The Irishman's Daughter Page 14

  He lifted his head. “That’s a question we should all strive to answer.” He slapped his palms on his thighs. “Maybe I’d feel better with a drink in my belly and a good smoke. Not a drop of liquor or a plug of tobacco graces my bag.”

  The sea air coursed over them as they looked out upon the ceaseless waves. Hardly ever did the briny scent of the ocean rise over the cliffs—only on the calmest days when the fog rolled in. Briana’s hair lifted in the rushing wind. “All we can do is pray, and hope—and live our lives.” She leaned closer to him. “I have a favor to ask—that’s why I’ve sought you out this afternoon.”

  His shoulders slumped with her request. “I’ll try. All of Carrowteige owes you a favor after last night.”

  “I’d like you to marry Rory Caulfield and me.”

  His dour mood shattered with the joy of her announcement, and a wide grin broke out on his face. “A wedding? A celebration of union! Oh, Briana, it’s just what we need during this sad time. When is the date?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?” His eyes darkened. “So soon.”

  “Yes, I want to get married as soon as possible.”

  “You aren’t—”

  She cut him off with a gentle laugh and then blushed at the thought. “No, not at all. Rory and I would never . . .”

  He averted his face for a moment, concealing a blush of his own. “I certainly didn’t think so. Then why the rush?”

  She pulled a blade of grass and studied its damp, green form. “When I saw that boy die in his mother’s arms, I realized that we must make the most of our time on earth, for heaven is never far away.”

  The priest nodded. “Especially in these times.... Of course, your father knows of your plans?”

  She threw the grass into the wind and looked out over the sea. “Yes, he’s given us his blessing,” she replied without mentioning her father’s reluctance.

  “But so soon,” the priest said in a pained voice. “What about the banns? Witnesses? The Mass would be a sham.”

  “You can dispense with the banns. My father and sister will witness the wedding.”

  He rose and strode toward the cliff, the wind rocking him on his feet.

  She walked to his side. They stopped a few steps away from the steep drop to the ocean-washed rocks below. Briana clutched his arm. “Father, Rory and I have been in love for years—since we were children. We aren’t rushing into this decision. If anything, the famine has shown us that time is not to be wasted. We seek only God’s blessing. My sister absolutely thinks that I shouldn’t marry him—that I should seek someone of a higher station.” She let go of the priest’s arm, clasped her hands, and stared out to sea. “Those are her thoughts; she stated no objection.”

  The priest nodded with a thoughtful look in his eyes. “I see.”

  A sudden gust lashed them, knocking Briana back on her heels. Father O’Kirwin led her away from the cliff to the Mass Rock. He guided her to its eastern side, out of the wind. She leaned against the rock, its quartz flecks sparkling in the sun. The rock stood strong and sturdy against her back.

  “I’ve had to dispense with much in my priesthood of late.” His lips curved down, and his eyes grew soft with nascent tears. “I have always followed the Church’s precepts and teachings. I have always looked to Rome for guidance, but not even Rome can help Ireland during this time.”

  “If Rome is to help, when will it arrive?” she asked with bitterness.

  He reached into his cassock pocket and pulled out his rosary. The blue and black beads gleamed in the light as he handed it to her. “I have prayed more in the past six months than I’ve prayed in my thirty years as a priest. I’ve come to a conclusion—and it is not one I’ve shared with anyone. But after our talk today, I feel you should know. Let it be a lesson for your marriage.”

  She nodded, awaiting the priest’s pronouncement.

  “God is ignoring our prayers.” He paused. “Death is coming for us, and there’s nothing we can do to stop it.”

  His words drained the joy from her body. She cringed at the thought of losing herself to eternity before she’d even had a chance to live a full life. From birth, each day was one day closer to death, but did it have to be so immediate, so quick to come calling, when so much was left to live? Perhaps she understood the “lesson” that the priest offered. What good were banns, witnesses, and objections when a specter looked over your shoulder? It was the best time of her life to be married, but also the worst. She and Rory would have to deal with realities she had never imagined—among them the birth of a child into a world stricken by famine.

  “I’ve seen so many die, and more will die every day,” the priest said with a shiver. “My prayers have not been answered, and Death has not been kind. The starvation, the fevers, are beyond my worst nightmares of hell. You’ve not held a man or woman in your arms, yet, who is nothing but bones surrounded by desiccated flesh—or seen them, as I have to the east, thrown into unmarked graves because there are no coffins, or time for consecration.”

  “I don’t wish to see it,” she said.

  He shook his head. “I hope you don’t have to witness more than what you already have. I hold little hope for Ireland. My faith is dying with the futility of my prayers.”

  Her heart ached for the priest as well as herself. “I’m sorry, Father.”

  “Don’t be,” he responded. “You’ve already demonstrated your will to live . . . to grasp what joy you have left.” He pointed to the rosary that she held. “Touch the Cross, the Body of Christ. Pray with me for a moment—my faith is not entirely gone.”

  She did as he asked. Throughout her prayer, she heard nothing but the whistle of the wind around the Rock and the low rumble of the waves thrashing against the shore. She prayed that the famine would end; that the horrible deaths from disease and starvation could be alleviated through His power into a miraculous recovery; that she and Rory would be married, someday have children, and would be able to live out their lives together. Eventually, she opened her eyes and lifted her head to find the priest staring at her. He took back his rosary and concealed it in his cassock.

  “Time and death are working against us,” he said. “Perhaps God has brought us together so I would understand that we aren’t all destined to die, and that we must take hold of our lives as best we can, with His blessings.”

  Briana hugged the priest. “Thank you, Father.”

  “What time tomorrow?”

  “Three? Here at Mass Rock?”

  “Yes.” He stepped away from her. “I should get back to the sceilps and attend to my duties. My heart breaks with every death. I can only pray that these families are reunited in heaven. Will you be serving food again?”

  “For at least two more nights.”

  They walked down the footpath to the village. Out of the wind, she was warmed again by the afternoon sun. If she hadn’t known about the famine, the starving people surrounding Lear House, she would have thought it the most brilliant, the most glorious of days because the land glowed green in the sparkling light and she was going to marry Rory.

  Briana thanked the priest and headed back to the cottage. The people by the lane, with their bony faces and spidery arms, stared at her. The image of the famished dead lying in a ditch, buried in a hastily dug pit, filled her mind. She struggled not to see it: the emaciated bodies thrown unceremoniously in a swampy hole near a bog or hollow. How did these people even have the strength to bury their dead?

  A woman shrieked far away, and the sound faded as quickly as it had come. She looked back but saw nothing on the hill. Those who lined the road must have heard it too, but they only continued their vacant stares. Everyone was growing used to such horrors. She thanked God that He had taken care of her family but wondered how long His blessings would last. She thought of Father O’Kirwin’s failing faith and wondered if hers would fade as well.

  She passed Rory’s cottage, the potato ridges and earth around them still swampy from the previ
ous rains. He was not at home or at his brother’s; she had hoped to tell him the time of the wedding and that he wouldn’t be going to Belmullet as her father had asked.

  When she arrived at the cottage she found everything quiet and orderly: The dishes had been stacked neatly in the cupboard, and the turf pit, dwindling to a few red coals, had been swept clean of ash.

  In her father’s room, where she stayed now that Lucinda was home, she opened the small oak chest that sat in front of the bed. She lifted the scarred lid gently, for the chest was already a hundred years old, and rummaged through the scarves and sweaters that lay on top. Near the bottom, she found the black dress her mother had worn on her wedding day. She pulled it out and felt the cloth, which seemed coarse and dry after thirty years. If only her mother could be here today! She would have loved Rory and welcomed him into the family. But sixteen years earlier, she had died in the bout of sweating sickness that had struck Carrowteige. She, her sister, and her father had been sick as well during that hard winter, but they had recovered. Her mother’s body was thin and ashen when it was taken away by Father O’Kirwin and the manservant. Her father had told her not to cry, because her mother had gone to a better place. She cried anyway.

  As she ran her fingers over the black cloth, she wanted to cry again, this time from an unsettling mixture of joy and pain. She replaced her mother’s dress in the chest because it was too fragile to wear and considered what she would don for her own wedding. The simple brown dress she had on would have to do, festooned with a few handpicked flowers.

  * * *

  After expressing some irritation about Briana’s afternoon absence, Lucinda lifted bowls from the cupboard, preparing them for supper. Brian was tending the kettle fires on the lawn in back of the kitchen.

  The sun was far to the west, throwing the room into darkness. Lucinda lit a small candelabrum and placed it on the table. The four yellow flames flickered, the smoke curling into the air, their circular penumbras vibrating against the ceiling.

  After some small talk about the soup and bread, Briana came to the point. Lucinda was facing the cupboard, taking more bowls from their places.

  “Rory and I are to be married at three tomorrow at Mass Rock,” Briana said. “I hope you will come.” She had found Rory late in the day and confirmed the date.

  Her sister stumbled but then caught her footing without dropping the crockery. After a merry laugh, Lucinda said, “Thank you, sister, for the invitation. I wondered whether I would get one. It’s been a dismal afternoon, Father’s been in a foul mood—he wouldn’t tell me why, other than to say there was something he needed to discuss with both of us.” Lucinda lowered the bowls gently to the table and stared at her. “So this was not a morning jest as I hoped it would be. My God, why are you doing this?”

  “I’m marrying the man I love,” Briana said, controlling her irritation. “It’s as simple as that.”

  “Simple?” her sister shouted. “What are we to do?” Lucinda held up her hand, quelling any objection. “No, no, no. That’s selfish of me, isn’t it? I have the employ and good graces of Sir Thomas and a career as a governess in England. Father is Sir Thomas’s agent, and thus will be kept on here or be thrown out on the road if Lear House fails. Who will take care of him?”

  “Rory and I will, if no one else will.”

  “In a mud hut with barely enough room for the two of you? It’s preposterous!” She slammed her fists on the table. “You’d condemn our father to life as a peasant?”

  “Enough,” Briana snapped. “You don’t understand. You’ll never understand true love.” Her temper had gotten the better of her.

  Lucinda’s body sagged as she reached for the table.

  Her words had cut deeply into her sister’s heart, and Briana regretted her remark—it was a cruel thing to say. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I didn’t mean that.”

  Lucinda stiffened. “You did mean it. I know the level of your sincerity when it comes to me. I’ve tried my best to counsel you, to lift you above your petty dreams, but I can see that my words, and my example, have been held in small regard. What you’re doing is impetuous and foolhardy at best. A marriage to Rory Caulfield will be disastrous.” She spread her fingers on the table and leaned forward. “You’ve always been the pretty one—I’ve accepted that. But I’m the one who understands how the world works, what it takes to improve yourself and to be held in higher esteem. You’ll never take that away from me. My life won’t be taken away with insults.” She withdrew a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.

  Briana stood rigid on the other side of the table. Her sister’s assertions held a stinging ring of truth. “I’m sorry, Lucinda. Rory and I suspected that you and Father might object—but I’ve asked for consent, and it’s been given. Our time is too precious to waste in argument. I know you want to keep the house together as well, but my heart lies with Rory. I feel yours is far away in a place where our father will never go. I’m needed here—with Rory.”

  “But what can you do? What really can you do to save us and Lear House?” With the last question, tears slipped down Lucinda’s cheeks. She was sobbing as Brian entered the kitchen from the back door.

  “What’s going on,” he said. “Are you two at it again?”

  Lucinda turned away from them and dabbed her nose. “We were discussing the marriage—it’s tomorrow.”

  She feared what her father might say, but she didn’t want to prolong his displeasure with her decision. Brian shuffled toward her, his hands wrenched in front of him from working with the heavy cauldrons. He winced as he walked, his face etched with deep lines.

  Briana took a deep breath and then said, “We’re being married tomorrow at three.”

  Her father stopped and then leaned against the table piled high with bowls. He remained calm, his face expressionless. His lack of emotion frightened her. She gazed at him—perhaps there was slight resignation in his face, certainly not anger or disappointment. Whatever his mood, she judged it more satisfactory than what she was expecting. After what seemed an eternity, he finally spoke. “Long ago, I gave up turning you over my knee. It seems that both of you are in a hurry, but I’ve given my consent. Rory Caulfield is a good man.” He turned back to the door. “Bring the bread out. The soup kettles are warm.”

  Lucinda wheeled on her father. “That’s all you have to say?” she asked indignantly, and lifted her hands in exasperation. “Rory Caulfield is a good man? I should bite my own tongue rather than speak ill of my sister, but this has gone—”

  Brian put a finger to his lips. “Shush . . . Then don’t speak, daughter. We are a family and should be forgiving of our mistakes and grateful for our victories. Briana and Rory will sort this out. They will make their own way.” He stretched his arms over his head and then ambled toward the door. “We have more pressing matters to worry about than a marriage. When will Rory go to Belmullet?”

  Briana was relieved her father had not scolded her. He was right, heavier matters weighed on all their minds, which probably accounted for Lucinda’s irritation as well. As he reached the door, Briana said, “Thank you, Father, for your understanding. Rory and I won’t disappoint you.”

  * * *

  The next afternoon, thick, gray clouds rolled in from the Atlantic, spreading a chill over the manor. Briana watched them advance in misty waves over the bay. Spring had retreated under a gloomy attack that seemed a final blow from winter’s hand. She stood quietly in front of the hall looking glass, primping her hair, plucking at one strand and then another before tightening them back with a bow. Even the heath flowers would be damp now and not an asset to her brown dress.

  The tall clock near the staircase rang out at the half hour. Her father checked it every day to make sure it never stopped in its steady task.

  Shortly thereafter, just past two-thirty, Lucinda, attired in a blue dress, and her father, wearing his best breeches and jacket, met her in the great room at Lear House. The foul weather had left her fee
ling as if she had made a mistake to plan the wedding at Benwee Head. But she loved the cliffs so much she could envision no other place for the marriage except at Mass Rock.

  She greeted with them with few words and nervous looks.

  “I’d expected more smiles on your wedding day,” her father said, and withdrew his pipe from his pocket. “This is a day for a smoke and a nip from the bottle.”

  Briana hugged him and then her sister. “Marriage day jitters, but I’m happy you’re both here.” Lucinda smiled but said nothing.

  However, Briana knew what was bothering her was more than nerves. Earlier, from her vantage point on the lawn, she had seen tenants take to their fields. Only the young and old among the men mostly remained. Many husbands had taken what little provisions they had in hopes of finding relief work in Belmullet or Bangor. The women, attired in their scarlet mantles and yellow kerchiefs, stood among the potato ridges with their spades and with foot irons to protect the soles of their feet. They looked like cresting waves, each rising and dipping, back muscles straining, as they dug silently into the earth.

  But the sadness she felt upon seeing the women was punctuated by her own soon-to-be role as a wife. How would she and Rory survive in a land ravaged by famine? How could they bring a child into this world knowing the hardships that lay in front of them? Despite the joyous day, these questions gnawed at her. She wanted to ignore the alarming feelings twisting inside her, but try as she might they bubbled in her mind.

  “We should be going, or we might miss the wedding,” Lucinda said. There was a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

  Often she found that, of late, she was happiest when Lucinda was away in England; but then she would remember brighter days, fond times of old, when they were almost friends rather than the social adversaries they had become. There were moments, sometimes weeks, such as when their mother died, that they were childhood companions, weeping and consoling each other, determined to make sure that the family remained together. Was it only irritation with her sister’s “airs” that increasingly soured her return to Lear House? Possibly, but she also wished Lucinda would accept Rory, if not into her heart, then as a member of the family.