Mary changed the subject. “Did you hear John O’Hara’s been beating his wife?” She took the broom from the corner and began sweeping the floor.
“Meg told me,” I said, wringing out the dishcloth. “ ’Tis said the poor woman’s been knocked about more times than a body can count.” I carried the basin out the back door and tossed the dirty water onto the gravel beside the tracks. The snow was mostly gone and the frost coming out of the ground so my shoes got muddy just going across the yard. I had a clear view of the boardinghouse, so I took my time wiping them off. But there was no sign of Patrick coming or going.
When I went back in, Mary had done sweeping and was wiping down the long shelf. She was fierce in her housekeeping, my sister. Didn’t tolerate a smidgen of dirt nor clutter. But a strand of hair was coming out of its bun and looking at it gave me a start. For the first time I saw it was going gray, though for years it had been the same brown as my own. It had been a long time since I thought about how much older she was than myself. But now I saw the gap—that had seemed so big to me when I was young but hadn’t mattered in years—was going to mean something again. I pushed away the thought of my sister growing frail and sick. But not before it caught in my throat a minute. I dropped the basin back into the sink.
“You go put up your feet in the parlor now,” I said, taking the wiping cloth out of her hand. “I’ll finish in here. Won’t take me a wink.”
Saint Valentine must have been watching that minute and decided to bless my good deed. Not two minutes later, I heard the back door open. And when I turned around wasn’t it Patrick himself standing there and smiling to beat the Devil?
“Margaret, ma chree.” He put his hands on his hips. “You’re a feast for my eyes and that’s the truth of it. Come over here and give me a kiss.”
The heat came up in my face. I flicked the wet cloth in the air and smacked it down on the shelf. “You’ll not be telling me what to do,” I said, though my legs were weak with wanting to go to him. “I’ll do what I like.”
He laughed. “Ah, sweet Margaret, you know how much I like the Irish spirit in a girl, don’t you, now?” And he dropped his hands off his hips and came to me. God’s truth, I couldn’t stop myself from sliding into his arms any more than a mother could stop from picking up her crying babby. He wrapped himself tight around me and gave me a long, deep kiss. So long I near ran out of air. When he finally let me go I was breathing like I just ran up Irish Hill.
I’d never been kissed that way before. It seemed the sort of kiss a man would only give when he was in love.
“Patrick,” I said, “if it’s an easy woman you’re after, you won’t be finding herself in me.” It seemed a foolish thing to say after enjoying his kiss so, but my brain was fuddled and cottony.
“Sure, I’ve known that for months now.” I fancied his cheeks looked flushed. “ ’Tis one of your attractions, love.” And didn’t he chuck me under my chin like I was a babby?
My feelings scurried about like a litter of new-weaned kittens. I wanted to slap him. And I wanted him to kiss me again. Instead, I sat him down at the table and wet the tea and soon we were chatting away. We talked about this and that and he told me the sad tale of his mother dying in Ireland just days before he emigrated. Then he asked me the name of the town I came from.
“I know by your accent it was County Tipperary and I’m guessing it was in the south somewhere,” he said. “Clonmel, maybe?”
“Sure, I’m not from Clonmel,” I said. “And I don’t want to be talking about it.” I was thinking of the misery I saw when I was a girl. “ ’Twas a long time past and makes no difference to me now, does it?”
Patrick’s eyebrows went up. “No difference?” he said. “ ’Tis the place that made you, Margaret. ’Tis the marrow in your bones, just as Ballingarry is the marrow in mine.”
“Ballingarry?” I said. “Sure, I’ve heard of it since I was no bigger than a sparrow. My da took us there once for the Whitmonday fair.”
“Did he, now?” Patrick said. “Sure, if I’d seen you, I’d have danced you off your feet.”
I laughed. “I’m thinking not. I was just a wee girl then.”
“It’s a famous place, Ballingarry,” he said. “There was a battle there during the Great Hunger. Right in the middle of Widow McCormack’s cabbage patch. ’Twas a great day for rebelling.” His eyes were shining. “I watched the fighting from the attic window when I was a boy. Young as I was, I could already smell a free Ireland.”
“And yet she’s not free, is she?” I frowned. “The English boot is on her neck and never coming off. Dreaming it will change is nonsense.”
“Margaret.” He reached across the table and took my hand. And didn’t a shiver go up my arm? “It’s not nonsense at all. ’Tis the truest thing I know. There are thousands of bold Irishmen and -women after making that dream come true right now.” He looked straight into my eyes. “Come, tell me, love.” His thumb was stroking my palm. He was being too familiar by half. He shouldn’t be touching me that way and I shouldn’t be letting him. But I didn’t draw my hand away. “Isn’t where you came from the place of your true heart’s longing?”
I couldn’t deny it—hadn’t I wept with him at the dance, listening to the old ballads? A wistful feeling came over me. In truth, I still yearned for the view of Slievenamon from Da’s farm—those lovely green and yellow fields folding themselves away to the purple slopes of the mountain. “We lived near Kiltinan Castle—outside Fethard,” I said. “Da was a tenant farmer. A big farm, it was—forty-nine acres—so we weren’t starving. There was enough to send myself and my brothers to school.”
Patrick made a soft whistle with his lips. “Forty-nine acres,” he said. “Not everyone was so lucky.”
“Sure, I know that.” I pulled my hand from his and poured myself another cup of tea.
“So why did you come to America, then,” he asked, “with such a grand farm to be running?” He was looking like he knew the answer.
“The land was encumbered,” I said. “Squire Cooke sold it, so we had to leave.”
Patrick nodded. I could see he wasn’t a bit surprised. “It’s always the same. Another man’s livelihood stolen away. Another injustice, with all the rest. Aren’t you angry about it, Margaret? Wouldn’t you like to see all of Ireland free?”
I looked away. I didn’t want to admit it. I’d spent years telling myself what happened in Ireland didn’t matter anymore—I was American now. But I was angry, to be sure. God’s truth, there’s nothing sweeter in this world than freedom.
Chapter Eighteen
When Emily first started talking about Judge Lord, I thought she was just passing the time. Then I began noticing he was coming to the Homestead more and more. Every two or three weeks he’d show up on the doorstep and I’d have to be making up the guest room again. Sure, he didn’t look too grief-struck to me. And I’d have been a fool not to see he was spending most of his time with Emily. The pair of them were always taking walks in the garden or reading to each other in the library or laughing in the parlor over some clever thing one of them had said.
In truth, I didn’t care for the Judge. For all his titles and importance, he wasn’t the sort of man you’d expect to be seeing in a court. He was more of a rascal than a magistrate—overfond of jesting and bawdy more often than elegant, with a tongue on him like a whip.
When Emily told me she felt safe with the Judge—safe in a way she hadn’t since her father died—I thought it quare, for though he was older than herself, he wasn’t fatherly in his ways. Took me a while to see Emily was beguiled by love. But it was plain enough once I figured it out. She was always saying how wise he was, how much he made her laugh. And there was a blizzard of letters flying back and forth between the pair of them. So many Vinnie started teasing. Emily usually gave as good as she got when it came to poking fun, but when Vinnie mentioned the Judge, Emily’d blush i
nstead of bantering. Still, it was a surprise when she asked me to post her notes in secret and pass his letters to her when nobody was about.
It’s rousing to be in on a secret, and that’s how I felt when I first began hiding the Judge’s letters in my pocket and running them upstairs to Emily’s room. But as time went by, it began to trouble me. I didn’t like the look of it. Secrets are tinder for lust. There’s good reason for keeping God’s commandments. Passion’s flames can jump the grate if not damped.
Then Emily started calling the Judge by his middle name, Phil, and giggling like a schoolgirl whenever he was mentioned. I told Patrick about it when we walked out on a sunny day in March. “Sure, it’s like being in a novel,” I said. “Posting love letters and keeping secrets.” I was wearing my new shawl, a red wool paisley I bought for keeping warm and feeling lovely. We crossed a field and went along a path into the woods. The trees were budding but hadn’t leafed out yet, so the sun was bright and warm on my back.
“Secrets get the blood pumping, surely,” Patrick said. The path narrowed and curled around a boulder. I went ahead but he was so close behind I could have reached back and touched him if I’d had the notion. “And what would you be knowing about a novel, a working lass like yourself?”
I knew he didn’t mean any insult but I felt a sting. “Miss Emily lends me books,” I told him, letting the barb push into my voice. “She likes to talk about them when I’m done reading.”
“What? The Myth and yourself are friends now?” His voice was choppy from holding in a laugh. “Does she give you flowers and send you cunning verses in her notes too?” I’d told him about the care Emily took writing letters to her friends. His teasing made me cross.
“Don’t be daft,” I snapped. “I know my place.” And I walked faster, just to show I couldn’t be trifled with. Still, his words rolled around in my brain. I wondered if there was some truth in them I didn’t care to admit. It’s often the way of things.
The path widened and Patrick came up beside me again. The sun was melting the snow into dark winking puddles. I heard a dove calling close by. A lonesome sound if ever there was one.
“If I knew you liked secrets so, I’d be giving you a few for safekeeping.” Patrick scooped my hand into his. His voice was low and sweet but there was merriment in it. Was he still teasing? Or was he meaning something else? Was this a new riddle to be solving?
His fingers brushed the circle of bare skin on the underside of my wrist. Something fluttered in my throat—a warning of danger, maybe—but I didn’t draw my hand away. “The only secrets I’ll be keeping are my own, Patrick Quinn,” I said, sounding bolder than I felt.
“Ah, but you don’t need to be keeping secrets from me, girleen,” he said. Quick as a snake, his fingers slid under my sleeve. Made me shiver all over and a hard ache grew in the pit of my belly. I thought of all the secrets in Jane Eyre and how often I’d imagined Mr. Rochester looked like Patrick.
“Girleen are you calling me now?” I said. “You ought to have your eyes checked, lad. I’m no more a girleen than you are. Or haven’t you noticed?”
He laughed. “Indeed I have, Margaret. Indeed I have.” He stopped walking. I knew I was putting myself in the way of sinning. For weren’t his fingers still inside my sleeve, stroking my naked skin? The ache in my belly grew fierce, spreading to my knees and turning them to jelly. I took a sharp breath and leaned toward him and then he smiled, let go my hand, and pulled me into his arms. Sure, there wasn’t a thought in my head as he kissed me and kissed me. And for every kiss he gave, didn’t I give him back two?
* * *
Patrick could turn the dreariest day into a sunny one just by walking into a room. He did that very thing one Thursday morning in June when I was just done washing the fresh-churned butter. My hands were still slippery when he stepped over the sill and stood looking as pleased with himself as one of Vinnie’s mousers.
“Take off your apron and fetch your shawl,” he said. “There’s somewhere I want to be taking you.”
“Don’t be daft,” I said, scooping up the butter and packing it into the crock.
“Come, lass.” He stepped behind me and slid his arms round my waist. And didn’t it give me a tingle from my neck all the way to my backside? “ ’Tis your afternoon off and surely you can be spared an extra hour. You’re not a prisoner, love. I promise I’ll have you back before dark.” I could hear the chuckle in his voice.
“Back from where?” I said.
He kissed my neck. “From the adventure we’ll be having. Just the two of us.”
“Hush your blather,” I said, but I didn’t mean it. Sure, I couldn’t have resisted if he was related to the Devil himself. Which I sometimes thought he was.
* * *
The sky that day was the color of dirty dishwater with a chilly drizzle coming down. But it could have been raining sunshine the way I felt with Patrick. He whisked me off to Northampton, where he led me past a row of shops, down an alleyway, through a door, and up two flights of stairs. We stepped into a great room with a platform at one end and folks sitting on benches before it.
“What is this?” I said.
Patrick tucked his finger to his lips and whispered, “ ’Tis the adventure I promised, lass.” He led me to an empty bench and pulled me down beside him.
I looked around at the other people—a mixed lot, more women than men, and not high-and-mighty folks. I was glad of that, for I was wearing a plain green calico and straw bonnet. A stocky lad two rows in front of us turned and nodded to Patrick, who nodded back. Then a woman in a blue frock stepped up on the platform. She was tall and wide at the hips with a pretty, open face. I admired her hat—it was red and set forward on her head under a spray of bright feathers.
She lifted her hands to hush the crowd. The minute she began talking, gooseflesh came up on my arms. It was like listening to music, the way she said things. She told us she was Maria Doughtery from Worcester, and a great admirer of Fanny and Anna Parnell. If we didn’t already know about the Parnell sisters, we’d be hearing about them, she said. They’d soon be famous as their brother Charles for their Irish courage and valor. Few women alive could measure up.
Sure, I’d heard the name Parnell batted round from time to time, but figured it had naught to do with myself. Miss Doughtery’s speech changed my mind about that. She told us of a new famine in Ireland. Didn’t have anything to do with the potato blight, she said—all the fault lay with the landowners themselves. She reminded us the Irish had suffered centuries of misery and poverty. Their rights and liberties had been trampled by the English aristocracy, who took their land and stripped Ireland of her riches. Those who tended the soil were evicted to make room for sheep and cattle, and exiled across the ocean.
Of course her words made me think of Da—how could they not? Seemed like she was talking about his own life. I had a raw memory of the day he came through our cottage door with the terrible news the farm was to be encumbered—every acre fenced for pasture. There was no future in Ireland for Michael Maher’s family, he said. Like a bolt to my heart, it was—shame and fear mixing together. Didn’t know what the future would bring any of us.
Listening to Miss Doughtery brought all those feelings back. But she told us this time there’d be a different ending. “Irishmen and -women won’t be driven away from their land anymore,” she said. “It’s worth fighting and dying for. And it will likely come to that, for concessions are only wrung from England by force.” She stepped close to the platform edge and lifted her arms. “Charles Parnell and those who support him are raising Ireland toward freedom!”
Everybody cheered. Folks were leaning forward and I was leaning with them so I wouldn’t miss a single word. She went on and on for near an hour and every minute stirred my heart. My blood was rising and, from the look on his face, so was Patrick’s.
Near the end her voice got raspy. “No American
with a drop of Irish blood can fail to see their duty! The sacred fire at the altar of liberty has been kindled and we must not leave our Irish brothers alone in their fight!” We all jumped to our feet, cheering and clapping. My heart was pounding in my throat. Folks swarmed the platform. When Patrick turned his smile on me it was big as the world.
“Maybe we should be heading back now?” I was surprised there was still light coming through the windows. I felt as if I’d been away for hours and hours.
Patrick took my hand as if he owned it. “We’ll not be leaving till you meet Maria,” he said, and pulled me into the crowd.
“Miss Doughtery?” I said. “Do you know her, then?”
I don’t think he heard me, the palaver was so loud. I followed him, my blood glowing as I recalled how Miss Doughtery called us Americans of an Irish stripe. Hearing those words wiped away the shame of where I came from.
The man who’d nodded to Patrick walked up and clapped him on the back. “It’s good you came, lad,” he said. Then, in a low voice, “Did you hear the news?”
Patrick gave his head a shake.
“They arrested him,” the man said. “Came knocking on his door at night and carted him off to jail. He’s to be tried come September and it’s rumored the authorities are hounding his friends—looking for some poor devil who’ll testify against him.”
“ ’Tis vile,” Patrick said under his breath, looking sober as I’d ever seen him. “Sure, there’s no end to the persecutions.”
I looked from one to the other but couldn’t think who they were talking about. I’d heard of no arrests, seen nothing in the papers. And it seemed odd Patrick hadn’t introduced me. My mind was churning, surely.
“Well, if it isn’t Patrick Quinn!” It was Maria Doughtery herself smiling and coming up to us. “I was wondering if you’d be here.” And she gave Patrick a kiss on his cheek, bold as you please.
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