Kilpara Read online

  Kilpara

  By Patricia Hopper

  Copyright © 2015 Patricia Hopper

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.

  Book cover design and layout by

  Ellie Bockert Augsburger of Creative Digital Studios.

  www.CreativeDigitalStudios.com

  Cover design features:English Castle: © forcdan / Dollar Photo ClubVintage Background with Flowers: © Nadezda Kostina / Dollar Photo Club

  Produced in the United States of America

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Dedication

  To Mam and Dad and the wonderful memories I’ll always cherish

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Susan Maczko who was with Kilpara from its infancy; her unique insight and feedback gave me inspiration. Thanks to Georgeann Swiger and Laura Treacy Bentley who opened my eyes to the complicated publishing world, and who boosted my confidence on many occasions with their encouragement and support. Thanks to Larry Pugh who patiently edited several drafts of Kilpara; his articulation and suggestions for improvement were always spot on. Thanks to Ellie Bockert Augsburger of Creative Digital Designs whose artistic book-cover design visually characterizes Kilpara.

  CHAPTER 1

  Maryland, April 1866

  The horses galloped harder, necks straining, nostrils steaming, hooves grinding against rain-soaked surfaces. I leaned away from the window to avoid loose muck hurled against the carriage sides. We entered the long avenue, careening around the final bend that brought us face-to-face with Stonebridge House, its stone turrets rising up to rival springtime mountains in the background. Seamus heaved the reins and drew the panting horses to a standstill in front of wide granite steps.

  I hesitated at the open carriage door, sensing the cheerless black mood that waited inside those thick ivy-clad walls. Gloom darkened the house after Francis was killed at Fredericksburg and had worsened when Father passed away two years later. I returned then staying just long enough to bid my last farewells. After that, I became a reluctant visitor, often denying Mother’s numerous attempts to lure me back home. I wanted to avoid this regretful place once so vital and full of life. Remorse filled me now, remembering how easily I rejected her invitation when she last came to see me in Baltimore. It seemed like yesterday; yet in adding up the months, almost a year had passed since that visit. I reflected on the urgency of her telegram. It said nothing more than I should return home at once.

  I stepped down from the carriage almost colliding with Eileen who rushed out to meet me, arms wide open, skirts dancing around thick ankles.

  “Thank goodness you’re here, Master Ellis,” she said, her words spilling over each other in her still heavy Irish accent. “You must be tired and hungry after your long journey. Supper will be brought to your room soon as you’ve seen the Missus.”

  Eileen, grayer, rounder, ruddier now than when I was growing up, had lost none of her usual fussiness. I bent down and kissed her cheek.

  “Ah, go on with ye, Master Ellis,” she admonished, pleasure flushing her cheeks red.

  I followed her into the cool marble foyer that smelled of lavender polish and burning wood. The darkening interior, soon to be lit by flickering yellow light, filled me with foreboding as we passed the Great Room where heat drifted out from the open fireplace and dishes being set for the morning’s breakfast clattered amid hushed voices.

  Climbing the thick oak staircase, we hurried along the dimly lit hallway until we came to the last door. Eileen rapped lightly, the sound echoing through the stillness. I had expected to see Mother downstairs and wondered about her absence. A nurse in a starched uniform opened the door and motioned me inside, her eyes curiously taking in my travel-worn appearance.

  In the dim light, I glanced around the room until I saw Mother lying shallow-faced against thick feather pillows in the large mahogany bed she and Father had shared most of their married life. Gone were the sparkling eyes that now lay jaded beneath sagging eyelids, her once thick and wiry auburn hair bordered her face in thin, graying layers. I tried to speak but my throat felt dry. “Moth—Mother?” I mumbled.

  “Ellis? You’re here,” she said. “Come closer, so I can see you.”

  I stumbled forward, my feet unusually heavy as I crossed the room. Could this really be Mother? Patting the bed, she reached out to me with frail hands. Gently, I took them in mine and kissed her cheek. I struggled to remember if there was anything in her appearance the last time I saw her in Baltimore that could have prepared me for this. She was still in mourning then, yet even in a long-sleeved black linen dress she drew attention. Her hair had been coiled neatly at the nape of her neck beneath a yellow and navy blue hat, the only color she allowed herself after Father’s death. Her illuminating smile softened the lines in her face, and her vibrant voice still beguiled everyone in her presence. I groaned inwardly, the image shattering before me like a mirror crashing into smithereens.

  “I didn’t know—” I faltered, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  She smiled weakly. “I waited as long as I could, Ellis, and I made your brothers promise not to tell. I didn’t want you to worry. Let me look at you, so handsome, so strong. I was fortunate to have such healthy boys. You’ve grown into good men. Even Francis—taken in the war.” Her breath came in rasps and she paused, lapsing further into the pillows. “I asked you to come because I have a request,” she said, finally.

  “Anything, Mother.”

  Her grip tightened round my hands. Pursing her lips, she said, “I want—I want to go back to Ireland to die. Will you take me to see Kilpara one last time, to bury your father and me there? He always meant to go back, your father. He never got the chance. There were you and your brothers to raise, the farm to tend, then the grandchildren came along. You understand...” She coughed a deep hacking cough that brought the nurse to her side. I waited in stunned silence.

  “Don’t excite yourself so, Missus O’Donovan,” the nurse intervened. Mother waved away her concern.

  “I’ll speak to the doctor, Mother,” I said, my mind rejecting this troubled confession and its fated consequences. You’ll get well, you’ll see.”

  “Look at me, Ellis,” she said, hoarsely. “I’m dying. That’s why I sent for you. You’re the one after my own heart, different from your brothers. They’re farmers, Francis, too, born to tend the land just like your father. Not you, Ellis, you had the gift for learning, and I wanted you to pursue it, even if it took you away from me. I need you to do this one last thing. I can’t ask your brothers; they have families to look after. It’s better this way...”

  She grew considerably agitated during this last speech, an effort that brought on more coughing. I sat quietly while the nurse helped her through this spell. Questions churned in my mind. Why had she waited so long to summon me? Why at this eleventh hour was her mind set on this, her last agenda?

  The nurse returned to her position at the end of the bed, and Mother’s weary eyes implored mine.

  “I want to go back while I still can,” she said. “I wanted to go after your father—after he passed on, to bury him overlooking the Corrib. Then this illness took hold. There’s no more time. You will do this, won’t you, Ellis?”

  I looked away. Didn’t she know that any thought of such a journey was impossible in her weakened state? She had to get well, get her strength back, return to the way she was. Unable to voice my opinion I said, “I’ll do whatever you ask, Mother.”
<
br />   She smiled faintly, her hands slackening on mine. “I’m tired,” she said. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.” Her eyes slid closed. I rose and bent over to kiss her forehead.

  I moved away from her bedside and the nurse stepped in quickly. She checked Mother’s pulse then led me into the corridor closing the door softly behind us. I took the flickering lamp from her hand and guided her downstairs to the library.

  “I’m Trista Joyce,” she ventured, hurrying to keep up. I nodded acknowledgement.

  Sliding back heavy wooden doors, I walked over to the credenza where brandy and other condiments had been set out. Eileen had thought of everything.

  Trista hesitated at the door.

  “Join me?” I asked, pouring brandy into two glasses. Seeing her surprised look, I said, “I want to know more about my mother’s condition.” I motioned to an armchair and handed her a brandy which she promptly set aside. In one quick gulp, I emptied the liquid in my glass, poured another drink and stood by the fireplace. The liquor felt warm against my throat, but failed to ease the tightness in my chest that threatened to plunge me into a whirlpool of anguish.

  It never occurred to me, when I left Stonebridge eight years before, there would ever be life without my parents. They were strong and healthy then and I believed they would stay that way always. That was before the war, conflict, secession, killing—and Francis. Kind, gallant Francis; Father never got over his death, the shock took its toll on him. He began ailing afterwards, steadily whittling away to a fraction of himself. When he died just two years later, I lost myself in work to escape the misery and vacuum left by his and Francis’ passing. At times, when my emotions threatened to surface, I sought solace in drink and in the arms of willing women.

  The brandy provided a surreal feeling. I floated above my dreaded consciousness. I looked closer at Trista Joyce, no older than nineteen. A slip of a girl, posed as an Angel of Mercy trained to give comfort to the infirm, gathering them to her starched breast, her gentle hands caressing pain into latency.

  She watched me through kind, hazel eyes from her angelic perch, her nurse’s cap proudly crowning her head like a halo. Her fresh, guileless gaze, earnest and attentive, was naïve in nature compared to the worldly faces I frequented in Baltimore.

  “How long have you been in my mother’s employ?”

  “I arrived last October, at your mother’s request,” she answered in soft Irish tones. “She’s been putting everything in order since her decision to return to Ireland.”

  “You’ve been here over five months? How could I not know she was so ill?”

  Trista Joyce shifted uncomfortably in her chair but said nothing. Did she think I was uncaring? Why hadn’t Dan and Mark warned me instead of letting me walk blindly into this—this quandary? Where were they now? I thought back to when they brought the last herd of horses to Baltimore. In retrospect I could see they had tried to warn me. They dropped subtle hints without actually saying Mother was seriously ill, but I was too wrapped up in my own affairs to detect their meaning.

  “When did my mother become so grave?” I asked now.

  “It’s been happening over time,” Trista said. “Her illness has progressed since I’ve been here. The disease is afflicting her body, but her spirit is still fierce and strong.”

  “What does the doctor say?”

  “It’s the consumption. Her condition will worsen; your mother already knows this. She contacted your Aunt Sadie and asked for a nurse to travel back to Ireland with her to care for her until the end. I studied under your aunt and had just finished my training when she received Mrs. O’Donovan’s request. She asked me to come to America and assist your mother.”

  “You approve of this plan?”

  Compassion flooded her eyes, and misery threatened to engulf me. I poured another drink while she answered.

  “She’s very determined—”

  “I had to agree with her up there,” I interrupted, pointing in the direction of Mother’s room. “It’s ludicrous to think of making such a voyage. Sentimental gibberish is what it is. My brothers will agree.”

  “It’s her wish.” Trista’s voice was deliberately low in contrast to my rising belligerence.

  I began to feel trapped, like a fly caught in a spider’s web. I wanted to escape, to hold a living, breathing woman in my arms, to feel passion rushing through my veins with the velocity of a river out of control. Trista’s piety taunted me. Her chaste exterior mocked my torment. I wanted to steal away her purity so starched and spotless like the uniform she wore. I could feel my hands on the smoothness of her neck, my lips tasting her surrender.

  I hovered close when her trembling voice intruded. “I must return to my patient.” She rose intentionally, edged away from me clutching the collar of her uniform.

  “Yes, do.” I waited until the doors slid closed, then slammed my fist down on the stone mantle.

  Retreating to my room, I encountered Eileen at the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll send Seán up with hot water,” she said, her voice soft with kindness. “And Maureen will bring a tray when it’s prepared.”

  “Where are my brothers?” I asked, unable to control the frustration in my voice.

  “They’re not back yet from Stile Valley. It's foaling time. They expected to be here when ye arrived.”

  “Fetch me when they come in.”

  “Surely,” she said, as she laid her hand on my arm. “Things’ll seem better after you've eaten and rested.”

  I nodded and took the stairs two at a time. Entering the bedroom that had been mine throughout childhood, lamplight cast warm shadows onto the wallpaper, the polished floor, the thick tapestry drapes covering tall, French windows. Memories were preserved in my favorite books stacked on long bookshelves behind the desk and chair still standing in the same spot where they had always been.

  I moved to the window and looked onto rolling hills and forests that were almost blotted out by falling darkness. The tame oak-lined streets of Baltimore could hardly compare with the loping Maryland countryside, its stubborn landscape soothed by the emerging moon. I recalled images of my brothers and me playing on these hills, jostling and carefree. We fished in the Wern River, hunted untamed lands, dreamed about the future, a time farther away than the nearest star.

  My thoughts were interrupted by footsteps tramping across the wooden floor. I turned to find a tall youth with brown, unruly hair pouring water into the washbasin.

  “Mams said your food’ll be up shortly,” he said.

  The youth, whose voice did not match its maturing owner, completed his task and stood by the door fidgeting with the empty jug. “Mams wants to know if you’ll need anything else, sir.” He shifted from one foot to the other.

  “You’ve taken a stretch, Seán, since I last saw you,” I said, recognizing the youth as Eileen’s son.

  He grinned, freckles spreading across his plump face. At ease now he said, “That’s me, Master Ellis, grown up all right. Masters Dan and Mark have promised me a job in the stables with my Pa, soon as I’ve finished schooling.”

  “You’ll like that?”

  “Oh yes, sir. Can’t wait to get out of the stuffy old schoolhouse and work outside.”

  “Not me,” a voice said from behind. Maureen, not as tall as her brother and slightly plumper, stood holding a laden tray. “Soon as I can, I’m going to live in the city like Master Ellis. Life’s grand there, not like—.” She bit her lower lip, moved hastily to the small table near the window, and set down the tray. Then, sweeping past me to the open door, she turned blustery eyes on her brother.

  “Mams said not to keep Master Ellis talking. He’s had a tiring day.”

  Reluctantly, Seán followed his sister out of the room.

  Settling myself at the table, I uncovered the dishes. Steam rose from pea soup and a plate of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, buttered carrots, and freshly-baked bread. I felt hungry and the food was hot and tasty, yet I pushed it around on the plate.

  After o
nly a few bites, I set down my utensils and went to the armchair by the window. I lit my pipe, contemplating when I first left Stonebridge to begin my studies at Loyola College. Up until then, I had only known farm life and was held spellbound by Baltimore, its dense population molded into an urban society. I was seduced by the nucleus of college and city life, alluring parties, handsome people, and plays and concerts. When I graduated, war had just broken out between the States and many of my colleagues volunteered to serve in the armies; some for the North, some for the South.

  I didn’t share their patriotic chivalry to charge into battle, agreeing instead with popular opinion that the North would quell the rebellion. I took up apartments in Baltimore, offering Father and Stonebridge House my services to fulfill its long-standing commitment to supply horses to the federal cavalry. I became acquainted with Mr. Emmons, the owner of Emmons Acquisition Agency, who purchased horses and held contracts with my family. When he offered me the post of chief procurement officer for his firm, I accepted gladly. After the war ended four bitter and bloody years beyond my prediction, Emmons looked south to expand his business, travelling there as a liaison for northern businessmen to scout lucrative investments. He purchased a large parcel of land in Louisiana and became passionate about securing funds to build a town there. This was foremost on his mind these days. He hinted about a partnership when he departed for his latest trip, his recent missives leading me to expect this would occur upon his return.

  I rose from the armchair and listened. The household had turned quiet, all activity drawn in by nighttime darkness. I wandered downstairs, past the drawing room, library, and Great Room, flickering embers in fireplaces left to turn to cinders. The night air beckoned and on impulse I went outside not bothering with an overcoat. I ventured into the night to see Lilah. Her mystic black beauty had held me spellbound that first time I encountered her on one of my visits home from college. She returned my admiration and before long we were wrapped in passionate embraces down by the marshy riverbank. She had none of the primness of women of means, her uninhibited sensuality as natural and tantalizing as soft rain on parched ground. Lilah possessed none of Trista Joyce’s laced-up primness.