Wild Irish Rose

by Jeanie P Johnson

  There is a tap on the door and my eyes flash open. A maid comes in and smiles at me. “I have come to help you, Mrs. O’Riely,” she tells me. My eyes widen. What could she possibly help me do, I wonder? I have always taken care of myself.

  The maid goes to the wardrobe and opens the door. She starts bringing out dresses. “Just tell me which one you prefer,” she smiles as she starts to hold the dresses up.

  “Any one you think will do,” I say, and she raises her eyebrows.

  “Very well, Ma’am,” she murmurs and lays a green dress over the bed. Then she is going to the drawers and pulling out other things I have never seen before.

  I have always warn a shift and a dress. I never thought about what the wealthy people wore, but now I am discovering it entails more than just a shift and a dress.

  “My name is Shannon,” the maid tells me. “I will help you wash your hair and then you need to get dressed for dinner.” She comes around to the back of the tub and pours water over my head and then begins to wash my unruly hair for me. I have never had anyone wash my hair before and it is a rather pleasant experience.

  Shannon is drying me off and leading me over to the bed, where she holds out a pair of pantaloons for me to step into. Then she is putting a shift over my head. Next she puts a belt around my waist and tells me to sit down so she can put my stockings on, which she does, and connects them to the ties coming down from the belt. Next she puts, what she tells me is a corset, around my waist and starts pulling on the laces, until I can barely breath, and I beg her to stop. Then comes the petty coats, and finally the dress.

  The dress is a soft velvet green with a full skirt that is billowed out by the petty coats. I have never felt anything like it against my skin before. There is lace at the low collar and the sleeves are puffed. Shannon is pulling gloves over my arms up to my elbows.

  She brings me over to the dressing table and opens a box where there are necklaces and earrings. She picks out a green sparkling set and places the string around my neck, as she lays the earrings aside. My hair is damp and she begins to braid it. Not just two braids like I often wear it, or one braid down the back, but a lot of little braids that meet other braids, until I have several braids coming from my forehead, leading back to one braid that is wound around my head in the back and secured with pins. Then Shannon removes my simple earrings, which Ferrell had made for me, places the expensive earrings in my ears, and leads me to the full length oval mirror that is standing in one corner of the room.

  I glance longingly at the simple rock earrings that sit on the dressing table remembering when Ferrell had made them and surprised me with them, a year after we were married. He knew how sad I had become because of not being able to bare children and he had tried to cheer me up with the earrings.

  Shannon taps my shoulder to get my attention and I turn my head back to the mirror. I take in my breath when I look at my reflection. The woman in the mirror can’t possibly be me, I think. Shannon gives me green slippers to put on my feet and she tells me to follow her and she will take me to the dinning hall.

  The soft carpet of the hall muffle our footsteps but the marble steps, leading back down to the main house, pick up the tapping sound of my slippers as I take each step. Then she is bringing me to a door, which a footman dressed in green livery, opens for us. She gives me a little nudge, because I just stand in the doorway, not making a move.

  The long mahogany table stretches across the hall, with four chandeliers sparkling over it. Flower arrangements deck the center, laid out on a long streamer. Jason O’Malley sits at the head of the table, looking at me with an inquisitive expression on his face. The rest of the table is empty. I think of what a waste all the flowers must be, seeing as how there are no guests to enjoy them. “Don’t just stand there,” Jason tells me, almost gruffly. “Come be seated.” He gets up and comes to where I am and takes my hand, leading me to a chair that is next to the end of the table, close to him. “You clean up very nicely,” he says, smiling at me. His deep green eyes penetrate my own green eyes, and I look away. Then he seats himself again, watching my face expectantly.

  I start noticing more things about Jason O’Malley, which I hadn’t noticed before, like the way his smile stretches his full lips, and make his eyes turn down at the corners. He gives me a little wink, as he seats himself, trying to put me at ease. His efforts are useless, because I could never be put at ease in such a daunting place. “Don’t be timid, now,” he smiles, showing straight white teeth. “It is just you and me here, and I will not judge you in any way. Next week, I am bringing Loraine over to tutor you in everything you will need to learn to become a true lady. Until then, you are free to wander around the house and estate, and get familiar with things. I don’t suppose you will want to witness the hanging in the morning.” His features suddenly look pained.

  I swallow hard, just thinking about it, and then clear my throat and manage to utter…“Could you bring their bodies to our farmhouse, so our friends can pay their respects?” My voice cracks, and I try to prevent the tears that start to well in my eyes, so I look away.

  The tone of his voice changes as she speaks. “I will take care of everything. I will have someone bring you as well,” he tells me, and he reaches over and puts his hand over mine. “I know this is not easy for you, Rose. Just be brave.”

  I think I have been brave all my life. Being brave does not help. It changes nothing. Ferrell and my Da were brave, and now they are paying for it. I suddenly hate all the English, including this finely dressed man next to me, as kind as he is trying to act. All he really cares about is that I don’t sneak away and join the cause along with the rest of my friends. He is really my jailor, not my guardian. As soon as he can get me married off to some man in good standing who will take over guarding me the same as he is, he can wash his hands of me, I think angrily and helplessly to myself.

  I keep my eyes down-cast, not wanting to meet his eyes. I am just this dressed up doll to make him feel better about his fellow countrymen who give their lives to try and capture Ireland back from the English.

  “I hope the dresses I chose meets your approval,” he says, changing the subject.

  I take a small shuttered breath. “I can barely breath, in the contraption your maid made me wear,” I murmur. “I don’t know how I am going to eat. What in heavens name gave someone the idea that a woman needs to be trapped out like a Christmas tree, I will never know.”

  Jason O’Malley laughs at that statement, and the sound falls out of his mouth in such an attractive manner, that it catches me unaware. “You look nicer than a Christmas tree,” he smiles. “I will not be the only one thinking it, either,” he assures me. “Eventually you will get used to it and wonder that you were ever happy in the rags I found you in,” he claims.

  I give him a distrustful stare. “If I were happy, my husband never would have joined in the cause,” I whisper, and his face falls.

  “I am not in charge of politics, Rose. I merely live here like every other Irishman.” His eyes plead with mine, but it is of no use, because I don’t believe him.

  “Not like every other Irishman,” I whisper, accusingly. “More like every other Englishman.”

  He gives me an exasperated look. “Think what you will,” he says at last, when I return his look with distaste in eyes. “Here is the food. I hope you enjoy it.”

  The footmen come in and start to dish up our plates, and I think of the potatoes and gravy I would have been eating for dinner that night, had Jason O’Malley not come and taken me to his grand manor. Now my plate is piled with so many choices, I fear it will give me stomach pains after I eat it. I hesitate as I look down at the food, not knowing what to try first.

  “The kidney pie is good,” he smiles, “unless you prefer the duckling more. Try them both and decide,” he encourages me.

  I lift my fork and bring duckling to my mouth. I have never quite tasted anything like it before. I am used to sausage and potatoes, with an occasional
chicken from time to time. I begin to think of all the starving farm workers, and I have a hard time swallowing the food. There are only two of us, but the serving dishes are piled high with food we can’t possibly eat in one sitting. I can’t help but wonder what they do with what is left over? Do they feed it to the servants, or throw it out for the pigs, I ask inwardly?

  “Aren’t you hungry?” he asks, as he pauses eating, when he sees me staring at my plate.

  “I am not feeling well. This contraption Shannon tied me up with is making it hard to breath, let alone eat. I wish to be excused.” I vow I will go on a starvation diet, and then, perhaps, he will allow me to return to my farm.

  Jason looks disappointed, but then shrugs. “Very well. Do you think you can find your way to your room, or should I call for someone to take you?” he asks. His tone is flat and somewhat uncaring.

  “I will do fine on my own,” I assure him, and he comes and pulls my chair out for me, a little abruptly, like he believes I am being rude. But what does he expect, I wonder?

  “Tomorrow, sleep as long as you wish. I will have someone come and get you for the wake.” His face looks a little uncertain, as though he is not sure how to handle the situation.

  I nod, and turn towards the door, which the footman opens. I wonder that Jason O’Malley has any muscles, considering he never has to open a door, or do any hard labor around his manor. I look over my shoulder, before the door closes, and he is sitting there, just staring at me, with an unreadable expression on his face, until the door clicks shut.

  I stop and peek into the great hall, before I continue up the stairs. It is so large that I think two of my farmhouses could fit inside. Why would anyone need such a large room? It is furnished with heavy furniture, and there is a piano in the corner. Shelves filled with fine art objects and vases, line one wall, and other trappings, such as statues, tables, and plants, take up their own space. I turn and continue on up the stairs until I find the door I believe to be my own. I open it, but it is not my room. I wonder if I turned the wrong way down the hall?

  This room has dark furniture. My furniture is light colored. The drapes on the four poster bed are heavy and burgundy in color. Mine were white, and the spread was light and lacy, where this spread is a heavy, black and burgundy color. I realize it is a man’s room and as I walk around the room, I see various things that only would grace the dressers or tables of a man’s room. I pick up a cologne bottle and lift the stopper, whiffing in the smell of it. Ferrell never wore cologne. What would be the use of it? I replace the top and set it down again. Cuff links lay by a pair of gloves and a neck scarf is placed over the back of a chair, close by. A dressing gown lay across the bed. It is of soft black silk material, and I lift it and rub it against my cheek because it looks so soft and comforting in a strange way I can’t understand. Then I find myself collapsing onto the bed in a flood of tears.

  Ferrell will die in the morning, and this man will wake in this comfortable bed, with nothing to worry about except what pare of cuff links he will wear for the day. The corset is biting into my skin and I can’t take a breath. I begin tearing at the back of my dress trying to get to the ties before I faint. Finally I manage to reach the ties but they get tangled, and I am swearing and crying at the same time.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” I hear a voice say, and I look up to see Jason O’Malley standing in the doorway.

  “I can’t breath,” I squeak between trying to check my tears. “I need to get this contraption off!” I am fumbling with the ties, while tears continue to flow down my face, in spite of my attempts to check them. I just want the horrible corset off!

  Jason O’Malley steps over to where I am sitting on his bed, in about two strides. He, unceremoniously, pulls me up to my feet and turns my back to him. I can feel him fumbling with the strings, it seems for a long time, as I am gasping for air. Then, finally, the strings release and I take in a breath with a gasp.

  I turn to thank him, but before I can say anything, I feel myself falling. I am vaguely aware of his arms catching me. The next thing I know, he is lifting me and laying me down on his bed, patting my face, until I finally open my eyes and look at him.

  “Are you all right, Rose?” he asks me. I realize he is not calling me Mrs. O’Riely. He should be calling me Mrs. O’Riely, I am thinking.

  “I will be as soon as I can get a breath,” I say in a small voice, struggling to sit up.

  “What were you doing in my room?” he asks suddenly.

  “I guess I got lost,” I admit, feeling stupid.

  “I should have had someone take you up until you get used to the lay of the house,” he says quietly. “Are you feeling better now?”

  I have managed to sit up, but it just makes me feel dizzy, so I lay back down. “I am not ever going to wear one of these things again,” I tell him with a frown.

  “But you must,” he insists. “The dresses are made to fit around them, and they hold your breasts in place,” he explains.

  I notice he is looking down at my breasts, and I realize the collar of my dress has fallen lower, because the back of the dress had been opened. Only the shift, which is made of sheer material, covers my breast. I hastily pull the collar of the dress up to cover me.

  “I will take you to your room and call a maid,” he mumbles. Then he scoops me up into his arms and is carrying me out of his room into my room, which is right next door to his. He brings me in and places me on my own bed. “You must continue to wear the corset, but just tell your maid not to tighten it as tight next time,” he directs me. Then he is turning towards the door, and leaving my room.

  Shortly, Shannon comes into the room and helps me take off my dress, and then places a nightgown over my head. She pulls back the covers and I climb in under the cool sheets. For the last week I had been sleeping alone for the first time in three years, but then I was in my own bed, with the smell of Ferrell there to comfort me. Now I am in a cold lonely bed three times bigger than the one I am used to sleeping in and everything in the room is strange to me.

  An overwhelming loneliness washes over me and I dissolve into tears again. I cannot stop the tears. It is the first time I have weakened enough to allow them. Up until now, I had tried to remain brave. But now I have to admit there is nothing I or anyone else can do to save my husband’s life. My body is racked, until I can barely breath even without a corset on.

  I hear a door open. It is dark so I can’t see who it is, but I can hear them walking over to my bed. I feel them sit down and someone is pulling me up against their shoulder. I can smell the cologne that I had sampled in Jason O’Malley’s room. His arms hold me against him, as he rocks me, but he doesn’t say anything to me. He just sits there and rocks me. I can feel the smoothness of his silk robe which I had rubbed my cheek against when I had been in his room. Once again it comforts me, and eventually I start to feel less lonely and lost.

  When my tears subside, he starts to lay me back down, but I cling to his neck. In spite of the fact that I despise this man for who he is, his arms feel strong and reassuring, and the feel his soft, silk robe against my cheek, comforts me in some incomprehensible manner. “I don’t want to be alone,” I tell him, hesitantly. “If I am alone, I won’t be able to stop the memories.”

  “Very well,” he says, as he pushes the covers back and lays down beside me, pulling the covers up over us. “I am sorry about your husband and father, but there is nothing either of us can do about it,” he tells me, and then he is silent.

  We don’t talk. He hardly moves. He just lets me lay against him the way I used to lay against Ferrell. I pretend it is Ferrell laying beside me, just so I can go to sleep, and eventually I do.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The rays of sunlight filter through the sheer curtains, and fall upon my face wakening me. At first I am trying to figure out where I am. I am in the bed alone but the faint smell of cologne remains on the pillow next to me. I don’t remember when he left my bed. There is a tap on th
e door, and Shannon comes in with a breakfast tray.

  “The master tells me to let you lay in bed until you feel strong enough to get up. He cautioned me about the corset, so I won’t tighten it so tight next time.” Her face looks regretful. “The black dress will be for today,” she says softly. I sit up and she places the tray over my lap. “Ring when you are ready to get dressed,” she tells me and slips out of the room.

  I am still not hungry. I am afraid that the rich food I am offered will merely make me sick. Besides I am still thinking about refusing to eat, to show my rebellion against Jason O’Malley uprooting me, and placing me under his care.

  I have hardly eaten anything all week anyway, because my stomach was tied in knots worrying about the trial. Now I am worrying about the wake, and wondering if I will be able to get through it. I am afraid to look upon Ferrell’s dead face but I know that everyone will want to give him and Da a sending off and they will want to see him in his casket to make sure it is him they are sending off.

  I stare at the food on the tray. Then I turn and try to go back to sleep. Only now I can’t sleep because my mind is starting to do a replay again. “Remember I love you Rose,” Ferrell had reminded me as they drug him and Da away from me. “Keep me in your heart forever!” He was crying the words. I try to shut it all out of my head, and then Shannon comes in the room and tells me I need to get up and get dressed. The master will be taking me to the wake soon.

  Jason O’Malley sits beside me in the buggy, as we pull up to the farmhouse. He hasn’t made any comment about the night before. In face, he barely speaks to me all the way to the farm house where the wake will take place. The caskets are already there and Jason tells me he will have them put them in the burial plot behind his manor and give them markers. “They were my tenants and worked the farm well,” he mumbles. “They deserve to be buried with honor.” I don’t believe his last remark. If they deserved honor, he would have made an effort to have them released, I judge.