by Ann Moore
November came with a chill that cut to the bone; the reality of winter was now at hand. Those farmers with a good supply of corn and additional food stores might make it through, but not the thousands who had no food for the year nor a penny to their names. Late August, with its new potato crop, was ten months away.
“Damn it all to hell.” Bram crumpled his newspaper, then threw it into the fire.
Grace looked up from the writing desk where she sat going over the household records; they could not count on any rents coming in for the year, but they were far from starving.
“Bad news?” she asked quietly, laying aside her pen.
“It’s that bastard O’Connell.” He spat the name into the flames.
Grace stilled her hands in her lap; she had become a private champion of the great man.
“What’s he done then?” She spoke as if it were of little consequence.
“He’s called for the end of corn exportation to England, and wants the ports thrown open for free import of food and rice and Indian corn from the colonies. He demands help, and to meet the cost, he proposes a ten percent tax to resident landlords, fifty percent for absentees!” He kicked at the pile of logs on the hearth. “We can’t pay ten percent of rents we don’t receive! The fool. It’s all political. He doesn’t care if the peasants live or die. He just wants the Corn Laws repealed. England will never stand for it.” He walked over to the window and looked out at the black, frosty night. “Sir Robert Peel is going to back the demand—he’s wanted this for years. Ireland will be divided. They’ll forget all about the famine and any kind of real help. Damn Irish imbeciles.”
Grace bit her lip, thinking. “But wouldn’t that mean that the grain we grow would stay in Ireland, instead of being shipped to England?”
“A portion of it always remains in the country.”
“Yes.” Grace shifted in her chair. “But it’s divided among England’s soldiers and their horses.”
“Nonsense.” Bram spoke sharply. “Look here, we get a fair price for our corn in England, and that means money comes back into Ireland.”
“But the tenant farmers don’t see any of that money.”
“They’re paid for their labor during harvest, and for any extra crops grown.”
“It goes for rent, as well you know. Most trade straight across, never to see a penny in their own hand.”
Bram frowned in irritation. “Whose fault is that? Not mine!” He stalked to the fire and leaned against the mantel. “They’re lazy, these damned Irish. Content with a plot of potatoes and a turf fire. They breed children like cats, just to pack warm bodies around themselves at night. If they really cared about all the grain leaving the country, they’d stop making liquor!” He pounded the hearth once with his fist. “But they’ll not give up a drop of their precious whiskey to put food in their children’s bellies, will they? They work only enough to get by, they plant only what is easy to grow, they save not a penny toward the lean years, which they know from experience are going to come … and yet, the minute disaster strikes, they expect to be rescued by the British government with little sacrifice of their own.”
“That’s not true,” Grace said firmly. “There’s always some give a bad name to the rest, but most of us are honest, hardworking people.”
“Your family, perhaps,” he conceded. “But you are not typical Irish. Most do not work, most do not save, most do not plan for the future.”
“I’m not saying you’re right, but could it be that those you speak of see no future worth planning for? They work, and yet they can never own their land. They’re like slaves to the landowners.”
Bram’s face stilled and his eyes grew hard.
“They were denied education,” she continued, unaware of his expression. “A place to worship, a chance to vote in their own country. The most a young man in Ireland can hope for is a bit of land to farm and a managable rent. And even those are becoming scarce.”
“To whom have you talked of these things?”
Grace’s eyes widened in surprise. “No one but myself.”
“Does your brother come to see you when I’m away?”
“I only wish that he would,” she lied.
Bram’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Certainly you don’t read the papers?”
“Once in a while,” she confessed. “It fills the evenings when you’re away. I didn’t think you’d mind,” she added.
“Well, I do,” he said sharply. “I am head of this house, and my opinion is the only one that matters—is that clear?”
Grace nodded and looked down.
“I will not have you debating me on issues about which you know nothing. Political opinion is most unattractive in a woman, and I will not stand for it in my wife. It leads to feverishness and self-absorption. I have witnessed this firsthand,” he added bitterly. “If you require reading material, take up that blasted Bible of yours, or any of those.” He waved his hand at the wall of books behind her. “Romances and travelogues are all a woman needs. Anything more simply addles the brain.”
“Yes, Bram,” she said quietly. “I’ll not read your papers again.”
“Good. Lest you become restless and uncouth like that Martin woman—not fit for marriage, nor any kind of gentile society.”
He turned away and began poking at the fire. Grace glanced at his rigid back, then resumed work on the household records, though her thoughts were miles away. An awkward silence grew between them, until Bram made a great show of pouring himself a large whiskey—something he’d not done in front of her since the night of O’Flaherty’s party—and drank down half in a single swallow.
“It’s been some time since we’ve had a letter from England,” he said, his tone once again smooth and conversational, oiled by the alcohol.
“Nothing from your father, then?” she made herself ask, eyes still on her work as though absorbed.
He watched her, then took another drink, holding it in his mouth, savoring it a moment before swallowing.
“Nothing. But then, he’s got problems of his own. The blight’s just as bad in England. They’ve most likely gone abroad until the situation betters.” He paused and looked into his glass. “I can always sell the mills. Those belong to me. We’ll be fine, if we’re careful. I’ll check those numbers when you’ve finished entering them,” he added.
“There’s a great deal we can do without.” Grace tapped her pen on the ledger. “We’ll be able to set up a soup kitchen come winter when it’s worst.”
“We will not.” Brain’s voice hardened again.
Grace held still, then said carefully, “Your tenants will have nothing, Bram. They’ll come looking for work … the least we can do is give them a bit of bread and soup for the hunger.”
“No,” he said firmly. “There will be no beggars littering the grounds of this estate. And you’re not to ride out to them, either, is that understood?”
“But why?”
“Once they hear we’re handing out food, they’ll come from all over the district. Even the Catholics, who think they’re risking their bloody souls by taking a bowl of soup from Protestants. They’ll hang about, not even trying to survive on their own. I know this from experience.” He finished his drink, set down the glass, and stretched, then came and placed his hands on her shoulders. “You may, of course, give some assistance to your own family, but not to anyone else. You may take them supplies as needed—but only as needed and only in small quantities, or they’ll be robbed by their neighbors.”
Grace sat speechless, the weight of his hands on her shoulders heavy and unpleasant. She was relieved when the baby began to cry and Bram let her rise. She hurried from the warmth of the drawing room, racing up the stairs two at a time, skirts held high in balled fists, teeth clenched in anger.
Mary Kathleen slept at the end of the hall; the fire was low, but there was no chill in the room when Grace entered and went to the crying child, who had pulled herself up and was standing in the crib, shaking
the rail. The crying ceased immediately at the sight of her mother, and she smiled through wet eyes, gurgling and bouncing, un-happiness forgotten. Grace picked her up and felt an offending wet diaper under the heavy nightdress. She cooed over the baby, changing her quickly, then settled into the rocking chair to nurse her.
It calmed Grace, this weight of a sturdy child in her arms and the eagerness with which the baby suckled, breaking off now and then to smile up at her, small fingers reaching to explore her chin and mouth. The anger subsided, cooled by the peace that abided deep within her soul and arose only when she was alone with her daughter. Her anxiety over losing Michael Brian had eased and no longer compromised the joy she felt when holding Mary Kate. Indeed, when she thought of her Michael now, waiting in Heaven, she was thankful to God for keeping him there and grateful in the same moment for the child He’d left in her care. She had become keenly aware that He was in control of her life, and she saw His presence everywhere. She remembered her brother’s words—that everyone was where they should be in the world, placed there by God so that they might do His will when the time came. She was as Joseph in Pharoh’s Egypt, in charge of plenty against the time of famine. And now that it had come, she would not fail her Lord. He would give her the courage to act.
Thirteen
CHRISTMAS showed itself in the holly berries that decorated windows and fire mantels, the pictures of Mother and Child that went up on the walls of even the darkest, most forlorn cabins. There would be no Christmas dinner for many this year, but Christmas would come nevertheless. Families made plans to gather for worship and song, and hid away humble gifts for the children. They looked forward to a daylong fire in the hearth, a warm loaf of brack, maybe oat cakes with butter, or an egg if they were lucky. Everyone would take a drink, then sing the songs they all knew and listen to the long stories they all loved, the children at their father’s knee, babies in their mothers’ arms. They were not ashamed of their poverty, and on this day, they would also put aside their fear, for God was very much with them. Hadn’t He sent His own child to be born on a cold night in a lowly stable? And, even though kings came from afar to welcome Him, had He not called the poor His own?
Grace thought of this as she stood in the kitchen and looked out the window at the early morning. It was cold and gray, but there was no rain, for which she was thankful. Bram had said she might ride over to her family for a day and a night, to wish them a blessed Christmas and show them the baby. He had given her permission to pack a basket for them, and now she put into it everything she could think of. She had not spent money on gifts, gathering instead small trinkets from the house that would not be missed. A linen sheet for Granna’s bed, a pile of newspapers and journals for Sean to read, baby clothes for Aghna, and for Ryan, a pair of old work boots Bram had thrown out as too tight. She had a good bottle of whiskey from the cellar for her father, and gloves for his hands, which had become stiff with age. She had been baking and storing food the past few weeks, so there were breads, small cakes, and rolls. The preserves were plentiful; she had put in three jars, along with a side of bacon, a piece of stew beef, and a sack of oats.
She covered the baskets securely with cloths and had Nolan carry them out to the carriage. He would drive, then stay the night in order to bring her home the next day. While he stroked and steadied the horses, she fetched Mary Kate, bundled against the cold in layers of flannel and wool, a cap tied snugly over her head. She was not surprised at the elation she felt when the manor house disappeared and they were alone in the day on the road. There was no talking to Nolan as he drove from the outside and she was tucked in with the baby, so she contented herself with the familiar view, growing more eager as hours passed, bringing her closer to her glen and the cabin she still thought of as home.
“There it is!” she called out at last to Nolan, though he’d had no problem knowing, as a small crowd of people came rushing into the lane to wave him down.
When the carriage stopped, the door was opened and her father appeared.
“There and isn’t that the best present an old da could have, his own lovely girl and wee grandgirl!”
He reached in and helped her out, taking the baby in his arms and holding her up for the neighbors to see. They asserted loudly that she was of a fine size and had the bright manner about her face, a quickness in the eyes, and such rosy cheeks. But they fell silent when Grace emerged, shy suddenly of the girl who was now lady enough to come visiting in a carriage. Grace glanced around, then spoke quietly to her father. His eyes widened and he nodded vigorously.
“Neighbors! Hasn’t our own Grace brought with her a fine bottle of the best whiskey to share with her family and friends? Come in now and God bless you all—let us drink a toast as is befitting a Christmas Day!”
A cheer rose and they all crowded into the cabin. Sean met her at the door and embraced her, then led her over to Granna, who sat near the fire. Aghna shyly greeted her sister-in-law and Ryan blustered, “Merry Christmas,” patting her vigorously on the back. They all exclaimed over Mary Kathleen, who had now been peeled to her true size and was sitting on Granna’s lap, wide-eyed at all the beaming faces and excitement.
Nolan came in quietly and set the baskets under the table in the kitchen, then went back out to feed the horses. Although they did not want to stare, Grace could see the neighbors looking surreptitiously and with longing at what they knew must be food.
She leaned over and whispered, “Gran, have you enough to feed yourselves here at home?”
“Aye,” Granna said quietly, holding her gaze, and Grace knew things had been put away against the worst of it.
“Then how about a bit of Christmas stew to go with the whiskey?” she said. “I’ve brought some cooked beef and carrots, and perhaps you’ve got the odd onion or parsnip, a bit of cabbage?”
Granna’s eyes twinkled. “I’ll bounce the baby, if you’ll do the honors,” she said. “Oh, and haven’t we missed your cooking around here!”
Grace got Aghna to help in the kitchen, and before the first round of whiskey was poured, a stew bubbled over the fire, its aroma drawing neighbors who’d been too proud to come at first: Declan and Paddy Neeson came in with their da—their mother dead the summer past and himself too sad to make much of a Christmas; the Ryans were already there, Julia saying that Mary Kate was the spitting image of Grace as a baby; Missus O’Daly brought her shy boy, Shane, who spluttered and blushed when young Niamh Sheehan, sister of Big Quinn, came over to wish him well; Old Campbell Hawes was further along in his celebrating than any of them, and his wife shushed him with a slap to the shoulder each time he called for more drink; Irial Kelley had come with his family and his fiddle, and it didn’t take much persuading to get him to play. Sean had found Nolan in the barn with the horses and dragged him in with the promise of a little fun; now the boy wore the first smile Grace had ever seen on him. Even Mary Kathleen, hesitant at first, now toddled around the room on the fingers of each loving hand that reached out for her.
After bowls of stew and soda bread went around the room, along with another splash of whiskey each, the neighbors came one at a time to bid Grace a blessed Christmas, to take up her hand for a moment or run a finger across her cheek, this girl of their own. And then, their stomachs eased of ache and their minds of worry, they wrapped their cloaks or blankets tight around themselves and walked home.
When the cabin was empty of all its visitors, Sean threw another piece of turf on the fire and set the kettle to boiling. Nolan was asleep on a pallet they’d made for him in the corner, and Mary Kate was drowsing in her grandfather’s arms as he smoothed the hair out of her little face.
“Aye, Julia’s right, sure enough. She’s just like you as a babe,” he said softly to Grace. “So busy, into everything you were, but happy as a lark in spring.”
“She’s a fine daughter,” Grace agreed proudly. “I’m blessed to have her.”
Aghna rose and brought the steaming kettle to the table to make tea.
&n
bsp; “Let me help, Aghna.” Grace took the heavy kettle and poured boiling water into the pot. “Do you feel anything yet?” she whispered.
Aghna nodded shyly. “Aye.” Her hand covered her belly protectively. “It’s mostly awake at night when I’m trying to sleep.”
When the tea had steeped, Grace poured out the cups, then retrieved her Christmas bundle from under the table.
“I’ve brought you a little something,” she said, handing the package of baby clothes to Aghna.
“And for you, as well, Mister Farmer.”
Ryan took the boots, eyeing them with appreciation and gratitude.
Sean took his bundle of papers and magazines with delight, smoothing them out with a careful hand, barely pausing to kiss her in thanks before diving into the bold headlines.
“’Tis far too fine to sleep upon!” Granna fingered the hem on the linen sheets.
“I’m still enjoying my gift,” her father whispered over Mary Kate’s sleeping head, indicating the inch of whiskey that remained in his glass. “It made me feel lordly to have enough to share with my neighbors. Thank you, child.”
“That was my gift to the family. These are for you.” She put the gloves next to his glass. “I think of your hardworking hands on these cold mornings.”
Her father shook his head, unable to say anything. He looked down so that Grace might not see the mist in his eyes, but she knew he was touched. She kissed his cheek and whispered, “You’re a fine man, Da,” then went to sit near Sean, taking up the cup of tea to warm her hands.
“I brought some flannel for the McDonagh girls,” she told him. “To cut up for winter petticoats and to make nappies for the baby.” She paused and lowered her voice. “And I’ve got a book for Morgan, if you’ll pass it on to him.”