by Ann Moore
After many walks around the convent courtyard, Barbara heard the entire story of Bram’s death and Grace’s secret marriage to Morgan. Her eyes had shone with joy when Grace revealed that she was carrying Morgan’s child, as she still suffered greatly from the loss of her own family and daily tended Ellen’s small grave. She had hoped that Grace might have had word of Aislinn, but she accepted that nothing further could be known, and she thanked the Lord for the comfort of a new sister and the coming birth of her brother’s child. She and Grace spent hours in the tiny cell at night, trying to plan the future, sure that Morgan would soon be free. Barbara was adamant that Grace, Morgan, and the children join Sean in America and start a new life, though she knew it would take strong persuasion for her brother to leave Ireland on the eve of revolution. The best argument, she felt, was to urge him to take his family to America only temporarily—just until the British government had forgotten about him and the country was free from illness and famine; they could return in the summer. The Young Irelanders were strong now, it was believed, and nothing would be gained by risking his life. He could work with Sean in America, then accompany the recruits back to Ireland. In the meantime, they’d all be well out of it.
They were often joined in these discussions by many of the other nuns at Holy Rose, women young and old who would trickle into Grace’s room one by one, speaking softly so as not to wake Mary Kate. They sat on the cold stone floor, their shadows long on the wall, hands tucked inside their great sleeves for warmth. They had become militant under their own authority—this order—first by taking in famine orphans and breaking vows of silence, then by offering sanctuary to renegades, and now by indulging in worldly views by reading the very newspapers their parish priests damned as seditious. Their talk over meals was often political, and not one among them was unaware that Morgan McDonagh was the brother of their very own Sister John Paul, as well as the husband of their latest fugitive. Early on, they presented themselves as a contingency to Grace, offering her the tiny bounty of coins they had raised in order that she might bribe her husband out of jail and get him safely to America. Grace had been deeply moved, thanking them profusely, but refusing the money, insisting that Morgan would want the children fed first and foremost, for didn’t he always say that the hope of Ireland lay in her children?
It was agreed that Mary Kathleen would remain at the convent with Patrick, while Barbara would go to Dublin with Grace; as Sister John Paul, she stood the best chance of gaining an interview with her brother. Letters of introduction had been acquired from two sympathetic priests, stating that religious inspiration from the outlaw’s own relation might very well encourage him to turn over his heart and stand within the law. The other sisters laughed heartily over that one and prayed that the British might be gullible enough to believe it.
On the morning of their departure, Grace sat quietly in the courtyard saying good-bye to Mary Kathleen, who clutched her doll, while Barbara went to the gate to look out for the cart that would transport them to Dublin. A boy, no more than twelve, came boldly up the road and waved to get her attention. Something in the way he glanced furtively about made her hurry.
“Yes?”
“Do you know Sister John Paul?” he asked.
“Aye.” She looked him over, but could not place him as one of the orphans she’d cared for.
“I must see her,” he said firmly.
“And why is that, then, young man?”
He glanced around again, his confidence slipping. “I’ve a letter for her that I must place in her own hands.”
“I am Sister John Paul,” she told him.
The boy hesitated. “How could I know that for sure?” he asked. “For haven’t I been sworn to deliver it into her hands, and her hands alone?”
Barbara glanced around, and motioned to one of the younger nuns. “Tell this young man who I am,” she said.
The young nun frowned. “Why, this is Sister John Paul, boy. Who else would she be?”
Barbara thanked her and asked her to check on Grace, then turned back to the boy and held out her hand.
“Go on and give it to me, now. And rest assured you’ve done your duty.”
He pulled the crumpled envelope out of his shirt and placed it carefully into her hand through the bars of the gate. “There’s something else,” he added.
Barbara turned the blank envelope over, looking for a name.
“He says you’re to read it in private. In private, do you hear, Sister?”
She looked up at him. “In private,” she repeated. “Is there anything else?”
He shook his head.
“Do you need something to eat?” she asked gently, though he looked better off than most.
“Nay,” he said, eyeing her boldly. “My orders are to report right back.” And with that, he turned and ran down the hill to the road that led through the city.
Swallowing against her rising anxiety, Barbara carried the letter into the convent and looked for a place to read it. There was too much commotion from the children in the great room, so she stepped into the quiet of the chapel, sat down in a back pew, and took out the letter, hands suddenly shaking.
“Oh, dear God, no,” she whispered as she read her brother’s words. “No, no, no.” Her voice was like a chant until she reached the end. Her hand fell into her lap and through eyes blurred with tears she saw the wavering image of Christ on the cross that hung in the front of the chapel.
“How could You take him from us?” she whispered, anger rising in her heart. And then she was filled with remorse. “Forgive me, Father. For sure and You’ve shown him mercy by sparing him a death far worse.” Tears coursed down her cheeks. “But how, in Heaven’s name, am I to tell his wife?”
She knelt down in prayer until the tears ceased and resolve made her strong, and then she rose and went into the courtyard, asking the young nun to take Mary Kathleen to the kitchen while she spoke to Grace. But in the end, no words came and she simply placed the letter and the gold rings in her sister-in-law’s hand, waiting quietly while Grace read the words that ended all her dreams.
“Prayer is all,” Barbara told the anxious faces outside Grace’s bedroom door. “There’s nothing more to do. The shock brought on the baby, but it’s too early and Grace is not strong.”
The sisters were tearful as they fingered the beads on their rosaries, eyes dark in pale faces. They had been all night in the chapel praying for the soul of the great Morgan McDonagh, and now they would return to ask that his child be spared, though all knew that God’s will must be done.
Barbara turned back to Grace, who was white as the sheet upon which she lay. Her knees were up and she slipped in and out of consciousness, babbling about people and places far removed from this room. She called for her grandmother, shouted for her brother, but said Morgan’s name only once, and then in a whisper. It was safer in the madness, Barbara knew, but she worried whether Grace would be able to stay with her long enough to deliver the baby. The baby was surely coming, but the pushing needed to bring it into the world could not be coaxed from the mother, and finally—in desperation—Barbara slid her long, thin hand in as far as she could and cradled its head, guiding the wee thing out at last. She had braced herself to accept a dead baby—so early it was and born of great shock to an undernourished mother—but within the tiny chest beat a weak heart. It was a boy. Morgan had had a son. She cut the cord and cleaned the white paste from his body, swaddling him tightly, the ministrations second nature after so many years of helping with her own mother’s many deliveries. He was so tiny, this little boy, and his skin translucent; his limbs seemed short for his body, though he had all his fingers and toes. He opened his eyes for only a moment, and what she saw was pale and unfocused; she feared he might be blind. When she tickled his lips with her fingertip to encourage him to suck, he gagged instead. Indeed, he seemed barely able to draw a breath, and she knew not what to think. Grace had passed immediately into a heavy sleep without knowing he was here.
There was a soft rap on the door and Sister James peeked in.
“A gentlewoman’s come,” she said, quietly. “With a letter from America for Grace. We thought she’d best speak to you.” She glanced at the still form in the bed, and the quiet bundle in Barbara’s arms. “Is it born, then?”
Barbara nodded. “A wee boy. But sickly.”
“Has she seen him?”
“No.” Barbara thought for a moment. “Let her sleep. He doesn’t look well and it might just be the end of her after everything else.”
Sister James came into the room and sat down in the rocking chair, preparing to pray. “I’ll stay with her now. You must be exhausted.”
Barbara shook her head. “Keep her quiet if she wakes. I’ll hurry.”
She placed the boy in Sister James’s waiting arms, then left the room, hastening down the corridor, down the long flight of steps, and through the great hall to the room where visitors were received. She paused and took a deep breath, collecting herself for a moment, before entering.
“I’m Sister John Paul,” she said, closing the doors firmly behind her and turning to face the well-dressed woman waiting by the window. “Sister James says you have a letter for Grace?”
The woman’s eyes, taking in Barbara’s state of dress and the blood on her apron, widened in alarm.
“I’ve just delivered a baby,” Barbara said matter-of-factly.
The woman bit her lip. “Did it live?”
“Aye.”
“Good, good,” she said, as though dazed, then handed Barbara a letter. “This has come from Grace’s brother Sean, who is in America.”
Barbara looked at the envelope, and thought of another letter received only the day before.
“Forgive me,” the woman said. “I’m Julia Martin from Dublin. I knew both Sean O’Malley and your own brother, Morgan.”
“I see.” Barbara glanced through the letter, then looked up at Julia. “He wants her to come straightaway. This is very urgent.”
“It is,” Julia said. “We all think it’s best. Especially now that Morgan is gone.”
“And who is this ‘we’ you speak of?” Barbara asked directly, taking in the fine coat and gloves, out of style, but of good cloth.
Julia did not hesitate. “William Smith O’Brien, John Mitchel, Fintan Lalor, Thomas Meagher …”
“Ah, the men in charge.”
“Yes.”
“And why could these great men not save my brother?” Barbara asked.
“They were being held—”
“But released,” she interrupted.
“Not in time to raise the money to hire the solicitors to get him moved,” Julia admitted. “No one knew where he was at first.”
“He should not have died in a cell,” Barbara said angrily. “Not alone like a criminal.”
“No,” Julia said. “Not like that.”
The two women stared at one another.
“Why have they sent you, then?” Barbara asked. “Why not come themselves?”
“They’re all being watched. I have worked quietly and out of sight for some time now,” Julia told her. “The English do not know me. I write under the name of Patrick Freeman.”
Barbara’s look turned to one of surprise. “I have read your writing in the Nation. You are very bold and free thinking.”
“Not bold enough to write under my own name, however.” She paused. “Not bold enough to lead a protest over his imprisonment or to try to see him in jail.”
Weariness replaced some of the anger in Barbara’s eyes. “Sit down please.” She led Julia to the fire. “Do you know where they buried him?”
“His body was burned with all the others who died of fever,” Julia said. “There was nothing left.” She frowned hard, her face working to hold emotion at bay. “He wore those bloody earrings, you know, and I tried to find out what became of them, but …”
“They were my father’s,” Barbara said softly.
Julia nodded. “I know.” She looked into the fire. “One for his father, one for his mother. Such a bleeding heart. Was there ever a man so noble, do you think?”
It took Barbara a moment to understand. “You loved him.”
Julia held still, unable to speak.
“Did he know?”
Again, she nodded, this time managing a weak smile. “I’ve never done a subtle thing in my life … but his heart belonged to Grace, even though she was married to that great beast of a man, Donnelly.”
“He was murdered.” Barbara waited a moment—deciding—then added, “Grace and Morgan wed secretly soon after. ’Tis she who bore a son today.”
“I knew that … somehow.” Julia bit her lip, then composed herself. “When they said she wasn’t well, and then you appeared looking like that … I’d not seen him in over a year, but word of his marriage spread like wildfire. A great romantic legend to add to all the others. He died a hero in the eyes of so many.”
“Were he but a dull workaday farmer, still alive.”
Julia nodded, eyes filling with tears.
“What will you do now?”
She wiped at her eyes with the back of a gloved hand. “I’ll stay in Ireland and continue my work,” she said firmly. “I believe we will be rid of the English by this time next year.”
“Morgan would be proud of you for carrying on.”
“Thank you,” she whispered gratefully.
They sat for another moment, and then Julia rose and went to the window.
“We can help Grace. Clearly she cannot sail tomorrow, but there is a boat from Dublin in five days’ time that will get her to Liver pool, and there she can make the passage to America.”
“I don’t know.” Barbara thought of the lifeless woman lying upstairs, and the weak baby she’d just borne. “I don’t think it’s possible.”
“Let me send a carriage for her in the morning, and I’ll make arrangements for her to stay at a private hospital under the care of my personal physician,” Julia offered. “I’ll travel with her to Dublin, then on to Liverpool to see that she makes the connection to America.”
Barbara tried to take it all in.
“She will be among friends,” Julia reassured. “We will take good care of her. We owe her that, and we owe it to Morgan.”
“But the baby,” Barbara said. “And she has a three-year-old daughter. What of them?”
“They’ll come, of course.”
“The baby would die,” she said absolutely. “He’s so weak as it is, and Grace has no milk for him.”
“How will you feed him?” Julia asked.
“We’ve a woman here lost her own baby and acts as wet nurse for those who come to us with no mother. She’ll have enough.”
“Grace would never leave him behind,” Julia said.
“No.” Barbara shook her head. “Though sure I am he’ll not live the week.”
“Too late then. The ship will have left Liverpool and there’s no guarantee of another until spring.”
“Must she go now?” Barbara asked. “Can she not wait until spring?”
“She’s wanted in connection with killing a guard, and the land agent, Ceallachan, and she’s wanted for questioning in connection with the murder of Squire Donnelly, not to mention she’s Sean O’Malley’s sister and Morgan McDonagh’s wife.”
“But no one knows she’s his wife.”
“It won’t be long,” Julia predicted. “There are few secrets kept safely on this island. I was able to find her—word came to us through an old friend of hers—and soon the guards will know where she is, as well. She can’t go into hiding with a sick baby and a small child, and she’ll do neither of them any good if she starves to death in prison.”
Barbara drew a sharp breath, then let it out slowly. “What you say is true enough,” she admitted, thinking. “Perhaps I could persuade her to go on to America, leaving the baby here. If he lives, he’ll be stronger for it and well enough to travel come summer. Her father could bring him acro
ss.”
“Her father is still alive?”
“Aye,” she said. “He’s here, as well.”
“Word has it he was killed during the skirmish with the guards.”
“Let you not say otherwise, then, and no one will be the wiser.”
Julia nodded, considering. “It could work. We’ll book the ship and pay his passage across when he and the baby are ready to travel.”
“And if the baby dies?”
“He can still go, or stay, as he chooses,”
“When would you come for Grace and Mary Kate?”
“In the morning,” Julia said. “First light. We’ll keep her well-hidden and with the best medical attention until it’s time to leave Ireland.”
Barbara laid her hands in her lap and looked at them. She tried to think of what Morgan would want. “All right,” she said at last. “I’ll have them ready to go in the morning.” She looked hard at the woman before her. “I pray to God I’m doing the right thing in this. If anything happens—if Grace should the—I must have your word that you’ll give her a Christian burial and that you’ll return her daughter to me.”
Julia put out her hand. “You have my word,” she promised.
After Julia Martin had gone away into the foggy morning, Barbara closed herself up with the Reverend Mother and together they prayed for guidance. In an hour’s time, they had come to a decision: With God’s help, they would persuade Grace to see that her only hope for a future with her children was to get out of Ireland now and go to her brother in America. It was risky to undertake such a voyage after a difficult birth, but they would count on the attendance of a good physician. Mary Kathleen was young, but steadfast, and she would give her mother no trouble on the long journey. With the promise of her father and child well looked after, then sent on in the good weather, she might just agree to go.
When Grace awoke in the late afternoon, she learned she had given birth to a living son and that the only course open to her was to give him up. At first, she would not hear of it, would not even consider the possibility of leaving the boy behind. Only after being faced with the reality of his most certain death under the bleak conditions of hiding out and moving often, with her inability to nurse him properly in a land of little food and fatal illness; with the impact such a life would have on Mary Kate, whose childhood was already so terribly stunted; with losing her father, who could not survive such stress; and with the likelihood of her own imprisonment and long separation from her children, did she at last fall silent. Yet, despite all their pleas she still could not bring herself to agree to their plans; in the end, it was Patrick alone who convinced her.