The Irishman's Daughter Page 21

  “I haven’t been able to think of anything either. Da told me only a few old coins have been collected this month. With nothing to sell, there’s no money coming in.”

  Rory raised on his elbow and looked at her with an intensity that unnerved her. He studied her for a moment before asking, “Have you ever thought about going to America?”

  She stared back, the blood draining from her face. She had never, in all her days, considered leaving Lear House. Born and reared here, she had only known this life and she was committed to keeping the family together even though the Walsh family had no claim to the property. The blight had not changed her mind about her ancestral home. Now, after months of dealing with shortages and the ever-present hunger, she still had no desire to leave County Mayo. She shook under the blanket, although the cabin wasn’t cold.

  What would the family do in America? Her father and sister would certainly object to leaving—for different reasons. Lucinda would not forsake the Continent for the United States. She had one goal in life, and that was to capture the heart of the landlord. Her father would laugh at such a suggestion, saying that he was too old to make the trip and that he would never want to be more than a walk away from his wife’s grave. Ancestry, land, and sentiment were too important to him. Her mouth puckered, but no words came out.

  Rory interlocked his fingers, lay back, and put his hands under his head. “I see more anger than you do, Briana.”

  She knew he was serious; he hardly ever used her first name.

  “I was able to shake some sense into most of them at the last meeting, but they’re on the verge of erupting,” he continued. “They know the landlord and his guests are cavorting about with food on their plates while Irish families starve. If the Englishman sends me away to Westport again yet offers nothing to the tenants, there’ll be hell to pay. I promised to do what I could.”

  She placed her hand on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath.

  He clutched her fingers and ran his thumb across her knuckles. “Men are leaving Ireland to find work. One of the Mollies who went to England stayed two months and then came back. He told us how it works. Most leave their wives and children behind, walk to Dublin, and take a cattle ship to Liverpool to work rail construction near Manchester. They send a little money home to the family, but it’s hard, backbreaking work. The men are crammed in flimsy shacks hardly better than living in a ditch here. Others head to America for the same business.”

  “So their families won’t starve,” Briana said, offering the only optimistic thought she could.

  Rory nodded. “But at what cost? They keep them happy with poorhouse wages, cheap liquor, and women who spread disease. Living there is worse than hell. And to tell you the truth, I don’t think I’m cut out for the rails—in England or America. I wouldn’t be happy clearing tunnels, moving rocks and dirt, bowing and scraping to some English boss or, worse yet, some hired Irish manager with a chip on his shoulder. If I had to make a choice, I’d say our chances would be better in America.” He grasped her arm gently. “All I’m asking is for you to consider the possibility before you reject it completely. Do we want a child born into this hardship—with only suffering for a future?”

  His gaze had shifted from quiet intensity to thoughtful appeal. She thought of the times they had made love, sometimes with guilt carried in their bodies because they knew the Church wanted them to procreate despite the famine. Still, they had prayed for God to forgive their sin and tried every way they knew how not to conceive.

  “We want a child, but we don’t want . . .” Rory’s eyes grew wet with tears.

  She knew what he wanted to say: We don’t want to bring a child into a world where death is as likely as life.

  “By all rights, I should be the one to go,” he said. “But if for some reason I can’t, you must be the one.” He nodded, kissed her, then rolled over and blew out the candle on the small table, plunging the cabin into darkness.

  A thousand questions jumped into her head, but she was too exhausted to answer them. The dark and the immensity of the problems that faced them left her body drained and her mind bewildered. She snuggled next to Rory, knowing that this night there would be no lovemaking.

  * * *

  Several days later, on a relatively mild Monday afternoon, Rory met Connor Donlon and Noel Neary in a secluded area of Broadhaven Bay far from Lear House. Rory had replaced the satin wrapping the pistol and its firing apparatus with a muslin bag and carried it to a small inlet surrounded by sand dunes.

  He spotted Connor and Noel, both Mollies, walking down the beach a few minutes after he arrived.

  When the men reached him, Rory shook their hands. He felt awkward, knowing what was in the bag. Pistols were rare. He had told only Connor and Noel about the weapon given by the Captain and sworn the two men to secrecy.

  “How’s Heather?” Rory asked Noel. He was a slight man of considerable intelligence with a narrow face, wire-rimmed spectacles, thinning black hair, and eyes like a fox. Rory felt that, given the opportunity, Noel would have made a fine teacher.

  Looking down at the sand, Noel answered, “We take it day by day.”

  Briana had told him about Noel’s wife, Heather, the thin and sallow woman who stood next to her the day he had fought Connor. Rory had rarely seen her since.

  “She’s given everything to our children. To be honest, I’m not sure she’ll live much longer if we can’t manage a decent meal,” Noel said. “Our neighbors have been kind, but now everyone is hungry.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Rory said, and opened the bag. “The Englishman is sending me to Westport tomorrow to get supplies for his grand social event on Saturday. He wants everything by Thursday.” He paused as Connor removed the pistol from the bag and examined it. “I need it for my protection.”

  “I thought you hated the Englishman,” Noel said.

  “He’s no friend of mine, but when he pays me, and I can secure food for him as well as my neighbors . . . I’ll go.” He patted Noel on the shoulder.

  “It’s a beauty.” Connor’s eyes sparkled with a jealous gleam as he turned the weapon over in his sturdy hands. “I’ve never fired a pistol like this, but it looks similar to one I’ve seen.”

  “This is what you do.” Noel took the weapon and showed Rory and Connor how to clean it, place the primer and powder, and tamp down the ball. “Stand aside,” he ordered, and pointed the pistol toward a dune. As Rory watched, Noel cocked the hammer with his thumb, aimed, and fired. The ball spewed streams of sand into the air. The percussion shook the air with a thunderous clap as the pistol belched smoke from the discharge.

  “That should wake them up all the way to Carrowteige,” Connor said, rubbing his ears.

  “You try it,” Noel said, handing the pistol to Rory.

  He took the weapon and, following Noel’s instructions, fired twice and then stopped, not willing to waste more ammunition. “So now we know how it’s done,” he said to the men. As he cleaned the pistol and then returned it to the bag, he talked about the Kilbanes and his experience at the cottage with Malachy. Everyone at Lear House and in the village had come to know about the murders. The poet had a darker side to his chosen profession—a bearer of news, often bad these days.

  As they walked along the beach, Rory spotted a man paralleling them, ducking in and out behind the dunes to the east.

  “Who is that?” Noel asked, squinting through his glasses.

  “I know,” Rory answered, taken aback by the man’s proximity.

  Connor stopped and stared into the dunes. “It’s that daft poet, Quinn.”

  The poet stopped as well, stared back at them, and then trekked farther into the dunes.

  “What’s he doing—following us?” Noel asked.

  “Who can tell?” Rory was annoyed with the poet for spreading the story about the Kilbanes. After the poet had somewhat recovered, Rory had told him about the murders. Quinn replied that he had suspected something was wrong because
the house was deserted, but he was too sick to care.

  Rory looked down at the bag and considered the valuable contents inside. He would make sure the pistol was in a safe place overnight before leaving on his trip to Westport. Sir Thomas had offered Briana another five pounds for the journey. This time, Rory planned to stop at The Black Ram and buy as much food as he could carry for the Walshes and his brother’s family—in addition to the supplies to be shipped to Belmullet for Lear House.

  They arrived at the lane leading to the farms. Quinn had disappeared in the dunes. “One thing,” Rory told them before they separated. “Promise me you won’t let things get out of hand. I’ll secure as much as I can to be divided between the families. What the Englishman doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

  Noel nodded, but Connor looked less than enthusiastic about his request. He trusted the slight man to prevail when it came to calming tempers, but Connor’s bullish impulsiveness often turned into a call for force.

  The cabin was empty when he returned, for Briana was cooking the evening meal at Lear House. She had also agreed to help her sister with preparations for the ball while Rory was gone.

  He took the pistol out of the bag, placed it in the corner, and covered it with dirty clothes. Briana wouldn’t be doing any wash before morning. He lay down on the bed and thought about a question he had pondered for weeks. How could he get the family out of County Mayo by September before the Atlantic became too perilous to cross?

  * * *

  The ball was slated to occur on the Saturday after Rory returned from Westport. The supplies arrived at Belmullet on Friday and were shipped to the store the same day—causing some consternation with Sir Thomas for their late arrival.

  Rory talked little about the trip because he claimed that nothing unusual had happened. He had met with Captain James, who was in port with the Tristan. They had exchanged money and goods with little fuss. Rory had slept two nights outside with little shelter and the pistol by his side. He told Briana he never had cause to use it, but she believed there was more to the story than he was telling.

  On the day of the ball, the manor was filled with activity. The floors in the great room were broom swept and buffed with cloth, the furniture was moved against the walls to make room for dancing, the great table was hauled from the kitchen to the back wall for food presentation, and the alcove before the front window was cleared for the Dublin musicians. They had arrived on Friday also and made themselves at home overnight in the library and kitchen.

  Briana and her father spent most of the day preparing what food they could. Oatcakes, ham, and a fish were prepared for the guests. Brian also tried his hand at the Indian corn and managed to prepare a dish that even Briana found somewhat palatable because of the judicious use of brandy.

  Lucinda had begged Sir Thomas to give her the afternoon off from schooling the Wards’ boys, and the landlord agreed. Briana knew her sister wasn’t interested in helping out around the house at that late hour; her only concern was in making herself beautiful for the ball.

  After most of the preparations had been completed, Briana rushed back to the cabin to wash up and change into her best dress. Rory, sulking, sat on the bed looking toward the bag that held the pistol.

  “I can’t convince you to come tonight?” She dipped a washcloth in the water basin.

  “No,” he said. “I’m in no mood for frivolity and wasteful displays of consumption.”

  “There’s barely enough there for the musicians and guests,” she replied. “There’ll be yet another trip to Westport before long.” She patted her face with the rag and awaited his response.

  After a long time he said, “There won’t be another trip.”

  She looked at him, astounded by his words. “What?” Perhaps this was the reason, now coming out, that he had been so out of sorts and quiet after his return from Westport. “Why not?”

  “Because the Captain told me so.” He rose from the bed and stood across from her. “Sir Thomas has been playing a dangerous game—one that could lead to arrests all around if he isn’t careful. But it’s of no matter now. The game has come to an end.”

  Briana slipped out of her work dress, ran the cloth over her arms and legs, and then reached for her red one, which hung on a peg near the door. A shiver skittered over her. She dreaded his response but needed to hear more. “Why is it coming to an end?”

  “Because Captain James and Miller are taking a cut by selling meal and other goods to landlords and agents that should be going to the community stores. The English, the commissariat, even the Irish government have looked the other way for a while, but now every bag counts. The accounting is strict, and the payoffs have stopped. Lives are in the balance.”

  She stepped into her dress and let Rory’s words sink in. She felt selfish and ungrateful while fussing with her hair: What of our lives? What will become of us now that the food has stopped?

  A sudden sadness washed over his face. “It’s worse now than the last time we went. Starving people are everywhere. Those men who can stand are wandering like phantoms looking for work that can’t be found, families wrenched apart by hunger.” He lowered his head. “At the crossing south of Carrowteige, families are weeping, holding on to each other to say a last good-bye—men traveling to God knows where. It’s a river of sorrows, the saddest place I’ve ever seen only a few miles from here.” He clasped his hands and brought them to his chest as if he was praying. “They clutch each other, exchange a handkerchief as a token of their love. They cry as if it’s the end of the world. Who knows whether these men will ever be reunited with their wives and children again?”

  Briana knew the crossing well; it was where they had encountered the starving family. However, she could imagine the horror now: somber, gray days; the clouds shedding rain on the bleak, stony riverbank. Families split in two, wrenched apart by the famine. She was torn between her duties as a wife and the daughter of the owner’s agent. There was nothing she could do this evening despite their shared sadness.

  He took her into his arms and cradled her close. “You look beautiful.”

  She pulled away, embarrassed by the compliment given after such bad news. “I’m sure I look as common as I feel.”

  “Go ahead,” Rory said, settling back on the bed. “I’ll be asleep when you get home.”

  She nodded and left him alone in the cabin, feeling as if her body was collapsing upon itself. The sinking sensation in her stomach made her grasp the fences for support as she walked back to Lear House. At one point, she stopped, clutched a rocky wall, and looked up at the manor. Its windows were filled with candles and oil lamps. How she had treasured such scenes when she was a child—the beauty and history of Lear House had sustained her. Now, in the fading light, the loveliness she had so revered seemed hollow and threatening. She wrested her hands from the stones, stood erect, and smoothed her dress. There was no time for forays into the past. She had to stand tall, allay her fear, not only for herself but for her family.

  * * *

  Rory found himself annoyed by the string music that drifted into the cabin as he lay on the straw. He pictured the fine men and women: the Andersons, the Rogerses, and the Wards, twirling around the floor of the great room. The three boys would be dressed in their breeches and waistcoats, sitting in chairs, swinging their feet to the music. Perhaps they would even dance with their mother in some old-fashioned step like the gavotte or the minuet—before the Irish musicians broke into a jig. He laughed at the thought of the Englishmen indulging in a country dance before his mind turned dark again.

  The windows must be open because of the heat inside. The bastard knows it’s torture to the rest of us, a slap across the face with this heartless display. Oh, stop fooling yourself, get dressed, and see what’s going on! What can it hurt? You can’t sleep anyway.

  He pulled on a shirt and snuffed out the candle. Fog had moved in from the Atlantic, smothering Lear House with damp, low clouds that shifted in the wind like droplets blown
from a fountain. Every now and then, light jumped from the manor windows to the gray clouds, revealing a misty haze that arched from the ground to the sky.

  The music and laughter grew louder with each step he took toward the manor. He stopped south of it and found himself fascinated by the bodies moving past the windows. Judging by the merriment, clapping, and exuberant playing, everyone was having a good time.

  All that was going on inside had nothing to do with what was going on outside. Just a few months ago, the road to Lear House had been lined with the starving. Now even Indian corn had been cut off from the manor. The next potato crop might fail, and the estate was collapsing into bankruptcy, so all the wine, song, and cheer in the world couldn’t lessen the disaster threatening them.

  Someone moved in the shadows outside the great room’s large window. Rory fled to the path leading to the bay and crouched behind the slope of a sand dune. The figure slid next to the open window, keeping out of sight from those inside. As it moved closer to the light, he recognized Lucinda attired in the traveling dress she had worn from England. She positioned herself against the wall with her head cocked in the direction of the glass.

  Almost immediately, Rory was also able to discern the objects of her attention. Illuminated by the light inside, Briana and Sir Thomas strolled to the window, a short distance from the musicians. The two moved close to each other and then separated as if in a dance themselves.

  Lucinda cupped her hand, hoping to hear any conversation that might come from her sister and the landlord.

  Rory fought back jealousy as the talk between the two continued for several minutes. Suddenly, Briana broke away, leaving Sir Thomas standing alone. Lucinda, witnessing the same, slipped into the darkness between the cottage and the house and turned toward the only available entrance at the rear—the kitchen door.

  Rory rose from his hiding place and wondered what Lucinda had heard, why she felt it necessary to spy on them in the first place. Judging from the movements of his wife and Sir Thomas, the discussion had been an earnest one.