got up to clear, the door off the lane burst open and in tumbled a group of neighborhood boys: Morgan McDonagh, Declan and Paddy Neeson, Tad O’Dugan, Aghna’s brother Rory, and Quinn Sheehan laughed and pushed each other, shouting at Ryan to get his coat and come for his due, it being his last night as a free man.
“Don’t keep him too late, boys,” Granna laughed. “He’ll need his strength for the morrow!”
They roared and answered in kind, as Ryan pulled on his coat and grabbed his hat.
“Sure and you’re coming, as well, Sean?” Morgan waited in the doorway.
Sean waved him off from where he still sat at the table. “No, you go on,” he said. “I’ll just slow you down.”
Morgan came back into the room. “We’re just going over to Agahmore, to O’Devlin’s public house. You’ll not be slowing us down unless you plan on preaching to us while we drink!”
Sean looked at Granna.
“Go on with you, now.” She shooed him with her apron. “Have a bit of fun, why don’t you?”
“It’s settled then—you’re coming,” Morgan announced. “Declan’s got the wagon.” He strode across the room and lifted Sean from the bench. “Now, will you be a man and walk … or will I carry you like a bride over the threshhold?” He puckered his lips and kissed the air, tossing a wink at Gran.
Sean laughed. “I’ll walk, thank you very much.” He pulled on the sweater from Grace and kissed Granna, the men outside shouting for them to hurry up.
As they went to the wagon, Morgan said in a low voice, “Sure and I’m glad you’re along tonight, being as you’re the only man can keep me from adding to the wealth of the Guinness family.” He paused. “And is she coming then to the wedding and all?”
Sean nodded.
“Ah, well.” Morgan gave him a hand up into the wagon. “All the more reason to get it out of my way tonight, softhearted fool that I’ve become.”
The other men piled into the back of the cart, Ryan in the seat of honor next to Declan, who slapped the reins. As they rocked down the narrow lane, big Quinn Sheehan started them off with “Thank You, Ma’am, Says Dan,” his hearty baritone sailing out into the red-rimmed twilight.
“‘What brought you into my room,
to my room, to my room,
What brought you into my room,’
said the mistress unto Dan.
‘I came here to court your daughter, ma’am,
I thought it no great harm, ma’am!’
‘Oh, Dan, my dear, you’re welcome here!’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ says Dan.”
As he sang, Sean gazed off at the Derrynasaggart Mountains, blue shadows against a flaming sky. He left off singing the third verse, leaned over, and whispered in Morgan’s ear, “There’s no reason to come at all, man, and put yourself through it, you know.”
Morgan wasn’t singing. “The truth of it is,” he said in a low voice, “I’d not be able to keep away.” He turned aside and rubbed his hand hard against the rough, splintered wood of the wagon. “Nor would I,” he added softly, “not for all the gold in the world.”
Six
WEDNESDAY was as fine a day as they come—clear blue skies and a warm wind stirring the trees—but Squire Donnelly wouldn’t hear of attending the Catholic wedding of a country tenant, wife’s brother or no, and so Grace would not see Ryan and Aghna married by the priest who’d come all the way out from Cork City. A week of long sighs and sorrowful eyes, no singing, and pitiful meals led Bram to reconsider, and he had finally agreed at last to a short afternoon visit to the wedding party.
They arrived at midday, long after the bride and groom had made their joyful entrance. The small cabin was crowded with people from all over the county, but they fell away and made a path for Grace, warm smiles cooling ever so slightly when Bram came in behind. She made her way through the room, stopping to greet all the old neighbors: the O’Dugans, Old Campbell Hawes and his wife, Mister Neeson and the boys, the Dalys, and Bully Ryan, who was pulling on Julia’s arm to get him another cup. It is a rare Irish room that falls silent, but the talk in this one had hushed all the same. The eyes of the women quickly took in Grace’s simple blue silk and the slippers on her feet, the pearls around her throat, and the beautiful hair now swept up and held with two mother-of-pearl combs. They did not miss the thick gold band on her ring finger or the powder dusted across her bosom. She had dressed as plainly as she dared without displeasing Bram, but she could not so easily downplay the way she carried herself now or the manner of her speech, which had changed under her husband’s constant correction. The older women smiled proudly to see her—a girl of the lane—and the younger girls watched her with admiration and envy, smiling shyly as she passed. The men couldn’t snatch the hats from their heads quickly enough to nod respectfully when she greeted them; Bram they sized up with steely eyes, though they called him “sir” and “Squire” to his face. He was stopped by someone behind Grace, but she worked her way through the room until she saw Granna near the worktable and Sean on his stooleen.
“Gran!” She rushed into the old woman’s arms and breathed in her scent of herbs and flour.
Granna folded her in tightly, cooing against her cool cheek, before holding her out to have a good look. “Ah, I can’t get over how grown you look, child, with your hair up and your missus dress.” She looked back over her shoulder at Sean. “Not at all like our Gracie come flying in from the bog with mud on her face and squished up between her toes, eh, Sean?”
They all laughed.
“Or with jam up to her elbows on a black batch morning.” Sean put out his hand. “Come say hello to your dying brother.”
“Sean!” She came immediately, peering into his face.
He pulled her down onto his lap. “Just dying to have another look at yourself there, girl,” he said, and laughed again.
She punched him, then kissed his cheek.
“And here’s Morgan! I didn’t see you standing in the corner.” She stood up and smoothed her dress. “How’s your mam? And the girls?”
He smiled. “Herself is well, Grace, thanks for asking. Home with the newest McDonagh, another sister for us all. Barbara’s looking after them, but the midlins have come along.” He tipped his head toward a group of three girls, softer versions of himself, standing in the corner, surrounded by admirers. “Wouldn’t miss a chance to dance and show off their pretty selves, those three.”
“They look wonderful.” Her voice was wistful as she watched the chattering, laughing girls with their long braids and flowered skirts.
“And you, as well.” He stepped out of the corner and handed her a bough of wild roses wrapped in moss. “Didn’t I trouble myself to pick these for your gran, and herself without a jug to put them in? Ask Grace, she says to me, and thank God you’re here before they wilt away.”
Grace turned, flustered. “Up top there, near the rafter, that’s where I kept it.”
“Here, now.” Morgan stood on tiptoe, reached into the cobwebs, and brought down a luster jug. He handed it to Grace, who arranged the roses and set them on t
he window ledge.
“Faith, and aren’t they sweet? And yourself as well, for bringing them along to an old woman.” Granna smiled at him, then turned to Grace. “Morgan and Sean have been making the long days pass, surprising me with the odd treasure from their lollygagging in the woods.”
“Still wasting your days on the riverbanks, are you?” Grace teased.
Sean nodded, his eyes twinkling. “Aye. Morgan comes by regular to fill his basket with fish and his head with dangerous thinking. We have long conversations about God, the state of Ireland … and love.” He put his hand over his heart and fluttered his eyelashes.
Morgan shot him a warning look, then turned to Grace. “Himself is still full of worthless prattle, in case you’re looking for improvement. But you, now. Your face shines with the good life you’re leading.”
“You’d not believe all the new things I’ve seen and learned! My head spins when night comes and I’m hours falling to sleep!” she said wondrously.
Morgan smiled at her enthusiasm, then lowered his eyes to the ring on her finger. “Ah, well, that’s fine then, and I’m happy for you.”
Granna slipped an arm around Grace’s waist. “Arrah, and I hate to send you away from us, but your Squire’s been cornered by Father Keating and he’s looking none the happier for it.”
“I’d better go,” Grace said anxiously. “It was hard enough to get him here in the first place.” She kissed Granna’s cheek and hurried across the room.
“All!” Bram said too warmly when she joined them. “Father, this is my wife. Gracelin dear, meet Father Keating, a true Irish priest and a veritible font of information on the lives of minor saints.”
Grace recognized the tone in her husband’s voice and said immediately, “Bram, I’m afraid Da is too eager to show you the new rooms on the house. He’s waiting in the yard.”
Bram feigned disappointment. “I’m sure you’ll excuse me, Father, as I leave you in much prettier company.” He ran a finger along Grace’s jaw to her chin, lifting it slightly, then sauntered out to the yard, extending his hand to Patrick.