by Ann Moore
“A book!” Sean looked up from the newspapers. “What would he be needing with a book—fine present though it is,” he added quickly.
“Father Brown stopped in at the Sullivans’ while I was there and said Morgan was reading all the farming pamphlets he could get his hands on. I found this … all about farming in the East.”
Sean grinned. “Sure and won’t he be happy to have it from you.” But then his smile faded.
“What is it?” Grace was surprised at the anxiousness she suddenly felt.
Sean glanced at Aghna and Ryan, whose heads were bent over the pile of tiny garments, lifting each one and holding it in wonder; then he looked over at his father, who was humming a lullaby and sipping the whiskey.
“Nothing ails him,” he said quietly. “He’s just … he’s distracted. He’s got much on his mind what with the troubles and all, and with Aislinn gone missing.”
“Aislinn!” Grace’s tone caused Mary Kate to stir across the room, so she lowered her voice. “She’s not in service at O’Flaherty’s?”
Sean shook his head. “She run off to London after young Gerald months ago. He’s come back to visit now, but no sign of her.”
“Have they eloped, then?” Grace thought of that night nearly two years ago, the look of fear and excitement on Aislinn’s face, the fascination on Gerald’s.
“I think he must’ve led her to believe that was the plan. He’s been living in London himself, you know—studying with a big solicitor. You must know all this, traveling in the circle you do.”
Grace shook her head, beginning to realize how isolated she’d become. “We don’t go out much. Not since … the babies.”
“Oh.” Sean paused. “Well. They heard nothing from her all summer, just an envelope with a bank draft once in a while, no note. They wondered, was she married, but then they were told that Old Man O’Flaherty referred to her as his son’s tallywoman.”
“And Morgan thinks she’s still in London?”
“Aye.” Sean smiled wryly. “He, caught young Gerald coming out of a pub late one night, grabbed him up by the collar, and dragged him round the corner to the sidewall. The young master’s a coward at heart. He didn’t hold back a’tall.”
“You talk as if you were there.”
“And wasn’t I, though? Sitting in the cart with a pistol in my hand in case further persuasion was needed.”
Grace shook her head. “A pistol! Where would you get such a thing as that? The two of you could’ve been killed!”
Sean’s smile slipped away. “We’re all going to die, one way or another. We’re at war, now, sister, or is that something else you’re unaware of up in that fine house of yours?”
Grace looked down at her warm boots and felt the sting of his words.
Sean slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Haven’t I gone daft since you went away? I didn’t mean that. Forgive me.”
She nodded, determined to let it pass. “What about Aislinn, then?”
“The short of it is, he set her up in a room, then got engaged somewhere else—she made a fine mistress, he told Morgan, but was too common to be the wife of a gentleman.” He paused, glancing again around the room. “I thought our Morgan would choke the life out of him right there, but he showed great restraint, he did.” He took a swallow of his tea. “When Aislinn found Gerald had betrayed her, she flew into a rage and set fire to his house, then disappeared. Morgan fears she may be with child and afraid to show her face at home with the shame of it all.”
Grace’s heart fell. “Sure and her mother’s not hard against her?”
“Not at all,” Sean said. “She blames herself for letting Aislinn go in the first place, and took to her bed with sickness over it. All they want is to find her and bring her back to them. There’s no money for passage, so he’s been trying to find a boat that will let him work across and back.”
Grace sat very still, her eyes on the tender flames of the fire. She set aside her cup, rose, and went into her old room, the room she would again share with Granna tonight. It was dark. She’d brought no candle with her, but she knew the feel of her coin pouch in her travel bag. She found it and went to the door, where enough light came down the wall to enable her to count out what she needed.
“Here,” she said quietly, returning to her seat. She slipped the pouch into Sean’s hand. “Give this to him. For his passage over, and two tickets back.”
Sean shook his head. “He’ll never take it from you, fool that he is.”
“Then you shame him into it, Sean O’Malley. I know you’ve got the power to do it. It means less here for all of you,” she added. “But—”
“We’re fine,” he interrupted. “Don’t worry for us. You mustn’t be asking the Squire for money, you know.”
“I don’t. This is what’s left of the householding money. I’m a little better with the account books than he thinks.” Her eyes twinkled.
Sean laughed. “You’re treasure enough, Gracie.” He slipped the pouch into his pocket. “I’ll see that he takes it, and I’ll thank you for him now.”
“Don’t thank me,” she said soberly. “Has he not always been like a brother to us, helping with the work and cheering you up when you lay sick?”
“All right, then,” he said. “I’ll use that in my persuading speech.”
They smiled at one another, their knees touching, close to the fire, and Grace felt as if they were children again, talking and mending through the long winter evenings.
Patrick rose slowly, and brought the sleeping bundle of Mary Kathleen to her mother’s waiting arms.
“Time for us all to be in bed,” he said, retrieving the whiskey bottle and pouring a last swallow into everyone’s cup.
Granna eased herself out of the rocking chair and came to the fire; Aghna and Ryan stood close, hands touching. Sean helped Grace shift the baby to her shoulder and stand. The firelight played over their tired, open faces, flickering in their eyes as they all drew together.
Patrick raised his cup and said softly, “Here’s to the warmth of our fire, and the peace in our hearts. May the good Lord bless and protect us, and keep us as one, for we stand together now a family, and there’s naught matters more than that.” He paused against the emotion in his voice. “To our family.”
“To our family,” they echoed, and drank.
“And let us not forget the others,” he added, hand raising the cup even higher. “To young and old alike!”
“To Ireland!” they answered.
“God help us,” Aghna added quietly, and Ryan took her hand.
Fourteen
THERE was no freeze, but the winter passed raw and cold. Even when it didn’t rain, clouds hung heavy in the dark sky and dampness clung to every surface. Chest colds were common, and with little food to nourish them, many of the very young and very old were carried away. Grace was vigilant in her prayers for Granna, who had taken to her bed with sickness, and for Aghna, whose baby would be born in June, God willing. Mary Kathleen had begun to cough and her little nose ran thick with it, so that Grace could not make another journey to her family. Instead, she sent Nolan twice with baskets of food and medicinal herbs, and a letter that Sean could read to them for comfort.
Then it was the end of February and the sun began gathering strength even as the wind blew strong across the sodden land. Grace and Brigid baked a cake for Mary Kathleen’s first birthday, a cake Grace then sent home with Brigid, as the child was tired and fussy with her cold, and her father had not shown up for the celebration. Bram had been surly and anxious all winter, but Grace hoped that his mood would lighten now that they’d come through the worst of it and planting time would soon be here, bringing with it the outside activity he loved.
The subject of having another child was raised frequently; he wanted a son, but Grace was still nursing Mary Kate and afraid to give that up, even though the child could well survive on cow’s milk and real food, both of which she’d been enjoying for some time now. This
fear was equally weighted with that of Bram’s anger should she deliver him not a son, but another daughter. She knew his past. She knew the depth of his rage. Would the disappointment of another daughter push him over the edge on which he balanced so precariously? Still, she could not continue to deny him. She had a duty. And she had not completely given up hope that a love might still be rekindled between them.
The decision was made the day she went out to the barn herself with the buckets. Moira had missed the morning milking and Grace could hear the cows calling insistently. As she neared the barn, she heard another sound beneath that of the cows; it was Moira’s laughter, bold and teasing, and Grace suspected a suitor had found his way into her shapely arms. But it was not a suitor, nor some country boy come sneaking into the barn for an hour’s entertainment. She stood quietly just inside the doorway, not wanting to watch, but unable to stop. They were lying in the hay, Bram on top of Moira, holding her arms above her head, and although they were still dressed, it was clear to Grace that soon they would not be. He was fondling her breast and kissing her neck; she called him something in a low voice and bit his ear, so that he became more rough with her and she shrieked, then laughed and arched against him. When his hand began to snake up beneath her skirts, Grace dropped the milk bucket. Bram turned his head, but instead of jumping to his feet, he simply smiled lazily. Moira was far more alarmed, pushing him off and scrambling to straighten her clothing as she got clumsily to her feet.
Bram watched her with amusement, then stood himself, casually brushing the straw off his pants.
“Why, Grace,” he said with no trace of emotion. “What are you doing here?”
Grace looked for signs of remorse in his face, any hint of embarrassment, but finding none, turned and walked back to the house, untying her apron and throwing it on the kitchen floor before going upstairs to her room. She stood for a moment, the door closed behind her, then crossed to the mirror and looked at her reflection.
“Oh, dear God,” she whispered, touching her face. “What has happened?”
The sound of his horse pounding down the driveway pulled her to the window, but he was already on the avenue and nearly out of sight. He would be gone all night. She knew that. She composed herself, then went to check on Mary Kate, who had awakened from her morning nap. The little arms around her neck were comforting and she pushed her face into the sweet-smelling hair.
When she went down into the yard, Moira was nowhere to be seen. The cows were now madly bellowing, so Grace took Mary Kate to the barn to relieve them. She relaxed with the rhythm of the milking and the warm smell of the cows; Mary Kate sat contentedly behind her, throwing handfuls of straw up into the air and letting them fall down into her hair. Grace had nearly finished when Moira came rushing at her out of the shadows.
“I’m sorry, Missus,” the girl sobbed, sinking to her knees and clutching the hem of Grace’s skirt. “’Tis ashamed of myself, I am.” Her head shook as she wept. Mary Kathleen looked on in amazement.
Grace felt suddenly old, though Moira was but a year younger. She put her hand on the bowed head and sighed.
“He’s a handsome man, the Squire,” she said softly. “A hard man to deny.”
“Aye.” Moira looked up, her face wet, her eyes frightened. “And I’m too bold. I know I am. A right sinner, Mam says. He never paid me no mind afore, and there seemed little harm in teasing.” She looked down again. “But then he took notice of me, started standing close and touching my hair, my …” She broke off and took a breath. “He wants me to have a baby, he says.”
Grace closed her eyes and held so still, so very still. But when she opened them again, the breath was tight within her chest.
“Why?”
“Because you cannot, and doesn’t he want a son, though? Sure, and it’s not a matter of love,” she added quickly. “He doesn’t love me, and I know that. But he give me a new dress, and a promise of money.”
Grace did not speak.
“You know me, Missus,” Moira said desperately. “I’ve had my fun with the local boys and no good one is ever going to marry the likes of me. There’s nothing for me here. I’ve got to go away if I’m to have a decent life.”
“What about your baby?” Grace asked then.
Moira’s eyes filled with tears, but she did not look away. “I’d be leaving him here for you to raise as your own,” she said firmly. “That’s the bargain.”
“And if it’s a girl?”
Moira swallowed hard. “You have a good heart, Missus. I know you’ll raise her as a sister to yours.”
Grace shook her head. “It won’t be up to me,” she said. “He won’t keep your girl, Moira. He barely sees the one he has. He needs a son or his father won’t sign over title to the land. He can’t mortgage or borrow against what isn’t his. He must have a son. Legitimately.”
“I’d not say a word. I’d stay away till it was born,” Moira pleaded. “Then you can keep your land, and I’ll get out of this place once and for all!”
Grace grabbed the girl and shook her. “Wake yourself now! You’re not thinking straight. Nor are you doing me any favors—I can have my own baby, you know.”
Moira held still. “But he said you could not.”
“He meant I would not. And that has been my mistake.”
Moira stared at her, then let her head fall into Grace’s lap. “Oh God, Missus,” she moaned. “I’m going to Hell as sure as I’m sitting here.”
“Sit up,” Grace said firmly. “Wipe your eyes.” She waited. “You’ve not gone through with it yet, have you?”
Moira shook her head meekly.
“But you’ve come plenty close, and that’s danger enough.” Grace thought for a moment. “I’ll help you go away,” she said. “Your mam’s sister is over in Killarney. Can they take you in?”
“I don’t know,” Moira answered. “They wintered hard with no food and most of the children sick. Another mouth is how they’ll see me.”
“I’ll give you food to take, and money. I want you to stay there and be of help to them. I’ll send more when I can, and you can go to England if that’s what you want. Do you understand me now, Moira?”
“Aye,” she nodded. “But what shall I tell poor Mam? Not the truth, for Da’ll beat the life out of me.”
Grace bit her lip. “Tell her the Squire’s been in the bottle too much and you’re afraid of him. She’ll understand, and she’ll be glad you’re well out of it.”
Moira rose and brushed off her dirty, tattered skirt. Grace stood, too, and they regarded one another.
“You’ve always been good to me, Missus,” Moira said. “I thought I was helping you, as well as myself. Can you not forgive me, then?”
Grace put her arms around the girl and held her tightly. “It’s strange times we’re living in,” she said quietly. “Put your faith in God and look to Him for your forgiveness.”
“I will,” Moira promised. “I will.”
Bram never questioned Moira’s sudden disappearance, or Grace’s acceptance of him again in her bed, and by the time planting was done and summer begun, Grace was pregnant for the second time. She was eighteen years old.
The usual gaiety of the summer months was quieter and more subdued, as thin country people contented themselves with standing in their doorways, watching haggard travelers make their way slowly down the lanes. The rot had wiped out nearly all the potatoes, and there were not many left for seed; most families put in only a quarter of what they would need to survive, but it was all they had. There was speculation as to whether the diseased potatoes would produce healthy crops or not, but not one person refused to put them in the ground, and as the summer passed, the plants grew green and hearty.
Grace was terribly tired and sick to her stomach most of the time. She could no longer pick up Mary Kathleen, and the child trailed after her, whining and fussy. Her impatience was great, but so was her lethargy, and the two left her dazed most of the time. So focused was she on the changes in her
body and getting herself through each day, she was dissociated from the world around her. She got the occasional letter from Sean and sent her own news to her family through Nolan. They had all survived the winter and Aghna had given birth to a baby boy in June, called Thomas after her own father.
August was hot and the potato plants teemed with small blooms, each one a hint of the gold that lay beneath, each a promise to those who stood quietly in their cabin doorways, waiting to ease their gnawing hunger. Again, they went to bed with hope in their hearts, for now they were down to nothing. Many had pawned their bedding and the clothes on their backs for food, and now slept in rags on the dirt floor, no straw bed beneath, no food left in the cupboard. They were at the end of their resources; this crop, small though it was, was their last hope. But when they awakened one beautiful morning in August, even hope had fled their land, leaving behind the scorched, blackened rot of decaying fields, and a horrible stench that hung over roads and seeped into cabins. This time they had not the strength to weep and wail; they simply sank to their knees, stunned. And—as if the complete loss of their food was not enough—violent thunderstorms filled the air, lightning streaked across a dark sky, flashing eerily over demolished fields, torrential rains fell across the land causing floods, and finally a dense fog, cold and damp, closed in around them. It was, they all knew, the end of everything.
Fifteen
THE letter from Lord Donnelly arrived in mid-October. Despite its brevity, Bram sat with it for more than an hour.
“Is it riot the news you’d hoped for, then?” Grace entered the room quietly, surprised to find him sitting as he had been before she’d gone to put Mary Kate to bed.
“‘As it is, we are stretched to meet our obligations,’” Bram read with little emotion. “‘Your brother’s colonial import venture has suffered a severe setback, and his debt is considerable. My own ventures have proved less lucrative than in the past, and I have no partner with whom to share the burden, now that Lord Helmsley has died. In addition, this year brings with it Caroline’s marriage to Sir Bevin of Knightsbridge—you remember your mother’s enthusiasm for societal display—it will be the wedding of the season.’” Bram cleared his throat. “‘After these many years building the estate and speculating in the linen trade, one would think you had ready resources. But if, as you say, an increase in the annual remission cannot be met, nor even the usual amount paid promptly, then we must seriously consider the sale of Donnelly House, there being, as yet, no heir to claim it. We have done all we can here to ease the financial burden of the family and to repair our good name—we now look to you to redeem yourself once and for all.’” The hand holding the letter fell upon his knee.