by Ann Moore
“He’d never listen to me. And he’ll never give up. He thinks he’s going to be the richest man in Ireland.”
“Do you love him, then, Grace?” he asked softly.
She looked up into the trees, down into the ferns, anywhere but his eyes. “I can’t leave him, and there’s nothing more to say.”
He watched her, unblinking.
“He promised to give Da title to the land so they’ll never be evicted, and he lets me send them food. If I don’t stay with him, we’re all lost for it.”
“You can’t stay,” he insisted. “I’m controlling them best I can, but I can’t be telling them not to shoot this one because his wife’s a friend of mine! I’m more than ready to let them have at him after what he’s done, but they’re not reliable—the power’s in their hands, not their heads—and if they shoot at the carriage with you inside, or burn down the house with you and Mary Kate—”
“I know the risk,” she interrupted.
“Then you must find a way to get out of there.”
Grace pulled at the long grasses, tearing out one and another and then another, until Morgan stilled her hands, turning them over in his and rubbing his thumb over her dirt-creased palm.
“The last time I saw you, we sat under a shade tree talking in whispers just like this. And weren’t you wearing white gloves and the prettiest blue bonnet, looking every inch a lady of the manor?”
She didn’t smile, but stared soberly at his face, at the freckles still there, though hidden in part by his beard.
“And the time we danced the boards off your cabin at Ryan’s wedding,” he added. “Now that, I remember as a pure and happy day.”
“Aye,” she said, the word choking in her throat.
He stared at her in alarm. “Ah, no. All I wanted was a smile, and now you’re crying!” He pulled her head against his chest. “No wonder you put up such a fight when you saw it was myself behind the tree! Old Melancholy Morgan, such a winning way with the young ladies, they all weep when they see him coming.”
She laughed despite herself, and he hugged her tightly, closing his eyes.
“Sure, and it’s been terrible rough since those happy days, there’s no lie in that. But we’re still alive, the both of us. And those we love.”
“We’re lucky,” she whispered.
“We’re blessed,” he replied, and kissed the top of her head. “Now, dry your eyes and go back to the house before he comes looking for you.” He got to his feet, then gave her a hand up. “I’ll do what I can to hold them off, but there isn’t much time. Will he not let you visit your family?”
“Not with Mary Kathleen,” she said. “And I’ll not leave her again.”
“No,” he agreed.
They brushed themselves off, and Morgan walked her toward the edge of the wood; from there they could see the field.
“I’ll do what I can,” he repeated. “Don’t travel with him. Abban and I will try to watch the house. We’ll think of something.” A shrill whistle came from far off behind them. “I’ve got to go now.”
She nodded. “God bless you, Morgan. I … it was good to see your face. What there is of it.” She smiled and touched his beard.
“Good to see yours, as well, Pirate,” he whispered and kissed her cheek, lingering there until another whistle broke the silence. He looked in her eyes for a long minute, then turned and waded into the thicket.
As Grace started back across the field, stepping carefully over rows, she caught a sharp glint of light from Bram’s study window, which was closing. Her heart began to pound, but she quieted it, telling herself that he couldn’t see her from there and that she had nothing to be afraid of. She hurried across the field toward the house and was met at the kitchen door by her husband.
“What were you doing in the woods?” he demanded.
“Walking.” She forced herself to look him in the eye.
“Try again.” He yanked Mary Kathleen out from behind the door, her upper arm tight in his grip. The child began to whimper.
Grace reached for her, but Bram jerked the girl out of her mother’s grasp.
“Not so fast,” he said. “I’ll even help you out—who was that man you were talking to?”
“A friend of my brother’s,” she answered quickly, thinking. “He came to ask for food and seed.”
“Why didn’t he come to the house?”
“He’s afraid. You have a reputation, you know.”
Bram smiled drunkenly. “Yes,” he said. “I like that.” He shoved Mary Kate away from him and she bumped her head on the wall.
“Mam!” She began to cry.
Grace started toward her but Bram held her back. “No,” he said. “Brigid!”
Brigid came rushing into the kitchen, then stopped, taking in the scene.
“Take Mary Kathleen down to your cabin and tell Moira to keep an eye on her,” he ordered.
“Aye, sir.” Brigid did not look at Grace as she lifted the child gently and carried her out of the room.
“So.” Bram attempted a winning smile. “Now we’re alone. Care to join me for a drink?”
“No, thank you,” Grace said calmly, then turned and tried to bolt out the door. Bram grabbed her arm and pulled her to him.
“Stop now,” he murmured as she beat at him with her fist. “Stop this. I’m not going to hurt you. Stop!” he demanded, losing patience and shaking her.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“I have been aroused,” he said. “Seeing you out there in the woods with another man stirred my imagination. I have visions of you rolling around in the damp leaves, and sure enough …” He picked a small twig out of her hair. “Here is the evidence of your tryst.”
Grace’s heart began to pound. “Bram, I did not … I would never …”
“Of course not,” he soothed. “But you are a young woman, and I have not been properly attentive to your needs.”
“My only need is to be left alone,” she said firmly.
He shook his head. “Now, now. I know best. You cannot respect me as your master unless I take control of the situation in a masterly way.”
Grace turned her head from the smell of him, the closeness.
He nuzzled her hair, whispering. “I want to come back into your bed. That is where I belong as your husband.”
“No.”
“There is no yes or no, Grace,” he said. “The past is over. Let it go. Let it go and you will not be sorry.”
She felt herself go numb with this expectation: Forget the dead babies and the rape and the beatings, forget the misery, the famine, the heartache, forget starvation and betrayal, forget loss, the terrible loss … forget it all and resume her duties as wife as if nothing had ever happened.
Bile rose in her throat and disgust sent a chill through her body. He took it as a sign of desire, picked her up, and carried her swiftly to bed. She did not stop him. The only alternative to forgetting the past was to forget the future—for herself, her child, her family—and so, she took herself away and let her body respond automatically, doing the things she knew would give him pleasure and allowing him to feel as if he’d conquered her. Only once, while he rested on top of her, did she glance over his shoulder toward the open door. There, in the shadow of the hall, was Moira’s shocked and crumpled face, but this only added to the suffering of her own tortured soul.
“All right, then!” Bram leaped out of bed the next morning and went to the window, pulling on his trousers. “They’re watching me, you know,” he said, looking toward the hills. “I’ve seen men running along the ridges when I ride out. They shot O’Flaherty in the leg.” He laughed. “Then burned down the house when he packed up his family and retreated to Dublin. Hah! They don’t scare me.” He came back to the edge of the bed, and let his eyes roam over her body. “It’s early,” he said, pausing mid-hitch of his belt. “Plenty of time yet.”
She did not encourage him, unable to fathom his thinking. He acted like a satisfied newlywed, despit
e the fact that he’d been unable to accomplish his goal. After several frustrating attempts, he’d simply passed out. Perhaps he didn’t remember, and she certainly wasn’t going to mention it.
“Do you not think they’ll come after you, then?” That changed his course.
“Hah! The local boys are too simple, too cowardly.” His eyes narrowed. “But they may have brought in a few outsiders to stir things up. Like your brother’s friend—the one who said he only wanted seed—what’s his name?”
“Dick,” she said quickly, thinking of Abban’s dead cousin. “Dick … O’Brien.”
“I’ll run that by the colonel and have him checked out.” He tucked a shirt into his, pants. “I’m famished. Get up and make me something to eat.”
Grace got out of bed gladly, and hurried to the nursery to dress. Mary Kate’s empty crib hit her like a kick in the stomach and she prayed she would not become pregnant. There were herbs she could use to prevent this, but she had to see Granna before his aim became true.
Down in the kitchen, she set before him a bowl of gruel and a piece of bacon fat from the storehouse. Brigid came in with Mary Kathleen and stopped at the sight of them, sitting at the table like husband and wife.
“Brigid!” he boomed. “Fine morning, isn’t it? Take the child upstairs and dress her for a day outdoors.”
“Aye, sir.” She glanced at Grace on her way out of the room.
Grace froze when she heard his order, but she managed to keep her voice casual. “Are you taking Mary Kathleen out today?”
He smiled at her and she saw that beneath the cheerful veneer lay his old character, more twisted than ever and dangerously close to becoming unhinged.
“Those bandits won’t shoot at me if I’ve got a child tied to my back.” His face was triumphant. “And an Irish child at that.” He was proud of his plan—he had to go out, but he didn’t have to go unprotected.
“But she’s barely two years old!” Grace tried to laugh. “You can’t carry a baby around with you all day, can you?”
“I can and I will,” he announced. “Tell that to your brother’s friend.” He stood up, grabbed her face, and kissed her hard. “See you tonight, my dear.”
Grace barely had time to murmur love and encouragement to the bewildered child before she was put up behind Bram on his horse, and the two of them roped firmly together. When they were out of sight, she went into the house and threw up her breakfast.
“Are you sick, Missus?” Brigid asked anxiously.
“Aye.” She rinsed her mouth. “He thinks the rebels won’t shoot at him if he’s got an Irish child tied to his back.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Saint Joseph.” The housekeeper crossed herself, looking every one of her fifty hard years, and then some. “What’s happened between the two of you, then?”
Grace shook her head. “He thinks he loves me again, and that he can make me forget all that’s happened. It’s madness. He must be losing his mind.”
Brigid glanced at her sharply. “Moira has said the same thing to me.” She lowered her voice. “You’ve got to be careful, Missus,” she warned. “He’s got the lover’s sickness. And my Moira, as well.”
Grace’s eyes widened in shock.
“I don’t know which one gave it to the other,” Brigid whispered. “But Moira’s swallowing arsenic on the sly. I found the bottle under her things. Where she got hold of such a thing, I’ll never know.”
“Oh, dear God, Brigid,” Grace moaned. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
“You can’t leave us,” Brigid pleaded. “If you go, he’ll lose his mind for sure and kill us all or turn us out, which is the same thing. If the rebels don’t burn us out before.”
“Don’t say a word to anyone, Brigid, you hear me now?” Grace demanded. “Not a word about Moira or sickness or murderers loose … or any of it.”
“Aye, Missus,” Brigid said humbly.
Grace wandered the house for the rest of the day, sitting in one room after another, looking at the paintings on the wall, the fine furniture, the books, the view out each window. She could not leave and she could not stay, she could not love and she dared not give in to hate; she was paralyzed with fear.
The sky darkened, showered the land, then brightened again and still they did not come home. The lamps were lit in the kitchen and a small supper of root vegetables and fried fat lay on the table. Grace sat, listening for the sound of Bram’s horse, and praying to God for an answer, a sign, direction, anything: It came in the form of her exhausted daughter, wet, cold, and shaking—too tired to do more than whimper in her arms. Her little head was hot, her face bruised. One arm hung awkwardly from her side.
“What’s happened?” Grace forced herself to remain calm.
Bram shrugged drunkenly. “She is whiney and horribly unpleasant. You have spoiled her.” He brushed off his pants and handed Brigid his jacket.
“She’s a baby!” Grace picked up the child gently and felt her shoulder. Mary Kate screamed, then began to cry in earnest. “It’s out,” she said to Brigid. “Help me with her. Bring the whiskey.”
“You’ll not waste good drink on that brat,” Bram slurred.
Grace ignored him and carried her daughter up to the nursery. She could hear Bram cursing them, but she didn’t think he’d follow and make more trouble. Brigid came in behind her, closing the door and speaking in a whisper.
“Here ’tis, Missus.” She set down the bottle of whiskey, then watched as Grace cut away the blouse, exposing Mary Kathleen’s arm. Both women winced at the sight of that small shoulder and the arm hanging loosely from it.
“Pour some of that into her cup,” Grace said, supporting the child in a sitting position. “Bring it.”
Tears rolled down Mary Kathleen’s cheeks, but she was silent, numb from the pain and the long, difficult day. Her eyes never left her mother’s face, and Grace had to steel herself to keep from crying out in rage.
“Here now, musha,” she soothed. “Drink this down. ’Tis bitter, I know, but ’twill ease the hurt in your poor wee arm.”
The two women exchanged a glance over the child’s head, coaxing three small sips down before Mary Kate’s eyes grew heavy and closed at last.
“I have binding rags.” Brigid looked Grace in the eye. “Can you bring yourself to do it, or will I?”
Grace’s face was grim. “I’ll do it.”
Brigid held the girl firmly, while Grace placed her hands on either side of the small shoulder.
“Ready?”
Brigid nodded.
With a swift motion, Grace snapped the shoulder back into place. Mary Kate opened her eyes and screamed, then fell back into numbing sleep.
“There now, Missus, there now.” Brigid patted Grace’s arm in distress. “You done it just fine, it’ll heal well.”
Grace had not realized that tears coursed down her own face until she put her hand to her cheek and felt the dampness there. They bound Mary Kate’s shoulder and upper arm to her body, wrapping it securely so that it would not shift while she slept. Grace bathed her dear little face with warm water and brushed back her hair, noting the bruise on her cheek and the cut under her chin.
“I never dreamed he’d hurt her,” Brigid murmured, shaking her head. She took up the child’s cup, swallowing the last bit of whiskey in it.
Grace lowered the flame in the lamp, then sat down in the rocker near her daughters bed.
“Is there anything else I can do, Missus?” Brigid stood near the door, her face strained and pale.
Grace thought of a thousand possibilities. “No,” she answered. “Thank you, Brigid. You go on to bed now.”
“I’ll be on my knees for the both of you tonight,” Brigid whispered, closing the door behind her.
Grace waited until the house was quiet, and then she, too, got down on her knees, clasped her hands together, and bowed her head against her child’s bed, sick with the turmoil of what had happened. She had much to say to God, many questions to ask of Him, and so
the battle between spirit and soul commenced.
When the long night had passed and its shadows had lifted, she rose stiffly from the cold floor and went to the looking glass. She knew herself there: the boots on her feet, the muddied skirt and crumpled sleeves of her dress, the cross at her neck and the chin that rose above it, the new tightness about the mouth, and the pale cheeks, the lines that drew down the corners of her eyes. She looked past the terrible sadness that had robbed them of color, traveling in and down, down to the place of her soul. And there, she looked with acceptance upon a blackened and empty house.
Twenty-one
IRIAL Kelley’s cave had long since been discovered and no one met there anymore. The men had broken into smaller bands, although too many of them consisted of independent marauders operating on anger instead of calculation. Still, they were enough of a threat to be discussed in the papers and bountied by the British army.
Barely sheltered from the wind and rain in an old bog hut, Morgan’s men huddled around a small turf fire and waited for Captain Evans. Irial blew in with his men, Abban Alroy and Morgan right behind. Evans had sent a message to Morgan that Sean O’Malley was not to know of tonight’s meeting; he was too close to the family and bound to be questioned should there be an investigation.
“Twelve more families thrown out this week.” Irial warmed his hands in front of the fire. “Their belongings smashed and their roofs tore off. Hanlon and Donohue come back after dark thinking to shelter their families from the storm and the soldiers were there waiting on them. Killed Hanlon and his son, shot Donohue’s arm off. And for what?” He looked around at his comrades. “For the few pennies those Brits throw his way. They say clear the land and plant for us—and he does it without any regard for the people been living there all their lives.”
“He’s an Englishman,” Abban said.
“He’s a dead man.” Lord Evans came around the corner and stepped up to the fire. “He’s gotten away with this too long. What say you?”
“Please, Captain.” A young boy pushed his way into the circle. “I’m standing up for the job. I can do it, sir.”