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  Outstanding praise for the novels of V. S. Alexander

  THE TASTER

  “An absorbing, well-researched story that brings to life an extraordinary period in history, told from within the inner circle of one of the twentieth century’s most notorious characters.”

  —Gill Paul, USA Today bestselling author of The Secret Wife

  “A totally gripping and credible imagining of how a young German woman was affected by the building chaos and cruelty during the late stages of Hitler’s rule. It gains its power through the very special perspective of its main character, who is also the narrator. . . an impressive and engaging novel that humanizes historical events and provides the rich texture of a life meeting momentous challenges in momentous times.”—Florida Weekly

  THE MAGDALEN GIRLS

  “A haunting novel that takes the reader into the cruel world of Ireland’s Magdalene laundries, The Magdalen Girls shines a light on yet another notorious institution that somehow survived into the late twentieth century. A real page-turner!”

  —Ellen Marie Wiseman, author of The Life She Was Given

  “Like the film Philomena, Alexander sheds light on the dark, hidden world of the Magdalen laundries run by the Catholic Church. Based on actual historical events, the novel focuses on the lives of three young girls trapped in a hellish nightmare, yet who are filled with hopes and dreams for the future. This is a tale of friendship, bravery, faith, and forgiveness that transcends many of the books written on the subject.”—RT Book Reviews

  “Alexander has clearly done his homework. Chilling in its realism, his work depicts the improprieties long condoned by the Catholic Church and only recently acknowledged. Fans of the book and film Philomena will want to read this.”

  —Library Journal

  “Filled with authentic details.”—Shelf Awareness

  Books by V. S. Alexander

  THE MAGDALEN GIRLS

  THE TASTER

  THE IRISHMAN’S DAUGHTER

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  The IRISHMAN’S DAUGHTER

  V. S. ALEXANDER

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Outstanding praise for the novels of V. S. Alexander

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE - COUNTY MAYO

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  PART TWO - AMERICA AND BEYOND

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  THE IRISHMAN’S DAUGHTER

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by Michael Meeske

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1229-5

  Kensington Electronic Edition: March 2019

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1229-5

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1229-3

  To the tribe—for showing me the way

  PROLOGUE

  And bring back the features that joy used to wear Long, long be my heart with such memories fill’d—

  —Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

  September 1845

  The boggy lane to Lear House had been tamped to a hard surface by years of use by people, carriages, horses, and donkeys. The path veered down from the high hill above Broadhaven Bay to the crescent curve of land that abutted the water. Gulls soared silently on the winds over Rinroe Point, the narrow promontory that thrust into the bay. The home stood like an imposing gray fortress rising up from the land, surrounded by checkered patches of tenant farms, as solid a manor house as there was in Ireland.

  On a perfect day no country was more beautiful than Ireland, Daniel Quinn believed with all his heart, although he knew little of the world other than what he had been told. He dreamed of England and France on occasion and had seen etchings of those countries in books but, like others in his position, doubted he would ever travel from his native land. As he walked to Lear House, the brisk air skimming off the Atlantic fortified his lungs, cleared his brain. The crisp feel of it deep in his body eased the task of delivering unpleasant news.

  Savoring the beautiful late September day, Daniel took his time. He expected Brian Walsh, the agent of Englishman Sir Thomas Blakely, to be at home, either in the manor or in the adjoining cottage where he and his family lived. If Brian couldn’t be found, he would spend the night in the shed with the horses. It didn’t matter—one way or the other Daniel would deliver what he had to say. He owed Brian the favor, for the man had been kind to him on many occasions.

  Sir Thomas had inherited the estate through his English lineage. Lear House was bordered on its east and west sides by tenant farms. Rows of sod homes stood on the acreage that had been divided and then subdivided to accommodate the growing tenant population. Brian had once told Daniel that more than three hundred people made their living on Lear House lands.

  Beyond the house to the north, the land rose in boggy hills that undulated across the landscape like waves. The higher a person climbed to the west, the more the wild Atlantic came into view. The hills ended at precipitous cliffs that stood as ancient guards against the sea. If one looked south from Lear House, the waters of Broadhaven Bay stretched out in a gentle half circle along the line of sand dunes. Lear House, on its solid foundation, had stood unfettered for a century, weathering Atlantic squalls and storms, political insurrections, and any manner of upheaval cast upon it.

  Daniel Quinn walked past the sod homes—many belching smoke from the hole in their roofs—capturing the eyes of some tenants working in the fields and, finally, arrived at the rocky circular path that led up to the manor steps. He took off his broad-brimmed hat at the door and lifted the iron knocker. It was a molded ram’s head, heavy with age but coated with a sheen of animal oil to keep it from rusting. After no answer, he knocked again.

  Soon, the door swung open in a measured gait. Brian, wearing gray breeches, a white shirt and red vest, stood before him. Recognizing his visitor, the agent’s face brightened with a smile.

  “Danny,” Brian said, and extended his hand. “It’s been so long since you’ve paid a visit. I was beginning to wonder if you were still in County Mayo.”

  Daniel returned the smile. “You’ll not be rid of me so
easily.” He waited, hat in hand, for an invitation, but then looked down at his bare feet to see if they were fit to enter the house. They seemed passable: The rocks had scraped away the mud from his skin. He swiped at some of the dirt on the legs of his breeches.

  “Oh, my manners,” Brian said. “Please come in. I’ve no liquor to offer, but maybe a smoke will suit you.”

  “Just fine,” Daniel said, patting his vest pocket where his pipe lay. “I appreciate your hospitality.” The entrance to Lear House was light and airy with high plastered ceilings decorated with egg-and-dart molding. The sun’s rays had shifted in the afternoon, but the foyer still glowed like a fire-lit room on a winter’s night.

  Brian led him to the large sitting room on the front of the house. “Now, let me find that tobacco. I was in need of a break from my bookkeeping.”

  Daniel sat while Brian disappeared down the hall. He looked through the wide windows at the green lawn with its unbroken vista to the bay. On either side of the manor, the fields were fractured by rectangular walls constructed of brush and stone. The tenant farmers lived on these plots. Verdant potato ridges, lush with green leaves, cut across their tracts. The homes shone black, mostly mud and stone, a few braced by wooden lintels. What luxury, Daniel thought. How wonderful it must be to live in your own home, no matter how modest. How sublime not to sleep on the dirt floor in the back of a public house or in a shed with livestock. Lear House, even the crude homes that surrounded it, were like castles compared to his usual accommodations.

  Brian reappeared with a pewter ashtray and a thick plug of tobacco, one that promised more than a night of good smoking. The agent lit Daniel’s white pipe and then his own, a meerschaum with a dog’s head bowl stained black from use.

  “Always an honor to have Mayo’s finest poet in the house,” Brian said. “What news do you bring?”

  Daniel didn’t want to jump headfirst into what he dreaded, so he recounted versions of his various travels during the summer, including tales of nights in Newport, Mulranny, and Westport filled with too much liquor, tomfoolery, and song.

  Brian, always up for good stories, listened intently while puffing his pipe, his hands planted on his thighs.

  “How are your daughters?” Daniel asked, still avoiding his task. He could not delay much longer. The afternoon was growing short. Soon dusk would overtake the day and he would need shelter for the night.

  “My dear Lucinda is spending the fall and winter in England tutoring three children—a family acquaintance of Sir Thomas.” He puffed on his pipe. “My lovely Briana is either preparing supper at the cottage or sneaking off to see Rory Caulfield. Like most children, she thinks I have no eyes or ears.” He laughed, and a stream of gray smoke spilled from his lips.

  Daniel removed the pipe from his mouth and tapped the ashes into the tray. His forehead tensed. “I’ve come because I have an unpleasant matter to discuss.”

  Brian gave him a quizzical look. “An unpleasant matter?”

  “I feel you should know what I’ve heard. By all accounts, it will affect the parish. As the biggest agent in the barony, and a friend, I came to you first.”

  Brian’s gray eyes flickered in apprehension. “Go on. . . .”

  “In Westport I met a man from France who was taken with my songs—a level-headed wanderer who touches neither drink nor tobacco—and he showed me a drawing.” Daniel remembered the picture as clearly as the day he had seen it. “The Frenchman knew a smattering of English and Irish and he described the flowing charcoal lines he had drawn. Black lumps of wilted leaves. Withered vines. Rot. Decay. It has happened in his homeland and has spread far—to England and beyond. A plague will soon be here.”

  Brian leaned forward, pointing his pipe stem at him. “A plague! Surely, you don’t mean the sickness that visited Wallachia not so long ago.”

  “No. It thrives upon the land—in fact, upon the crop that fills our very stomachs.”

  “The tubers?” Brian asked.

  “Yes. It turns them black as night, transforms them into a vile, stinking mush that neither man nor beast can eat.” Daniel read the look of mild concern on the landlord’s face.

  “This man—the one who told you—you believe him?” Brian asked. “I’ve not heard of any plague upon the crop.” He returned the pipe to his lips. “Besides, there have been other blights on our land. We’ve survived them.”

  “He had no reason to lie.”

  Brian pointed to the window. “But you saw the fields. The crop is luxurious.”

  Daniel nodded. “Yes, but this plague strikes overnight and spreads like fire. We can pray that the Frenchman is wrong.”

  The manor door opened, and Briana strolled into the room. Many seasons had passed since Daniel had seen her. She was a young woman now, probably eighteen if his memory served him, with round, feminine features and long, dark brown hair. She was no longer the gangly adolescent he remembered from previous visits. A hint of recognition passed across her face. He remembered singing to her when she was a child on many nights before he had taken to his bed of straw behind the cottage, where he listened to the wind until he fell asleep under the stars. How peaceful the night, how calm the sleep.

  “The poet.” Her youthful face brightened. “Won’t you dine with us?”

  Brian nodded and looked out at the pink light slanting across the lawn. “The day is slipping away.”

  “I won’t decline an invitation from such gracious company.” Daniel rose and kissed Briana’s hand.

  He and Brian gathered their pipes and followed Briana out of Lear House into the dusk. Company was one thing, but the prospect of a good meal was another. He rubbed his suddenly growling stomach.

  As Briana opened the cottage door, the rich, milky smell of potato stew wafted out the door. The sight of a table with oat bread on it, a turf fire with the steaming pot hung over it, was like heaven to him. He counted his blessings as Brian took his place across from him. Briana served the meal in heaping bowls, and they prayed over them.

  He looked up after the prayer at their smiling faces and thought, if only this heaven would last.

  PART ONE

  COUNTY MAYO

  CHAPTER 1

  October 1845

  Briana Walsh descended the steps of Lear House and breathed in the brisk Atlantic air. She had taken in its crispness all of her life. The air comforted her, filled her with joy, and always deepened her sense of security, no matter the time of year or the weather. The solid structure of the manor cheered her, although she owned not one of its stones. It stood behind her like an austere guardian, rising from the sloping green and brown heath, surrounded by the hamlet of tenant farms. Along with her family, these farmers were the people she loved, and she could imagine no other home on earth than these lands.

  She considered Lear House her second home, the first being the adjoining cottage, the site of her birth. Sir Thomas Blakely, the English owner who spent most summer months in County Mayo, when he could divorce himself from his textile business in Manchester, also called it home.

  This evening, Briana had been to the manor, in her father’s stead, to make sure everything was locked for the night. With its rock façade, climbing ivy, and slate roof, Lear House retained its regality in the dying light. Briana knew every nook and cranny of the manor, the history of every oil painting, the provenance of every object displayed upon its shelves. She had touched each book in its ample library and read many of them except for those—the most academically stuffy—that held no interest for her.

  She and her father lived in the tidy cottage that rested just to the west of the house, adjacent to the western farms and the cliffs that ended at the sea. She gazed at the cottage as well, which was infused with a buttery glow from oil lamps. At this hour, after supper, Brian would be smoking his pipe and reading.

  The sun, obscured except for occasional splits in the leaden clouds, was beginning its descent into the Atlantic beyond the western cliffs. The pallid rays, when they did appear,
cast streaks of purple across the lawn. Behind her, to the north, the land rose to the plateau and bluffs overlooking Benwee Head and the Stags of Broadhaven—the rocky, jagged islands rising like shark’s teeth from the sea.

  As she walked from Lear House to the farthest eastern tracts on the manor acreage, a foul odor wafted into her nostrils. There, on the last remaining lands before slanting to the bay’s shifting dunes, Rory Caulfield and his brother made their homes. He had claimed his corner on the far border of the manor holdings. It looked out to the sandy bay and the distant hillocks to the south.

  Rory had sent her a message through his brother’s son asking her to come to his land. Something was wrong, and she only had to breathe to know it.

  The poet and her father had told her weeks ago at supper about rumors of potato crop failures on the Continent, but she had wondered if the story might be part of Quinn’s own flair for the dramatic—she had always felt there was something theatrical, bordering on artifice, about his personality—tales embellished by too much poteen.

  But tonight, judging from the urgent message conveyed by the boy, the nervous apprehension that filled her body, and the putrid odor, something was indeed wrong. She wondered how the smell could be so overpowering that it could dominate the wind rushing in from the Atlantic.