The Paradise Tree

by Elena Maria Vidal

  “Very good, very good,” said Peter, emptying his mug. “I can give you a heifer as part of the dowry, and a ewe as well. But more of that later.” He replenished his mug with whisky, filling Daniel’s at the same time, although the latter’s had not been empty. “Now, Mr. O’Connor, Father tells me you are from County Cork, and that your people are the Kerry-O’Connors. I gather you are a descendant of Roderick the Great and the O’Connor Don?”

  “That, sir, is correct,” replied Daniel, trying not to sound too proud.

  “We Trainors,” announced Peter, “are also of Milesian stock, of the House of Heremon. Meath, you know, lad, was once its own province, the ‘fifth’ province, the ancients called it, long before it was annexed to Leinster.”

  “It was the site of Royal Tara, seat of the High Kings,” declared Daniel. He was savoring the whisky, but wanted to keep his wits about him.

  “Well, I’ll be on my way.” Father McDonnell stood. “I have a few sick calls to make. I will return at tea-time to bless the betrothed couple.” He winked at Daniel, who reddened. As they stood, the priest put on his hat and departed.

  Sitting down again, Peter puffed his pipe. “Our Brigit takes after her Ma, me lovely Katie McGinnis. Katie was the rose of Westmeath. Sweet and bonny and full of laughter. She laughed at hardships, she did, until hunger and the typhus took her from us.” He drained his mug and filled it again. “Me daughter is a fine cook and housekeeper; diligent about her prayers. She won’t give you a bit of trouble . . . well, at least no more than any other woman. I’ve been seeking high and low for a devout, well-propertied man to marry our lass. You, Mr. O’Connor, appear to fit the bill. By the by, there be a lad named Mike O’Kelly, a handsome whosit who made himself a fortune through the dice and the cards. He already has a flock of sheep. He’s been after me Brigit for quite awhile, offering me a share in the shearing in exchange for herself. As if me daughter were for sale! Father McDonnell recommended you as the man of better character. ‘Tis a man of character that I want for Brigit. Now, let us speak of the dowry. I made mention of a heifer and a ewe . . . .”

  “That you did, sir,” acknowledged Daniel. “Since I have not yet laid eyes upon your daughter, let us make it two heifers and a ewe.”

  “You’re already robbin’ me, lad. I haven’t a heifer to spare.” Peter took a long sip of his drink. “But being in a benevolent frame of mind, I will give you four hens and another ewe-lamb. Mind you, Brigit will be bringing with her a chest of linen and quilts. Now, as for this land of yours, do you find it to be arable?”

  “Aye.”

  “And do you intend to live forever in a cottage?”

  “Mr. Trainor, your daughter will someday be the mistress of a fine frame house with a roof of slate.”

  “Now, I don’t expect there to be a chapel in the wilderness where you live. I’m wondering, however, if there is a schoolmaster in the vicinity?”

  “No, sir, there is not,” replied Daniel. “I myself promise to seek one out, when we have need of one, and build a schoolhouse, if necessary.”

  Peter glowed. “We Trainors have a high regard for learning, a very high regard. We have had many churchmen in the family, and even a few nuns.”

  “I have a cousin in Rome who is studying to be a priest,” put in Daniel. The O’Connors were not to outdone by the Trainors in piety. “Is that so?” Peter was visibly pleased. Daniel had lost track

  of how many times the older man had emptied his mug. The whisky sank lower and lower in the bottle.

  “Tea is almost ready!” called Widow Hacket from the hearth. She started to set the table. Daniel could smell the boiling sassafras root from which tea was made.

  “Mr. Daniel O’Connor!” Peter spoke in an oracular manner, his voice slightly slurred. “I’m giving you permission to court me daughter. In this brief span of time, you have become as dear to me as one of me own sons. James! John!” The young men came in as if they had been hovering outside of the door. “Greet your new brother, lads!” They solemnly and shyly shook his hand. Then Peter gave him a hearty handclasp. “Let’s seal the bargain! Father McDonnell comes to Newboro in mid-January for weddings and baptisms. I will come and have a look at your place Sunday next.” He laughed. “In the depths of winter, it will be a grand thing to have a young bride to warm your bed. Aye, lad?”

  “Aye,” replied Daniel. “But Mr. Trainor, I have not yet made Miss Trainor’s acquaintance.”

  “Mrs. Hacket, fetch our Brigit!” ordered Peter. The widow lumbered towards the loft. He continued. “Mr. O’Connor, I wish you all the happiness I had with me own fair Katie McGinnis. A beauty she was, the flower of Westmeath . . . but she died, she died . . .” A tear trickled down his weathered countenance. “Buried far from me, she is, far across the sea. Here I am, on the other side of the world from her and when I die, I will be buried in the churchyard at Bellamy Pond. I will lie alone; I will not be beside me darling Katie. But I had to come here, so that the children could have a better life.”

  “You and your wife will find each other again, sir,” said Daniel. “There are no distances between loved ones in Heaven.”

  Peter wiped his face with a large red handkerchief. “Faith is truly our lone solace on this earth. Katie wanted us to come to Canada. Promise me you will take care of her baby girl.”

  Before Daniel could respond, the widow had shambled back. “She’s gone,” stated Mrs. Hacket.

  “What? Who’s gone?” demanded Peter.

  “Brigit is gone. She is not in the loft. I don’t know how she slipped by me but she did. She must have gone outside.”

  Peter jumped to his feet, annoyance rapidly replacing grief. “Now, where could she have gone? What could she be thinking of? Oh, I’ll be taking a stick to that wayward lass!”

  “We’ll find her, Pa!” exclaimed James, the elder of the boys, and out the door they both ran. The widow followed them.

  Peter paced back and forth on the earthen floor of the cabin, waving his arms. “Mr. O’Connor, I speak to you in all earnestness when I say that Brigit is a good, God-fearing girl. There is something you need to be knowing about me daughter. She has a bit of a temper and a mind of her own.”

  “Mr. Trainor, your daughter is not being married off against her will, is she? I could not marry anyone who is unwilling. It would not be valid in the eyes of the Church.”

  “Oh, fear not, Mr. O’Connor, she wants to marry, she does!” Peter ran his hands through his white hair until it stood straight up in the air. His eyes blazed into a brighter shade of blue. “That is, she will when she makes your acquaintance. She is mighty attached to her brothers and to meself, having lost her mother, and the rest of the family left behind in Ireland and all. But she will come around! I’ll make certain that she does!” He likewise darted from the house, calling, “Brigit! Brigit, darling! Where are you?

  Daniel felt angry and humiliated. He polished off his drink. They had all abandoned him. He did not know whether to wait or to take his leave. After a few moments, he decided to depart. He took up the wilting bouquet of roses that he had brought for his bride, but he decided to leave the butter for the Trainors. He found the barn, saddled his horse, and started down the lane. He had planned and waited a long time for his bride, yet she had shunned him. He had reserved all the natural affections of his heart, mind and body for her, and she had run away. Nevertheless, although he had not seen her, he left her behind with the greatest reluctance. Being in her home and hearing the mention of her name had planted in his mind a vague but persistent fascination. Therefore he rode slowly towards the main road, bypassing Peter Trainor’s haystacks, gold and shimmering in the late afternoon sun.

  As they ambled along the trail that wound amid the stumps of the field, the horse neighed and twitched nervously at the rustle of scampering footsteps coming from the direction of one of the nearby haystacks. Daniel reined in the horse and sat with rigid alertness, for in the new country he had found that such noises often heralded the approac
h of a wild animal. Instead, he caught a glimpse of what appeared to be the hem of a dress disappearing behind the mound of hay. A head peeked around then darted back again. He dismounted and strode towards the stack, flowers in hand, but she eluded him. The picture of himself chasing a girl around a haystack made him laugh in spite of everything.

  “Very well!” Daniel flung the white roses in the direction of the rustling sound and heard a quick intake of breath. “Miss Brigit Trainor, if that be you, then take these roses please, and I shall be off. My name is Daniel O’Connor and I came hither to make your acquaintance. But finding an unmannerly child instead of a young lady, I will be taking my leave. Good day to you!” He started to mount his horse.

  “Wait!” It was the voice of a young girl. He turned and saw a young woman had materialized in the center of the hayfield, poised with an elfin stillness. Slender but sturdy, petite and well-proportioned, she was garbed in a brown linsey-woolsey dress with a starched linen apron. Her hair, thick and lustrous, parted at the forehead and bound with a ribbon of blue, hung all the way down her back, its color mingling the hue of wheat with brown sugar. The curls framed an oval countenance, highlighted by a blue-green gaze, keen yet enigmatic. Cheeks pink from the elements belied health and energy, while the straight nose with flaring nostrils and the stubborn twist to the otherwise blossom-like mouth revealed a spirit of nonconformity, barely constrained by her overall dignity and grace. Daniel stood gazing, transfixed by her. In her aspect he sensed a depth of suffering which conferred upon Brigit Trainor an invisible mantle of penetrating intuition that surpassed the scope of her experiences. Her work-worn hands were filled with his roses, more fragrant than ever in their wilted state. He doffed his hat. He had not realized until that moment how utterly lonely he had been.

  She curtsied, in a deliberate yet genteel manner, lowering her eyes and temporarily breaking the spell. “Forgive me, Mr. O’Connor.” She spoke in a crisp brogue, with clear and sincere tones. “My parents taught me to behave better. I have nothing against you, sir.” She glanced at him with an impish flicker. “Although I think you must be almost as ancient as me Pa.”

  Daniel was painfully conscious of his balding and graying head, realizing he must look fifty years old rather than thirty-four. He was rendered speechless. In a flash, he comprehended on a deeper level the passage from Genesis when Adam saw Eve for the first time, and the meaning of the words, “You are bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh.” The nameless yearning he had borne all his life was given shape and visage. A glimpse of her eyes impressed his spirit with wholeness and peace and he felt closer to God.

  “Pa wants me to marry a propertied gentleman like yourself,” explained Brigit, oblivious to his inner transformation. “He has been hard put to feed us all since we came to this new land. Not that we are starving the way we were in Ireland . . . but things have not been easy out here in the wilderness. He does not want me to go to work for strangers, but to be a wife in me own house. Oh, but it breaks me heart to leave me old Pa and the boys. They are all I have left of me family.” She gave him a look full of tears and anguish.

  Daniel took one step towards Brigit, longing to comfort her; his voice was tender but firm. “Miss Trainor, if you are not inclined to leave your family, then you should not marry. If you wed, then you shall someday have a family of your own. At any rate, Miss, I have yet to offer you my proposal.”

  He could not tell whether or not she was pleased or offended by his remarks. She lifted her chin, saying, “‘Tis well. Last night, I rose at midnight and drew a straw out of one of the haystacks. Knotted and bent, it was. The saying goes if the straw is twisted or bent, then the maiden shall be marrying an angry old man. Old you are, and perhaps angry, too. How am I to know, I wonder?”

  “Miss, I see you are a bold and forward lass,” Daniel said, smothering a smile. “Very importunate . . . and superstitious. You have no way of knowing my temper or disposition, except by the good word of others. If that does not suit, well then, I had best be on my way . . .” He turned to depart. She ran up to him and put her hand on his arm.

  “Mr. O’Connor, you cannot be going without taking tea. The widow and I made boxty and mutton stew. And I haven’t thanked you for the roses . . . they remind me of the roses in Ireland.”

  “They are indeed from Ireland. They are Jacobite roses from my family’s home in Dunmanway, County Cork.”

  Brigit inhaled the scent of the roses as her brilliant eyes met his. “Do come have tea, Mr. O’Connor, sir. It would please me old Pa.”

  “Miss Trainor, if my staying for tea pleases your father, then that is well and good. Whether or not it pleases you, however, it is of greater importance to me.”

  Lowering her eyes once more, she replied, “‘Twould be pleasing to me, sir. ‘Tis a new frock I’m wearing and all on your account . . . and the first ever long enough to sweep the ground.”

  “Very grand. ‘Tis a fine lady, you are.”

  “Oh, sir. Go on away with ye! I am not a lady at all. But if I marry you, then perhaps I shall become one.”

  The sun was well into the west, making the hayfield more golden than ever. From the meadow came the singing of a robin, and from the house, the voices of Peter and his sons, calling, “Brigit! Brigit!”

  “Coming, Pa!” Brigit turned quickly and began to run towards the cabin, stumbling momentarily upon her long skirts. Then she picked them up and hurried with such a light step that she barely seemed to touch the ground, her hair cascading behind her. She stopped suddenly and swirling about, held out her hand to Daniel. Taking his horse by the bridle, he followed her, overwhelmed by an intensity of joy.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Winter Bridal

  January 16, 1831

  It is not day, nor yet day,

  It is not day, nor yet morning:

  It is not day, nor yet day,

  For the moon is shining brightly.

  —Ancient Irish Wedding song

  On the first Sunday after the octave of the Epiphany in the new year of 1831, Daniel and Owen rose in the hour before dawn to tend to the livestock before riding to Kitley. Moonlight and starlight gleamed upon the snow, mingling with the gold, scarlet, purple and azure of the aurora, as they rode towards the road to meet John O’Brien. John and Owen were both to stand up for Daniel; without their help he would never have had the cottage ready to receive his bride. The stars receded in the flawless sky; they had an hour’s ride and many frozen miles to traverse in order to reach Kitley where Father McDonnell was to say Mass, hear confessions, bless marriages, and baptize babies that morning. While Owen dozed on the saddle, John seemed sunken in silent meditation, pondering his sins. Too happy and nervous for words, Daniel sought to compose his spirit for the graces of the sacraments he was about to receive. He was distracted, nevertheless, by thoughts of Brigit, of meetings they had had, and his hopes for their future life together.

  On Sundays during the previous summer and early autumn, Daniel rode to Kitley to spend the afternoons becoming better acquainted with his bride-to-be. Propriety forbade him from seeing her in solitude. Either Peter, his sons, or Widow Hacket were always close at hand, and Daniel would not have had it any other way. The family’s vigilance over her further assured him that Brigit was a cherished young lady, and would be a careful mother of her own children. While she was unlearned, he found in his discourses with her that she was not uncultured, but imbued in the lore and legends of Westmeath, as well as being highly conscious of her dignity as a daughter of the House of Trainor. He sought to teach her how to read, beginning with the alphabet.

  “I know me ABC’s,” she proclaimed with great pride. “I just don’t know how to put it all together into words.” Daniel had no primers or children’s books, but made use of the books he had, including his Bible, as well as tracing letters and words in the dirt. In spite of her quick mind, Brigit often had trouble telling the letters apart. She grew impatient with herself and with him.

  “And why mu
st I be bothering meself with learning how to read? Me old Pa can’t read, and me Ma surely could not, and yet they raised a family through many misfortunes.” Her face was capable of assuming the most stubborn expression that he had ever seen, with lips pursed and brow furrowed.

  “Hold your tongue there, lass,” called Peter who happened to be passing by. He often lingered about when Brigit was having a reading lesson. “‘Tis your duty ‘tis, to obey your husband, and if he wants you to learn how to read, then you learn to read. And what is this nonsense about meself not being able to read? Of course I can read! I would have taught you meself, but I have been too busy. And don’t be blaspheming your sainted mother by declaring her ignorance to the world! Show some respect for the dead, and for the living as well, or I’ll be taking a stick to you!”

  Daniel gently took her hand. “Brigit, I want you to learn to read so that you can help me teach our children. I want all that can be found in books to be open to them: history, geography, literature, the mysteries of the universe and the truths of the Holy Catholic faith.”

  She shyly squeezed his hand. “Well, since you put it so prettily, I suppose I could be making more of an effort.” And she did.

  As the leaves transformed from green to russet, scarlet and gold, Daniel bought Brigit a horse as a betrothal present, and undertook to teach her how to ride. He worried sometimes about her flashes of temper, and wondered if he were making a mistake in marrying her. But then a certain joke or turn of phrase would bring a smile to her face and a sparkle to her eyes, and his doubts vanished. He found her faith to be sincere and herself to be meticulous about her morning and evening prayers and other religious duties. It was her mystical side that entranced him, for at times she seemed to have one foot in the unseen world, rejoicing in the beauties of the nature, with which she mingled and yet transcended. An occasional memory of the lovely, polished Miss Cox flickered through his mind, but it was only a flicker.