Kilpara Page 24

  On pleasant days it wasn’t unusual to see Jasmine with a young novice sitting under a chestnut tree poring over a book. During those sessions there was a lot of smiling and heavy concentration going on. After only a week, Jasmine proudly showed that she could write her name and construct a few words of greeting on letters to her children.

  One night I was experiencing pre-wedding jitters and awoke just before dawn. My mind was full of all the changes that had taken place. My brothers’ arrival had made me wonder about the decision I’d made to stay in Ireland. Did I really know what I was doing? And what would happen if Mother died before the wedding? What then?

  Deep in thought, I looked out the window and saw two shadowy figures stride toward the chapel. Even in the dawning light I could tell it was Rengen and Aunt Sadie. I dressed and followed them. Inside the chapel, Rengen sat on a single pew, his big frame towering above Aunt Sadie’s petite one. He remained respectfully seated, lost in thought, while she knelt with her rosary, praying silently. Aunt Sadie admitted to me later that Rengen had discovered her early morning ritual and began joining her during pre-dawn hospital rounds. Afterward, he would accompany her to the chapel and sit silently meditating while she prayed. He then accompanied her for breakfast with the other Sisters who plagued him with questions about America. “He’s brought such joy into our lives,” Aunt Sadie said.

  A week or so after my brothers arrived, Morrigan arranged for them to visit Kilpara on a day when Purcenell had business in Dublin and would be away. Dan and Mark stood in wonderment of Stonebridge’s twin structure.

  Looking around each room in turn, Dan said, “So Wiz, you won this back in a race with Brazonhead, huh? I’d like to have seen that.”

  “It’s so much like Stonebridge, it’s eerie,” Mark said. “The doors, the windows, the rooms. Everything. Mother and Father must’ve loved this place to replicate it to a tee.”

  We were standing in the Great Room. Dan walked over to a portrait hanging on the wall. “This is one memory they didn’t care to duplicate.” He pointed to the very distinguished gentleman, burly like Arthur Purcenell, but with a mustache and short beard. His smile was broad and superior with no hint of a split between his teeth. It was a portrait of Morrigan’s grandfather.

  Mark turned his head to one side and squinted. “That’s one God-awful portrait.”

  Dan grinned widely. “You’re right about that.”

  “It’ll be up to you, Wiz, to reinstate the O’Donovan clan,” Mark said. “But I don’t see Ireland agreeing with you the way Baltimore did. You'll be giving up all that carousing and city excitement.”

  “Can’t see you being too happy about that,” Dan said.

  “Baltimore is in the past,” I said. “It feels right to be here at Kilpara. I’ve made my decision to marry Morrigan, and this is where she wants to live. After bringing Mother here, I'm beginning to believe it's where I belong, too.”

  As my brothers’ gazes scanned Kilpara, they looked at me and nodded their understanding.

  CHAPTER 16

  A hint of autumn ushered in September. Morrigan and Aunt Sadie agreed it was perfect weather to accommodate an outdoor wedding. They chose the open lawn between the convent and the hospital to hold the ceremony. A small altar was taken from the convent chapel and placed on the grounds. Baskets of asters and dahlias were arranged at each side of the altar and set in front. Rengen and Seamus moved pews outside, placing them in rows. White bows were attached at the end of each bench. A red carpet appeared to simulate an aisle. All this color brought a festive look to the otherwise drab cheerless buildings.

  Our wedding day will be forever etched in my mind. Fortune was with us. The skies dawned blue and Mother was strong enough to attend the service in her wheelchair. This was the first wedding ever held at the convent and it caused a great stir. Patients propped up in beds and chairs next to windows waited to see the bride walk down the aisle on her father’s arm. The nuns, novices, and nurses carried out every spare chair. Many of Kilpara’s tenants arrived as I waited nervously next to the preacher, my brothers at my side. Off to the right, slightly apart from the crowd, sat Mother and Aunt Sadie, their hands constantly in motion folding and unfolding their handkerchiefs.

  Fiddle players began a haunting instrumental. A hush fell as Morrigan arrived, her hand tucked beneath her father’s arm. Her long ash-blond hair hung loose down her back, covering bare shoulders. She walked slowly down the carpeted aisle, her antique white satin gown, that I later learned had been her mother’s, swished sensuously in front of her. She held a bouquet of purple clematis and autumn red roses. She had learned these were Mother’s favorites and the gesture was symbolic of the love that had grown between them. Veiled lace covered her face and it wasn’t until she moved next to me that I saw excited anticipation in her eyes.

  We stood before the minister and the liturgy began. Whenever possible I touched Morrigan’s hand, and she smiled. The service was surreal. At the point where we recited our vows, my voice sounded strange to my ears.

  “Repeat after me,” the minister prompted. I began saying the words that a few short months ago I never imagined I would say to any woman. “I, Ellis O’Donovan, do take thee, Morrigan Purcenell, to be my lawful wedded wife, to love, honor, and cherish, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, till death us do part.” Dan handed me the wedding ring, and Morrigan’s hand tingled in mine as I slipped it on her finger.

  She recited her vows in a soft, confident voice, her eyes holding mine. “I, Morrigan Purcenell, do take thee, Ellis O’Donovan, to love, honor, and obey, to have and to hold in sickness and in health, till death us do part.” Dan handed her a wedding ring and she placed it on my finger. We stood facing each other as the minister continued to pray. He concluded with “love each other as Christ loved the Church... What God hath joined together, let no man pull asunder…You may kiss the bride.”

  I lifted Morrigan’s veil and kissed her softly and sensuously, sealing my promise of commitment on her trembling lips. Music turned triumphant, and together we practically skipped down the makeshift aisle amid well-wishers that surrounded and congratulated us. We were guided to tables set out on the lawn, covered with white tablecloths and flowered centerpieces placed under an improvised marquee. Plates of mutton and cabbage with potatoes covered in gravy appeared before us. It smelled delicious and I found that despite the excitement, I was famished. After everyone had eaten, Dan stood up to make a short speech wishing Morrigan and me good health, long life, and happiness. Guests cheered when Eileen and Jasmine rolled a wedding-cake on a trolley up to our table. I held Morrigan’s hand as together we sliced through the marzipan icing and moist slab. Afterwards, tables were cleared and musicians and alcohol took center-stage. I was sure Gully Joyce had a hand in this.

  To my surprise Purcenell remained throughout the entire occasion, although slightly apart with a group of Morrigan’s family and friends, among them Charles Sloane and Daphne Thornton. I wondered if it was Morrigan’s Aunt Margaret who had prodded Purcenell into this complacent mood. She had come to accept my family and me without hesitation. Or, perhaps, he was being agreeable to impress the Americans, and his friends. Beneath his complacent exterior, he viewed our wedding with skepticism and distrust, finding my character questionable and lacking entitlement deserving of an aristocrat’s daughter. No doubt he would find like-minded agreement among his friends and acquaintances. Having an Irish emigrant son-in-law placed him in the precarious position that his daughter could be whisked off to America if he didn’t convey his acceptance. However, his decision to remain until the end of the celebration increased Morrigan’s happiness. She beamed every time she caught his eye.

  As the festivity dwindled to a close, Morrigan and I left the guests to change into our traveling clothes and prepared to leave for the Traveller’s Inn. We stopped by Mother's room momentarily to say goodbye.

  “It was the most beautiful wedding I ever attended,” she said, her feeble fingers lingering o
n our faces when we bent over to kiss her. “Be happy, my children.”

  Guests surrounded the carriage when we mounted, showering us with confetti and shouting cheers for a long life of happiness. Morrigan threw her bride’s bouquet over her shoulder and applauded when Daphne caught it. A smug look smoldered in Daphne’s dark eyes. As we waved goodbye, I detected Sloane standing in the background, his face tight and pinched. Daphne walked over to him and wrapped her arm tightly in his.

  Gully Joyce whistled to himself as he drove us to the Traveller’s Inn. The bellhops rushed out to unload our luggage when we arrived. I was about to follow Morrigan into the inn when Gully grabbed my arm. He nodded toward her back and whispered solemnly, “You’re a better man than I am, Ellis O’Donovan. I'd never let meself get caught by any woman, not even one as tempting as your new missus.”

  “Never is a long time, Gully,” I said. “Thanks for everything. I’m indebted to you.” I shook his hand, and then followed Morrigan into the hotel. I turned around once at the door and thought I detected a wistful look on Gully’s face, just before he shook the reins and the horses moved away.

  I opened the door to our room and carried Morrigan across the threshold. I kicked the door closed and set her down. “Hello, Mrs. O’Donovan,” I said.

  “Hello, Mr. O’Donovan,” she replied, lingering in my embrace, her eyes teasing mine. I began to unfasten her dress, and she helped me out of my jacket. “Do you have no shame, Mrs. O’Donovan,” I mocked.

  “None whatsoever,” she said, smiling up at me.

  I carried her naked to the bed and looked at her for several moments before lying down beside her. I kissed her gently. She was hungry with desire and her lips probed mine longingly. I held her lower lip between mine as she playfully chewed at me with her upper lip. I brushed my mouth against her throat, the beat of her heart pulsing against my lips. Her hands inched up my spine, fingers exploring my exposed flesh, spurring lustful hunger inside me that threatened to explode like a geyser. I kissed the tip of her chin, her breasts, tasted the sweetness of her nipples. She moaned with pleasure. That she would surrender to me so fearlessly made me feel powerful yet humbled knowing she trusted me so completely. I fought for restraint against possessing her, denying the release I ached for. Gently, I teased her body into a frenzy and when I raised myself over her, she arched toward me murmuring my name. She shuddered when I pushed through the thin barrier, winced for a moment before her gaze turned again to longing. We moved together groaning in ecstasy until our bodies joined in a momentous thrust of passion.

  Afterwards, as we lay entangled on the sweat-soaked bed, Morrigan said, “I never knew it could be like this.” I responded by kissing every inch of her face. Never before had lovemaking left me feeling so complete, so tender, so in love with a woman.

  We spent the night sleeping and waking, never moving an inch from each other’s side, satisfying our newly discovered appetite for lovemaking. I would have been happy to stay in that room for days discovering this new union between us; I didn’t want to let her out of my sight for a moment. But I had a duty to Mother, and reluctantly we left the comfort of the Traveller’s Inn and returned to the convent the following day.

  Soon the days tumbled one into the other. There was a sense of premonition, combined with daily rituals of keeping Mother comfortable. She became more dependent on those around her for almost everything. Through all this, I began to understand her more fully. I felt what she must have gone through as a child, and my heart went out to that impressionable orphaned girl whose mother’s death imprisoned her emotions and left her confused. From that anguish had grown the pride and love and determination that Mother poured into her family and nurtured us with every sense of her being. Losing her was going to take a tremendous toll on us all.

  She was brave as the disease continued to ravage her body. It robbed her of dignity and strength as it became too difficult for her to bathe, dress, and feed herself. She didn’t conceal her dependence; she embraced it. Through it all, she begged us not to worry, her body was suffering but her soul was at peace. Morrigan, Aunt Sadie, and Trista took turns overseeing her comfort, helping nurses and novices change soiled sheets and empty chamber pots. Morrigan's devotion to Mother had grown so much that she was daily by her side.

  Toward the end of October, Aunt Sadie voiced concern for Morrigan to me. “This is not good for the girl. She’s too pale and she insists on spending too much time with Ann. You should send her to Kilpara for a few days. She needs fresh air and something else to occupy her mind.” I didn’t know it then, but Aunt Sadie worried that Morrigan’s disregard for her own health could leave her vulnerable to infection.

  That evening we sat together in front of the fireplace in our room and I realized Aunt Sadie was right; Morrigan looked much too pale and she had become very thin. I broached the subject of Kilpara.

  “You’ve been with Mother constantly. You should pay a visit to your father and Aunt Margaret.”

  “I would like nothing more,” Morrigan said, pulling my arms tighter around her. “But I fear your mother doesn’t have much time left. I don’t want to leave her.”

  I kissed her upturned face. “I’ve been selfish to allow you to be consumed like this. I insist that you get away for a few days.”

  She smiled sadly. “If that's what you think is best, Ellis, I’ll do it. I’ll admit I’ve missed my father and would like to know how he is.”

  I kissed her then, lust immediately consuming me. She looked even more beautiful by the flickering firelight. I undressed her and her soft body yielded to mine.

  Morrigan left reluctantly the following morning. We kissed several times at the carriage door before Gully finally intruded. “Are yez going to keep that up all day? If yez are then I may as well go home for me dinner and me tea.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “But drive carefully. You're carrying precious cargo.”

  Morrigan smiled and Gully raised his eyes heavenward. He cracked the whip and the restless horses took off with a start. Gully waved a triumphant hand without bothering to look backwards.

  I turned to go inside and caught sight of Mark sitting under a chestnut tree, mindlessly breaking open fallen chestnuts.

  “Why does it have to be like this, Wiz,” he greeted me when I walked over. “All these nuns and nurses, including Aunt Sadie believe in God, in Heaven. Yet for all of their faith and praying, Mother is still suffering. Where’s God’s mercy in all this?”

  “I don’t know,” I said glumly.

  “I can’t help feeling frustrated,” Mark said. “I don’t believe in the nonsense that this is God’s will. It’s a pathetic excuse for a reason.”

  Just then, Dan joined us and hunkered down beside Mark. “You can’t put blame on anyone or anything, Mark. This is life. It’s as simple and as complicated as that.”

  “If joy equals pain, that’s one thing,” Mark said. “We’ve already endured too much with Father and Francis’ death—the war; hundreds of solid, courageous men wounded and dead.” His eyes grew distant. “I waded through the bodies after the massacre at Fredericksburg. These were men I’d fought beside, grown fond of, good decent folk, lying there lifeless on the ground. I watched Francis on the battlefield, triumphant one minute, and Confederate bullets blowing holes in him the next. I ran to him, dropped to my knees, and tried to stop the blood that was draining life out of his body. I carried him off the battlefield myself, crying out to God to spare him. Let him live, I shouted, for God's sake don't let him die out here in this muck and filth. Even before I got him to the medics, his life ebbed away. He squeezed my hand, opened his eyes once and smiled. Then he died. I held him, his warm body turning cold right there where he'd last been alive. Dead. Pain is unbearable, and joy is fleeting.” Mark crushed the chestnuts in his hand, and dropped the broken pieces on the ground.

  His words forced me to remember that day in Baltimore when I received the telegram that Francis had died in battle and Mark had ridden with his b
ody back home. He had been granted military permission to take Francis’ body home for burial. He strapped our brother's corpse onto one of Stonebridge's own horses and rode away from the chaos. From all accounts, he was half-dead himself when he arrived. He was still shell-shocked and mumbling to himself when I returned home for the funeral two days later. His own recovery had been long and slow. I wondered now if seeing Mother edge toward death had dredged up all the horror that took him so long to forget.

  Standing up, Mark looked at the gray hospital buildings with the same dull eyes I had seen at Francis’ funeral. He stood still, as if his body had suddenly turned to stone. Only his hair moved, gently stirred by a constant breeze.

  “Doctors are learning more all the time about Mother’s disease,” I said, attempting to break through his mood. “One day they’ll find a cure.”

  “Why can’t it be now?” Mark demanded.

  “This is the best we’ve got,” Dan said.

  Tears of frustration ran down Mark’s cheeks, and he didn’t attempt to brush them aside.

  The nights we spent in Mother’s bedroom were becoming more frequent. Aunt Sadie and Rengen weren’t the only ones going to the little chapel in early morning hours. They were often joined by Eileen and Seamus and occasionally by Dan, too.

  When Morrigan returned from Kilpara I was reminded how quickly I'd gotten used to her warm body next to mine, her legs tangled round mine while we slept. I had missed her during those few short days she'd been away. The visit had agreed with her. There was more color in her face, and she smiled more, even though they were sad smiles. She brought back an easel and some canvases with her and during Mother’s restful periods she sat by her bedside sketching. She drew portraits of Mother for us, not as she was now, but as she had been in healthier periods. She drew portraits of Dan and Mark and me and placed them next to Mother’s bedside.