Never Broken (4 page)

“Maybe not, but I heard it meself.”

“Ye were there?”

“Nay, but Hugh O’Hurley helped m’lord’s driver, Francis, ready the coach and rode with him to the front gate. Hugh said he heard them fightin’ in the grand hall. Ye know Hugh never gets a story wrong.”

“Ha! Hugh’s been half-deaf and half-daft for years, Fern. These praties hear better’n ‘im. Don’t tell me yer fallin’ for his blarney again.”

“Well, the fact remains that Mr. O’Leary’s gone, and m’lady’s in a snit. I wouldn’t cross her if I were you. Hey, lassie, ye lost somethin’?”

Startled, Shannon whirled around to see the two maids glaring at her. “N-nay.” She turned quickly and retrieved the cup. “I found what I need.”

“Good,” the maid named Fern said. “Now I’m sure Brigit’s got somethin’ for you to do, right?”

“Aye.” She gripped the handle of the cup.

“Then get to it.”

Shannon’s fingers unfurled, and the sound of tin hitting the wooden table echoed as she rushed from the room, her appetite abandoning her. Rory was gone. Deep in the recesses of her mind, she’d harbored a small hope she would see him again. Not in private, of course, but maybe from afar—a sight of him walking through the grand hall or mingling with the guests in the drawing room. A brief glimpse would have been enough.

Her eyes started to burn. It was silly, grieving for something she never had—something that would have never been possible. He was gone to Dublin, which might as well be the other side of the world.

Ainslee Cahill stood at the edge
of the dirt road and looked in the direction of Gormley Manor. The mid-morning sunlight dipped in and out between white billowy clouds, and the faint breeze at dawn had now picked up, rippling through the folds of her dress. She rubbed her bare forearms, feeling goose bumps against her palms.

What was Shannon doing right now? Her sister had left Ballyclough after morning mass on Sunday for the Gormley estate, and wouldn’t return until Saturday. When the Gormleys made it known they were in need of extra temporary maidservants, she and Shannon had drawn straws to decide which of them would apply for the job since there was only one position left by the time word had reached the Cahills. Ainslee had drawn the long one.

For her, Saturday couldn’t come soon enough. She was eager to hear about life at the manor, which had always been a mystery to most of the people of Ballyclough. The tenant farmers paid their rents to the Gormleys, but, for the most part, the villagers had little contact with the English family who owned their land. While Ainslee wanted to know a bit more about them, her interest stemmed more from natural curiosity rather than envy or plain nosiness.

She also missed Shannon terribly. They were close, as close as twins could be. Yet they barely looked like sisters, what with Ainslee’s fine blonde hair and thin figure, and Shannon’s thick dark locks and more voluptuous shape. They were the best of friends, and a week would be the longest they’d been separated.

Ainslee turned and began to walk in the opposite direction of Gormley Manor, heading toward the tiny church for her meeting with Father O’Reilly. Biting her bottom lip, she tried to forget her thoughts of Shannon as she practiced what she would say to the parish priest.

A short time later, she reached the church and knocked on the weather-beaten door. She heard the old priest’s shuffling steps as he approached. When he opened the door, he greeted her with his pleasant, partially toothless grin.

“Ah, Ainslee, good to see you, lass. Come in, come in.” He led her into the antiquated sanctuary. Candles burned in tarnished candelabras on the altar, emitting more than enough light to brighten the small room.

Father O’Reilly doddered to the front of the church, the bald spot on the top of his head shining in the flickering flames. “We’ll sit here,” he said, motioning to a wood pew.

The instant they sat down, she blurted out her reason for meeting with him. “I want to become a nun.”

Father O’Reilly lifted a bushy, gray eyebrow. “Have you made the decision on your own?”

“Aye, Father, ’tis my own idea.”

“And your ma had nothin’ to do with it? I’ve known Siobhan for many years. She can be rather insistent when she sets her mind to somethin’.”

“I must admit she was pleased when I told her. But that’s as far as it went.”

He looked at her thoughtfully, his pale gray eyes warm but solemn. “Are you sure?”

“Aye.”

“That’s not what I’m sensin’.”

She followed his gaze, which had dropped to her lap. A fold of skirt was twisted tightly in her fingers. She released it and clasped her fingers together, willing them to remain still.

Father O’Reilly shifted on the bench and faced her squarely. “Tell me why you want to be a nun.”

Ainslee relaxed a bit at the easy question. “I love God. I want to serve Him, and I believe the best way to do that is to serve others.”

“That’s the answer I expected.” He placed his hand over hers. “You’re a good lass. Even as a small child you had a heart for those who were hurtin’. Remember when wee Paddy Domhaill drowned in the creek? You were six, maybe seven years old at the time, and I recall at his wake you went up to his ma, put your tiny arms around her, then hugged her tight. You kept tellin’ her she didn’t have to cry, that Paddy was in heaven, and Jesus was singin’ him lullabies now. I’ll never forget how you wiped away her tears with your fingers and softly kissed her cheek. She told me later she drew much comfort from that small gesture.”

Ainslee remembered the wake, her sadness over the accidental death of two-year-old Paddy. She also recalled how consoling Paddy’s mother had eased her own sorrow. Even then she’d understood the necessity of reaching out to hurting souls.

He gave her hand a squeeze. “Your love for others is a special gift, one that will serve you well as a sister.”

Letting out a deep breath, she felt a sense of calm. She’d been worried he would refuse her request. Now she was sure he would grant it. “So you will sponsor me as a postulate? There is a Sisters of Hope convent in—”

“I’m not finished, lass.” He held up his free hand. “As I said, your love of God and compassion for others are good reasons for joinin’ the convent, but many things must be carefully considered before takin’ your vows. Many young women find the sacrifices required too difficult.”

She glanced down at Father O’Reilly’s hand covering her own, noticing the thick bluish veins that seemed to strain against his translucent skin. They were old hands, tender and strong, hands that had baptized babies, blessed marriages, comforted the sick and anguished. This man had devoted more than fifty years of his life to God. He knew of sacrifice.

But she had considered the sacrifices as well. Her decision to become a sister hadn’t been an impulsive one, and she wanted Father O’Reilly to know that. “If you’re speakin’ of the vow of poverty, well, bein’ poor is all I’ve known. As for obedience, I will try my best to do what I’m told.”

“And the vow of chastity?”

She felt her face grow warm, embarrassed to speak to her priest about a subject so personal. She didn’t want to explain that she’d never been interested in marriage or raising a family, even though she loved the children of her village dearly. She believed her lack of interest in domestic life was one more indication that she belonged in a convent. “I shall have little difficulty keeping that vow,” she said as she stared down at her lap, her voice nearly a whisper.

“So you have thought about this.” His smile deepened the creases around his eyes. “Good. The vows are important, lass, and not to be taken lightly.”

“I never would.”

“Of course not.”

“So, you’ll sponsor me?”

To her surprise he laughed. “One step at a time. No reason to rush into this. Now, before I agree to anythin’, there’s one other matter we need to discuss—your faith.”

She arched a brow. “My faith? I don’t understand. You know all about my faith. You’ve been my priest my entire life.”

Letting go of her hand, his demeanor became serious. “’Tis not your Catholic faith I’m referrin’ to. ’Tis the strength of your faith in God because in the end it all comes down to that. If you’re to travel on the path God is leadin’ you, your faith must be solid as stone. ‘Tis the only way you’ll survive the journey.” His penetrating gaze was unrelenting.

“While you’re livin’ here in Ballyclough, among family and friends who understand you and love you, the faith you have now may seem like enough. But elsewhere you’ll be meetin’ people of all sorts. People who’ll question your religion and attack what you stand for. They’ll scorn you for the very thing you’ve devoted your life to, and consider you contemptible because of it. You’ll be ridiculed and taunted, and the core of your beliefs will be under attack. When that happens, what will you do?”

Her shoulders tensed as if she were already under attack. “I will pray.”

“Aye, that you will. You’ll be down on your knees, cryin’ out to God from the bottom of your broken heart and from the depths of your shattered soul—and the Lord will be silent.” Pausing, he leaned forward. “That is the moment you draw on your faith. When you choose to believe God is listening, even when you hear nothing. When you remember His promises, even though you fear He’s abandoned you. And when you never forget His gift of eternal love, even when it seems the entire world is against you.”

For the first time since she’d made her decision, Ainslee felt uncertainty seeping in. “How do I know if I have that kind of faith?”

“Until the time comes, you won’t. Only then will you discover how strong your convictions truly are.” His expression softened, and he sat back. “I can see the doubt in your eyes. ‘Tis not my intent to discourage you. Yet I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you the truth of it.”

Her fingers began to work her skirt again. “You’ve given me a lot to think about, Father.”

“Turn your doubts over to God. Trust that He’ll let you know if becomin’ a sister is what He really wants of you.”

They stood and walked to the back of the church. “I won’t sponsor you right now, but we can begin some of your studies if you like.”

“I would.” She was heartened he hadn’t rejected her completely.

“Next week, then. We’ll start with a bit of theology, maybe some church history.”

As she walked home, she thought about the priest’s words. It was the first time anyone had questioned her faith—the first time she’d questioned it. From an early age, her family had dubbed her Saint Lee, and Shannon sometimes accused her of being too devout. However, one short conversation with Father O’Reilly had managed to undermine her confidence in her calling and crack the foundation of her spirituality.

Did she have enough faith? Was she strong enough to stand up to adversity, to derision, to the rejection of others because of her beliefs? What if she wasn’t?

What would she do then?

Dublin, Ireland

November 1845

Rory stared at the fiery orange
and red flames as they crackled and danced in the hearth of his one-room flat. A thick textbook lay open on the desk beside him, but for the past hour he’d been unable to focus on a single word. Instead, his thoughts wandered to the letter he’d received from Sara earlier that day. Tearing his gaze from the hypnotic fire, he picked up the delicate sheets of stationery. For the third time that evening, he read the words written in his cousin’s light, spidery hand.

Dearest Rory,

I pray this letter finds you happy and well. Perhaps news of our situation has reached you in Dublin. A horrid blight has destroyed nearly all the potato crops, and many of the tenants are in arrears. Father has suspended their rents until the next harvest, but it hasn’t been enough. More and more of the villagers have come to the manor asking for food, unable to feed their children. I worry how they will survive the winter.

Some of the villagers have left, traveling to Cork harbor, sailing for England or America. Mother and William have encouraged Father to move to London, but he is unwilling to shirk his responsibility to our tenants, no matter the effect on the family fortune.

You can be proud of Colm. Several times I have seen him leave the manor with Father’s coach laden with supplies, returning hours later empty-handed. He never speaks of it, and while he is still as sullen as ever, I am warmed by the kind heart he tries so hard to hide from the rest of the world.

I am writing to ask that you return to Gormley Manor, dear cousin. It is with great trepidation that I make this request, for I know you are close to finishing your studies at University, and your last visit here ended badly. But I believe the situation to be desperate.

Love, Sara

Rory held the last page up to the glowing light emanating from the small reading lamp on the desk. Several tiny puckers were apparent on the onion skin parchment, and the ink was slightly smeared. Evidence of her tears.

He set the letter on the desk then picked up his textbook. The words were a blurry mass, and after a few moments he slammed the volume shut. He shoved back his chair, stood, then grabbed his coat and hat. He left his flat with the hope that a long walk might clear his head.

A blast of cold air slammed into him as he stepped outside the building. Not many people were on the streets at this late hour, which suited him fine. He didn’t need any distractions, he needed to think. He thrust his hands into the warm pockets of his coat and headed to the south end of the city.

Sara had been right. He had heard of the trouble plaguing the farmers in the countryside. Dublin wasn’t directly affected—yet. But Rory knew it would only be a matter of time before the entire country would feel the repercussions of the widespread blight that had destroyed so much of Ireland’s staple crop. Even before he’d received Sara’s letter, stories of the starving peasants had trickled into the Dubliners’ daily conversation. Each tale of woe stabbed at him, bringing back childhood memories he had tried so long to forget.

A part of him wished he’d never read Sara’s letter, that it somehow had been lost in the post. That same part wanted to stay in Dublin, to pretend the suffering happening in Cork and other counties in Ireland wasn’t real.

Loud, off-key singing reached his ears as he passed a pub, some of the vulgar words of the ditty comprehensible through the glass-paned window. Before they finished their tune, the drunken patrons broke out into a roar of raucous laughter, the sound of their bellowing guffaws following Rory as he rounded the corner. For a fraction of a second, he felt a yearning to join them, to drown all his trouble in a pint of stout. The desire both surprised and frightened him. How could he long for something he’d seen destroy his family?

He shoved the troubling urge away.
I will never be the drunken sot my father was.

An icy sharp wind instantly cut through him, piercing the layers of his coat and clothing. His breath formed small white puffs in the frosty night air.

How will they survive the winter?

Sara’s letter pushed into his thoughts again. As a child, he had asked himself the same question, how he, Colm, and his mother could possibly live through another desolate season. Uncle Edwin had saved them by taking them into his home. Now he was trying to save his tenants.

Rory knew what he had to do.

Later that night he packed his belongings. It was time for him to stop taking and start giving. No more running away, no more cowardly behavior. He would do the right thing. He had no other choice.

“Sara, let me do that.”
Rory met her at the kitchen door and took the heavy silver tray from her hands. Lumpy scones and small slices of bread were piled in a small mountain atop the tray. The food, made by Brigit and prepared in a hurry, was destined to be breakfast for the hungry peasants swarming outside their front gates. The tenant farmers had been gathering since before dawn.

“Thank you.” Sara pushed aside a limp strand of hair, tucking it back into her cap. The dark shadows under her delicate eyes had become more pronounced since Rory had arrived from Dublin four days ago.

“You must rest, lass,” he told her as they made their way past the grand staircase to the front door. “Let Brigit and her staff serve the meal.”

“Nay,” she said, her shaky voice belying her weariness. “I’m fine.”

“I’m worried about you.”

She halted her steps and turned to him. “I appreciate your concern, but how can I rest knowing the villagers suffer? How can I lie in my comfortable bed and sleep while the children cry out in hunger?” She straightened her slumped shoulders. “We have to help them, Rory.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but she held up her hand. “I will rest, cousin, when every mouth is fed.” With renewed energy, she strode toward the front door into the cold morning air.

Rory shook his head. Since his arrival he had become aware of the reality of the situation, and it was one Sara refused to accept. The mysterious blight that had affected the potato crop had wiped out some of the poorest families on the estate, the ones who worked the smallest plots of land. In the best of times, they lived a hand-to-mouth existence.

It was impossible for the Gormleys to feed all the starving people that huddled outside their home. Their own supplies were dwindling. Rory had also discovered that his uncle was ill. As Edwin grew weaker in his malaise, William made more decisions, threatening to move the family back to England and leave a squire to manage the manor in his stead. Rory was certain that whoever his cousin chose to handle the family’s Irish affairs would be void of concern for the tenants. In that way, he understood Sara’s urgency and obligation, for he didn’t want to ponder the fate of the tenants if the Gormleys fled to England.

The one bright spot was that since his return, he’d managed to avoid Lady Jane. Or rather, she avoided him, as well as Sara and Uncle Edwin. She had cloistered herself in her rooms, leaving the running of the manor to Sara. A strange move on her part, but he wasn’t about to question it. He would continue to be grateful that he was able to stay at Gormley Manor without engaging in petty arguments with his aunt. There were far more important things needing his attention.

He reached the front door, the frosty air an ominous contrast to the warmth inside the manor. Walking toward the gates, he saw Sara arranging a pot of oatmeal and tin bowls on a small table. Two servants stood at the ready to help with anything their mistress needed and make sure the starving people didn’t storm the estate. The entire staff remained eager to follow Sara’s instructions, knowing she was the only thing that stood between their bellies staying full and joining the ranks of villagers.

Rory set the tray on the table next to the porridge pot and watched the steam rise from the thick mixture of oats and hot water.

“Open the gates, Sean.” Sara poured a ladle of oatmeal into a bowl and took a small scone. She took a deep breath, her smile tight and forced. “Breakfast is ready.”

Memories of Rory’s childhood hit him square on as he looked at the outstretched hands of the hungry people. He remembered many times as a child in Limerick when his mother sent him out to beg for food, sometimes making him take Colm with him. “They’ll pity two bedraggled lads more than one,” she would always say. And she’d been right, for they never failed to find one or two kind-hearted souls who felt sorry for them.

He grabbed a piece of bread, placing it in a young girl’s grimy hand.

“God bless ye, sir,” she said, her voice low and weak. Round, brown eyes, too large for her face, peered at him from behind a curtain of limp black hair.

He choked down the lump in his throat. “And may He bless you, wee lass.”

She stuffed the crumbly bread into her mouth.

He searched his mind for something else to say, something to bring her a small measure of comfort. But he could think of nothing. What good are words, when it’s the basic necessities she needs?

That night, after passing out food to what seemed to be an endless line of needy people, he and Sara met in the drawing room, both of them spent. A tray with tea and sandwiches lay on the polished sideboard near them. Rory selected two small sandwiches and took them to Sara, who seemed on the verge of collapse.

“No arguments, lass,” he said, thrusting the plate into her hands and guiding her to one of the high-backed, winged chairs that flanked the fireplace. “You will eat.”

She opened her mouth as if to protest but accepted the food in silence. Rory quickly retrieved a sandwich for himself and sat in the chair across from her, determined not to leave until she had taken some nourishment. He was prepared to spend the entire night in the room with her if he had to.

Sara picked at the bread, finally breaking off a piece and eating it. “There were more than only our tenants at the gates today.”

Rory nodded. “I noticed. I suspect the numbers will increase tomorrow.”

“If only the other landowners would take action.” She sighed, shaking her head. “Like William, they seem content to let the people starve.”

He couldn’t respond. What could he say when he didn’t understand the
laissez-faire
attitude many of the English landowners held regarding the Irish problem? While there were a few who, like Uncle Edwin, were trying their best to provide food and supplies to the tenant farmers, there were far more that refused.

“Speaking of William,” Sara continued, “he and Priscilla have left for Cork.”

Rory arched a brow. “When?”

“This morning. Apparently they used the back entrance of the estate, which was why we didn’t see them depart. They’ll be back in a fortnight.” A guilty expression crossed her delicate features. “I must admit… I’m glad they’re gone. I believe it will be easier for Father while William is away.”

“Aye. Things are always easier when William is away.”

Sara managed a tiny smile, but it quickly dissipated. “If only my brother could see how his unrelenting insistence on leaving Ireland affects Father. But he’s turned a blind eye to everything except his selfish desire to move to England.”

“Do you think Priscilla has anything to do with it?”

“I honestly don’t know. Priscilla isn’t exactly forthcoming with me. She spends more time with Mother. Perhaps it could be Mother influencing Priscilla, who is, in turn, pressuring William. To be honest, I don’t care.” She stared down at her food. “I’m weary of hearing him say this tragedy is the tenants’ fault.” She looked at Rory. “I don’t understand how he can be so cruel.” She set her plate on the tiny, round side table next to the chair, rose from her seat, then walked to the window. She stared out at the people below. “They’re still here.” She placed her palm against the pane of glass. “Even at night there are so many of them, standing at the door, waiting for what little we give them.”

Rory came up behind her and gently turned her to face him. “We’re doing all we can, Sara. Take comfort in that.”

“I try. But Rory, sometimes I feel it is all too much to bear.”

He enveloped her in his embrace. “There now. Remember, we will not be given more than we can endure. ‘Tis only for a season, all this. Next year will be better. The potatoes will come back plumper and more plentiful than ever. And all these troubles will be in the past.” He released her. “Now,” he added, guiding her back to her chair. “Finish your supper.”