Of Irish Blood (26 page)

Whispers. “It’s her. It’s Maud Gonne.”

Back in the pew, I put my head in my hands. Not praying really but remembering the stir Maud caused in Chicago. Ten years ago now. A big crowd turned out in St. Bridget’s hall to see her and Major John MacBride, who fought the British in the Boer War. She was as tall as he was when they took the stage. More women than usual at the meeting. All of us interested in what Maud was wearing. And a lovely outfit it was. A deep blue velvet gown.

Mike and Ed and John Larney had taken Mame and Rose and me. Very impatient with our chatter about Maud’s dress.

“I’m here to see Major MacBride. He formed his own Irish regiment to fight the British in South Africa,” Mike whispered to us. “A load of Chicago fellows were in it with him. Like our Irish Brigade in the Civil War.” The Chicago
Citizen,
our Irish paper, had kept an eagle eye on the Boer War, reporting on the brutality of the British who’d forced women and children, both Boers and Africans, into camps where many died of starvation. The British army then destroyed their farms, salted the land. Determined to claim the gold and diamond mines. Acting in South Africa as they had in Ireland for centuries.

But we girls wanted to get a good look at the woman who’d inspired the poetry of William Butler Yeats. Sister Veronica, our literature teacher at St. Xavier’s, loved William Butler Yeats; always used his full name, and wanted us to revere him also.

“Maud Gonne is his muse, girls,” she’d said, and explained that a muse is a spiritual companion, a relationship apart from ordinary life. I’d wondered would Sister Veronica have liked to be someone’s muse?

“William Butler Yeats dedicated his
Countess Cathleen
to her,” Sister had said.

We’d read that long verse drama out loud in class, using parts copied from a book a relative of Sister’s had sent her from Dublin.

“My aunt is a member of the Gaelic League and studies the Irish language,” Sister had explained.

Well, that sounded revolutionary enough.

I listened to Maud Gonne that night at St. Bridget’s as she thundered against “The Famine Queen” Victoria, who had murdered more than a million Irish people and now “grasping the shamrock in her withered hands has come to Ireland daring to ask for soldiers—men to enlist to fight for the exterminators of their race! But no more Irishmen will wear the red shame of her livery!” Maud said.

We the Irish Americans were Ireland’s hope. She told us that though we had found good homes and comfort in America we still loved Ireland and we who were driven out now had the power to raise our home country to a position of honor. “Twenty million Americans of Irish blood—surely enough to free Ireland,” she said, her voice loud and strong.

How we cheered her, clapping and hooting. Her companion, Major MacBride, applauded too, gazing at her. This tough-looking fellow, with his dark hair and eyes and straight back, was a soldier all right. But smitten with Maud, I saw. Not hiding his feelings.

Sister Veronica had gone on about the chaste love between Yeats and Maud Gonne, which to me, at sixteen, sounded very romantic and safe, but MacBride did not seem a man who’d love from afar, I’d thought. Poor William Butler Yeats; his muse might have other fish to fry.

Because Mike knew one of the loads of cousins MacBride had in Chicago, we went to a special reception in the rectory. Maud stood next to the major, greeting each of us. I said to Maud, “I’ve come to know you through the poems of William Butler Yeats and I…” But she interrupted me. Shook her head as if to say don’t talk about Yeats and said, “Wouldn’t you like to meet Major MacBride?” As she introduced us the major took her hand and squeezed it. I wonder, is he jealous of her?

They married the next year. Headlines in the Chicago
Citizen
. The editor, John Finerty, was ecstatic, and then when their son was born the announcement actually called him “The Prince of Ireland, Seaghan (Seán) MacBride.” Only a paragraph on their separation a year later, though I think there was some scandal.

And here they are. Maud herself and their blond curly-headed son. Ireland’s prince kicking the pew.

I lean back, look at him, and cross my eyes. He crosses his own. I do miss kids. None in my life here. Ed’s boy must be running around now and I suppose Mame and Rose have babies. Ah, well.

I wonder will Maud Gonne and her troupe stay for the hot whiskeys after Midnight Mass. Probably not. But there they are, standing with Father Kevin. I’m in the doorway and see Father Rector and that priest he was whispering to in church watching. Father Kevin looks up, beckons them over. Father Rector doesn’t budge. Rude. And on Christmas.

Maud’s little son comes running up to me.

“Vous êtes la femme drôle,”
he says. The older woman is right behind him apologizing in French.

“It’s all right,” I say in English. “We met in church. Merry Christmas.”

And the woman says, “I’m Barry Delaney and I want to apologize for Seán’s bad manners.”

“But I am a funny lady,” I say, and cross my eyes again, which makes Seán laugh so loud Maud hears and turns her head, then comes over to us.

She begins to apologize in French again but I say, “Never mind. He’s a fine boy and I enjoy trading funny faces with him.”

“Introduce yourself,” she tells him.

“I am Seán MacBride,” he says. “My father’s a soldier for Ireland.”

“Oh,” I say. And then I remember. While the Chicago
Citizen
had maintained a respectful silence, the
Tribune
had reported the court case between Maud and John MacBride. Fighting over custody of this child. Some nasty accusations against MacBride. A newspaper put out by Protestants glad to slander Irish patriots, we thought, and yet I remembered that flash of possessiveness at St. Bridget’s hall and wondered.

I realize I’ve been quiet too long. So I say, “Nice to meet you, Seán. I know your mother,” and smile up at Maud. She is tall. “We met in Chicago. My brother Mike’s a friend of Major MacBride’s cousin Pat.”

“I don’t recall,” she says.

Now why did I mention MacBride? Damn.

“A grand occasion,” I say. “You were wonderful. But you must meet so many people.” Chattering.

“We did get good crowds, didn’t we?” she says. “And I remember … a lake,” she says, pleased with herself.

“Lake Michigan,” I say. “And you spoke at St. Bridget’s hall.”

“I believe we collected a very substantial amount that night,” she says. “Bridget’s always been lucky for me. She is the patron of the Daughters of Erin.”

Father Kevin comes up and slips between us. “Maud, this is Nora Kelly.”

“Hello, Nora,” she says. Then nods at the girl, who’s eighteen or nineteen. “May I present my cousin, Iseult.”

“Nora did some work in our library with Peter Keeley,” he says. “Translating the old manuscripts.”

“Oh, you know Irish, Miss Kelly? I’m envious,” she says.

“I don’t exactly…”

But she’s going on.

“One of the sorrows in my life is that I don’t know the language of our ancestors. I adore the stories of ancient Ireland but must come to them through translation. Though I do communicate spiritually with the great god Lugh. I’m under his protection.”

Now, what do I say to that?

Only, “That’s nice.”

“Peter Keeley’s such a genius,” she goes on. And she looks across and drops her voice. “I understand his mission will meet with great success. I had a note from John Quinn, who’s committed to the purchase. With funds from our friends in Ireland we should be able to…”

Father Kevin raises his hand and stops her. “Not here, Maud.”

“But I assume Miss Kelly’s one of us,” she says.

Father Kevin only smiles. Shakes his head.

He doesn’t trust me, I think. For God’s sake. He gives her information about Peter and keeps it from me?

“I better be going,” I say. I’d stomp my feet, but we’re only yards from the chapel and I still have part of the Communion wafer stuck to the roof of my mouth.

“Easy, Nora,” Father Kevin says. “Stay for a bit.”

“Have to get home. I’m going away tomorrow,” I say, a lie.

“But surely you’ll be back for my
Nollaig na mBan
,” Maud says.

“The Women’s Christmas,” Father Kevin supplies. “In Ireland, after the Christmas festivities are over, the women gather for their own celebration on the Epiphany, little Christmas.”

Seán is pulling at Maud’s skirt. “You will come,” Maud says. “Bring any friends. As long as they’re female. A grand open house.”

“Well…” But Maud and her tribe are gone. I start out the door, too.

“Wait, Nora,” Father says. “I didn’t tell Maud about Peter, she has her own sources. And now you’re angry.”

“Not at all,” I say, though I’m clenching my teeth.

“You think I don’t trust you but that’s not it. You’re an American. You’ve not been born into our history.”

“And she has? Wasn’t her father a colonel in the British army?”

“Maud’s traveled a long way. I first met her almost twenty years ago in Donegal—going from village to village with her fine clothes and posh accent. Intimidating the judges and bailiffs. Saved a good few of our people from eviction. Gave a fellow in my parish a diamond necklace to pay his rent. She’s a patriot, Nora. She’s…”

“I don’t care what she is. I’m Irish, Father Kevin. My own granny had to run for her life because of the families of people like Maud Gonne and Mr. Poet Yeats. So don’t patronize me.” I’ve never spoken this way to a priest before.

But Father Kevin only smiles, takes my elbow, and moves me away to a quieter place.

“Easy, Nora,” he says again. “It’s not you. I didn’t want us overheard. Father Rector and many of the other priests are not sympathetic. Most of the bishops want continued union with Britain. Even the Pope thinks we should stay close to the English to reconvert them.”

“Fiddlesticks,” I say, which makes him laugh.

“Go to Maud’s party,” he says. “She could use your friendship.”

“Mine?”

“The strain’s telling on her. She’s a target, Nora. British and French agents follow her. The French might arrest her as a German agent to please their British allies. Keep Maud from lecturing on ‘perfidious Albion’ and writing in French papers about evictions and starvation in Ireland.”

“All right,” I say. “I’ll go to the party.”

I have Christmas dinner with Madame Simone at L’Impasse and spend the next two weeks sketching at the Louvre. Madame Simone buys ten for the Old Masters Collection. Entering fifty francs in my book makes me feel better.

JANUARY 6, 1914
NOON
RUE DE L’ANNONCIATION

I’m walking toward 17 rue de l’Annonciation in Passy, an area I don’t know. I take my faithful rue de Rivoli to the place de la Concorde, walk along the Seine’s right bank to the Trocadero. Cold enough but I’m keeping up a good pace. I stop to nod at the Tour Eiffel. Taking the day off, I tell it. Not sure what avenue to follow, but a woman walking a small dog—a poodle, would you believe—chops the air and then makes her hand a snake. I think I understand.

Here’s rue de l’Annonciation. A narrow street, curved. No cobblestones. Not too interesting, though I see a cross and a spire. Must be the Church of the Annunciation. It’s not. Notre Dame de Grâce de Passy, I read in the vestibule. I light a candle and resolve to give Maud a chance. Besides, if she does have news of Peter why bite off my nose to spite my face?

The church doesn’t feel as old as most in Paris. Madam Simone told me Passy was built by the nouveau riche less than a hundred years ago. Yesterday as this city measures time. I wonder, was there a convent here once? An abbey? Not a spot I could imagine the Angel of the Lord declaring unto Mary. Bourgeois. I’d have thought Maud would live on the bohemian Left Bank.

She must have money from somewhere, I think, when Barry Delaney opens the door and shows me into a beautifully decorated drawing room. As Maud walks over to me I see she has no notion of who I am.

“Nora Kelly,” I say. “Father Kevin’s friend.”

Still no recognition.

“Midnight Mass. Chicago.”

“Oh, yes. The lake. And Peter Keeley. Welcome.”

“Thank you,” I say. I’m tempted to add, “Don’t worry, I wasn’t followed.” But the hard-edged January sunshine filling the room makes conspiracy unreal.

“Sorry,” I say, “about, well, I mean Major MacBride and everything.”

“Everything,” she repeats, and gestures me farther into a room full of women’s voices speaking French. I see Antoinette and Sheila, the two students I’d met on Peter’s tours last year. May and the rest are home for Christmas. I wonder why these two aren’t? I walk over to Antoinette, who remembers me. Thank God. A small redhead, pretty with a quick step and smile. She leads me over to the sofa where two very grand older women dressed in brocade gowns, their diamonds flashing, invisible tiaras on their heads, sit talking to Sheila, a lovely blonde who stands in front of them.

Antoinette speaks to the women in rapid French and then says, “Mademoiselle Nora Kelly.”

I almost curtsy to these ladies, both of them with white, very coiffed hair. Easy to imagine them at the court of Versailles. The smaller woman’s round face reminds me of Mike’s wife, Mary Chambers. Except Antoinette introduces her as Duchess de a-string-of-French-place-names.

“Je suis enchanté,”
I say. As often happens when I speak French, the response comes in English.

“Good afternoon, mademoiselle,” she says. And then adds,
“Nollaig shona duit.”
Irish words I recognize from childhood.

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” I say. “I’m sorry, I don’t know Irish.”

“C’est dommage,”
the taller woman says. A noblewoman too, I’d say, who actually lifts her lorgnette, looks at me through it, then lowers the glass. She says something in a rush of French to the duchess, who smiles at me. “My friend the countess does not like to speak English,” she says. “But I remind her we are
entente
with the Saxons now.”

Did I imagine it, or does her English have a lilt? Not a brogue exactly, but something.

“I do however enjoy
la langue anglaise
and appreciate the chance of practice with petite mademoiselles Antoinette and Sheila,” the duchess says.