Kilpara Read online

  Almost two weeks after I'd begun my watch, I saw a carriage slowly wind up the drive. I cursed silently when Charles Sloane disembarked and went inside the house. He was there a long time and when he came out, Morrigan was with him. The groom held the carriage door open and she stepped inside. My heart leaped at the sight of her. I was too far away to see her face. But as the carriage moved down the drive, I was tormented with images of her in Sloane’s arms. I had no doubt he was using the situation to take advantage of her vulnerability. My blood began to boil. I had to tell her the truth. I mounted Brazonhead and raced down the hill halting abruptly in front of the carriage, forcing it to stop. Horses reared in protest as the groom yanked on the reins bringing the vehicle to a standstill, just feet away from me. Insanely, I wanted to reach inside and insist that Morrigan dismount and leave with me. But as I rode alongside the door, she turned her head away. Sloane stepped out of the carriage with a conceited grin on his face.

  “Remove yourself at once, my good fellow,” he said. “You've already caused this family enough anguish.”

  When I didn't move, he waved his walking cane at me. “If you don't leave immediately, I shall be forced to report you to the authorities.”

  Something snapped inside me then and I dismounted. Without hesitation, I walked straight up to him and locked stares. “You’re the one trespassing,” I said. “I own Kilpara now.”

  “Now wait just a minute—” he began.

  Unable to contain myself any longer, I punched him squarely in the jaw, my knuckles stinging from the contact. The force of the blow knocked him to the ground. I stood immobile as he rubbed his jaw, disbelief registered on his face. “I would never intentionally hurt Morrigan,” I said. “You, on the other hand, are a son-of-a-bitch.”

  Morrigan had flung open the carriage door when she heard us exchange words and looked at me in disgust as she joined Larcourt’s groom at Sloane’s side. My anger ebbed when our eyes met briefly. I wanted to plead with her for understanding. But that seemed hopeless, so I turned and mounted Brazonhead. I could feel her eyes boring into the back of my head as I rode away.

  By the time I reached the convent stables, I was regretting my actions and feeling more dejected than ever. I opened Brazonhead’s stall but didn’t urge him inside. I sat down close to the gate and let him munch on some loose hay. “I'm never going to see her again,” I told Brazonhead. “She'll never speak to me now. If only there was some way I could make her understand.”

  “Wha—wha—what’s all the commotion?” a voice said from somewhere inside the stall behind me. Gully Joyce climbed out from under some hay, rubbing his eyes. “You’re disturbing me peaceful nap with all this woman talk.”

  I wasn’t in the mood for company, but it looked like I had it anyway. “Wait here a minute,” Gully said. “Ye look like you’re ailin’ and I have the very thing that’ll cure ye.”

  He came back with a narrow-mouthed stone jug and two mugs. “A wee drink of this is what ye need.” He poured odd-colored liquid into the two mugs.

  “Aren't you afraid of Mother Superior’s wrath?” I asked.

  “No worries there,” he responded. “There’s nothing wrong with a wee drink. Ye won’t go t’hell for getting tipsy. That’s only natural ye see.”

  I was beginning to think the Irish made up rules to life and religion according to their needs and desires. But I wasn’t about to argue the point. I took a gulp of the liquid and coughed as it burned my throat. “What is this?”

  Gully’s face broke into a grin. “Poteen, the likes you’ll never find anywhere else in Ireland.”

  Several drinks later I asked, “Why did you fight Purcenell’s jockey?”

  Gully pulled up the legs of his trousers. There were large scars on his legs. “Ye know I used to be a jockey meself,” he said. I nodded. “Not much left in here.” He hit his legs with his fist. “Thank God, I can still walk. I was winning a race against Edward Mullins years ago; he’s a sore loser that one and will try anything to win. He hit my horse with his whip, the same way he jabbed that spur into Brazonhead. The horse reared up, but unlike yourself, I wasn’t trained on bucking broncos. I fell off. My foot caught in the stirrup and the horse dragged me a long way before he stopped and I was cut lose. They gave me up for dead—almost. Mullins hasn’t changed one bit. He got what was coming to him.”

  I nodded. We drank to victory. After a short silence, I said, “I can't get her alone to explain what happened.”

  “Who?” Gully asked.

  “Morrigan.”

  “Purcenell’s daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Kilpara is yours now. Ye can ride right up there and demand to speak to her.”

  Gully poured us another drink. I swallowed the strange brew and noticed my tongue had gone numb.

  “I've already tried that,” I said. “But they say that she’s out.”

  “Send her a letter.”

  “I tried that, too. She won’t respond, and Purcenell won’t receive me.”

  “It’s your house now. He can't refuse.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Sloane has gotten to her. He wants to marry her. I saw them together today and it set my blood to boiling. I hit him.”

  Gully tapped his chin with his fingers. “Ye did, now did ye? Did he fight back then?”

  “No. He looked very much the victim and got Morrigan's sympathy.”

  “A real coward, but not in Miss Morrigan's eyes, I reckon. She thinks you're a brute for hitting him.” He took a gulp of his drink. “All the same, I might know a way to get a letter to her and convince her to talk to ye.”

  “How?”

  Gully winked. “Can’t reveal me sources. But I can do it.”

  “Do—don’t move,” I said. “Wait here. I’m going to get an ink pen and paper.” That was easier said than done. Whatever this poteen stuff was, it struck every limb in my body and they wouldn’t respond to my commands. After staggering to the house and back, I sat down beside Gully with the pen poised against the paper. The paper swam unevenly before me as I tried to write.

  “What shall I say?” I asked.

  “Just that ye must meet with her to clear up misunderstandings between yez. Apologize for your inappropriate behavior and explain ye were provoked. Very sorry, ye say. Ye were blinded by injustice y’see.”

  I stared at Gully. “Go on,” he motioned. “Do ye want to talk to her or not?”

  I scribbled some lines with Gully peering over my shoulder. “Better keep that hand steady,” he instructed. “Your penmanship must be flawless if you’re to impress the beautiful Miss Morrigan.”

  I awoke the next morning with a splitting headache. I was sure I had done something important, but I couldn’t remember what it was. All day, I received long stares. No one said anything, but there were lots of sniffs and face-making. That evening, a novice came to me in my room where things were finally settling down to some order.

  “Gully Joyce wants to see you in the stables,” she said. “He says it’s urgent.”

  My immediate concern was Brazonhead but walking toward the stables everything came back to me. Gully had given me something to drink. I had poured out my heart to him about Morrigan. Together, we had written some kind of note. I remembered only pieces of what it said. One thing I was sure of, I'd managed to make a bad situation worse. If that was possible.

  “Here’s your reply,” Gully said, when I entered the stables. He ran the envelope past his nose.

  “Reply?” I stared at him, uncomprehending.

  “To the letter ye wrote to Miss Morrigan last night.”

  “She answered it?”

  “Indeed she did.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “It’s right here.”

  Gully waved the envelope in front of me and there was mischief in his eyes. “Can’t hold your drink can ye, lad? Even if I say so meself, the note ye wrote to the lady last night, with my help, of course, was very much from the heart. And I got her to write back
to ye.”

  “Give me that.” I grabbed the envelope out of his hand and tore it open searching my mind for the words I might have written.

  “Testy, testy,” he said, trying to peek over my shoulder.

  Mr. O’Donovan, the note read. (She underlined O’Donovan three times in red ink).

  I treasured our friendship, but that was before I learned of your intention to steal Kilpara away from my father and me through deviant means. Please know that I feel betrayed by your actions and consider you no longer my friend.

  I was also shocked by your brutal behavior yesterday. Sir Charles Sloane is a refined gentleman who would never strike another human being even when provoked. You, on the other hand, behaved in an uncivilized manner. He is extremely shaken from your blow. You are very fortunate he will not be pressing charges. I will grant your request to meet, but for one reason only, and that is so you may see for yourself the depth of my anger. After that, I expect you to leave my father and me alone, and it is my fervent hope we will never see you again. Ever. Meet me on the strand tomorrow morning at 10:00 a.m.

  M. Purcenell

  P.S. I do not wish to meet you at Kilpara because the very mention of your name distresses my father.

  I stared at the note. “She’s really angry,” Gully said with conviction. “Maybe ye should ask Mother Superior to pray that she gets over it.” I looked at him. He shrugged. “What’re ye going to do? Ye can’t talk to women when they’re angry. They won’t talk back—usually.”

  He watched on curiously as I reread the note. Morrigan’s words flew off the page like daggers, each one striking its target. Blood rushed to my temples and I kicked the wooden gate of an empty stall. “Deviant means, huh?” I shouted. “I never stole Kilpara from her father. I won it fair and square, and I’m entitled to it. Her family isn’t so pure. They took advantage of my grandparents’ desperation years ago.”

  “True, but that’s not how she sees it,” Gully offered.

  “Whose side are you on?”

  “Yours. All of Brandubh wants to see the O’Donovans back at Kilpara, except the Purcenells, that is.”

  I slammed the palm of my hand against the wooden gate. “How can I convince her it's not the way she thinks?”

  “Ye can’t. Women have to know these things for themselves.”

  “I can see why you never married, Gully Joyce.”

  “Thank God. The woman hasn’t been created yet that can catch me. The very thought of a woman’s clutches gives me the shivers.” He scratched around inside the empty stall and came up with a jug. “Care to drink t’that?”

  “No,” I said. “One miserable hangover is enough.”

  “I’ll drink for both of us then.”

  I was restless that night, waking several times. At the first sign of dawn, I saddled Brazonhead and rode to the beach. It was hours yet till our meeting and I paced up and down the cobbled strand, unable to stay still very long. Each time I paused, I pulled Morrigan's letter out of my pocket and reread it. I tried to compose in my head what I would say to her, but it was hopeless. I couldn't focus. Eventually, I mounted Brazonhead and rode across the fields toward Kilpara. We arrived at the gatehouse long before Purcenell’s carriage was due to leave. The gatekeeper took one look at me and wordlessly led Brazonhead away to graze. Then he returned with a strong mug of tea and handed it to me where I sat under a tree to wait.

  After what seemed like an age, the carriage rumbled down the avenue. It stopped at the gatehouse. I climbed up beside the surprised groom who looked to the gatekeeper for explanation. The gatekeeper introduced me and ordered the groom to obey my instructions. The groom raised his cap and nodded his compliance. We left Kilpara in the direction of Galway passing over a small bridge where the Kilpara River ran beneath. I ordered the groom to stop.

  “Why are we stopping?” Morrigan asked from inside the carriage.

  I opened the door and offered her my hand.

  She gasped. “You!”

  I flinched at the anger in her voice and the cold stare in her eyes. “Walk with me awhile,” I pleaded. I tried to form the words in my mind that would convince her I never meant to hurt her. But from the coldness in her eyes, it was clear my words would be wasted.

  She refused my hand, and picking up her skirts, she dismounted. She walked ahead of me in silence for several minutes. When we came to where the stream rippled down over a small bank, Morrigan stopped and turned to look at me.

  “You deceived me,” she said, her eyes boring into mine. “You lied about who you really are. To everyone. You came over from America to avenge your family and destroy my father.”

  “That’s not true,” I said, wanting to touch her, but stepping back instead. “I didn’t lie. Not exactly. Admittedly, I never told you my name was O’Donovan. But I never came here to avenge or destroy anyone. My sole purpose was to gain permission to bury my mother at Kilpara, our family's ancestral home. It’s the reason she came back to Ireland. My Aunt Sadie, the Mother Superior at St. Bridget's Convent, asked your father’s consent, but he refused. It seemed hopeless that he would ever change his mind. When the opportunity presented itself to race against him for Kilpara, I took that chance. But I never intended to keep the property. I always meant to return it to your father and you. I swear.”

  “You used me,” Morrigan replied heatedly. “You pretended to be my friend so you could extract information for your own gain. You’re ruthless.”

  “Judge me guilty of deception if you wish, but I’m not ruthless. My fault lies in compassion for my mother’s desire to be laid to rest among O’Donovans at Kilpara and yearnings she and my father harbored all those years in America that they would one day return to their homeland. Is such a small favor too much to ask of your father?”

  Morrigan dropped her eyes to look down at her hands, then over at the rippling water. “I don't believe my father would callously deny your mother her wish to be buried in the O’Donovan graveyard.”

  “Believe it. He laughed in my Aunt Sadie’s face when she asked him.”

  She looked at me fully. “You don’t know the ways of the people here. He would’ve been suspicious of such an appeal. Even from a nun. He would’ve thought it was some kind of Irish posturing.”

  “Not a nun, for God’s sake.”

  “She may be a nun, but she’s foremost Irish and a Catholic. Neither; my father would readily trust.”

  “Would you have considered her plea?”

  “I am not responsible for of such matters. My father would think deeply before conceding to your aunt’s request. He can’t show vulnerability before his tenants. There are Irish insurgents among them.”

  “Now, that’s preposterous.”

  “It’s reality.”

  “If he showed kindness toward former emigrant Irish landlords, surely it would ingratiate his tenants.”

  “On the contrary.”

  “Look,” I said, unable to follow this reasoning. “I don’t intend to take Kilpara from you or your father. Surely, that deserves some forgiveness.”

  “You want us to feel indebted to you?” Her voice was hard. Its coldness tore at my heart.

  “No—”

  “We don’t want your favors. If you hand Kilpara back to Father, he’ll look the fool among his peers. You’ve destroyed his pride and reputation. You’ve made him a laughing stock.”

  I bristled. “It was a fair and legal contest.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “One that you manipulated to achieve your goal. You destroyed my father, you tricked him. But not for long. Charles has asked me to marry him. My father will continue to live at Kilpara.”

  I stared at her in disbelief. “You think marrying Sloane will restore your father’s pride?”

  “Charles will offer you more than a fair price for Kilpara and then return the property to my father as a wedding gift.”

  “And that’s better than my offer?”

  “It won’t be a favor. It’ll be a gift from my betrothed.”r />
  “Your father will never bow down to Sloane. He’s too stubborn for that.”

  “For my sake, Charles will conceal the details in such a way that Father’s dignity will remain intact.”

  “Can't you see what Sloane’s doing? He's bargaining marriage in exchange for Kilpara. I'm offering to give you back Kilpara—for nothing. You don't have to accept his proposal. Do you love him?”

  “That’s not the point.” Her voice wavered. “My father grossly underestimated the risk he took when he agreed to race you at Ballybrit. He never dreamt he’d be defeated. He’s been ill since that day.”

  “He entered the race with the same foresight I did,” I argued. “Kilpara means as much to my mother as it does to you and your father. Surely you can see why her dying wish should be honored.”

  “Even if I agree, you’re aware my family has owned Kilpara for a generation now, and in my father’s view—”

  “Your grandfather bought it for a pittance.”

  “The O’Donovans accepted his offer.”

  “They had no choice. The Crown had the upper hand. Think back to what you said when I told you about the white man taking land away from the native Indians.” I rubbed my forehead trying to recall her exact words. “Ah yes, it was ‘to capture one’s freedom and one’s land is to steal one’s heart and soul.’ That’s what your grandfather did to my family when he bought Kilpara for a fraction of its worth. He stole the heart and soul of the O’Donovans..”

  She winced then looked away. When she turned back she stared straight through me.

  “It’s insidious to blame my family for this country’s political woes or your family’s misfortunes.”