Flight of the Earls

by Michael K. Reynolds

  Pierce’s shirt was drenched with sweat and he was breathing heavily. “Ah, Clare. You should just enjoy yourself. Don’t keep joy in a box all of the time.”

  She tugged on his arm. “If I heard clearly, I believe you just called me a prude.”

  “Well. A bit of warmth at times would well accompany your looks.”

  “Now I’m certain you’ve called me a prude.”

  Cormac finished another wordy introduction to the next song and the music started, this time with a slow tempo. Clare tried to hide her displeasure.

  Pierce’s face opened up with a toothy smile, and he held out his arms to her. “Come. We need to practice so we can show the Yanks how it’s really done.”

  As the words of the song lamented about lost battles and wistful lovers, the two waltzed across the tufts of grass. Pierce was a good dancer, and as she followed his lead, she allowed herself to join in the revelry of her guests. While pirouetting and gliding to the music, she was pleased to see many of the people she had known all of her life.

  Clare wrestled with the idea that Pierce would be accompanying her and Seamus on their voyage to America. It would be good to have another strong companion on the trip, and one she trusted, but it would be uncomfortable being in close quarters with someone who cared for her in ways she couldn’t return.

  Or could she? Maybe she was being too particular. Even arrogant. Who was she to believe herself worthy of something different? Was this how love was supposed to feel? Clare at least knew she didn’t want to endure the pain of being alone all her life.

  When the song ended Clare curtsied to the ground and swept her dress behind her.

  “Just one dance?”

  “Thank you kindly, Pierce. You are a gentleman and a fine hoofer. But I think my brother could use some attending.”

  Pierce followed her gaze to where Seamus was cavorting. “Oh . . . I’d say your brother is already well tended.”

  Clare gestured a farewell to him and breezed by the Finley boys before they could put in a request for her attention. She traversed the field past some children at play and on to Seamus, who had the rapt attention of three young ladies.

  Tall and fit, with wavy, dark hair and the Hanley blue eyes, her brother garnished the favor of many women in the village.

  With a step of authority and a lack of politeness, she interrupted her brother’s conversation midsentence. “Why, Seamus. How kind of you to be entertaining our young guests.”

  Seamus gave his sister a captivating smile. “Just being hospitable, ’tis all.”

  He turned back to the girls, who appeared to be in their late teens. “I believe you already have the acquaintance of my sister, Miss Clare Hanley.” Seamus always emphasized the Miss when he introduced Clare to give her a friendly poke.

  Clare nodded politely to them and then whispered, “Perhaps you could pick from a tree where the fruit is a bit riper, old man.”

  “I’m a patient suitor,” Seamus said loudly, ignoring her efforts to be discreet. He cupped his hands. “I’m willing to wait with me basket until they fall from the branch.”

  She put her arms on her hips. “Well, all I can say, Seamus Hanley, is that it’s a good thing you’re leaving town. It’s just a matter of time before all of the women conspire to give you the send-off you deserve. That’s without consideration of what the gentlemen think of you.”

  “The men think highly of me, dear sister,” he said in mock indignation. “Certainly, many a lad will bawl when I leave to seek my riches. Why, what’s there to fancy in this dismal, rain-soaked country without good Seamus to bring cheer?”

  She failed to prove immune to his charm. “Well. You be certain to cheer with restraint. We leave at the top o’ morn.”

  He let out an exaggerated sigh. “There you are, sister. Robbing the day of pleasure. Let me share some wisdom freely. Enjoy your blessed Ireland today, because it’s one of the last times you’ll gaze on the fair lady.”

  “Just be ready, Seamus.” She glared at the pint of stout in his hand. “And a case of the head knockers won’t be slowing us down neither. We’ll leave without you.”

  Seamus gave her a toast with his mug, then turned his attention back to the girls.

  As Clare headed back to join the women with the cooking, she caught a glance of her mother. Clare had neglected to check on her for some time.

  Who will carry this torch when I am gone?

  There propped in a chair, with her finest dress and a purple bonnet, was her ma, who looked uncomfortable in what she was wearing. Clare fetched a glass of water on her way over.

  “Here you are, Ma. You must be dreadful thirsty.”

  Nonplussed, Ma looked at Clare. Her mother grabbed the glass with a trembling hand. “So many people out here today for Kevan’s funeral.” She paused to drink some of the water from the wooden cup, and a trickle spilled down her chin and onto her dress. “We’ll give him a right burial, we will.” Her expression pivoted to concern. “But why is everyone laughing?”

  Clare reached out with a linen handkerchief and dabbed the water droplets from her mother’s chin. “They are not here for a funeral. They are here to celebrate our journey to America.”

  “America? Is Margaret back from America? Where is she? I want to see my Maggie.”

  “No, Ma. Maggie’s not back. But Da is sending Seamus and me over there for a while. Just to help out until the land heals. I told you this all.”

  “You’re leaving?” Ma brought the glass up to her lips with both hands.

  “Yes, only for a season.” Clare wondered how big of a lie she was telling.

  Ma’s expression brightened, but only for a moment. “When will you be back, Clare?”

  “Well, I’m not certain. But I won’t be any later than I need to be. Cait is old enough now. She’s going to tend to you and the boys.” The words felt hollow.

  Feeling a tap on her shoulder, Clare spun around to see her father’s sister-in-law. She was adorned in a feathered hat and a mauve dress, which was stylish years ago but now appeared threadbare. “Aunt Meara. I’m so pleased you came. Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “I’d enjoy it much more if it wasn’t you we were saying good-bye to.” Her aunt’s eyes were reddened and moist. “You know how I feel about these farewells.”

  Clare embraced her aunt. “I’m so sorry, Auntie. ’Tis calloused of us being so grand. It must bring back such hard reminders of Uncle Tomas.”

  “Tomas?” Ma broke in. “Has your Uncle Tomas returned? Where’s my dear Maggie?”

  “No, Ma,” Clare responded gently. “Enjoy your drink. I’m going to speak with Auntie.”

  Clare put her arm around her aunt and went out of earshot of her mother. “I’m so terribly sorry for all of this.”

  It saddened Clare to see the woman in such emotional disrepair. As a young lady, Clare had aspired to the kind of love her aunt and uncle shared. Vibrant. Unpredictable. Meara was thought to be the only woman who could tame Tomas’s capriciousness. She carried a grace and dignity that contrasted against his boorish allure. But when Tomas emigrated, she had aged quickly, her spirit fading.

  People would try to console her by saying things like, “When Tomas’s ship sank, you can be sure he was shouting from the mast, exhorting the crew to hold steady,” or “You’ll see him swimming to shore soon enough.”

  But Meara was not fond of the caricature of the wild man performing for the crowd. Meara was in love with the man she always hoped he would be. She saw him as unfinished, a canvas not fully painted. When he left, her life’s work would always be incomplete.

  “There’s a part of me yearning to go with ye, Clare.” Meara’s glazed eyes looked out to a place beyond her vision. “There’s not much left here for me, you know.”

  Clare grasped for words to console h
er.

  Meara rubbed her nose with a linen handkerchief. She leaned in close to Clare. “You know, I’ve never told anyone this, but your uncle had no intention of coming back to Ireland. His plan all along was to get settled in New York and then send for me.”

  “I never knew—”

  “Nor did anyone. If your grandmother had known, she would have never paid for his passage. He had Ella in his pocket, he did. Poor woman. Poor wonderfully kind woman. No. He hated it here. Wanted a bigger life. A higher standing. He had ambition.”

  “But Uncle Tomas always seemed . . . happy.” Clare tried to align some of the memories she had of the man with what her aunt was sharing.

  “Oh. He had skills, that one.” Meara dabbed the corners of her eyes with the cloth. She laughed brusquely. “People here believed he’d sit on the throne of Ireland if he had his choice. And if he were here today, he’d be kissing the soil to feed the lie.”

  Meara looked up. “There wasn’t enough to hold him here. Not even me. And, of course, the letter never came. He never made it halfway past the ocean. A miserable plan it was.”

  Clare’s thoughts sunk and her aunt must have sensed her clumsiness.

  “Oh, but Clare. This is just me rambling. Your uncle would have never brought Maggie if he thought it dangerous. He loved her as his own and would die for her.” Her eyes widened. “What a mess I’m making! Am I just frightening you now? Oh, just tell me to stop.”

  Clare understood her aunt’s loneliness and hugged her. “The ships are safer now. We’ll be just fine.”

  At that moment, the dinner bell chimed and it was met with joyful shouts and the mad scurrying of children. The music stopped midsong and all migrated toward the cooking fires.

  The families congregated around the two black kettles. Hushes were directed at the children and hats were removed.

  Father Quinn Connor, the newly ordained parish priest, stood forward to give the blessing. He was still as green as a blade of grass, only a few months removed from the wake he performed for his predecessor, Father Bartley Higgins.

  Father Bartley was found deceased in the confessional. It was determined that as many as four congregants had shared their sins with his lifeless body prior to discovering he had passed. This seemed impossible by those who never met him. But for those who did, it was understandable, for he was a morose man of few words. The exception to this was in the pulpit, where he drew even more resentment due to the intolerable length of his droning homilies.

  The young Father Quinn was welcomed with celebration and relief, as any change was thought to be an improvement. He also appeared to be malleable, and perhaps most important, he understood the wisdom of brevity when he stood before the lectern.

  His short stature and slight body, combined with his boyish face, made him look much younger than his twenty-eight years. Clare still struggled to see him other than the milk boy, who for years would ride his father’s weary wagon down the road, collecting full canisters left by the dairy farmers for transport to market.

  The guests of the wake, who were eager to get on with the eating, watched as he fumbled through his pockets before finally pulling out and unfolding a piece of parchment. He cleared his throat and looked at the faces bearing down on him. Clare felt anxious for him and tried to meet his eyes to share encouragement.

  He began to speak with a wavering voice. “Dear Father. We gather before You today with happiness and sorrow. In joy, because of this plentiful feast You have provided us in these times of difficulty. And for the gathering of family, friends, and . . . and a few willing to consider themselves thus in return for food and heavy drink.”

  After a few laughs from the assembly, he continued, now with more confidence. “But sorrow, Father, as our beloved young ones, Clare, Seamus, and Pierce, will journey far, far from home away from the safety of our embrace. We bid farewell to them with great sadness in our hearts and with this petition for Your sweet mercy.”

  He glanced at Clare and her eyes darted downward.

  Father Quinn turned the paper on the other side and cleared his throat. “We appeal to You, Father, to always shed Your blessed light on the path ahead of them, especially when the roads grow dark and lonely and when hope comes scarcely. And if it be Your great pleasure, as it will assuredly be ours, bring them back safely into Ireland’s loving arms. In all of this we pray to You with sincerity. Amen and let’s feast.”

  Chapter 4

  The Keener

  To her father’s obvious displeasure, the gathering thinned considerably following dinner, and the fading of daylight was accompanied by a chilling wind. After the black kettles were removed, the turf fires were married together, and they were stoked to tall, spark-spewing flames. The remaining guests circled around, sitting on chairs, logs, and turned-over pots.

  Clare escorted her mother to bed and was pleased when Ronan and Davin retired as well with few complaints. The day’s activities had worn them into submission.

  When she came back, she saw her da had broken out his stash of hand-distilled poteen, a particularly strong batch of liquor he made from last season’s crop of potatoes. His guests took turns pouring themselves a glass, challenging each other to throat the burning liquid without flinching. Few passed the test.

  Da then began to mete out tobacco to everyone who had a pipe, which was nearly all. Hands reached up eagerly to receive his offering, and several of the women, including Fiona, partook as well.

  Clare sank into a chair she had brought from inside the house. It was painful to observe her father playing the merry host. She knew money would be life and death for her family, and she couldn’t bear to see him squandering it so lavishly for his own amusement.

  Suddenly, dogs barked and a carriage could be seen approaching down the road, barely visible in the fading light. Da put the leather tobacco bag in his vest and scurried out to greet the late arrivers.

  It was rare to see such a proper carriage in these parts of town. Every once in a while, the English landlords would come to survey their properties, but few of them would drive this far into these rutted, country roads.

  As the coach slowed to a halt, a well-attired driver pulled back on the reins of the two handsome black horses and engaged the brake. Da rocked on his heels with his arms behind his back as the crowd slowly gathered around and murmured with inquisitiveness. Even Clare was alive to the suspense of the moment.

  When the driver opened the door, the burnished boots of a woman slid out, followed by the hem of an exquisitely laced black dress. As the teamster reached out his arm for support, the woman emerged from the shadowed interior of the cabin. Her dark plumed hat contrasted with her pale complexion, and her aquiline nose and graceful poise gave her the appearance of one of great means. There was an audible collective breath of admiration for the mysterious visitor.

  “If I may beg your attention,” announced her father with pomp. “Please allow me to introduce you to Madame O’Riley.”

  As the name rolled from his lips, there was a gasp from those who recognized it.

  The woman nodded and the gathering quieted to listen. “My apologies for being late in arriving. The conditions of your roads required a . . . rather patient approach.”

  Clare spoke in a hush. “Mrs. MacBrennan. Do you know who this is?”

  Fiona pulled a slender pipe out from the corner of her mouth and exhaled a billow of smoke away from Clare. “That’s the keener. If I recall the name properly, she’s well thought of, that one.”

  “My father invited a keener?”

  “What’s a keener?” Caitlin asked, who was standing close to them.

  Clare leaned close to her younger sister. “It’s someone who has a gift in mourning.”

  Caitlin was perplexed.

  “They’re paid to cry,” Clare added.

  “What kind of
job is that?”

  “One that pays well.” Fiona conjured a bright orange glow from the bowl of her long-stemmed pipe. “Your father must truly love you.”

  Da escorted Madame O’Riley to the ring of seats around the fire, where he waved others out of the way and placed her in the best chair. Clare observed a hint of disdain in the woman’s eyes in response to the crude environs. But she also noted something else about the guest. Her da treated her with a degree of familiarity. The alluring woman was more than an acquaintance.

  Clare lurked outside of the light of the fire, disinterested in the collective fawning of the keener. She sifted through possible excuses allowing her to slip away to bed, knowing their morning departure was close at hand.

  “Do you not approve of all of this?”

  Clare recognized Father Quinn’s voice before turning to see his all-knowing smirk. He had loosened his collar and for the first time tonight appeared relaxed. Was it the lateness of the evening, or the workings of the poteen in the glass he was holding?

  “Of course,” Clare responded. “Who wouldn’t want such a send-off?” The light from the fire shone intermittingly on his unconvinced face.

  “Yes,” she said and surrendered the ruse. “You know how much I dread all of this. What a shameful waste.”

  He looked deeply into her eyes, the ones she allowed few men to gaze into without withdrawing. “That isn’t what is really troubling you, is it?”

  “And you expect true confessions to the milk boy?”

  Father Quinn gave a muted laugh. “It’s kind of you to disrespect me privately.”

  She smiled. “You know what I mean.”

  He paused. “You do know the . . . milk boy . . . always slowed his cart when he went by your house.”

  “Indeed. There were few times I didn’t notice.” Clare looked down and a surge of emotion came over her.

  He placed his arm on her shoulder. “What is it, Clare? This isn’t about your father’s wake, is it?”

  Clare feared she would start crying and draw attention. Glancing over toward the fire, she was pleased to see Madame O’Riley still commanding a rapt audience.