All She Ever Wanted (29 page)

For the remainder of the day Fiona alternated between joy and dread, imagining the wonder of being married to Kevin Malloy, yet fearing her father’s reaction to his proposal. Fiona was nearly eighteen and certainly old enough to marry. And most fathers with nine daughters to feed would be glad to be rid of the eldest. But Rory Quinn would not be at all happy at the loss of Fiona’s wages.

Early the next morning, Fiona attended Mass at St. Brigid’s with some of Wickham Hall’s other servants. The parish priest had a beautiful tenor voice, and the sound of it always sent chills up Fiona’s arms, even though she couldn’t understand the Latin words. She had always loved going to Mass: inhaling the scent of incense, listening to the soft rustle of rosary beads, feeling the touch of holy water on her forehead, the taste of the wafer on her tongue. She had once considered taking holy vows, but her father hadn’t allowed it. He’d obtained a job for her as a scrub maid at Wickham Hall, instead.

Each time Fiona attended Mass she would gaze at the crucifix above the altar until the sight of Jesus’agony would finally make her look away. He had suffered for her sake, the nuns had taught her—for her sins. She couldn’t imagine why.

She returned to the manor as soon as Mass ended and hurried through her chores. At noon she collected her weekly pay from the estate manager and ran out to the yard to meet Kevin. He was waiting for her behind the blackthorn hedge, eager to sweep her into his arms and continue where they had left off yesterday.

“It seems like I’ve been waiting for days!” he complained.

“I know. Why is it that a half-day of work goes by so slowly and our half-day off flies by so fast?”

He answered her question with a long, bruising kiss, then held her at arms’length, studying her. “You look beautiful today, Fiona.”

“I look exactly the same as I did yesterday,” she teased, “only I’m not wearing an apron. And my clothes aren’t soaking wet from work.” Fiona had been a wash maid at Wickham Hall for three years, ever since finishing school at age fourteen. She spent her entire day scrubbing things— dishes, laundry, floors, vegetables—whatever needed to be scrubbed. It seemed as though her clothes were perpetually damp down the front, her hands red and chapped.

“I went to Mass this morning,” she told Kevin between kisses. “I asked the Blessed Virgin to please let everything go well with my father today.”

“Mm-hmm… I’m glad…”

She kissed Kevin for a few more minutes, then reluctantly pulled away.

“Dad will be here any minute. We’d better watch for him.” They ducked out from behind the hedge and slowly walked down the lane to meet him, hand in hand.

Fiona recognized her father by his short, wiry frame and stiff stride as soon as he rounded the bend in the road. He wore knee-high boots and a woolen cap that was too large for him and fell down over his forehead. He carried the scent of sheep with him wherever he went. She dropped Kevin’s hand as they stood in the middle of the road, waiting for him.

“Let’s have the money, girl. All of it.” Rory Quinn held out his hand, palm up. She dropped the coins into it and watched him count them. He looked up at her and smiled when he’d finished. “Good girl.”

“Dad, there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” she said. “This is Kevin Malloy. He works with me at Wickham Hall.”

“How do you do, sir,” Kevin said, sweeping off his cap. His dark brown hair was stiff with sweat and creased from his hatband.

Fiona watched her father study him from head to toe, and she saw Kevin as Rory must be seeing him: a big, square lad in laborer’s clothes, with a chipped front tooth and dirt under his fingernails. His hands always looked dirty, even after he’d scrubbed them with strong soap. Fiona wanted to defend Kevin, to explain that he was hardworking and cheerful, never angry or moody like her father often was. Kevin reached to shake her father’s hand, then rested his arm around Fiona’s shoulders. Rory Quinn reacted immediately.

“Get your blooming hands off my daughter!”

Kevin dropped his arm and his face colored slightly, but then he bravely groped for Fiona’s hand as if staking his claim.

“I-I love her, sir. We’d like to get married if it’s all right with you.”

“Well, it’s
not
all right with me! You’re nothing but a boot boy!”

“That’s not true, sir. I work in the stables with the coachman, and—” “And a stable boy is all you’ll ever be. You’ll surely never be getting ahead in life, that’s for certain.”

“I earn a good wage. I can provide for her—”

“My daughter deserves more than what you can provide, more than a dirt floor and a house full of hungry mouths to feed. Is that all you want, Fiona? To work hard and birth babies till the blooming day you die?”

“I love Kevin, Dad. We don’t need much—”

Rory Quinn made a harsh sound to show his disgust. Kevin bravely took a step toward him.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I’m learning how to manage Mr. Wickham’s motorcar. I keep the engine running for him, and… and I can drive it, too. I’m quite handy at it. I make an honest living, I do.”

“So do I—as a blooming sheepherder!” Rory stormed off toward the stable with Kevin and Fiona trailing after him.

“Where are you going, Dad? You can’t—”

“Quiet, Fiona!” He found the head coachman, an older man named Barclay, and without a word of greeting or explanation, Rory gestured to Kevin. “This lad work for you?”

“Aye. What’s he done?”

“He’s taken a liking to my daughter, that’s what, and I’ll thank you to make sure he keeps his blooming hands off her from now on. I’ll not have him taking liberties that aren’t his to take.”

“But he hasn’t, Dad. Kevin wants to marry me.”

“And I said no!” He spoke the words fiercely, his face inches from hers, then he turned to Mr. Barclay again. “Kindly keep the lad away from my daughter. Make sure his half-day isn’t the same as hers from now on.”

“Aye, I understand,” Barclay said with a nod. “I’m a father m’self.”

“Come on, Fiona.” Rory gripped her arm and pulled her toward the estate’s main gate. Mr. Barclay laid his hand on Kevin’s shoulder as if warning him not to follow.

“Dad, no!” Fiona cried. “It’s my only afternoon off.”

“Don’t I know that well enough? You’re coming home with me, where I can keep my blooming eye on you.” He glared over his shoulder at Kevin. “And don’t you be getting any notions about running off with her, either. You’ll both lose your places here, and then how will you make your way in the world?”

“Please don’t make me go home,” Fiona begged. “It’s my first afternoon off in two weeks!”

“Yes, please, Mr. Quinn,” Kevin begged as he hurried after them.

“Give me a chance to prove to you—”

“You’ll get no such chance from me. Maybe a life with you is all that my foolish daughter wants, but I want much more for her than that. Look at her—she’s beautiful.”

“Aye, I know she is, sir.”

“Then you should know that I’ll not be giving her away to the likes of you. Good day.”

Fiona wept all the way as her father dragged her back to the tiny stone cottage in the village where she had grown up. “Look at this,” he said when they reached the threshold. “You want to live like this all your life?”

He made a sweeping gesture with his hand as if to include the cottage’s dirt floor, the roof that needed thatching, the smoky interior, the overcrowded room, her squalling baby sister.

Fiona didn’t understand his question. This was the only life she knew. If she could live here with Kevin, it would seem like a palace.

“Can’t you see this isn’t Wickham Hall?” he asked.

“Of course I can see that, Dad.” The family Fiona worked for lived in unbelievable luxury. In fact, the manor house’s scullery was bigger than this entire cottage. But Fiona had been born here. She saw no sense in envying what was out of her reach. Her father, on the other hand, had always aspired for more—not that he had any means of getting it that Fiona could see. Rory had gone off to Dublin to take part in the Easter Rebellion three years ago, hoping that the fight for independence would lead to a better life. It hadn’t.

“You were lucky to get away without being arrested or killed,” Mam had told him when the rebellion failed. “So much for finding a better life.”

Smoke from the peat fire stung Fiona’s eyes as she ducked inside the cottage. Mam sat at the table peeling potatoes for their dinner. “I’ll do that,” Fiona said, taking the pan of potatoes and peelings from her. It would be an easier task than trying to soothe her baby sister.

“Go along with all of you! Outside!” Rory shouted, chasing three of Fiona’s younger sisters out the door. “Leave a man to think in peace.”

All nine of the Quinn children were daughters, much to Rory’s regret. “My girls are my pearls,” he would tell the lads down at O’Connor’s Pub. “I have a whole string of them—lovely to look at, a fine decoration hanging about your neck. But as far as a man’s concerned, they’re not worth a farthing for getting on in life.”

He seemed deep in thought as he sat in his chair by the hearth. Fiona tackled the potatoes, still angry with him for ruining her afternoon with Kevin, but she was worried, too. Her father had the same expression on his face that he wore when he was planning something: his head lowered until his chin nearly touched his chest, his brows meeting in the middle as he stared at the floor. She wondered if he was thinking about her and Kevin. None of them spoke as Fiona diced the potatoes, then helped her mother chop cabbage to make the
colcannon
. There would be a bit of mutton in it today because it was the Lord’s Day—and payday.

Rory Quinn seemed to cheer up a bit by the time dinner was cooked and he’d eaten his fill. Fiona hoped he would change his mind after thinking things through and allow her to marry Kevin, after all. When he’d drunk the last of his tea, he leaned back on the rear legs of his chair and drew a deep breath, as if about to make an important announcement.

“I’ve been thinking about America,” he began. “Do you know the difference between Ireland and America, Fiona?”

She shook her head. Which road had her father’s mind wandered down this time? How had he traveled from Kevin’s marriage proposal to thoughts of America?

“In Ireland you can never be anything other than what your parents were. If your father’s a boot boy, you’re a boot boy. If your mum’s a scullery maid, you’re a scullery maid. But in America—aye, things are different in America. You can be born to a humble working family like ours and still grow up to be a blooming rich man and live in a grand big house like Wickham Hall.” He brought his chair forward with a thump as if to emphasize his words. “That’s why we’re leaving here, Fiona. We’re going to start all over again in America.”

For a moment, she was too stunned to reply. “But I don’t want to leave Kevin,” she said.

Her mother was much more practical. She slid her chair back and stood, clearing away the plates and cutlery, saying, “And tell me, Rory Quinn, just how will you be affording to take all of us to America on a shepherd’s pay?”

“Not all of us, dearie. It will just be Fiona and me, at first. Her lovely face will get us through all the right doors. And once we’ve made our way inside them, we’ll send for the lot of you.”

“Dad, no…” Fiona moaned. Mam rested her hand on Fiona’s arm to quiet her.

“Isn’t your cousin Darby Quinn in America?” Mam asked. “Isn’t he just as poor as he ever was in Ireland, working in that foundry day and night?

What’s the difference, do you mind telling me, if we’re poor over there or poor over here?”

“Ah, but Cousin Darby doesn’t have a daughter as beautiful as Fiona—
that’s
the difference.” He reached for Fiona’s five-year-old sister and pulled her onto his lap. “Come up with you, girl, and give your dad a kiss.” Rory could be gentle and affectionate with his daughters, especially on payday or early into his pints. But they all knew to keep away when he started ranting about the English or after he’d spent a long evening at O’Connor’s Pub.

“Are we really going to America, Dad?” Fiona’s sister asked.

“Aye, that we are, my girl. Your sister Fiona and I will go first, then send for the lot of you. Mark my words, we’re going to live in a blooming mansion someday.”

At dusk, Rory walked Fiona back to Wickham Hall. Her half-day was over and she’d spent a mere ten minutes of it with Kevin. She wouldn’t get another one for two long weeks. She glanced around at the bushes as they neared Wickham’s gates, hoping to see Kevin waiting for her, but he was nowhere in sight.

“I mean it, Fiona,” her father said. “We’re off to America, just you and me.”

Fiona felt her afternoon’s worth of frustration and disappointment boiling over. “But I don’t want to go to America, Dad. I love Kevin.”

“I’ll hear no more about that boy! You deserve better than the likes of him.”

“There is no one better than him,” she said stubbornly. Rory didn’t seem to hear her.

“You’re the key to my plan, girl. You’ll make it possible for all of us to live like lords.” He gestured toWickham Hall, its stately windows glowing with light and warmth in the evening twilight. “You’re my oldest—aye, and the prettiest, too. I knew you were special from the day you were born, arriving on St. Brigid’s Day and coming out backwards the way you did. Why do you suppose it is that you’re working here in the manor house when none of the other village girls are? I’ll tell you why. It’s because you’re the loveliest one.”

“I scrub for a living, Dad. That’s hardly an honor.”

“Isn’t that what I’m trying to tell you? It doesn’t have to be this way for you, scrubbing all your life. Not in America. Now, listen to me, girl. There’s something I need you to be doing in the weeks before we leave. Watch your masters, carefully. Pay close attention to how they walk and talk and act. Someday you’re going to be the mistress of a grand big house like this one, so you’ll be needing to know how to do it proper-like.”

Fiona looked up at Wickham Hall. You could fit a dozen cottages like her father’s inside the huge, two-story, gray-stone house—and that wasn’t even counting the attic where Fiona and the other servants slept. The manor house had twelve-paned windows made of real glass to let in sunlight and air. The floors were polished wood, not dirt—Fiona had scrubbed them—and were covered with colorful Turkish rugs. She had also scrubbed the linens and coverlets from all the beds, unable to imagine the luxury of sleeping beneath such sheets. But even more than a home and fine furnishings, Fiona envied a life with servants, having others do all the menial tasks that she hated doing.