Toward the Sea of Freedom

by Sarah Lark

  Reluctantly, Rafferty withdrew. He would have liked to haggle for more money, but he did not like the thunderclouds in Kathleen’s eyes. A woman’s scolding was the last thing he needed. And besides, he felt more like celebrating than fighting. Four good English pounds in his hand! He was rich. Billy Rafferty forgot his anger and strolled back to the village, whistling.

  “You want to send this idiot to Wicklow with whiskey?” Kathleen asked, horrified. “Michael, he’ll give the scheme away as soon as he unpacks the stuff. If he doesn’t choke drinking it all down on the way. Fine, it doesn’t bother me if Billy Rafferty makes himself miserable. But you and I, Michael, we can’t let Trevallion throw the families in the village out on the street.”

  Kathleen told him about Trevallion’s appearance in front of the church.

  Michael bit his lip. “He won’t really do it,” he mused. “But you’re right—we ought to make ourselves scarce before someone suspects something and talks. The best thing would be to disappear tonight.” Michael tried to put his arm around her.

  Kathleen shook him off indignantly. “And if Trevallion does do it?” she yelled at him, disgusted at his cold-bloodedness. “Especially if I run out on him too. He has hopes—likely more than I supposed if I’ve understood Father O’Brien right. It’ll put him in a rage if I up and vanish. Then he’ll do even worse to the village.”

  Michael shook his head. “No. When I’ve vanished, he’ll know who stole the grain. So he won’t need to punish the others.” His eyes flashed. “I’ll just drop off a bottle of whiskey in the barn for him. As a thank you.” He laughed.

  Kathleen did not find any of it funny. “Michael, it’s no good. We can’t make our happiness off the unhappiness of others. Where would the villagers go? There’s no work anywhere. It’s bad enough you stole, and worse Trevallion’s grain ended up in an illegal distiller’s vat instead of the children’s stomachs.”

  Michael shrugged. “I’ll confess it,” he assured her. “Sometime. But Kathleen, I’m thinking of our baby before anything. It ought to grow up in a better country where it needn’t starve. I can’t get the grain back from the vat and into the sacks. So, do you want to go with me now or not?” He wrapped her in his arms.

  Kathleen briefly gave in to Michael’s tender, comforting embrace. But then she found her way back to reality.

  “Of course I’m coming with you!” she said. “But not right away. Not this week, when the village and Trevallion’s head are cooking hotter than those distiller’s vats. Father O’Brien’s right: I should play nice with Trevallion. Try to distract him, make him think of other things. Yes, we’ll do it that way; that’s how we can save the village. You’ll disappear before the week’s out. Go with your idiot friend to Wicklow on Saturday and just stay there. Then people will suspect you, and the tenants will be out of the woods.”

  “And you?” he asked. “I’m supposed to leave you alone with Trevallion?”

  Kathleen rolled her eyes. “God almighty, Michael, I’m not going to just give myself to him. I’ll walk with him through the village, butter him up a bit, give him some hope . . . and then I’ll come to Wicklow as soon as things have settled down. Just tell me where to find you.”

  Kathleen felt better having made this plan. This would work. But only if Michael played along.

  Michael chewed thoughtfully on his upper lip. He liked his plan much better. But the village was also his home. The people there were close to his heart. His mother and his siblings . . . but they’d be driven out of house and home anyway when the villagers pointed their fingers at Michael. That hurt Michael—but his mother knew where his father was waiting for them. True, she would no longer be able to pray at church every day, but in exchange, the children would surely get more to eat in the mountains.

  “All right, fine,” he said reluctantly. “A week, Kathleen, but not a day more. You’ll find me at Barney’s Tavern. It’s a bar on High Street; can’t miss it.”

  Trevallion used the “Week of Truth,” as he called it, to thoroughly mistreat the tenants. In the winter, there was little farm work to do, and the famine had so weakened the people that one could hardly ask anything of them. But that week, Trevallion made them all line up. They had to clean out the stables, haul rocks to expand the fences around the fields, and chop wood for the manor’s fireplace.

  “The fires need to be stoked, whether the lord’s here or not,” Trevallion explained. “Otherwise, mold will form in the walls. And the house can’t be allowed to cool down, lest His Lordship decide to spend Christmas here after all.”

  That had never happened, but now the villagers almost wished for it. Lord Wetherby might be more amenable to reason than his overzealous steward. Gráinne claimed the lady, at least, was reasonable. Indeed, Kathleen, too, had come to know the young noblewoman as a superficial but ultimately good-natured creature. Surely she would not sit idly by while her farmers’ children starved.

  Saturday evening, Michael was half-frozen and exhausted from breaking rocks in the cold when he finally fetched the gardener’s donkey. A few of the farmers watched him in silence, noting that this time Billy Rafferty was climbing onto the beast behind him.

  “Where do you think you’re going, Rafferty?” Ron Flannigan asked suspiciously. “A tour through the pubs in Wicklow? Do you have money to drink away, boy?”

  Michael shook his head and, pointing to the tin whistle in Billy’s pocket, answered for his friend. “I need him for the band, Ron. There’s more money to be made together. They hardly pay a fiddler on his own.”

  Flannigan furrowed his brow. “And so you take the worst whistle player? Who’s going to pay Billy for his playing? More like they’ll give him something to stop.”

  The farmers laughed.

  Michael laughed along. “People like the sound to be a bit rough around the edges,” he said. “I know what I’m doing.”

  Ron Flannigan watched as they rode off. “Do you, now?” he finally murmured.

  Kathleen had a hard time flirting, but she forced herself to do just that with Trevallion. She smiled at him when he walked into church on Sunday. Father O’Brien preached about forgiveness and clemency. In the end, he concluded, only God was the true judge, and no sinner could escape him, even if he avoided worldly judgment. The old priest even winked at Kathleen when she joined Trevallion immediately after Mass and spoke to him amicably. Did he thereby make himself guilty of the sin of procurement?

  It amused Kathleen. She tried to maintain the light in her eyes, the smile on her lips, and the slight blush of her cheeks for Trevallion. For the first time, she allowed him to take her strolling all around the village without her parents by her side. She agreed with him in flattering terms as he described again and again how useful he was to his lord, how sure his station as steward was, and how respected the woman he took for his wife would be.

  Kathleen was exhausted from all the smiling and lying when Trevallion finally delivered her to her parents’ house. During the stroll she had experienced a strange sensation. It was almost as if she had not been alone with the steward, as if she were being watched. Had Michael sent Jonny to follow her?

  That might have been the case. It had been hard getting her beloved to accept her mission with Trevallion. And for her part, Kathleen worried about Michael. Billy Rafferty had been at Mass that morning. He kneeled, visibly tired, next to his mother, who seemed rather perturbed. Kathleen could understand. Particularly in times like these, it was considered disgraceful to get drunk. Michael had never come to church on Sunday mornings any the worse for wear. Of course, the tavern owner would give the musicians a beer or two, but whoever got drunk on whiskey did not keep his job long.

  Billy Rafferty did not seem to think that far ahead. Any form of strategy was foreign to him; Kathleen still thought him the worst choice for Michael’s successor in the whiskey business.

  But for Michael’s sake, Billy’s headache might not prove such a bad thing. The priest and the other villagers would assume that
Michael, too, had been drinking the night before and thus had not come to Mass. Not until work on Monday morning would they finally note his absence.

  In front of the O’Donnells’ house, Trevallion handed Kathleen another sack of flour. “I know you won’t take it, Mary Kathleen,” he said formally. “You want to be sure no one will think you’re for sale. But I do wish you would someday feel enough for me that my gifts would appear meaningless compared to my kiss.”

  The steward approached her, but Kathleen stepped back, startled. She felt panic at the idea of Trevallion’s kiss—and not just because the thought of his lips on hers disgusted her. It was also because she was afraid of whoever might be following her. Little Jonny would not do anything dangerous. Nothing more could be expected from him than some stupid boyish prank, like a shot from his sling. He never hit anyway. But what if it was Brian who was following her?

  What if it was Michael himself?

  Kathleen lowered her eyes. “Mr. Trevallion,” she said quietly. “Please, please, sir, I’m only sixteen. That’s, that’s too young for love.” She blushed.

  Trevallion smiled. “Oh, of course. I forgot myself.”

  Kathleen did not know if he meant it with affection or scorn.

  “Then it’s surely only a rumor that you have feelings for that village boy?” It sounded threatening.

  Kathleen tried to lower her head even more demurely—and only then raised her eyes. She even managed a mischievous smile.

  “My feelings might tend elsewhere, sir,” she said. “But my mother instructed me to keep my eye on the pantry, too, when thinking of love.”

  Trevallion laughed resoundingly. “My, but you’re a charming maid, Mary Kathleen.”

  He reached into his bag and added a packet of sugar to the sack of flour. “Here. Though it can’t be sweeter than your lips.”

  Kathleen thanked heaven when she was finally able to flee into her family’s small house. She knew they would be waiting impatiently, and that they would be ecstatic over Trevallion’s wooing.

  Sugar and flour. Now Kathleen could bake scones herself, though she feared they would taste bitter because of how she’d come by the ingredients.

  On the Monday after Michael’s disappearance, Kathleen continued her work in the manor as usual. Together with Gráinne, she lit the fireplaces, whose flames cast ghostly shadows on the walls.

  At least it was warm for the women—and Trevallion did not bother them. Moreover, Kathleen stole a few moments to look more carefully at the Wetherbys’ heavy velvet curtains and valuable furniture—she even dared to sit in one of the chairs, imagining an afternoon tea to which she had invited friends. If Michael was right, she, too, would one day have such lovely things, and a housemaid would light her fireplaces. In the New World, she would be free; she could earn money, become rich.

  Kathleen gave in to her dreams for a few heartbeats—or rather, to Michael’s dreams. She did not need a manor herself, or heavy chairs or velvet curtains. Kathleen would have been content with a cottage—a cozy little house, covered in ivy, with a cute garden where she could grow vegetables and trees. It should have a nice living room and a bedroom, a kitchen, and perhaps another room for the children. Not just one tiny room filled with smoke from the single fireplace as in her parents’ house.

  It suddenly dawned on Kathleen that she was dreaming of Ralph Trevallion’s house. The steward lived in just such a cottage a little removed from the village and manor.

  No! She chided herself for her thoughts. No house could ever make her marry someone as hard-hearted as Trevallion. Not to mention that she was carrying Michael’s child.

  As Kathleen stood up somewhat cumbersomely from the armchair to return to her work, she heard loud voices in the house.

  “Oh, my Lord, no! Oh, merciful Mary!” said Gráinne. The old cook and housekeeper was screaming and moaning as if her heart had been broken.

  Kathleen ran down the stairs and found Gráinne in the manor’s vestibule, sunk down on the lowest step, lamenting and cursing.

  “I can’t do anything about it, Gráinne,” Ron Flannigan was saying, his hand awkwardly on the old woman’s shoulder. “I just thought I’d tell you myself. Before Trevallion hits you with it. And before, before . . .”

  “Before the soldiers come? Before they—oh no, they wouldn’t! They’re not going to throw me out, are they? Tear down my house? Merciful God, Ron, I’ve eight other children.”

  Ron Flannigan shook his head barely noticeably. In his voice and entire comportment lay true regret. “I know it well, Gráinne. You’re a good woman, and they’re all good children. But you know the law.”

  “English law,” Gráinne spat. “Ron, I’ve served the Wetherbys. These many years, I’ve always been true, never stolen—well, no more than a few bites of bread. If only the lord and lady were here. If I could throw myself at the lady’s feet. She’d have mercy, to be sure.”

  “What’s going on here?” Kathleen asked. “What can be so awful, Gráinne, that—”

  A look at Ron Flannigan’s face silenced her. Any encouraging word was inappropriate just then.

  “They’ve arrested Billy Rafferty,” Ron explained. “They’re accusing him of stealing Trevallion’s grain.”

  “But it wasn’t him!” howled Gráinne. “Good Lord, you all know my Billy. A little braggart, but just like a rooster—all talk. He’d never come up with the idea of stealing the lord’s grain. Who’d he sell it to anyway?”

  “We don’t know,” Ron said seriously. “But they found money on him. More than three pounds; he can’t have made it anywhere else. Certainly not playing the tin whistle.”

  “Playing the tin whistle!” yelled Gráinne. “The fiddler, that no-good Drury boy. I’d bet he . . .”

  “Michael Drury has disappeared,” said Ron. “And yes, we can assume he had something to do with it. But your Billy was in Wicklow on Saturday, Gráinne, and came home drunk. And last night he got into his cups again, with friends; he paid for half the village. This morning at work they all smelled of rotgut, and your Billy could not stand up straight. Are you surprised Trevallion was asking about it? No one told him, if that’s what you’re thinking, Gráinne. Even though he spilled a few things last night to his drinking buddies around the fire. About the whiskey, the distillers, his wonderful new job in Wicklow.”

  “Merciful Mother of God, if he tells that to the redcoats!” Gráinne crossed herself at the thought of English soldiers.

  Ron sighed. “They’ll beat it out of him sooner or later,” he said. “But maybe it’d be better for him to talk. So far they’re blaming him alone. When it turns out that the Drury boy was involved too . . .”

  An icy chill shot up Kathleen’s spine. Billy would betray Michael. It was as inevitable as the priest’s amen during Mass. He might even betray her as well. After all, he knew why Michael had risked stealing. And more than anything—merciful God—she hoped he knew nothing about Barney’s Tavern.

  Kathleen’s mind raced. She had to warn Michael. She needed to get to Wicklow before the soldiers interrogated Billy. And then it would be best just to stay with him. She could not do any more anyway. Now it all lay in Billy Rafferty’s hands as to whether her family would be driven from house and home. When Trevallion learned that she had fled with Michael, he would accuse the O’Donnells of complicity.

  Kathleen ran outside. Gráinne would not look for her; she now had bigger worries than the fireplaces in the manor. And Ron had hardly noticed her; he seemed not to know anything about her and Michael.

  Heedless, Kathleen ran out onto the road. At least she had put on her shawl against the winter cold. There were a few things from her parents’ house she would have liked to bring along, but there was no chance of that now. Her mother and siblings were surely at home, and they would be able to tell that something was troubling her.

  Kathleen said adieu to them all in her heart. Then, determined, she turned toward Wicklow.

  Chapter 4

  The road to Wi
cklow stretched out long and wide before Kathleen. She sometimes walked and sometimes ran, moving as fast as she could. Still, anyone on horseback would easily overtake her, as two riders already had. Kathleen tried to remain calm as she continued along the road. It would grow dark before she reached town.

  Suddenly, she heard a carriage rolling up behind her. Perhaps Billy was already being taken to prison in Wicklow. Half fearful and half hopeful, she turned to look and saw two powerful dappled horses in front of the cart and a familiar man on the box. It was Ian Coltrane, son of the livestock trader.

  “Well, well, who do we have here?” Ian grinned down at her. “If it isn’t little Kathleen O’Donnell. Whither goest thou, sweetheart?”

  Kathleen forced herself to smile back. Ian Coltrane was handsome, a swarthy young man with flashing eyes. He was around twenty years old, somewhat older than Michael. He looked a bit like Michael, except his eyes were black like coal. People even whispered that the Coltranes had Gypsy blood.

  Where his father, Patrick Coltrane, dealt in sheep and cattle, Ian specialized in horse trading. And he must have been making good money: his plaid jacket was new and padded and warm, his pants were made of leather, and his boots were solid. Kathleen looked at them almost enviously. Her own shoes were worn and not warm enough. Her feet already felt like ice blocks.

  “To, to Wicklow,” she answered. “I’m, I’m visiting an aunt. She’s sick.”

  Ian grinned. “So your mother sent you off with nothing but a woolen shawl?” he said, looking at Kathleen’s empty hands and her clothes, too thin for such a journey.

  Kathleen blushed. Of course, she should have thought about that. True, the O’Donnells were poor, but her mother would have managed a little something for a sick relative, and surely she would have found a coat to better equip Kathleen for the cold. Likewise, Kathleen would have worn her Sunday dress for a visit to town.