by Ann Moore
“Disobeyed me at every turn,” he muttered, swigging from the flask. “Every turn, damn you!”
“No, Bram,” she urged, hoping to persuade him away from his fury. “I did just as you asked.”
“Flirting with that damn Evans the entire evening! He called you a farm girl in front of everyone and you let him! You let him!” His speech began to slur now as the whiskey took hold. “I saw him fawning over you, looking into your eyes, and you just smiled away like an idiot. Don’t you know what he was up to?”
“Bram,” she interrupted.
“Shut up!” He yelled. The horses slowed. “Faster, Jack, stir them up!” he called, and when their hooves began to beat a steady pace along the dirt road, he turned to her again. “It’s Abigail all over again, but he won’t win this time, either. I’ll see to that.” He finished off the flask and threw it into the corner of the carriage.
He was so still, Grace dared not move. Then suddenly he smashed his fist against the side of the carriage and his rage was refueled.
“Never knew a day of hard work in his life. You wouldn’t know what to do with a man like that, would you? Could you satisfy a man like Evans?”
“No,” she whispered, drawing the blanket more tightly around her.
“You made a fool of yourself playing right into his hands, and then you gossip with the doctor’s wife—that village hag—instead of finding a suitable friend among the ladies. Don’t think I don’t know everything you did tonight, Gracelin … O’Malley.” He spit out her last name as if it were something rotten in his mouth. “You willfully disobeyed me. And over what? Tea with Miss Julia Martin, that highbrow bitch? She’s not interested in a village dimwit like you. She just wants to amuse herself! And you fell right in with the joke! You made yourself out to be the evening’s fool. They’re all laughing over you right now, every one of them, having a good laugh over my simpleton wife.”
Grace closed her eyes, humiliation washing through her. She’d spent an entirely different evening from the one he pictured for her, but she saw the truth in his accusations: She had allowed Lord Evans to enter into a bold flirtation with her—had in fact enjoyed his attention—disrespecting her position as wife of Squire Donnelly. Missus Branagh had seen it, had felt compelled to speak to her about it. Everyone knew. And she’d been so full of herself to think that an educated woman of breeding would actually seek out her company. These people cared nothing for her; she had been foolish to think she could count friends among them. Oh, how could she have been so blind? Her eyes filled with tears and she leaned forward to beg his forgiveness.
Instead, he hit her. Hard—hand open, carrying the full weight of his anger. Her head snapped back, hitting the brass lock of the carriage door. She raised her hands in front of her face, but in the dark, his fists seemed to come out of nowhere.
“Stop, Bram, please!” she begged as the blows fell on her face and arms, slammed down on her thighs. “I’m sorry! You’re right—I’m a fool!”
He paused for a moment, so that she thought it was over and lowered her hands. The moon came in behind him, and although she could not clearly see his eyes, she believed he was smiling. She relaxed.
“Come here.” His voice was hoarse from shouting and the drink, but it was the coldness of it that sent a chill through her body. “Now.”
When she didn’t move, he slapped her again, grabbed her hair, and pulled her across the seat to him, holding her tightly with one arm. She could barely breathe, didn’t dare speak. He ran the fingers of his other hand down the middle of her face, giving a small push to her nose, rubbing her lip against her teeth, pinching the end of her chin, then down her neck, pushing off the wrap, his open hand stroking her chest, down her bosom, squeezing her thigh so hard that she cried out.
“Not so full of yourself now, are you?” he whispered into her ear, biting the lobe. He gripped the front of her dress and yanked, ripping it away from her shoulders and chest, leaving her exposed to the cold air. She could not cover herself, her hands still pinned at her sides, so she closed her eyes. He laughed and buried his face in her bosom, pushing her backward onto the bench. She struggled, but this only seemed to excite him more, and when he couldn’t undo her dress, he pushed it up instead, his hands rough and prodding.
“No, Bram, you mustn’t,” she begged. “You’ll hurt the baby.”
He laughed again and pinched her inner thigh until she bit her lip to keep from crying out. It was rough and painful, her tears brought no reprieve, and she thought that it would never end, until suddenly he was whispering in her ear that he loved her, he would always love her, she was his world. Abigail, he called her, and began to weep. Abby oh, Abby. He fell into a kind of stupor and she was able to pull herself out from under him. She huddled in the corner, clutching the torn velvet across her chest, staring out at the moonlight as owls swooped down on tiny fieldmice.
And then they were home. Home, she thought, but it was not her home. Her mind was pulling in its own direction and her thoughts unraveled.
Bram had awakened with the halt of the horses. He shook his head to clear it, then became aware of the moaning and rocking in the corner of the carriage. He sobered immediately and covered her now freezing body with his own coat, whispering that he was sorry, he was so sorry; it would never happen again, he was too easily provoked, he was sorry, it would never happen again. Never. Ever. He would make it up to her. She fell into a kind of daze, his words following her even into her dreams, where they made her groan and shiver. She awoke again in his arms as he carried her up the stairs and put her to bed, gently removing the torn dress, sucking in his breath at the sight of bruises and welts, rubbing her body with flannel and building up the fire until a little color came back into her face; easing her into her nightgown. She looked up at him through her dreams and imagined Morgan had come into the room to kill him. He didn’t know how terrible Bram could be and she tried to speak, to warn him away.
“No more,” Bram echoed what he thought he heard her say. “Hush now, my darling. Sleep now. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
After he’d turned down the lamp and left the room, she lifted her head to see if Morgan still stood behind the looking glass. He was there, and Sean, too, sewing on a stool in the corner near to where Gran bent over the kettle and Da was lighting his pipe, speaking low to Ryan. They were all there, even her lovely mother, who sat down on the edge of her bed and held her hand, leaning over to place a cool cheek against Grace’s feverish one. Grace could feel the softness, could smell her mother’s scent of rosemary and lavender, could hear the sweet, gentle melody of “A Rose That Blooms.” She was with them all again; she had never gone away. It had all been a dream.
Nine
“HOW much longer?” Bram waved his spoonful of dripping egg yolk at Grace’s swollen belly.
“Another month, I’m thinking.” She smoothed her apron, then winced as another kick pushed against her ribs. “Near Eastertime.”
“Let’s hope so.” Bram shoveled down the rest of his breakfast, wiped his mouth, then pushed back the chair and reached for his hat. “It’s going to be a busy spring and I won’t be around much of the time.” He paused, frowning. “I don’t like you here on your own.”
“You’re often away, and I do just fine, don’t I?” Grace picked up his plate. “Besides, I’ve got Brigid.”
“Not much, you haven’t,” he said sharply. “You give her too much freedom, Grace. She comes and goes as she pleases. I want her here all day, every day until this baby is born.”
Grace nodded, hoping that Bram hadn’t noticed Brigid’s absence again this morning.
“I’ll be gone again all day,” he announced. “That damn agent of mine hasn’t collected half the rents, and it’s well past Quarterday. Foley can’t pay at all. Just as well,” he muttered.
“You’ll not turn him out, will you, Bram?” Grace held up his jacket, waiting. “He’s farmed that piece his whole life. Would still be at it, as well, but for all the si
ckness they’ve had.”
Bram shrugged his shoulders. “That’s not my concern.” He slipped his arms into the jacket, then turned to look at Grace, his expression softening at the disappointment on her face. “Well, of course I feel for the man, and I’ve given him every chance to make good. But I can’t carry him forever; I’ve got money to pay on my end as well.”
“Aye, true enough.” Grace handed over his saddlebag. “There’s some bread and cheese, a bit of cake, two apples. Don’t just work all day, now. Stop and eat what I’ve given you.”
“I always do.” Bram slung the bag over his shoulder. “Give us a kiss, won’t you, Missus Donnelly?” He bent down to meet her mouth. Their lips touched, pressed harder. He put his hand on her stomach and grinned. “Felt that one. It’ll be a strong, healthy boy, for sure. I’ve got money on it all over town.”
“So I’m hearing. They say the birth of a girl will break us!”
Bram laughed. “Never happen. Besides, your mother had sons and my mother had sons. We’ll have sons, as well.”
They walked out to the front gate, Grace drawing a shawl over her shoulders against the February mist that hovered over the hills. Nolan was just leading out Bram’s prized stallion, the great black.
“Wait.” Grace touched Bram’s sleeve, then turned and flew into the house.
Bram watched her go, annoyed. “Grace,” he called, “I want to leave!”
Nolan brought the horse around to the gate and handed the reins to Bram.
“He’s feeling it today, Squire,” the boy said, running a hand down the horse’s nose. “Must be the bite of spring on the breeze.”
Warrior reared, snorting and shaking his enormous head. Bram kept a firm hand on the reins, pulling him slowly back down.
“Easy now, boy. Steady.” He turned to Nolan when the horse was settled. “I’m heading to Tib Foley’s place. And I’ve got other stops on the way back, so I’ll be gone most of the day. No lying about, now,” he ordered. “Or I’ll see you whipped. Muck out the stables and mend the fence in the sheep pen. Mind you, mend it properly this time or it’ll cost you your job. I don’t intend to lose any more sheep to the foxes this year.”
Nolan looked down at the toes of his worn boots. “Aye, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“Bring in fresh hay and oats for the horses, and stretch the mare. Missus Donnelly can’t ride her right now.” He put his foot in the stirrup and swung up, then added, “Keep an eye on Missus Donnelly. If anything should happen, get your mother up here quick. Then run for the midwife.” He paused. “But only if it’s absolutely necessary, hear me?”
Nolan nodded, twisting his cap in his hands. “Aye, sir. As you say.”
“Good.” Bram glanced at the clouds that had gathered above the clearing mist. “Where is she?” he muttered. “Grace!”
She flew out of the house, leaving the door open. Bram winced at her awkward gait. She handed him a grease-spotted, brown paper package.
“For Mister Foley,” she said, catching her breath. “Some mutton and a bit of cake. And a jar of that strawberry jam he’s partial to.”
Bram stuffed it into his saddlebag, swearing under his breath about old men and pregnant women. Then he pulled up the reins and dug in his heels, calling, “Hah!” to the eager horse.
Grace stood in the gateway, waving him off, although he never turned back to see it.
“Well, he’s gone for the day, he is.” She turned to Nolan, who stood beside her. “And didn’t he leave you with a long list of chores, then?” She smiled sympathetically when he nodded. “You do earn your keep, sure and that’s the truth of it. Come in now, and have a bit of food before you start. It’s warming in the oven.”
Nolan shook his head, then pulled on his cap. “No, thanks, Missus. I better be getting on with it.”
Grace watched him as he walked across the yard to the stable, knowing full well he had nothing more in his belly than a hunk of dry bread and maybe a bit of thin gruel; Brigid ate well at the house, but could take nothing home for the children. Nolan was small for ten, but able-bodied; of all the young Sullivans, he was the most serious. The others seemed to come and go with the seasonal work, especially the older boys, but Nolan was there every day and had earned himself a steady job and wage. She knew his brothers only by sight, but she’d been at primary school with Moira, who was a year younger. Even then, Moira had been a veritable font of information concerning the ways of men and women, and she held her place as leader of her peers by dispensing this information bit by detailed bit. Grace had been privy to a few of her stories, and even now, when Moira came to do the milking or churn butter, she painted such explicit scenes that Grace wondered where she got the fuel for her fire. She could only attribute it to Moira being part of an extended family where everyone, including parents and married brothers and sister, slept in the same room. But Grace now had so little contact with anyone outside Donnelly House that Moira had become entertaining company, and Grace enjoyed her frank manner, even the good-natured jealousy over Grace’s fortune in “snagging the master.”
Moira was curious and pried boldly into Grace’s intimate life with the Squire, but Grace just laughed it off, giving away nothing. She carried the knowledge of her beating that terrible night of O’Flaherty’s party like a stone in her heart, the weight of it a steady reminder that her marriage was not an open and free place to roam. Moira spoke of the beatings her father sometimes gave her mother, of the way her brothers handled their wives, and so Grace came to the cautious belief that this was the way between most men and women, although she could not remember any such roughness in her own family. They never spoke of it, she and Bram. He’d come to her early the next morning and told her she’d had a terrific fall getting out of the carriage and that she should stay in bed for the next day or two for the safety of the baby. He’d be going away, he said, not meeting her eyes, to the North, to Ulster, on business. It would take most of a week. She had not replied, just watched his face, her body aching and stiff, her heart bruised. He had tossed a small sack of silver on the bed and told her to have Jack take her to Macroom on market day, where she was to buy some things for the nursery. Except on their honeymoon, he’d never offered her money like this, and she recognized the gesture as an apology. Two days later, she’d gone into town and spent most of the money, squirreling away the remainder in the bottom of her wardrobe.
By the time he returned, she had already sewn curtains for the windows, rearranged the great room, and started in on the baby’s layette. They never spoke of that night—not the dinner party nor the ride home—but their marriage had been altered and their positions in it shifted. Grace stepped up and claimed her place as mistress of Donnelly House, feeling intuitively that some price had been paid, and Bram stepped out of his position as sole owner. They began a new marriage of uneasy partnership, but soon the uneasiness became a part of them and they no longer recognized it.
The winter had passed slowly with little company to break up the dark days. She had gone once at Christmas to see her family, and once Sean had ridden to the edge of the wood to whistle for her. She had never asked him not to come to the house, but he seemed to know he would not be welcome there. Lord Evans had not pursued an invitation to dinner, for which Grace was thankful, and Miss Martin had returned to Dublin, where it was rumored she stayed late in the pubs, smoking and drinking with other university graduates and arguing the politics of the day like any man. They say she called openly for repeal in her writings, and Grace scanned the newspapers Bram brought home for articles; she did not find them, but followed avidly instead the growing arguments between O’Connell’s passive Old Irelanders and the new, aggressive Young. Now that she was obviously pregnant, and forced to avoid public appearance, she sorely missed the company of her brother around the fire and what would surely be passionate opinion and compelling theory.
But she was not unhappy. The dramatic sight of Donnelly House rising from the avenue—the heavy stone walls and massive chimney on
one end, with smaller chimneys scattered across the tiled roofline—always gave her pause. Small, leaded glass windows opened to the morning air, catching and reflecting back the sunlight. Ivy grew up thick in the front around the main entrance, and on the sides up to the bedroom windows. Grace had quickly come to love the house, once she’d made her mark on it and felt less like a visitor. She never took for granted its beauty or convenience—especially the indoor privy and the washroom with its big iron tub brought over from England by Bram’s second wife. Grace had never had a lying-down bath in her life and enjoyed the luxury of this one, although carrying the kettles of boiling water was too much of a chore for her now and she hated to ask Brigid to do it more than once a fortnight. She kept the house clean and neat, working alongside Brigid rather than hiring extra help, which she knew pleased Bram for the money saved, and she’d put her mastery to work making curtains and draperies, covers for the chairs, and pillow slips.
Bram did not approve of her moving about so much now that she’d grown big, so evenings were spent doing handwork by the fire while Bram looked at the papers or went over his books. They talked generally about the day, or if he was animated, he might discourse on the progress of business deals and his plans for the future. But never did he talk about the past, and Grace knew instinctively that any inquiry would be unwelcome. Nor was he interested in the life she’d led before entering his, and did not encourage reminiscence. Their world was confined to the present day—the two of them and their small household, their business holdings, and the approaching birth of their son.
Realizing this, Grace sighed and wandered into the library. There was much she could be doing around the house and garden; the women she knew worked hard up until the moment the baby came, but she was under strict orders from Bram to rest. She ran a dust cloth over the spines of the beautiful books, having already looked through most of them. There were names on the flyleaves: Abigail Dunstone in a fine, firm hand graced novels and art histories; Mercy Steadham was the spidery slant in poetry books and ladies’ journals. Grace had found herself standing before these books more and more often as her time drew near, running a finger over the names, wondering about the other wives. She was sure that the silver and china had come from England with them, and some of the furnishings, as well, but she did not know exactly. The only other trace she’d found of their lives in this house was a velvet-covered case in the bottom of Bram’s steamer trunk. The lid was fine needlepoint, two entwined hearts bearing the initials A.D. and B.D. It was surely Abigail’s, the name Bram sometimes called out … in his sleep. Grace lifted one of the leather-bound novels from the shelf and held it up to the window light to see again the strong hand.