It wasn’t a good day for a race. Clouds hung low and moved swiftly westward as if pushed by an invisible hand. The carriage fought against the blustery wind and along the way small bursts of blue occasionally broke through the heavy overhang. Gully Joyce had risen early to polish and ready the carriage. Once a jockey himself, he skipped about outside with the excited anticipation of a child expecting presents under a Christmas Tree. When we got underway, he hummed tunes all the way to the racetrack, undaunted by the harsh weather.
With the carriage safely parked behind a row of others, I dismounted and walked toward the worn patch of ground where the crowd had gathered. Drops of rain fell slantwise, smacking my face like tiny darts of ice. I paused to watch Gully scamper off to greet a small man who wore the official referee cap.
“You’re here,” Purcenell said, walking toward me. “Of course, you are. You want to see Pandora race. She’s in fine form today. There’ll be no problem with her winning, so there won’t.” His words were spoken more to convince himself than me. “Use the whip on her early, Edward,” he ordered the jockey who came over to receive last minute instructions. “You'll get more speed out of her that way.”
Edward raised the whip in acknowledgement at the same time Kilpara’s grooms came over leading Pandora. Her eyes turned wild at the sight of the whip and she reared up in protest. I fought down the urge to snatch the whip from the jockey’s hand.
Sloane and Thornton stood beside a long-legged brown and white stallion. The animal showed dislike for the slanting rain and strong breeze. He snorted, sneezed, turned this way, then that way, in an attempt to find a comfortable stance. The jockey mounted the horse and together they rode round in circles. Thornton and Sloane continued to give instructions as the jockey positioned his body into one of control. He leaned forward, tightening the rein in his grip, a whip held ready in his right hand.
Ligham joined the small group and talked amiably with Sloane. They walked over to where Purcenell and I stood, as Edward mounted Pandora. Horse and rider moved toward the starting line.
“Get ready to call me son-in-law,” Sloane taunted Purcenell.
“You’ll never marry my daughter, so you won’t,” Purcenell said, shaking his head. “But I won’t object to taking the five hundred pounds from you after the race. No, I won’t say nay to that.”
“You know my marrying Morrigan would be a blessing, Arthur,” Sloane said. “Kilpara is falling into ruin and you need better control of your tenants.”
“I don’t need your help,” Purcenell snapped. His hands at his side doubled into fists.
Sloane smoothed the corners of his mustache and made “tut, tut” noises. “We’ll see about that.”
The referee came over and collected written agreements from Sloane and Purcenell. With these in hand, he crossed the track and stepped into the box close to the starting line. In a sober voice, he shouted through a megaphone, “The race will consist of three consecutive laps. The first horse and rider to pass over the finish line will be declared the winner.” Wind tugged at the jockeys’ colored jerseys and raindrops lingered on their billowed caps as they waited for the signal. The referee held up two green flags that immediately flapped in the breeze. “On your marks! Get set! Go!” The flags went down and the horses and jockeys took off.
It was clear almost from the onset that Guardian was the better horse, but he had difficulty dealing with the elements and the rough track. He was obviously accustomed to smoother racecourses. After a couple false starts, then hesitation, he almost balked. The jockey used his whip to gain control and forced the horse into the unyielding wind. He struck out reluctantly, his stride longer than Pandora’s. I groaned inwardly as thoughts plagued me about the inevitable outcome should Pandora lose this race. Morrigan would become Sloane’s bride. I pushed the notion aside while observing that the mysterious Morrigan had taken possession of my waking thoughts and invaded my sleeping ones, too.
Pandora was stealing the upper hand. Her hooves plodded the rough track with ease, and she found the wind even less a deterrent. Guardian, with the longer gait, should have been out in front, but he struggled from behind.
I looked farther down the track toward a hedge where Gully Joyce and the other grooms watched with interest. Gully’s small body was tensed like a boxer ready to meet his opponent. He urged the horses on; which one he was cheering for, I didn’t know.
Thornton, Sloane, Ligham, and Purcenell stood close to the finish line, their eyes glued to the horses. They shouted orders that drifted away on the wind as the jockeys raced past. I noticed that Daphne had arrived and stood apart from the crowd some distance away. She followed the horses' progress through small binoculars. By the second lap, Guardian had caught up to Pandora and it looked like he might stretch out and overtake her. Rain had started to turn the track to muck, which didn’t bother the sure-footed Pandora, but worked against Guardian and his dislike for this environment.
The horses were on their third lap coming up on the home stretch, neck and neck. Edward, who had been using the whip all along, brought it down even harder on Pandora’s flanks. Reacting to the strikes, she strode out ahead of Guardian. The whip came down on Guardian, but just enough to urge him forward. The characteristic slaps did nothing to quicken his pace as he struggled to maintain the same speed. I was sure fresh marks would appear on Pandora after the race.
Purcenell jumped up and down waving his hands. Sloane, Ligham, and Thornton cheered for Guardian. The referee moved from the box to the middle of the track waving red flags furiously when the horses thundered past him. Pandora had managed to pull ahead of Guardian by a neck when they crossed over the finish line. They flashed by kicking muck onto the referee’s gray pants and jacket. Flags continued to fly wildly back and forth to indicate the end of the race. Rain came down steadily now, carrying with it the heightened smell of grass and the damp odor of black clay. No one seemed to mind as elation filtered through the crowd. I heaved a sigh of relief.
Purcenell strolled over to Sloane, his chest puffed out, and stopped just inches from the other man's face. “Is there any doubt in your mind now, Charlie?” he almost spat. The referee rolled up his flags and handed the winning documents to Purcenell.
“You owe us a rematch,” Sloane demanded obstinately.
“I’ll grant you no such thing,” Purcenell retorted. “Indeed I won’t. I’ve been telling you all along, Pandora is the champion.” He laughed a hearty laugh and went over to the jockeys who were bringing the horses off the track.
“Good race,” Thornton said, shaking Purcenell’s hand. “Perhaps we should arrange a rematch in England sometime. You and your daughter should come and visit us at Glenside Manor.”
“We will,” Purcenell promised, suddenly gracious. “Join me for a victory drink at the Traveller’s Inn?”
“Gladly.”
The horses had been taken to a makeshift stable beside the track. Grooms fussed over Guardian, one wiping him down while another stood ready to cover him up with a blanket displaying the Thornton coat of arms. Kilpara grooms applied salve to Pandora’s new wounds. She reared at each application, eyes wild with pain.
The spectators, anxious to get out of the rain, had already taken to their carriages that lined the road to the Traveller’s Inn. I turned to look where Daphne had stood, but she was nowhere in sight.
Late afternoon business at the Traveller’s Inn had turned brisk when I arrived. Race enthusiasts, glad to take refuge from the outside elements, downed glasses of black beer.
“I daresay, Arthur,” Sloane said to Purcenell, “it was obvious today’s conditions were unfavorable for Guardian. A repeat competition is in order.”
“Indeed, you say,” Purcenell said, ignoring the bait. He waved his glass in Sloane's face. “You know, Charlie, if your horse had won, you’d be singing a different tune, wouldn't you? You’d expect me to honor the bet and hand over my daughter. You wouldn’t be one bit concerned about a rematch. But you see I knew Pandora would win. You didn't believe me, did you? I proved to you once and for all that I was right and you were wrong. You may have high hopes that you’d start turning Kilpara into your kind of estate. Well, Kilpara and my daughter will never be yours to own. But this draft—” Purcenell pulled the folded agreement from his jacket, “—will help my finances considerably.” He bellowed a loud guffaw.
Sloane’s eyes narrowed. Thornton interjected, “A rematch in England would prove beyond all doubt who the champion horse is. Race Pandora on a proper racecourse and let's see if she can beat Guardian there.”
“A rematch would prove nothing,” Purcenell spat. I could tell he was enjoying his opponents' attempt to regain the upper hand and was decidedly not giving in to them. “I’ll say it over and over Pandora is the best racing horse in the world.” He stood nose to nose before Sloane. “There’s no horse anywhere who can beat her. Of course, there isn’t. I’d wager everything I own on Pandora. But there’ll be no rematch.”
“Would you wager Kilpara?” I spoke up, impulsively voicing an idea that had been forming in my mind. I pushed aside nagging thoughts that I should consider the situation more carefully. All that mattered to me was an opportunity had presented itself that could solve my dilemma. Throwing myself at the man’s mercy and pleading for Mother’s cause had little chance of success. With any luck, my plan just might succeed.
Several pairs of eyes swung my direction the same time Purcenell's head jerked toward me, surprise registered on his face. “What do you mean?”
I moved closer to Purcenell and locked stares. “I have a horse that can beat Pandora.”
Everyone fell silent. Purcenell heaved and laughed out loud spreading a stale smell of ale. He put a friendly arm on my shoulder.
“Haven't you been listening, lad?” he said. “There’s no horse anywhere that can beat Pandora. You may have luck at cards, but horseracing is a sport best left to the masters. You'd be wasting your time.”
The group erupted into “Hear, Hear.”
I waited until the noise died down then said evenly, “My horse will beat her.”
Purcenell frowned. “Your horse? What horse? Why haven’t we heard about this horse? Americans ride prairie horses. Pandora is a thoroughbred. You know that already.”
Agreeable laughter circled around us.
Sloane moved closer and looked at me suspiciously. “I find it rather strange that you, an American and a stranger in Ireland, should claim by some strange coincidence to own a horse that is good enough to race against champions.” He ran his thumb and forefinger along his mustache. “How convenient. Who are you, Mr. Ellis, and what are you really doing here?”
“A gunslinger escaping from the Wild West perhaps?” Ligham offered nervously. “Or a Civil War rebel come to Ireland to stir up the illegal societies?”
Sloane glared at him.
Ligham shrugged lamely. “He could be toting a pistol.”
“What exactly is your business?” Purcenell added through squinted eyes.
This was not how I intended the situation to go; things had the potential to turn dangerously nasty against me.
I thought quickly and opted to partially tell the truth. “I’m here for two reasons,” I began, hoping to quell the unrest that was brewing. “The first one you already know—to acquire the marble quarry. The second one was to bring my mother back to Ireland. My parents immigrated years ago to America. They raised a family there. My father died a couple of years back. When my mother learned about my intentions to come to Ireland on business, she saw it as a sign that she should return home. She’s quite ill. She wants to die here.”
I waited anxiously. Would Purcenell make the association between my story and Aunt Sadie’s request? There was no recognition in his gaze. He just looked at me with intense distrust.
“If this nonsense is true, you’re Irish then,” he said.
I paused. I had to tread carefully. “I’m American born.”
“Are you staying at St. Bridget's because your mother’s ill, or because you want to buy the quarry?” Sloane asked.
I decided to focus on the first part of his question and downplay the second part. “My mother needs medical care which she’s getting at Mercy Hospital. The clergy were good enough to allow us to stay in the visiting quarters at St. Bridget's for a generous donation, a goodwill gesture.”
The tension held while everyone digested this explanation.
“What's your business in America?” Thornton asked.
Without hesitation I said, “I’m a partner with Emmons Acquisition Agency.”
“And your mother’s name?” he probed, pulling out his pipe.
I drew a deep breath. “Burke, Ann Burke.”
Purcenell looked blank. The name meant nothing to him.
“Burke—Burke—Burke.” Thornton rolled the name off his tongue.
“Burke’s a common name in Ireland,” Sloane scoffed.
“Her father was Dr. Victor Burke,” I said. Again I watched Purcenell’s face for recognition, but there was none. He was not making the connection. I guessed that Mother’s father had limited association with the landed English aristocracy.
I started when the Royal Physician said, “Yes, yes, of course. Victor Burke, the well-known medical researcher. He worked to find cures for incurable illnesses. He made immense contributions to medicine, particularly in the area of tubercular disease.”
Thornton took a sip of his drink. “What’s your horse’s name?”
“Brazonhead.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s never run a race.”
Thornton turned to Purcenell. “You claim Pandora can’t be beat. Perhaps you should humor this young man’s challenge. After all, some unknown horse is no match for a champion.”
Purcenell puffed out his chest with pride upon hearing the physician praise Pandora’s champion status. He stepped into the middle of the group enjoying this moment of glory. Walking around in a circle, he looked into faces of the expectant patrons. Then tossing back his head, he guffawed loudly. “So you want to race some unbridled animal yourself against my Pandora, now do you?”
“That's my offer,” I said.
“You know, you’re no jockey?”
“I do.”
“Jockeys are especially trained for horse racing.”
“I know.”
“Yet you expect to race this animal yourself?”
“Yes.”
“And you think you can beat Pandora?”
“I’m counting on it.”
Purcenell roared, slapping his knee with his free hand. “You’ve got guts, lad,” he said when he got control of himself. “Indeed some might even call it stupidity.”
The audience joined in the laughter.
The rush of adrenaline I’d been feeling subsided and I began to think more rationally. Purcenell was right, I was no jockey and Brazonhead was no Pandora. The odds were against me that I could pull this off. Looking round at the mocking faces, I knew I couldn’t back down now even if I wanted to. They’d run me out of town. I was in this race and there was no way out. All I had to do was convince myself I could win. I had to. So much depended on it.
“What’s your wager?” Purcennell asked catching his breath.
“Two thousand pounds. Against Kilpara.”
“Good God!” Purcenell’s eyebrows shot up. “When the American decides to lose, he loses big.” He looked at Sloane. “If I keep increasing my fortunes, I’ll never have to worry about my daughter’s future or Kilpara’s either. Pandora is making me a rich man.”
“Is it a deal?” I asked.
Purcenell hesitated for a moment. He looked at the grins on the faces around him. “Deal,” he said firmly. “Draw up the papers.”
“Three weeks from today at Ballybrit.”
“Agreed,” Purcenell said, “documents in hand.”
Gully Joyce flashed me a conspiratorial look when I mounted the carriage. After we arrived at the convent, he danced around looking like he would burst if he didn’t speak. I wasn’t in any mood for a discussion with the little man, but I could tell he’d persist if I ignored him.
“What’s on your mind?” I asked
“That was some story ye told them back there at the Traveler’s Inn,” he said. “I know what you’re up to.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was restless waiting outside for ye with the carriage, so I snuck into the gentlemen’s lounge to see what was keeping ye. I heard what ye proposed.”
I had forgotten about Gully, sure that he and his friends were occupied in the small pub not far from the Traveler’s Inn. He could have challenged me and made things uncomfortable. So why hadn’t he? Did he hope to blackmail me?
“And?” I prompted.
The little man beamed. “I guessed ye were trying to get Purcenell into a race so ye could win Kilpara back. I have to say, I admire ye, sir. Ye took an awful chance, almost set yourself up to get mobbed. People ‘round here don't take kindly to strangers that lie. But if I say so meself, ye lie as convincingly as anyone I’ve ever seen. Sure you’ve a right gift for the gab.”
I frowned and Gully continued quickly.
“Who would’ve dreamt it, an O’Donovan reclaiming Kilpara. This’ll give people ‘round here something to cheer about. Get rid of that pompous boasting fool, Purcenell.” He rubbed his hands in glee. “Still, he’s a far better cry than the Sloanes. They’ve no sense of the people at all, those ones.”
I didn’t pursue this discourse but went instead to Brazonhead’s stall and opened the gate. Brazonhead came out and nudged me.
Gully picked up a pitchfork and threw down some hay. “The O’Donovans always treated the people fairly,” he said. “They took good care of us. Not like these implants that raise rents whenever they please and throw people out of their homes.”
“The O’Donovans lost Kilpara. They were squeezed out by the British. The people suffered regardless.”
“True kinsmen, the O’Donovans were,” Gully protested, ignoring me. “Sure, weren’t they forced into exile? Suffered themselves, rather than put more burden on their poor countrymen. And your grandparents reduced to that small cottage. The elder Purcenell was worse than the present one. Jeered, your grandfather, he did, and treated people beneath him like dirt. He would’ve done worse if he hadn’t feared them. A coward of a man, so he was. Had to beg the Crown to protect him against his own tenants; and they did at first. But then, they told him to manage his own affairs. 'Do what ye have to, to control the Irish bastards,' is what I heard they said. Many's the time people thought about quietly murdering the old man.”
“What I proposed back there is a long shot,” I said. “You do know that.” Saying the words made me realize how desperate I had become.
Gully surveyed me from head to toe. “We’ll fix that. Anyone can see you’re no jockey. Still, ye have the element of surprise. Purcenell has never seen Brazonhead. He’d take a different view if he had, and the way ye ride. You’re a team if ever I saw one. I’ll teach ye a few tricks. There’s an unused track near here that’s similar to Ballybrit. Ye can run Brazonhead on that so he’ll be familiar with the feel of the ground. Pity you’re so tall; and heavy.”
He went outside and began unhitching the horses from the carriage. I stood looking after him. I had held back telling him that no matter what the outcome, I didn’t intend to keep Kilpara. I just wanted to possess it long enough to get Mother her wish. After that I was returning to Baltimore.
I put Brazonhead back in his stall. That night I dreamt of running along the beach with Morrigan and feeding ducks by the stream called Kilpara River.
I was finishing breakfast when a grim-faced Aunt Sadie came in and sat down.
“Is Mother all right?” I asked.
“She’d like to see you after breakfast,” Aunt Sadie responded. “She’s very industrious this morning. But I'm here to talk to you about another matter.”
I gave her an innocent look, which didn't fool her.
“Gully Joyce believes I have power over his soul, that I can damn him to hell,” she said. “He's terrified of the thought, so his conscience prompted him to come and see me with an extraordinary story about a plan to win back Kilpara.”
Silently, I cursed Gully Joyce for his superstitious streak, his belief that Aunt Sadie could pardon evil and reward goodness.
“He asked me to have a chat with God about some race,” Aunt Sadie said. “I made him tell me everything. He said you wagered a large sum of money on—umm—Brazonhead to race against Purcenell’s horse. This is irrational, Ellis. You could get hurt, and lose a lot of money as well. Call this whole thing off. Please.”
“And do what, Aunt Sadie?” I said levelly. “I haven't made much progress with Purcenell and time is running out. Even if I did manage to talk to him, you said yourself he probably won't listen. There's a real good chance he'll throw me off Kilpara when he learns I’m an O'Donovan.”
“It’s a lie, Ellis. No good ever comes from lies.”
“And how far has the truth gotten us? Nowhere. Yes, it’s a risk. But what other way is there? Tackling Purcenell’s pride. His vanity. That works!”
“Ellis, you can't profit from tearing another man down. It's sinful, so it is. If you do win, have you thought about the consequences, and your responsibility to the decent people of Brandubh? They're simple and trusting. They’ll blindly put their lives in your hands because you’re an O’Donovan. If you get what you want, have you thought about them when you leave to go back to America?”
“Whatever happens, Aunt Sadie, they'll be better off than they are now.”
“I know you mean well, Ellis.” Aunt Sadie put her hand on my arm. “There’s so much you don’t understand.”
“My concern is to make sure Mother and Father are buried at Kilpara. After coming so far, I won’t settle for less. It’s all that matters.”
Sadie squeezed my arm. Without saying another word, she left and walked rapidly toward the convent.
I stood, staring after her for a long moment.
I went along to Mother’s room. Her appearance was improving at last after the shock of visiting her family home, but she still looked fragile. She didn’t let this deter her, however, as she dictated to a young nun who sat by her wheelchair quietly writing.
“I’m asking Dan and Mark to come to Ireland,” Mother said.
I let my surprise show.
Her gaze filled with longing. “I’ve made a terrible mistake, Ellis. I thought letting you boys watch me die was the worst thing I could ever do to you. It’s taken a look into the past to realize I was wrong. You and your brothers should decide for yourselves how much you can bear. I’m telling them everything about this illness and the realities that go along with it. I’m letting them know how bad it’ll get and what precautions Sadie must take to protect both them and me as I get worse. They can choose for themselves if they want to come to Ireland.”
It had crossed my mind that her words were a prelude to discussing my return home. I recalled how emphatic she was at Stonebridge and again on The White Lady that I go back home immediately. I had managed to avoid the subject since our arrival and had several excuses ready if she broached it. I knew I wouldn’t leave her and it gladdened my heart when she continued.
“Are you in a hurry to go back home?” The question sounded like a plea.
I took her left hand in mine. “No, Mother, I'm not.”
She squeezed my hand. “Good. I've suggested to your brothers that they hire an overseer to take care of the farm for a few months, should they decide to come to Ireland.” Tears blurred her eyes. “I never should’ve left Stonebridge, the way I did. I thought I was sparing them—their families—you—from the dreadful consequences of this illness. I didn’t want you to go through what I did with my mother, to be haunted by those same painful images. Mother’s death hung over me all my life. I never wanted you to experience that agony, especially after everything you've been through with your father and Francis. I thought that by coming here I could at least spare you that. I want to make amends.” A fit of coughing overtook her and she released my hand. The nun quietly stood and held her shoulders until it was over.
I waited. Tears edged down her cheeks. Gaining control she said, “I know Marian and Sarah can’t come with your brothers. The children need them. At least my grandchildren won’t witness my deterioration. They’ll remember me how I was. When they’re old enough to understand, Dan and Mark can explain everything to them.” Her gaze became pensive. “Perhaps I’m selfish to expect Dan and Mark to leave their families, but I want my three sons here with me when I ease from this world.”
I nodded. “They’ll come, Mother. We’ll be right here with you.”
We sat without speaking after that. Sadie had been right. The visit to the family homestead had brought about a change in Mother. She had come to terms with her past in a way that would never have happened at Stonebridge. Seeing her old home after so many years had dulled the painful memory of losing her mother and allowed her to examine its effect more clearly. Somewhere in her discovery, she opened herself up to her own family. She was allowing us to face this illness with her, if we wanted, and to share its burden. We were going to work through the separation of death as a family.
“I’m not going anywhere, Mother,” I said quietly. “And I’m sure Dan and Mark will find a way to be here, too.”
She patted my hand. “That would be nice. You're such good boys and I've made such a mess of things.”
“You were only trying to protect us. Let us help you now.”