by Ann Moore
He kissed her good night and she entered her room, the low light of the lamp spilling over piles of loose papers, splotchy wooden pens, and well-marked books, clothes in a heap where they’d fallen, shoes scattered across the rug—it was so far from being a romantic den of seduction that she had to laugh. He was right, he had been right, she was not ready to share her life, and she thought of him walking through the snowy night, chilled to the bone. Served him right, she thought again, but with affection this time. She would tell him when they met again; she would forgive him and they would enjoy a long, long friendship that would encompass many evenings sitting together by the fire, drinking whiskey and throwing books at the damn cat.
Nineteen
“SHUT that child up!” Bram burst into the kitchen, angry at having been distracted from his work.
“Yes, sir,” Brigid said, quickly. “I’ll try, sir.” She lifted the little girl out of the chair and held her close, patting her back. Mary Kathleen arched away from her, crying harder now with frustration. “She wants her mother. Can’t no one else feed her.”
“If she’s hungry, she’ll eat,” he snarled. “Keep an eye on her, Brigid, hear me?”
“Aye, sir.” Brigid nodded meekly.
“I’ll have no more kidnapping attempts or you’ll find yourself out on the road with the other Irish trash,” he warned. “And I want to know right away if that Alroy fellow shows his face around here so I can blow it off.” He left the kitchen, muttering curses.
Brigid tried to soothe the little girl in her arms. “Arrah, now, musha. Don’t anger your da so.”
“Mam,” Mary Kathleen whimpered pitifully. “Mama Mama.”
Brigid carried her over to the kitchen door and opened it. “Your mam’ll come for you soon as she’s well,” she whispered, looking out across the yard to the road and the wood behind. “’Tis just bad luck you’re not in her arms now, God bless you both.”
She had been sure that Abban would make another attempt to get the child and, fearful though she was of the Squire, had steeled herself to allow it. She had kept an eye out for him, but it was Nolan and not Abban who had finally appeared, slipping into the house after nightfall with the news that Grace had lost the baby, and Abban had gone for help. What kind of help, she had wanted to ask, but thought better of it. These were terribly uncertain times and her stomach was always in knots. Jack lay in his bed, dying of the drink, though he called it fever, and now Moira had come home from Killarney with a baby boy in her arms and no man to call it son; the shame of it so bad that Brigid was almost grateful for the famine and the attention it drew away from the fact of a bastard at the Sullivans. Nolan was as quiet and secret as the grave, slipping away at night and returning in the wee hours. She would turn and find him looking at her, searching her face as if he had a thousand questions, and she longed to gather him up—him the most noble of her children—and ask him what it was he needed from her, what it was he held in his heart. But she could not. If he’d taken up with the rebels, it would be best not to know. When the police came around asking questions, she could look them clear in the eye and say she’d heard nothing of wild boys shooting at soldiers on the hill, nothing a’tall. The only guns on the place belonged to the master; she could show them the locked cabinet where they hung, cleaned and ready. They need never know that Nolan could and did pick the lock, that he borrowed the rifle to scare up game, he told his mam, then cleaned and returned it so that the master had no idea of its absence. He never brought home a wild rabbit or grouse like he used to, but the woods were picked clean these days, everyone knew that. He was a different boy, sure of himself and determined. He’d begged her to let him take the child to the O’Malleys, but she’d said no, no.
“He’ll shoot you dead as you stand. I could not bear that.”
“Then I’ll not come back to this place.”
“He’ll shoot me in your stead,” she said to keep him from going alone into the dying world. Him just a boy.
He stayed on and did his work, and she noted that outwardly he was respectful of the Squire, though inside that head of his she knew he was taking note all the same. She saw the way he measured the Squire, marked his habits, and watched him warily from the barn, waiting for him to give the order to saddle up Warrior and load his rifle, an order that rarely came, as the Squire was reluctant to leave the house. Brigid saw the way her master kept out of doorways and away from windows, drawing the curtains at night and letting the dogs loose to roam the grounds. Two landlords had been shot—one on the road, one in his own yard—and another had lost his house to fire. Squire would never admit to fearing the lowlife he cursed, but Brigid knew and Nolan knew: There was good reason these days to slip the bolts.
“What!” Bram barked in answer to the timid knock on his study door.
“’Tis myself, sir. Moira.”
“Ah, Moira. Do come in. Thank you for coming.” The irritation was replaced by oily warmth. “Close the door behind you, my dear, will you?” He smiled and gestured to a small couch against the wall. “Sit down. Please. You must be tired. Your mother says you’ve gotten a ticket on the public works.”
“Aye.” Moira sighed. “Breaking rock on the road to Rosamare.”
Bram’s eyes widened and he regarded her again. “That’s a long walk over and back. What’s the pay?”
“Two shillings a week,” she said. “Half that in this weather. We’ve still got to show our faces to collect it, even if there’s no work.”
Bram nodded. “Your brothers doing the same?”
“No, sir.” Moira looked down. “They’ve gone to Galway, looking to get out.”
“It’s worse in the West.” Bram picked up the hurricane lamp and set it on a low table next to the couch. “Empty warehouses, and soldiers shooting anyone who riots. Which is everyone.” He paused, noting the horror on her face. “Old Jack go with them?”
“Too sick,” she said quietly. “Road fever has him weak as a newborn. Can’t keep nothing down, but the bit of broth Mam brings home.”
“I don’t mind her taking food,” he said graciously. “Saves me paying her.”
“You can’t eat money, sir, and there’s no food to buy.”
“True enough.” He eased himself into a chair near the couch and looked at her exhausted face. “Care for a drink?”
Moira glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, but didn’t linger on his face. Her legs ached from walking eight miles that day, and she was so cold, she thought she’d never regain the feeling in her fingers or toes. In fewer than Six hours, she’d have to get up and do it again.
“No, sir. I don’t think I will, sir. Thank you very much for offering.”
Bram shrugged and stood up. “Suit yourself.” He poured out a tumbler of whiskey and took a long swallow. “Fire in the belly,” he commented, his eyes on her apron. “Warms a body all through. Nothing like it after a hard day of work. Especially on a night like this one.”
Rain beat steadily against the window and Moira shivered in her thin dress.
“I can’t persuade you to join me?” He smiled invitingly.
Moira looked with sudden longing at the bottle. “Well”—she bit her fingertip—“’tis true enough a terrible cold night.”
Bram poured out two fingers, glanced at her, added a little more. She took it more eagerly than she’d intended, and swallowed half in one gulp, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth.
“Drink up,” Bram said, topping off her glass.
As the shivering stopped and drink eased the pain of her aching muscles, Moira began to relax, sinking back into the cushions, running her fingers across the plush velvet.
“Such lovely things,” she murmured, her cheeks flushed.
“Yes,” Bram agreed, moving a pillow out of the way in order to sit closer. “Nice things are a comfort in hard times.” He paused, regarding her. “Tell me about your boy, Moira.”
Her eyes narrowed. “There’s nothing to tell, sir. He’s but a wee th
ing, still.”
“Looks like his father, does he?” he asked, casually.
“No, sir,” she said. “A dead ringer for myself, he is.”
“And who is his father?” He took a sip of his drink. “What does he do?”
“Nothing a’tall, sir, which is why he’s not here.” Moira worried her fingernail again, then forced the hand back into her lap. “Why would you want to be knowing about such a blaguard as himself?”
Bram shrugged his shoulders. “Just curious.” He sipped his drink. “You haven’t seen him at all since the baby was born?”
“Not that one,” she laughed bitterly. “And never will, no doubt. He had his fun and now he’s gone to Canada with a new bride.”
This brought a smile to Bram’s lips. “So you’re left to raise the baby on your own?” he asked. “There’s no one to claim him or you?”
Moira looked down. “No, sir,” she said soberly. “We’re lucky to have Mam’s cabin to shelter us and a ticket on the works. That’s all that keeps us from the workhouse.”
Wind rattled the windows, the candles flickered, but the light in the lantern hissed a steady glow. Bram waited until the silence had grown and Moira had sunk into melancholy.
“You needn’t settle for so little, Moira, when you deserve so much more.” He paused, moving even closer. “Let me do something for you,” he said quietly. “Let me help you … and your son.”
Moira studied him. “I’m told the Missus took ill and went home, sir,” she said carefully. “And that she lost the baby boy.”
“Ah.” Bram refilled her glass and his own. “Then you know I have a problem.” He put a fresh drink into her hands. “I am in need of an heir.”
“These things take the better part of a year, Squire,” Moira smiled wryly.
Bram returned her smile quickly. “Not necessarily. You see, my dear, you have already given birth. The boy exists, and he is the right age.”
“Are you saying you want to pass my baby off as your own son, sir?” Her eyes grew wide and she pulled herself out of the cushions, sitting on the edge of the couch.
“You are a clever girl, Moira,” he said. “Clever and beautiful.”
She looked down, smoothing her skirt. Bram leaned forward and gently tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.
“You and I shared something once,” he said softly. “Something very special.” He watched her, eyes half closed. “Do you remember that?”
She nodded, but kept her gaze averted. He lifted her chin so that she could not avoid looking into his face, and then his eyes.
“We have the same spirit,” he whispered, his breath brushing against her cheek. “We are sensual, passionate people.” His finger trailed down across her chest. He fanned his fingers over her heart. “I can help you.” He kissed her ear. “And you can help me.” He kissed her neck. “I need you, Moira.”
Unable to resist any longer, she turned her mouth to meet his and they embraced. He lowered her onto the couch, knocking over her glass, warming her body with his own. Her heart began to surge with that strange excitement she’d known only with him, and she let go all doubt when he began to unbutton her vest, whispering that he needed her, loved her, would shower her with riches and be with her always.
By the time the pale sun fought its way through a heavy sky, she believed without a doubt that she had been the one to seduce him, and that his desire for her had driven him into making such a strange bargain. She would not have to get up this morning, or any other morning, to walk hours through freezing snow in order to break rocks with a small spade for a road that no one needed. She would not have to stand in line with all of the other shivering, starving, used-up women, hands out, waiting for a bit of money that would never pay the rent, let alone feed the crying children at their sides. She would not starve in the road or die of madness in a backstreet brothel, and her son would not grow up ragged and mean. Because of her, the Squire’s fortune would be settled, and his gratitude for that along with his passion for her would secure her future as the mistress of a great man. And, in turn, their son would become a great man who would always take care of his mother. Her faith was complete in this vision of her future, but even more startling was the fact that he believed it, as well.
Twenty
GRACE could now sit up for short periods of time and was in a chair near the fire when Brigid arrived in the middle of the day.
“He’ll not give the child to you unless you come and do this,” she said after she’d been given tea by Granna and set in the corner.
Grace’s white face grew even more pale. “How is she?”
“Not well a’tall.” Brigid shook her head. “Doesn’t she cry for you day and night with no letting up? She won’t hardly eat a bite, poor child. And her whining makes him so fierce with her.”
“He’s not hurt the child, has he?” Granna’s eyes grew hard.
“Ah, no.” Brigid put down her cup. “If I could’ve brought her to you, I would have. Abban tried, you know, right after you left. But Squire come riding down the avenue and scooped the little thing right out of Nolan’s arms. Gave my boy a nasty bump on the head with his rifle butt.”
“And if she doesn’t go back?” Gran sat down.
“He says she’ll never see Mary Kathleen again.” Brigid sighed. “He says he’ll send her away to England, to his sister who has no child and doesn’t want one, from what I hear. And he says he’ll throw you all out of this place, then tear it down.”
Grace looked into the fire and the room was silent as the other two women watched her face.
“I can’t let him send Mary Kate away. She needs me, and I her.”
“No!” Sean stood in the doorway, his good arm cradling a basket of turf. “We’ll get her back for you, Grace. I’ve promised you that.”
Grace shook her head. “It’s been nearly four weeks. Christmas has come and gone. She’s all I’ve got left, and I can’t bear it anymore. I’ve got to be with her. She’ll take ill and die if I’m not there.”
“All, no, child.” Granna put her arm on Grace’s shoulder. “She’ll be all right. Brigid will watch over her.”
Brigid bit her lip. “I do what I can,” she said. “But now he keeps her near him, sleeping in the same room and tied on a rope all day. She’s not well, Missus. She needs her mother’s love.”
“Damn it, Brigid!” Sean glared at the housekeeper. Then he dropped the turf basket and limped over to Grace’s chair. “You’re not going back to him and that’s all!” He lowered his voice, the urgency in his eyes. “You’ve got to trust me, Gracie. Trust the Lord. We’ll get her back for you.”
Grace met his intensity with her own. “I do trust the Lord. And I know you’re trying, Sean. But even if you get her back, we’ll lose our land. We’ll have nothing. We have nearly nothing as it is. I’d be condemning us all to death, and you know that.”
“For the love of God, Grace, don’t do this!” Sean pleaded. “Or the next time you come home to us, it’ll be in a coffin. You and Mary Kate, both!”
Brigid stood. “He swears he’ll never touch her again.”
“He’s a lying bastard, a bloody demon from hell!”
“Aye,” Brigid said quietly. “He’s both of those and more. But he needs her now. He can’t afford to hurt her. It’s only for a short time, while his father is here, to pass off Moira’s baby as her own, to make a show of it until he’s signed over the estate. And then she and Mary Kathleen are free to come back here. He says he’ll sign over the lease to this property and you’ll never see another Quarterday as long as you live.”
Sean spit into the fire. “It’s all lies,” he said sharply. “Why does he need Grace if he’s got Moira? Why not just pass Moira off as his wife?”
Brigid kept her chin up, but shame blazed in her cheeks. “Moira’s too rough, she drinks too much. He’s afraid she’ll make a mess of it, and he’s right. She’ll come as nursemaid to the house to show the baby, then take him away.”
&nbs
p; “Why is she doing this?” Grace asked quietly.
“Money.” Brigid sighed. “He’s promised her a fistful and her own house in Dublin. He’s leading her to think he might join her there in the future and they’ll be a happy couple.”
“Will the marriage be ended, then?” Granna asked.
“I don’t know.” Brigid looked away. “She’s a fool, my one. I’ve tried to tell her so. He’ll no more take up with her than with his horse.”
Grace stood, pulling the shawl tightly around her shoulders. “Wait for me, Brigid,” she said firmly. “I’m going back with you.”
Sean put his arms out to block her. “Da will never allow it,” he said.
“I’ll be gone before he’s home.” She pushed him gently out of the way. “There’s no other way, brother. You must let me go.”
Sean stood bitterly beside the door, refusing to help carry out her bag, but in the end he came to her with tears in his eyes.
“Don’t do this to me,” she whispered as she kissed him. “Where’s that trunkload of faith you’re always carting about?”
He shook his head, but did not smile. “I’ll be praying every minute of every day until you come back home.”
“Aye,” Granna said, embracing her one last time. “God be with you, child.”
“Tell Da,” Grace murmured, then stepped into the carriage Bram had sent and told Nolan to drive off.
Their hearts broke at the last sight of her, knowing that she was already in that other world where they could not protect her. For though they waved and called out their love, Grace did not once look back.
February passed, Mary Kathleen turned two on a day marked only by her mother, and still Lord Donnelly had not arrived. A letter had come saying that the island was too unstable for him to risk a visit at this time. The London papers were full of horrible news about landlords being shot in their own yards or ambushed on the road; he’d read about the filth and disease that was everywhere now, and he dared not make himself vulnerable. He asked if it were true that a gentleman could not walk the city streets without stepping over the naked corpses of women and children.