The Irishman's Daughter Page 15

  They took the shorter western path that bordered several precipitous cliffs before ending near Benwee Head. They had all climbed it many times before. The wind buffeted them as they ascended, the cold cutting through her shawl and dress to her bones. The village path may have been more comfortable, but there was little time to spare.

  The trail tightened to a narrow goat path above the foamy billows. Briana clutched the tussocks as she climbed, much like the ponies who used the tufted grass to their advantage. Lucinda groused under her breath about “using a more civilized route” but followed Briana. Her father brought up the rear.

  By the time she reached the plateau her heart was beating wildly from excitement and exertion. She smoothed her dress and looked for Rory and Father O’Kirwin and spotted them, heading toward Mass Rock, topping the path that came up from the village. The priest was attired in his cassock; Rory wore green breeches and a dark jacket over his white shirt. Many Masses were held at the rock since Catholic persecution had begun years ago. The law of 1829 had given Catholics the legal right to assemble, but the tradition of worshipping in a secret natural setting or in a secluded home had continued.

  Smiling with a face ruddy from the climb, Rory approached her with open arms. He drew her close and kissed her as the priest watched them from his stance near the rock. The stubble on his chin raked her cheek.

  “You might have shaved,” she teased him.

  He gave a sly smile. “By now, you should be used to the way I look.”

  “Children and witnesses,” Father O’Kirwin called out. “I have people to serve, and I’m sure, Briana, you have another night of cooking to attend to.”

  As she stood before the priest, she didn’t want to think about cooking and serving, or even the hungry. Her marriage, the happiest day of her life, should be the only thing on her mind. What awaited her after the wedding would jolt her back to reality: the starving families, the dwindling stores of food at Lear House, the bankruptcy of the tenants—those problems awaited after the Mass was through.

  Her father and sister took their places on either side of them while the priest began, “I know in my heart you are a husband and wife who will work together for the good of the Church, Ireland, and its people,” he said. He read the vows and then asked them to take each other as man and wife.

  “I do,” they repeated to each other.

  At times, Briana looked over her shoulder expecting her father and Lucinda to charge toward the priest with scowling faces, shouting their objections to the marriage, but in the end there were none.

  Rory slipped a simple gold band over her finger, his mother’s wedding ring. Jarlath and his wife had given it to him several years ago because he was the remaining unmarried son. The ring was scratched and worn in places from his mother’s hard work. Briana didn’t mind; in fact, she cherished it all the more for having belonged to Mrs. Caulfield, a strong, devout woman who always protected and loved her family. She hoped to be the same kind of woman to her new husband.

  Father O’Kirwin blessed them, and the wedding ended.

  “I wish you well and a life filled with happiness,” Brian told his new son-in-law. Lucinda offered her congratulations and shook Rory’s hand. Briana appreciated her sister’s gesture. The three departed on the path back to the village, leaving them alone.

  They walked toward the edge of the cliff, but chilly blasts from the northwest stopped them from venturing too close. Under the gray eddy of clouds, white gulls and black-tipped terns soared near Kid Island like a whirlwind of flying dots, catching the updrafts from the sheer rock. As they stood, arm in arm, looking out at the iron-colored waves tipped with foam, the impetuosity of her marriage suddenly struck her. In a sudden panic, she asked Rory, “Did we make a mistake?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t think so,” he said, and then laughed heartily. “Of course not. I’m happy that it’s done. We have each other.” He turned her so they stood with their sides to the wind and then kissed her.

  She pressed against him and felt safe and warm against his chest. The rushing air forced them together, and the heat from his body surrounded her like a cocoon. Her body arched in the ecstatic joy of his touch. For a moment, she swooned, closed her eyes, and saw only blackness. The ocean dropped away, the faint cries of the sea birds receded; her body melded with his as their souls fused together.

  “How do we consummate this marriage?” Rory asked as they broke apart.

  “It’s simple,” she said, and laughed.

  “I’m not joking.” His face darkened. “I’ve a family staying with me, and tonight I plan on helping you feed the people.”

  “We’ll make it happen,” she said.

  They descended the trail to the village center. As they walked, Briana savored this moment together as man and wife. Even as Mrs. Caulfield, she wondered whether she and Rory would have any chance at happiness. They arrived at his cabin, and Briana felt the shift in his mood. His body tensed, and any happiness, any smile, that was left over from the wedding vanished.

  The family he had housed sat outside staring at the pig that Rory and his brother had protected day and night. Her heart melted as she looked at the emaciated parents and especially the two young children with protruding eyes and drawn faces. Yet, observing them and feeling Rory’s anger, Briana began to understand why he had joined the Mollies. His sympathy and love for the people, his desire to set wrong to right, drove him to take action. Perhaps, his way—direct, radical—was better than her attempt to save the starving by feeding them. That could only last so long.

  She kissed his cheek and clenched his hand. The message was given—she would see him tonight when the people were fed. The four poor masses of skin and bones that gathered outside Rory’s door occupied her mind as she walked to Lear House. They mattered more at the moment than did her marriage bed.

  * * *

  More people gathered for supper than could be adequately served. Near the end, Briana rationed the oats and bread so at least everyone got a small helping. No one was happy about the situation, and other than a few offers of congratulations on their marriage there was no celebration.

  The mood was dismal when the four of them gathered in the kitchen to finish cleaning up.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to make the trip to Belmullet tomorrow,” Brian told Rory as he wiped down the table.

  Briana looked over her shoulder at her husband, who gave her a downcast look. She knew what the journey meant—rising early, no lounging about to enjoy their first night as man and wife.

  “I’ll be happy to go, sir,” Rory said with a half smile.

  “There’ll be none of that now,” her father said. “It’s Brian or Da . . . not sir.”

  “Thank you . . . Brian.”

  There was an awkward silence before her father spoke. “Speaking of sir, this came by post today.” He withdrew a letter from his jacket pocket and tossed it on the table.

  Lucinda dropped her dish towel on the counter and darted to the letter. “It’s from Sir Thomas,” she said breathlessly.

  “I’ve already read it,” Brian said. “He’s expected here in two weeks’ time.” His shoulders drooped and he sat at the table. “I’ll have plenty of explaining to do when he arrives.”

  Lucinda looked askance at her father. “What do you mean ‘explaining’?”

  “I’m too tired to talk about it tonight, daughter,” Brian said. “Everything will be out in the open soon—Sir Thomas will realize how difficult the situation has become at Lear House.”

  Lucinda tapped the letter against her heart and then handed it back to her father. “I will be happier when Sir Thomas arrives. Life will be much better.”

  Briana hoped her sister’s prediction would come true, but she doubted that the Englishman would offer much help to the starving, or to the tenants who, through their lagging payments, contributed to the estate’s financial ills. As their lives crumbled, so would Lear House’s fortunes.

  Brian tossed the lett
er on the table and managed a smile. “But we do have some happiness in our family.” He rose and put his arm around Rory’s shoulder. “Maybe a small drink of French brandy and then off to bed. A couple should have privacy on their wedding night.” He directed those words with a wink to Rory. “Bedrooms aplenty upstairs. Sir Thomas will never know.”

  Briana’s heart jumped at the thought of spending her wedding night in a Lear House bedroom, because such an extraordinary thought had never entered her mind. She ran to her father, hugged him, and kissed him on the cheek. “Da, you’re too kind.”

  “Yes, too generous indeed,” Lucinda said.

  “Hush, daughter,” her father said. “On your wedding night, you’ll wish for something special.”

  “I will, and I’ll have it.” She turned back to drying the bowls.

  “Let’s have a drink and a chat outside before the embers die,” Brian told Rory.

  Before they left the kitchen in search of the brandy, Rory whispered to her, “I’ll say good night to the family and make sure Jarlath takes in the pig. I’ll meet you upstairs.”

  “I need to gather a few things from the cottage,” she whispered back.

  After the men had gone, Lucinda said, “Congratulations, sister, you’re the first of the Walsh daughters to be married. I look forward to my own vows . . . someday.” Her words were spoken in a dour tone that indicated she was still melancholy about the union.

  Briana shrugged off the slight. Nothing could ruin her mood. Her mind was filled with thoughts of Rory and the happiness they would share before his morning trip to Belmullet.

  * * *

  Her feet barely touched the ground as she ran to the cottage to gather her things for the night. All her years of padding over the heath hadn’t prepared her for the feeling of the earth flying beneath her shoes; each dewed blade of grass propelled her forward until she collapsed, giddy with joy, against the oak door. She caught her breath and stepped into a room she had known all her life but that now looked different. How many nights had she gathered around the fire pit with her father and sister? How many nights had she and Lucinda sat at her father’s feet listening to him read Shakespeare or tell Irish folk tales of fairies, sprites, hobgoblins, and ghosts, scaring the life out of them, only for all of them to end up in gales of laughter.

  Strange, she didn’t feel older, but a building sense inside her forced her to consider her life as a married woman—a woman who would have children with all the responsibilities of motherhood. For an instant, the image of the dying child in his mother’s arms entered her head again, but she quickly brushed it away, revealing a blank darkness she had thrust upon herself. That was quickly replaced by the tingling, raw-nerved emotions of a wedding night. She wanted to dance through the cottage but allowed herself only a quick jig around the fire pit. Rory would be waiting, and she set about her tasks.

  She gathered her brush and a clasp for her hair and changed into her yellow dress, a color that would brighten both the night and the bedroom. She sneaked into Lucinda’s room and looked at herself in the small looking glass that her sister carried in her travels. Perhaps it was the dim light from the oil lamp, but her skin appeared too white, too washed out, so she pinched her cheeks and, to redden them, nipped at her upper and lower lips with her teeth. While at the mirror, she brushed and clasped the strands of her long, dark brown hair at the base of her neck.

  She sat in her father’s chair, took off her shoes, and examined her nails. Her feet were dirt free. Holding her hands away from her face, she saw that her fingernails were clean from doing the dishes. She took a cloth from the wash bucket and dipped it into the cool, fresh water, scrubbing her face and exposed skin. With that done, she took one last look around the cottage, inhaled deeply, and set out for Lear House.

  Lucinda was walking up the path to the cottage. They exchanged a nod and said good night to each other, both unwilling to open a more grievous wound between them.

  The door to Lear House was unlocked. Briana left her shoes in the hall, lit a candle, and climbed the stairs. Her father had not specified which bedroom to take, but she thought that among the rooms, the most grand would be Sir Thomas’s. The thought of making love, even being close to Rory in the Master’s bedroom, sent a shiver down her spine. It was as if she was, for the first time in her life, decadent—as if she were a naughty child again, getting away with an indecorous act. Her father had assured her that Blakely would never find out. She imagined that Rory might have a different feeling about being in the bedroom—one of comeuppance for the man he despised.

  She pushed open the door, and the room unfolded before her. It smelled musty from being closed for the winter, and the white cloths that covered the armchairs and the dresser were still in place, but the bed, a four-poster in English mahogany, sat in its heavy glory against the east wall, its fine cotton spread and sheets reflecting the candlelight.

  She carefully removed the dust cover from the night table, revealing an oil lamp and two books of maps. The dust spread through the light and settled on the floor as she lit the lamp from the candle’s flame.

  Past the window, the cresting waves on Broadhaven Bay were barely visible against the pervasive dark. She opened the west window to let in the fresh breeze and to clear the must from the air. Having nothing else to do, she lay down on the bed, put her feet up, hardly noticing the heavy drowsiness that overtook her from the day’s events. The cool ocean air brushed over her face. How wonderful the evening was! She had a bit of happiness—a wedding night filled with joy even as the famine raged across Ireland.

  When she awoke, Rory was sitting next to her on the bed, cupping her head with his strong hands.

  She rose up to meet him, but he stopped her with a gentle touch. She lay back and gazed into his face. He had shaved! She brushed her fingers across his smooth cheeks. The candlelight played across his face, and the flickering shadows only made him more handsome in her mind.

  “I couldn’t be kissing you with whiskers,” he said, and intertwined the fingers of his right hand with hers.

  “I’m glad you did,” she said, and then sighed with contentment. His skin smelled of soap and fresh water. “I’m also glad we waited until our wedding night.”

  With his left hand, he slowly undid the buttons on his white shirt, revealing his chest and stomach. “There’s no need to wait now.” He kissed her and then positioned his body over hers.

  “We’ll be careful,” she said, touching a finger to his lips.

  “Yes.”

  He pressed against her, and the white curtains across the west window flapped inward from a sudden gust. The candle sputtered out, sending the room into darkness.

  But she didn’t care. Her best friend, her lover, her husband, was over her now, and his strength had become part of her. At that moment, all she ever wanted and needed was in this room.

  CHAPTER 9

  May 1846

  The day dawned bright and clear with a light breeze off the Atlantic. The weather was idyllic, but the mood of the Walsh household was anything but placid for the arrival of Sir Thomas Blakely. In the morning, Briana left Rory at their home to help her sister and father at Lear House. Lucinda primped as she and her father dusted and swept the manor.

  Her sister rushed from looking glass to looking glass, making sure she appeared her best for her employer’s arrival. She even put on the yellow dress patterned with white periwinkles that she had worn when she had arrived from England. She fashioned her hair in a tight bun, applied color to her cheeks and lips, and sought Briana’s approval of her appearance, which she gave without reservation.

  By mid-afternoon, everyone was looking up the lane that led to Carrowteige as often as her sister. Lucinda paced, mopping her brow with a perfume-scented handkerchief. Briana wore her brown dress and plain shoes. She had no desire to preen before Sir Thomas and few clothes to wear anyway, all of which hung on wooden pegs on Rory’s cabin walls. Now that she had moved in with him, life had taken an even more au
stere turn, but one that she didn’t mind. Now Lear House seemed more like a foreign palace planted on Irish soil than a childhood second home.

  Her father looked like a smart servant in his freshly laundered shirt, breeches, and vest. The kitchen, nearly depleted of food, had been washed and scrubbed until its table and chairs glowed from the polish. All the furniture had been dusted, the pillows fluffed, the windows thrown open to allow fresh air to circulate throughout the musty rooms. And, of most importance to the owner, a year’s worth of ledgers were stacked in two columns on the library desk for Sir Thomas’s perusal.

  The starving people, and the families housed by the tenants, had moved on after the last feeding in April. Once Brian had announced that there was no more food, they had slowly disappeared, abandoning their burrows by the side of the lane. There was no uprising, no grumbling, only a great sadness that dispersed the people in silence after many thanks had been given. Rory had made the trip to Belmullet and secured supplies that they hoped would feed more, but there was only enough to nourish the family and a few others. The last few days of peace had allowed Briana to put the famine out of her mind and settle in at the cottage with Rory.

  A few minutes after three, they heard the clack of hooves and the grinding of wheels in the rutted lane.

  Lucinda, who had been fanning herself near one of the windows, started in her chair. “He’s here!” The excitement in her voice rippled through the air.

  Brian rushed from the library to the entrance. Lucinda led the way as they stepped into the afternoon sun. The carriage, a shiny black rig with dappled brown-and-white horses, gleamed in the light. The shades were lifted, allowing them to see into the compartment. When the rig came to a stop, Sir Thomas leaned forward in his seat. Even Briana admired his handsome figure. Nine months had passed since she had last seen him.