CHAPTER 8
Briana cursed the pot as the hot metal singed her thumb and forefinger. Her father and sister walked into the kitchen just in time to see her grab a towel and pull the scorched utensil from the woodstove. After a difficult night, when her only solace was securing her marriage bond with Rory, she had burned the oatmeal for breakfast.
“Damnation, daughter,” Brian said, “what’s gotten into you?” He waved the smoke away from his nose. Lucinda sniffed the air with disdain.
“It’s bad enough that we have little to eat without you ruining it,” Brian said, and lifted the few remaining jars. “Yes, only a few more days. Rory will have to go to Belmullet.”
Briana’s heart sank. Not only was it difficult to deal with shortages, but now her fiancé was being sent away as well. She scraped the salvageable oatmeal into bowls, poured more hot water into them, and placed them on the table. “Sorry. Add a dash of salt and you won’t notice.”
“We have salt?” Lucinda asked. Her skirt rustled against the table as she sat down.
“A pinch or two.”
Brian retrieved the salt tin and opened it. The crystals had turned brown and brackish over the winter.
Lucinda scraped the burned oatmeal bits aside with her spoon and gave her father a concerned look, which Briana couldn’t help but notice.
“Sleep well, my daughter?” Brian asked.
Lucinda interjected, “I slept like a log after yesterday’s chores.”
Briana took a few bites from her bowl, her stomach gurgling as she considered the best way to break the news about her proposal. She pushed her bowl to Lucinda. “You can finish mine if you like.” Her sister accepted the extra porridge, digging about in the crispy oats.
“I have something to tell you,” Briana said. Suddenly, she was aware of everything in the kitchen: the cabinets, the dishes, the pie tin resting on the counter, the pots, the pans, all the items she had known since she was a child. It was as if she were sitting in a painting, frozen in time, the room drawn into sharp focus. Her nerves tightened, causing the hairs on her arms to bristle. “Rory has proposed to me, and I’ve accepted.” The words escaped from her clenched lips, and the breath fled from her lungs. She had considered saying she had initiated the proposal but decided better of it.
As she expected, no congratulations were forthcoming. Her father lowered his head and placed his spoon on the table. Lucinda stared at the opposite wall, where the cabinet rested, her eyes unmoving. Briana was certain that her sister would oppose the marriage.
After a long silence, her father spoke. “Well, I can’t say this news is unexpected, but I do have . . . reservations.”
“Yes?” She had assumed he would object, and she pushed back her rising anger because tears would spoil the day.
He rose from the table and walked to the small east window from which shafts of hazy sun filtered into the room. He circled in the sunny patches before he finally spoke. “Rory Caulfield is a good man, and I believe he would be a good father, but have you considered that there may be other men who can bring you more security?”
“I have, but I’m not in love with them,” Briana countered.
“All these years, I’ve seen your affection for Rory, and I thought your young love might fade—but it hasn’t. I’ve seen how he cares for you, but are there not other men in the world who would do the same?”
“Men with money . . . like Sir Thomas?”
Lucinda winced but said nothing.
“I wasn’t thinking of our landlord, but your sister has seen much more of the world than you and knows that life—can be better... different from what we know.” He stood behind Lucinda, his body bathed in the morning light.
“I love Rory with all my heart,” Briana said. “I’ve known it since we were children, and he has as well. You’ve known it too.”
“What about children in this time of famine?” her father asked, putting his hands on the crest of Lucinda’s chair.
She blushed. Last night, they had broached the subject of bringing children into the world only to put it off for later discussion. Prior to that, they had spoken casually about babies and raising a family, but in the way that any young, optimistic couple in love would have talked. “We haven’t discussed it, but we will.”
“You shouldn’t wait,” Brian said. He tapped Lucinda’s shoulder. “Daughter, don’t you have anything to say?”
Lucinda shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I’ve made my feelings known—only to be ignored. Briana has a mind of her own, and one not easily swayed.”
“True words,” Brian said, and returned to his chair. He sat and folded his hands. “So, it appears the deed has been done and I have no say in the matter.”
Briana nodded. “I’m calling for Father O’Kirwin. If we don’t have your support, Rory and I will get married without your blessing.”
“During our most precarious time, you’ve made a decision to be married.”
She grasped her father’s hands. “For exactly that reason. Time is short.”
Her father was about to speak when a knock on the back door reverberated through the kitchen.
“Who is it?” Brian asked.
“Rory,” the voice replied.
Could he have come at a worse moment? We’ll see how he handles my father.
“Come in,” Brian said. The door opened, and Rory stepped inside.
Briana could tell from the scowl on her father’s face that Rory had come at an awkward moment.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Rory said, “but I wanted to know if I’m to travel to Belmullet.”
“Sit down,” Brian said. “I’d offer you some tea, but I’m not sure we have any.” He nodded at Lucinda, who took the hint, excused herself from the table, and walked down the hall toward the library. Rory slid into a seat and gave Briana a knowing look.
“I’m glad that you came to offer support,” Briana said.
Rory’s face flushed. “I didn’t know. . . .”
“I understand that you are to be my son-in-law,” Brian said, rising from the table to once again pace near the window. “Much of my life after taking my position as agent has been one of ‘damned with faint praise.’” He stopped, put his hands on the windowsill, and stared out at the lawn and the farms beyond. He began again as if speaking to the air. “Sir Thomas has been a difficult boss, but he has blessed my family with food and shelter through good times and bad. I think I have treated you much the same, and I may come to regret it. I have always wanted the best for my daughter, but it appears our days are destined to become worse. I will accept your marriage on two conditions—that you treat my daughter with love and respect and that you let no harm come to her that you can stave off. Considering our situation, it will not be as easy as you think.”
Rory rose and extended his hand. “Your conditions are fair. I understand how much you love Briana and want the best for her. I will provide it.”
Brian shook Rory’s hand. “Then there’s nothing more to say. We’ll await a wedding day.”
Her heart swelled with joy, and she leapt from her chair to kiss Rory.
Brian coughed as they caressed each other. “Back to business . . . yes, go to Belmullet tomorrow. We need food.”
“Send Jarlath’s son to find Father O’Kirwin,” she whispered in his ear. “Tell him to meet me at three this afternoon at Benwee Head.”
Brian and Rory departed, leaving her alone with a joyful spirit and a washtub of dirty bowls.
* * *
A hazy afternoon sun topped the heath, leaving a sky dappled with high white clouds and checkered light.
The hillside was dotted with tenants spading their land and, above them, the starving who had come to Lear House. There was little the farmers could do other than tend the potato crop and wonder what lay next. It was too early to judge the next harvest.
A man washed his children’s faces in the puddles that had collected in the road. Those who recognized her from the night before stood by their burrows, like admirers before royalty, the men taking off their hats, the women nodding in appreciation, for the generosity she and her family had displayed. The gestures gratified her but at the same time made her feel uneasy because other than her father’s position as agent and her sister’s good graces with Sir Thomas, little separated her family from them. She wanted a bright future as much as they did, but how could you fight an enemy like the blight? Despite feeding these people, she could feel their silent fear, their despair, as she walked barefoot up the lane.
An abandoned sod home that Father O’Kirwin sometimes used for Mass when the weather was bad at Mass Rock stood like a dark lump a short distance from the village. Its rickety door of two oak planks was ajar. It was open most days when he was in Carrowteige.
She looked inside it on the chance that he might be there before their meeting. The hut was empty except for a small table, which held a drawing of a man and woman, most likely the priest’s parents.
As she continued on the trail to Benwee Head, the sun beamed through the thin clouds and fell in warm patches on her face. She let her shawl fall from her shoulders, draping it against her back and arms, and wondered if the priest might already be at Mass Rock near the cliffs.
The path from Carrowteige led up the heath to the Rock. She knew it by heart, having descended from it to the village after many Masses. Sheep and goats used the path on their way to grazing grounds near the cliffs. The sun scattered her shadow across the brownish-green ground. She chose her steps carefully to avoid slipping, but enjoyed the feeling of the cool damp earth squishing between her toes. The yellow of tormentil and dandelions glowed around her in the afternoon light.
She never tired of the views from the cliffs or watching the waves swell and crash upon the Stags of Broadhaven, which rose like a row of sharks’ fins from the sea. But if you half closed your eyes, the gray rocks, tinged with green, looked like the graceful humped backs of swans swimming to shore. She only had to imagine the long necks of the waterbirds, the transformed children of Lear, whose stepmother had cursed them to swim the oceans for nine hundred years.
The plateau opened before her, and the Stags jutted from the steely blue Atlantic. How odd that Lear, who had loved his children so much that his jealous wife had magically transformed them into swans in her desperate attempt to regain his undivided love, would be the namesake of the house she had known since birth. When the curse finally lifted, Lear’s children had died from old age and were buried at a nearby island.
Mass Rock stood nearly ten yards back from a spot dotted with tarns on Benwee Head. Windswept, it thrust up from the ground, a lonely sentinel for thousands of years scarred by sea brine, wind, and rain. Many times during Mass a tern or gull sailed over the top of the rock and silently eyed the congregants. Father O’Kirwin would laugh and say the bird was a sign of good fortune to fall upon Carrowteige and the surrounding villages. The birds had proved him wrong.
Shadows had begun to grow long. Briana looked across the barren plateau, disappointed that the priest wasn’t there. She could think of no other place he could be unless he had been called to the east for a pastoral need.
She looked back at the path and then heard her name. The priest was striding along the cliff edge in his black cassock.
Briana rushed to him.
He smiled and grasped her hands. “I got your message, but the boy had no idea why you wanted to see me.”
“I hoped you’d come.”
“A sure bet,” he said. “I love the cliffs at Mass Rock.” He turned and looked at the sea, hitching the cloth satchel that held his priestly goods over his shoulder. Beyond them lay a vast horizon where the ocean and sky met, divided by a thin, gray line of clouds.
They found a rock ledge a few yards back from the cliff. Briana sat beside him and tightened her shawl around her shoulders. The wind buffeted them with its brisk force.
“Why are you wearing your robe?” she asked. “It’s not Sunday.”
A wistful smile formed on his lips. “Because God and I needed to talk.” He clasped his hands and shook them at the sea. “I’m in a state, Briana. I’ve never seen such human suffering in all my time as a priest. It’s shaken me to my core.”
She studied him. His expressions, which she had known since the early days of her religious upbringing, were familiar to her. He was in his early fifties, a man who would have had no trouble wooing a wife had he not been a priest. His temples had grayed, but the rest of his full head of black hair remained mostly untouched by age. He possessed a strong chin, and his eyes, full and round under strong, dark brows, were the color of the sea. In all her interactions with him, she had never seen his face so drawn and his mood so melancholy.
“I thought the answers to my prayers would be delivered at the Rock,” he said. “After more invocations than I can count, I have only doubts. Why has this tragedy struck us?” He lowered his head into his hands.
She was shocked at his brutal honesty, his lack of faith. The priest had never talked this way to her before. She didn’t believe God would punish Ireland out of spite. What had she or her countrymen done to deserve starvation and death? Were there too many people for the amount of food the country could produce? Was the government doing too little to aid them? To blame God was too easy. “I don’t have your religious training,” she replied, “but why would God be so cruel?”
He lifted his head. “That’s a question we should all strive to answer.” He slapped his palms on his thighs. “Maybe I’d feel better with a drink in my belly and a good smoke. Not a drop of liquor or a plug of tobacco graces my bag.”
The sea air coursed over them as they looked out upon the ceaseless waves. Hardly ever did the briny scent of the ocean rise over the cliffs—only on the calmest days when the fog rolled in. Briana’s hair lifted in the rushing wind. “All we can do is pray, and hope—and live our lives.” She leaned closer to him. “I have a favor to ask—that’s why I’ve sought you out this afternoon.”
His shoulders slumped with her request. “I’ll try. All of Carrowteige owes you a favor after last night.”
“I’d like you to marry Rory Caulfield and me.”
His dour mood shattered with the joy of her announcement, and a wide grin broke out on his face. “A wedding? A celebration of union! Oh, Briana, it’s just what we need during this sad time. When is the date?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” His eyes darkened. “So soon.”
“Yes, I want to get married as soon as possible.”
“You aren’t—”
She cut him off with a gentle laugh and then blushed at the thought. “No, not at all. Rory and I would never . . .”
He averted his face for a moment, concealing a blush of his own. “I certainly didn’t think so. Then why the rush?”
She pulled a blade of grass and studied its damp, green form. “When I saw that boy die in his mother’s arms, I realized that we must make the most of our time on earth, for heaven is never far away.”
The priest nodded. “Especially in these times.... Of course, your father knows of your plans?”
She threw the grass into the wind and looked out over the sea. “Yes, he’s given us his blessing,” she replied without mentioning her father’s reluctance.
“But so soon,” the priest said in a pained voice. “What about the banns? Witnesses? The Mass would be a sham.”
“You can dispense with the banns. My father and sister will witness the wedding.”
He rose and strode toward the cliff, the wind rocking him on his feet.
She walked to his side. They stopped a few steps away from the steep drop to the ocean-washed rocks below. Briana clutched his arm. “Father, Rory and I have been in love for years—since we were children. We aren’t rushing into this decision. If anything, the famine has shown us that time is not to be wasted. We seek only God’s blessing. My sister absolutely thinks that I shouldn’t marry him—that I should seek someone of a higher station.” She let go of the priest’s arm, clasped her hands, and stared out to sea. “Those are her thoughts; she stated no objection.”
The priest nodded with a thoughtful look in his eyes. “I see.”
A sudden gust lashed them, knocking Briana back on her heels. Father O’Kirwin led her away from the cliff to the Mass Rock. He guided her to its eastern side, out of the wind. She leaned against the rock, its quartz flecks sparkling in the sun. The rock stood strong and sturdy against her back.
“I’ve had to dispense with much in my priesthood of late.” His lips curved down, and his eyes grew soft with nascent tears. “I have always followed the Church’s precepts and teachings. I have always looked to Rome for guidance, but not even Rome can help Ireland during this time.”
“If Rome is to help, when will it arrive?” she asked with bitterness.
He reached into his cassock pocket and pulled out his rosary. The blue and black beads gleamed in the light as he handed it to her. “I have prayed more in the past six months than I’ve prayed in my thirty years as a priest. I’ve come to a conclusion—and it is not one I’ve shared with anyone. But after our talk today, I feel you should know. Let it be a lesson for your marriage.”
She nodded, awaiting the priest’s pronouncement.
“God is ignoring our prayers.” He paused. “Death is coming for us, and there’s nothing we can do to stop it.”
His words drained the joy from her body. She cringed at the thought of losing herself to eternity before she’d even had a chance to live a full life. From birth, each day was one day closer to death, but did it have to be so immediate, so quick to come calling, when so much was left to live? Perhaps she understood the “lesson” that the priest offered. What good were banns, witnesses, and objections when a specter looked over your shoulder? It was the best time of her life to be married, but also the worst. She and Rory would have to deal with realities she had never imagined—among them the birth of a child into a world stricken by famine.
“I’ve seen so many die, and more will die every day,” the priest said with a shiver. “My prayers have not been answered, and Death has not been kind. The starvation, the fevers, are beyond my worst nightmares of hell. You’ve not held a man or woman in your arms, yet, who is nothing but bones surrounded by desiccated flesh—or seen them, as I have to the east, thrown into unmarked graves because there are no coffins, or time for consecration.”
“I don’t wish to see it,” she said.
He shook his head. “I hope you don’t have to witness more than what you already have. I hold little hope for Ireland. My faith is dying with the futility of my prayers.”
Her heart ached for the priest as well as herself. “I’m sorry, Father.”
“Don’t be,” he responded. “You’ve already demonstrated your will to live . . . to grasp what joy you have left.” He pointed to the rosary that she held. “Touch the Cross, the Body of Christ. Pray with me for a moment—my faith is not entirely gone.”
She did as he asked. Throughout her prayer, she heard nothing but the whistle of the wind around the Rock and the low rumble of the waves thrashing against the shore. She prayed that the famine would end; that the horrible deaths from disease and starvation could be alleviated through His power into a miraculous recovery; that she and Rory would be married, someday have children, and would be able to live out their lives together. Eventually, she opened her eyes and lifted her head to find the priest staring at her. He took back his rosary and concealed it in his cassock.
“Time and death are working against us,” he said. “Perhaps God has brought us together so I would understand that we aren’t all destined to die, and that we must take hold of our lives as best we can, with His blessings.”
Briana hugged the priest. “Thank you, Father.”
“What time tomorrow?”
“Three? Here at Mass Rock?”
“Yes.” He stepped away from her. “I should get back to the sceilps and attend to my duties. My heart breaks with every death. I can only pray that these families are reunited in heaven. Will you be serving food again?”
“For at least two more nights.”
They walked down the footpath to the village. Out of the wind, she was warmed again by the afternoon sun. If she hadn’t known about the famine, the starving people surrounding Lear House, she would have thought it the most brilliant, the most glorious of days because the land glowed green in the sparkling light and she was going to marry Rory.
Briana thanked the priest and headed back to the cottage. The people by the lane, with their bony faces and spidery arms, stared at her. The image of the famished dead lying in a ditch, buried in a hastily dug pit, filled her mind. She struggled not to see it: the emaciated bodies thrown unceremoniously in a swampy hole near a bog or hollow. How did these people even have the strength to bury their dead?
A woman shrieked far away, and the sound faded as quickly as it had come. She looked back but saw nothing on the hill. Those who lined the road must have heard it too, but they only continued their vacant stares. Everyone was growing used to such horrors. She thanked God that He had taken care of her family but wondered how long His blessings would last. She thought of Father O’Kirwin’s failing faith and wondered if hers would fade as well.
She passed Rory’s cottage, the potato ridges and earth around them still swampy from the previous rains. He was not at home or at his brother’s; she had hoped to tell him the time of the wedding and that he wouldn’t be going to Belmullet as her father had asked.
When she arrived at the cottage she found everything quiet and orderly: The dishes had been stacked neatly in the cupboard, and the turf pit, dwindling to a few red coals, had been swept clean of ash.
In her father’s room, where she stayed now that Lucinda was home, she opened the small oak chest that sat in front of the bed. She lifted the scarred lid gently, for the chest was already a hundred years old, and rummaged through the scarves and sweaters that lay on top. Near the bottom, she found the black dress her mother had worn on her wedding day. She pulled it out and felt the cloth, which seemed coarse and dry after thirty years. If only her mother could be here today! She would have loved Rory and welcomed him into the family. But sixteen years earlier, she had died in the bout of sweating sickness that had struck Carrowteige. She, her sister, and her father had been sick as well during that hard winter, but they had recovered. Her mother’s body was thin and ashen when it was taken away by Father O’Kirwin and the manservant. Her father had told her not to cry, because her mother had gone to a better place. She cried anyway.
As she ran her fingers over the black cloth, she wanted to cry again, this time from an unsettling mixture of joy and pain. She replaced her mother’s dress in the chest because it was too fragile to wear and considered what she would don for her own wedding. The simple brown dress she had on would have to do, festooned with a few handpicked flowers.
* * *
After expressing some irritation about Briana’s afternoon absence, Lucinda lifted bowls from the cupboard, preparing them for supper. Brian was tending the kettle fires on the lawn in back of the kitchen.
The sun was far to the west, throwing the room into darkness. Lucinda lit a small candelabrum and placed it on the table. The four yellow flames flickered, the smoke curling into the air, their circular penumbras vibrating against the ceiling.
After some small talk about the soup and bread, Briana came to the point. Lucinda was facing the cupboard, taking more bowls from their places.
“Rory and I are to be married at three tomorrow at Mass Rock,” Briana said. “I hope you will come.” She had found Rory late in the day and confirmed the date.
Her sister stumbled but then caught her footing without dropping the crockery. After a merry laugh, Lucinda said, “Thank you, sister, for the invitation. I wondered whether I would get one. It’s been a dismal afternoon, Father’s been in a foul mood—he wouldn’t tell me why, other than to say there was something he needed to discuss with both of us.” Lucinda lowered the bowls gently to the table and stared at her. “So this was not a morning jest as I hoped it would be. My God, why are you doing this?”
“I’m marrying the man I love,” Briana said, controlling her irritation. “It’s as simple as that.”
“Simple?” her sister shouted. “What are we to do?” Lucinda held up her hand, quelling any objection. “No, no, no. That’s selfish of me, isn’t it? I have the employ and good graces of Sir Thomas and a career as a governess in England. Father is Sir Thomas’s agent, and thus will be kept on here or be thrown out on the road if Lear House fails. Who will take care of him?”
“Rory and I will, if no one else will.”
“In a mud hut with barely enough room for the two of you? It’s preposterous!” She slammed her fists on the table. “You’d condemn our father to life as a peasant?”
“Enough,” Briana snapped. “You don’t understand. You’ll never understand true love.” Her temper had gotten the better of her.
Lucinda’s body sagged as she reached for the table.
Her words had cut deeply into her sister’s heart, and Briana regretted her remark—it was a cruel thing to say. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I didn’t mean that.”
Lucinda stiffened. “You did mean it. I know the level of your sincerity when it comes to me. I’ve tried my best to counsel you, to lift you above your petty dreams, but I can see that my words, and my example, have been held in small regard. What you’re doing is impetuous and foolhardy at best. A marriage to Rory Caulfield will be disastrous.” She spread her fingers on the table and leaned forward. “You’ve always been the pretty one—I’ve accepted that. But I’m the one who understands how the world works, what it takes to improve yourself and to be held in higher esteem. You’ll never take that away from me. My life won’t be taken away with insults.” She withdrew a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.
Briana stood rigid on the other side of the table. Her sister’s assertions held a stinging ring of truth. “I’m sorry, Lucinda. Rory and I suspected that you and Father might object—but I’ve asked for consent, and it’s been given. Our time is too precious to waste in argument. I know you want to keep the house together as well, but my heart lies with Rory. I feel yours is far away in a place where our father will never go. I’m needed here—with Rory.”
“But what can you do? What really can you do to save us and Lear House?” With the last question, tears slipped down Lucinda’s cheeks. She was sobbing as Brian entered the kitchen from the back door.
“What’s going on,” he said. “Are you two at it again?”
Lucinda turned away from them and dabbed her nose. “We were discussing the marriage—it’s tomorrow.”
She feared what her father might say, but she didn’t want to prolong his displeasure with her decision. Brian shuffled toward her, his hands wrenched in front of him from working with the heavy cauldrons. He winced as he walked, his face etched with deep lines.
Briana took a deep breath and then said, “We’re being married tomorrow at three.”
Her father stopped and then leaned against the table piled high with bowls. He remained calm, his face expressionless. His lack of emotion frightened her. She gazed at him—perhaps there was slight resignation in his face, certainly not anger or disappointment. Whatever his mood, she judged it more satisfactory than what she was expecting. After what seemed an eternity, he finally spoke. “Long ago, I gave up turning you over my knee. It seems that both of you are in a hurry, but I’ve given my consent. Rory Caulfield is a good man.” He turned back to the door. “Bring the bread out. The soup kettles are warm.”
Lucinda wheeled on her father. “That’s all you have to say?” she asked indignantly, and lifted her hands in exasperation. “Rory Caulfield is a good man? I should bite my own tongue rather than speak ill of my sister, but this has gone—”
Brian put a finger to his lips. “Shush . . . Then don’t speak, daughter. We are a family and should be forgiving of our mistakes and grateful for our victories. Briana and Rory will sort this out. They will make their own way.” He stretched his arms over his head and then ambled toward the door. “We have more pressing matters to worry about than a marriage. When will Rory go to Belmullet?”
Briana was relieved her father had not scolded her. He was right, heavier matters weighed on all their minds, which probably accounted for Lucinda’s irritation as well. As he reached the door, Briana said, “Thank you, Father, for your understanding. Rory and I won’t disappoint you.”
* * *
The next afternoon, thick, gray clouds rolled in from the Atlantic, spreading a chill over the manor. Briana watched them advance in misty waves over the bay. Spring had retreated under a gloomy attack that seemed a final blow from winter’s hand. She stood quietly in front of the hall looking glass, primping her hair, plucking at one strand and then another before tightening them back with a bow. Even the heath flowers would be damp now and not an asset to her brown dress.
The tall clock near the staircase rang out at the half hour. Her father checked it every day to make sure it never stopped in its steady task.
Shortly thereafter, just past two-thirty, Lucinda, attired in a blue dress, and her father, wearing his best breeches and jacket, met her in the great room at Lear House. The foul weather had left her feeling as if she had made a mistake to plan the wedding at Benwee Head. But she loved the cliffs so much she could envision no other place for the marriage except at Mass Rock.
She greeted with them with few words and nervous looks.
“I’d expected more smiles on your wedding day,” her father said, and withdrew his pipe from his pocket. “This is a day for a smoke and a nip from the bottle.”
Briana hugged him and then her sister. “Marriage day jitters, but I’m happy you’re both here.” Lucinda smiled but said nothing.
However, Briana knew what was bothering her was more than nerves. Earlier, from her vantage point on the lawn, she had seen tenants take to their fields. Only the young and old among the men mostly remained. Many husbands had taken what little provisions they had in hopes of finding relief work in Belmullet or Bangor. The women, attired in their scarlet mantles and yellow kerchiefs, stood among the potato ridges with their spades and with foot irons to protect the soles of their feet. They looked like cresting waves, each rising and dipping, back muscles straining, as they dug silently into the earth.
But the sadness she felt upon seeing the women was punctuated by her own soon-to-be role as a wife. How would she and Rory survive in a land ravaged by famine? How could they bring a child into this world knowing the hardships that lay in front of them? Despite the joyous day, these questions gnawed at her. She wanted to ignore the alarming feelings twisting inside her, but try as she might they bubbled in her mind.
“We should be going, or we might miss the wedding,” Lucinda said. There was a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
Often she found that, of late, she was happiest when Lucinda was away in England; but then she would remember brighter days, fond times of old, when they were almost friends rather than the social adversaries they had become. There were moments, sometimes weeks, such as when their mother died, that they were childhood companions, weeping and consoling each other, determined to make sure that the family remained together. Was it only irritation with her sister’s “airs” that increasingly soured her return to Lear House? Possibly, but she also wished Lucinda would accept Rory, if not into her heart, then as a member of the family.
They took the shorter western path that bordered several precipitous cliffs before ending near Benwee Head. They had all climbed it many times before. The wind buffeted them as they ascended, the cold cutting through her shawl and dress to her bones. The village path may have been more comfortable, but there was little time to spare.
The trail tightened to a narrow goat path above the foamy billows. Briana clutched the tussocks as she climbed, much like the ponies who used the tufted grass to their advantage. Lucinda groused under her breath about “using a more civilized route” but followed Briana. Her father brought up the rear.
By the time she reached the plateau her heart was beating wildly from excitement and exertion. She smoothed her dress and looked for Rory and Father O’Kirwin and spotted them, heading toward Mass Rock, topping the path that came up from the village. The priest was attired in his cassock; Rory wore green breeches and a dark jacket over his white shirt. Many Masses were held at the rock since Catholic persecution had begun years ago. The law of 1829 had given Catholics the legal right to assemble, but the tradition of worshipping in a secret natural setting or in a secluded home had continued.
Smiling with a face ruddy from the climb, Rory approached her with open arms. He drew her close and kissed her as the priest watched them from his stance near the rock. The stubble on his chin raked her cheek.
“You might have shaved,” she teased him.
He gave a sly smile. “By now, you should be used to the way I look.”
“Children and witnesses,” Father O’Kirwin called out. “I have people to serve, and I’m sure, Briana, you have another night of cooking to attend to.”
As she stood before the priest, she didn’t want to think about cooking and serving, or even the hungry. Her marriage, the happiest day of her life, should be the only thing on her mind. What awaited her after the wedding would jolt her back to reality: the starving families, the dwindling stores of food at Lear House, the bankruptcy of the tenants—those problems awaited after the Mass was through.
Her father and sister took their places on either side of them while the priest began, “I know in my heart you are a husband and wife who will work together for the good of the Church, Ireland, and its people,” he said. He read the vows and then asked them to take each other as man and wife.
“I do,” they repeated to each other.
At times, Briana looked over her shoulder expecting her father and Lucinda to charge toward the priest with scowling faces, shouting their objections to the marriage, but in the end there were none.
Rory slipped a simple gold band over her finger, his mother’s wedding ring. Jarlath and his wife had given it to him several years ago because he was the remaining unmarried son. The ring was scratched and worn in places from his mother’s hard work. Briana didn’t mind; in fact, she cherished it all the more for having belonged to Mrs. Caulfield, a strong, devout woman who always protected and loved her family. She hoped to be the same kind of woman to her new husband.
Father O’Kirwin blessed them, and the wedding ended.
“I wish you well and a life filled with happiness,” Brian told his new son-in-law. Lucinda offered her congratulations and shook Rory’s hand. Briana appreciated her sister’s gesture. The three departed on the path back to the village, leaving them alone.
They walked toward the edge of the cliff, but chilly blasts from the northwest stopped them from venturing too close. Under the gray eddy of clouds, white gulls and black-tipped terns soared near Kid Island like a whirlwind of flying dots, catching the updrafts from the sheer rock. As they stood, arm in arm, looking out at the iron-colored waves tipped with foam, the impetuosity of her marriage suddenly struck her. In a sudden panic, she asked Rory, “Did we make a mistake?”
He shrugged. “I don’t think so,” he said, and then laughed heartily. “Of course not. I’m happy that it’s done. We have each other.” He turned her so they stood with their sides to the wind and then kissed her.
She pressed against him and felt safe and warm against his chest. The rushing air forced them together, and the heat from his body surrounded her like a cocoon. Her body arched in the ecstatic joy of his touch. For a moment, she swooned, closed her eyes, and saw only blackness. The ocean dropped away, the faint cries of the sea birds receded; her body melded with his as their souls fused together.
“How do we consummate this marriage?” Rory asked as they broke apart.
“It’s simple,” she said, and laughed.
“I’m not joking.” His face darkened. “I’ve a family staying with me, and tonight I plan on helping you feed the people.”
“We’ll make it happen,” she said.
They descended the trail to the village center. As they walked, Briana savored this moment together as man and wife. Even as Mrs. Caulfield, she wondered whether she and Rory would have any chance at happiness. They arrived at his cabin, and Briana felt the shift in his mood. His body tensed, and any happiness, any smile, that was left over from the wedding vanished.
The family he had housed sat outside staring at the pig that Rory and his brother had protected day and night. Her heart melted as she looked at the emaciated parents and especially the two young children with protruding eyes and drawn faces. Yet, observing them and feeling Rory’s anger, Briana began to understand why he had joined the Mollies. His sympathy and love for the people, his desire to set wrong to right, drove him to take action. Perhaps, his way—direct, radical—was better than her attempt to save the starving by feeding them. That could only last so long.
She kissed his cheek and clenched his hand. The message was given—she would see him tonight when the people were fed. The four poor masses of skin and bones that gathered outside Rory’s door occupied her mind as she walked to Lear House. They mattered more at the moment than did her marriage bed.
* * *
More people gathered for supper than could be adequately served. Near the end, Briana rationed the oats and bread so at least everyone got a small helping. No one was happy about the situation, and other than a few offers of congratulations on their marriage there was no celebration.
The mood was dismal when the four of them gathered in the kitchen to finish cleaning up.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to make the trip to Belmullet tomorrow,” Brian told Rory as he wiped down the table.
Briana looked over her shoulder at her husband, who gave her a downcast look. She knew what the journey meant—rising early, no lounging about to enjoy their first night as man and wife.
“I’ll be happy to go, sir,” Rory said with a half smile.
“There’ll be none of that now,” her father said. “It’s Brian or Da . . . not sir.”
“Thank you . . . Brian.”
There was an awkward silence before her father spoke. “Speaking of sir, this came by post today.” He withdrew a letter from his jacket pocket and tossed it on the table.
Lucinda dropped her dish towel on the counter and darted to the letter. “It’s from Sir Thomas,” she said breathlessly.
“I’ve already read it,” Brian said. “He’s expected here in two weeks’ time.” His shoulders drooped and he sat at the table. “I’ll have plenty of explaining to do when he arrives.”
Lucinda looked askance at her father. “What do you mean ‘explaining’?”
“I’m too tired to talk about it tonight, daughter,” Brian said. “Everything will be out in the open soon—Sir Thomas will realize how difficult the situation has become at Lear House.”
Lucinda tapped the letter against her heart and then handed it back to her father. “I will be happier when Sir Thomas arrives. Life will be much better.”
Briana hoped her sister’s prediction would come true, but she doubted that the Englishman would offer much help to the starving, or to the tenants who, through their lagging payments, contributed to the estate’s financial ills. As their lives crumbled, so would Lear House’s fortunes.
Brian tossed the letter on the table and managed a smile. “But we do have some happiness in our family.” He rose and put his arm around Rory’s shoulder. “Maybe a small drink of French brandy and then off to bed. A couple should have privacy on their wedding night.” He directed those words with a wink to Rory. “Bedrooms aplenty upstairs. Sir Thomas will never know.”
Briana’s heart jumped at the thought of spending her wedding night in a Lear House bedroom, because such an extraordinary thought had never entered her mind. She ran to her father, hugged him, and kissed him on the cheek. “Da, you’re too kind.”
“Yes, too generous indeed,” Lucinda said.
“Hush, daughter,” her father said. “On your wedding night, you’ll wish for something special.”
“I will, and I’ll have it.” She turned back to drying the bowls.
“Let’s have a drink and a chat outside before the embers die,” Brian told Rory.
Before they left the kitchen in search of the brandy, Rory whispered to her, “I’ll say good night to the family and make sure Jarlath takes in the pig. I’ll meet you upstairs.”
“I need to gather a few things from the cottage,” she whispered back.
After the men had gone, Lucinda said, “Congratulations, sister, you’re the first of the Walsh daughters to be married. I look forward to my own vows . . . someday.” Her words were spoken in a dour tone that indicated she was still melancholy about the union.
Briana shrugged off the slight. Nothing could ruin her mood. Her mind was filled with thoughts of Rory and the happiness they would share before his morning trip to Belmullet.
* * *
Her feet barely touched the ground as she ran to the cottage to gather her things for the night. All her years of padding over the heath hadn’t prepared her for the feeling of the earth flying beneath her shoes; each dewed blade of grass propelled her forward until she collapsed, giddy with joy, against the oak door. She caught her breath and stepped into a room she had known all her life but that now looked different. How many nights had she gathered around the fire pit with her father and sister? How many nights had she and Lucinda sat at her father’s feet listening to him read Shakespeare or tell Irish folk tales of fairies, sprites, hobgoblins, and ghosts, scaring the life out of them, only for all of them to end up in gales of laughter.
Strange, she didn’t feel older, but a building sense inside her forced her to consider her life as a married woman—a woman who would have children with all the responsibilities of motherhood. For an instant, the image of the dying child in his mother’s arms entered her head again, but she quickly brushed it away, revealing a blank darkness she had thrust upon herself. That was quickly replaced by the tingling, raw-nerved emotions of a wedding night. She wanted to dance through the cottage but allowed herself only a quick jig around the fire pit. Rory would be waiting, and she set about her tasks.
She gathered her brush and a clasp for her hair and changed into her yellow dress, a color that would brighten both the night and the bedroom. She sneaked into Lucinda’s room and looked at herself in the small looking glass that her sister carried in her travels. Perhaps it was the dim light from the oil lamp, but her skin appeared too white, too washed out, so she pinched her cheeks and, to redden them, nipped at her upper and lower lips with her teeth. While at the mirror, she brushed and clasped the strands of her long, dark brown hair at the base of her neck.
She sat in her father’s chair, took off her shoes, and examined her nails. Her feet were dirt free. Holding her hands away from her face, she saw that her fingernails were clean from doing the dishes. She took a cloth from the wash bucket and dipped it into the cool, fresh water, scrubbing her face and exposed skin. With that done, she took one last look around the cottage, inhaled deeply, and set out for Lear House.
Lucinda was walking up the path to the cottage. They exchanged a nod and said good night to each other, both unwilling to open a more grievous wound between them.
The door to Lear House was unlocked. Briana left her shoes in the hall, lit a candle, and climbed the stairs. Her father had not specified which bedroom to take, but she thought that among the rooms, the most grand would be Sir Thomas’s. The thought of making love, even being close to Rory in the Master’s bedroom, sent a shiver down her spine. It was as if she was, for the first time in her life, decadent—as if she were a naughty child again, getting away with an indecorous act. Her father had assured her that Blakely would never find out. She imagined that Rory might have a different feeling about being in the bedroom—one of comeuppance for the man he despised.
She pushed open the door, and the room unfolded before her. It smelled musty from being closed for the winter, and the white cloths that covered the armchairs and the dresser were still in place, but the bed, a four-poster in English mahogany, sat in its heavy glory against the east wall, its fine cotton spread and sheets reflecting the candlelight.
She carefully removed the dust cover from the night table, revealing an oil lamp and two books of maps. The dust spread through the light and settled on the floor as she lit the lamp from the candle’s flame.
Past the window, the cresting waves on Broadhaven Bay were barely visible against the pervasive dark. She opened the west window to let in the fresh breeze and to clear the must from the air. Having nothing else to do, she lay down on the bed, put her feet up, hardly noticing the heavy drowsiness that overtook her from the day’s events. The cool ocean air brushed over her face. How wonderful the evening was! She had a bit of happiness—a wedding night filled with joy even as the famine raged across Ireland.
When she awoke, Rory was sitting next to her on the bed, cupping her head with his strong hands.
She rose up to meet him, but he stopped her with a gentle touch. She lay back and gazed into his face. He had shaved! She brushed her fingers across his smooth cheeks. The candlelight played across his face, and the flickering shadows only made him more handsome in her mind.
“I couldn’t be kissing you with whiskers,” he said, and intertwined the fingers of his right hand with hers.
“I’m glad you did,” she said, and then sighed with contentment. His skin smelled of soap and fresh water. “I’m also glad we waited until our wedding night.”
With his left hand, he slowly undid the buttons on his white shirt, revealing his chest and stomach. “There’s no need to wait now.” He kissed her and then positioned his body over hers.
“We’ll be careful,” she said, touching a finger to his lips.
“Yes.”
He pressed against her, and the white curtains across the west window flapped inward from a sudden gust. The candle sputtered out, sending the room into darkness.
But she didn’t care. Her best friend, her lover, her husband, was over her now, and his strength had become part of her. At that moment, all she ever wanted and needed was in this room.