Toward the Sea of Freedom (3 page)

Kathleen cuddled close to Michael. It was hard to think when she was in his arms. America scared her, and she did not want to leave Ireland. But she wanted nothing more than to be with Michael. She wanted to feel his hands and lips on her body. Kathleen wanted much more caressing than Father O’Brien could ever forgive, so much forbidden love that God Himself might punish her. There were worse things than fifty Hail Marys on a hard church pew.

Kathleen sat up. She had given into temptation much too often already.

“I need to get home,” she said quietly, hoping it did not sound regretful.

Michael nodded and helped her smooth her dress and pluck the leaves from her hair. Then, in the shadows of the stone walls, he accompanied Kathleen to the village. The men in the fields must not see them. Neither could the thieves carrying their day’s prizes home, nor the women and children gleaning every little kernel—and certainly not Trevallion, who rode tirelessly across His Lordship’s fields meaning to catch some little sinner.

The landlord’s bright, moon-bathed wheat fields gave way to the tenants’ plots—small, impoverished, without a golden glow. The blight had not only blackened the roots but also the leaves of the potato plants. The dying plants cast ghastly shadows in the moonlight, and Kathleen was certain she could feel death. She took Michael’s hand.

Finally, they parted at a fork between their farmsteads—the O’Donnells’ small house and the tiny, dilapidated hut of the Drurys. It was late. Their family members would already be asleep on mats on the ground. Kathleen had four siblings, Michael seven. Even if their families could have afforded beds, there would not have been enough space for them. In the O’Donnells’ cottage, a fire was burning. Kathleen might still get something to eat. It was dark at the Drurys’.

The next day was Saturday. In the morning, Michael would take his fiddle and O’Rearke’s donkey into the town. And somewhere on the way to Wicklow, the saddlebags would fill with whiskey bottles as if by magic.

Chapter 2

“No, Father, I don’t want to! I don’t like him. You can’t do this to me!” Kathleen spoke desperately, shaking her head forcefully.

“Now, don’t act like that, Kathie. You don’t have to marry him right away!” James O’Donnell yelled at her.

It was apparent that he did not think it right that his oldest daughter was arguing with him here, in front of the house and in the presence of most of her siblings. When Trevallion visited on Sunday, the children had excitedly assembled at the fire where their mother was roasting a few of the scant edible potatoes from the harvest.

The tenant farmers often cooked in front of their cottages to avoid filling the rooms with too much smoke. The chimney did not draw off the smoke sufficiently, especially in the wind and the rain. Now, the pan smelled of the bacon the man had brought.

“Mr. Trevallion very politely asked if he might bring you home after church next Sunday,” her mother said. “Why should we deny him that?”

“Because, by rights, they should not let the brute into church in the first place!” Kathleen raged. “The O’Learys’ baby died yesterday because Mrs. O’Leary’s milk ran dry. With that”—she pointed furiously at the remaining bacon and the small sack of flour, which her mother gazed at almost in worship—“he might have saved it. But alas, Mr. Trevallion wants to accompany me at Mass, not Sarah O’Leary.”

“Lucky for us, child,” said her father. “And I’m not much upset that you don’t like the man. At least then you won’t allow him anything that isn’t proper.”

“At least not until he brings a whole ham by?” Kathleen asked importunately.

Her father’s slap struck her so hard and so unexpectedly that she stumbled backward.

“You’ve gone too far, Mary Kathleen,” said her mother. Although she did not sound very convincing; apparently sin was relative in sight of bacon. “And it wouldn’t be so wrong to think a bit about the pantry when you think about love. Passion fades, Kathie. You’ll love your children forever, regardless of who gives them to you. And you’ll be grateful to a husband if he can feed them. With Mr. Trevallion you’re on the safe side, whether we like him or not.”

“I won’t sell myself.” Kathleen tossed her blonde hair and stepped aside in case her father might slap her again. “If I have children, it will only be by a man I love. Otherwise, I’ll go to a convent.”

Although her mouth watered at the scent of the potatoes roasting with the bacon, Kathleen turned on her heels and ran out. No, she wanted none of the meal that was Trevallion’s payment for her companionship on the way back from church. What she wanted was Michael. She had to tell him about this.

She gave herself over to a moment of fantasy that Michael would run straight to Trevallion’s house and challenge him to single combat. Like it had been in ancient Ireland, and in the sagas and fairy tales of knights and heroes that Father O’Brien sometimes told when he enjoyed a little too much of the whiskey that he claimed the leprechauns set at the rectory door.

Mary Kathleen smiled at the thought of the old priest who surely would not approve of Trevallion making claims on her. On the other hand, Father O’Brien did not approve of her keeping company with Michael either. Perhaps she should tell Father O’Brien she felt called and that she might go to a convent. Maybe then he would shield her from any more suitors. Or he might believe her and take her to the abbey in Wicklow.

Kathleen wandered across the fields to the river. The grain had not been harvested yet, and she risked running into Trevallion while he was on patrol. Yet Michael and his friends were, without a doubt, secretly harvesting and using the cover of the stone walls and the reeds by the water. Kathleen heard an owl call just as she stepped onto the path that led to the farthest fields. Then the owl’s voice cracked.

Kathleen looked up toward where the call had come from and spotted Jonny, one of Michael’s younger brothers, in the crown of an oak. He grinned at her conspiratorially.

“I’m the lookout, Kathleen,” he said.

“You really can hardly be seen in the leaves, especially not in that bright red shirt,” Kathleen said, rolling her eyes. “That owl call couldn’t fool anyone. Just come down quick, Jonny Drury. Trevallion will have you whipped if he catches you.”

Jonny dutifully lowered his gaze and feigned a serious expression. As he bowed in Kathleen’s direction, he almost fell from the tree.

“It isn’t forbidden for a boy to sit in a tree on a Sunday evening to make owl calls,” he said. Then, in a high-pitched voice, he sang out, “Lookee, Mr. Trevallion, I’ve a slingshot. I call for the female, and when she comes, here’s a rock, and we’ve meat in our pot.”

Kathleen had to laugh. “Don’t you dare tell him that. He’ll take it as a violation of the hunting laws, guaranteed, and he’ll have you hanged. Where’s Michael? Down by the river? With the other boys?”

“Don’t think so,” said Jonny. “The others are already back in the village. With a bit of grain they found.” The boy winked importantly. “Brian cut a whole sheaf. That’ll make good flour, Kathleen.”

Brian was another of Michael’s brothers, but Kathleen did not believe all this about a whole sheaf of wheat. The boys wouldn’t have dared to set aside so much grain in broad daylight—not even with as capable a lookout as Jonny. The Sunday raids of the fields did not save any family from hunger. It was more of a game—a chance to make a fool of Trevallion.

“But Michael didn’t cut anything,” Jonny confided. “He was angry, just hit at the grain as if he wanted to knock the whole field down. Could it be that he’s angry at you, Kathie?”

Kathleen shook her head. “I’m not fighting with your brother.”

Jonny grinned. “You’re good friends, aren’t you?” He giggled meaningfully and shook the branch back and forth. “If you bring me a scone like you did Michael, then I’ll tell you where he is. And I’ll stay here and keep watch for you two. How about that?”

“How did you know?” Kathleen blushed. Had Jonny eavesdropped on or even watched her rendezvous with Michael?

“The lookout knows everything,” Jonny explained. “I even knew you’d come. And I know where Michael’s waiting for you. So, promise me a scone from the manor kitchen. Then I’ll tell you.”

Kathleen shook her head. “You don’t need to tell me. I can figure it out myself.”

She suddenly felt an overwhelming longing to throw herself into Michael’s arms. She probably would not even have to tell him what had happened between her parents and Ralph Trevallion. Michael must have listened in on the meeting or heard about it. Word got around lightning fast in the village, and faster still when it involved the steward visiting a tenant family on a Sunday—and bringing bacon, to boot. But Michael could not possibly believe she would have agreed to the meeting!

Kathleen made a decision. “No treats from the kitchen, Jonny,” she said, “but an apple from the landlord’s garden if you stay here and take your lookout job seriously. I’m going to meet Michael at the river—and if you hear anyone coming, make your owl noise. Although maybe you could imitate a bird that sings during the day?”

After Jonny had assured her he could do a convincing cuckoo, Kathleen ran down to the river. It was a sunny afternoon, and the Vartry River ran like a stream of liquid silver through the lushly green countryside. She made her way through the reeds on the bank.

“Kathie?” asked Michael before she even reached the little bight.

“Michael!”

Kathleen wanted to throw herself into the arms of her love, but he did not embrace her with the usual warmth. She breathed deeply. She had to tell him right away, so he would not get angry.

“Michael, I have nothing to do with it. I won’t walk with Trevallion,” she assured him. “Never! I, I only want you, Michael.”

Michael looked hurt, furious. His face did not glow as it usually did at sight of her, and he did not have any beautiful words on his tongue. Nevertheless, he kissed her then—much, much harder and much, much more demandingly than usual. She was startled at first, but then she returned the kiss with equal passion. Something had changed in Michael’s gaze. She saw ardor in his eyes, joy in the challenge and the fight.

Without a word, Michael picked her up and laid her down in a nest of reeds and grass, shielded by willow branches that hung so low that only dim greenly golden light penetrated. Kathleen thought about the church’s varicolored windows and the colorful light that streamed from them during Mass. She thought about a wedding.

“I want to be your wife, Michael,” she assured him.

Surely now, he would flatter her again, caress her, and kiss her.

“Prove it,” Michael said in a tone that was strange to her.

Kathleen looked at him helplessly. And this time when he began to open her dress, she did not try to stop him.

Kathleen could not prevent Ralph Trevallion from accompanying her after Sunday Mass, though she exerted herself well enough to keep him from making any detours between the church and village or from parting from her parents and siblings. None of this seemed to bother the steward. He walked dutifully beside her, saying a few pleasantries and chatting with her mother and father.

For James O’Donnell, the walk through the village became a running of the gauntlet. The farmers did not approve of the tailor conversing with the steward, let alone his plan to seal family ties.

“Can’t you walk around the village alone with the man, like the other girls with their beaux?” O’Donnell asked his daughter sharply after they had walked through the village with Trevallion for the third time.

“He’s not my beau!” Kathleen retorted angrily. “And if you don’t want to be seen with him, imagine how I feel!”

Kathleen did not make mention of Trevallion’s presents, though her mother treasured the steward precisely because of them. The O’Donnells now always had enough flour to bake bread, and every Sunday, there was meat in the pot.

Michael Drury had to stand witness as Trevallion offered Kathleen his arm, as he walked beside her, and as he proudly led her through the crowd, which discontentedly made way, when the priest said good-bye to the parish after Mass. Michael was enraged as he watched, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Yet during the long late-summer evenings after work, Michael pressed his claims in the fields along the river. He was usually already waiting for Kathleen, longing for the cuckoo call with which Jonny gleefully announced her. She came to him whenever she could. Sometimes Kathleen brought bread or fruit. Michael liked when she filched treats from the manor, but he wouldn’t take anything that might have come from Trevallion’s hand. Michael let her know that he would choke on that man’s gifts.

These days she was always hungry—for food as well as affection. She knew she was sinning with Michael, and was ashamed of it—only afterward though, once the rush had died away. When Michael was making love to her, as when she thought about him at work or at night on her sleeping mat, she felt blessed, not guilty. Something so wonderful, so uplifting, could not be a sin. Besides, God did allow it, so long as a couple went into church and pledged themselves to each other first. Which Kathleen and Michael would have been prepared to do at any moment.