by Ann Moore
“I love you,” she said aloud.
“And I, you.” He kissed the top of her head.
“Is it too late?” she asked.
He smiled against her hair. “Never too late.”
They sat quite still, listening to the hiss of the fire.
“How much time do we have?” The cloth was rough under her cheek and she could feel the warmth of his body, hear the sound of his heart. She pressed close, knowing the answer.
“Not long,” he whispered. “Tonight.”
“’Tis nothing.”
He paused. “’Tis everything to me.”
She lifted her head and looked long into his eyes. He made no move until she began to take off his damp shirt, and then he took her hands and kissed them, pulling her down gently to lie beside him on the rug in front of the fire.
“I have this reputation …” he began and stopped. “It’s not earned. I mean to say, I’ve never …”
Grace put a finger across his lips. “I’ve never been with a man who loved me,” she said in Irish. “Nor have I ever loved a man as much as I love you.”
He looked long into her face, then bent to kiss her, whispering now in the language of their childhood. He did not try to hide the deep emotion that swept over him by wiping away his tears or stilling the tremble of his mouth, nor did either of them close their eyes, but instead drank in the sight of one another. Even when they kissed, they spoke uninterrupted, and their bodies took comfort from the nearness of their hearts. They whispered and laughed softly, touched and marveled, then clung to one another until, exhausted, sleep carried them to a world in which they were never apart.
She awoke with a start. The fire had died down and Morgan had covered them with a blanket. He lay, deeply asleep, in the crook of her arm. The lines of his face were eased and there was peace about him. Grace allowed her eyes to close again and that was when she heard the soft crunch of gravel outside the window. Someone was walking around the house. Quickly, her heart pounding, she touched Morgan’s shoulder, putting a finger to her lips for silence when he opened his eyes. He understood immediately and pulled on his clothes, motioning her to do the same. Dressed, they crossed the big room, Grace pausing to pick up the pistol, handing him the shotgun. In the entry, they heard a knock, so light as to be barely audible. They looked at one another. Morgan stepped back into the shadows behind the door and Grace moved closer, calling out, “Who’s there?”
“Missus Donnelly?” a voice came softly from the other side.
She gave no answer.
“Are you alone, Missus Donnelly?”
“No,” she answered firmly. “My gun is with me.”
Suddenly, Morgan stepped out of the shadows, opened the door a crack, grabbed the man outside, and pulled him in.
“What are you doing sneaking around out there?”
“Good Lord, McDonagh, I’ve had the devil of a time tracking you down.” A heavily bearded man wrapped in a dark, worn cloak took off his hat and bowed to Grace. “Good evening, Missus Donnelly, or rather ‘Good morning,’ as soon the cock will crow.” He turned to Morgan. “Father Brown with you?”
Morgan nodded. “Aye, asleep. Took a shot across the head, but Grace looked after it and he’ll recover.”
“Get him up,” the man said briskly. “I passed a soldiers’ camp not an hour down the road, and they’ll be here at first light.”
“Lord Evans!” Grace could scarely believe it; but for the glint of humor in his eyes and the laughter in his elegant voice, this man was but a shadow of the gentleman she’d dined with so many years ago.
“At your service, dear woman.” He made another small bow. “And I trust you’ll keep that information to yourself?”
“I’m no telltale,” Grace said indignantly.
Lord Evans laughed. “No, no, never that.” He gazed at her for a moment. “From all accounts you are a fine, upstanding Christian woman who has braved the wrath of Satan himself in order to help her neighbors.”
Grace looked down, embarrassed. “I’m not that, either,” she said.
He took her hand and kissed it. “Ah, Missus Donnelly,” he said, and his voice was full of mirth. “You are the stuff of Irish legend now. There are many who swear they caught a glimpse of your wings as you filled their bowls with soup, others who say your halo shone so brightly, they were warmed by its light. Yes,” he said, looking at Morgan. “I have listened to more than one Irishman wax poetic on your bravery and compassion, your beauty and steadfast endurance.”
Grace stood silently, cheeks burning.
“Right.” He clapped his hands together. “I’ve got horses in the woods and a contact to take Father Brown to the Franciscans. Hurry up, man! You look as if you’ve actually gotten some sleep.”
Morgan went to the kitchen to get Father Brown. Lord Evans smiled at Grace. “Thank you for taking them in,” he said graciously. “That fool Mitchel printed every word of Lalor’s call to arms and now the British are watching every move. They’d have had a field day with these two.”
“Do you have food for the road?” she asked.
He shook his head. “If you have some to spare, madam, I would again find myself in your debt.” He glanced at the doorway through which Morgan and Father Brown were now coming.
“Ah, Evans,” Father Brown said sleepily, his bandage askew. “Bless you for coming.”
Grace hurried into the kitchen and threw the last end of bread and a bit of hard cheese into a satchel; that and two withered apples barely covered the bottom of it. And then she remembered the gold.
“Don’t go!” She threw the satchel to Morgan and ran upstairs. She ripped up the bottom of the wardrobe and took out the bag, stopping to remove five gold coins, which she pocketed before running back down.
“Here.” She handed the bag to Morgan. “You know what to do with it.”
“I can’t take this, Grace.” He tried to hand it back.
“You can and you will.” She turned to Lord Evans. “There’s enough gold in that bag to buy Morgan and my brother Sean a safe passage out of Ireland.”
His eyes widened in surprise.
“Will you make sure that happens, Lord Evans?”
“Indeed I will, Missus Donnelly. It would be my greatest pleasure to see them safely away.”
Grace nodded, then looked at Morgan, who pulled her into his arms and held her tightly.
“We must go,” Evans said gently.
“Marry me.” Morgan looked into Grace’s face, and then at Father Brown.
Father Brown blinked several times. “Marry? Here? Now?”
“There isn’t time.” Lord Evans peeked out the door at the lightening sky. “I’m sorry. We’ll find another way.”
“No,” Morgan said firmly. “It must be now. We’re married in our hearts.” His look told Father Brown everything. “Marry us now before God.”
Lord Evans sighed with resignation. “Do it quickly,” he warned.
“Very good.” Father Brown neatened his jacket and stood before them, warming to the task. “Have you a Bible, my dear?”
Grace dashed up the stairs once more, then back down, tossing her Bible to Father Brown. “Hurry, Father,” she pleaded.
He flipped through the pages, found what he wanted, and began to read. Grace and Morgan moved closer together.
“Rings?” he asked solemnly, when he’d come to the end.
Grace shook her head, but Morgan pulled the leather thong off from around his neck, cut it with his knife, and laid his mother’s wedding band on the open Bible in Father Brown’s hands.
Lord Evans sighed again, then pulled off his gloves, revealing an intricate gold band on the ring finger of his right hand. “My wedding gift to you both,” he said, pulling it off and placing it on the Bible with Morgan’s.
“Lord, bless these two lives that are now joined together as one without end. Amen. Take the rings.” He held out the Bible. “Morgan McDonagh, do you promise to always love and be faithful to your
wife through all the trials of life till death do you part?”
“Aye.” Morgan took his mother’s ring and placed it on Grace’s finger.
“I do,” whispered Lord Evans, nudging him.
“I do,” Morgan repeated tenderly, smiling at Grace.
“Gracelin Donnelly, do you promise to always love and be faithful to your husband through all the trials of life till death do you part?”
“I do.” Grace slipped Lord Evans’s ring on Morgan’s finger.
“Then let you live your life as man and wife with the blessings of our dear Lord Jesus Christ.” Father Brown snapped closed the Bible. “Let’s go.”
Evans was first out the door, followed by Father Brown and Morgan.
“Lord Evans!” Grace called. She held out a slim, leather-bound book. “This was Abigail’s. She has written in it. To you.”
He came back and took it carefully from her.
“I read only the names,” she said softly. “’Twas hidden ’neath a carpet in an upstairs room. I had hoped for the chance to give it to you.”
He held it in his hands as if it were the most wondrous treasure.
“Thank you,” he said finally, then took her hand and kissed it again. “I believe I see those wings, myself … Missus McDonagh.”
He moved off the steps, tucking the little book inside his shirt.
Father Brown made the sign of the cross. “God bless you, dear girl,” he said and turned to follow Lord Evans into the field.
Grace held tightly to her husband one last time.
“I love you,” Morgan whispered. “I’ve loved you all my life.”
“And I, you,” she answered.
“If something should go wrong …”
“No.” She shook her head, but he held her firmly so that she could not turn her face away.
“If I can’t be with you in this life”—he paused, but held steady—“know that I’ll be waiting for you in the next. Have faith in that.”
She nodded, unable to speak, and they kissed farewell.
“Leave Ireland,” she begged as he went down the steps.
“Not without you.”
“Hurry!” Evans called, already crossing the field.
Morgan turned and began running to catch the other men.
“Go to America,” she called. “I’ll follow.”
He lifted his hand and vanished in the rising mist.
Twenty-seven
CAPTAIN Wynne and his guard had arrived early Saturday morning to oversee the transfer of Donnelly House from the widow to the agent Ceallachan. The captain, though still harboring suspicion of Grace’s involvement in the death of her husband, was clearly disgusted by the fawning manner of the gross man who was to replacé her in this fine house. He dismissed the atmosphere of conspiracy Ceallachan tried to induce, moving away from the man’s side-of-mouth comments and raised eyebrows. Grace, on the other side, conducted herself respectfully, leading them through the workings of the house and explaining the keys. She neither rose to the bait when Ceallachan slighted her (“Won’t you be happy to leave such a big house and return to the small cabin to which you are better suited?”), nor answered him when he sought information under the guise of aiding the captain (“Will you be joining your poor crippled brother in Canada, then?”), but did her duty with dignity, adding a final admonishment that this was her daughter’s rightful home and they’d both return in fifteen years to claim it. She intimated with great tact that if it did not stand in good stead, his suffering and that of his family’s would be never-ending. Captain Wynne had to chuckle over that, although he quickly composed himself and ordered one of his men, Private Henry Adams, to drive the widow home to Macroom. She had insisted she needed no guard, but he reminded her that the horse was to go on to the cavalry in Macroom and Private Adams would deliver it. He had other reasons for wanting the young, ingenious soldier to accompany Missus Donnelly, and he suspected she knew this as she locked eyes with him and seemed to peer into his soul. He had to admit he was not unmoved by this strong, suffering woman—he knew well the man to whom she had been married.
This was not the sort of assignment he relished, but his orders had been clear and he had felt not a little relief at getting out of Cork City and all its chaos for a day or two. The countryside held its own dangers with all the potential for ambush, but at least there was not the din and stench of the city. He breathed deeply the fresh, sweet air of spring as they walked out to the loaded cart.
“Good-bye, Missus Donnelly,” he said, putting out his hand. “I wish you well.”
“Good-bye, Captain.” She gave his hand one hard shake, then climbed up onto the seat next to Private Adams. “Don’t let them burn down my daughter’s house.”
“That would be more in your hands than in mine,” he replied, stepping back.
She smiled, and he caught sight of that wonderful beauty that lay beneath her fatigue and hunger. Not for the first time did he wish it were another world and he might have a chance to know this woman.
“May God have mercy on your soul,” she said quietly.
“And on yours, Missus Donnelly.”
He raised his voice to speak to the young man who stood at attention. “See her home, leave the cart, and take the horse on to the fort at Macroom.”
“Yes, sir, Captain Wynne.” Adams saluted, then climbed into the wagon and took up the reins, calling to the horse. The cart jerked, then began to creak down the driveway.
Ceallachan had gone back into the house to survey all that was his for now, but Captain Wynne stood and watched the cart until it turned onto the main road and traveled out of sight. Grace had not once looked back and he admired her for that. He had not expected weeping and wailing from this woman, but one never knew with the Irish—they were all so emotional.
Grace and Private Adams rode along in silence for most of the morning. The private, a friendly, outgoing boy, commented occasionally on the countryside or the beautiful day, but met only with stubborn resistance from the pale young woman who sat next to him. He did not consider that she might be exhausted from the events of the past few days and the lack of food, for it had been nearly two days since she’d eaten, having given the last of it to Lord Evans, and it had taken all her strength to keep up the appearance of vitality in front of the captain. Only when the private suggested, two hours later, that they stop and stretch themselves, did she rouse herself, walking a ways into the woods to squat, and then a bit further to drink water from a small, muddy stream.
When she rejoined him, he was sitting on a rock under the shade of a tree, eating bread and cheese and chewing dried meat. Saliva flooded her mouth immediately, but she sat down a ways from him, lay back, and closed her eyes as if to nap.
Private Adams was not unmoved by the hunger he had witnessed during his two years in Ireland, but he still assumed that those of some position had access to food. It did not occur to him that Grace might be hungry, though had she been a peasant, he would have looked for and seen this clearly.
The worst of it for him had been the sight of the Irish children, thousands of them, it seemed, lying along the roads and in the gutters, slumped up against the door of the workhouse that could not admit them or in the hospital yard, too weak to put a voice to eyes that begged for relief. Their parents he could blame for ignorance and laziness, the lack of foresight that put them in such a terrible situation, but the children … He shook his head. To see them suffer so greatly had troubled his heart, no matter how he tried to harden it. Many of his fellow soldiers passed out their rations and tried to ease the hunger, but it was as a drop of rain in the desert—there could never be enough to save the thousands who needed it.
He had thought this a beautiful country at first, and its people joyful and carefree, but he had come to hate Ireland for all her misery, and could not wait to be rid of the place. Not even in the London slums had he witnessed such a total collapse of humanity. The prevalence of death in Ireland was unrelenting and he coul
d not say which was worst: the slow, painful death of a body eating into itself for lack of nourishment, crumbled with endless bouts of dysentery, hairless, toothless, covered with sores, bloated and caved; or the violent, days-long death of black fever, where blood swelled the body, turning it purple, bringing severe vomiting and gangrene, and the most horrible stench; or yellow fever, with its burning temperatures and vomiting, drenching sweats and deep exhaustion that lasted but a few days only to strike again when the crisis seemed over—the pattern to be repeated three or four times if the patient lived that long. And of course, there was madness, brought about by one or all of these, its victims equally devastated, degraded, and hopeless.
This past March, he had been part of a detail that traveled the West erecting fever sheds, but his assistance had been required in every area, as there were too few doctors and nurses. He had learned a great deal about how typhus worked, and knew that the sight and smell of it would never leave him, not even in his sleep. He counted the days until he could return to the sweet pastures of Cornwall; he had thought to make a career in the cavalry, but that had changed. When his duty was done, he’d go home and never leave it again. He would marry the rector’s daughter and bring her to live with his father, where they would raise fat babies and hardy horses, go to the seashore in the summer, and walk the heather moors in winter. How could anyone in their right mind choose to stay amidst this horror? This was a country that God had clearly forsaken.
“Will you emigrate, Missus Donnelly?” he asked with an urgency born of his thoughts. “Will you come to England or go on to Canada?”
Grace opened her eyes and sat up. She had been drifting, on the verge of sleep, walking in a garden somewhere with Mary Kate’s hand in her own and Granna looking on, calling something to them and laughing. She shook off the yearning that swept up her heart, and looked at him. “No,” she said, squinting against the sun. “I’ll not leave Ireland.”