Chapter 11
If one of those windbags, dolled-up in his flashy attire, can lay his hands on an expensive hat and manage a few words of English he’ll delude himself that he’s one of the gentry.
Mary Leary died two days after we’d met her on the Ennis Road, hands covered in sludge, laughing like a bean sidhe.
And she wasn’t the only one. About forty people had collapsed, and three people lost their lives shortly after the digging. The coroner was called from the far-off town of Ennis, and he declared they’d perished from overexposure to a noxious gas emitted from the rotten crop.
I understood now, though I didn’t then, that the tar-like substance in Mary’s hand had been, quite literally, potatoes.
Da said the minute they began harvesting, the smell overpowered most, but when they noticed the off-gray color of the spuds, many grabbed the vegetables to inspect, and with a single touch, the potatoes simply turned into stinking piles of sludge in people’s hands.
Reports from Dublin stated it was a kind of disease brought on the air, likely a kind of fungus, and the hot, humid summer had provided the perfect environment for the spores to take purchase in the ground, destroying the entire crop.
It wasn’t just a bad harvest, it was total annihilation.
But we would be fine. Not just us, but the tenants. For Da had convinced Colonel Moore-Vandeleur to offer paid work to those at the greatest risk of not surviving the winter—enough so they could maintain strength so as not to disrupt the spring farming season.
But that didn’t stop a number of families from seeking government assistance, resulting in a new slew of evictions and house tumblings, lest Colonel Moore-Vandeleur had to pay the poor rate.
It made me sick to my stomach, but Teddy assured me his father was heartbroken. It was just that his lordship had spent a sizable fortune on improving the town, and he couldn’t afford the poor rate if he was to continue offering paid labor to those strong enough to take it.
Last year had brought low profits for his lordship, apparently, and avoiding the poor rates was the only way to secure funding for the coming year.
“Settle, Maggie,” Teddy murmured, squeezing my hand.
Settle? It was almost February, in the year of our Lord 1846, and I could no longer hide the babe. Four months gone, and in five or six more, Teddy and I would welcome our child into the world.
I laced my fingers through his, but he pulled his hand from mine with a shrug.
“No need to appear completely shameless. It would give the wrong impression, don’t you think?” he said.
I bit my lower lip as we stood, outside the door of my home—Teddy, almost ready to return to Dublin after his Christmas break, steeling ourselves for what lay ahead.
When I’d written to tell him of the babe, he’d replied brightly, excited for this new chapter of ours, assuring me that none could protest with a child on the way.
And I’d been confident … then.
But now, with Teddy about to inform my parents and ask their permission to wed, I wasn’t sure. Something akin to dread weighed heavy in my gut.
From within the home, my newborn baby brother wailed. Teddy had wanted to have this conversation with my parents right away, but I had insisted on sparing my mother the shock, lest it affect her pregnancy.
Dusk kissed the fields in hues of gray and blue, and soon, the Daoine Uaisle—the Good Folk, the Fair Folk—would take charge of the night, shepherding wayward men through the veil between our world and theirs, tricking them into leaving the mortal coil behind.
I shivered. I knew we had to wait ’til dusk to be sure Da was present, but I didn’t like the idea of Teddy walking home at night. It was silly, I know. But with the failed crop—the blight, we called it—came whispers of the féar gortach.
“Hungry grass” was the only way to translate it for his lordship, who had heard the rumors and requested a full report from Da.
The tenants were certain the land was cursed, that the crops would continue to fail because an elemental spirit—a Daoine Uaisle—had taken up residence nearby and brought famine by way of a housewarming gift.
I knew it made no sense, for if the land was cursed, then the vegetables we grew for the Moore-Vandeleurs would have perished, and the grazing land for the livestock would have withered away.
And yet God could not have done this to us—we, the meek, for blessed be they. It was far easier to turn to otherworldly things for answers.
“Everything will be well,” Teddy promised, knocking on the door before I could stop him. “Hulloa, the house!”
“Stop, breathe, think,” I reminded him. “If things start to go awry, hold your words, breathe deeply, and think about the next thing you need to say.”
“Your father is not mine.” He smiled, and the tightness in my chest eased. “This conversation will go as planned. You’ll see. I’ll hold my own.”
The top of the half door swung open, and Mam’s lovely face appeared. Her brows—still dark, though her chestnut brown hair was now peppered with gray—rose when she saw Teddy, and her lips parted.
“Young Master,” she announced, half-turning, likely for assistance from Da.
Teddy had never come to our abode, not even when we were young children.
Back in those days—before Lady Grace made Kilrush House her home—if we were to play together indoors, his lordship tolerated our presence in the summerhouse, and the summerhouse only.
Otherwise, we ran amok in the fields, bothering tenants with our antics.
A chair scraped within, and Da joined Mam at the door.
“Young Master Theo?” Surprise colored Da’s tone, but when his eyes landed on me, he placed a gentle hand on Mam’s shoulder. “Could you pour a cup of something for our guest, love?”
Mam’s face twisted with confusion, but she nodded and stepped away as Da unlatched the bottom half of the door.
“Welcome,” he said, ushering Teddy into our house.
“Thank you, Mr. O’Shaughnessy,” Teddy said, brightly. As if we weren’t about to confess that we’d conceived a child out of wedlock. That was my only concern: how they would receive such news. I didn’t dare move just yet.
“Síofra,” Da called, his eyes not leaving mine, “take your brothers and sisters over to Mrs. Lane for an hour, please.”
“But it’s full dark—” my sister began, but Da cut her off.
“Now.”
Da stepped forward, clearing the doorway for my siblings—Aoife, John, Mary, Martha, Patrick, and Nancy—who trailed along after Síofra like steps of stairs.
What’s happening? Síofra mouthed as she passed, but I simply shook my head.
“Not you,” Da said, grabbing Michael by the arm as he followed the others into the night air. “Back inside.”
I squeezed my eyes shut to keep from cursing aloud. The last thing I needed was Michael’s presence for this.
“Why?” Michael had no such restraint and blurted the question.
Boxing his ear, Da said: “Because when I’m gone, ye’ll be the man of the house, ye eejit. And ye need to know how things are done.”
Michael quickly retreated into the house, and I dared look at my father. He jerked his head toward the door, but I thought I’d faint if I tried to move. My heart hammered in my chest, and the pulse in my ears warned of danger.
“I know,” Da said, leaning close so my curious brothers and sisters couldn’t hear.
I glanced at him sharply, and he smiled—a thin, pained curve of the lips—as tears formed in his eyes.
“I hoped I was wrong, but I see that I wasn’t,” he said softly, wiping a hand over his face. “Come on, darlin’. The night air isn’t good for ye. Time to hear what yer beau has to say.”
“Oh, Da—” I murmured, voice cracking as I took the hand he offered.
“I love ye, my Maggie girl,” he said, planting a kiss on the top of my head. “And so does yer Mam. Nothing will ever change that.”
“You’ve not broached this with your father yet, I take it.” Da’s lips pressed together so tightly, a band of pure white skin blistered around them.
“Not yet, sir. But I have no reason to believe he would deny us,” Teddy announced, folding his arms across his chest as he perched on Da’s own stool.
He looked so out of place, so foreign, so other sitting there at the rough-hewn dining table.
Our house was grander than others. While most homes boasted a single room, where the family gathered to sleep on straw-stuffed pallets that barely kept the cold and damp of the stone floor at bay, we had four, and a loft.
The main living area—where a roaring open fire blazed before a sitting area and dining table.
A small bedroom to the right of the entrance door, where our parents slept—on a bed, gifted to them by the late Mr. Moore-Vandeleur, Teddy’s grandfather, on the occasion of their wedding.
To the left were two small rooms. The first for the eldest girls—where I slept with Síofra and Aoife.
And the second for the eldest boys, where Michael and John slept.
The youngest children—Mary, Martha, Patrick, and Nancy, slept in the loft—a crawl space above our rooms, requiring the use of a ladder, where anyone over five feet couldn’t even sit up straight.
The floor was stone, but Mam had been able to purchase a rug or two over the years, and to me—and most of the tenants—the O’Shaughnessy home was the lap of luxury. The kind of status most could only dream of achieving.
But now, with Teddy sitting there in his velveteen, full-length breeches—knee breeches were only for the Irish, a statement of us versus them, and only Anglos held the status and wealth to wear full-length trousers, waistcoat, pocket watch, fine tailed coat, and cravat, top hat in hand—our home and everything the tenantry looked up to us for felt wanting.
Mam hadn’t spoken a word since we revealed our news, and I stole glances at her as Teddy took the lead. Flushed cheeks and glistening eyes met mine each time.
Michael’s gaze, on the other hand, promised murder. If one could kill with a glare, Teddy would be six feet under before the sun rose.