Somewhere there was an invisible dividing line where the crowd turned English, heavily dotted with militia. There the women’s hats were richly fashioned with burgundy laces, ribbons, and feathers. They wore finely woven jackets. The men wore boots, and their jackets buttoned smartly. Oh, I get it, she thought. We’ve got the home team and the visitors, only this time the Irish are the home team. But there was a problem, and it was a big problem: the English thought they were the home team, the rightful heirs to this land.
She looked to see where Donal had slipped off to. She couldn’t see him, which hopefully meant that he couldn’t see her. She made her way as nonchalantly as she could to the English section of the crowd. As she did, the announcer stood on a box and declared the next match. “A fine wrestler from Waterford, Paddy Murphy, and Mr. Walter Downing from Cork shall square off. Into the circle, men.”
The buzz of a fresh competition pulled the attention of the crowd to the center, a perfect time for Anna to amble among the British. She peeked at the wrestlers, checking to see, just in case, if Joseph stared back at her. No, no Joseph. The two men grappled with each other. What had brought the gentry out for this match of grunting men?
As Anna pressed into the English crowd, she suddenly saw herself through their eyes. She had dirt beneath her fingernails, and her dress had not been washed in weeks. She had just ridden in from Kinsale and she smelled of horse and road dirt. Not that body odors were subtle in the nineteenth century, but the gentry had floral scents to mask the offending smells. The bottom edge of her green skirt was dirty, and she noticed that the hem had gone ragged.
Everything about her clothing screamed plain and poor. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, straightened her spine, and adjusted her dreadful bonnet. As she approached two women, she noticed that they drew in toward each other and observed Anna as if she had already done something wrong, as if she’d been ready to pick their pockets. One of the women said, “What can you expect? They’ll never be able to aspire to a better life.”
The two women rotated away from Anna with the practiced air of their class. The wise thing to do would be to observe, catalogue the facts, and not take anything personally. That would be so prudent, so reasonable. The main priority was finding her nephew, if he could be found. Let the two women go on their way thinking whatever class-laden stereotype they believed. Instead, Anna stepped in front of them and flashed her dazzling twenty-first-century smile.
“I’m American, and we can help ourselves just fine, thank you. And we can aspire magnificently.”
She saw the flash of anger move across both women, the slight narrowing of their eyes, the tightening of the lips, followed by a well-practiced control.
“It is so difficult to tell the difference between you and the Irish. Perhaps it is all about your, shall we say, harsh circumstances,” said the taller woman.
Anna wanted to lash out at them, wanted to tell them that their descendents would witness the shrinkage of their colonial empire and the twentieth century would offer them two devastating world wars. But she didn’t. She corked her bitter, vengeful self and got back to the task at hand.
A fine mist began to fall, nothing that would halt a wrestling match among these hardy, damp-weather people. She continued to weave slowly through the English crowd, giving the red-coated soldiers a slightly wider space. The two men had been grappling each other in a standoff for longer than Anna had ever witnessed in her nephew’s high school matches, or long ago in Patrick’s. All eyes were on the two men wrestling, and shouts of encouragement rang out.
“Snag down the Waterford lad. Show him what you’re made of, Wally!”
But all the shouts came from the Irish section of the crowd. The English were attentive enough, but lacking in passion. She logged the simple, obvious facts: the crowd had about two hundred people total, more Irish than English; Donal had stated that something was different and worrisome; she was hungry; her skirt had a heavy ledge of mud along the ragged hem; the mist was turning to mizzle. Or had it already been mizzle and now it was turning to mist? She’d never get that straight.
A largely baritone roar went up.
“Down with him. That’s our lad, Wally. Pin him, pin him!”
Wally must have pinned his opponent, because a shout went up. The stout master of ceremonies stood on the box again and announced, “Walter Downing of Cork wins the round.”
Anna craned her head around to find Donal. She saw him far to the outer perimeter, crouched on his heels under a tree. He was talking to another man. It was impossible to see their faces; their caps were pulled low and they faced away from the crowd. Nevertheless, by now she could easily spot the familiar turn of Donal’s head and the shift of his torso. He listened to the other man intently, giving the slightest nod. Should she join him? Before she could decide, the next match was about to begin.
“Ladies and gents, here’s the match that drew you from your fires today.”
Anna felt a ripple go through the crowd. The English had snapped to attention.
“The wrestler who has challenged every Irish wrestler from Kincaid to Kilkenny and won every match is here with us today. He’s been called the next British victor of wrestling, but I’ll let you see that for yourselves. He is the undefeated Joseph Blair, a young man sponsored by Colonel Mitford.”
The English crowd cheered. One soldier pulled out his bayonet and punched it toward the sky.
Anna’s heart sped up. Oh, God, what if this was him? Maybe they could make some sense of what happened. What if he truly had survived?
She couldn’t see the two wrestlers, so she pressed urgently into the mass of bodies. Without thinking, she tried to nudge a man out of her way and instantly regretted it. He was an armed soldier, but even his red uniform had not slowed her. He shot his arm in front of her to block her way. With a firm nod of his head to the right, he indicated that she should move to the Irish side. His nose had been broken once and bore the crooked remains of his injury. Anna had to bite her bottom lip to keep from speaking, but she could not keep from glaring at him.
“Get off with you,” he spat, as if she’d been a stray dog.
He was a waste of time. The agitation of the crowd seeped into her like a shot of caffeine, and she struggled through the forward press of people to get back to the Irish side.
“And his opponent, our own undefeated Walter Downing.”
The Irish cheered.
“Keep your bets to the side, bets to the side.”
Anna worked her way toward the front.
“Take your places, lads, feet inside the circle. First man thrown out of the markings or the first man pinned is the loser.”
Anna gained sight of a profile of one of the wrestlers. No, not Joseph. She shouldered her way more forcefully past men jingling coins. Then she stopped breathing. It was the hair, the rich brown hair, hanging over his ears, then the profile, and his twenty-first-century high school wrestler’s crouch. But something else seared into her. A smile, a burst of assuredness she’d never seen in her nephew. She had to catch her breath, she had to keep breathing; all the love that she had felt for Joseph since he was a baby washed over her. She forced her diaphragm to push the air out of her lungs and take in a fresh gulp. The crowd closed in again, blocking her view.
It was her nephew, there was no doubt. She shoved as hard as she could, and amid bellowing shouts, she saw a flutter of legs in the center ring. The two wrestlers were down on the ground, a tangle of limbs entwined and flipped like snakes. Torsos heaved against each other. Joseph was the smaller of the two by far, but he maneuvered his opponent as if he’d been a cat playing with a doomed mouse. And the wide smile never left his face. First one of Wally’s shoulders was down and then another. She caught a wide-eyed look of disbelief and anger on Wally. Joseph had pinned him.
The Irish section was darkly silent while the English gave hearty shouts. The announcer grabbed Joseph’s arm and held it high.
“The undefeated Jo
seph Blair!”
Anna had the odd sensation that all the people were extras in a movie, all except for Joseph, so that it didn’t matter what the others said or did. Suddenly only the two of them were on the knoll overlooking Cork College, only Joseph, who was as alive and vibrantly handsome as only a sixteen-year-old boy could be, and Anna. For a moment, she pulled both of her palms to her face, as if resting her head on a dock after a long and arduous swim. The search was over. He was alive; he had survived their violent cascade through time.
Anna couldn’t find words large enough to fit the occasion. The English fans surged around Joseph, slapping his back or pumping his hand. One shouted, “Long live the empire!”
Joseph was paired with an older man who was exquisitely dressed. His dark blond hair was slicked behind his ears, his jacket pulled in smartly at his waist, his buttons gleamed, his black riding boots had been polished so intently that the mist beaded and rolled off them. He kept a proprietary hand on Joseph’s shoulder. And he was congratulated as heartily as Joseph. Anna had the sense of jockey and owner. Or horse and owner.
She pushed ahead, waiting for whatever was to come from reuniting with her nephew, ready to accept whatever they must face together. Anna was victorious.
“Joseph, Joseph,” she yelled, cupping her hands around her mouth. She was still four layers of people back from the epicenter.
“Joseph, it’s Anna, I’m here.” She jumped up, waving an arm the same way she would have done if she’d been greeting anyone on a busy street, or at a party bulging with people. Joseph followed the sound. He saw her, and the muscles along his mouth flickered. Anna knew that he was shocked. Of course he was; he had believed she was dead or that he was alone without any family. She would have to be gentle, which was not generally in her nature, but in this case, she’d try.
She slid in closer, turning sideways to slip between two more people. Finally she stood within arm’s reach.
“Joseph, I thought I’d never find you. Are you all right?” She took a step closer, wanting to pull him into a hug, not caring that he was a teenage boy who dreaded hugs. Finally something was working; they were going to be OK. The universe was beginning to make sense again. As she stepped in, Joseph stumbled back.
“What’s this? What have we here?” said the man with the gleaming buttons. “Joseph, do you know this woman?”
Anna gave a knowing laugh, waiting for the man to discover that she was the boy’s aunt—family—and thus due an equitable share of the adulation that was going around. Joseph was clearly in shock at the sight of her. Who wouldn’t be? She couldn’t wait to get him alone to hear all the details of his arrival.
“Ah, no, sir. Well, she may have been on the same ship, but I don’t know her. They let steerage passengers come up for fresh air a few times, and she might have been in that bunch. No, I don’t know her.”
“It’s Anna,” she said more slowly. She turned to the colonel. “I’m his aunt,” she said with a serious nod to her head, as if the boy had been a patient on the psych ward.
“He doesn’t know you, miss. I doubt very much that he would know you at all.”
She felt the tilt of the situation, the swirl in her intestines, and she scrambled to keep up. She looked past the man to her nephew.
“I need to talk with you. Right now.”
The man placed a finger delicately in the air and a soldier appeared.
“Trouble with the riffraff, sir? Off with you. This is the second time I’ve had to warn you. Off, I say.” He nudged her with the butt end of his bayonet.
“Joseph, for God’s sake…” She turned to the boy, even as she was being pushed away. A sudden hand gripped her, and she whirled around. It was Donal.
“Oh, here she is, me darling foolish woman. Come now,” he said. His grip was tight and urgent.
“Donal, this is…,” Anna stuttered.
“There, there. Come home with me and we’ll make things right,” he said.
Donal turned to the colonel. “Pardon us, sir. She has suffered from a great illness and is still troubled from time to time. I hope you’ve not been disturbed.”
Donal put all his weight into pulling Anna away to mingle with the flow of the downcast Irish, who headed down the hill. Anna craned her head around to catch sight of Joseph. She saw the back of his head as he was swallowed by the crowd of British well-wishers.
“That’s my nephew. And when I get my hands on him, I’m going to kill him,” said Anna.
“You’ll find it difficult to get your hands on that one. He’s under the thumb of Colonel George Mitford, and he’s not to be trifled with. He’s the most powerful landowner in this part of Ireland. And he’s vicious, Anna, more vicious than you can know.”
Chapter 29
The colonel and Joseph went directly to a tavern with an entourage of back-slapping men. The colonel was in high form, clanging his glass with everyone within reach, letting the foam linger too long on his golden moustache. Joseph began to wonder if wrestling was more about betting and raking in coins.
But he could think of none of this; he no longer cared that he had won the match. Anna was here, he had seen her. She was like a rusty needle bursting his balloon of a fantastic life. He had earned everything that he’d gotten here. He was the colonel’s champion wrestler. This was the life he was meant to have. He was meant to have Taleen, and he had promised her that he’d never leave her.
He knew how Anna was; she’d never stop until she convinced the colonel and all of Ireland that she was his aunt. And so what if she was, just so what? Why did she have to come and ruin everything? His eyelid spasmed. Anna had looked awful, sort of skinny and tired, not at all the way he remembered her. She looked different in some other way too that he couldn’t quite reach. And who was the dude she’d hooked up with?
The colonel held court across the room, standing in front of the fire with his fine friends. Joseph was truly impressed with how much they could drink. The colonel had switched to an amber brandy, his favorite drink.
If Joseph could slip out and find Anna without anyone seeing him, he’d tell her what the deal was. Here they were, tossed back in time for who knew what reason, so they should enjoy it. That’s what he was going to do. He’d tell her, “Just go away. I don’t know why I’m here or why you’re here, but I’ve got the best life ever, so don’t screw it up for me. For once, can I please have something without it getting trashed?”
Anna would want to tell him what to do, how things should be, act like the boss of him. As far as Joseph could tell, that was over and done with. He wasn’t some kid in high school; he was the man.
“Eat up, lad. I’ll have the coachman take us back to Tramore this evening. We won’t get home until midnight. Eat up. Barkeep! Roast beef for the champion. You’ll need your strength for the next match in Kilkenny.”
Good, he would be with Taleen again all the sooner. Should he tell her? Tell her what? That he was from the future, that he couldn’t leave because there was no home for him to return to, that this mental woman would probably come and ruin his life in Tramore?
The barkeep set down a very well-cooked hunk of beef, surrounded by potatoes and rich gravy.
“Well done, sir. The wrestling match was splendid.”
“Thank you,” said Joseph.
“Aye, you’re well on the way to becoming the best in Ireland.”
Yes, that would secure his position. He’d become the best in Ireland.
As promised, they took a carriage and headed for home after the colonel finished celebrating the victory. Joseph watched the colonel doze, as impossible as it seemed to sleep in a coach that rocked violently along the earthen road. But maybe the colonel could sleep anywhere because he was so sure that there was nothing to challenge him; even the impenetrable blackness and the ruts in the road did not challenge him. Joseph stayed awake and thought about Anna.
As the carriage pulled into the sloping hill of the estate, the hounds barked. Joseph could recognize the
sound of the three older dogs and the occasional deepening yip of Madigan. Everyone on the estate was alerted to their arrival, and he was glad for it. He wanted Taleen to know he was home.
They were greeted by a sleepy-looking Mr. Edwards.
“Welcome home, sir. You’ll find the bed warmed for you by the time you retire.”
This did feel like home, his wonderful new life. The bustle of servants had sprung to life at their arrival. Yes, this was as it should be. Lights were lit along the stairway.
“Something to eat, sir?” asked Mr. Edwards.
“Nothing for me, but the lad should eat. He remains undefeated. He’s the champion. I’ve an eye for greatness, and I saw it on him right off,” said the colonel in a not entirely sober mumble as he headed up the wide stairs.
“Good night, sir,” said Joseph.
“Good night, my fine young champion. Sleep in a bit tomorrow. Your next match is important. Kilkenny…,” he said as he disappeared along the second-story passageway, his heels tapping on the floors.
Joseph barely heard anything that was said. He could think of nothing but Anna, that she had survived, right here in his Ireland. He knew Taleen was awake somewhere on the estate; everyone in the manor was awake.
Mr. Edwards produced a plate of cold ham, sliced eggs, and bread. The meal at the tavern had not diminished Joseph’s appetite. The servants in the kitchen were up and bustling, and by now they had already heard of his success.
“Well done,” said Mr. Edwards, standing by the table.
Joseph was startled by what sounded like a genuine compliment. He couldn’t figure this guy. Mr. Edwards treated him with the exacting politeness that was part of his job. Yet there was something different about him. Maybe it was that Mr. Edwards was English, and he clearly lorded it over the Irish servants. Deirdre had explained to him that being an English servant was about a thousand times better than being an Irish servant.
Now & Then Page 24
