Gracelin O'Malley

by Ann Moore

  “Here’s to you, young Donnelly,” he toasted, and they both gazed happily at the firelight that danced in the nooks of the heavy crystal.

  Twenty-five

  OLD Jack breathed his last as the sun came up on the next day. Brigid patted his cheek and crossed his arms over his chest, then went outside to hang a bit of yellow cloth from the doorway. Her eyes were dry. Jack’s death was a relief, and there were no mourners to call upon the deep well of grief she carried.

  She had just finished wrapping him in a threadbare sheet when there came a soft knock on the door and three men slipped in, doffing their caps and lowering their eyes. They’d said they’d come, and they had. And now she need only wish them Godspeed and safe away, and they’d take her Jack to lie next to their Nolan on the hill above the house. She thanked them for that and tried to press her last coin into their palms, but they shook their heads. “No, Mother,” they said and kissed her cheek, each one of them weary in the eye and needing a shave. She did not watch them slip away into the wood, nor mark the time she’d last set eyes on her husband’s face. There was no need.

  Grace was in the kitchen, rocking Phillip, when Brigid appeared in the doorway; the look on the older woman’s face was so grave that Grace stood immediately and held out the baby. Brigid took him in her arms, sat down carefully in the chair, and began to rock, her eyes never leaving his sweet little face. Jack had died, true enough, but she could take comfort in this child, the last bit of her family.

  Edward was not yet up. He’d been busy the last two days, sending messages and making inquiries with the help, of a private the captain had put at his disposal. Grace suspected the private’s true purpose was to keep an eye on herself and the doings of the house, but her brother-in-law had unwittingly thwarted that plan. For this she was glad, but she did not harbor any thoughts of charity, and only hoped he would not throw her out immediately. She had listened to him toasting some private grand thought and chuckling to himself throughout much of the previous evening, finally falling asleep on the divan before the fire. At some point he must have roused himself to go to the bedroom, as that was where he lay this morning when she got up with the baby.

  Grace did not ask about burying old Jack; Brigid had said it would be taken care of and there’d been a man come quietly out of the barn at first light.

  She made a cup of tea and set it down next to the woman who’d been with her through so much, and to whom she had so little to offer. “God bless you, Brigid,” she said quietly.

  “And you, Missus.”

  Edward’s breakfast lay upon a tray. He’d said he must rise early in order to meet with her before leaving. She met him on the stairs, dressed and fresh-faced, rubbing his hands together briskly.

  “Ah, lovely,” he said with great cheer. “Bring that along to the drawing room and I’ll breakfast there while we talk.”

  He sat and tucked the napkin into his collar, motioned her to set the tray down on the desk before him. “Sit, sit!” He indicated the seat across from him. “My, these are lovely eggs! And what’s this? A bit of bacon?” He smiled. “Can’t be too much of a famine if one can get a breakfast as fine as this each day, hmmm?”

  Grace smiled wanly. “You’re having the last of it, sir.”

  He tucked it all away in a matter of minutes, then sat back and regarded her.

  “My dear sister-in-law,” he began ceremoniously. “I’ve given the matter of my brother’s affairs much consideration, and I’ve come to a resolve that I feel will give you much peace of mind.”

  “Thank you, Edward,” she said demurely.

  “As you know, the estate as it stands is quite worthless. It’s not bringing in a penny against the cost to run it, let alone making any kind of profit. There’s no sense in leaving you here in destitution when you have a family home to which you might return. As for the oversee of this house and its leases, I have made arrangements with a Mister Ceallachan …”

  Grace shook her head quickly. “Oh, no, sir,” she insisted. “You would not want to be doing business with the likes of him.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s a ruthless man, and a cruel cheat.”

  Edward smiled. “You’ve just confirmed my faith in him, my dear. I need a ruthless man to collect the debts that are owed this estate, and for a generous percentage promised to him and the allowance of this house as residence, I am assured he will not cheat me. After all, it is your son’s inheritance with which I concern myself.”

  “My son,” Grace paused. “Phillip? Phillip’s inheritance?”

  “Estates traditionally pass from father to son,” he said, then added, “I’m sorry for your daughter, of course, but she’ll have a husband someday to take care of her needs.”

  “Aye,” Grace said doubtfully.

  “But about your son.” He made a triangle with the tips of his forefingers and thumbs, proceeding gingerly. “I have a proposal to make and I would like you to hear me out before you give me an answer.”

  “I can do that.” She kept all emotion out of her face.

  “Phillip is a Donnelly,” he began carefully. “And there is a long tradition of Donnelly men in our family, although my wife and I have not been blessed with children. Phillip is the only heir so far.” He paused to see if this was registering. It appeared to be, as she’d sat up straighter in her chair. “As heir of the Donnelly lands and of this estate in Ireland, Phillip will have many responsibilities, responsibilities that he will be unable to fulfill without the proper education and training.”

  “Are you saying, sir, that Phillip should come to England when it is time for his schooling?”

  Edward held up his hand. “Please, madam, allow me to finish.”

  Grace nodded, reluctantly.

  “As I was saying, Phillip will need a thorough education in order to rise to his proper station in life. Yes, I would like him to come to England for proper tutoring, but these early years of his life are critical, as well.” He paused and wet his lips. “What I am proposing is that you allow me to bring Phillip back to London with me now …”

  Grace shook her head firmly in protest.

  “Please, please,” Edward insisted. “Hear me in full! As you yourself have said, there is much starvation in this country and pestilence, as well. His life is at risk here. In London, he will have the best physician and a private nurse; he will be raised with a nanny just as his father and I were, and a governess will begin his early education, followed by tutors, boarding school, and university. It is a fine life for a young man—he will want for nothing.”

  “What about love, Edward?” she said. “A mother’s love?”

  “My wife has longed for a child,” he said quietly. “She will love him with all her heart. We will raise him as our own beloved son.”

  “I cannot give him up,” she said simply, thinking of Brigid downstairs rocking her grandson.

  “Madam.” He was firm. “I had hoped you would see the reason in my proposal and be grateful for such a chance for your son, but I see this is not to be. So I must tell you that I am quite within my rights to take the child with or without your permission, as he is the only heir to a great fortune.” He paused and, seeing no change in her face, added, “And as his mother is suspect in the death of his father.”

  Grace stood in fury. “Are you calling me a murderer, then?”

  “No,” Edward shook his head, trying to calm her. “I know you had nothing to do with Bram’s death, nor your brother, but on paper it is suspicious and any judge in England or Ireland would hand the child over to me. I don’t want to go through that. It would only tarnish your name and his.”

  Grace sat again, thinking. “Would I ever see him again?”

  “Certainly. Though I would discourage too much contact in hopes that I might adopt him as my own son. He’s young still—you’ll forget him in time. It’s not as though you’ve had him years and years. Not like your daughter.”

  “And what about Mary Kat
hleen?” she asked. “Is she to go, as well?”

  “No,” he said quickly. “A girl belongs with her mother.”

  “But she is as much Donnelly as her brother.”

  “Yes,” he said, beginning to understand. “Yes, that is certainly true. She has Donnelly blood.” He paused, regarding this woman anew. “What would you want … for your daughter’s future, I mean?”

  Grace thought. “For Mary Kathleen Donnelly, I would want a sum of money for schooling and a dowry. And when she is eighteen, I would want title of this land handed over to her. The title to be free of debt and the estate able to make a modest income for her and her family, if she has one.”

  Edward considered this. There was every possibility that the girl and her mother would not even be alive in a year or so, and the title could be reverted. “All right,” he said. “That is a reasonable request. It will give the girl a chance at some decent society.”

  Grace ignored the slight. “For my son,” she continued, “I would see his adoption papers notarized and know for my own peace of mind that he was your legal heir, never to be turned away from you no matter the circumstance.”

  “Gladly,” he said with relief.

  “And one last thing,” she added. “I would have you take Brigid Sullivan along as the baby’s nurse to watch over him till he’s grown, and then to be taken care of herself until her natural death.”

  Edward frowned. “An Irish nurse? And she’s a bit old, is she not?”

  “She is not old and she loves him as her own. I could not send him off unless I knew she were there to care for him.”

  “I would not push too hard, if I were you, or have you forgotten that the advantage here is mine?”

  “I’m not asking for more than is fair,” she said. “And I believe, sir, the advantage is mine. Phillip is half Irish and this is Ireland; without my permission, you will never see him again until he is grown and ready to fight you for what is rightfully his.”

  He regarded her with a new measure of respect. “You make your point well, madam. I must say I admire that. I suppose you want all of this documented?”

  She nodded. “I’ll have the papers in my hand before you leave.”

  “All right, then.” He stood and made a little bow. “You have my word. I’ll send the private on ahead to Cork to have the necessary work drawn up and ready for our signatures when we arrive. Done?”

  “Done.”

  In the end, it was easier than Grace imagined. Brigid confessed that Nolan was dead and buried, though she’d not say how and when, just that she had proof of it. There was no proof of Moira except what she knew in her heart. “I never dream of my children when they’re alive,” she said, “and Moira’s come every night for weeks.” All the others were in America and there was no one now but her grandson. She was grateful for the bargain Grace had struck. It meant she might live out her final days in ease watching Phillip grow into a fine and healthy young man. And she’d be there to whisper Irish tales in his ear as he fell asleep at night and sing him Irish songs in the morning. She even laughed at the great irony of it all—Moira’s Irish bastard going to live in London as heir to the great Donnelly fortune! Ah, the Lord had a sense of humor in doling out justice!

  It was a fast trip to the solicitors in Cork City, where Grace secured a fine future for young Phillip. This gave her great satisfaction, as did the twenty pounds of gold in her pocket and the promise of title to Donnelly House upon the eighteenth birthday of her daughter, the true Donnelly heir.

  Twenty-six

  GRACE drove the horse and carriage hard until she reached the lane that took her home. There, in front of the O’Malley cabin, stood her own daughter playing with a stick in the dirt. She greeted the little girl with a long embrace, and then explained that she would only stay the night, for she had to return to Donnelly House to gather up their things.

  They waited for cover of darkness to unload the cache she’d brought back from the warehouse at Cork. All that food to be sent to England when so many were starving right here; it had maddened her and she’d used more than two pounds of gold and a great deal of flirtation to get what she wanted before it disappeared into the ship’s hold. Hidden beneath her driving rug was a sack each of oats, wheat, and barley—she would not buy the coarse Indian meal that was given to the Irish—as well as one of sugar and a small keg of molasses. She’d gotten a box of tea, one of salted fish, and a basket of dried apples. It had taken all her charm and another flash of gold to talk the mess cook into parting with two dressed chickens and a bit of side pork. And then she’d driven with fierce determination, stopping for no one in case she was found out and robbed.

  She begged her family to keep it well hidden, as there was enough to keep them all going but not enough to share with the neighbors. While Ryan, Aghna, and Thomas looked with wonder at their sudden good fortune, Grace took Patrick aside and pressed ten pounds into his hand.

  “Keep five hidden away,” she said quietly. “And try to get the other five to Sean so that he might escape the island and go to America.”

  Patrick shook his head. “I know not where he is, nor how to help him.”

  “He’ll contact you,” she said confidently. “He won’t try to leave without getting word to you, and you tell the messenger that you must see him, that you can pay his passage out.”

  “Aye, that’s what I’ll do, then.” His smile was weary, but his eyes grateful. “Do you not want Ryan or myself to come back to the house with you?”

  “No.” Grace was adamant. “I’ve got five days to take what is mine and pack the rest into trunks to be picked up by our devoted friend Captain Wynne and sent to London.” She paused. “I need to be there by myself.”

  Her father regarded her. “Aye, that you do.”

  She slept fitfully that night, then set out early next morning. It was strange to come up the drive to Donnelly House and see not a single light nor any activity in the yard. The Sullivans’ house had been equally empty when she drove by, but the thought of Brigid and Phillip on their way to England was comforting.

  She lost no time in stabling the horse, then went into the house and lit the lamps. She also loaded Bram’s shotgun and put it by the front door, then carried the pistol upstairs to put by her bed.

  In the kitchen, she ate a bit of the chicken and some bread, and drank water from the well, while surveying the room. It was early May and the steady sun was welcome. Grace’s father would use this day to plant the basket of seed potatoes he’d managed to hang on to in hopes that August would bring them a decent harvest. He’d have to plant and guard them, for the starving along the road might dig them up, so desperate were they still for food. She would be home to help him in a week’s time.

  She was still hungry after the bits of chicken and hard bread, but it was a feeling to which she’d become accustomed and she ignored it, licking the crumbs from her hands, then wiping them on her skirt.

  There were trunks in the attic and these she lowered down to the upper floor with a rope and most of her strength. After dragging them to the main floor, she sat down on top of one and contemplated her next move. She could not bring home trunks of books and antiques, as there was no place to put them and no way to defend their presence if the captain should come calling. And yet, she felt in her heart that most of this was the rightful property of her daughter and she resented sending it back to England or leaving it in Ceallachan’s thieving hands. She looked out the window and up the hill to the little cemetery where she and Abban had buried those who could go no further, and then she knew what to do. She would bury the trunks. They were watertight and she could also cover them with tarps. There might be some damage after years in the damp earth, but it was worth the attempt. She began to pack—one set to be sent to England, one to be buried for Mary Kathleen’s future.

  The days passed quickly in an exhausting routine of packing, loading the heavy trunks onto a sledge that the horse pulled up the small hill, digging the “grave,”
and lowering the trunks into them. In all, she buried three trunks for her daughter—each one filled with linens, small family portraits and landscapes, books, antiques, a miniature musical clock, silver, china, and crystal. Into the last, she dropped the earrings Bram had given her early in their marriage, the teardrop diamond, and her engagement and wedding rings. Each trunk was marked by a wooden cross with a different name: Mary Kathleen, Michael Brian, and Baby Boy; a trunk for each child she’d had with Bram, although only one lived to claim the inheritance.

  This task done, Grace found her mind much more at ease and her pace more leisurely. She filled the remaining trunks with incidental books and pieces of art, family photographs and paintings, some silver and second-best linen. Bram’s clothes would all go home to England, along with his boots, guns, and fishing tackle. She left in the house just enough to make it habitable: the odds and ends of crockery, flatware, the kitchen pots and pans, and linen for the beds. Some of the furniture would be shipped back to England, but the rest, she knew, would stay in the house where, hopefully, it would remain. She was not fool enough to leave Ceallachan nothing to sell for personal gain—here and there was the odd candlestick and vase, books to bring him a few pounds, the wine in the cellar and a half case of whiskey, and the rugs. To bring back to her old home, Grace packed up her quilts and samplers, the family Bible, extra blankets and pillows, and the bed frame in the guest room so that Granna might have a comfortable place to lie at night. She also took an extra pot from the kitchen and anything else she thought might add a bit of comfort to her family, including bottles of port and whiskey. She’d keep the horse and take back shovels and hoes for her father, as well as buckets, spades, hammers, and nails.