An Irish Girl

by Marilyn Hering

  “How did you find this out?”

  “I—I overheard it in the tea room. It was two British officers.”

  “You’ve given me some important information.”

  He kissed her again. Finally, she slumped into the nearest chair.

  “I’ve come to ask you something. Will you marry me? Let’s face it, I’m facing a dangerous life; and if, God forbid, I do wind up dying, I want it to be as your husband.”

  She frowned.

  “I’m so afraid for you. Every day. But yes, yes, of course I’ll marry you.”

  “I’ve already spoken to Father Boyle about it. He said he would marry us tomorrow, at eight o’clock in the morning. I’ll have to leave in the morning before anyone awakens and may recognize me, especially the British, of course. But, unfortunately, I’ve become a kind of Irish hero, and it will travel like wild fire that I’m here. They’ll be breaking down Father Boyle’s door to shake my hand. We’ll have no real honey moon, of course, except that one night together.” He smiled. “And I know no self-respecting Irish Catholic girl would sleep with a man unless she was married.”

  She blushed.

  A knock at the door sounded.

  “I’ve made a meager dinner for you,” Father Boyle said.

  They devoured it; some bread, some soup made from nettles he had gathered and he surprised them with a small piece of meat he had been saving and cut it in thirds.

  The rest of the evening was spent talking mostly about the famine. Tara had to leave before complete darkness set in for she knew her father and brother would wonder about her if she was very late.

  McGuire took her in his arms.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow at eight, my darling.”

  “Yes, yes. I can’t wait.” She donned her scarf, boots, coat, and left.

  She did not feel the cold as she walked the ten minute pathway home, only the memory of the warmth of John McGuire’s body holding her in his arms.

  John Maguire lay on the cot Father Boyle had provided for him and could not sleep. Was he doing the right thing marrying Tara when he could be killed any day now? Was that fair to her? He wished so hard he had a close brother to council him, but his dearest friend had said he definitely should marry her. And he supposed he was right. How could this have happened to him? He thought of himself as rather strong, mature, and level-headed. Yet, from the moment he had seen Tara he was in love and knew it. He had been with so many women during the times they traveled the country, not to mention his youth, but when he looked at her it was as though he felt completely defenseless. And it wasn’t just her great beauty. It was when she volunteered for the dangerous task of distracting the captain of the ship they were raiding that night. She seemed so utterly fearless in her love of Ireland. As fearless as he was in defending his country. Most women he had known knew so little of the political situation at the heart of the conflict, but he was willing to bet she had been following it day to day in the newspapers. He felt somehow bonded to a woman like this. He had known so many beautiful but frivolous types. He had dreams of Tara, of their future together; perhaps when it was all over (and it must be!) they might get a small farm, raise some animals, grow a potato crop, have beautiful children, which was his greatest dream. He wondered how she would feel about that. Why, of course she would want children. If only things worked out as planned, they would have a wonderful life together. No more negative and depressing thoughts, he vowed. He could not wait until he could make her completely his.

  Tara thought the next day was the longest of her life. Every minute seemed an eternity as she dressed and waited for the time to approach nine.

  She put on her best dress, the one with the roses embroidered around its neckline and her mother’s dress shoes. Then she placed a dab of berry blush on her cheeks. She had snipped the ends of the large pine tree adjacent to their house the night before and wired them together to form a crown for her hair. Patrick and her father would not attend. It would be too dangerous if anyone saw them entering Father Boyle’s home with Tara in what looked like a wedding garment. McGuire must be protected at all costs.

  She heard a joyous sigh from McGuire as he stood in the room where they were to be married, looked at her, then took her hand.

  Father Boyle appeared in a long white and gold garment covering his cassock.

  He smiled at them.

  “Shall we begin? Since we are unable to have a complete Mass with the offering of Communion and responses from the laity, I have omitted them.” He smiled again. “But I assure you that you will be husband and wife when the ceremony is completed. John, will you please step forward and stand to the right side of the bride?”

  He did as Father Boyle asked. A plump-faced woman with rosy cheeks, Father Boyle’s housekeeper, entered.

  “Mrs. Hatch will act as the bride’s matron of honor. He motioned to Sean McCullough, John’s best friend and bodyguard, his hair combed back and straight as wire, with a quivering lip, to step forward. “And Sean will act as best man.”

  She now understood why she heard more than one horse neighing in Father Boyle’s barn. McCullough must have slept in there all night.

  Father Boyle began reading from the prayer book he held:

  “John McGuire, will you take Tara O’Brien, here present, for your lawful wife, according to the rite of our holy Mother, the Church?

  He responded, “I will.”

  Tara O’Brien, will you take John McGuire, here present, for your lawful husband, according to the rite of our holy Mother, the Church?”

  She responded, “I will.”

  John then took Tara’s left hand, and, prompted by Father Boyle, promised her his troth.

  “I, John Mc Guire, take you, Tara O’Brien, for my lawful wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health until death do us part.”

  Tara responded, “I, Tara O’Brien, take you, John McGuire, for my lawful husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.”

  Father Boyle made the sign of the cross.

  I join you together in marriage in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

  Sean removed a gold wedding ring from his pocket and handed it to Father Boyle.

  Father Boyle began:

  “Bless, O Lord, this ring, which we bless in Your name that she who is to wear it, keeping true faith to her husband, may abide in Your peace and obedience to Your will, and ever live in mutual love, Through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  He then sprinkled the ring with holy water in the form of a Cross; and John, having received the ring from the hand of Father Boyle, placed it on Tara’s ring finger of her left hand and she said:

  “With this ring I wed you and I pledge you my fidelity.”

  At that time Father Boyle then spoke:

  “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

  The Gospel According to Matthew 19, 3-6 “At that time there came to Jesus some Pharisees, testing Him, and saying, “Is it lawful for a man to put away his wife for any cause?” But he answered and said to them, “Have you not read the Creator, from the beginning, made them male and female, “For this cause a man shall leave his father and mother and cleave to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh”? What, therefore, God has joined together let no man put asunder.”

  He then closed the holy book, and said “Congratulations” to both of them.

  They kissed rather demurely.

  Sean smiled at John and said, “Well, now you are an old married man.”

  “And I couldn’t be happier.”

  John and Tara were beaming.

  A few minutes later Father Boyle appeared with a small traveling case as did Sean McCullough.


  “We thought we’d leave the two of you alone for the rest of the time you have together. As you know Maureen O’Flanagan’s house is now vacant so we’ll stay there tonight and into morning to give you and Tara some time for yourselves.”

  “That’s good of you both,” John said.

  They had another light dinner and then Sean and Father Boyle left for the evening.

  John McGuire had never truly been afraid in his life, as far as he could remember. But now he was terrified. He had been with many women in his life but this was a different situation. First of all, he loved Tara more than he ever thought he could love a woman and secondly, he knew she was a virgin. How would she react to the sex act? Perhaps she would be submissive for his sake, not enjoying it at all. He would have to control himself completely and he worried about that because he loved her so much. He wondered how much she really knew about the sex act. Obviously, her father or Patrick had never mentioned it. And what he knew of her mother she was a demure, rather shy person.

  Perhaps they shouldn’t have sex at all; after all, it was their first night together and it might be better to eventually lean into it. It might be better for her that way. But, then again, they were married now and she knew there was nothing ‘wrong’ with it. He supposed he would just have to take the lead from her, in a sense, and see how she seemed to be feeling about it.

  Tara and John, Father Boyle and Sean McCullough stayed a time after the ceremony. Father Boyle tried to serve some food and drink from what he had on hand, which wasn’t very much. They kept insisting it was quite all right. John did most of the talking, hoping to prolong the time he and Tara would finally be alone. But soon enough the time came for Father Boyle and Sean to depart.

  After they left, Tara said, “I want to make love to you. I—don’t know much about it—but I know how much I want you.”

  “That you want to make love to me— Those are the most beautiful words I’ve ever heard.”

  “I’m sure you’ve been with so many other women,” she frowned, “and I’m afraid I’ll be such a disappointment to you.”

  “But you’re forgetting a big difference here. I didn’t love any of them. Not one bit. Not the way I love you.”

  “And you could never disappoint me. Just to hold you in my arms will mean more to me than the sex I’ve had with other women, believe me.”

  They undressed slowly and lay beneath the sheet. John took her in his arms; and, though he was already ready to enter her, he held back and kissed her passionately. His hand explored her wetness. He was grateful for that. She was obviously more than ready to make love to him. When he did enter her after a few minutes, she began to moan and her whole body quivered. He knew it was most likely the first time she’d had an orgasm. His sexual desire culminated soon after.

  Moments later they lay, holding each other tightly, feeling in a state of euphoria.

  “That was the most wonderful feeling my body ever knew,” she sighed. “No wonder so many people make such a fuss about sex. Can we do it again?”

  He laughed, “Well, we have to wait a while. But I’m so glad I satisfied you.”

  “That you did,” she smiled. “That you did.”

  Eventually they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  In the early morning they had sex again in the semi-darkness, both realizing they had no idea when they would see each other again. The morning had come too soon and she could see Sean McCullough in front of the church, waiting for John. He slept so peacefully she hated to wake him but she knew the danger he could face if he were recognized in daylight. Her heart felt like shattered glass at the thought of his leaving and that he could be injured or even killed. When would this damned famine end?

  She woke him and he quickly got dressed. ‘’I don’t know when we’ll see each other again. There’s a ship in the bay we plan to attack tonight, loaded with food the British are sending to England for profit.”

  She grasped his arm hard.

  “Please, be careful. The British will be on that ship, at least a few of them. And armed.”

  “I promise I’ll be careful. I’ll send a message through Father Boyle when we can meet again.”

  He kissed her hard and held her tightly.

  “Now don’t go worrying about me. I’ve been through worse than this. I’ll see you again. Sooner than you think.”

  He left her, mounted his horse, waved goodbye and rode off into the distance with Sean, her beating as though it would break against her ribs.

  She put her coat on, donned her shoes and walked home, bereft in one way but yet a part of her filled with such joy and happiness.

  When she arrived home, Tara quietly lay in her cot until Patrick shook her.

  “Where in God’s name were you? We were worried sick about you.”

  She smiled at him.

  “I’m so happy. I got married.’’

  ‘’What? Got married? Who in the world to?”

  “John McGuire.”

  “You mean the leader of the Irish rebellion?”

  “Yes. But you mustn’t tell a soul.”

  He hugged her and kissed her cheek.

  “I won’t. I swear. I don’t even know if da realized you were gone. He’s in his own world you know.”

  “We can never send him to the filthy asylum but just make do.”

  “Of course not. But I think we’d better keep more of an eye on him.”

  “I think so too. I’m hoping when the famine is over he’ll come back to himself.”

  “How I pray that will happen.”

  They gathered themselves together and readied themselves to face another day of challenges of the famine.

  That winter the first to succumb were the poorest of all, the ‘squatters’ who had no means of existence but their small crop of potatoes, and when the potatoes rotted they abandoned the small huts they lived in and entered the towns in large groups. Five thousand beggars roamed the streets of Cork; Galway had hundreds of them wandering aimlessly through the town as well as Tipperary and other towns, sleeping in ditches and doorways, begging, and were driven away. Those in Cork alone died a hundred a week.

  Far more serious was a change in the type of labor employed. The original plan was to employ able-bodied men and to give them a fair day’s work for that day’s wages. But since destitution was the criteria for employment it proved impossible to refuse destitute women, especially widows with families they had to feed. Women were the ones employed in the works, mostly shattering stones and also, old, feeble and very young people were allowed employment. Hordes of suffering, half starved women, the old and feeble, and children, completely unfit for manual labor ended any hope of discipline between men and women.

  In desperation seed oats as well as the seed for corn were being eaten and the farmers asked what was the sense of preparing the ground for the spring and summer crops when there is going to be no seed? Urgent petitions were sent to the British government for seed of any kind. All were refused. Shortage of seed, of course, was not the only reason why the land was not cultivated. The Irish farmer knew the landlord would have no guilt in taking ownership of his harvest if he owned rent.

  Wages on the works were only a few shillings a week, which would only give one meal a day to a family of six. In the bitter weather crowds of half starving men, women and children huddled at the works. For some months, if a day’s work was impossible, a day’s pay was lost. Finally, in December, a circular was issued saying half a day’s wages be paid when weather stopped work; but even so early morning roll call, which frequently required a walk in snow and sleet for several miles, must be met.

  Snow continued to fall; reports from inspectors for December recorded snow and gales throughout Ireland from Donegal to Wicklow, to Dublin where roads were blocked and work everywhere stopped. In Mayo the snow was so deep that the works could not even be seen
.

  Finally, humanitarians and philanthropists, after seeing the horror of Irish men, women, and children beginning to lie dead in the streets, formed committees and raised subscriptions for Irish relief.

  They first focused on the remote districts and then later extended all over Ireland.

  The Central Committee had decided to finance the establishment of food kitchens—the Quakers had experience in managing soup kitchens for the English poor. Only those who received no relief or inadequate relief from the British were to be helped.

  They were shocked when they found out what was happening. The destitution and suffering was so much greater than they thought. The public works were in no way saving the people from starvation because of the enormous rise in food prices. Some were eating a turnip a day. Many of the Irish were hardly able to crawl, existing on Indian meal some days or a little cabbage and at other times nothing at all. Tara lived in a state of fear much of the time worrying about McGuire but did her best to carry on.

  Miss Rouche sat quietly in her empty shop. She began to reminisce about her childhood in Marseilles. She dreamed of the French summers and the wonderful sunflowers blooming everywhere, golden in the sun, and the olive trees with their distinctive scent, the apricot trees as well. And the porches of all of the houses filled with buckets of tomatoes along with those growing in their gardens, soon to be ripe and ready for the people to can delicious tomato sauces to last through the winter, and, of course, the lavenders bushes soon ready to be picked to make lavender ice cream.

  Her father was a jacquard weaver and would often bring home samples of fabric that were flawed with what the trade called “floats.” Her mother always made good use of them, creating pillows or curtains, depending on the size of the fabric. And so she was always around these beautiful pieces of the weaver’s craft. She dreamed of the day she would have her own shop, but there were so many in Marseilles, and in France in general. She decided to take the gigantic and for her at the time somewhat terrifying job of going to England where French fashion was all the rage with the very wealthy. The shop became an amazing success from its very beginning. Until now. And how had she become so fortunate to find a seamstress like Tara O’Brien? She could easily have opened her own shop if circumstances were different.