Downstairs, Mary McGee sat alone, lost in thought. Four years ago, her husband’s political supporters had presented him with a house on St. Catherine Street. He needed to be a landowner to hold political office. Their home was so dignified, so refined, so unlike D’Arcy. Few of the mementoes and gifts that overfilled the drawing room were of much value, except, perhaps, some of D’Arcy’s books. It was an Irish-Canadian room through and through. The heavy curtains had shamrocks woven into them, and there was an abundance of Irish colour: green upholstery, green carpet, green cushions. It was a lovely room, she thought, with a comforting fireplace and warm atmosphere. After years of barely making ends meet, her family finally had a real home.
The rebel lived—if he didn’t always act—like a gentleman.
She glanced down at the newspaper she was holding. On the front page was an account of the trouble at Jolicoeur’s Saloon. At the bottom of the page was a glowing article about John Macdonald joking that, as a professional cabinetmaker, he wished he had better wood to work with. John plays politics while D’Arcy wages war, she thought. She felt old and weary; her skin had weathered, her hair was greying and her smile had grown melancholy. It was all just getting too much for her. John Macdonald had a young, ambitious wife urging him on. D’Arcy, she thought, was not so lucky.
She scanned the article about her husband and realized she had been reading the first paragraph over and over, scarcely taking in a word. She looked up at the picture of the Holy Mother on the wall and uttered her deepest wish: that D’Arcy would give up fighting and settle down. He had stopped drinking, that was a blessing, but politics was just as intoxicating and just as lethal. For twenty years, he had served his passion for one cause after another. Without his fervent speeches, Confederation would never have come about—even Macdonald admitted as much. He had climbed his way up the pedestal, and now he stood on his tiptoes, tottering. In the newspaper article, he was called a firebrand. She wondered how many people had called him that over the years. A stubborn reformer. A renegade rebel. A hero. And now his own people in Griffintown were calling him a traitor. A traitor to what? Many of his colleagues were outspoken; his problem was his absolute faith in his convictions. He was obstinate and inflexible, bull-headed and unyielding, highstrung and … also the sweetest, most kind-hearted man she had ever known. That so many people failed to see that always amazed her. Maybe because they never saw him play with Frasa and young Peggy, or shared her grief when they mourned the deaths of their children.
Even agonizing memories were soothed by his words. She mouthed her favourite poem, written in those terrible days of exile:
My Irish wife has clear blue eyes
My heaven by day, my stars by night.
For she to me is dearer
Than castles strong, or lands, or life.
An outlaw—so I’m near her
To love to death my Irish wife.
Such strong love and such deep emotion; such pride and such persistence. This crusade he was leading against secret societies was something she respected, but it was so dangerous. Fenians, Orangemen, why couldn’t he leave them to squabble among themselves? Why couldn’t he leave well enough alone? For his sake. For his family’s sake. And hers.
Well, she had a secret of her own—one she dared not tell anyone. She wished more than anything that her husband would lose this infernal election. She would nurse him through the humiliation and help steer him through a change of careers. Surely, one of his admirers would help him get a respectable job.
Conor O’Dea was an amiable young man, but she resented the time her husband spent with him. In many ways, Conor reminded her of D’Arcy as a young man: full of ideas and bursting with promise. She knew that each time D’Arcy berated Conor, he was trying to build his character. Years before, D’Arcy had looked up to the great Irish politician Daniel O’Connell in much the same way Conor looked up to him. Perhaps Conor rekindled the flame of those naive days, and that was why D’Arcy gave him so much of his time; precious time he could be spending with her and with his family.
While all eyes focused on him, who paid attention to her? It was always his mess of curls, his beautiful voice, his effortless prose, his causes; each cause more important than her.
She knew that D’Arcy had been talking about the old days with that reporter. Young Ireland. Famine. Rebellion. Exile. The memory haunted her, a nightmare she never wanted to live again: abandoned as her husband took on the role of Irish folk hero. They love their rebels in Ireland. They tell glorious tales about them and write plaintive ballads about them. But they leech their stories of blood and agony, and they forget about those left at home.
Yes, the old days. He escaped to the United States to become a famous newspaperman while she stayed at home, practically penniless, bringing up their daughter. He wrote her beautiful letters of love, but they only made her yearn for him more. Eventually, he earned enough money to pay for their passage over to America, and they joined him in Brooklyn. Finally, they could try to build a life together.
Mary was startled out of her thoughts by a knock on the door. She groaned as she pulled herself out of the chair. What is it this time? An angry constituent? A man in search of a job for his son? A friend in need of money? A postman handed her a special delivery letter. Probably an invitation to make another speech, she thought, so he can get into even more trouble. She smiled at her little witticism as she opened the envelope. She looked at the letter and let out a silent, hollow gasp. Then, as if she suddenly found her lost vocal cords, a horrifying wail gathered in her throat and her screaming echoed through the house.
CONOR had lingered in McGee’s library, looking up passages on Young Ireland. He came rushing into the front room when he heard her scream. D’Arcy McGee struggled out of bed as fast as his swollen leg would allow. Dr. O’Brien followed, confused and out of place. Mary stood like a statue, transfixed by the words on the paper. Conor took the letter from her stiff hands. The short letter was printed in simple, childlike block letters: “If you say any more against Fenians, you will die.” It was unsigned. Instead, at the bottom of the page was a crude drawing of a gallows and a coffin.
By now, D’Arcy McGee had hobbled down the stairs. Conor was about to hide the letter from him, but he knew better. Without comment, he handed it to him. McGee read it grimly, showing no emotion at all. He looked at Mary and rubbed his hand through his hair, then, like a military commander, turned to Conor and issued an order: “Get down to The Gazette and have this letter published immediately. Tell the editor I will spend the rest of the week preparing an article for the paper, called …” He stopped to think. “‘The Attempts to Establish Fenianism in Montreal.’ Tell him I will pull no punches. I will name names. And damn the guilty.”
In his bedclothes, leaning against the wall for support, he looked frail and vulnerable, but his eyes were alive with rage. “No more stories of the past, Conor. We’ve got a fight on our hands.” He turned toward the stairs and bellowed, “I won’t stand for this. I can’t.”
Mary watched her husband limp upstairs. She was still shivering with cold dread. No one had paid her any attention. Old words kept swirling in her mind: “To love … to love to death … to love to death my Irish wife.”