“You are being unfair,” Briana protested. “He had nothing to do with it.”
“Then who?”
Her mind went to the Molly Maguires. Perhaps one of them, maybe Connor Donlon, had sneaked into their cabin, taken the pistol, and fired it. But casting suspicion on someone else and bringing up the Mollies’ hatred might only incite his passions. She didn’t want to spar with him anymore.
“See, you have no answer because you can’t defend your husband.” He turned and cupped his right hand around her cheek.
Briana twisted out of his grip, ready to strike him with the umbrella.
Sir Thomas lowered his hand and clutched his injured shoulder. His mouth turned down in a forlorn smile, as if he longed to be close to her yet knew it was impossible. “You’re quite beautiful.” He reached for her cheek again, but then withdrew. “Why would you want to live . . . in this squalor? Your sister wants more out of life, but you’re different. You’re satisfied with what you have as a lowly farmer’s wife.”
He dragged himself toward Lear House as she followed behind.
“I love Lear House and want the estate to live on forever,” Briana replied. “I’m happy being the lowly farmer’s wife. Mayo is my home.”
Sir Thomas chuckled. “An admirable dream for Lear House, but hardly practical.... Continue to say your prayers.” He swung his right arm out in a punch. “I was ready to thrash your husband, but I can’t fight one-handed . . . against a man who has proven to be a ruffian.”
“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said this evening.”
He stopped within sight of her cabin. “I am going to notify the Constabulary—fair warning. I’ll let them take care of the matter. I’ll give a deposition before I depart for England. If your husband is innocent, he’ll not be arrested.”
“He is innocent,” she replied as fear prickled over her.
He pushed back her umbrella and studied her face. “Beautiful.”
A cold rain pattered against her. She backed away as he continued to stare.
“You’d both be happy in England, away from this.” He sauntered down the road, swaying slightly, turned onto the path leading to the manor, and entered the somber dwelling. The door shut, perhaps for its penultimate time. She stood by her cabin wondering what Sir Thomas meant by both be happy in England. Who was the other person he was referring to—her husband or Lucinda?
Rory was asleep on his stomach, the lower half of his body covered by the blanket. She rubbed his back, and he stirred underneath her fingers. She undressed and slid into bed next to him. Her husband slept so peacefully that she didn’t want to wake him with the news that the Constabulary would be questioning him for shooting Sir Thomas Blakely. It was bad enough that she would have a sleepless night.
* * *
When she awoke, her husband was gone.
After dressing, she found him talking with his brother. The sun shone in broad, yellow streaks through intermittent clouds. The rain had let up, but the houses, the fences, the heath, dripped from the damp. Patches of fog hovered over the lane leading to the village.
“You just missed his highness,” Jarlath said, and then spat on the ground. He leaned against his cabin wall, his long legs stretched toward the road. “He didn’t even wave to his loyal subjects as he passed.”
“Not even a nod,” Rory said. “The carriage shades were pulled, so I didn’t even see him. A shiny, black one pulled by four horses the color of peat that looked better fed than the rest of Ireland. A sorry sight indeed.”
The men waved to her father, who had rounded the corner of Lear House. His head was bowed while he tromped up the lane. Briana shuddered at his unkempt appearance, hardly ever having seen him in such condition. He looked as if he had drunk the night away and then fallen asleep in his clothes. Soot from the turf fire smudged his face, and gray tufts of hair erupted from the side of his head. He had forgotten to belt his trousers, and they hung loosely around his belly. His shirttails fell in a white swirl around his thighs.
“He didn’t even leave me a key for the padlocks,” her father said, his voice quivering. “I asked him what we should do if there was a fire or some other disaster that required us to get into the house. Do you know what he answered?”
Not expecting a cordial response, Briana shook her head as did everyone else.
Brian frowned. “He said, ‘Let it burn.’”
“My God,” Jarlath said, straightening against the wall. “The man is a demon.”
“We can take an axe to the doors if we have to,” Rory said.
“There’ll be no need,” Brian said. “Lear House will sit deserted, as alone as it’s ever been, while we bide our time.”
The house already seemed cadaverous to Briana, as if it had been killed by its owner, as lifeless as a dead animal with clouded, milky eyes.
“We’re next,” Rory said. “The evictions will come—mark my words.”
Rory turned, balled his fists, and squinted into the morning sun toward the road that would take the carriage to Belmullet.
The waves of hate that emanated from her husband washed over her. She had known Rory since they were children, but for the first time she recoiled at his temper. His eyes flickered with murderous rage from the pernicious thoughts that billowed in his body. At that moment, she knew he could kill. The landlord was far down the road by now, so she gathered the courage to tell Rory what Sir Thomas had said.
“Please excuse us, but I must talk to my husband,” she said, and led Rory away from Jarlath and her father. They walked past Lear House and the tenant farms, toward the cliffs. Soon, after numerous “good days” to the other tenants, they stood watching the crashing waves and the blue, turbulent waters. Everything seemed in its place, as it had for centuries, as black-tipped gannets dove into the sea and gulls sailed on outstretched wings on the buoyant air.
They stood facing the wind, the sun at their backs. To their right, the rocky spires of the Stags jutted out of the water. To their left, the ocean swirled past the cliffs into the bay.
“You’re right about America,” she said, broaching the subject. “We must plan now with all haste.” She picked up a rock and threw it, watching it fall over the cliff. “Father won’t go, I’m sure. Lucinda might if we can sway her from England.... That leaves you and me.”
Rory stared out to sea.
“Perhaps you should go to America,” she said.
“And leave you here? What about our family, our child?” He planted his feet apart in a defiant stance. “That’s not our plan.”
“Sir Thomas is reporting the shooting to the Constabulary. They will be here in a few days to question you.”
His eyes pinched in a narrow gaze. “Why would he suspect me?”
A gull cried out, shot upward from the cliff face and spiraled overhead. She savored the fleeting moment. To fly with such abandon as the gull, to live unfettered in the air and on the ocean. What would it be like to be such a bird, free from the cares of human life?
“He knows you have a pistol. I don’t know who told him.”
“I told you Noel showed Connor and me how to fire it long before the ball, but they would never shoot—Connor’s a loose cannon, but neither he nor Noel are murderers.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Sir Thomas suspects you and will swear to that in a deposition. If they find you, you may be arrested.”
He grasped her hands. ‘I’ve heard some men are so eager for transport they commit crimes so they’ll be sent away from Ireland, but I’m not leaving you or Jarlath to hide in America. I’m innocent and I’ll swear to it.”
They walked away from the cliff as Briana’s mind raced; she knew her husband’s head was filled with similar dismal thoughts. She wanted him to leave, but Rory was right; to run away would be an admission of guilt.
They stopped in front of Lear House, where Lucinda, her head bowed, stood crying at the front door. Not wanting to leave her in such a despondent state, they turned u
p the lane. Lucinda blew her nose into a handkerchief, magnifying the dark circles around her red and puffy eyes. Her hair fell in limp strands around her face.
“Not a word from him,” Lucinda sputtered as they drew close. “Not a good-bye or a good luck.” She lifted the heavy padlock attached to the door and let it fall against the wood with a clank. “And now I can’t even get to the library to read the books I love. What are we to do? I might as well starve, because I have no appetite.” Lucinda collapsed in tears in Briana’s arms.
Briana grasped her sister’s thinning frame and stroked her hair, struggling to hold back tears herself. Lucinda’s emotional breakdown weighed on her as much as the threat against her husband.
“We have to be strong for a number of reasons,” Briana said. They were hollow words with little meaning other than an offering of support—useless words in the face of starvation and loss. But as she held her sister, an idea crossed her mind. Rory wouldn’t be able to book passage out of Belmullet or Westport after Sir Thomas notified the Constabulary; they would be on watch for him, making it almost impossible for him to flee Ireland. If he managed to escape, it would all but seal his guilt, but perhaps he could find someone who would hide him until the real shooter could be found. But who would take him in? Everyone was suffering. No Lear House tenant had anything to spare, and Rory wouldn’t leave the Walshes and Jarlath’s family to eviction and starvation while he ran from the Constabulary. There seemed to be no way out for her husband.
“Sir Thomas thinks Rory shot him,” Briana told her sister.
“I’ll face the constable if he comes for me,” Rory said. “I’m not leaving anyone behind.”
Lucinda looked at her sister, then at Rory, and a look of horror filled her face. “Sir Thomas thinks you shot him?”
“Yes,” Briana said. “Rory’s innocent . . . but the law is always on the landowner’s side.”
“He has influence with sea captains who are more than willing to take his money, but not the Constabulary, I think,” Lucinda said, and looked at Rory. “I’ll tell them I was talking to you when the shot was fired. After all, I was outside for a time. We both heard it and ran inside to see what happened.” She looked away as if she didn’t believe the alibi she had constructed.
“You were outside,” Briana said, knowing her sister had never talked to Rory before the shooting. “Let’s see if they dare come this far to question him.” She grasped her sister’s shoulder gently. “But there’s something else I want to ask of you. . . .”
Lucinda dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief. “What?”
“Would you go to America if we had to?”
Lucinda gasped.
Briana took in her sister’s astounded look, not knowing what her answer would be.
* * *
What a fool she is.
The carriage shuddered down the road, tossing Sir Thomas left and right in his seat. He had pulled the shades because he had no stomach for what Briana and the others had told him about the starving, the rats, the dogs, and the presence of death hanging over County Mayo.
The damn fool has no idea how beautiful she is. There’s something about her that fascinates me—her strength, her spirit! Yes, she’s pretty, but I’ve never met a woman like her. And what a poor excuse she has for a husband. What can he give her when I could provide everything a woman could want? She doesn’t understand that love will buy little. Affection flies away when there’s nothing to eat. Cold, hunger, and hardship will drive them to their breaking point. I pity her. . . .
His hand drifted toward the shade. He wanted to lift the black fabric. After all, it was childish to think that he couldn’t deal with the sights along the road to Belmullet: the godforsaken heath, ugly mountains, or interminable bog. He had seen death many times: His mother and father had died at home; his aunt and uncle had died of old age at the Manchester estate; even workers under his employ had succumbed at the mills. Why should the poor Irish lying dead in the ditches affect him? It was God’s will. They were meant to die. They had neither the power nor the privilege intended for the English.
He drew his hand away from the silk cord and settled back into the seat. Flashes of light blinded him when the shade rattled. Restless, he reached into his bag for a small book he had taken from the Lear House library. The dim interior wasn’t conducive to reading; in fact, the carriage wasn’t comfortable for much, although many Irishmen would have considered it a luxurious ride. He threw the book on the seat.
Sleep. Try to sleep. That will do it. God, get me out of this forsaken country!
He rested his head against the soft leather and closed his eyes. His stomach rumbled.
“My kingdom for a decent meal,” he said to the air, and thought of the limited food choices he faced in Belmullet before boarding the ship that would take him to Westport and then on to Liverpool. Everything would be better once he got aboard. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, for he’d had nothing to eat in the morning—he could take no more mush or oatmeal. The bumpy ride hadn’t helped. His left shoulder throbbed with every bounce. There was no getting around it. Something more than hunger was bothering him. Anger? Yes, anger and something else he hadn’t expected to feel. He had experienced it few times in his life, mostly when he had disappointed his parents. His father called it “remorse” and deemed it a “useless emotion.” If one does correctly the job of living, there should never be cause for remorse, his father had told him.
Remorse. For what? He thought on this awhile and then decided that perhaps he hadn’t been living correctly, as prescribed by his father. Am I to save Lear House and the people in it? It’s too much to ask! Times are harder now than when my parents were alive. They would understand the difficulty of my predicament. His musing switched from his mother and father to Briana. I would gladly save her, but she’s chosen another. What a fool she is when she could have had someone . . .
The driver clucked at the horses, and the carriage slowed as water splashed against its sides. Then a sound he had never heard rang in his ears, like the cry of the damned in hell. He lifted the left window shade, looking out upon the flat bog, and saw that the carriage was crossing a river wide from the summer rains, somewhat shallow in this part but flowing briskly in white ripples over the rocks.
Ragged men, women, and children stood like black statues in front of the brush that lined the shallow bank, the women screeching in agony, clutching at their husbands. They seemed to be parting, for there was a group of men already on the south bank. They looked piteously back at the women they’d left across the river. The women’s cries were hideous, nightmarish, and he wanted to block the noise from his ears.
The horses splashed through the rapids as the driver lashed the animals forward. Sir Thomas closed the shade again as the carriage sped past the starving men. He’d seen enough.
CHAPTER 14
August 1846
They stood on the highest potato ridge at Jarlath’s quarter acre. The plot was above Rory’s, so they had been optimistic that the potatoes might better survive the cold and damp summer on the elevated drainage.
“Will you look at this,” Jarlath said to Rory, who stood with Connor and Noel.
Rory touched a sickly, gray leaf and it melted into a black slime in his hands. No need to put his fingers to his nose; the putrid odor of the rotted plants, already in the air, sprang up to his nostrils.
Connor pointed at the rows of plants on terraced land that led to the bay. “We’re dead,” he said bluntly. He crossed himself and then folded his thick arms against his chest. “My family will be moving on.”
“The lumpers died overnight,” Rory said, stunned by the dead plants around him. Yesterday, the plants were green and healthy. Now, nothing could be done to save them. “Where will you go?” he asked Connor.
“I’m not sure,” the man said. “Blakely may not be back, but the constable and soldiers will be. Brian told us to expect eviction if the crop failed. It’ll be another Ballinlass—where they turned th
ree hundred off their land, sentenced them to their deaths as far as I’m concerned. At least the owner let them keep the cabin timbers. I doubt if our landlord will be so kind. He’ll grind us into the ground, and there’s nothing we or the Mollies can do about it.”
“We’ll keep what we can,” Noel said. “Let the landlord be damned. Who’s going to tally the takings—Brian?”
Rory knew they were right. With this crop failure, the strength, the will to fight, would be sapped from the people, destroyed by starvation. He feared that even the Mollies would be splintered into “every man for himself” by this latest disaster. Their plans were disorganized enough as they were. How could you stand against Dublin Castle and the Palace of Westminster when you had no food?
“We’ll walk to Dublin rather than have them take everything from us,” Connor said. “Sheila and the children can stay with her sister while I look for work in England. The rails are hiring, always looking for men.”
“That’s because they end up dead in a pauper’s graveyard,” Rory said. “It’s no good there either.”
Connor scoffed. “Better than here. If I work near Manchester, maybe I’ll run into the big man himself—Sir Thomas Blakely. We might share a pint or two.”
Rory appreciated Connor’s attempt at humor, but when he looked back again at the plants he saw only dismal sadness, failure, and death. With a baby on the way, he had no idea how to escape these fates other than to face the Constabulary and get Briana and the Walshes out of Ireland as soon as he could.
* * *
The next day, Briana was dressed and involved in the day’s chores. She had lit the fire outside under the water kettle for washing; now back inside, she was pondering how to make the morning breakfast more palatable. Adding a few greens to cooked oats was growing tiresome.
When a knock sounded at the door, Rory put down the tack hammer he was using to mend the sole of his boot and pulled on a shirt.
Briana opened the door. A small man with a full head of black hair and equally dark whiskers speckled with gray stood outside, his breeches and boots spattered with mud. He wore a greatcoat over a faded and rumpled blue uniform. The collar came to a V below his throat, while brass buttons dotted the center from neck to waist. The circular cap he held displayed the Royal Irish Constabulary insignia. Briana had seen the cap on her trip to Westport. His soft brown eyes studied Briana and then shifted to the interior of their cabin. “May I come in?” he asked after completing his visual inspection.
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