CHAPTER FOUR
BLUE!
The color I adore, as it reminds me of the bottom of the swimming pool, a place where I can get lost in. There are no demands from the water; sounds are muffled, and at times, it silences my mind. My fingers tighten around the material, but the dress is too short for Sunday service. I fling it over my shoulder, and it joins the piles of dresses behind me.
The next item of clothing is a cream blouse, one my mother always hated as she declared it showed off far too much skin with its transparent material. This one I linger on longer, imagining her features pinching in complete disapproval.
I shake off the rebellious thought and throw the blouse onto the ground. A screech sounds, and I turn to see Scamps race out of the walk-in closet with the blouse covering his furry body.
I’m tempted to chase after the cat, but the sound of soft laughter has me staying put. “Come here, Scamps; what has she done to you?” My sister”s soothing voice reaches my ears.
“Is she okay?” I call when I spot a silky blue scarf on the ground. I will take a piece of me to Sunday Service. I scoop it up off the floor and exit the walk-in closet with the only dress that falls below my knees. It will have to do. I nearly tumble across the piles of clothes that I have discarded in my search for appropriate clothing.
“She’s fine,” Ella speaks from my bed. She’s lying on her stomach with her phone in hand. She doesn’t look up at me as she grins and continues to scroll.
“You better not be posting that on social media,” I warn.
Ella has turned Scamps into a cat star, or so she likes to think.
Ella still doesn’t look up at me. “I won’t,” she lies.
I bet she snapped a picture of Scamps wearing my blouse.
I slip the dark blue dress over my head; it falls perfectly below my knee. I’ve already put on pantyhose, and I take the light silk scarf and tighten it around my neck. I have to return to the closet for my white gloves and hat. Once everything is on, I return to my bedroom.
“What do you think?” I ask.
For the first time, Ella looks up at me. Her eyes widen, and I feel like I’ve nailed it until she bursts out laughing. “What on God’s green earth are you wearing?”
I glance down at my dress and brush imaginary wrinkles away. Dolores, our housemaid, would be appalled to think everything wasn’t perfect; it always is, but my nerves are getting the best of me.
Ella rolls onto her back, her chuckles coming to a stop when she sits up, but she still wears a goofy smile. Her soft brown eyes and sandy blonde hair are identical to mine.
“Church clothes!” I hold my arms out as if to say, isn’t it obvious?
“It’s not the Christ child’s birthday, is it? No one goes to church like that on a September Sunday.”
I place my hands on my hips. “How would I know? We are not exactly church people. Besides, how would you know?”
Ella raises her phone, and I quickly try to grab the contraption before she takes a picture of me. She pulls it out of my reach, but I’m satisfied when she places it on my bed. “Every time I sleep over Riley’s house, her mother insists on us attending Mass in order to save my poor soul. Just put on a nice sweater and brush your teeth, and everyone will be cool with you. Trust me.”
I allow my hands to run across my dress one more time. Maybe this is too much. “Even if I am going with someone like Diarmuid O’Sullivan?” I hate how I stammer over his name. The memory of what I did with Selene turns my face red, and I dip my chin, the hat hopefully hiding my burning cheeks from my sister.
“I mean…maybe keep the dress? Definitely get rid of the gloves and hat. You look like Nan.” Ella’s voice has softened.
I pull off the hat and the gloves and sit down beside Ella on the bed. There is a comfortable silence between us. I imagine she’s thinking about how one day she may be handed over to a strange man just like me. It’s not the future I want for my sister. I wrap my arm around her shoulder and lean my head against hers. “What would I do without you?” She is the reason I am going through with this. I will not allow her to be handed over to a strange man. If I do this for our family”s position, then she won’t have to.
“Probably end up with a husband with no teeth, especially if you dress like that.”
I release Ella as she chuckles again. The dress isn’t that bad. “Oh my God, let it go,” I warn her as I return to the mirror.
“Sorry, sis. I have a visual memory, and that was quite a visual.”
I meet Ella’s gaze in the mirror. She”s no longer smiling; she has picked up her phone but hasn’t turned it on. I spin, leaving my own worries to the side, and focus on Ella.
“How many hours today?”
Ella shrugs her shoulders before she speaks. “Four. I got lucky. My recital went well, and Mother is pleased. Sunday is supposed to be my one day off from ballet, but she still wants four hours in the basement.”
Guilt churns heavily in my stomach. It should be me, is all I can think. “That sounds rough.” I finally say. But I remind myself I can’t save her from everything. So, the tradeoff isn’t so bad. She must do dance instead of being handed over to the hands of the kings.
Ella sighs and looks at me sadly. “It could be worse.”
She’s sixteen; she should be having fun, playing on her phone, hanging out with friends like an ordinary teenager, but we aren’t ordinary. I don’t think we ever will be. Our mother demands perfection in the form of extracurricular activities that she craved during her youth. She lives her life through us. Ballet was her love, and I had to endure years of training, but now that I’m being married off, I was allowed to step away, but only at the expense of Ella picking up the exhausting training.
“When will he be here?” Ella changes the subject, reminding me how wise she is beyond her years.
I glance at the dainty gold watch that wraps my wrist, a gift from my father on my twenty-first birthday.
I exhale. “Soon. I need to get downstairs.” I pick up a pair of small black kitten heels and slip my feet into them.
“Niamh?”
Ella’s soft voice has me picking up my clutch and pausing before I leave the room. “Yeah?”
“I hope he is kind to you.”
My throat tightens at her words. “I hope so too, kid.”
I leave the room before I start to cry. I won’t break. I go down to the main floor and walk to the back of the house, where I can see through plate-glass windows. In the distance, the Irish Sea laps gently against the shores of Dublin. I close my eyes and think about the taste of the salt on my lips. The weight of the water against my body, the freedom the ocean offers me. Freedom that I can’t find in this world.
The doorbell rings, startling me out of my meditation. I leave my favorite room and make my way gracefully to the front door. Years of being a ballerina and advanced swimmer have given my footing grace and poise that makes me look sure and calm. I am neither on the inside.
I take one final glance at my reflection in the hall mirror as the doorbell rings again. I’m not one to wear makeup, so I’ve kept it light, with a single coat of gloss across my lips and a thin application of mascara. With my hair swept up in a knot at the nape of my neck, I look composed and respectful. I open the door, expecting to see Diarmuid O’Sullivan’s driver, but I’m taken aback to find the man himself on my doorstep. The night I met him, a driver had collected me from my home, so I expected the same today.
His gray eyes take me in from the tip of my toes all the way to the crown of my head. I hold still, remembering the level of respect we must show him. The obedience we must give. That part was drilled into my head by my parents. I hate it, but to keep Ella safe, I will do what is necessary. His Armani gray suit is almost the same color as his eyes. I don’t want this marriage, but that doesn’t stop me from admiring how handsome he is. I smile like I’m at the start of a show and compose all my nerves.
“Good evening, Mr. O’Sullivan.” I don’t stutter, and for that, I’m grateful.
“Miss Connelly.” His voice is deep and sends shivers across my flesh. I grip my clutch and step out onto the porch; he turns his back on me as I close the door.
Diarmuid walks to his car and opens the passenger door for me; he’s driving us himself. This will make us very close. I get into the passenger seat and thank him. His large frame walks around the front of the car, and when he gets in, his cologne sends butterflies erupting in my stomach. I wave away the unwanted attraction. I don’t want this. I don’t want to be going to church or anywhere with him.
I had hoped that I would not be picked as his bride, but that hope was squashed when I got the message that he would like me to attend Sunday church with him. I had been quiet when we first met; I even stuttered. I had thought that would make him not want me. It was small things that I hoped he didn’t pick me for, so when my parents found out, they would know I was obedient, but I just wasn’t his taste.
Amira was stunning, and when he hadn’t gotten her involved in our first meeting, I had thought maybe he favored her more than myself and Selene, like boys are always mean to girls they fancy. I glance at Diarmuid. He is a far cry from a boy. He’s a man and one who clearly knows his power.
I’m wondering if he thought I was easy prey. That maybe, I would be so alone with him. My stomach churns again at the thought.
“How has your week been?” Diarmuid’s voice pulls me out of my musing.
“Very well, thank you, and yours?” I ask.
“Interesting,” he states as we leave my family estate. His voice holds disinterest. I’m not one for making small talk, but I know for my parents’ sake, I need to make some kind of an effort. Everything will be reported back to them.
“It was very kind of you to pick me up,” I say politely.
He takes a quick look at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. A smile plays on his lips but doesn’t form.
“My pleasure.”
“It’s a beautiful day,” I say and focus out the window. We can’t get to the church quickly enough. He shifts gears, and the car moves faster like he wishes this ride to end as much as I do.
“I’m sure it will rain at some point today.”
I continue with the small talk until Diarmuid starts to shift, like he can’t take another second of this. Maybe this isn’t a bad thing. He slows down and takes a left-hand turn into the grounds of the churchyard. It’s lined with high-powered cars. This mass will only be open to people with an invite.
He pulls into a reserved parking spot and turns off the engine.
He doesn’t speak as he gets out, and I stay where I am until he opens my door. I thank him and climb out. I only have a moment to breathe when the junior priest walks with a quick gait over to Diarmuid and takes his hand, shaking it several times. “Fantastic to see you at service, Mr. O’Sullivan.”
Diarmuid removes his hand from the priest. “I’m looking forward to the service.” Diarmuid makes it sound as though he’s dead bored of everything. He reaches over and touches the small of my back, sending my spine into a tense straightness. If he notices the tension, he doesn’t show it as he walks me to the door, where two more junior priests wait and shake Diarmuid’s hand before we are led to our seats. Only then does Diarmuid take his hand off my back. We are fashionably late, and the church is full. Only a moment after we are seated, the mass starts.
Victor, who I know of, walks out onto the altar. Diarmuid tenses beside me, his jaw growing tight, but it’s like a flash of silver when a fish surfaces in the ocean. And like that fish, it buries itself swiftly back into the darkness of the water. The tension is gone, and I’m left wondering if it even existed in the first place.
Victor. He’s in his late fifties or early sixties. His hair is gray, black, and white, the gray mostly brushing the sides which are turning gray with age. He has heavy-lidded eyes that look both sincere and stern. He is a perfect man of the cloth—exactly what I would expect an old-world priest to look like.
Why would a man of the cloth make him uncomfortable? Recently, I’ve been educated about the world I might be marrying into. My parents wanted me to be Diarmuid O’Sullivan’s bride so they could gain access to this world. Being part of this world means being controlled by priests like Victor.
Everyone kneels, and I move to do so, a step behind everyone; my mind is reeling. Diarmuid stares straight ahead, his disapproval unclear.
The O’Sullivans, too, are dangerous. In the late 1800s, they were announced as a mafia family. I shiver at that, just like I had done when my father educated me late into the night about the family I may be joining. Right now, the O’Sullivans claim that era is over for them. I take another peek at Diarmuid as we rise to join in the prayer, that I don’t know the words to. Maybe they only declared they are no longer mafia as they are currently running for a position in the Dail Eireann, a political party who makes decisions with the people of Ireland as their interest. Most of their decisions are based on greed and climbing higher up the social ladder. My father said that one of them may be destined to be the president of Ireland.
We kneel again, and I’m glad when the service ends. Everyone files out and bends their knee to the altar before leaving. Once again, I’m grateful for my poise and manage to genuflect easily.
While I walk down the middle aisle, Diarmuid’s hand finds the small of my back again. For the first time, I’m aware of so many people watching us. We stop at the exit as Victor himself shakes hands with the departing patrons. Diarmuid’s fingers stiffen on my back, but his other hand encases Victor’s, and they shake.
“Thank you for coming,” Victor says, releasing Diarmuid’s hand.
“It was my pleasure.” Diarmuid’s words are polite, a complete contradiction to the pressing fingers into my back. Victor’s attention swivels to the next family as we leave the church. I’m very aware of how I am somehow invisible to these men. I don’t mind, and to be fair, I’d prefer to go unnoticed. Diarmuid doesn’t take his hand off my back until he opens the car door for me.
“That was a beautiful service.” My voice is chirpy, not because I thought the service was good but because I survived my first outing, and the idea of getting home and maybe taking a swim makes me smile.
Diarmuid doesn’t smile. “There is a map in the glove box.” He juts his chin forward, his eyes focused on the glove box.
Okay. I open the glove box and take out the small map that has many grid lines crisscrossing it, and making it impossible to read.
I hand it to Diarmuid. He opens the map, and a small, cream-colored piece of heavy paper falls out. I glance at the paper and see what seems to be coordinates. Diarmuid runs his finger along the map, glancing at the scrap of paper before he taps the map twice.
“You can put that back.” He tucks the paper into the map and hands it back to me. I’ve placed it back in its home when he reverses out of the churchyard. He doesn’t say where we are going, but it isn’t my home. I slouch in the seat but then remember that while he might have his eyes on the road, he is surely aware of my every move.
I open my clutch and take out some hand sanitizer, rubbing it on my hands. I’m tempted to offer some to Diarmuid but think twice and place it in my bag, which I leave sitting on my lap. I exhale at the thought of not going home.
“Are you bored?” Diarmuid asks.
Shit.
I glance at him, and a smirk plays at his kissable lips.
“No.”
“If you are having trouble occupying yourself, you are more than welcome to pleasure me.”
My heart thumps in my chest. I’m wondering if I heard him wrong, but I know I didn’t. “I… I…” I have no idea how to respond. I don’t want to pleasure him, but I also know I must do as he commands.
When a low laugh bubbles from his chest, my cheeks heat.
“You see, Niamh Connolly, I could make you do it.” His laughter is gone. “I won’t, but I could. Remember that.”
I nod, just glad that I don’t have to pleasure him. I know I won’t always be as lucky. But today, I’ll count my blessings.
We both remain silent. Diarmuid starts to slow the car down at an abandoned house in the Stepaside area. He comes to a complete halt. He leans closer to me, but his attention is out the window, as he points to a rusty old mailbox. “Will you retrieve the parcel from that mailbox?” He’s parked along the sidewalk on my side.
I unclip my belt, happy to get out and take in some fresh air. The mailbox doesn’t look like it’s been used, so I don’t expect to find anything in it. But a manila envelope held tightly shut by packing twine sits in the center. I turn to find Diarmuid watching me, and I raise the envelope to show him I got it and climb back into the car. When I hand it to him, I’m expecting him to open it, but he places it in the console between us.
We are silent again, but he’s driving in the direction of my home, thank God.
“How do you feel, Niamh, about becoming an accessory?”
His words startle me, and I look from the passing scenery to Diarmuid. “Accessory to what?”
Diarmuid glances down at the envelope before his gray eyes land on me for a moment, sending a shiver racing down my spine. He refocuses on the road as he speaks. “Victor Madigan is the unholy priest of Dublin, my bride. In the envelope is the name and location of a person I have been commanded to kill, and that, my dear, is why we had to attend church.” He pauses. “You’re just here to look pretty.”