The Paradise Tree

by Elena Maria Vidal

  Brigit was awakened from her nap by the sound of sleigh bells. Charles stirred in her arms. “They’re home!” he cried joyfully. “And today is Christmas, Mammy!” He leaped down and began cavorting around the room. Through the window, Brigit saw the two sleighs returning. Within minutes, the family flooded the house, leaving puddles of snow everywhere, although Joanna made certain everyone hung up their wraps. Brigit removed the goose from the spit and put it on her finest pewter platter. With some help from her girls, the food was soon on the table. Everyone sat down. Daniel raised his glass of whiskey for the Christmas toast. “Nollaig Shona! Sláinte na bhfear agus go maire na mna go deo! Merry Christmas! Health to the men and may the women live forever!”

  “Sláinte!” they all replied. And the feast began.

  CHAPTER 10

  A Wedding at Long Point

  June, 1858

  A fairer morning I ne'er did see

  And a fairer maiden can never be

  She won my heart when she smiled at me

  Through the beams of the rosy June morning.

  ─ “Greensleeves”

  “This is a house made for weddings!” exclaimed fifteen-year-old Bridget Gabrielle as she twirled in her blue sprigged muslin. Her hair was twisted into rags meant to train it into obedient ringlets, although Brigit knew that in Bridget Gabrielle’s case the unruly curls would eventually do whatever they wanted.

  “Let us hope so, since there are seven daughters to be married off! Come, Brig, time to be taking off those rags,” said Brigit. Bridget Gabrielle swirled again; it was her first time wearing a crinoline. She came over to her mother who began unwinding the long chestnut curls from the cloths. They were in the girls’ part of the upstairs, in the room that belonged to Margaret, Bridget, and Mary. Joanna and Ellen shared another room, but since Joanna had just spent her last night in it, Margaret planned to move her things into it tomorrow “so that Ellen will not be alone,” she said soberly.

  “Ouch!” exclaimed plump thirteen-year-old Mary. “I felt a thorn!”

  “I’m sorry, Mary!” apologized Margaret, who at seventeen had just begun to turn up her long fair hair in a smooth chignon. She was not much taller than Mary, however. “I thought I had removed all of the thorns from the roses!” She was gingerly arranging a wreath of the white O’Connor roses, which Daniel had brought from County Cork, upon Mary’s chestnut head. She had the same florid features of Joanna without the latter’s prettiness. Unlike Bridget Gabrielle’s hair, Mary’s was manageable; Brigit could see that her abundant mane was Mary’s principle trait of beauty. It was swooped up in the front but in the back the thick curls cascaded down.

  The younger O’Connor daughters were wearing gowns of the same blue-sprigged muslin. Each had long full sleeves, cuffed at the wrists, with a triangular bodice, a blue sash and a lace collar at the neckline. Each daughter, including the bride, was to wear a crown of white roses. Daniel had bought enough of the muslin to clothe an orphanage, as well as yards of periwinkle-blue ribbon to match. They had picked out the material at the tailor shop of Daniel’s brother Charles in Delta, where they went for the day by sleigh in the winter. Charles and his workers also helped with the making of so many gowns.

  It was after the Princess Royal’s marriage to the Crown Prince of Prussia. Daniel had brought them gazettes with colored illustrations of the wedding and vivid descriptions of what the Queen and her daughters were wearing. They poured over them every evening. “Princess Alice is in pink! That’s what our Ellen should wear!” Margaret had exclaimed. “And the Queen is in white and blue. Ma should be in blue.”

  “I never thought the day would come when we would be trying to dress ourselves like the Queen of England and her family!” exclaimed Brigit, as she had worked on the while muslin bridal gown. “Next one of you will be suggesting we take the bread and wine at the Anglican service.”

  “Of course not, Ma!” returned the ever-practical Margaret. “But clothes are different! And we’re all Canadians now!”

  Daniel had insisted upon buying Brigit several yards of deep periwinkle-blue silk for her dress. “You will always be my bride,” he had said. “I want you to look like the queen that you are. The Queen of my heart and the Queen of Long Point.” So she agreed to make the frock as fine as possible. She used the same pattern as the girls’ dresses, except she made it with pagoda sleeves. Both the triangular bodice and the sleeves were trimmed with silk fringe. There was a wide flounce halfway down the skirt. Her straw bonnet was trimmed with the blue grosgrain ribbon.

  A baby’s cry came from a corner of the room. “Bridget, bring Lottie to me, please,” asked Brigit. Bridget Gabrielle flew to the nearby cradle and gently picked up one-month-old Charlotte Honora O’Connor, in her white muslin christening gown, for her mother to nurse. All the time she was working on the dresses, Brigit had been expecting their eleventh child. The wedding was planned to coincide with the new baby’s birth and christening. “God willing,” she always said to herself and to anyone who was standing nearby. Lottie was born at the end of May and had been baptized immediately as Daniel had done with all of their children. Now that the priest was coming to marry Joanna and Ben he could anoint Lottie with the Holy Oils. She was a plump rosy angel with flaxen hair, and reminded Brigit of Margaret as a newborn. Lottie had been preceded by Anna Maria nearly three years earlier in 1855. Annie was a minx with black curly hair; she ran through the house shouting in pure excitement, dressed like her older sisters, her wreath of roses already askew.

  Brigit had wished more than anything that the wedding could be at St. Philip Neri Church in Toledo in Kitley township where her father, Mary Ann and Katy were buried. Since Ben Slack was a Protestant, Joanna could not marry him before the altar. Father Spratt had agreed to come to Long Point, however, and hold a station. He would hear confessions and the day following the wedding there would be Sunday Mass in which several children would make their first Holy Communion.

  Brigit and Daniel had an unwritten, unspoken pact never to mention the girls who had died. Brigit still struggled with severe headaches from time to time and thinking of her dead daughters usually set them off. Daniel and the older children learned not to mention Katy and Mary Ann at all, and the younger ones seemed to forget that they had ever lived. For Brigit, it was a matter of survival. She had to keep going for the sake of the other children and Daniel; it was not yet the time for rest.

  Brigit was not easy about Joanna marrying a Protestant, although she had become fond of Ben, as if he were her own son. It was about a year after Katy passed away that Ben had come to Daniel and asked for Joanna’s hand in marriage. Daniel had told Ben that he must have a farm up and running before his proposal could even be considered. Ben had worked hard for eight years at the blacksmith’s forge. He bought several acres of land two miles down the road from Long Point and built a house and a barn with some help from the neighbors. He established a herd of cattle and a flock of sheep, and fields of wheat and barley. He agreed to support Joanna in the practice of her faith and not to hinder her in bringing up their children in the Catholic religion. At last, after long discussions with Brigit, Daniel gave his consent to the betrothal.

  At the open windows, June breezes billowed the white dimity curtains. Along with the birdsong and the sounds of guests arriving there spilled into the room the blast of bagpipes. It was Mr. Horn, who had agreed to play the pipes for the wedding. He was standing in front of the house playing the “Skye Boat Song” like a good Jacobite. Nineteen-year-old Ellen entered, swathed in pale pink muslin. It brought out the faintest tinge of color in her pale thin cheeks. Her light-brown hair was pulled back tightly in a knot on at the back of her head. The starkness of it was relieved only by the circlet of roses. Brigit had long ago given up putting rags in Ellen’s hair; the girl detested too much fuss, preferring an austere simplicity. Ellen had seemed to have borne the brunt of the void left by the deaths of Katy and Mary Ann, and was a serious soul. Nevertheless, today her grey eyes spark
led. Ellen was holding Annie by the hand, which did not keep Annie from jumping up and down like a grasshopper.

  Ellen especially had flourished under Mr. Horn’s tutelage. After Katy died, Daniel had asked Mr. Horn if he could teach an advanced class at their home for the older offspring and, for that matter, for Daniel and Brigit themselves. “Learning a bit of history will be good for the both of us,” he said to her. Twice a week, Mr. Horn would give a lecture around the kitchen table, about literature, history, languages, geography or science. Between classes, Daniel would read the required texts to the family in the evenings around the fire and they would talk about it. Joanna, Ben, and Michael would attend and, as the years went by, Ellen, Margaret, and Bridget Gabrielle joined them. “We have our own wee university here,” joked Mr. Horn. The first course of study had been the Roman Empire, and they read Gibbons’ Decline and Fall. Brigit found it a saving grace to occupy her mind with people and places from long ago and far away. It put everything in perspective for her and the world and life no longer seemed so overwhelming.

  “Mother, come see Joanna,” said Ellen “She is ready for you to place the wreath and veil on her head.” They all followed Ellen into Joanna’s room across the hall. Joanna was staring out the window and turned at the sound of footsteps. Joanna’s white organdy dress was made luminous as it caught the morning sun. Her thick black curls were arranged in ringlets around her head, making a startling contrast with the blueness of her eyes. Brigit thought she had never seen a sight so lovely. Without words, she and Joanna wrapped their arms around each other. She could not believe her darling child would no longer live under her roof.

  “Don’t be sad, Ma,” said Joanna, as if reading her thoughts. “I’ll just be a hop, skip and a jump down the road. We’ll see each other every day.”

  “‘Twill not be the same,” murmured Brigit, releasing her. She arranged the headpiece and the veil with reverence, for every bride is a queen. The veil was tulle and covered Joanna’s face in front, trailing to the ground in the back.

  “It’s time for me to going go down,” said Brigit. “I must be with your Pa as he welcomes our guests. I’ll be taking Lottie with me.” Cradling Lottie in her arms she went down the narrow winding staircase. Daniel was standing at the foot of the stairs near the front door talking to Granny O’Grady. As he looked up the staircase his creased and leathered face broke into a beaming smile. His eyes told her more than words could ever express. He reached up and grasped her free hand and kissed it. Then he put Lottie over his shoulder. Hand-in-hand they went out onto the porch.

  A wagon full of the McArdle clan from Sweet’s Corner was arriving. Squire Andrew and Mrs. McArdle were there with all of their children.

  “They have almost as many children as we do,” commented Daniel, cheerfully. Brigit usually felt shy around Mrs. McArdle, who was an accomplished and well-educated lady, her mother being a Talbot. She had a kindly, brisk manner, though, and usually talked enough so that Brigit did not have to say much. The McArdle girls were all sent to Kingston to be educated by the nuns. Brigit could not entertain the thought of any of her children being sent away. Along with the McArdle family was a stocky stranger with a shock of dark curls beneath his high crowned hat.

  “Who is that Irishman?” she asked Daniel.

  “McArdle said he would be bringing an Irish gentleman with him, some writer fellow who used lived in America,” Daniel told her. “Remember that book we read last year with Horn, The Catholic History of North America? And two years ago we read A history of the attempts to establish the Protestant reformation in Ireland? Well, this is the fellow who wrote those books. D’Arcy McGee, he calls himself. And he is breaking into Canadian politics now, trying to help the Irishers.”

  “Aye, I do recall those books, Mr. O’Connor,” replied Brigit. “He’s the one who hates the British.”

  “‘Hate’ is a strong word, Mrs. O’Connor,” he retorted with a twinkle in his eye. “Let’s just say that he wants the Irish people to have the independence that has long eluded them. And he thinks we Irishers in Canada have more rights than do those in America. I wonder if we should let him give a speech.”

  “A speech! At our Joanna’s wedding? Certainly not! I’ll not be having me own daughter’s wedding turned into a conclave!”

  “As you say, Mrs. O’Connor,” agreed Daniel. “But here he comes . . . you can tell him yourself!”

  “Shhh!” Brigit hushed him, even as she swept into her courtesy at the approach of Mr. McGee and the McArdles.

  “A hundred thousand welcomes to ye all!” exclaimed Daniel with a bow, as Lottie gurgled loudly in his arms. “And to you especially, Mr. McGee! This is Mrs. O’Connor and I am Daniel O’Connor. Thank you for gracing our eldest daughter’s wedding, and our youngest daughter’s christening, with your presence.”

  D’Arcy McGee bowed low over Brigit’s hand. “The honor is all mine, Sir and Madame.” He had a courtly manner of speaking, which only accentuated his thick brogue.

  “’Tis your books we’ve been enjoying these past several years, Mr. McGee sir,” said Brigit, brightly. “’Tis very welcome you are. But I think you should be knowing that our Joanna is marrying a Protestant.” Brigit did not know why she said it and felt a blush arising in her cheeks.

  Mr. McGee winked and squeezed her hand. “Ah, dear lady! It happens, it happens!”

  They welcomed the McArdles, then the children ran off and men began to talk politics. Mrs. McArdle asked where the priest was. “He’s hearing confessions in the apple orchard, Mrs. McArdle,” Brigit told her. “He’s been there since dawn. He’s shriven all of our household but he has time for a few more if you wish to confess.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. O’Connor. Come, Emily.” Mrs. McArdle, whose name was Sarah, held her five year old daughter Emily by the hand as they headed in the direction of the orchard. Emily smiled up at Brigit sweetly and shyly. She was not a pretty child but had a pixie-like expression that was both uncanny and unfathomable.

  Brigit recalled the day almost five years ago when the entire O’Connor clan had gone to Sweet’s Corner to see the McArdle’s newest baby. The McArdles lived in grand style in a brick house with a piano, which their eldest daughter Kate was playing when the O’Connors arrived. The rooms of the house were wall-papered and the pictures, mostly black and white religious prints and family photographs as well as an oil painting or two, had thick carved frames. Much of the furniture was carved as well. There was a silver tea service and a multi-colored rug, which Daniel later told her was oriental. It seems that Andrew McArdle had made quite a bit of money in his travels to South America although what he had done to earn it was a complete mystery to Brigit. If Daniel knew, he refused to talk about it, and would just say, “McArdle is a damnably clever fellow.”

  Andrew McArdle took wee Charlie’s hand and said, “Come see Baby Emily.” The baby was in her white bassinet with embroidered muslin curtains, fine enough for a little princess. Charlie, who was almost six, had at that time never seen a newborn baby so close at hand. He gazed upon Emily in awe. Her tiny pink fists were curling and uncurling and when Charlie extended his hand to her she grabbed his finger. Charlie laughed with pure joy, and said to the baby: “Good afternoon, Emily. I’m Charles James O’Connor. I’m your neighbor and when you are big enough I’ll teach you how to ride a pony.” Emily cooed in reply. They stayed for tea and later, when riding home in the wagon, Charlie lifted his arms towards the sky and shouted to the highest heavens, “Emmi-lee!”

  The guests had arrived. They included just about all the Irish Catholics of Leeds County, as well as a few Protestants, mostly Slacks. There was not enough room in the parlor and so the front porch was decorated with bouquets of daisies and an arch made of a daisy chain over the makeshift altar. Fr. Spratt had finished hearing confessions and had donned his alb and cope in addition to the biretta and stole. He waited patiently on the porch with Mick, who was the best man. Mick had recently moved to Gananoque where he had set up his own
blacksmith shop. He was doing well in the building of his business and reputation in town, but it was good to have him home again. Nearby was Ben looking handsome but nervous. Daniel’s brother Charles was patting him on the back and joking with him, trying to set him at ease. Charles O’Connor of Delta and his family had been at Long Point since dawn. His wife, Eleanor, was a help to Brigit and more like a sister than a sister-in-law. Their children were well-behaved except for their daughter Julia who was a wild thing. The hour had come. Daniel went inside to fetch the bride. Mr. Horn began to blast out “Loch Lomond” with desperate energy.

  Brigit recalled how last winter after Joanna’s engagement was announced she had risen late one night parched with thirst. Donning a voluminous shawl over her night gown, she went into the kitchen for a drink of water and found Mr. Horn asleep in a chair by the fire. His breviary was on his lap and, as Brigit stoked the fire, he moved suddenly and the breviary slipped to the floor. She bent down to pick it up; pages written in Mr. Horn’s hand were scattered upon the floor. As she began to gather them, she noticed that they were poems and at the heading of each one was the inscription “To Joanna.” Glancing over one in the faint firelight she discerned that it was a sonnet, rather like those of Shakespeare’s, extolling Joanna’s beauty and talents. So Mr. Horn was in love with Joanna! Why had she not noticed? But as she thought back, she recalled how over the years, as Joanna had blossomed into womanhood, Mr. Horn had always shown her small attentions, such as bringing her shawl on a chilly evening or drawing her into a conversation by asking for her thoughts on some matter. She heard an intake of breath and realized that Mr. Horn’s eyes were wide upon her. She wordlessly handed him his book and papers.