Irish Love

by Andrew M. Greeley

  Josie ran down the hill like a filly running for a finish line.

  “They love her, Mr. Fitzpatrick. But they have so many. They’ll be happy for her.”

  “We will take good care of her.”

  “Yes, we will … . I’ll pack my things. There won’t be much. Part of your bargain will involve providing clothes for me and my daughter?”

  “Surely.”

  “May I bring my books?”

  “May I help you pack?”

  She stood up, shaky now on her feet at the enormity of what she was doing.

  “Yes, you may … . You are a remarkable man, Mr. Fitzpatrick, quite astonishing.”

  For the moment that would do as a statement of love.

  “I hope you’ll always find me so.”

  “May I bring my red cloak?”

  “I would not have it otherwise.”

  Josie came running back up the hill, her dirty face glowing, a small sack of belongings in her hand.

  “Are you REALLY taking me to America, Mr. Fitzpatrick, sir?”

  “I really am, Josie.

  I packed their pathetic little bundles, Nora’s wrapped in her prized red cloak, in the buggy. Josie scrambled up quickly, as if she feared I might change my mind. Nora passed Mary Elizabeth to Josie and tried to climb up. She was unable to lift herself.

  “I lack the strength to board the buggy, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” she said wearily. “You are ill advised to take me with you.”

  “I’ll make that decision,” I said, lifting her in my arms. She was dangerously fragile. Our eyes locked and then quickly separated. I placed her in the buggy with great tenderness.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said. “I am at present a very light burden.”

  “That will change,” I promised.

  As we rode down the valley in my buggy, Nora said, “You came up this road a bachelor, Mr. Fitzpatrick. You go down it as a man with a bride, a daughter, and a niece.”

  It was what His Lordship, the Bishop of Galway, had said.

  “I think I’m up to it, Nora.”

  She considered that.

  “I think you are too.”

  We are in Outhergard now. Nora was uneasy when I showed them into their room.

  “I’ve never been in an inn before, Mr. Fitzpatrick. I’m not sure how to act.”

  “I’m sure you will figure things out. That thing is called a water closet and that one over there is a bathtub.”

  “I know what they are, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” she said bravely. “I read books.”

  I escaped from the room, my heart breaking for her. The days ahead would not be easy.

  Now in my room I am greatly—and perhaps foolishly—pleased with myself. I have won a wife of my own. She is mine. Or soon will be. Admittedly, the choice was between me and probable death during the winter. But she had given up on life. I had persuaded her to give life another chance.

  She does not love me yet. However, I think she does not exclude the possibility of eventually loving me. At least she likes me and even finds me amusing.

  There will be many difficulties in the future. I pray to the God who gave me the right words to say today that You will continue to whisper the right words in my ear.

  27

  London, September 15, 1883

  We lost the motion for a parliamentary investigation of the Maamtrasna affair. Tim had prepared a brilliant case against the trial with enough testimony from Tom Casey and Michael Casey (one of those who had been in jail and confessed to being outside during the crime) and from various people in the valley to destroy the credibility of both the witness and the approvers. Many of the Liberals, with whom the Irish Party is allied, agreed privately with Tim’s argument. The Crown had made a mess of the trial. It would be useful if somehow a new trail could be ordered. However, Parliament had no choice but to stand behind Earl Spencer. Otherwise they would seem to have repudiated the legitimacy of the rule in Dublin Castle. The issue for them was not the injustice of the Maamtrasna trial. It was the survival of Britain’s right to rule Ireland. Even the Liberals had to support that. Gladstone, the Prime Minister and a staunch supporter of Home Rule in Ireland, would dearly love to find a way out that would placate everyone. Yet, he sees himself bound to stand by Lord Spencer. We all understand that. Even if you want Ireland to have its own parliament again, you cannot turn your back on six centuries of English imperialism.

  We had a grand time in the debate, however, because we had nothing to lose. Our arguments were unanswerable and the other side knew it. They had to content themselves with repeating the arguments of the Crown Counsels in the trial. Those arguments were now patently absurd. So we were free to shoot them down like wingless ducks lined up for game hunters. We made fools out of them. They knew we were making fools out of them. They had the votes but that was all they had.

  A young Liberal M.P. from Manchester remarked to me, early in the morning after we had shot at them like Lord Nelson had shot at the French at Trafalgar, “You lads are having a grand time of it, aren’t you?”

  “I’m an American, sir. I’m not enjoying this at all. If it’s a grand time, it’s also a waste of time.”

  He sighed.

  “The sooner we have Home Rule the better. Parliament will be much duller with all those witty fellows back in Dublin where they belong, but we’ll be able to get some sleep at night … . Why are you involved? You’re more than just a reporter, aren’t you?”

  “I was there,” I said simply.

  “At Maamtrasna.”

  “The day after the murders.”

  “Oh … You knew this man Myles Joyce? Good fellow, was he?”

  “A royal leader.”

  “Yes, so I gathered. Another martyr for Ireland, eh?”

  “Someday it will all come back to haunt this country, sir.”

  “I don’t doubt it. I don’t doubt it at all.”

  We never had a hope of winning it. We knew we never had a hope of winning it. Yet we fought like tigers. We had a grand drinking party the final night as though we had won a great victory. The votes were 219 against our motion, 48 in favor. An Irish victory!

  Sir Randolph Churchill voted with us. There are rumors that he and Parnell will connive to bring down the Gladstone Government and thus drive Lord Spencer from Ireland. The Tories, however, will certainly never support Home Rule. I do not believe that Gladstone will ever win it either. England is not ready to let Ireland go, not in a halfway measure. Parnell, the leader of the Irish Party, is a Protestant but as fervent an Irish Nationalist as I have ever met. Some call him the uncrowned King of Ireland. Perhaps. I find it hard to like him, however.

  So what will happen? If I had to guess, I’d say that within the next half century, the people of Ireland will have to take their freedom from England. The Land League tactics have stirred up the ordinary people who merely want their own land. Some day a real Irish leader, a better educated and perhaps more ruthless version of Myles Joyce, will lead Ireland to its freedom. Violently.

  Why do I say that? Because I believe that the English will continue to make the same stupid mistakes they made in the Maamtrasna affair. As the Irish Catholics get more education and make a little more money, the British will make one final mistake that will be the last straw. They do not see the growing power of the Catholics.

  They could avoid the total loss of Ireland by granting the meager freedom of Home Rule. Not to do that is the biggest mistake of all.

  When it comes to Ireland, the English are dumb.

  And blind.

  Those will be the themes of the dispatch I will write after a couple of hours sleep.

  Then I will return to Galway to claim my bride. My desire for her is unbearable. So too is my fear.

  I ask myself whether perhaps it is cruel to fatten her up for the feast as I am doing. Then I tell myself I only want her to be healthy as she prepares for marriage and our trip to America.

  Home.

  28

  Galway, Septemb
er 27, 1883

  I’m back again at the Great Southern Hotel for the last time, in this trip in any event. We leave Kinsale next week and with a smooth passage should be in the United States by the following week. I sent a cable to my family from London. “Arrive mid-October with Galway princess. Ned.” Their reply was immediate. “We knew you would. Mom and Dad.”

  What if after two months of modern living, my bride-to-be tries to change her mind?

  That seems unlikely. Nora is not the kind of woman who backs out of a bargain.

  Yet I am afraid. Afraid of losing her and somehow afraid of not losing her. What will the wedding night be like? I have had little experience with women. She was married to one of the most remarkable men in the world. How can I compare to him?

  I remember comments in pubs and saloons about women. Complaints about how long it took to get them “in the mood.” Astonishment at how patient one had to be with them. And gentle. Someone had said that you never can be too gentle. So I would be patient and gentle and not rush.

  I have no idea what that means.

  I will walk to the Corbett house across the square tomorrow morning with some considerable trepidation.

  Galway Town, September 28, 1883

  The Corbetts, knowing that I was visiting this morning, discretely found something to take them out of the house. When their butler showed me into the drawing room, I did not for a moment recognize my bride. She was wearing a light blue dress and a corset, her hair was done up on her head, and she was blooming with vitality.

  I must have permitted my mouth to fall open.

  She rose, smiled, and extended her hand graciously.

  “Have I changed that much, Mr. Fitzpatrick?”

  I kissed her hand. She blushed. I was speechless.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Corbett have been very kind to us. I never expected to feel healthy again.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you … .”

  “Doubtless you will not recognize Mary Elizabeth either.”

  She lifted the cooing little child out of her crib and extended her into my arms. Mary Elizabeth was fat, healthy, and happy. She cuddled into my arms and rested her head on my chest.

  “Is she not a miracle, Mr. Fitzpatrick?”

  “As is her mother.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She blushed, removed the child from my arms, and returned her to her crib. The little girl smiled and giggled.

  “Wait till you see Josie. You will never recognize her with her clean face.”

  “The Corbetts have truly treated you well?”

  “Look at me, sir.” She sat on the couch next to her daughter’s crib. “They have done their best to make me a lady. I have learned about bathtubs and water closets and corsets and good manners and to wear shoes all the time. I have found lots of books to read. As I awaited you, I have been reading this book of Mr. Trollop, whom I find very interesting.”

  She was uneasy, not sure what kind of impression she was making.

  “My mother reads him too. So does my father.”

  “Do I seem to have been transformed into a lady, sir?

  “Nora.” I sat down on the couch next to her. “You have never been any less than a lady. No one had to teach you how to be one.”

  She turned crimson.

  “Thank you, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

  How many years before I became Edward? And how many more before she would call me Eddie? Or Ned?

  I removed the little box from my waistcoat pocket, opened it, and placed the ring on her finger.

  “Mr. Fitzpatrick! This is really too much! It is utterly inappropriate! I cannot possibly accept it!”

  “You could always give it back to me.”

  She looked at the ring, looked at me, and then, with a peasant’s craftiness, back at the ring.

  “Well,” she said slowly, “I suppose that now I am wearing it, I should keep it. Really, however, it is too big.”

  “Nora,” I said firmly, “I wouldn’t dare make many rules for our marriage. I am, however, going to make one now. Whenever I give you anything, you say, ‘Ned, how wonderful! Thank you very much!’ No other response will be accepted. Is that clear?”

  She looked at me with the penetrating scrutiny that I had become accustomed to during our ride down the mountains.

  “Clear enough, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” she said with a sheepish grin, “and, I might add, fair enough … So this is a wonderful ring! Thank you very much!”

  Spontaneously, I leaned over and brushed my lips against hers. Her lips were soft, unprepared, and yielding.

  “Oh.” She gulped.

  I lifted her off the couch, put my arms around her, and kissed her again, firmly but not passionately. She gasped and rested her head against my chest.

  “You kiss very effectively, sir.” She sighed.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I said and kissed her for a third time, this with some hint of the passion that was now raging within me. She trembled but did not pull away until I released her.

  She steadied herself, holding on to my arm for support.

  “You take my breath away, sir.”

  “So do you,” I said.

  She laughed, the first real laugh I had ever heard from her, a laugh with church bells and surf and the song of mountain birds.

  “Shall we go find Josie?” she gasped.

  “Indeed. I warn you, however, that I propose to steal kisses from you whenever possible.”

  “I expect you will, sir.”

  We encountered Josie waiting outside the door of the drawing room, doubtless knowing that we were about to enter the corridor.

  “Mr. Fitzpatrick!” She hugged me. “Is my face pretty now that it doesn’t have any dirt on it?”

  “Your face has always been very pretty, Josie, dirt or no dirt.”

  “Do I smell nice with this perfume?”

  She danced around me joyously.

  “Do you like my dress?”

  “You are dazzling, Miss Josephine!”

  “Are you really going to take me to America?”

  “Really!”

  She bounded back down the corridor to the play room of the Corbett daughters.

  “She didn’t notice your ring,” I protested.

  “Yes, she did, Mr. Fitzpatrick. Josie notices everything. She thought it discrete to leave us alone.”

  “So I could kiss you again?”

  I did indeed kiss her again, more passionately than the previous time. This time she responded in kind.

  I also caressed her, violating ever so slightly her modesty.

  “That was truly inappropriate, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” she said, embarrassed and distraught.

  “It wasn’t,” I insisted.

  “Then neither is this!”

  Thereupon she kissed me with furious passion. It was my turn to gasp.

  This was not, I thought as I returned to the hotel in a cloud of delight, part of the bargain.

  She might not want to love again. But she was a young woman with a young woman’s passions (about which I know nothing except that they exist). Perhaps she found me an attractive young man. The “perhaps” is, as she would say, inappropriate.

  With the ordeal of the wedding day ahead I find that notion quite consoling.

  Kinsale, October 3, 1883

  We sail tomorrow morning. My wife is sleeping in our stateroom. Josie is next door to us with Mary Elizabeth since she insists with total determination that we need to be left to ourselves. Josie enjoys having an uncle again.

  “Why do you call Mr. Fitzpatrick ‘Ned,’ Aunt Nora?”

  “Because” — my wife blushes — “that is his name.”

  My wife blushes often and becomingly. She blames my lack of respect for her modesty.

  “Uncle Ned!” the lovely, well-scrubbed urchin shouts joyfully and embraces me.

  I glance at Nora’s exquisite face, as I rest my pen. She seems peaceful and content with her fate. Yet the three of us will watch the disappearing towers of the
Kinsale church tomorrow morning with very different thoughts. I will reflect on the last incredible fifteen months of my life and yet be glad that I’m going home with my prize. For Nora and Josie it will be a farewell to their homeland, which they may never see again. For Nora it will be a physical departure from all that remains of the great man who was once her husband. She talked about him only once in the last several days. It will be a long time before she speaks of him again, I think. Yet, she will never forget that the little that is left of him lies in the quicklime under the Galway jail.

  At our wedding dinner, she was radiant and gracious. I have learned that she is a bit of an actress and can play many different rolls. She avoided my eyes during the dinner. Possibly I avoided hers. After the Corbetts and the Bishop and Marty and Marie Dempsey had left us and Josie carried Mary Elizabeth to our suite in the Great Southern, my new wife said to me, “Would you mind terribly, Mr. Fitzpatrick, if we walked over to the salmon weir and said a couple of decades of the rosary?”

  “On the contrary, I think it is a very good idea.”

  So, under a gray and gloomy sky, we strolled over to the salmon weir and turned towards the prison. We said precisely two decades of the rosary, a leave-taking for both of us. Then we walked in silence back to the Great Southern, both of us preoccupied with our own fears.

  At the entrance of the hotel, she murmured, “I am frightened, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

  “Of me?”

  She nodded.

  “I will never hurt you, Nora. I will always respect and cherish you.”

  “I know that,” she said softly.

  “Then what do you fear?”

  “Your passion and your strength.”

  “Will it help any if I tell you that I am afraid of you too?”

  She laughed, “And what do you fear in me?”

  “Your passion and your strength.”

  “Oh,” she said quietly.

  In the room, I helped her out of her dress and corset, just as if we were an experienced married couple who had made love many times. She suggested that we kneel and finish the rosary. I agreed again, relieved that we had postponed the moment of truth. On her knees next to me she shivered through the final decade of the rosary.