Toward the Sea of Freedom (2 page)

Oh, Michael had a way with flattery. But Kathleen did not want to believe that he was really as much of a rogue as her father thought. After all, he worked hard every day in Lord Wetherby’s fields. On top of that, he still fiddled on the weekends at Barney’s Tavern in Wicklow—a long walk if no one lent him a donkey or mule. Sometimes Roony O’Rearke, the Wetherbys’ gardener, was willing to do so. Roony was believed to be a drunk, but Kathleen did not want to consider a possible connection between moonshine whiskey and O’Rearke’s loan of his donkey.

Kathleen stood up from behind the stone wall and began walking again. A copse divided the Wetherby estate from the cottages of its tenants. The landlords did not like to look directly at the houses of their servants and workers. Kathleen began to feel better—which was surely because rather than heading toward the village and her family’s cottage, she was making her way to the wheat fields above the huts. The men would still be working there, but the sun was slowly setting. Trevallion would soon have to send them home.

Twilight always put the eager steward in a bind: there was still enough light to work—and Lord Wetherby was not running a charity, after all—but the twilight aided theft. The workers slipped stalks of grain into their pockets or hid them behind the stone walls to retrieve them when it was dark.

Kathleen hoped Trevallion would send his men home early that evening, even if it meant more dire hunger would prevail in the cottages. The families were waiting hopefully for their fathers’ and brothers’ takings. Not even Father O’Brien could seriously condemn the tenants’ actions, though he assigned them sinners’ prayers when they confessed their little thefts. Accordingly, the pious patriarchs spent half of Sunday on their knees in church. Meanwhile, young men like Michael roved across the fields trying to pinch a few more stalks, unobserved by the lord and lady, who spent Sunday riding and hunting with friends.

The full moon that rose over the mountains only strengthened Trevallion’s fear of theft. As the moonlight brightened the landscape, the men, their wives, and their children would easily find the stalks of grain they’d hidden. Kathleen supposed that the overzealous overseer planned an early dinner and nap before riding half the night on patrol.

She had to force herself not to spit at Trevallion as he approached her. He sat high on the box of the last grain wagon while the exhausted workers dragged themselves home from the fields on foot.

“Hullo, little Mary Kathleen!” he said affably. “What are you doing here, blondie? Have they already sent you home from the manor? You all must be spending a lovely springtide in that kitchen. I’ll wager old Gráinne isn’t merely taking care of herself but the families of all her children and children’s children with His Lordship’s bread.”

“His Lordship likes cake better,” came a voice from the group of laborers shuffling tiredly behind Trevallion’s wagon.

Kathleen recognized the voice of Billy Rafferty, one of Gráinne’s sons. Billy was not the most clever, but he was crafty, and he liked to play the fool.

“Which you ought to know, Trevallion,” Billy continued. “Don’t you eat at his table?

The remark was answered with loud laughter. In truth, the English lord treated his Irish steward no better than he treated his tenants. Trevallion had a special position and would not starve. But he did not enjoy his lord’s respect, nor was there any talk at all of raising him to nobility himself, an honor sometimes granted to stewards of very large properties. Though Lord Wetherby was a member of the nobility, his family was considered unimportant in England. His holdings in Ireland resulted from his wife’s dowry and were rather small.

“At least my table is richly decked,” Trevallion said. “With cakes, too, little Kathleen. In case you start to look for a husband who has something to offer.”

Kathleen blushed deeply. No, the fellow could not know about the scones that seemed to be burning holes in the pockets of her dress. She must not act contrite, though. She lowered her eyes chastely. As a rule, Kathleen did not answer when Trevallion addressed her, especially not when he made such outrageously suggestive remarks. Too often, one heard of girls who surrendered to vice in the arms of their lords’ stewards—though Kathleen could not imagine that this was due to the sin of lust.

Truly, Trevallion had nothing about him that could attract a girl. He was short, wiry, and redheaded like a leprechaun, but he lacked the wit of the mythical creatures for which the better-off Irish built houses in their gardens to secure help with farm work—and with moonshine whiskey distilling.

There was nothing kind to say about Trevallion. He was completely subservient to his English masters and cruel to their tenants. Even when the lord and lady were not residing on their holdings in Ireland, which was most of the year, he would not turn a blind eye. In times like those, most stewards would look away while the men went hunting or when some of the fruit and vegetables from the master’s garden ended up in the pots of the farmers’ wives. Trevallion fought for every carrot, every apple, and every bean on his master’s land, though, in truth, Lord Wetherby only appeared at harvest time and during hunting season. The people hated the steward, and if a girl gave in to him, it would certainly be out of need, not love.

“Or is it that you have a young suitor here in the fields?” Trevallion now asked with a spiteful gleam in his eye. “Is there something I should know as the eyes and ears of His Lordship?”

Weddings had to be approved by the landlord, and he listened eagerly to Trevallion’s whispers.

Kathleen did not dignify this question with a response either.

“I think I’ll have a little word with the tailor O’Donnell soon,” Trevallion said. Kathleen saw how he licked his lips before finally letting her go.

She was trembling. The fellow did not really mean to court her, did he? Her father was always speaking of a “good match,” and he claimed that she could find her fortune thanks to her beauty as long as she waited demurely and chastely for the right man. That did not mean Trevallion, though, did it? She’d take the veil before marrying that pig.

Kathleen stopped at the side of the road with her head bowed, letting the grain wagons and men pass. She knew that Michael would soon arrive, and so she continued along behind the stone walls that enclosed the freshly harvested fields.

She felt burning rage at Trevallion as she watched the first hungry children from the village coming up to the fields. Everyone would try to find the last remains of the grain, and everyone would be disappointed.

Just at that moment, however, Kathleen caught sight of Michael, and she was filled with happiness. Michael approached calmly, as if strolling through the stubble field. He saw the women and children, of course, which was why he only waved surreptitiously for her to follow him. Anyway, Kathleen knew where he was leading her.

Their hiding place was a tiny bight below the town, near the fields on the river. There the reeds stood high on the shore and a mighty willow let its branches hang in the water. Both hid the lovers from view. Kathleen knew that it was a sin to meet there with a young man—not to mention one of whom James O’Donnell did not approve—no matter what lovely words he spoke. Yet something in her insisted on doing it anyway. She wanted to wring a little happiness from the joyless days of work in the manor and now the useless toil on her father’s land in the evening.

Michael was sitting astride a lower branch of the friendly willow when Kathleen arrived. His eyes lit up at the sight of her, and he swiftly and gracefully stood to greet her.

“The sweetest girl in Ireland—and she belongs to me alone,” he said with admiration in his soft voice. “People praise the Irish rose, but only he who knows the lilies can measure what beauty is.”

Kathleen blushed and lowered her gaze, but Michael reached for her hands and kissed them. Then he brought them to his heart, pulling the girl closer. Softly, he kissed her forehead and waited until she finally offered him her lips. He gently wrapped his arms around her.

“Careful,” she whispered nervously. “I . . . I brought something with me, and I don’t want you to crush it.”

Before Michael could press her to him, she pulled the scones and jar of marmalade out of her dress pockets. The young man, ravenous after working hard from sunup to sundown, eyed them covetously. But Michael Drury was not greedy. He took his time with enjoyments of every sort and, for the time being, deposited the delicacies on a large leaf in a fork in the willow. Then he continued kissing Kathleen, slowly and tenderly.

Kathleen did not understand the whispering of the other girls, some of whom were already engaged and fearing their wedding nights. Michael, she firmly believed, would never hurt her. Even now, she lost herself for a short time in his embrace, his earthy scent of work in the field, and his cool skin, on which his sweat was already dry.

But then Michael freed himself. He stared at the stolen scones. “They smell good,” he sighed.

She smiled and was suddenly no longer so hungry.

“You smell good,” she whispered.

Michael shook his head, laughing. “Far from it, dearest. I stink. And I think I ought to wash before you invite me to have tea like a gentleman.”

Before Kathleen could protest, Michael had already thrown off his simple, dirty shirt. Kathleen tried to look away as he slipped out of his faded pants as well, but she did not manage it. The sight of his powerful legs, his flat stomach, and his muscular arms pleased her. Michael was slim, but he did not look half-starved like many other tenants. Playing fiddle in Wicklow seemed to have its benefits. Kathleen would all too gladly have accompanied him into the tavern sometime.

She laughed and crouched on the beach as Michael slid into the water with a splash. He dived under to wash his hair and face and then swam like a fish to the middle of the river.

“Why don’t you join me? It’s wonderfully cool,” Michael called to her.

But Kathleen shook her head. It was too terrible to think about what would happen if someone saw Mary Kathleen O’Donnell swimming naked or even half naked—and not in the girls’ sanctioned bathing spot but here, with a man, during the full moon and outside the village.

“Get out of there before I eat these scones myself,” she teased him.

Michael obeyed her immediately and swam to shore. He shook the water out of his thick hair and slicked it off his body, pulled his pants back on, and sat down next to her on the rocky beach. Kathleen handed him his pastry and the jar of marmalade, into which she had just placed her finger to scrape out a bit of what was left. She spread it on her scone and took a tiny bite. It was the best thing she had ever eaten. The orange jam was sweet but also slightly bitter. The scone melted on her tongue.

Kathleen looked tenderly at Michael, who was eating with similar devotion.

“Gifted or stolen?” he asked.

Kathleen turned red again. “They were, that is, hmm, left over,” she murmured.

Michael kissed her lips, and he tasted of orange.

“So, you filched them,” he teased. “That makes them all the sweeter. But what will Father O’Brien say about it?”

“Maybe I won’t even confess it,” Kathleen said. She knew that Michael did not take confession too seriously.

Michael laughed and stuffed the last piece of scone into his mouth. Then he lay back and pulled Kathleen with him. He began to caress the tops of her breasts. He still had sticky jam on his fingers, and he held them up for her to lick clean when she complained.

“No, Michael!” Kathleen fended him off as he moved to unbutton her dress. “We can’t.”

“But Kathleen dearest, you’ll have to confess anyway. I know you: you will. Father O’Brien will be shocked no matter what. So why don’t we offer him a really good secret to keep?”

Kathleen sat up reluctantly. “God forgives, not the priest. And God only forgives those who repent with sincerity. But this . . .”

No matter what she did with Michael, she would never regret it.

Michael stroked her hair and face, quickly getting her to stretch out on the beach again.

“Kathleen, I want to make you my wife, you know. I want to give you my name—even if it’s not worth anything. Give me a little more time. Look, I’m saving—”

“You’re saving?” Kathleen interrupted him, raising her voice. “How in heaven’s name can you save anything, Michael Drury? And don’t tell me it’s money from fiddling at the tavern.”

Michael shrugged. “You don’t want to know, Mary Kathleen—at least, Mary won’t want to know. Kathleen may be curious, I suppose.” He had teased her about her name since she had taken it at confirmation. “But it’s nothing, nothing to be ashamed of.”

“It’s whiskey, isn’t it?” Kathleen asked angrily. “And you really aren’t ashamed to be fermenting barley and wheat and Lord knows what all to make whiskey? While children go hungry?”

Michael pulled her close. “I don’t make it, dearest,” he said. “If I tried my hand at it, it wouldn’t do anyone any good. But if I don’t sell it, someone else will. Old O’Rearke would be all too happy to do it himself. He’s got a donkey to bring the barrels to Wicklow. But they don’t trust him, the old drunk.”

“Who are ‘they’?”

Michael shrugged. “The mountain men. Dearest, it’s really better if you don’t know everything. But a few pence always fall to me. My mother gets most of it—our potatoes are all blighted, and without the whiskey money, my siblings would starve.”

“Your mother takes sin money?” Kathleen marveled.

Michael arched his eyebrows. “Rather than burying her children.”

It slowly dawned on Kathleen why Mrs. Drury spent so much time in church.

“But I get to keep a little for myself, Kathleen,” Michael continued eagerly. “And for you. For us. When I’ve got enough, we’ll run away. To America! Do you know what that means? The promised land. The sun shines all year there, and there’s work for everyone. We’ll get rich.”

“And the ships that take people there are called ‘coffin ships’ because they turn into floating caskets long before they make it to New York. That’s what I’ve heard. I don’t want that, Michael.”