by Ann Moore
He slumped. “Oh, Grace, no.”
“But he’s alive,” she added quickly. “We’ve left him to rest on the docks. There was nothing left for us at home and word is there’s food in the cities.”
“There is,” he agreed. “But only for those with money. Have you got any?”
“Well, it wasn’t ale I was begging outside that pub, you know.”
He laughed—a tired, short sound—then dug in his pockets and pulled out a handful of coins. “Take this,” he insisted. “It won’t go far, but it’ll feed you for a day or so. Where will you sleep?”
“I’ve not thought. We’ve only just come in.”
“Stay away from the workhouse,” he warned. “It’s full of disease. The whole place is still pretty bad off.” He thought for a moment. “There’s a convent takes in orphaned children, at the edge of town, up on the hill. Rose … something.”
Grace brightened. “Holy Sisters of the Rose! I’d not thought of that. I’ve a friend there.”
“Excellent,” he said, relieved. “They don’t take in men, as a rule, but if you know someone … Can you get there by tonight?”
“Aye.” She nodded. “Haven’t we come this far?”
They stood and looked at one another, reluctant to part.
“Will you go home soon, Henry?”
“Ten weeks,” he sighed. “In time for Christmas goose.”
“And a fine Christmas it’ll be,” she said lightly. “You in Cornwall, sitting round the fire having tea with the rector’s daughter. And will you be giving her a ring, then, your Miss Isabel?”
He laughed. “Yes. Yes, I’ll spend the rest of my Christmases with Isabel, if she’ll have me.”
“And why wouldn’t she, now, a handsome young soldier like yourself?”
His smile faded. “I’m through with all that,” he said soberly. “I won’t be coming back to Ireland, Grace. Ever.”
“That’s all right, then.” Grace’s smile stayed firmly in place. She put out her hand. “I’ll say good-bye to you, now, Henry, and good luck. Thank you for all your kindness to us.”
He looked at her hand in his, then made a gallant bow and kissed it. “Good-bye. I won’t forget you.”
Mary Kathleen shyly put out her own hand and he kissed it, as well.
“Take care of your mother, now, Mary Kate, and promise me you’ll bring her to Cornwall to see my pretty horses.”
“I promise, Henry,” she said seriously, then smiled, and Grace was happy, as it was the first one in days.
They turned and walked away down the alley until his shout stopped them, and he came running up behind.
“I don’t know where my mind is, Grace, but I’ve news for you.” He stopped and glanced around, pulling her close to the wall and lowering his voice. “I’m not meant to give out a word of it, but your friend has been arrested.”
“My brother?” she whispered.
He shook his head, confused. “No, not O’Malley. We think he sailed on the Champion bound for America the end of August.”
“Thank God,” she said, and then the color left her face. “Is it Morgan you’re speaking of, then? Morgan McDonagh who’s been arrested?”
“He’s being held in Dublin.”
“Are you sure?” she asked. “Could it not be another rumor?”
“No,” he said and took her arm, for suddenly she looked faint. “I know for a fact that he was arrested with Thomas Meagher and Lord David Evans. On charges of conspiracy. Meagher is out on bail, but they’ve been after Evans a long time and he’s set to be transported back to London. McDonagh is under tight guard. I don’t know when he’s to be tried. Or where.”
“Dear God!” Graces eyes went wide. “I must see him!”
“Absolutely not.” Henry was adamant. “You’d never get to within a mile of him, and you mustn’t try.”
“I will,” Grace insisted. “I must!”
“You’ll only get yourself locked up, as well,” he told her. “Seeing as how you’re the sister of the one that got away.”
“And the wife of the one that didn’t,” she murmured.
His mouth fell open. “I didn’t hear that,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s just something I don’t want to know.”
“Please, Henry,” she begged. “Can you not help me to see him?”
He stared into her face—dirty, tired, eyes haggard and bloodshot.
“You’re McDonagh’s wife.”
“Aye.”
“They say he wouldn’t leave Ireland without you.”
“Fool that he is.” Her eyes filled with tears.
He sighed, his lips drawn tightly together. “There’s no way I can get you to him, Grace, and you mustn’t even consider going to Dublin. It’s too risky.”
“Is there any chance you might see him yourself, Henry?” she asked. “Any chance a’tall?”
He hesitated, unwilling to commit himself to this outrageous idea.
“Then I’ll go myself,” she said desperately.
In light of her determination, he relented. “It’s a long shot,” he said.
Her face lit up.
“Mind you, Grace, I can’t promise anything.”
“If you promise to try, Henry, that’s good enough for me.”
He shook his head, exasperated with himself. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but as luck would have it, I’m meant to ride into Dublin at week’s end. I’m part of an escort for prisoners to be transported to the boat for Liverpool.”
“You’re sure to see him, then,” she said eagerly.
“He’s not part of that group, Grace, and I’ve no idea where he’s being held.”
“I have faith in you, Henry.”
He looked out at the water, then back at the hope in her eyes. He sighed. “All right, then. I’ll do my best. What is this very important message?”
“Tell him …” She paused. “Tell him we’re alive and well, and that …” She put her hands on her belly. “And that he’s to be a father.”
His eyes widened in surprise. “My God, Grace!”
“Can you do that, Henry?” she begged. “It will harm no one, and it might give him hope.”
“Yes,” Henry agreed thoughtfully. “It would certainly give him that.”
“Tell him we’ll come as soon as we can.”
“No,” he said firmly. “That will give him no peace of mind. Dublin’s a madhouse right now.”
She looked down at Mary Kathleen.
“Then we’ll go to the sisters, and think what to do there.”
“That’s best, Grace,” he reassured. “Rest there and build up your strength.” He glanced at the slight bulge under her skirt. “I promise I’ll do everything in my power to give him your message.”
Relief flooded her eyes. “Thank you, Henry. You’re a fine man. Your mother would be very proud.”
“Yes, she certainly would,” he agreed. “Now, go along before I realize how much trouble you’re getting me into and change my mind like a sensible man.”
“God bless you, Henry!” she called, towing her daughter back down along the dock toward the edge of town.
“Ah, Grace,” he said wonderingly to himself, watching them go. “Who are you?”
It was evening by the time Grace reached the convent, Mary Kathleen again tied to her back, Patrick at her side. She rang the bell at the gate and told the nun who answered that she must see Sister John Paul immediately. The nun told her to wait and disappeared for half an hour. Just as Grace was about to ring the bell again, a tall figure in black robes came hurrying across the courtyard, a giant key ring jangling in her hand.
“Who’s there?” She stopped short at the gate and peered through the bars at the old man, ragged woman, and limp child.
“’Tis Gracelin O’Malley, Barbara, come to beg shelter for myself, my father, and my daughter.”
Barbara’s eyes went wide and she immediately unlocked the gate, pulling them inside. “Lord have mercy,” she
exclaimed. “I’d have never recognized you, Grace! Nor your father!” She tried to see the face of the little girl hiding her eyes in Graces shoulder. “But I’d know Mary Kathleen anywhere,” she said softly, her eyes as warm and comforting as they’d always been. “Morgan has told me all about you.” She stroked the little girl’s cheek with her finger.
“Can we stay a night or two?” Grace asked. “We’re going to Dublin, but we must rest first. I have money.” She held out the coins in her hand.
Barbara pushed them away. “We’ll talk about that later.” She untied Mary Kate from Grace’s back and held the child in her own arms. “Let’s find you a bed first, and something to eat.
“We don’t shelter men,” she apologized to Patrick. “But our caretaker died not long ago and you’re welcome to his room. It’s small, but nearby.”
“Any bed a’tall would be a welcome thing tonight, Barbara, and thank you.”
She showed him the shed and left him sitting on the bed—a lamp burning low on the table—with the promise of turf for the fire and a bowl of soup before too long. Then she led Grace back into the main building, up the stairs, and down a long stone hall, past many narrow white doors with tiny windows in them, like cells. Grace suddenly realized that the nuns slept in these small rooms and that many of them were occupied. They turned down one corridor and then another, until they were in the west wing of the convent. Barbara led the way up a second short flight of steps and opened a heavy door that creaked from lack of use. She crossed the room and laid Mary Kathleen gently on the bed, then lit a lantern that sat on a small table nearby. There was a hook for clothes and a cracked washbasin with a tiny mirror above it.
“The guest room,” Barbara joked. “Yours for now. I’ll bring hot water so you can wash and whatever’s left from tonight’s meal. Won’t be much, I’m afraid.”
“We’re grateful for anything.”
“Grace.” Barbara hesitated. “Your da, he doesn’t have the fever, does he? Because I can’t treat him nor risk keeping him among us if he does.”
“There was a fight when the guards came to turn out our lane. He took a close shot to the shoulder,” Grace said. “I cleaned it up best I could, but it might well have gone bad.”
It wasn’t contagious then, and Barbara was relieved. “I’ll have a look at it right away. What about that awful bruise on his face?”
“They kicked him when he fell. Swelling’s gone down some, but it still looks sore and he says he hears a ringing in his ear … sometimes he’s not sure where he is.”
Barbara nodded. “Could be the shock of it all. How many days on the road were you?”
“Five, I think. We slept by the side of the road and had little to eat.”
“It’s a wonder he’s alive, at all, then,” she said grimly. “How are you?”
“Tired and hungry,” Grace admitted. “Like the rest of the world.”
“And the child?”
She paused. “Sad. Very quiet and sad. She sleeps so much … as if she can’t cope with being awake.”
“She can’t,” Barbara said quietly. “We see that a lot here. But once they get regular food and rest, they begin to come back to life. It will be the same for her.” She smiled reassuringly. “I’ll leave you to settle in, then come back with a meal. I’m glad to see a face from home,” she added before closing the door.
Grace sank down on the rough bed and nearly fell asleep right there, so exhausted was she from the past days of travel. She had been on the verge of telling Barbara about the coming baby and Morgan in prison, but her head was heavy with fatigue and she hadn’t known where to begin. Tomorrow, she promised herself. I’ll tell her everything tomorrow.
Mary Kate stirred and awoke, then settled against her mother wearily. They lay quietly together until Barbara reappeared with a steaming kettle of water and a large bowl of broth; she poured half the water into the washbasin, the other half into an old pot with a handful of herbs to steep for tea. The soup bowl was placed squarely on the nightstand with two spoons and a generous chunk of brown bread.
“We’re so thankful to you, Barbara.” Grace sat up, pulling Mary Kate close to disguise the evidence of her pregnancy, and feeling guilty in the process.
“Best to call me Sister John Paul around here,” Barbara said, wiping her hands on a small cloth. “Some of the older ones get quite put out. ’Tis another world for them, you know—contact with the outside, family coming and going, all the wee children about, services at odd hours. A long way from those quiet, contemplative days of prayer and householding. Familiar names, now, that just might push them right over the edge.”
Grace smiled sympathetically. “And has it been hard on you, as well, then? Do you miss the old life?”
Barbara paused, considering. “No,” she said. “I mean yes, of course. The starving and illness, the orphans—that’s been awful. Well, and wasn’t I a part of the old way for such a short time, though I miss the beauty and stillness of the days, the quiet, the prayers, the inner life we led.” Her hand went to the cruxifix that hung from her belt. “But I’ve come to feel such a sense of purpose that wasn’t there before.” She glanced upward. “Forgive me, Father, but it’s the truth. I know that this is what the Lord prepared me for. This is my true calling.”
“I understand,” Grace said, eyes unwavering.
Barbara nodded. “I know you do.” She glanced around the room, seeing that they had everything they needed. “You wash and eat, then sleep. I’ll come in the morning and we’ll talk then, for sure and you’ve more to tell me.”
Her face was so much like Morgan’s, strong cheekbones and high brow, the large, dancing eyes and freckles down one cheek. Grace’s eyes filled with tears and she stood quickly, wrapping her arms around her old friend.
“Ah, now, it’ll be all right,” Barbara soothed, patting her back. “You’ll feel stronger and better able to cope after a good night’s sleep. I’ll go see to your father now. God bless you both.”
She left them, and they listened to her heavy robe swishing around her as her footsteps faded down the hallway. Grace stood at the washstand, soaking a rough cloth, then came to the bed and began dabbing at Mary Kathleen’s face. The cloth came away grimy black and, horrified, she scrubbed harder until finally the little cheeks glowed pink and not a speck of dirt remained. Hesitantly, she approached the mirror to have a look at her own face—a face she’d not seen in months. She touched her cheek, barely able to recognize herself for the cuts and streaks of mud, the dark circles under her eyes … and the hair—the hair shocked her most. Where before it had gleamed with rich glints of red and was thick and luxuriant, now it hung lank and matted, twigs and bits of leaf stuck in the snarled ends, the color dull and lifeless, shot through with gray. She looked like a woman going on forty, rather than a girl of nineteen. She scoured her own face and then her hands and arms, until the water in the bowl was muddy brown.
Famished, she and Mary Kate soaked the bread in the hot soup, wolfing down great bites, then spooning out the rest. Afterward, they drank two big cups of the twiggy tea. When they’d finished, they stripped off their dirty clothes and put on the stiff, homespun nightshirts that hung on pegs by the washstand—a large one that swallowed up Grace, a smaller one for Mary Kate. Grace sat on the bed behind her daughter and began working a wooden comb through the child’s tangled curls. She took from her bag a pair of sewing scissors and, with tiny snips, cut away the fine hair until it was cropped close to her head in soft waves. It combed easily then, and framed the pretty little face and dark eyes. Grace closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of her, covering her silky cheek with kisses until Mary Kate gave up another smile.
“I love you,” she said, hugging the child fiercely.
She rose and went to the mirror, scissors in hand, and began snipping away her own hair until it hung just above her shoulders. When she combed it, great handfuls came away from her scalp. She looked again in the mirror and, with relief, recognized more of hersel
f than before.
Warm and clean, she and Mary Kate knelt on the cold stone floor next to the bed and bowed their heads over folded hands. They thanked the Lord for bringing them safely to this house, for the food in their stomachs, and a warm bed before them. They asked Him to look upon those who suffered on this night, and to bless the people they loved: the Neesons and Niamh O’Daly somewhere in the city, Uncle Sean in America, Ryan and Aghna on the road to Galway, Brigid and Phillip in London, their old friend Abban Alroy, Morgan and Lord Evan’s in Dublin, Henry Adams, and dear Barbara, whom God had placed in their path. And then they blew out the candle and crawled into bed, Grace’s body curled around that of her little daughter until a deep warmth spread through them both and each fell into a safe and welcome sleep.
Thirty-two
MORGAN sat in the dank, dripping cell, listening to the coughs and groans, the wretched spewing of other prisoners around him. The jail was crowded, but he shared his tiny space with no one, his influence considered too dangerous to allow access to others. Despite a well-paid and trusted lookout who was surely even now sitting in some pub with food in his belly and reward money in his pocket, Morgan and Evans had been captured at the house of Meagher’s cousin, where they had been drafting a speech about the forming of an armed National Guard. Morgan had listened, engrossed, as Evans read aloud the passage that stated that an Irish Brigade was even now being recruited in the United States—the reminder to their countrymen that one third of the British Army was made up of Irishmen, and that there were now over ten thousand Irishmen serving in the constabulary. It was a speech intended to give courage and move all men to action, and certainly it was passionate. There was another letter to be written that night—a formal congratulation to the soon-to-be new French Republic—and Evans was meant to be part of a delegation that would carry a letter to Lamartine in France. Meagher would give the speech about the National Guard, and Morgan was meant to travel north, where he would organize what was left of the recruits there, then lie low until the spring. Smith O’Brien talked about revolution by Easter, but Morgan was more of a mind to wait for summer and the American recruits with their guns and good health.