At the sound of footsteps, she blinked the tears back hastily and turned to find both Conor and Reverend Allen standing in the archway. Only one of them smiled at her.
"I'm afraid I'll have to find witnesses," the reverend said. "So—"
The opening of the church door interrupted him, bringing in a rush of rain and Olivia's three soaking-wet daughters, followed by Kate and Oren Johnson, dressed in their Sunday best and equally drenched. In one hand, Kate carried a huge bouquet of gardenias.
"Mama!" the girls cried in unison as they caught sight of her in the alcove. They rushed to her, and Olivia fell to her knees with a sob of relief, striving to hold all three at once.
"We missed you, Mama," Miranda whispered, throwing her arms around her mother's neck.
"I missed you, too, sweetheart." She kissed Miranda's cheek and wrapped an arm around Carrie.
"Are you and Mr. Conor really going to get married?" Carrie asked. "Really?"
She glanced past the nine-year-old to the grim, silent figure watching from the archway. "Yes," she answered. Rising to her feet, she tore her gaze from his and turned to Becky.
The girl looked contrite and miserable. "I'm sorry, Mama. I tried to explain what happened. But Martha Chubb was so awful, she kept twisting around everything I said, and—"
Olivia pressed her fingers to the girl's lips. "It's all right, honey," she said. "Everything's going to be all right."
The reverend gave a slight cough to get everyone's attention. "Now that we have witnesses, we can begin."
Kate Johnson stepped forward. "Reverend, I think the bride needs a minute to freshen up." She glanced down at her rain-soaked skirt. "And so does the matron of honor. Why don't you all go in? We'll be along shortly."
"Of course. We'll begin whenever you're ready. Come along, girls."
The reverend led Olivia's daughters out of the room. Oren walked over to Conor and introduced himself. "We're Olivia's neighbors," he said, holding out his hand.
Conor shook the offered hand. "Conor Branigan."
Oren nodded. "I know. I saw that boxing match. It was something to see, when you swung that punch and sent old Elroy flying. I've never seen anything like it, and that's a fact. Lost a dollar," he added. "But it was worth it."
"Oren!" Kate's voice censured him. "We are in church," she reminded. "You all quit that talk about gambling this instant." She gestured to the archway behind them. "Go. We'll be along."
Oren shook his head. "Women. They get all riled up about the oddest things."
"Indeed," Conor answered, as the two men walked away. "I know just what you mean."
Olivia watched Conor follow Oren out of the room. It would be nice if he and Oren could become friends. It might make settling down easier for him. If he settled down. She wasn't fool enough to think that a wedding vow would be enough to hold him if he decided to move on.
But that did not matter. He was doing this because she would lose her girls if he did not. Because of that, she would be the best wife to him that she could be, for as long as it lasted. And because she loved him.
Kate laid a hand on her arm. "I like your man," she said, and thrust the bouquet of gardenias tied with a blue muslin bow into Olivia's hand. "Thought you'd need something blue."
Olivia stared down at the gardenias. "He's not mine," she said quietly. "At least, he doesn't want to be." She felt Kate's hand tighten on her arm, and the tears threatened again. She blinked them back and lifted her head. "How did you know we were going to be here?"
The other woman smiled. "Oren just happened to be in the south pasture this morning and saw the two of you drive past on your way to town. Wasn't that lucky?"
"Very lucky," Olivia choked.
"We figured you'd need witnesses," Kate went on cheerfully. "Oren will stand with your man, and I'll be your matron of honor."
"Oh, Kate." Overcome by a rush of feeling, she couldn't say more, but she gave her friend a shaky smile of gratitude.
Kate smiled back at her. "You didn't think we'd let you go through this alone, did you?"
"Thank you."
"Honey, there's nothing to thank me for. You brought my baby into this world. Without you, I don't think I could have done it. Nothing Oren and I could ever do will be able to repay you for that."
She removed the small gold cross from around her neck and fastened it around Olivia's. "That's your 'something borrowed,'" she said, and frowned down at Olivia's gray dress. "I suppose the dress will have to be the 'something old,'" she added with a sigh. "Why didn't you wear your mother's wedding gown?"
The tears threatened again, and Olivia blinked, trying to force them away. When she'd been a young girl, filled with dreams of her wedding day, she had always envisioned herself wearing her mother's wedding gown; but when she had taken it out of the cedar chest last night and unwrapped it from its protective layers of paper, she'd known she could not wear her mother's dress. Virginal white satin would have only heightened the hypocrisy of it all. "I couldn't," she mumbled, lowering her head to stare down at the bouquet in her hand. "I just couldn't."
Kate grasped her shoulders and gave her a little shake, forcing her to look up. "Now, you listen to me, Olivia Louise Maitland. You've got nothing to be ashamed of."
Olivia started to deny that, but Kate interrupted her.
"I know what's been said. I was at that sewing party, remember? And I don't care if that man's been living in your house. I don't care if you went to Monroe with him on an unchaperoned overnight trip. I don't care if you slept with him or danced the seven veils of Salome for him. I saw the way you looked at him a minute ago. You're in love with him—it's written all over your face. Nothing's wrong if it's done with love. You hold your head up when you say those vows, you hear me?"
Olivia was dismayed to learn that her feelings were so transparent, but she forced herself to nod.
"Good girl." Kate started toward the archway that led out of the alcove and into the church. "We'd better get started."
Olivia glanced down at herself then back up as she moved to follow her friend. "What about the 'something new'?"
Kate glanced back at her over one shoulder. "The gardenias," she answered. "They opened this morning."
Olivia choked back the hysterical bubble of laughter that rose in her throat as she followed Kate down the aisle to the man who waited for her at the front of the church.
She did not look at him. She kept her gaze fixed on Reverend Allen and followed Kate's advice, keeping her chin high.
But when she saw her girls smile at her as she passed, her tightly reined emotions almost overcame her, and her steps faltered. They looked so happy, as if this wedding were a celebration instead of a sham.
Everything began to blur as the hot tears welled up again, as she struggled again to hold them back.
She had prayed for a man to help her, and a man had been provided. She had fallen in love with the man and prayed for a way to make him stay, and now the man was staying. At least for now. All her prayers had been answered. God had given her everything she had asked for. She ought to be thankful.
But when Kate took the bouquet of gardenias from her stiff fingers and stepped back, when Olivia was forced to turn and face Conor, she looked into the ice-blue eyes of a stranger, and she could not find it within herself to be thankful. She heard him vow to love, honor, and keep her, and she could find no happiness in his promise, for it was a false one. He did not love her, and all the prayers and wishes in the world could not make it so.
But she loved him, and when the moment came to say the vows that bound her to him for the rest of her days, she said them with conviction, for they were true and came from her heart.
I now pronounce you man and wife.
He bent his head, and his lips grazed her cheek. He offered her his arm, and they walked back down the aisle together.
Man and wife.
A blessed numbness came over her. Conor re-leased her arm and stepped away, allowing the girl
s to gather around her in the alcove. She watched as the reverend shook his hand and led him across the small room.
"Prayers really do work, Mama," Carrie said, throwing her arms around Olivia's waist and hugging her tight. "I promise I'll say my prayers every night now. I will."
Olivia shook her head slowly, trying to think past the numb haze that had fallen over her and listen to her daughter's words. "What are you talking about, Carrie?"
The child pulled back and beamed up at her. "It's wonderful, isn't it? I asked God to make Mr. Conor my new daddy, and He did! I got what I asked for!"
Olivia's fragile composure finally shattered. She burst into tears.
* * *
Playing a role was nothing new to Conor. False smiles came easily, even the one he gave the reverend, who probably didn't mean to sound condescending when he said, "I'm proud of you, son," and shook his hand.
But when he looked over at Olivia, surrounded by her girls, with her face in her hands, he knew she was crying. He felt her tears, and he suspected they were not tears of happiness. He thought of the night before, of the tears that had cut him like a knife, and he felt the knife twist again. His false smile faltered.
"I believe this belongs to you."
Conor glanced down at the leather pouch the reverend held out to him. "Sure and it does," he murmured, taking it. "Where did you find it?"
"One of the local men found it and brought it to me a couple months ago. He mentioned at the time that he'd found it in Jackson Field—which I believe was the place where that prizefight was held in July—and when I opened it, I found a crucifix inside." He paused and gave Conor an apologetic smile. "I didn't mean to pry, but I'd hoped to find a name or some other clue to the owner, you see. Amid all that fuss yesterday, I learned that you were a prizefighter and that you were Irish, so I thought perhaps it might be yours."
"Thank you." Conor opened it and began rummaging through the contents, hoping to hell the man who'd found his pack hadn't appropriated the most important item inside.
"Nothing missing, I hope?"
Conor's fingers closed around the bottle of Irish still tucked amid his clothes. "No, Reverend," he said, and closed the pack, then slung it over his shoulder. "Nothing missing at'all."
24
GAOL
Mountjoy Prison, Dublin, Ireland, 1867
Fish guts. For the tenth straight day. Conor's stomach revolted at the raw, slimy mess on a tin plate that he was expected to eat. He couldn't do it, not again. He couldn't smile at the guard who brought it to him as if he hadn't a care in the world; he couldn't eat it as if it were the grandest meal he'd ever had the privilege of tasting; he couldn't even look at it. But he thought of Megan and the offal of the Derry fish market, and with a cry of pure hatred, he grabbed the plate in his chained hands and tossed it, sending fish innards flying against the stalwart body of the prison guard who asked him where the guns were hidden.
Exhaustion. He longed for sleep. They would not let him. They walked him around and around the walled yard of the gaol, hour after hour, changing guards at regular intervals. When Conor slowed, they pushed him with their sticks. When he stumbled, they dragged him to his feet. When he closed his eyes, they poured icy water over his head. When they asked him about the guns, he laughed in their faces.
Floggings. They peeled flesh from his back and screams from his throat. He prayed the wounds would fester and he would die, but the doctor was called in to save his miserable life so that he could tell them about the guns.
Hate. Through it all, he thought about the food- laden ships that had sailed out of Lough Foyle. He thought of his mother begging for her home, and his sisters starving in the streets, and his brother being beaten to death. He thought of all the other Irishmen sitting in British gaols for treasonous crimes against a government they did not recognize. He thought about all of that, and hate coalesced to a ball of fire in his belly. He sang every republican song he knew as they beat him; he hurled every curse he'd ever learned as they starved him. When they gagged him . . . he hummed the tunes and cursed them in his mind.
He lost track of the days. He began to hear voices in his head. The brawny body that had made him the champion of pub boxing deteriorated to a massive rack of bones. But still, he would not break.
After eighteen days, they took him to the warden.
'"Oh, they're hangin' men and women for the wearin' o' the green,'" Conor sang, his voice a hoarse parody of a once low, rich baritone, as they dragged him into a small, dark cell with a long table, burning coals in a grate, and a thin, anemic man who looked more like a clerk than a prison warden.
They snagged the chains on his wrists to a hook from the ceiling that forced Conor to stand on his toes. '"When we were savage, fierce and wild,'" he went on, trying to keep in tune when his throat felt as raw as the fish guts they insisted on ramming down his throat.
The warden watched him impassively for a moment, then turned toward the grate. He pulled an iron from the fire, then glanced over at Conor, who was still singing. He smiled at him pleasantly, then lifted the poker out of the fire to examine the tip that glowed orange in the darkened room. "We're going to talk now, you and I," he said when the song ended. "And I'm sure you'll have a great deal to say."
Conor kept his gaze fixed on the poker as the man brought it closer to him, then closer still. "Aye," he whispered. "I do have something to say."
"Yes." The man nodded with understanding. "I thought you might."
Conor spit. It hit the warden's cheek and slid slowly down his cadaverous face. "That's all the talk you'll be getting from me, you fucking British bastard. So you might as well stop wasting your time, and kill me now."
The warden wiped away the saliva from his cheek with an unhurried movement of his hand. He lifted the poker and blew on the fiery orange tip, turning it to stark white. Slowly, he shook his head. "Paddy, we're not going to kill you. We're just going to make you wish you were dead."
25
The girls were so excited that it took forever to settle them down enough for sleep. Through the long ride home, supper, and several games of checkers, they had chattered nonstop about how wonderful it all was, how great it was that Conor and Mama were married, and how they couldn't wait to tell their friends about it when school started Monday.
Conor endured all of the attention they showered on him and did not show the least sign of impatience with them. But Olivia noticed that each time they talked about how he was going to stay "forever," Conor's lips tightened ever so slightly, and she knew he was only tolerating their worshipful adoration, not enjoying it.
Finally, the chatter eased into exhaustion, and Olivia was able to put them to bed. Thank the Lord, they fell asleep almost immediately.
When she returned downstairs, he was still in the library. He looked up from the book in his hands as she entered the room. "Girls asleep?" he asked.
"Yes."
This was their wedding night.
They looked at each other, and the awkwardness was a tangible thing between them.
She didn't know the proper etiquette for wedding nights. She wondered if she should sit down, but that would mean conversation, and making small talk seemed unbearably trite. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then lifted her hand and smoothed her hair with a nervous gesture. "I thought they'd never fall asleep," she murmured to fill the silence.
He watched her for a moment as she hovered just inside the door.
"Go upstairs, Olivia."
Was he telling her to go away, or was he simply hinting that she should precede him to make whatever feminine preparations she felt necessary? She studied his unreadable expression and did not know. "Of course," she murmured. "Would you put out the lamps before you come up?"
She took a pitcher of water upstairs with her and bathed, remembering how he had looked at her when he'd said she was beautiful. She brushed out her hair and left it loose about her shoulders, thinking that he preferred it t
hat way. She put on her prettiest lawn nightgown and fastened the pearl buttons, thinking about how he had undressed her in that Monroe hotel room. The memories made her shiver with apprehension and anticipation. She turned down the sheets, plumped the pillows, and waited. But he did not come.
She wandered about her bedroom, pacing and fidgeting, trying to banish her growing nervousness. She turned off the lamp, slid between the sheets, and strained to hear his step on the stairs. She lay in the dark and listened to the clock on her vanity table tick away the minutes. But he did not come.
Finally, she could stand it no longer. She put on her wrap and went downstairs. The lamps were out; the house was dark and silent.
She found him on the back porch. He had moved one of the kitchen chairs outside and was sitting in it, staring out at the moon that hung low in the night sky, with his long legs sprawled out before him and his head resting against the wall behind him. In his hand was a bottle.
He turned his head to look at her, taking in her bare feet, loosened hair, and delicate nightgown, without the slightest change in his expression.
Keeping his gaze locked with hers, he lifted the bottle and took a swig. "Ah," he said appreciatively, giving her a wicked smile. "Now, that's what I call a wee drop of the craythur."
Although the hand that held the bottle was steady, and his voice was unwavering, Olivia was not fooled. Visions of her father with his bourbon, or later, his cheap moonshine, danced through her mind, and she remembered every anguished line of his face, every cutting remark, every slurred laugh. She remembered all the nights she'd hauled him to bed to sleep it off, all the mornings of profuse apologies and promises.
Heartsick and dismayed, she pulled the edges of her robe together at her throat with a shaking hand as she studied Conor's face. It was harsh and cold in the silver light. "You're drunk."
"I am, indeed." He lifted the bottle and swirled the liquid contents thoughtfully. "I am participating in a fine Irish tradition. Every self-respecting Irishman gets drunk on his wedding night. Did you not know that?"
Conor's Way Page 27
