The Passions of Emma (13 page)
She drank deep of the syrupy elixir and slowly the coughing eased. She dropped the bottle back into her pocket and tried to shove the handkerchief in there along with it without her brother seeing. But he had never been a fool. He took her wrist and pulled the hankie from her stiff fingers, and he saw the stains, dark rusty ones and the bright red fresh ones.
She couldn’t bear to meet his eyes, but she could hear all that he was feeling in the way he said her name, “Ah, Bria, Bria . . .”
But he said nothing more, and neither did she.
T
hey stood unmoving, not looking at each other, yet it was as if they were bound together anyway, by a rope made of those words not spoken.
hey stood unmoving, not looking at each other, yet it was as if they were bound together anyway, by a rope made of those words not spoken.
Through the open door she heard the scrapings of a fiddler’s bow, although she realized that the music must have been playing for quite some time. Bria’s whole body jerked, as if she could break away by physical will from the thoughts that held them fast.
“Oh, listen!” she said. “They’re having a bit of an Irish crack today. Somebody’s playing ‘The Wind That Shook the Barley,’ and likely there’ll be dancing.”
“Bria . . .” He reached for her again, but she slipped past his outstretched hand and out into the street, where it seemed the whole of the ragtag waterfront neighborhood had begun to gather.
The Irish mill workers were there, of course, for it was a jig from the
ould
country that the fiddler played. But the
bravas
came as well, Portuguese from Cape Verde with their brass-colored skin and the stink of the rubber factory where they worked clinging to their clothes and hair. Even the swamp Yankees were being drawn out of doors by the lilting music—those Bristol natives who dug for clams and toiled in the onion fields and were poorer, maybe, even than the Irish.
ould
country that the fiddler played. But the
bravas
came as well, Portuguese from Cape Verde with their brass-colored skin and the stink of the rubber factory where they worked clinging to their clothes and hair. Even the swamp Yankees were being drawn out of doors by the lilting music—those Bristol natives who dug for clams and toiled in the onion fields and were poorer, maybe, even than the Irish.
The fiddler’s fingers flew fast and nimble over the strings,
setting everyone’s feet to tapping. And when Colin the barber stepped out of his shop wearing his saffron kilt and with his uilleann pipes awailing bright and brawny, first one couple and then another and another linked arms and formed a square, heels and toes kicking high and fast.
setting everyone’s feet to tapping. And when Colin the barber stepped out of his shop wearing his saffron kilt and with his uilleann pipes awailing bright and brawny, first one couple and then another and another linked arms and formed a square, heels and toes kicking high and fast.
Bria felt the touch of a man’s lips on her ear. She was smiling even before the breath of his words fanned her cheek. “I’ll be having both a dance and a kiss from you,
mo chridh
, before this day is through.”
mo chridh
, before this day is through.”
She was smiling still as she turned around and let her gaze move slowly up the long and splendid length of the man that was Seamus McKenna.
“What you’ll be getting from me is a great clout on the ear, you cocky oaf,” she said.
He threw back his head and laughed, and the sound of it was as elemental to Bria McKenna as the blood that beat through her veins.
Noreen appeared at her father’s side. She grasped his big hand with both of hers. “Don’t you dance with her, Da. She’s too fat now and everyone will laugh.”
Bria put her hands on her hips, pretending to be insulted. “Oh, so it’s too fat, am I? Well then, it’s you, my girl, who’d best be taking a turn with the poor man. For can’t you see his feet are fairly itching to let fly?”
Shay didn’t give the child a chance to protest. He swung her up into his arms and out among the whirling dancers. Soon their daughter’s face was flushed and her mouth was smiling, and Bria’s own eyes as she watched them blurred with love.
Donagh watched from beside her, making shoe music with his tapping toe and stirring up a cloud of dust. “He’s still a handy man with his heels, is your Seamus. Quick enough to dance his way out of any trouble you might mention.”
She gave her brother a sharp look. “And what sort of trouble ought you to be mentioning, Father O’Reilly?”
But just then the pipes and fiddle ended the jig with a wail and a flourish, and the dancers fell out, breathless and laughing. Shay’s gaze met hers, and his smile, like the rest of him, was big and brash. He kept hold of Noreen’s hand and slid his other arm around Bria’s waist, and together they all began to walk back to the house.
Donagh fell into step beside them. “Would you just look at the man? Grinning like the miser squatting on his pot of gold.”
“It’s better than gold, I have,” Shay said. “With two of the prettiest lasses in all of Rhode Island and her Providence Plantations, one on each arm.”
Bria leaned in to him, rubbing her head against his shoulder, bumping hips. “What you have is a honey tongue in your head, Mr. McKenna.”
Noreen giggled and looked up at her father with adoring eyes. But as they turned down the path to the front stoop, she slipped away to join some boys who were playing a game of stickball with a lopsided India rubber ball and a sawed-off broomstick.
The lads again, Bria thought with an inward sigh. Trouble was acoming from that quarter, surely.
As soon as they crossed the shack’s threshold, Shay dug into the pocket of his worn corduroy britches and gave over to his wife the whole of his weekly wages, as he did every Saturday. But now that he was back to working in the onion fields, he was getting only a quarter a day. The coins looked few and small in her hand—scarce enough to buy food and coal and pay the rent.
She dropped them in her own apron pocket and looked up at him, smiling, but he wasn’t fooled. A red stain spread over his cheekbones, and he turned away from her.
Donagh brought his hands together in a loud clap, rubbing his palms. “Faith, I could use a bit of something wet. It’s thirsty work, Seamus, watching you dance.”
Shay went to the wall cupboard where the whiskey jug was kept. He yanked open the door so hard it banged.
“Hush now, the pair of you,” Bria said. “Our Merry’s tucked up
in the bed, sleeping. The poor wee lass was so wore out, she couldn’t keep her eyes open long enough to eat her supper . . .”
in the bed, sleeping. The poor wee lass was so wore out, she couldn’t keep her eyes open long enough to eat her supper . . .”
Bria’s words fell into a heavy silence. Slowly, Shay’s head came up and his gaze, bright and hard, locked with hers. But the anger, she knew, was all for himself. Other men, other women’s husbands, sent their children off to the cotton mill and the rubber factory without a thought, but it chafed at her man fiercely. Shay’s was a heart that felt things hard and deeply.
And later tonight she’d have to add to his burden and his worries by telling him she’d been given the sack herself, and though she’d be housekeeper now to the rectory, it would mean less money coming in.
As Bria turned away from him, her gaze fell on the table where there had suddenly appeared a string bag bursting at the seams with apples. With their shiny green skin, they looked made of wax they were so perfect.
“Oh, Shay,” she exclaimed, her own voice too loud and bright now. “You’ve brought home some greening apples. How ever did you come by them?”
He didn’t answer her at first, busying himself with pouring whiskey into a pair of tin cups. Then he lifted his head and met her eyes again, and his face softened. “I was walking by Mrs. Maguire’s house, minding my own affairs, when out the door she came running, saying she bought too many and wouldn’t I kindly take them off her hands, and she wouldn’t take no thank you for an answer.”
“Wouldn’t she, then—the old man-hungry behemoth? Sure and if every spinster and widow in the county hasn’t already got your fine self all measured out for a new wedding suit—”
Bria cut herself off again as soon as her ears caught up with her tongue, but it wasn’t quick enough. She couldn’t bear to look at Shay now, nor at her brother. The kitchen became so quiet she could hear the tick of the tin clock and the burning coals settling in the stove. And the merry fiddling and wail of the pipes coming
from the street. They’d be out there dancing all night now, likely as not, she thought.
from the street. They’d be out there dancing all night now, likely as not, she thought.
She felt a terrible urge to cough again but she held it down, although her chest burned fiercely with the effort it took. But she couldn’t go hacking and spitting up blood now, after what she’d just said.
She gathered up the bag of apples, a bowl, and a paring knife and settled down in her straw-bottom rocking chair next to the stove. She would make a pie for tomorrow’s picnic out of the greening apples. That was an American thing—an apple pie.
Shay and her brother sat at the table, elbows resting on the faded brown oilcloth, hands cradled around their cups of whiskey. She could feel their eyes on her, feel their aching thoughts, and the pain of it was worse by far than the pain in her chest.
Shay’s cat, Gorgeous, came waddling through the open door and launched itself to land with a heavy plop on his lap. He claimed the beast had followed him home—huh, more likely it had been
carried
home. Starved and scrawny it had been then, with motley, dung-colored fur. And although it had fattened up a whole lot since fate had sent mush-hearted Shay McKenna to its rescue, it was still the ugliest cat God had ever created.
carried
home. Starved and scrawny it had been then, with motley, dung-colored fur. And although it had fattened up a whole lot since fate had sent mush-hearted Shay McKenna to its rescue, it was still the ugliest cat God had ever created.
When she was sure he was no longer looking at her, she glanced up and let her gaze rest on him, her man. He sat with his spine dug deep into the chair, his legs stretched out long, his fingers restless on the cat’s fur. In this mood he looked every bit the wild Irishman, brooding and dark. The love she bore for him lay both soft and heavy on her heart.
He stirred finally, raising his cup to her brother in an old Gaelic toast. “For the love of Ireland and the hate of England, God damn her.”
Donagh touched his cup to Shay’s. “Love of Ireland,” he said, leaving off the curse in deference to the priest’s collar he wore around his neck.
They fell into talking politics, as they usually did. Bria listened
with half an ear as she peeled and sliced the apples. The old, familiar words about Ireland’s troubles. They had drawn in a burning hatred of British rule with their mother’s milk, and they nurtured it now with Irish whiskey, the
poitín
distilled illegally in the Crow’s Nest cellars. To Bria, the whiskey smelled like the peat she’d burned in the hearth of her cottage back home.
with half an ear as she peeled and sliced the apples. The old, familiar words about Ireland’s troubles. They had drawn in a burning hatred of British rule with their mother’s milk, and they nurtured it now with Irish whiskey, the
poitín
distilled illegally in the Crow’s Nest cellars. To Bria, the whiskey smelled like the peat she’d burned in the hearth of her cottage back home.
Shay was talking about the Clan-na-Gael now. So that’s where he was this afternoon, then, she thought. At another meeting of the clan, damning the English and singing rebel songs. Planning ways to raise money for the grand and glorious “rising,” and never mind the mothers’ sons who would die because of it, never mind the wives left behind to keen over their men’s graves.
She rubbed her tired feet over the hooked-rag rug beneath the chair and let her thoughts wander to the picnic tomorrow. It would be fine to feel the sun hot in her hair and the sea spray in her face. She would spread a blanket out on the sand, and she would sit with Shay’s head in her lap and watch the girls play tag with the waves, and her heart would swell near to bursting with joy for being with them. She would make it a savoring day, a day to tuck away in their hearts.
But for now she would sit listening to her men talk and watching the shiny green apple skin curl out from beneath her paring knife.
She caught the tail end of Shay saying, “. . . the best place for it would be the bay side of Poppasquash Point.”
“Aye, that’s as may be,” Donagh said. “But trespassing on rich folk’s land is no less a crime here than it was in Ireland, me boyo.”
“And that puts me in mind of a thing that happened this morning,” Bria said, then wished she hadn’t. She felt strangely reluctant of a sudden to speak of the girl—the angel, Merry had called her, who would make all their wishes come true. She had stood up there on the catwalk, had that girl, looking as if she possessed the whole world, and Bria had felt both drawn to her and stricken to helpless stone beneath her eyes.
So she said instead, “That family what lives out on the point, the Tremaynes. They were telling tales about them at the mill.”
“What tales would that be?” Donagh said. Shay was gently rubbing his cat’s ears, but there was a hardness to his mouth and a tightness around his eyes.
“They call them the wild and wicked Tremaynes,” Bria said. “The first of the lot came here from Cornwall over two hundred years ago.
Fled
Cornwall, so he did, and with a price for murder on his head. Then he went and made himself rich off the dark trades—slaving and piracy. And that’s when the curse is supposed to’ve took hold.”
Fled
Cornwall, so he did, and with a price for murder on his head. Then he went and made himself rich off the dark trades—slaving and piracy. And that’s when the curse is supposed to’ve took hold.”
“Didn’t I know there’d be a curse in the story?” Donagh said. “There’s always a curse.”
“Aye, well the curse has surely hit them hard these last years. First the younger daughter was crippled in a sleighing accident. And then the boy, feeling the blame for it, took his boat out in the middle of a storm and was drowned. Or drowned himself, there’s some as do say.”
She craned her head around for a look through the bedroom door to be sure Merry was still sleeping. She could hear the grass growing, that child.
“Then shortly thereafter that tragedy,” Bria went on, lowering her voice to a near whisper, “the father left. Sailed off on his yacht, he did, and there hasn’t been a whisker of him seen since. But he wasn’t lost at sea, not like the young Mr. Tremayne was. They say he’s living high on his plantation house in Cuba with all his doxies.”
Shay’s head did come up at that, and Donagh sent a grin his way. “He’s got more than the one doxy, do you say? Faith, what a fine thing it is to be a wealthy man.”
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