Gracelin O'Malley

by Ann Moore

  “She was a beauty, like yourself.” Brigid had come quietly into the room and was shaking out the heavy drapes. “The toast of England, they called her, and with a different suitor every day of the month. She was engaged to marry a fine young lord, but when she and the Squire set eyes on one another, that put an end to it all. ’Twas she brought most of these books, but scarce else.”

  “How long were they married?” Grace ran her fingers over the handwriting.

  Brigid glanced around the quiet room, then out the window, listening.

  “He’s gone out for the day,” Grace said.

  Brigid frowned, hesitant, then moved closer. “Four years, they were married, if that.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Hard birth.” Brigid kept her eyes off Grace’s belly.

  “Tell me about her?” Grace put the book back on the shelf and sat down.

  Brigid glanced again out the window. “’Tis a longish tale,” she said anxiously.

  “He’s ridden out to Tib Foley’s,” Grace assured. “It’ll be hours. Please, Brigid. I’d like to know.”

  Brigid nodded and wet her lips, pausing for a moment to remember. “Well, they were both young and headstrong people, used to getting what they wanted. Lord Donnelly had arranged a different sort of marriage for the Squire, and Miss Abigail was engaged to a wealthy lord. But when she and the Squire set eyes on themselves, they could have no other, and so they run off. Miss Abigail’s father turned his back on her for the shame of it, and Lord Donnelly was furious. Wasn’t the Squire his favorite son and all sorts of grand plans made for him? But it was a scandal, so Lord Donnelly sent them here.” Brigid moved away from the window and sat down on the edge of the divan. “I’ll say this for Miss Abigail—she was a true lady, gracious as any queen, and she loved the folk here, always riding out to see the way of it herself, coming right into the cabins to sit at the table and share a meal, taking on our problems as her own, and working to make things right. She’d come as close to death as a person can with the terrible birth of her first, turned around and tangled up he was, dying and trying to take her with him. But she loved life and fought her way back. They buried him in the cemetery on this land. She should never have tried another baby, but being herself, she did.” Brigid shook her head and sighed. “The young lord she’d left behind came to Ireland, here to the house, but Miss Abigail’s time was at hand again and I think she knew she was going to die this time, as she sat upstairs and would see no one. He stood in the courtyard, in the pouring rain, calling her name, but we run him off before he could upset her.” She stopped. “’Twas ten years ago, and myself a mother six times. Seemed terrible unfair. Himself went near mad with grief, and when Miss Abigail’s brother came from England to claim the body, they had to wrestle the poor Squire out of the house. He wanted them buried here with the other, you see, mother and dead sons, but her family wouldn’t hear of it and Lord Donnelly sided with them.” She frowned. “Odd it is, that neither wife was buried here.”

  “Neither one?” Grace asked softly, hesitant to interrupt.

  “Miss Mercy’s family come to claim her body, too, after she died. There was a fight, sure enough, left both men bloody. Her father and the Squire, that is. Mister Steadham accused the Squire of …” Brigid caught herself and closed her mouth firmly.

  “Of what?” Grace leaned forward.

  Brigid stood up, anxious again. “Well, isn’t it all over now? Himself finally settled down with a good wife, a child on the way. Wouldn’t he be angry at me talking up his past misery?”

  “Please, Brigid,” Grace implored. “I must know all of this if I’m ever to understand him and make him happy.”

  “Ah, Missus, you don’t want the trouble of it! ’Tis nothing but a pack of lies. The English, what do they know of us, anyway?” She crossed the room and stood before the fire, warming her hands.

  “The Squire is English.”

  Brigid slumped. “Aye,” she said quietly. “I forget sometimes he’s not one of us.” She squeezed her hands together. “No sense in trying to understand him, then, is there? Just try to get along.”

  “You must tell me,” Grace said firmly. “I swear no one will ever know.”

  Brigid smiled weakly. “Wouldn’t matter if they did. There’s many thinks they know the story already … but no one really does.”

  “How long were Miss Mercy and the Squire married?” Grace asked, sitting on a low stool near the fire.

  Brigid counted on her fingers. “Not two years.”

  “And how did she die?”

  “Brain fever,” Brigid said grimly. “She was weak, had a cough even when he brought her home from England. I don’t know as I ever saw her in good health. She was the daughter of his father’s cousin, one of those English beauties with pale skin and fine bones. And money of her own, of course. Not strong and full of life like the first one. Lovely hair and a good figure on her though, and a love for children. Many times that first year, she come down to help after my Mary was born and I so weak all the time. Looked after the little ones and cooked a bit, till the master said she must save her strength. They were hoping for a child themselves, you see.”

  “She never carried?”

  “No.” Brigid shook her head. “Just wouldn’t take. She’d miss her monthly and get all excited, but in seven or eight weeks she’d take to her bed with the heavy bleeding of it. Brain fever come for her in her second winter here; she was sick for months and died in the spring.”

  Grace looked into the low flame of the fire, her heart heavy.

  “When they come for her, of course, they saw how wasted she’d become locked away in that room. Her father stood right where you’re sitting now, pointed his gun, and accused the Squire of murdering her.”

  “Murder!” Grace was stunned.

  “Aye.” Brigid twisted the corner of her apron in her fingers. “’Twas a terrrible thing. Terrible.”

  “But why murder?”

  “She’d gone mad, you see.” Brigid became agitated. “Ranting and raving. Himself had to lock her in for her own good! At first he’d go to her at night, to talk and be a bit a company. But it got worse each time until she’d start screaming the minute he opened the door, throwing and smashing things, calling him names not fit to repeat. He had to do it to keep her safe. We took out most of the furniture and anything that might break; anything she could hurt herself with, he said. And then, of course, when she tried to throw herself out the window …” Brigid paused, her shoulders sagged. “We had to tie her to the bed. He took her meals in himself and fed her when she was calm, and he’d wash and care for her, as well. She was too violent, he said, to risk anyone else going in to her and he wouldn’t hear of putting her away. And then, finally, she died, may God have mercy on her soul.” Brigid crossed herself fervently.

  “My God.” Grace could hardly believe what she was hearing.

  “My God, indeed, Missus,” Brigid echoed.

  Grace took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “How terrible. For all of you. How very terrible.”

  “Aye.” Brigid frowned. “And I’ve put it all in your head now. Can be no good for the baby. This house needs no more misfortune. God knows it’s true.”

  “It’s all right, Brigid.” Grace took her hand. “It’s better for me to know this from you, rather than finding it out from others who don’t care about him. Thank you for telling me.”

  “Please, Missus, don’t bring it up to him. Just leave it buried.”

  Grace had never seen Brigid beg and it made her uncomfortable. “Would I do a thing like that?” she reassured. “It’ll be our secret.”

  Brigid sighed in relief, then jumped when the big clock in the entry struck the hour.

  “Sure and that can’t be the time!” She untied her apron. “Me and Jack have to take the wagon to fetch our Decla’s husband into Macroom. He’s catching the boat out of Cork City for London tonight, then he’s off to America to make their fortune.” She laughed a l
ittle. “Just looking for a bit of adventure, is what me and Jack are thinking, but Decla stands by him.” She paused before going through the door. “Is this all right, Missus?” Her voice was anxious as she took in Grace’s belly. “No one’s on the place, then, but Nolan.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Grace shooed her away. “I’ve another month to go at least, by my counting, although ’tis true, I’m big as a barn.”

  Brigid didn’t smile. “Be sure to call Nolan for any lifting or carrying.”

  “I will.” Grace stood slowly and stretched. “Don’t worry about me now. I’ll just sit here by the fire and sew.”

  “Good.” Brigid set Grace’s work basket at her side. “I’ll be back come evening.”

  Grace heard Jack hallo for his wife and Brigid’s answering, “Hush you,” then the crunch of wagon wheels against rock as they set off down the drive. She went to the window and stood, aware of the great quiet that settled on the place now that it was practically empty. Her mind was full of Bram’s earlier life and all the suffering, and she thought she better understood now the helpless rage that came out of his drink. And yet she was troubled by the hints of violence that forced her to recall the episode of months ago. Who was this man—really—to whom she now belonged? He was her husband, certainly, but not her friend. Friendship involved loyalty and trust. Was he loyal to her? Could she trust him?

  A nervous anxiety took hold of her and she felt sick to her stomach. It had been a long morning; she needed to eat. She would have a slice of bread and butter, a cup of tea. The food comforted her, and she looked around the spacious kitchen. It had been a long time since she’d prepared a really grand meal, and it would occupy a mind that now felt so unsettled. There was a cut of beef to roast, and potatoes from the storehouse. She’d make a gravy from the drippings, and suet pudding, and she’d boil winter greens from the nearly bare garden. She drank the last swallow of sweet tea, brushed the crumbs from her blouse, then got out the heavy pan and fired the oven. While the oven heated, she went out the door and carefully through the mud to the little patch of green sheltered around the side of the house. Crossing to the storehouse, she gathered the best-looking potatoes, herbs, a squash, and some dried apples, filling her basket so that she had to carry it with both hands out in front of her.

  When she returned, the kitchen felt close and oppressive after the fresh, breezy spring air. The anxiety that had spurred her to action now gave way to sudden depression, and a deep fatigue spread through her limbs. She would have stopped, but it was well past noon and there was no time for a nap or supper would be left undone. She nibbled at an apple, then scrubbed the praties and put them in a pot to simmer, leaving the cut greens to soak in salted water. She rubbed the meat with salt and herbs, and set it in the pan. The kitchen was now warm and fragrant, but she could not put down her uneasiness and growing sense of foreboding. Mechanically, she went to the oven and took out the browned apple cake, setting it on the counter to cool, then lifted the meat pan to the oven. As she slid it in, a terrific pain tore through her belly, dropping her to her knees, hands pressed against her abdomen until it passed and she could breathe again without pain. Five minutes went by, then ten, then another spasm gripped her, stronger than the last, and she closed her eyes, moaning, sweat beading on her forehead. Water puddled beneath her, soaking her skirts.

  “Oh, dear God,” she whispered, crawling slowly to a chair near the window. She rested for a moment, then pulled herself up. “Nolan,” she called, but her voice was too weak.

  She watched him cross the yard with the water buckets, then disappear. A moment later he returned, water spilling over the edge of the buckets.

  “Nolan!” she cried again, but he didn’t hear, and she put her head down on her arms, holding herself very still. Then came another pierce of the knife deep within and she clamped her teeth as pain ricocheted through her body, blacking out all thoughts except survival. When it subsided and she could breathe again, she raised her head and spied a wooden bowl lying on the table. Steadying herself, she pulled it toward her and gripped it in both hands. She waited, afraid that another pain would come and she’d miss her chance. Finally, he came into view and she heaved it through the window, shattering the glass. He turned, startled, dropped the buckets, and ran toward the house.

  “The baby,” she gasped when he burst into the kitchen. “It’s coming.”

  He turned white. “I’ll fetch Mam.”

  Grace shook her head, another contraction beginning its rise. “No,” she panted. “Gone.”

  “I’ll get someone! Don’t worry!” His voice rose with panic.

  Grace opened her mouth to speak, but screamed instead, frightening him out of the house. She heard him yell for Moira, and then she fainted.

  Stinging slaps to her face brought her back to consciousness. She opened her eyes and saw Brigid’s face, dark with worry.

  “Thank God you’ve come back to us,” she said. “Stay awake now. It’s time.”

  Grace’s head swirled with confusion and the darkness of the unbearable pain. It was as if her body had caught fire and she could not escape it.

  “Raise your knees, now, Missus,” Brigid shouted, pushing them up herself when Grace did not respond. “Come on now, girl, you must do this!” Quickly, she tied a clean apron over her skirt and moved a stack of cloths closer to the bed. “God forgive me,” she muttered. “’Tis my own fault for raising ghosts, then leaving her all alone with them. Up now!” she commanded. “You can’t birth it lying flat!”

  Grace did as she was told and was rewarded with such a searing burn that she wanted to crawl right out of her skin.

  “I can’t stand it,” she gasped. “Am I dying, Brigid?”

  “Only for a little while,” Brigid said grimly. “You’ve got to take the pain and go with it. Listen to your body, now. When it tells you to push, that’s what you’re going to do.”

  Grace lay back, breathing deeply. Steam rose from the basin of boiling water in the corner of the room and someone had closed the curtains against the coming night.

  “I was in the kitchen, cooking …” she rambled. “How did I get here?”

  “Hush now,” Brigid clucked. “Don’t waste your strength talking. Jacks gone for Doctor Branagh. ’Twas myself and Nolan carried you, though sure the poor boy could’ve lifted you up with one hand, so shook he was. Never been so glad to see his old mother in all his life. Carries his heart on his sleeve for you, that one does.”

  The pain, now familiar, began its steady climb. Grace reached for Brigids hand and tried not to panic.

  “First one’s always hardest,” Brigid soothed. “Feels as if you’re giving birth to twenty grown men instead of one wee babe, but it’ll soon be over. Trust me, now. Haven’t I done this thirteen times and lived to birth yours, as well?”

  She gripped Grace’s hand in answer to the grip she received, and moaned when Grace moaned, calling through the haze of pain, “Push, now, girl! Push!”

  Pushing felt better than not, so Grace gave into it, stopping when her body seemed to signal a stop, pushing again when her body demanded it. There was an enormous pressure, then almost instant relief from the pain and she heard Brigid’s voice saying, “You’ve done it, Missus! It’s a boy! You’ve got a son!”

  Grace laughed and cried as she looked down through her legs at the red, screaming baby covered with what appeared to be a white paste. Then another pain pulled and twisted deep inside.

  “There’s more,” she panted.

  “Just the afterbirth,” Brigid said confidently, cutting the umbilical cord. And then she gasped. “Jesus, Mary, and Saint Joseph himself! ’Tis another one, true enough! Just look at that head!”

  Grace had only to push a little bit when she felt the baby slide out, and then there was that blessed relief.

  “A girl!” Brigid was astonished. “A wee little thing!”

  “A girl,” Grace repeated weakly, listening to the cries of her babies.

  “You’ve not
got any more in there, now, have you?” Brigid peered tentatively between her legs.

  “No more,” Grace wheezed, then let her head drop back against the mattress, resting while Brigid cut the second umbilical cord, then set to work cleaning up the two babies.

  She finished the boy first, wrapped him tightly in fresh linen, and laid him on Grace’s breast.

  “Get him to suckle a bit,” she said, brushing a fingertip over the baby’s lips. “He’s smaller than the girl, but he’s got a good-size head on him.”

  Grace supported the hot little head with its damp crop of silky hair, resting the baby’s mouth against her nipple. Her breasts did not yet feel full, and so she was not surprised when he refused it. His lips quivered, but soon his eyes closed and he fell asleep.

  “And what will you be calling them?” Brigid lifted the limp baby and placed him in his cradle, returning with his sister. This baby latched on immediately and began to suck with such vigor that Grace winced.

  She looked into the tiny face where wide, dark eyes stared back. “She’s Mary after my gran, and Kathleen for my own mother. Mary Kathleen,” she whispered to the infant, who widened her eyes even more and sucked harder.

  “And the boy?” Brigid glanced toward the still bundle in the cradle near the low fire.

  “He shall be called Michael after the Squire’s grandfather. And perhaps Brian for a second name.”