by Ann Moore
“This is not about rhetoric, daughter,” he reminded. “This is reality. Behind all that impassioned language you use in your papers is the very real suffering of very real people. Are you writing about them, or for them?”
Her cheeks burned. “That’s not fair,” she said angrily. “I love my country and I’ll not stand by and watch it destroyed.”
“No,” her father allowed. “But you wouldn’t be the first to get caught up in the politics of revolution, when starvation and survival are the real issues.”
“Don’t I work at the soup kitchens, and drive the hospital wagon?” she demanded. “Don’t I travel for weeks on end, begging money and food from every great house in the east? Haven’t I emptied my own pockets and sold my mother’s jewelry in order to raise money for food and medicine?”
“All that and more, my dear.”
“If I didn’t care about my people and my country, I would’ve stayed in England and finished my degree,” she continued, still angry. “I’d be filling my evenings with dancing and dining instead of scrounging food and writing political articles that could land me in jail, not to mention wasting my best years waiting up late for renegades and wanted men!”
“Ah.” He puffed up a cloud of aromatic smoke. “That explains the pacing.”
She scowled. “He’s late.”
“It wouldn’t be Mister McDonagh we’re talking about, would it now?” His eyes twinkled with mischief. “Not the wild man from the Black Hill, that hero of men and heartbreaker of women?”
“The very one,” she admitted, her anger dissipating.
“What’s he doing up here, then?”
“William sent for him. To meet with John, and Thomas Meagher. David supposedly brought him up yesterday.” She glanced at the clock on the mantel. “I thought they’d be here hours ago.”
“Will we entertain them all this evening?” he wondered. “I planned on retiring early, but I suppose …”
She waved her hand. “Go to bed whenever you like, Father. It’s only Morgan needs a room for the night.”
Mister Martin studied his daughter’s intense face, its pale color and anxious dark eyes. “You’ve a pen stuck in your hair, my dear,” he said gently, reaching across to remove it and patting the loosened wisps back into place. “And isn’t that your heart there … on your sleeve?”
Her eyes flew to his face, then to the fire. She bit her lip. “I’ve never been much good at romance, Father, as you well know.”
He chuckled. “Therein lies your charm, my dear girl. They all think you are unattainable, and so they flock to your door.”
“Flock is certainly the right word for the sheep I attract.”
“But I thought you were far more interested in an independent life than that of marriage,” he said, concerned. “You whirled through your debut and left at least ten good suitors in your wake when you went off to college, but you’ve always known your own mind, so it did not occur to me to give you advice on the subject of men.” He sighed. “If only your dear mother were still alive, perhaps your life would have some semblance of order and …”
She smiled. “Are we talking about the only woman ever removed from Ladies Aid for her ‘progressive and unseemly’ ideas on training the poor for meaningful work? The woman who studied law on her own, and wrote a pamphlet on family planning—banned, of course, and all of us nearly excommunicated?”
He laughed. “The very one. Although she was always very gracious, even when arguing with the bishop, and she did run an orderly house. But you’re quite correct—if she were alive today, the two of you would be living in the hills with the rest of them, teaching the peasants to write with one hand and shoot with the other.”
“You’ve been very patient with us,” she said fondly. “You always supported Mother even when she mortified you, and you’ve let me plot my own course, as well. And what have you got for all the tutors and college, for the traveling and free thinking? A daughter who’s useless at housekeeping, wears clothes gone out of fashion, smokes and drinks, writes inflammatory political articles, and fills your house with anarchists!”
“Ah, but how interesting my life is because of you, Julia,” he said proudly. “So dedicated and passionate. I’d never want you to be anyone other than who you are.” He tapped out his pipe. “I do worry about you becoming eccentric at such an early age, however—what will be left for your later years?” he teased.
“When my eyesight goes and my fingers are too rheumy to hold a pen, I can always collect cats and go about muttering to myself,” she retorted.
“Perhaps you will marry, after all.”
“I don’t know,” she said simply.
“He’s not interested in marriage?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve not asked him yet.”
Mister Martin shook his head in mock exasperation. “It’s the other way around, my dear. He’s a Catholic, is he not?”
“Yes,” she said. “We have that in common. But he counts among his friends priests and ministers alike, and carries no prejudice one for the other. He’s not had any formal education, but he retains an amazing amount of information and he’s a sponge for learning. And he’s brave—not fearless, he admits to fear—but brave and courageous. He feels he’s on God’s mission.”
“And you’ve fallen in love with him,” he prodded gently.
She nodded. Then shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m distracted and unhappy when he’s not around, but when he’s here, I get no work done, either! I have no control over this, and I hate that!” She pushed herself out of the chair and went to the window again. “Perhaps if we were lovers, I’d get over him.”
“Julia!” Mister Martin dropped his pipe.
She grinned at him over her shoulder. “Oh, Father, I’m only joking.”
“One might have good reason to doubt that,” he admonished.
She turned back to the window and froze. “He’s here.”
Mister Martin sighed and got up from his chair, following his daughter out into the cold entry. The door opened and in came the man himself, much admired by the intellectuals who could only fight with their minds. McDonagh and this O’Malley fellow—a brilliant boy by all accounts—were already something of a legend in the heady group of students who were following the winds of change.
“McDonagh.” Mister Martin shook hands. “Good to see you.”
“And you, sir,” Morgan said politely, his dark hair damp with melting snow. “Thank you for putting me up tonight.”
“Anytime, dear boy. Anytime. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a rendezvous with a hot brick.” He turned and kissed his daughter’s cheek. “Good night, my dear.” His eyes held hers and he tapped the arm of her dress. “Mind that sleeve now,” he said pointedly.
She smiled. “Good night, Father.”
They watched him climb the stairs; then Julia hung Morgan’s damp coat over a drying rack and led him into the drawing room, closing the doors to keep in the heat. Morgan went immediately to the fire to warm himself.
“It’s so late,” he said, hands behind him at the flame. “I’ve kept you up.”
She waved that away. “I’m always up late. Drink?” She unstopped the whiskey decanter.
“We emptied the bottle at Smith O’Brien’s,” he admitted. “I’m not so steady on my feet.”
“Well, sit down, by all means.” She indicated the chair her father had vacated. “And have one more to call it a night.”
“A nightcap it is, then.” He sat and stretched his legs out in front of him, sighing with the comfort of it.
“And what did you think of our own John Mitchel?” she asked, handing him a heavy glass half full of whiskey.
He eyed it warily. “Sure, and he’s quite the flamethrower, is he not?”
She laughed, standing next to his chair, her arm resting on the mantel.
He shook his head. “I could not follow half of what he said. He’s either a lunatic or a visionary.”
&
nbsp; “Bit of both.” She sipped at her own drink.
“But he appears to be strong behind us, and certainly we need the influence of such a man in the press and all. Meagher, I’ve heard his talk before, and I’m ever admiring of the man. Smith O’Brien, of course, is the best of the best, and I can’t say enough good about him.”
“How’s David?”
“Captain Evans? Well enough, though tired of plodding about the countryside in this snow. He may go back to Macroom in a week’s time and fetch Sean. They worry about him taking sick and dying now they know what a talent he is. Smith O’Brien wants him safe and dry in Dublin so as to keep an eye on him.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Maps.” Morgan took another swallow. “He knows the West better than anyone, though how is a mystery to me, for the boy’s never gone much beyond the Lee or Derrynasaggart Mountains! And he’s what Mitchel calls ‘a natural strategist’ for planning ambushes and the like. He gets his inspiration from the great battles of the Bible, he says, and isn’t that just like him?”
“It is,” she agreed. “Will you come to Dublin, as well?”
“No. I’m away from my mam enough as it is, arid she’s not well.”
“But don’t you have a thousand sisters at home?”
He laughed. “Not quite. Barbara, the eldest, has gone to Holy Sisters of the Rose and is working her way up to full sisterhood. The next one is …” Worry flickered across his face. “In London somewhere.” He took one more swallow, then set the glass firmly away from himself. “There are three more at home, plus the baby, but all have suffered with cold and hunger this winter, though Sean’s sister, Grace, has sent them enough food to keep them going.”
“She’s the one who married Bram Donnelly?”
“Aye.” He looked into the fire.
“I met her once,” she said. “At a dinner party. I liked her very much. She was without pretense and her conversation with David was very interesting—I admit to eavesdropping. But that was ages ago.”
“I’ve not seen her in ages myself, though I know she opened her kitchen before Christmas, and many’s the life she saved, to hear people talk.” He paused. “I can’t see her husband allowing such a thing, but perhaps she’s changed him.”
“Not if he’s the Bram Donnelly I know.”
Morgan looked at her, then away again. “Anyway, she looks after her own family and mine when she can, but they’re my responsibility and I don’t like to leave them, especially in such bad times as these.”
“We must all make sacrifices,” she said, finishing off her drink and setting aside the glass.
“‘To whom much is given, much will be asked,’” he quoted.
Julia glanced around the fine room with its comfortable furnishings, tray of biscuits, extra wood for the fire. “Do you think I should be doing more?”
“Ah, no, Julia,” he said quickly. “I wasn’t thinking of you, but of myself. No. You work like a demon, day in and day out, devoted to fighting for your country, instead of marrying a fine man and settling down to the comfort of family life.”
“You’ve made the same sacrifice yourself.”
They were silent for a moment, listening to the spit and sizzle of the dying fire. The clock rang out the late hour and a carriage slushed through the snow in the street outside.
“Have you ever considered marriage?” she asked, her voice too loud in her own ears.
He looked at her, surprised. “Have you?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I like my freedom, and I’d lose all that.”
“Not if you married the right man,” he said.
“How do you know who’s right and who’s not?” she demanded. “A right man in the beginning may not be so right in the end.”
Morgan nodded. “’Tis not the same for a woman, as for a man. Women’s lives go round that of their husbands, while men just go round as they please.”
“Would you want your wife’s life to revolve around yours?”
Morgan thought. “I suppose in a way I would,” he admitted. “But, at the same time, I would not want her to lose herself in my life. Rather, we should build a life together like this …” He made a circle with each thumb and forefinger, then overlapped them so that a smaller circle appeared between the two larger. “It takes a strong woman to resist being swallowed up in her husband’s life.”
“And you’ve never met a woman like that?” She kicked at an ember that popped out of the hearth.
“I have,” he said. “But it wasn’t meant to be.”
Julia’s eyes widened in surprise.
“She married someone else.”
“Then she wasn’t the right one for you.”
“Sure and she was,” he said quietly. “But just because you find the right person doesn’t mean you get to have them. God may open the door, but He’s not going to stand there holding it open forever.”
“And is there only one right person for each of us?” she asked. “Are there no second chances?”
“I don’t know,” he said, pushing the hair off his forehead.
“But do you not miss romance, a young man like yourself?” She kept her voice light. “Are you never lonely?”
He looked at her face and saw the need. “Terribly,” he admitted. “And the more I’m with people, the worse it gets.”
She knelt down beside him and rested her cheek against his knee so that he could not see her eyes. “I know.”
His hand smoothed her hair, and gently he turned her face up to look upon it.
“Julia—”
“I don’t want marriage,” she interrupted. “We’re neither of us right for that. But we could be something to one another.”
“Ah, Julia …”
She rose up and kissed him. His indecision lasted only a moment, and then he returned her kiss wholeheartedly, pulling her up into his lap, hands holding her firmly, bunching the fabric of her skirt in his fists.
“We can go to my room,” she whispered in his ear, her breath light and quick. “We can be together.”
He closed his eyes and pulled her tightly to him.
“Say yes, Morgan,” she urged.
“No,” he said, at last. “Julia, I cannot.”
She slipped her fingers into his thick hair and kissed him again until he groaned. He broke off the kiss, but clung to her, shaking his head.
She pushed him away, stood angrily, and kicked him in the shin.
“Julia!” He grabbed at her, but she stepped away.
“You deserve that and more, Mister McDonagh,” she spat. “I’m not asking you to marry me, for God’s sake. I’m asking you to be my lover! What kind of a man says no to that?”
“A true eejit, sure enough,” he said remorsefully.
“Then change your mind!” she demanded.
He looked at her standing there, hands on her hips, hair flying around her face, temper in full bloom, and he wondered why it was in the world that a man could not simply love where he wanted.
“Another minute and I will.” He stood up. “And so I’ll say good night.” He strode into the hall, picked up his overcoat, and opened the front door on the black, frosty night.
“Morgan!” She stood behind him, shivering in the hall. “Bloody coward! Are you afraid I’ll ambush you if you stay the night, then?”
“Terrified.” He grinned, and then his face sobered. “Julia, I look upon you as a true friend …”
“Oh, bloody hell.” She stamped her foot.
“Arrah, I’ve never been good at words. A man of action, only.”
“Not tonight,” she muttered.
He had to laugh. “You’re a grand girl, Julia, and I’ll curse myself till the day I die if I’ve lost your friendship.”
“Better start now with a bloody good oath.”
He put out his arms and she stepped into them.
“Just give me one good reason why not,” she said into his shoulder.
“Because I don’t love you t
hat way.”
“I’m not asking for love.”
“You should be,” he said and kissed the top of her head. “Never settle for less.”
She clung to him a moment longer and he held her tightly until she was ready to let go. They kissed quickly on the lips and smiled into one another’s eyes and anyone glancing up would have thought they were lovers parting for the night.
“Where will you go?” she asked, moving away from him reluctantly.
“I’ll rouse that Smith O’Brien Out of his warm bed and make him shove over.” He smiled. “Though I doubt I’ll sleep a wink.”
“Serves you right,” she said.
“Good night, Julia.” He turned and stepped cautiously down the icy stairs.
“Good night, coward,” she called and closed the door on him.
She rested a moment, her forehead against the cold wood, until her father cleared his throat behind her.
“Is that your man you’ve turned out on such a night as this?” he asked, coming down the stairs, nightcap askew, face tired and stubbled with gray.
“He wanted to go, Father,” she said wearily. “It seems I am not quite the enchantress of my youth.”
“No?”
“He loves another,” she told him. “But she has married.”
“How sad.” He came down the last few steps.
“He would not entertain the notion of being my lover, but had to take himself out of the house in order to avoid temptation.” She smiled ruefully.
“I knew I had good reason to be alarmed.”
“My reputation is ruined.”
“Highly unlikely.” He put an arm around her shoulders. “It’s late. Come up to bed now, my dear, and plot a new course for the morning.”
They took the steps slowly, arms about one another.
“Are you terribly unhappy?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “Strangely, I’m not. But if I cannot get a lover in the prime of my youth, what hope is there for my future?” They reached the landing and the door to her room. “I fear I am destined to become that eccentric old woman with pens stuck in her hair and ink on her nose.”
He squeezed her arm sympathetically. “In that case, my dear, I shall be on the lookout for a suitable cat.”