A Rose in Splendor

by Laura Parker

  “To his relatives?” Deirdre questioned.

  “Yer ladyship,” Mrs. Mooney answered with a barely contained sigh, “do ye nae know the law? An orphan child, be he Irish and Catholic, can be fostered only by a person of the Protestant faith. They will take him away from ye, as if he had nae suffered enough.”

  Deirdre shook her head. “Certainly that is not the case. He would be brought up to be a Protestant.”

  “That he would, and so much the worse for us all,” Mrs. Mooney answered as she turned to leave.

  Deirdre looked at herself and shook her head. “I look frightful. Cousin Neil will think me without any accomplishments at all.”

  “What accomplishments would he like?” Fey asked sourly. “There’s nae a harp or violin about. We’ve nae china or crystal. We’ve little enough food and ye’ll nae be sharing my portion with a redcoat.”

  Deirdre arranged her hair with the comb that Killian had whittled for her. She had only a few hairpins and no mirror with which to check the results. She turned to Fey. “Will I do?”

  “’Tis too good for the English,” Fey answered and stomped off.

  With that dubious compliment in mind, Deirdre straightened her jacket, which she had hastily buttoned over her poorly mended gown, and gave her faded riding skirt a final twitch.

  The sound of horses approaching drove all thoughts from her mind as she went to the door.

  Dismay was Deirdre’s first reaction as she gazed at the yard of red-coated soldiers. There were a full dozen of them and none of their faces were familiar. Certainly her cousin was not among them. As the officer dismounted she folded her hands to wait, and another thought came to her. They were dirty and their horses were lathered; these men had ridden far and hard. Perhaps they were chasing some luckless soul who had broken one of the many laws of the land.

  “Good day to you, ma’am,” the officer said in English as he approached.

  “Good day,” Deirdre answered in English.

  “You speak English,” the young man answered, his face beaming. “Good luck, that. My Gaelic is poor at best. Would there be a man by the name of MacShane living here?”

  “I am Mrs. MacShane,” Deirdre answered, her voice as cool and crisp as the spring air. She gave him a single piercing glance. “Why do you clutter up my yard with your horses and men?”

  The young officer looked as if she had shut the door preemptorally in his face. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I’ve come on a matter concerning your husband. May I speak with him?”

  “No.”

  The answer left him little to work from. “Why not?” he asked weakly.

  “Because he is unavailable,” Deirdre replied and started to close the door. If the English sought Killian, it meant that he was in danger.

  “We’ve a warrant for him,” the officer called. “We have a right to search.”

  Deirdre turned around slowly. “As I believe the English are responsible for the present state of my home, you will permit me to be astonished at the thought that there may be something of interest you left behind. The third-floor ceiling has caved in. There is not a stick of furniture. As for tapestries and draperies, we have none. You will find nothing.” She turned away once more.

  “We look for something more substantial,” the officer called after her.

  Deirdre turned back. “What, may I ask?”

  “Black cattle, Irish cattle.”

  Deirdre smiled. “You may find them on any hill or in any valley of the county, sir. Cows are notorious for their roaming habits. However, not a single cow resides inside my residence. You have my solemn word on it.”

  The murmur of laughter among his men cost the officer a little of his composure, and Deirdre smiled an acknowledgment of her small victory.

  “Are you Catholic, ma’am?” the officer questioned sharply.

  “Are you a fool, sir?” Deirdre replied promptly. “Or perhaps you have not heard, since you English change your laws more often than your clothes, Catholicism is all but outlawed in Ireland.”

  The young man’s pleasant face stiffened. “You have not answered my question, ma’am.”

  “Nor do I intend to,” she replied. “It is not yet against the law to be Catholic, sir, only to practice the religion. Is that not so?”

  The officer nodded his head reluctantly.

  “Then I am not bound to answer. I do not see that it matters, if cows are your business.”

  “Your husband, ma’am, he is a Catholic?”

  “Did you not hear me?” Deirdre asked impatiently.

  The officer pulled a parchment from his coat. “I have a document here, signed by one Killian MacShane. This is a petition for instruction in the established Church. What do you know of this?”

  “No more and no less than you say,” Deirdre answered evenly, but she was suddenly very nervous. What madness had Killian undertaken? The established Church? That was the Church of England!

  “He attempted on last market day to sell a number of cows which he claims belong to him. A Discoverer brought a petition against him because he has not yet received his certificate of acceptance into the true faith. What do you know of that?”

  “The cows, do you mean? They are ours. As for Discoverers, whatever that is, I know nothing. Please feel free to help yourselves to the well before you leave.” Deirdre turned toward the door, feeling like a weather vane in a gale.

  “We’re searching for a priest hereabouts. One Father O’Donovan.”

  Deirdre turned slowly to give herself a chance to think. When she faced the young officer she could see nothing but the image of a tiny, helpless corpse. “The only O’Donovan of my acquaintance, and I admit that it was after the fact, is that of a tiny lass left hanging from the branches of a huge oak near Kilronane. If that was your handiwork, sir, I hope your mother lives to hear of it and you live to regret it!”

  The young man turned as bright a shade of red as his uniform. “I had nothing to do with that, ma’am.”

  “But you know of it, sir, you know of it. And you did not cut her down. For that I will never forgive you!”

  This time Deirdre managed to reach the door and slam it firmly behind her. She sagged against it, but every sense was alert as she listened to the men beyond the door. At first she heard nothing, and then, mercifully, came the sounds of retreating horses.

  “Well, who’d have believed it of ye,” Fey exclaimed in genuine delight from the step of the stairwell on which she sat.

  Deirdre smiled at her as she came forward. “I was rather good, wasn’t I? Just like a play.” She smiled and then burst into laughter, and to her delight Fey joined her and they embraced.

  “Mavrone! Was that a near thing!” Mrs. Mooney cried as she entered from the rear door.

  “I did nae understand it all, but I heard enough,” added Colin’s wife, Mrs. Ross. “Yer ladyship, ye were a wonder!”

  “Thank you. I only hope I’ve shamed them enough to keep them away for a few days. Killian must hurry home.” She did not add that it was more imperative than ever. If he hoped to fool the English with that piece of paper that he had signed, he was wrong. They would come again. She smiled uncertainly at the woman who held Dary, wondering just how much any of them understood. The respect she and Killian had among these people was tenuous, and a mistake might ruin it. “Put Dary to bed, Mrs. Mooney. I’ll be out in the orchard. It appears a few of the trees may survive with a bit of care.”

  “I’ll take him,” Fey volunteered, scooping Dary from the woman’s arms. “He’s still ugly,” she said after a quick look at his sleeping face, “but he’s nae so ugly as Enan!”

  *

  It was an hour after nightfall before Deirdre heard the faint sounds of boot steps outside. She rose from the floor and reached the door just as a knock sounded.

  “Killian?” she called softly, her hand poised on the crossbar.

  “It’ll be Colin, yer ladyship,” came the reply.

  “Come in, Colin,” she sa
id when the door was open, but he shook his head.

  “Ye’ll be having a visitor of another sort below in the kitchen, yer ladyship. A particular kind of visitor, if ye take my meaning.”

  “Father O’Donovan?”

  “Mister Teague O’Donovan, if ye would, yer ladyship.”

  “Of course, Mister O’Donovan,” Deirdre answered, chastened by this gentle reminder.

  “If ye’ll unbolt the servants’ door, he’ll be on the stairwell. I’ll be keeping an eye on the far side of the river.” He jerked his head toward the distant hill where a faint glow in the trees marked the English soldiers’ camp.

  “He should have waited a few days until they were gone,” Deirdre said.

  “Would ye have a man the likes of Teague O’Donovan afraid of an Englishman’s shadow?” Colin asked. “’Tis enough he came after they were gone. Bolt the door and know that none will come through it except if Colin Ross has given up his life.”

  Deirdre shut the door with a shiver. Colin’s tone had not been one to mock. He was deadly serious about the danger in which Liscarrol lay this night with a priest being within its walls. Two months earlier she would not have believed such precautions were necessary. Now she knew she had come home not to the Ireland of her memory but to a land touched by the flames of prejudice and passion and faith.

  She opened the rear door to admit a man who looked even thinner and more ragged than she remembered. “Father,” she whispered, and bent her head to receive his blessing when the door was safely shut and bolted.

  “Bless you, my child,” Teague O’Donovan answered, briefly touching her hair. “Why have you sent for me?”

  “Come and warm yourself by the fire, Father, while I tell you.” Deirdre indicated the way. “There’s buttermilk and porridge left from dinner.”

  The priest shook his head. “There’s many a more deserving man who goes without this night. I will offer up my sacrifice for them.”

  Deirdre slanted a curious look at him. “But, Father, that will not feed the hungry, and it does waste the precious food we have. Is there no joy to be had in this land from even the simplest pleasures?”

  “Only a daughter of the aristocracy, Lady Deirdre, would speak so carelessly of the poverty and misery of those beneath you.”

  Deirdre’s eyes widened. “I am of noble birth but that does not make me an uncaring tyrant, Father. ‘Profess not the knowledge…that thou hast not,’” she quoted daringly in Latin.

  Stung by her adroit turning of his gentle rebuke into seeming gratitude, Teague could only stare at her for a moment. Then he remembered the mark upon her shoulder. This woman was not like others. Perhaps that fact kept her from feeling awe before one of God’s chosen…or perhaps it enabled her to see through his piety to his weaknesses.

  Deirdre regretted her words as soon as she had said them. This was not Darragh or Conall that she could throw his insults back in his face. “Father, forgive me. I meant no disrespect.”

  “I will sit by your fire and eat your food that we may share the community of spirit,” he answered at last.

  As he sat cross-legged before the hearth with a bowl of porridge in his hands, Deirdre told him of the drowned woman and her son. Afraid that he would misunderstand her dreams, she omitted her reason for walking Liscarrol’s grounds that night, and spoke instead of being frightened by the woman’s sudden appearance.

  When she was done, the priest nodded his head slowly. “It is as Colin Ross told me.” He looked up from his bowl. “But what of the magic they claim you performed?”

  “Finding the child? But I have explained. The woman was ill. She told me she wanted me to help save her child. It was not magic but reasoning to expect that the bundle she carried was a bairn.” Deirdre spoke earnestly. “I might have been wrong. If I had been, there would be no talk of magic.”

  “The woman came to you, asked for your help. Why your help?”

  “I don’t know,” Deirdre answered uncomfortably, because she was beginning to remember the woman’s words.

  “Did she think you could remove her ailment?”

  Deirdre started, though the priest had spoken in a low tone. “She seemed to think I could,” she said slowly, wishing she did not need to speak at all. “I do not know why. She addressed me as beanfeasa.” She hung her head, feeling guilty though she knew she should not. “I have never claimed any power; I have done nothing to make anyone think such a thing.”

  “You’ve done enough,” the priest remarked obliquely. He hesitated a moment, remembering MacShane’s warning that his wife must hear nothing of the old legend, but MacShane was not born or raised on the sod, Irish though he might be. He could not understand the depth of feeling and respect accorded ancient beliefs. If the lady were to be sincere in her repudiation of her heritage, then she must understand it fully.

  “You have a mark upon your shoulder,” he began, his eyes hard upon her face. “There’s a legend about such a mark. You know of it?”

  Deirdre nodded reluctantly. She could not lie to a priest, though she had omitted some of the truth in her story. “I know a little, not all.”

  “I did not believe the tale of your return until I saw the mark myself, and it is as legend predicted.” He paused, feeling the night’s chill though the fire glowed healthily. “You are the second to bear the mark. I will tell you what I have heard about the first.”

  When he had finished repeating the story he had told Killian, Deirdre sat with her arms wrapped about her middle. She felt faintly ill, as though some ague would soon be upon her.

  “The mother came to you with her babe because she had come to me and I could not cure her. She was dying and she knew it. No worldly power could save her, and I do not claim for myself powers reserved for God.”

  “Neither do I!” Deirdre answered. “Father, believe me, I have spoken to no one of the legend, showed no one the mark.”

  “And yet Mrs. Ross has seen it,” the priest replied.

  The memory of the woman entering in upon her and Killian as they were about to make love came back to Deirdre and she blushed. “She came upon me suddenly, while I was dressing.”

  The priest finished his porridge in silence. Only then did he speak. “Why have you sent for me, to find a home for the orphan bairn?”

  “Oh no, Dary can remain here. I want you to baptize him, if his mother has not done so already.”

  Teague O’Donovan felt the breath of fear on his neck. “That I will not do.”

  “Why not?”

  The priest shook his head, rising. “Folk believe the bairn was saved from drowning by fairy magic. His mother died under dubious circumstances. Until it can be proved that magic had no part in these events, I will do nothing.”

  Deirdre rose indignantly to her feet. “You are a priest. You cannot fear the fairy boughs and straw charms of simple people.”

  “I do not fear them. But I will not be a party to abetting their beliefs. The saving of the bairn could be a devil’s trick. I’ll not be drawn into it.”

  “Baptizing Dary will make him a child of God. How can you be certain that it was not God’s doing? Could He not have worked the miracle of sparing the baby’s life to demonstrate the goodness of His spirit? Why must goodness be questioned as the devil’s tricks?”

  Teague shook his head. The lady made sense, so much so that he feared to glance at her again. If she was as pure of heart as she seemed, she could be a formidable ally. Yet, he must be careful, wary.

  “If you will come to Mass when next I am in the valley, and take the Host, I will baptize the bairn then.”

  “I will,” Deirdre agreed enthusiastically, but the priest was already moving away from her toward the door through which he had come. “How will I know where to find you?”

  “Mrs. Ross will bring you.” he answered over his shoulder and slipped out into the night.

  *

  “You’re home! You’re home!” Tears of relief blurred Deirdre’s vision as she was caught up in K
illian’s arms and swung around in the yard.

  “Aye, Dee! Home!” Killian hugged her hard before setting her back on the ground. She gazed up at him, her green eyes as bright as the first patch of spring shamrocks in the valley. Her face was thinner, Killian noted in concern, and those lush green eyes were ringed with dark crescents of worry and discomfort. The hands he held in his were thickened by blisters and the beginnings of calluses. She was still beautiful, but how long would that beauty remain if she had to live like a wild thing in the west country of Ireland?

  Deirdre put a self-conscious hand to her hair as he continued to stare at her. “Have I grown ugly, or have you forgotten entirely what I look like, you’ve been gone so long?”

  “I’ve forgotten nothing, Dee,” Killian answered in a voice roughened by emotion. “I’m sorry I’ve been away so long.”

  “More than two weeks!” Deirdre complained and tugged the black whiskers at his chin. “You’ve grown a beard. Where have you been?”

  Killian smiled suddenly. “Bartering, lass, like any gypsy you see on the roads.” He turned to show her the pony cart he had ridden into the yard. “I’ve gifts from so far away you’ll never guess them all.”

  Deirdre looked at the brimming cart for the first time. “Where did you get the money for the cart and the pony?”

  “Bartered for them,” Killian answered, and then with his hands on her shoulders he pushed her gently toward the back of the cart. “Stand here and see what I’ve brought you.”

  As she watched, he slipped a knife under the knot that held the canvas cover tight and then threw back the cover. There were so many things piled in the cart that she could not take in everything at once. The item that captured her attention first was the largest. “You’ve bought a bed!”

  “Aye, that I did. ’Twas time we had one. I’ve grown weary of that slate floor. It wears like the very devil on a man’s knees.”

  “You don’t sleep on your knees,” Deirdre answered as she ran a hand appreciatively along one long branch of black bog oak that was a bedpost.

  “Sleeping’s not the only thing a man does in bed,” Killian answered and was pleased to see her blush. “My first several sons shall be born on this bed.”