Chapter 9
I was led by a hatred of England, so deeply rooted in my nature that it was rather an instinct than a principle … The truth is, I hate the very name of England. I hated her before my exile and I will hate her always.
—Irish revolutionary Wolfe Tone, Autobiography
The weather broke at last, at the end of September, and we had a few great days for drying, which allowed a quick launder of the bedclothes before we locked ourselves away from the brisk bite of winter.
Well, not Da, Michael, or myself. We’d still have to slog and trudge our way to the Big House, no matter the road conditions. But the thought of the rest of the family bundled away in the house—a prickle of hibernating hedgehogs—brought a smile to my face.
Wearing a freshly laundered uniform—a crisp black dress over a starched petticoat, with grease-shined leather shoes (a luxury for those lucky enough to work in the Big House; everyone else went barefoot) and hair braided into a bun at the back of my head—I happily swung my basket of just-plucked wildflowers, despite the blanket of dense, bluish fog that carpeted the ground as I made my way toward the Big House.
The flowers were for Teddy’s young brothers, Hector and Crofton.
The little boys loved to sit quietly in the sun-room while I kept Lucy company, and I thought, mayhap, we could craft crowns made of daisies to while away the time.
Teddy. I frowned. We’d spent every evening together since the night of the céilí, but alas, our parting came too soon.
It always did. He’d left for university almost seven days hence, and my guts were twisted with worry.
Busy as he was, he rarely wrote when occupied in Dublin, but the time to force his father’s hand was fast approaching.
I would have to put pen to paper soon and insist he return to Kilrush for Christmas.
God only knew the hurdle that was ahead.
“Is that you, Maggie?”
I pivoted to the left and righted my frown to a smile before waving. Not that she could even see it. Mary Leary reminded me of a ghost, silhouetted as she was in the fog. ’Twas just luck I recognized the crooked tilt of the Leary’s gate. “Morning, Mary!”
She quickly made her way toward me, broom in hand, the freshly thatched roof of their one-roomed stone home glistening with dew in the background. A pretty picture if one had the talent to paint. I, however, did not.
I hadn’t noticed the night of the céilí, but with her apron tied high, it was quite obvious she was with child again.
“Mary, ye never said—oh!” Jimmy Leary, Mary’s husband, stumbled through the red-painted half door, stuffing his long work shirt into his pants. A flush stained his ruddy cheeks when he caught sight of me outside the gate, and I offered a wave.
“Wisha, good mornin’ to ye, Mistress O’Shaughnessy,” he called.
Mistress … hearing it prompted daydreams of one day being an actual mistress, wed at last with permission from Teddy’s parents. But for now, it was just a cursory title, used only to keep my father—the O’Learys’ overseer—placated.
“Good morning to ye both. When does the digging start?” I asked, knowing full well that today was the day, and that Da had secured the next two days for the entire tenantry to bring in the only harvest meant to sustain them and their families.
The bad weather had caused delay, but we could wait no longer.
“As soon as I can get over to the Maloneys’ place. Hopefully the sun peeks out soon to burn away the fog,” Jimmy replied, turning toward Mary. “We’ll be circling the farms, love, so we’ll be here after noon.”
“Go on then, let ye,” Mary said with a laugh.
Grinning, Jimmy hopped along the short, narrow path—wedged between packed potato patches—from the front door to the gate, pecked Mary on the cheek, doffed his cap at me, then sprinted in the direction of the Maloneys’.
I glanced at Mary, who stared at the vegetation that rippled in Jimmy’s wake, dispersing some of the fog that seemed to settle on its leaves.
An ominous blanket that boded ill. Worry weighted her brow, as it should.
I’d noticed the same issue in our own crop.
The plants should have been a bright verdant green …
instead, they had turned from spring green to a faded, pale brown in the last few weeks. But that wasn’t all.
“Yours didn’t bloom either,” I said. A statement of fact.
Not a single flower had sprouted at the end of summer, an event that always signaled the last month or so before harvest, and Da had mused that the warm, hot summer might be the culprit.
If the potato crop failed, the next year would be hard.
Last year brought a poor yield, which meant overall farm production was down.
Malnutrition and weakness were the bane of productivity, after all.
Our families tended to be large, so we had enough hands to work the Moore-Vandeleur land, but that meant food was scarce, as options were limited.
We could either buy what we needed—the exact same produce we personally harvested for the Moore-Vandeleurs, if we could afford it—or grow our own crops on quarter and half acres.
But with the Anglo landlords raising rents all over the country, most of us survived off what we could grow.
And given we could only utilize the ground within our rented walls, the potato was the only vegetable anyone grew.
Why? Because the potato produced six tons of food, enough to sustain a family for an entire year.
With all the talk from Dublin of another failed harvest and the lack of bright white flowers sprouting long, golden cones of pollen, my stomach was in knots.
“Don’t worry,” I called brightly, as Mary placed a gentle hand over her growing belly. “We got through the bad harvest last year. We’ll get through the next.”
Nodding, Mary snapped out of her stupor and clasped the broom.
“Aye. All will be well. Though”—she trailed off, furrowing her brow—“do ye smell that?”
Pursing my lips, I sniffed the air. Nothing but crushed grass underfoot, and a hint of wild rosemary. “Smell what, Mary?”
She shook her head and swatted the slab of rock before her feet with the broom.
“Naught. Just a strange sickly smell brought on by the fog. Like slurry, but not. Something so rotten it’s almost sweet.”
I furrowed my brow. Surely it was slurry, but Mary would certainly know the difference between fermenting manure and whatever it was she smelt.
“Ah, never ye mind,” Mary said, waving a hand in front of her face, as if to dispel the scent.
“’Tis likely the babe in my belly. Me auld nose gets awful sensitive when I’m with child, and even the waft of fresh baked bread can make me nauseous.
I’m keeping ye, Maggie. Head on away afore Lady Grace reprimands ye. ”
She was right. The morning was stretching on, and Lucy needed company. But something she said struck me.
A sensitive nose. My mother was oft plagued with a sensitive nose during pregnancy and was about to give birth for the tenth time, God willing.
Yet I smelled nothing. I was now absolutely certain of the child currently growing in my own womb. Perhaps I wasn’t far enough along yet to experience the nausea or the smells?
I don’t know when it happened, though it was likely before Teddy went to inspect neighboring land with his father, but we’d been as intimate as a married couple since the end of June.
Years of planning, of turning childhood friendship into something more, of becoming everything to him and he becoming everything to me, culminating in the final blessing of creating life together—the final step in a plan that had become ours, not solely mine.
I could hardly contain my relief and triumph, but had wished to be certain before telling him. Now, my stomach flipped over as seeds of doubt took hold—will he have the mettle to hold firm against his lordship? Or worse, what if he didn’t still love me the way I loved him?
My lips curled, and I waved a hand. “I’ll be off then, Mary.”
“Aye, have a good day.”
“I’ll pray for an excellent potato yield,” I called, springing into a brisk walk. Everything I ever wanted was within my grasp. I only had to reach for it.
“What’s this?” Michael asked, pointing to my head as we headed away from the sun-room and down the opulent main hallway of Kilrush House.
Huge floor-to-ceiling windows provided light from our right, offering stunning views of the magnificent lawns, immaculately landscaped with interspersed statues and rockeries—a luscious pavilion fit for a king, overlooking the Shannon Estuary.
On a clear day, like today, one could see clear across the estuary to Scattery Island and County Kerry, and it wasn’t unheard of to spot a dolphin or two taking an inland detour from the vast ocean to the west.
Mirrors lined the left-hand side of the hallway, deflecting sunlight onto the gold-inlaid ceilings, smoothly arched, like something from the Continent.
I reached a hand up to touch my head, and my fingers brushed daisies. “Ah! Hector and Crofton made them. What do you think?” I twirled, and Michael snorted.
“Airs and graces is what I think. Their lord and ladyship have been too kind to ye. Master Teddy too. I fear they’ve given ye notions of grandeur.”
My cheeks heated. Airs and graces indeed. Wasn’t he given as much attention by the Moore-Vandeleurs as I was? “Nonsense. Yer just jealous of my lovely crown.”
“At least it isn’t another bandage. That bird has it out for you, mark my words.” Michael elbowed me, and I whacked his arm.
The door to Colonel Moore-Vandeleur’s study banged open at the end of the hall, and my heart leapt into my throat as I automatically backed into the windows before sinking into a curtsy.
Michael followed suit, melting into the glass as he bowed.
Two still statues of obedience and deference, begging to not be noticed. Not be seen.