Flight of the Earls (6 page)

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.

“Shouldn't I be telling my father I won't go?”

“You know Liam. Once he's formed his intentions, it wouldn't matter one scant. He's a thick one.”

“Yes. I know you're probably right. But the thing is . . . I haven't much tried to dissuade him. The truth is . . .” Clare worried she had said too much.

“Go ahead.”

She assured herself with his trusting eyes. “There's some of me at this moment . . . which reminds me of the little girl I thought I left behind.” Clare looked at him expecting disapproval, but she saw none. “Not that I was ever brave like Maggie. I'll never have her courage. But inside, I've always imagined going to strange places. Meeting fascinating people.”

“Adventure?”

“Yes. Adventure. In some ways I can't wait to leave. To discover what lies at the other side of the ocean. Can you imagine?” She smiled, her face burning. “Am I a terrible person?”

“Why would I ever think that?”

Was he serious? Hadn't he understood anything she had said? Clare was frustrated it even needed words. “Because. Me just abandoning them all. This farm. The boys. Cait. My mother, who can't hardly put on her own shoes.”

The frustration of the day, the tiredness she was feeling, and the anxiety of what lay ahead built up to where she started to cry.

“Come, come now.” He shook his head. “You are the most talented, thoughtful, young lady . . . woman . . . I've ever known. But do you really believe this beloved island of ours will be swallowed by the tides when you leave her shores?”

She was not expecting to get chided and it caught her unawares. “No. Of course I don't.”

He wiped a tear off of her cheek and lifted her chin so he could peer into her eyes. “You can leave Ireland, but Ireland will never leave you. Listen to me. The parish will take care of your family. Your ma. Your brothers and sisters. And your crotchety old man. We'll tend to him as well. We need Clare to take care of Clare. For once in her life.”

With those words, a great burden lifted from her shoulders and gave Clare a sense of freedom she hadn't experienced for some time. She looked at his face to determine if it was Father Quinn, the parish priest, or merely Quinn, the boy she admired from afar. Clare was drawn to him, and she embraced the young priest and felt comforted. She could sense the moisture of her tears drying on his opened collar.

“Will you being joining us, Clare, for your own celebration?”

She spun around at Seamus's voice, having almost forgotten they were not alone. To her distress she saw all the guests huddled around the fire gawking at her and Father Quinn.

“We don't want scandal to mar such a lovely day, dear sister,” her brother said, which resulted in a few nervous twitters.

“Be forgiving of our dear Clare,” chimed Fiona. “The good Father is still acquiring his spiritual disciplines.”

This brought laughter, which cleared the discomfort of the moment, for which Clare was grateful. She and the priest joined the group alongside her brother. Sitting next to Seamus was Pierce, from whom Clare thought she caught a glare of disapproval in the flickering light.

“Mrs. MacBrennan,” Clare said. “Will my last memory of you be as a blatherer?”

“Fine then, as I would prefer you to remember me in my true light.” Fiona raised her glass to the group. “To America.”

“To America,” they all replied in a staggered chorus.

Pierce's father, Mac Brady, weighed in. “I've heard through way of reliable testimony that there are so many jobs over there for Irishmen, they'll meet you on the docks, begging you to take wages.”

Fiona spoke up as well. “Well, I've heard it said you can earn more with a day's shovel with the Yanks than you can draggin' plow for a whole year in our fields.”

“That's a dear shame seeing as my boy isn't fond of lifting shovels.” Da tossed a twig into the fire.

Eyes shifted toward Seamus to see how he would respond, but Clare knew her brother wouldn't give Liam the satisfaction of validating the sting in his words.

“And I'd say, Da, this potato whiskey was worth every blister on your fingers.” Seamus emptied the glass. “If there isn't any to be had in the Promised Land, you'll hear tales of how young Seamus swam back home.” He turned to their father and raised his glass. “To the poteen.”

“The poteen,” was the echoed cry.

When the toast settled, Father Quinn waved a raised arm to draw attention. “Should we share a few kindly words about those who will be leaving us? What say you, Madame O'Riley?”

“Would be tradition.” The keener turned to Clare and stared in a strange manner.

Mac put his arm around Pierce. “I will be first.” He cleared his throat and held an air until all gave him attention. “I remember this lad, my son, when he was no higher than me boots. And through the years, he got to feel me boots on a few occasions.”

Pierce nodded in agreement.

“But he's grown up to be a fine man, he has,” Mac said, his voice growing in intensity. “This boy loves his country. This land. And it's only because of his deep concern for his family that he's willing to take leave from this place.”