Irish Lady

by Jeanette Baker

  It suddenly occurred to Meghann that she should be afraid. Although the Provisional IRA did not intentionally harm civilians, especially women, she was not the average civilian. She was one of their own who had turned her coat, a traitor who left the Falls and married a British lord, one of the hated establishment who, through sheer ignorance, neglect, and a touch of cruelty, had kept them in a state of feudal serfdom up to the present day.

  Slowly, she climbed the stairs. The door to a modern bathroom with thick yellow towels and a fluffy rug stood open. A wide hall led to a single room with a double bed, a nineteenth century armoire, a dresser, and a washbasin. Michael stood by the window staring out at the gray sea.

  “Hello, Meghann,” he said without turning around.

  She lowered her suitcase to the floor and rubbed her shoulder. “Hello.”

  He turned and a shard of relief pierced her chest. He was still dreadfully thin, but he looked like the old Michael, the one she had seen the first time she visited the Maze. Faded denim jeans hung on his emaciated frame, and the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel shirt revealed bony arms with atrophied muscle and no fat at all. He stood straight and tall without support, and before they went blank the blue eyes staring into hers had, for an instant, blazed just as they had the night he’d waited in the rain in front of her lodgings, the night she’d sent him away forever.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked in Irish.

  He shrugged. “Well enough. And you?”

  “I’m well, also.” Meghann looked around. There was only one bed. “I’ll put my things in the closet downstairs and fix us something to eat.”

  “I’d play the gentleman and offer up the room, but I spend a great deal of time sleeping and you’ll be about more than I will. Don’t bother about the food right away unless you’re hungry.” He looked pointedly at her slender figure. “It doesn’t look as if y’ bother with food much. You’re thinner than y’ were as a girl.”

  Meghann ignored his last comment. “Actually, I am hungry. I’ll make us some tea. If there’s soup and bread I’ll make that too. As soon as I find out where everything is I’ll call you, unless,” she tilted her head and looked at him speculatively, “you want to keep me company.”

  He shook his head and turned back to the window.

  Suddenly Meghann was stricken with doubt. What if he wouldn’t talk to her? She took a step forward and stopped. Michael had been through a tremendous ordeal, and it was far from over. Perhaps he needed time. Resolving to curb her impatience, Meghann picked up her suitcase and walked back down the stairs, leaving him alone.

  Tins of soup, fruit, vegetables, tea, oats, biscuits, and a basket of potatoes filled the cupboards. An inspection of the refrigerator revealed a half-dozen eggs, a pint of milk, a package of butter, two packages of cheese, and several pounds of beef, lamb, and a pork roast. They definitely wouldn’t starve.

  Meghann unpacked the groceries she had purchased and opened a tin of potato soup, added grated cheese, a tin of corn, and some salt. She ladled the soup into bowls, set out some sliced wheat bread and two glasses of Guinness, and called to Michael to come downstairs.

  Five full minutes passed before he arrived at the table. Meghann’s cheeks were pink with temper. Too bad for him if it wasn’t hot enough, she fumed silently. If he didn’t care enough to come when she called, he could just eat it cold.

  He ate sparingly, efficiently, making his way through the creamy soup and buttered bread with minimal motion. She noticed that he barely touched his ale.

  “You’re not drinking your Guinness. Would you like some tea?”

  Michael looked up, startled, as if he’d forgotten that someone else was in the room. A minute went by, and the bewildered look on his face vanished. “Aye. I’ll take a cup of tea. I’m not much for Guinness, or spirits for that matter.”

  “What kind of Irishman are you,” she teased, busying herself with the tea, “to be refusing the drink?”

  “A practical one, I hope,” he retorted with a spark of the old fire. “God, Meggie, I would have thought you of all people would be encouraging temperance.”

  She set the teapot on the table along with two cups, spoons, and saucers. “I wasn’t serious, Michael. Can’t you laugh anymore?”

  “In case y’ haven’t heard, there hasn’t been much t’ laugh about in my life lately.”

  She poured milk into each cup and then added the tea, in the orderly symbiosis she’d learned at her mother’s knee. Only her voice revealed her emotions. “I’m trying to help you,” she said quietly.

  “How magnanimous of you. I must remember that.”

  Meghann sat down across from him and lifted her cup with icy hands. “You don’t like me much, do you?”

  A shock of black hair fell across Michael’s forehead. Impatiently, he tossed his head back and glared at her, naked anger in the storm-tossed turbulence of his eyes. “Should I? Y’ took your education and your talent and left us. That’s such a Protestant thing t’ do, Meggie. There isn’t one doctor or lawyer or teacher in the Shankill. They all left for better neighborhoods. That isn’t what we do. We help our own. Maybe there’s bad blood in you. Is that it, Meggie?” His cruel emphasis of her childhood name sickened her. “Maybe there’s always been some Prod in you, more, that is, than Lord Sutton’s endowed patrician di—”

  “That’s enough! My husband was the kindest man alive, and I won’t let you insult him.” She wasn’t aware that she had leaped to her feet, the chair knocked over and forgotten behind her. She leaned forward, the weight of her body balanced on her curved fingers.

  “Yes, I left the Falls, and there’s not a moment that I regret it. I have a life, Michael, a life that’s clean and purposeful, away from women who never sit because all they do is cook and clean and wash in houses that run with rain in winter and have no indoor plumbing. You remember those women, Michael, the ones who bear a new child every nine months and find jobs away from those children so they can bring in more than the thirty shillings a week their husbands bring home on the dole, if they don’t stop at the pub on the way home. Have you forgotten, Michael, how your mother and mine gave up their chairs so their men could sit in the sun on fine days?”

  Her lip curled contemptuously. “Have you forgotten how those poor, burdened men wore themselves out walking to the Labour Exchange to sign for their weekly dole and then wondered what to do to fill the rest of their hours, besides talking about the world’s problems with other men just as worthless and just as drunk? Maybe that’s what you wanted for me, Michael, a man who educates himself all day in the Linen Library instead of looking for work, because God forbid that a man on the dole appear ignorant. He needs to know all about world affairs in case Bosnia falls or the United States declares war or apartheid in South Africa begins again. It’s all right that his children drink sugar water instead of milk as long as he can sit in the sun with his cigarettes and stout and demand that his sons prepare themselves to fight for Ireland. It’s all right that he gambles and drinks away his pay and that his wife will die young in a cold-water flat because every year there’s a new baby, no birth control, and no divorce, and because all she has to look forward to is the knowledge that someday her children will all die for Ireland.”

  He stared, arrested, at the rage and heartbreak in every strained tendon of Meghann’s slight body. Impassioned disclosures were not typical of the Meggie he’d known. In fact, it was her detached remoteness, so different from the loud cacophony constantly permeating the Devlin household, that had attracted him in the first place. Meghann was never loud or rude or opinionated. In the entire time she had lived in his mother’s house, he couldn’t remember her disagreeing with anyone, a difficult feat considering that none of the Devlins ever agreed with one another.

  He remembered a certain Christmas Eve Mass when he’d stared at a stained-glass window with its depiction of the Virgin Mary and Jesus. Something had flashed in his mind that he’d never thought of before. Meggie, with her halo-
lit hair, her serene lovely face, and her slow, secretive smile was Mary of the New Testament. Mary, the quiet, long-suffering mother of Jesus and wife to Joseph who never complained, never spoke her mind and never lost her innocence.

  “That was quite a speech,” he said quietly. “Too bad you’ve no desire for political office.”

  She stared at him. “When did you become such an unfeeling bastard?”

  It was the day he made love to her. She’d told him that she loved him and then, without a word, packed up and moved away. But he’d swing by the neck before telling her. “Not all men are drunks, Meghann,” he said instead.

  “No, just Irish men.”

  “Come now, Meggie, you’re the one who drank the Guinness.”

  “If that’s supposed to be a stab at levity, it won’t work.”

  “Very well then,” he said. “Here’s a fact for you. Poverty exists in London just as it does in the North.”

  “I’m not talking about poverty,” she said stiffly, in control of herself once again. “I’m talking about desperation and futility.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  She began clearing the dishes. “You forget that I speak from personal experience.”

  “Why did you agree to stay here with me?”

  “There was no one else we could trust. Your family would have been watched. There is no possibility of anyone connecting me with you.”

  “You’re far more sophisticated than anyone in my family, Meghann. Did you tell them of the risk you’re taking? After all, I’m a fugitive. You could lose everything you’ve worked for as well as go to prison.”

  She stared at him. Was this Michael Devlin talking? The boy who had risked his life to find her amid the death and rubble of Cupar Street? Had he any idea what his family meant to her? “That isn’t likely to happen,” was all she said.

  He stood up. “I’m tired. Come into the sitting room and read t’ me until I fall asleep.”

  Meghann pushed a wisp of hair off her forehead with a soapy hand. “Is something the matter with your eyes?”

  “Someone forgot t’ tell me I was leavin’ in a hurry. I left my reading glasses in the Maze.”

  “I need to ask you some questions, Michael. This won’t go away, and I can’t stay forever.”

  He brushed her protests away with a lift of his hand. “Not now. I feel like a novel. There’s some good literature in the bookcase. How about it, Meggie?”

  She sighed and turned back to the sink. “You go ahead. I’ll be there as soon as I finish the dishes.”

  After wiping dry the last bowl and stacking it in the cupboard, Meghann surveyed the bookshelf in the hallway. She was drawn to a small volume entitled The History of Ulster. Michael’s derisive taunt about her ignorance hit very close to home, although she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of telling him so. By the time she walked into the living room he was asleep. A fine sheen of perspiration covered his forehead, but when she touched his cheek it was cold. Replenishing the fire had obviously taken up whatever reserves of energy he had. She tucked a throw around him, pulled her chair closer to the fire and stared into the flames.

  The light was lovely, copper-tipped and black-centered, with the lines of deep royal blue so often seen with peat fuel, it was odd, really, the way she had no desire to do anything but stare into the center of that sweetly scented fire. Normally she wasn’t the kind to waste a minute, but just now it felt right to do nothing but sit without thinking, mesmerized by the play and dance of light against the darkening walls. Her eyelids felt heavy and she was finally warm. Through spidery lashes she saw the flames leap and dance inside the brick hearth, taking one shape and then another. She smiled, involuntarily, her fingers moved to the gold circle resting at the base of her throat. Her eyes closed and her head fell back against the chair.

  She heard rain slant into the chimney. The fire sizzled, its black center swirling and melding into a feminine form, the copper borders framing a woman’s face like braids of flame-red hair.

  She stood beside Rory O’Donnell, a child-woman with eyes as clear as glass and a delicate mobile face that with every changing nuance spoke of Ireland.

  *

  Nuala O’Donnell, Tyrone, 1588

  We faced my father together. I saw Rory swallow and step forward. He reached for my hand and whispered that we would see this through together.

  Hugh O’Neill was a massively built man, with hair the same shocking red as my own. His neatly trimmed beard was a shade darker, with streaks of white, and his eyes were the hard, cold gray of the North Sea beneath a cloudy sky. He would be a formidable opponent in any mood, but now more so because he stood in the throes of a raging temper. I glanced at Rory and felt a surge of pride. He was not afraid of Red Hugh O’Neill.

  “You dare come to me with this outrageous proposal!” my father roared, towering over me.

  Rory stepped between us, braver than he was wise, for although the two men were the same height, the O’Neill was twice his girth.

  “Who are you?” my father demanded.

  “I am Rory O’Donnell of Tirconnaill, and I have come to wed your daughter.”

  “’Tis time you came. You are her betrothed.”

  From what little I knew of Rory, I had already guessed that diplomacy was not his strength. I sensed what he wished to say and with a few whispered words brought him all that he desired.

  “The O’Neill is blessed in his daughters,” he began, struggling at first with the words of a courtier. “Gentle Kieran will serve you well with the holy sisters. Her prayers will surely reach the ears of our Lord when we unite against the English. ’Tis Nuala I would wed. Tirconnaill needs Nuala. She will bring kingdoms to our way of thinking.”

  The O’Neill’s bushy eyebrows drew together over his nose, and he glared at the two of us for a long time without blinking. “You have met before?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Nay, my lord,” I said quickly, refusing to be the first to look away.

  He stroked his beard and motioned Rory to a chair beside his own. “You would wed this wild piece?” he asked, gesturing toward me.

  “I would.”

  He stared at Rory, missing nothing. Lowering his voice, he spoke. “She is young and you are burly. Fourteen summers is too young for bearing.”

  Rory nodded. “Aye.”

  “If I agree to your troth, you will not bed her until the spring.”

  “Until next summer, if you wish.”

  Red Hugh nodded. “The English queen is my enemy. She seeks to join my lands with her own.”

  “Aye, mine as well.”

  “Swear that you’ll bring the might of Tirconnaill against her if I ask it.”

  “I swear.”

  My father held out his hand and Rory grasped it. “You may have my daughter, O’Donnell,” he shouted for the entire hall to hear. “The wedding will take place in a fortnight.”

  “My father is ill,” Rory protested. “I cannot be away so long, and I had hoped to take Nuala with me when I return.”

  The O’Neill weighed his words for a long time. “So be it,” he said at last and motioned to my mother, cool and silent, standing behind him. “What say you, Agnes? ’Tis our Nuala who will wed the O’Donnell and Kieran who will be the nun.”

  Her soft musical laugh charmed everyone. I saw that Rory was already bewitched by her.

  “I say, ’tis better than the other way around.” She kissed Rory on both cheeks. “Welcome to Tyrone, my lord.”

  ***

  “Nuala, wake up.” Kieran’s cool hands touched my face.

  “What is it?” I grumbled. “Surely ’tis the middle of the night, Kieran, and no time for conversation.”

  “I must know. Did you do it for me? Before God, much as I wish to devote my life to Christ, I cannot allow you to make such a sacrifice. You are so young, Nuala, and so very small. The man is a giant.”

  I struggled into wakefulness, rubbing my eyes and pushing back my hair.


  “Please tell me, little sister. Is this truly your wish?”

  I stared at her, her features gaunt with worry in the dim light of the candle she carried. Was she blind that she couldn’t see the manner of man she had given up? Perhaps she truly was called to God. I smiled. “I am doubly grateful for your calling, sister. Because of my nature, I shall need all of your prayers. And it is I who should thank you for Rory O’Donnell. He suits me well.”

  “Truly, Nuala?” Tears gathered in the corners of Kieran’s dove-gray eyes.

  “Truly.”

  Her breath came out in a small rush of air. “God be praised.” She raised her eyes to my face. “The wedding is tomorrow, and tomorrow night—” She shuddered. “Aren’t you afraid, Nuala?”

  I thought back to the strange trembling that began in my stomach when Rory kissed me. “Nay,” I said truthfully, pulling my nightshift tight against my body. “I only hope that I please him. As you say, I am small.”

  “But beautiful,” Kieran protested fiercely. “The most beautiful lass in Tyrone.”

  “You are my sister, Kieran. Your sight is colored with affection.”

  “The bards sing of you, Nuala. You know what they say.”

  She spoke the truth, and I suppose it could be said that I was unusual in my appearance. Not many were blessed with white, even teeth and unmarked skin, except for the freckles on my nose and cheeks. Red hair was common in Tyrone, but more often it came wiry and coarse, twisting into tendrils even when pulled back into a tight plait. Mine was thick and straight and very fine with a dozen hues of red from darkest claret to the lightest copper. Yes, I was fortunate in my hair and in my eyes, clear and green as Irish grass. Perhaps it was enough and I would not need full breasts and rounded hips to keep Rory O’Donnell in my bed. I prayed it might be so.