At the end of a long and tiring Sunday, James and Mary lay in bed watching their youngest son, well fed and fast sleep in his mother’s arms. There had been a stream of visitors to the house all day, calling to see the latest arrival to the street. Mary was exhausted, having arrived the day before after a long journey, with a baby and young child to care for.
“He’s a hungry one, it’ll take all I can earn to feed this one, that’s for sure,” James stroked his son’s rosy cheek.
“Have you forgiven me for leaving Mary-Anne behind?”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Mary, but I wish you had let me know of your plans. It was a shock when I saw you standing at the station and no sign of her anywhere.”
“I’m sorry for that, James. I didn’t think it through, I was afraid I might change my mind. As soon as I had made the decision I called to Mr. Harrington and got the price of the fare from him. That was when he said we should put the money into that new bank that opened in Ardee. He said he was afraid we would lose it should something happen to him. I hope he’s not ailing, James, he’s a good man.”
“It was the best thing to do with it. We won’t touch it unless we are starving or in danger of being evicted. Let’s just forget we have it, Mary, that way it will be there for us when we return home.”
“So you agree that we should move back, do you?”
“But not until Catherine and Thomas are old enough to leave behind. We’ll send Maggie some money for Mary-Anne’s keep and save what we can from what’s left.”
Mary put the sleeping baby into the cradle that had been passed through the family. She curled up inside the embrace of her husband’s arms and sighed contentedly, happy to be back in the one place that gave her a sense of permanence and security. Just before sleep overtook them, Mary whispered to James that together they could face anything life threw at them. “We can, love,” he replied.
Next morning a letter was handed to James by a young boy who told them he didn’t know the man who had paid him to deliver it. After being given a description of the stranger, neither James nor Mary had any idea who it could have been.
“Well, open it, James. It could be from Mr. Harrington.”
As his eyes quickly ran along the neatly written script, James expression changed from confusion to concern and as soon as he had finished reading it he rolled the letter into a ball and threw it into the hot stove.
“James, what kind of news could make you do such a thing,” Mary exclaimed.
“Nothing that should be repeated. Forget that we ever received that letter. Don’t tell a soul about it, do you hear me?”
Mary knew by the paleness of her husband’s face that something was very wrong, “I promise I won’t breathe a word of it to anyone, but you have to tell me what it was about, James. Who sent the cursed letter? Was it Mr. Harrington?”
“It was from America, from Michael,” James whispered as if the whole street was listening outside their door.
“Michael who?” asked Catherine as she came into the parlour rubbing her eyes.
“Oh we were just talking about a man I work with. Here, eat your breakfast up or we’ll be late,” James shot Mary a warning glance, “I’ll go up and make sure Thomas is awake before we go.”
It wasn’t until late in the evening, when the children were in bed, that the discussion of the letter was taken up again. James had been grateful for the long hours at work to think on how much he should disclose to his wife. She would know by its furtive delivery, that there was more to the letter than greetings from America, and a bit of gossip about the friends they had in common who had moved there. James would have to come up with a plausible enough reason for why Michael had not sent news through the postal system, as he usually did.
“Well, are you going to give me the news from Michael, or do you think I can read your mind, James?” Mary stroked her baby’s soft hair as he fed.
“Michael and Brigid and the children are fine, and send their love. Matthew Clarke’s son, Daniel, and his friend, John McDermott are lodging in their house. Isn’t that grand, Mary?”
“We already knew that, sure didn’t I bring that news back with me from Maggie? What was it that made you burn the letter, James? You’re being as secretive as a Fenian.”
“Hush, woman. Be careful what you say, that’s nothing to be loose-lipped about,” hissed James.
“Are you involved with the Fenians?” Mary ignored the warning.
James stood up abruptly and the noise of his chair scraping loudly on the floor startled the sleeping baby. Mary rocked him in her arms as she watched her husband peer through the window into the dimly lit street.
“By all that’s holy, have you no sense. Please stop asking me questions like that,” he whispered.
“James, I don’t care if Michael Kiernan is a Fenian. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me at all, but look me in the eye and swear to me on Pat’s grave that you are not involved yourself.”
“Mary, on my uncle’s grave and on Annie’s too, I swear that I’ve had nothing to do with any political organization. Nor have my brothers, I’m sure of it. But there is one person I’ve had my suspicions about and after reading that letter from Michael, I’m more convinced than ever I was right.”
James went very quiet and continued to watch the street. His silence frustrated Mary to a point where she felt the urge to hit him over the head with a pan, until a thought struck her.
“Is it Maggie?” she whispered.
Turning to face her, James nodded his head, “Michael wrote that he is coming to England next month and would like to meet up with me. When he finishes whatever business he has here, he will be travelling to Ireland before his return to America. He offered to deliver any news I might have to my sister. He said he will be staying in The Blackrock Hotel, and joked that she may very well be the one who empties his chamber pot.”
“He still has a sense of humour, I’ll give him that. Remember when he was here, lodging with Maggie, how she used to curse him and the boys for leaving their bucket fill to the brim before emptying it,” smiled Mary.
“If Maggie is involved with the Fenians, there is a good chance that Armstrong will find out – and you’ve left Mary-Anne with her,” said James.
Realising the implications of what her husband was saying, Mary tried to control a feeling of panic that was beginning to rise. If anything was to happen to Maggie, their daughter would be taken away by the police. With no immediate family left to care for her, it would be the perfect excuse for Armstrong to inflict even more suffering on the McGrothers.
“Surely your sister has more sense than that, James. Didn’t the Church threaten to excommunicate anyone who joined the Fenians?”
The previous year an Irish Cardinal had refused the lying-in-state of a Fenian leader, Thomas Bellew McManus, who had died in America. He had been given a state-like funeral by New York’s Irish exiles when his remains were taken to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral on 5th Avenue, before he was brought back to Ireland. In spite of Cardinal Cullen’s refusal to allow McManus’s coffin into any of the Dublin churches, some thirty thousand mourners attended his funeral at Glasnevin cemetery.
“That would only serve to make my sister more determined, you know yourself she’s as stubborn as a mule. Mary, I’m going to meet up with Michael when he gets to Liverpool, he’s speaking at a gathering there and has given me a password to use if I want to arrange a meeting with him. I’ll ask him to talk Maggie into coming back here with Mary-Anne. If she thinks it will help the Fenian cause, I daresay she will be happy to oblige. Can you think of any other way to get them over?”
Mary was quiet for a few moments as she walked around the kitchen table, rocking the sleeping baby.
“Oh James, I can’t. I pray that your plan works. I’ll be like a bag of cats until I have my child safely back with us.”