by Ann Moore
“Is he saying they’ve gone broke?” Grace asked.
“He’s saying that ready cash is not available to maintain their lifestyle, and he will not allow the family to be embarrassed. He won’t hesitate to sell Donnelly House out from underneath us if I don’t send them something immediately.” His hand rubbed over the stubble on his cheeks and chin. “He’s dangling the bait of redemption, as well. I know him. He wants me home but is too proud to ask. If I succeed, he gets his money; if I fail, he gets me.”
“Does he not know about the baby?”
“He knows,” Bram said. “He has to honor our agreement. But if it’s not a boy, he’ll put the house up at auction, and we’ll have to go back. He’d like that. He’d like to have me under his thumb again.”
Grace bit her lip, hands folding protectively over her large belly.
One of the beautiful setters left the fire to nuzzle its master’s hand. Bram took the dog gently by the ears and looked into its face.
“It’s a bluff,” he said finally. “He knows he’ll get nothing for it, not with the troubles here, and the new estate tax.” He paused, thinking, then came to a decision. “I’ll sell the mill in Kildaire. It’s done well—Hastings can easily buy me out. Then I’ll have something to send to England, with enough left to keep things running here until …” He glanced at her.
“Until your son is born,” Grace finished resolutely.
He nodded.
“God willing,” she added.
“God owes me.” He stood up, the dogs rising to follow.
“When will you go?” she asked.
He considered the possibilities, then decided. “Tomorrow. Don’t know when I’ll return, however. If Hastings thinks I’m desperate, he’ll come in well below the price I need.”
“I’ll see to your clothes.” Grace stood carefully, mindful of her aching back.
“Put in my evening suit,” he said, checking the time on his pocket watch. “And two dress shirts. The black boots, gold cuff links.”
She nodded as he strode out of the room, dogs at his heel. The front door slammed shut, and she knew he was going to the stable to speak to Nolan about readying Warrior for the ride across country. It would be a relief to have him out of the house for a time, though she knew he’d spend his evenings with women far more sophisticated than she. She shook her head, freeing it from those images, and went to see to his wardrobe. She knew that, especially in the city, Bram liked to cut a fine figure.
He’d only been gone two days when they began to come slowly down the avenue, turning up the driveway to the house. Grace had grown up amidst poverty, but rarely had she met with the desperate wretchedness that now stared her in the face with each opening of the back door.
“God bless you, Missus,” they’d say, some sinking to their knees or holding out their starving babies for her to see. “God bless everyone in this house, for sure it is as good as Heaven.”
She could not turn them away. So many were clearly dying, slowly starving to death, walking skeletons with skeletal children too tired to do more than turn their dark, sunken eyes to her face, not with hope, but with surrender. Sometimes with nothing at all. Those were the ones she fed first.
She listened to their talk and knew that most had been living on blackberries and cabbage leaves, but the berries had gone now and the remaining cabbages molded in the fields. In Skibbereen, they said, there was not a single loaf of bread nor sack of corn meal to be had by the common man. The Relief Committee had applied to Mr. Hughes, the Commissariat officer, and he had given up several tons of meal, but finally was forced to refuse, his superiors insisting that the locals should combine and import, or use home produce, instead of relying on government issue. Riots had broken out at Youghal when a crowd had attempted to hold up a boat laden with export oats, unable to bear the sight of food streaming out of the country. There had been loss of life in County Waterford when starving men entered Dungarvan and threatened to plunder the shops unless grain exporting was stopped. Two thousand troops had been ordered into the country with the intention of keeping the peace, as well as with private provisions of beef, pork, eggs, and biscuits. All ships loaded with grain or meal traveling up the River Fergus were given naval escorts, and warships were rumored to have been posted off Bantry and Berehaven.
As word spread that Donnelly House was feeding its tenants, a steady stream of ragged peasants found its way to the back door. Brigid had looked at Grace in fear when she first ordered the big pots set boiling for soup, the oven fired up for all the bread they could bake, but now the housekeeper came to the kitchen before first light so that those sleeping in the fields might have something warm as soon as possible. They worked together, and set those with enough strength to the task of helping them in order that everyone might get a cup of soup and a piece of bread that day. Most moved on after a day or two, lured by rumors of food ships landing at the docks in Galway or Cork City, or hoping to get passage to England. The Works Committees were still operating, although the number of people showing up for jobs outnumbered the tickets by the thousands. Anyone who could hold a shovel or a spade—young children, pregnant women, old men—stood in line in order to get their name on the list that would guarantee them two or three shillings a week. It was enough to feed their families one small meal a day if food could be found to buy.
The roads were a mess, made impassable by disorganized crews. Pay stations worked out of temporary shebeens, where workers were encouraged to drink up their small wage. The jobs officers were, by and large, unscrupulous men who paid the workers with a large bill, forcing them to walk to the nearest town in order to break it—and thereby losing a day’s wage—or to spend part of it in the shebeen in order to get change.
Some stayed on at Donnelly House in hopes of living through this—mothers with small children, old people, cripples—and some stayed on to die in a place where they knew they’d get Supreme Unction and a Christian burial. Father Brown came nearly every day to comfort the dying, hear their confessions, and provide the last rites. Things were not much better for members of the clergy; Grace saw how he gulped down his soup, and put bread in his pocket against the gnaw that would strike late in the day. Despite his hunger, he would often forgo a meal until those around him had eaten something. He told her many times that God would bless her for her good deeds, to which she replied that God already had. She was thinking of the new man who’d come to help and who was now invaluable to her.
“Morning, Missus,” he hailed her quietly from the doorway. “Two are dead—mother and babe, God bless their weary souls—but most still live to see another day.”
“Morning, Abban.” A mother and child, she thought, the woman who came in late last night, barely walking, the child so still in her arms, sores covering their mouths. “Will you cover them until Father Brown arrives?”
“Aye.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “There aren’t enough tears for all of them, Missus. The mother and her wee one are safe in the arms of the Lord now. Warm and fed. Aren’t they the lucky ones, though, their misery ended at last?” He walked to the stove and lifted the heavy gruel pot to carry outside.
“Wait,” she said. “Eat something first or you’ll not get a bite all day.”
He glanced toward the door. “Some are waiting already.”
“Eat.” She handed him a bowl. “I’ll take out the tea to warm them. You’ll be no good to me if you fall ill.”
Abban nodded and ate quickly, standing near the stove. He was wiping out his bowl when Brigid came back in.
“Morning, ma’am,” he said. “What needs doing?”
Brigid’s eyes widened in surprise. “Abban Alroy, every day I think I’ve seen the last of you and every day I’m proved wrong. What’s the matter with you, man, that you don’t take what’s left of your healthy self to the docks and get out of here?”
He handed her a bowl, then spooned in the gruel. “I’ll not leave Ireland, ma’am. Not now I’ve buried my own, my son a
nd his bride. I said to God, if You’re leaving me alive, then give me a job of work, won’t You? And He led me here, so here I’ll stay. I’ll be buried in Ireland with those I love.”
Brigid nodded. “That’s the grim truth of it.” She ate the last of her breakfast. “Well.” She looked out the window. “We’re not sorry to have you. Take out the heavy pot and fill their cups. Those without will have to share. We’ve given out nearly all the crockery, including the good china, which won’t fare the Missus any good with the Master.”
“Is he not a Christian man, then?” Abban hoisted the pot.
Brigid laughed shortly. “No. I couldn’t call him that, not in all the years I’ve been in this house, though I’ve cared for him well enough in my time.”
Abban took the pot into the yard and filled the containers of each person who filed past, each one murmuring, “God bless you, sir,” and, “Thank you, sir.” He closed his ears to that and instead concentrated on making sure the children had a bit more and got what milk the cow gave. When the first pot was emptied, he scrubbed it out in the yard while Brigid and Grace brought out the second. A third sat on the stove, but that was all they had, and the pots had to be rotated. After the gruel was gone, they’d begin cooking up the soup, putting in whatever they could find for that day, slaughtering another chicken, although Grace was trying to keep enough for eggs. They had been at this nearly one month and their stores were running low. Twice, Grace had sent Abban with the wagon into town for more flour, and he’d bought up all he could, trading her silver spoons, but now there was no more flour or oats to be bought, although rumor had it the English would ship in corn meal from the colonies. The garden had been raided for everything edible, the jars of preserves nearly used up, and Abban wondered how she would feed herself and her young daughter, let alone the throng that grew larger every day. He’d thought at first that the Squire would bring back food, but now he understood that this was unlikely. Grace had said only that he was away on business and she expected him any day. She’d been saying that for the two weeks Abban had been here, and he wondered if she might not have been left behind. The Squire was an Englishman, after all, and liable to run home to his own people. He shook his head and sighed, scrubbing the pot a little harder.
“Abban!” Grace called from the side yard, where she’d set up a covered porch to house those most ill. She was very pregnant now and he could not abide to see her lifting or dragging anything heavy. “Two more going here. Send Father Brown as soon as you see him.”
“Yes, Missus,” he called back and went to the shed for the shovel. The hill back behind her garden was slowly being covered with mounds of dirt and stick crosses. She insisted on a cross for each grave, and the name of the person painted on a stone to sit beneath it, if they were able to find out who the person had been. Mothers and children were buried together. There was not time or material to fashion coffins, but the bodies were sewed into sheets or large pieces of burlap. Father Brown prayed over each one. Grace gave them words of comfort from the Bible if he was not there.
After he’d dug the graves, Abban went to the barn to see about the animals. They were a trouble to Grace; she did not want them to starve and suffer, but she could not put food in their mouths without taking it from people. They were making due with the hay, but the horses missed their oats and had become lethargic. The cow was still giving milk and the pigs were coping with bits and pieces, although Grace had said that soon they should be slaughtered and cured. When the animals were fed and cleaned, Abban went back to the house to carry out soup. Bread was sliced and placed on a long board. There was water to drink, some milk for the children, most of whom could no longer keep it down.
“You must go up and rest now, Missus.” He took Grace by the hand and led her indoors. “The wee one needs a nap, and that one on the way needs your dreams.”
Grace looked into his weathered face. “He’ll be a worried child, then, if he’s shaped by my dreams.” She held out a hand for Mary Kathleen, who toddled quickly to her. “I have silver left to trade and some money, but where will we get the food?”
Abban pulled himself up to his full height of an inch taller than Grace, and attempted to frown down at her. “It will come from God,” he admonished. “Just as it always has. Are you not like the wee boy who gave his lunch to our Lord Jesus? Two small fish and five loaves was all he had, but his offer to share it fed five thousand that day.”
Grace smiled wearily. “Were that Jesus stood speaking in the yard today, eh, Abban?”
“He is, Missus. Now go on up and sleep awhile. Brigid and I can handle things for now, and I saw Father Brown coming down the road.”
“All right,” Grace agreed, climbing the stairs. “But wake me in an hour.”
“Agreed.” Abban watched with satisfaction as she and the little girl went up to bed. The Missus was much too pale, he felt, and an early baby would not bode her well in this time. The little girl, too, was feeling the worry and clung to her mother’s skirts in an anxious manner. He had taken her down to see the animals, but after only a short time away, she’d begun to fuss. The Missus never seemed to mind—indeed, she kept her daughter close as if the absence were too much to bear.
He went back to the kitchen and helped Brigid start another pot of soup; there wasn’t much to it: watery stock; strings of meat, some cut-up root vegetables, and a handful of barley. Still, it was warm and nourishing, if not enough to fill the belly, and no one was complaining. He saw many hands moving over their rosaries and heard the Missus’ name mentioned in every prayer.
“Has there been no word yet from the Squire?” Father Brown asked, warming his hands around a cup of soup.
“None.” Brigid shook her head. “Just as well, Father, or Missus Donnelly would have to shut this kitchen down.”
Father Brown swallowed his mouthful of soup. “Surely the Squire is aware of and has approved his wife’s actions? Will he not commend her for standing strong and doing her Christian duty in this time of great trial?”
Brigid let out a harsh laugh, startling Abban, who was chopping parsnips. “I don’t think ‘commend’ is the right word there, Father.” She turned to him, wiping her hands on her apron. “The day Squire Donnelly rides back up that road is the day someone pays for all of this.” She motioned to the shambles of the yard, the lean-tos, the calls from the sick in the drawing room, the disarray in the kitchen. “And there’ll be no kind words about Christian duty. No.” She turned away so that only Abban saw the fear in her face.
Father Brown set down his empty cup. “I was not aware that Squire Donnelly knew nothing of this.” His face was grim. “Certainly I know him by reputation—the farmers tell stories of his … firmness. I had thought—or perhaps hoped is a better word—that he’d experienced a conversion of sorts.”
“No, Father,” Brigid said quietly. “He most certainly has not.”
“Well, you must send word to me the minute he arrives and I will speak on behalf of Missus Donnelly and what she has done.” He turned and glanced down the driveway to the road. “In the meantime, there’s work to be done.”
“Two to be buried, Father,” Abban put in. “And three in the drawing room looks like they won’t see evening.”
Father Brown nodded and reached into the folds of his robe for his prayer book and crucifix. “I’ll hear confessions first, then see to the dead.”
The afternoon closed in, bitterly cold and gray. Snow—rarely seen during the mild winters of the South—began to fall, as if Nature, too, had now turned against Ireland. Ragged peasants in dark, soiled clothing huddled around small fires throughout the yard, their talk not much more than occasional murmurs and low croons without melody sung in an effort to soothe their sick and starving children. They did not move about, as they had no extra energy to spend. Those still strong and hopeful had moved on after breakfast, warily eyeing the sky, sure that the next town would be better off with food and jobs for those who could still work. New folk had drifted in, t
heir faces anxious, some with the terrible cough and wheeze that meant death was near. Abban tried to give everyone new a cup of warm broth and a piece of bread. He sorted out the terribly ill and dying, bringing them into the house, where they lay on blankets and rugs in the drawing room. It was more splendor than most had ever seen, and some called out in their delirium, sure they’d entered Heaven. He put women with young children in the barn or out on the back porch, which had been made into a kind of shelter by nailing up boards on thee rails. The men made due as best they could, stacking boards into temporary shelters, or sitting near the fire through the frosty night. There wasn’t one who didn’t look ten years older than his true age. Those who could help did, but if they had the strength to walk on, they did that, too.
Abban and Father Brown had just finished burying the mother and her baby in the frozen ground when they spied a lone man on horseback coming down the road. The rider did not stop to speak to any of the travelers who shared the road, but nudged them aside with his great black horse. Father Brown and Abban looked at one another.
“I do believe the Squire is back,” Father Brown said calmly, crossing himself and starting down the hill.
Abban stood another minute, looking up at Grace’s bedroom window. It was still dark. He decided not to awaken her until Father Brown had spoken to the Squire, but his heart was pounding and he said a quick prayer to calm himself.