The Irishman's Daughter Page 13

“Yes!” Her voice rose as high as her excitement.

  He rose, kissed her once again, placed his coat over them, and nestled beside her. They sat for a time in the joy of the moment, gazing at the stars, listening to the wind and the crash of the surf.

  Rory broke their silence. “We do have some serious matters to discuss.”

  “I know,” she replied. “I’d prefer not to think about any of it, but we don’t have the luxury of time. That’s why I stated my intention.”

  “I have no excuse for not proposing, other than I’ve been afraid of what your father would say. Lucinda’s another matter.” He patted her hand. “Hard to believe I could fight Connor Donlon but be scared of your father’s wishes for you. I didn’t want you to be ashamed of me because I wasn’t . . . good enough.”

  “Never.” She kissed his cheek. “My father respects—I think even loves you, and I believe he will give us his blessing. My sister, as you said, is another matter.”

  “When should we tell them?”

  “Tomorrow, if the time is right. I’ll send a message to Father O’Kirwin as well.”

  “If Father O’Kirwin agrees with your father—”

  Briana released her hold on his waist and cupped a hand over his mouth. “Then we’ll get married in secret.”

  The wind roared past them, ruffling Rory’s shirt. “A secret?” He laughed. “How will you hide the fact that you’re living with me—and what if we have a child?”

  The memory of the mother holding her dead son flashed into her mind, and the thought caused her to sway against him. What about children? Dare we bring a child into this world when there is no food? They were not easy questions to answer considering they were both Catholics and bound by God to propagate.

  She decided to defer the question to another time. “We’ll talk about that later. Let me worry about my father and Lucinda.” She wanted to kiss him. Not another minute was to be wasted with disaster raging around them. Briana cupped his face with her hands and kissed him the way he had kissed her. When their lips parted, she knew, for the first time in her life, how lovers truly felt when passion, devotion, and loyalty met.

  She rose and faced the northwest wind head on. It blew fiercely against her, nearly knocking her off her feet. She reached down for Rory. “Let’s go. I must get back to the cottage. I don’t want my father to worry.”

  Rory stood and shook the sand from his coat. “Not nearly as worried when he finds out his favorite daughter is getting married to a tenant farmer.”

  “Let Lucinda marry for money,” Briana said. “That’s why she has her sights set on Sir Thomas.”

  They walked, hand in hand, huddled under his coat. As they neared the crest of the path that led up from the bay, Rory said, “I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting this Englishman. I’ve only laid eyes on him from a distance.”

  Briana shuddered, but her reaction wasn’t from the chilly wind. She hated the thought of Rory meeting the owner, but there would be no way of keeping them apart. Their conversation, if anything more than pleasantries, might be strained by Rory’s political beliefs. She hoped her future husband would keep his association with the Molly Maguires a secret from the landlord. But that concern would be minor compared to what Sir Thomas would find out on his return to Lear House.

  Her head swam for a moment with so much to consider: the famine, the starving people looking to Lear House for food, her marriage, the negative reaction she expected from her family, the possibility of being thrown out by the landlord. It was too much to bear; she had hoped to be happy and carefree on the day she became engaged.

  Those dark thoughts hung over her when she left Rory at his door and slowed her walk to the cottage. She looked up the slope for any sign of the people who lived in the earthen burrows. Nothing moved. Only the wind rattled the scrub brush rows. It seemed as though all of Ireland were disappearing.

  She nearly tripped over Daniel Quinn, who was stretched out on the floor near the door. Her father lay closer to the fire. Lucinda was asleep in her bedroom.

  She undressed in the shadows of her room, crawled into bed, and pulled the blanket over her.

  Sleep was slow to come as her mind filled with terrible thoughts of famine and death—jitters she believed no woman should have to face on such a happy night. When she finally fell asleep, she dreamed of starving people with faces that had no mouths. Even if someone wanted to eat, there was no way to ingest food. Children clawed at her with their scrawny fingers. Under the flesh, she could make out the outlines of the white bones that held their bodies together. The vision of mouthless children, fur growing in tufts from their faces, blackish-green spots on their arms and legs, their clothes soiled with their own waste, jolted her awake in a sweat.

  She threw off the blanket, sat up, and wiped the perspiration from her forehead. Several minutes later, her labored breathing had subsided enough that she could lie down again. No mother should see her children die. She vowed, as she covered herself, that her children would never suffer like those she had seen.

  CHAPTER 8

  Briana cursed the pot as the hot metal singed her thumb and forefinger. Her father and sister walked into the kitchen just in time to see her grab a towel and pull the scorched utensil from the woodstove. After a difficult night, when her only solace was securing her marriage bond with Rory, she had burned the oatmeal for breakfast.

  “Damnation, daughter,” Brian said, “what’s gotten into you?” He waved the smoke away from his nose. Lucinda sniffed the air with disdain.

  “It’s bad enough that we have little to eat without you ruining it,” Brian said, and lifted the few remaining jars. “Yes, only a few more days. Rory will have to go to Belmullet.”

  Briana’s heart sank. Not only was it difficult to deal with shortages, but now her fiancé was being sent away as well. She scraped the salvageable oatmeal into bowls, poured more hot water into them, and placed them on the table. “Sorry. Add a dash of salt and you won’t notice.”

  “We have salt?” Lucinda asked. Her skirt rustled against the table as she sat down.

  “A pinch or two.”

  Brian retrieved the salt tin and opened it. The crystals had turned brown and brackish over the winter.

  Lucinda scraped the burned oatmeal bits aside with her spoon and gave her father a concerned look, which Briana couldn’t help but notice.

  “Sleep well, my daughter?” Brian asked.

  Lucinda interjected, “I slept like a log after yesterday’s chores.”

  Briana took a few bites from her bowl, her stomach gurgling as she considered the best way to break the news about her proposal. She pushed her bowl to Lucinda. “You can finish mine if you like.” Her sister accepted the extra porridge, digging about in the crispy oats.

  “I have something to tell you,” Briana said. Suddenly, she was aware of everything in the kitchen: the cabinets, the dishes, the pie tin resting on the counter, the pots, the pans, all the items she had known since she was a child. It was as if she were sitting in a painting, frozen in time, the room drawn into sharp focus. Her nerves tightened, causing the hairs on her arms to bristle. “Rory has proposed to me, and I’ve accepted.” The words escaped from her clenched lips, and the breath fled from her lungs. She had considered saying she had initiated the proposal but decided better of it.

  As she expected, no congratulations were forthcoming. Her father lowered his head and placed his spoon on the table. Lucinda stared at the opposite wall, where the cabinet rested, her eyes unmoving. Briana was certain that her sister would oppose the marriage.

  After a long silence, her father spoke. “Well, I can’t say this news is unexpected, but I do have . . . reservations.”

  “Yes?” She had assumed he would object, and she pushed back her rising anger because tears would spoil the day.

  He rose from the table and walked to the small east window from which shafts of hazy sun filtered into the room. He circled in the sunny patches before he finally spoke. “Rory Caul
field is a good man, and I believe he would be a good father, but have you considered that there may be other men who can bring you more security?”

  “I have, but I’m not in love with them,” Briana countered.

  “All these years, I’ve seen your affection for Rory, and I thought your young love might fade—but it hasn’t. I’ve seen how he cares for you, but are there not other men in the world who would do the same?”

  “Men with money . . . like Sir Thomas?”

  Lucinda winced but said nothing.

  “I wasn’t thinking of our landlord, but your sister has seen much more of the world than you and knows that life—can be better... different from what we know.” He stood behind Lucinda, his body bathed in the morning light.

  “I love Rory with all my heart,” Briana said. “I’ve known it since we were children, and he has as well. You’ve known it too.”

  “What about children in this time of famine?” her father asked, putting his hands on the crest of Lucinda’s chair.

  She blushed. Last night, they had broached the subject of bringing children into the world only to put it off for later discussion. Prior to that, they had spoken casually about babies and raising a family, but in the way that any young, optimistic couple in love would have talked. “We haven’t discussed it, but we will.”

  “You shouldn’t wait,” Brian said. He tapped Lucinda’s shoulder. “Daughter, don’t you have anything to say?”

  Lucinda shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I’ve made my feelings known—only to be ignored. Briana has a mind of her own, and one not easily swayed.”

  “True words,” Brian said, and returned to his chair. He sat and folded his hands. “So, it appears the deed has been done and I have no say in the matter.”

  Briana nodded. “I’m calling for Father O’Kirwin. If we don’t have your support, Rory and I will get married without your blessing.”

  “During our most precarious time, you’ve made a decision to be married.”

  She grasped her father’s hands. “For exactly that reason. Time is short.”

  Her father was about to speak when a knock on the back door reverberated through the kitchen.

  “Who is it?” Brian asked.

  “Rory,” the voice replied.

  Could he have come at a worse moment? We’ll see how he handles my father.

  “Come in,” Brian said. The door opened, and Rory stepped inside.

  Briana could tell from the scowl on her father’s face that Rory had come at an awkward moment.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Rory said, “but I wanted to know if I’m to travel to Belmullet.”

  “Sit down,” Brian said. “I’d offer you some tea, but I’m not sure we have any.” He nodded at Lucinda, who took the hint, excused herself from the table, and walked down the hall toward the library. Rory slid into a seat and gave Briana a knowing look.

  “I’m glad that you came to offer support,” Briana said.

  Rory’s face flushed. “I didn’t know. . . .”

  “I understand that you are to be my son-in-law,” Brian said, rising from the table to once again pace near the window. “Much of my life after taking my position as agent has been one of ‘damned with faint praise.’” He stopped, put his hands on the windowsill, and stared out at the lawn and the farms beyond. He began again as if speaking to the air. “Sir Thomas has been a difficult boss, but he has blessed my family with food and shelter through good times and bad. I think I have treated you much the same, and I may come to regret it. I have always wanted the best for my daughter, but it appears our days are destined to become worse. I will accept your marriage on two conditions—that you treat my daughter with love and respect and that you let no harm come to her that you can stave off. Considering our situation, it will not be as easy as you think.”

  Rory rose and extended his hand. “Your conditions are fair. I understand how much you love Briana and want the best for her. I will provide it.”

  Brian shook Rory’s hand. “Then there’s nothing more to say. We’ll await a wedding day.”

  Her heart swelled with joy, and she leapt from her chair to kiss Rory.

  Brian coughed as they caressed each other. “Back to business . . . yes, go to Belmullet tomorrow. We need food.”

  “Send Jarlath’s son to find Father O’Kirwin,” she whispered in his ear. “Tell him to meet me at three this afternoon at Benwee Head.”

  Brian and Rory departed, leaving her alone with a joyful spirit and a washtub of dirty bowls.

  * * *

  A hazy afternoon sun topped the heath, leaving a sky dappled with high white clouds and checkered light.

  The hillside was dotted with tenants spading their land and, above them, the starving who had come to Lear House. There was little the farmers could do other than tend the potato crop and wonder what lay next. It was too early to judge the next harvest.

  A man washed his children’s faces in the puddles that had collected in the road. Those who recognized her from the night before stood by their burrows, like admirers before royalty, the men taking off their hats, the women nodding in appreciation, for the generosity she and her family had displayed. The gestures gratified her but at the same time made her feel uneasy because other than her father’s position as agent and her sister’s good graces with Sir Thomas, little separated her family from them. She wanted a bright future as much as they did, but how could you fight an enemy like the blight? Despite feeding these people, she could feel their silent fear, their despair, as she walked barefoot up the lane.

  An abandoned sod home that Father O’Kirwin sometimes used for Mass when the weather was bad at Mass Rock stood like a dark lump a short distance from the village. Its rickety door of two oak planks was ajar. It was open most days when he was in Carrowteige.

  She looked inside it on the chance that he might be there before their meeting. The hut was empty except for a small table, which held a drawing of a man and woman, most likely the priest’s parents.

  As she continued on the trail to Benwee Head, the sun beamed through the thin clouds and fell in warm patches on her face. She let her shawl fall from her shoulders, draping it against her back and arms, and wondered if the priest might already be at Mass Rock near the cliffs.

  The path from Carrowteige led up the heath to the Rock. She knew it by heart, having descended from it to the village after many Masses. Sheep and goats used the path on their way to grazing grounds near the cliffs. The sun scattered her shadow across the brownish-green ground. She chose her steps carefully to avoid slipping, but enjoyed the feeling of the cool damp earth squishing between her toes. The yellow of tormentil and dandelions glowed around her in the afternoon light.

  She never tired of the views from the cliffs or watching the waves swell and crash upon the Stags of Broadhaven, which rose like a row of sharks’ fins from the sea. But if you half closed your eyes, the gray rocks, tinged with green, looked like the graceful humped backs of swans swimming to shore. She only had to imagine the long necks of the waterbirds, the transformed children of Lear, whose stepmother had cursed them to swim the oceans for nine hundred years.

  The plateau opened before her, and the Stags jutted from the steely blue Atlantic. How odd that Lear, who had loved his children so much that his jealous wife had magically transformed them into swans in her desperate attempt to regain his undivided love, would be the namesake of the house she had known since birth. When the curse finally lifted, Lear’s children had died from old age and were buried at a nearby island.

  Mass Rock stood nearly ten yards back from a spot dotted with tarns on Benwee Head. Windswept, it thrust up from the ground, a lonely sentinel for thousands of years scarred by sea brine, wind, and rain. Many times during Mass a tern or gull sailed over the top of the rock and silently eyed the congregants. Father O’Kirwin would laugh and say the bird was a sign of good fortune to fall upon Carrowteige and the surrounding villages. The birds had proved him wrong.


  Shadows had begun to grow long. Briana looked across the barren plateau, disappointed that the priest wasn’t there. She could think of no other place he could be unless he had been called to the east for a pastoral need.

  She looked back at the path and then heard her name. The priest was striding along the cliff edge in his black cassock.

  Briana rushed to him.

  He smiled and grasped her hands. “I got your message, but the boy had no idea why you wanted to see me.”

  “I hoped you’d come.”

  “A sure bet,” he said. “I love the cliffs at Mass Rock.” He turned and looked at the sea, hitching the cloth satchel that held his priestly goods over his shoulder. Beyond them lay a vast horizon where the ocean and sky met, divided by a thin, gray line of clouds.

  They found a rock ledge a few yards back from the cliff. Briana sat beside him and tightened her shawl around her shoulders. The wind buffeted them with its brisk force.

  “Why are you wearing your robe?” she asked. “It’s not Sunday.”

  A wistful smile formed on his lips. “Because God and I needed to talk.” He clasped his hands and shook them at the sea. “I’m in a state, Briana. I’ve never seen such human suffering in all my time as a priest. It’s shaken me to my core.”

  She studied him. His expressions, which she had known since the early days of her religious upbringing, were familiar to her. He was in his early fifties, a man who would have had no trouble wooing a wife had he not been a priest. His temples had grayed, but the rest of his full head of black hair remained mostly untouched by age. He possessed a strong chin, and his eyes, full and round under strong, dark brows, were the color of the sea. In all her interactions with him, she had never seen his face so drawn and his mood so melancholy.

  “I thought the answers to my prayers would be delivered at the Rock,” he said. “After more invocations than I can count, I have only doubts. Why has this tragedy struck us?” He lowered his head into his hands.

  She was shocked at his brutal honesty, his lack of faith. The priest had never talked this way to her before. She didn’t believe God would punish Ireland out of spite. What had she or her countrymen done to deserve starvation and death? Were there too many people for the amount of food the country could produce? Was the government doing too little to aid them? To blame God was too easy. “I don’t have your religious training,” she replied, “but why would God be so cruel?”