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  At one point Mother rallied and she asked for Dan, Mark and me. We gathered around her bedside.

  “A woman never had three more wonderful sons than you boys,” she gasped. “Each one of you is precious to me in your own unique way. Everything is in God’s hands. I’ll be leaving this world to go to a better place than I’m in now. Please don’t mourn for me or wallow in sadness. Go on with your lives. Enjoy your families and be happy. God has been good to me. He’s given me many blessings. One day we’ll be reunited on the other side. Soon I’ll join your father and Francis.” Her voice wavered. “Life is short and you must fill your hearts up with memories. Always know that I loved you.” She struggled for breath and we attempted to make her comfortable. She motioned us closer. Each of us kissed her in turn and professed our love. I bent over her rasping body and moistened her hollowed cheek with tears.

  Outside the sick-room, Mark yelled. “No—God—No. You can't have her!” He turned and beat his fists against the wall. Morrigan, who had waited in the vestry, went to him. In a trembling voice she said, “It’s all right, Mark.”

  She cradled him in her arms. He gazed past us over her shoulder, his mind imprisoned in a violent past.

  I opened the front door and stood outside against the hard wall, gulping air into my lungs. Dan followed me and looked up at the sky, blinking back tears. We knew Mother was trying to prepare us for the final parting. The end approached like a snake coiled, and ready to make its fatal strike.

  Trees began to lose their leaves and become bare. Mother lost her will to fight and grew weaker. Aunt Sadie ordered us away from the convent for a few hours each day, although she herself hardly ever left Mother's side. Never, before or since, have I seen such devotion in any human being.

  On an afternoon in early November, Mother heaved her last breath and left us. She’d had a bad night. Trista, Aunt Sadie, and for a short while, Morrigan, had seen her through it. They were resting. Dan had left after staying with her for a few hours and I was sitting by her bedside when she opened her eyes.

  “It’s all right, Mother,” I said. “I’m here.”

  “Ellis?” Her voice was hoarse and my name sounded like a sigh.

  “Yes, Mother, it’s me.”

  “I’m cold Ellis. And afraid.”

  “I’ll cover you up, Mother. Don’t be afraid. I’m right here.”

  I reached for the extra blanket at the end of the bed and lifted it to cover her. I pulled it up around her shoulders and as I did, she heaved, shivered, and stopped breathing. “Mother?” I said, panic filling me. “Mother, answer me.”

  She didn’t. Her chest had stopped rising and falling and her labored breath had ceased. “Mother, please,” I begged, “Please don’t leave me. I'm not ready to let you go.” I don’t know how long I stood there standing over her, the blanket still grasped in my hands. All I remembered was Trista coming into the room and gasping, “Oh, God, no. You’ve got to leave now, Ellis. She’s gone.”

  “I can’t leave,” I said, holding up the blanket. “Mother says she’s cold...”

  “Ellis—no,” Trista pleaded. She pried the blanket from my fingers and led me outside. She yelled for Eileen to fetch Morrigan.

  Numbly Morrigan led me to our room. During the next few days, when we attended services and prayed, and were offered condolences from the people in neighboring communities, I saw the same pale look of disbelief pasted on my face reflected on my brothers’ faces.

  On a cold, dull day, inside the O’Donovan graveyard at Kilpara, we carried Mother and Father's coffins solemnly to the twin graves that had been prepared for them. Winds from Lough Corrib, no longer gentle, blew fiercely and whipped around us on the barren hillside.

  “Unto thee, oh God, we commend the souls of your faithful servants, Ann and Angus O’Donovan,” Father Matthews moaned. “May God grant them eternal rest. And may perpetual light shine upon their souls. Amen.” He sprinkled holy water on the coffins lying deep inside the rugged earth. Each of us kissed a red rose and threw it into the grave. As we walked back to Kilpara, the sound of dirt hitting our parents' coffins echoed in our ears. They were home at last. Together.

  Someone took charge of taking our belongings to Kilpara. After that, Dan, Mark and I rode out over the land every day and along the lakeshore, often accompanied by ominous black clouds that collided together, and cold, tumultuous waves that beat against land. In our torn state winter's icy fingers nipped at us, reminding us to live.

  Thanksgiving, unknown in Ireland, was celebrated in the merest way. We gathered close, struggling with our loss, unable to do justice to the food that Eileen and Jasmine instructed the Kilpara staff to prepare. All I could think about were those many years at Stonebridge when Thanksgiving meals were filled with laughter and stories told around the table and music played long into the night. Mother and Father would share a nostalgic gaze for their disavowed homeland, mixed with contentment and gratitude for their other blessings in life.

  Murmurings of holly, plum pudding, and cooked goose stirred thoughts of Christmas throughout Kilpara cutting through the barrier that kept us numb. For months my days had revolved around Mother’s illness and her needs and I had difficulty knowing what I should do now. My brothers also began to recover. They became anxious to return to Stonebridge to be with their families. I wanted them to stay until spring, arguing that crossing the Atlantic was perilous in wintertime. They rebutted my argument, saying it was time to go home. If the weather cooperated, they might even make it there by Christmas. They wanted Morrigan and me to go with them, but understood when we refused, accepting our vague promise of a visit. More than ever, I was bound to Kilpara.

  After final preparations, Morrigan and I accompanied Dan and Mark to Queensland where they had booked passage on a cargo ship bound for New York. We took the train from Galway to Cork, and then boarded another train that continued the short distance to Cork Harbor. As the landscape flashed by our carriage window we spoke little, preferring instead to stare at the river bordering the train-track on one side or wooded hills that rose up on the other side.

  A porter took charge of our luggage when we arrived at our destination. He explained that Queensland was built on what was called the Great Island. On our short walk to the Commodore Hotel, waves splashed against the harbor wall. Haulbowline and Spike Islands stood visible out in the channel, just inside a land gap bridging the natural port with the ocean. These two islands defended the mainland from the full harshness of waves and wind. We walked past narrow streets sloping up steep hillsides giving the appearance that houses were built crooked.

  Now that we were here, I could no longer deceive myself that my brothers were departing. Over the past few months we had grown closer than ever before. Those last days with Mother had created an ironclad bond between us. I didn’t want them to leave.

  The hotel was comfortable and the food comforting, yet I spent a restless night. After a hearty breakfast that wasn’t fully appreciated and conversation that revolved mostly around the journey ahead, Morrigan and I accompanied Dan and Mark to the pier where they would board the Caractacus. The day was gray and the air carried a cold chill. My brothers and I hugged each other several times before we finally said goodbye. Morrigan handed Dan and Mark each a neatly wrapped package. Mark opened his and blinked back tears when he saw the portrait of Mother. “Thank you,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady.

  Morrigan and I stood on the shore watching my brothers’ shapes grow distant as the ship moved out into the harbor. It had sailed onto the open sea before we could force ourselves away from the pier, even though our faces and hands had gone numb from the cold. It seemed like years had passed instead of months since that fateful day when I arrived on these shores. So much had changed and the deepest change had occurred within me.

  Eileen and Seamus, who stayed behind to visit family, insisted on creating a Christmas feast. “Your mother and father always loved Christmas,” Eileen said. “It's tradition, and they’
d want us to continue the custom. We'll make them both proud.”

  I didn't feel like arguing, but soon noticed it must have been the right thing to do because I began to hear laughter in the house, which had been missing since we moved in. Even Purcenell was a little kinder, strangely moved by our mourning.

  It was about then that I realized Rengen had become attached to Aunt Sadie. This observation led me to ask him if he and Jasmine would like to stay longer. He thought about it briefly before giving me his decision. “I be worried about the Mother Superior,” he said. “She’s mourning your mama. And them little Sisters can't manage all them patients by themselves. There’s be the milking and the garden to tend to. Theyse needing some help to get by. So I's thinking I should stay here awhile longer.”

  When Rengen asked if he could send for the rest of his family, I immediately obliged. But he reminded me that his intention to stay was not permanent. “You know I be leaving when the Mother Superior be recovered from her grief.”

  Each day he faithfully trudged to the graveyard to visit the gravesites, and several times a week we rode over to Mercy Hospital to help out Aunt Sadie and the nuns.

  With Rengen's decision to stay, I began contemplating if Brazonhead should sire a foal. I suggested this to Rengen and he agreed that the stallion and Pandora should mate in hopes of producing strong foals with good racing qualities.

  A nugget of desire to hold a midnight service at Kilpara had planted itself in my mind ever since Eileen began preparations for one of my parents’ favorite holidays. I mentioned to Purcenell that I’d like to invite Father Matthews to perform a Christmas Eve service in the chapel at Kilpara and half-expected him to explode. Instead he managed to restrain his resentment. Perhaps it was because I hadn’t objected to the small Christmas party he hosted for the Sloanes, the Lighams and Reverend White; or perhaps it was because he had hopes of becoming a grandfather soon and didn’t want to upset Morrigan.

  When the tenants of Brandubh arrived for the service, I was surprised and touched that each family arrived bearing a small token. I was so overwhelmed by their kindness that I impulsively invited them all into the house for drinks and plum pudding afterwards. Eileen and Jasmine were delighted by this gesture and quickly prepared food to take care of the hungry crowd.

  Purcenell immediately took to his room at the sight of commoners traipsing all over his home. He looked like he might order them all off the property, but he just sulked instead.

  That night as we prepared for bed, Morrigan announced we were to become parents. I picked her up and twirled her around. “It’s my Christmas present to you,” she said. The news lifted my spirits and began to penetrate the anguish and loss packed tightly around my heart.

  Drafts seeped through Kilpara’s thick walls during winter. Morrigan and I spent the long cold evenings wrapped in woolen shawls next to the fireplace. But as temperatures became milder in February, we began taking walks outside and then carriage rides into Galway. In early March, Eileen and Seamus announced they were ready to return to Stonebridge and prepared to set sail for New York. By then, I had done an assessment of Kilpara’s staff and had discussed with Purcenell the possibility of adding more people because I intended to increase livestock and produce output. Reluctantly, he agreed with my ideas and gave his consent. Upon Seamus and Eileen’s departure, I gave Eileen a letter to take to Maureen offering her and Tom Townsend positions at Kilpara after they were married. Eileen had proudly told us when she first arrived that Tom had proposed to Maureen, and she had accepted. She beamed now at the possibility that her daughter would come to live in Ireland.

  About that same time, we received an invitation to Daphne's and Charles Sloane’s wedding. Morrigan and I did not attend the ceremony but sent our best wishes instead. Morrigan was heavily pregnant by then, and although it was not a difficult pregnancy, she had uncomfortable moments. To my surprise, Purcenell accepted the invitation and made arrangements to attend the nuptials. When I voiced my curiosity about his decision to Morrigan, she laughed and explained that it was an opportunity for him to brag to acquaintances about becoming a grandfather and about Brazonhead siring Pandora's foal. And the endurance he suffered living under the same roof with his American emigrant son-in-law.

  She was right about Purcenell's pride in becoming a grandfather. When Deirdre-Ann was born in June, he frequently remarked that his granddaughter was a miniature version of Morrigan. He doted on her, and this brought about a change in him I hadn't expected.

  A year and a half later, after a long labor and health threats to both Morrigan and the baby, Grace was born. We named her Grace because she was truly a miracle child. After her birth, the doctor ordered Morrigan not to have any more children. There was too much risk, he said, including the possibility that she might not survive another pregnancy. This was more of a blow to Morrigan than to me. She wanted to give me a son. But I was content with our two daughters. It was difficult convincing Morrigan she was not a failure because our family could not be larger. As time went on she accepted this as our fate.

  Life in Ireland became a mixture of what had gone before. Maureen wrote from Maryland after she married Tom and said it would be an adventure to come to Ireland and view Stonebridge’s twin-like structure. She felt she already knew Ireland from everything her parents had told her, and Tom was curious about the old customs. They made a commitment to work at Kilpara for one year, but once they arrived, Ireland agreed with them so much they stayed beyond that period. The same year Grace was born, they had a baby boy, who was born with a slight mental defect. His disability became evident a few months after his birth. I was proud of the love Maureen and Tom showed the child and respected their decision to treat him as normally as possible. Aunt Sadie and the midwife both agreed the problem had surely occurred at the birth due to Maureen's long, hard labor. They observed that during delivery, the baby may have suffered loss of oxygen to the brain for a short while when the umbilical cord became squeezed around his neck seconds before he was born. Tom and Maureen named the child Olam, and he was a pleasant little fellow to have around. He adored Grace and she was always kind to him.

  Brazonhead’s foals proved to be very popular with the European aristocracy. In Ireland and Britain, horse breeding was a profitable business. I didn’t spend as much time as I might have raising horses. I left that mostly to Tom and Rengen, and Gully Joyce who took much pride in training the horses. I opened a financier agency in Galway. Business was slow at first, but this changed as the landed gentry looked for ways to increase their profits. The biggest surprise had occurred when Charles Sloane contacted me and became one of my first clients.

  He proved good for business because he took the news to other landowners who liked this trend and decided to join in. I often suspected Sloane's real motive for seeking to do business had more to do with the opportunity to maintain close contact with Morrigan. There was always naked desire in his eyes when he looked at her, and he used the excuse of business matters to visit Kilpara whenever he could. The dark Daphne avoided us whenever possible. But their son Cecil, born just months after Deidre, visited Kilpara regularly with his nursemaid once he became old enough to play.

  In a sense, I pitied Sloane. Morrigan grew more beautiful with age and I never ceased to wonder that she chose me for her husband. She still loved to walk barefoot on the beach, which we often did together. Each time I saw her footprints in the sand, I was reminded of our first encounter on the beach and how it changed my life forever.

  THE END

  About the Author

  Patricia Hopper is a native of Ireland but has resided in West Virginia for many years. She graduated Magna Cum Laude from West Virginia University with her Bachelor’s degree in English and a Master’s in Education Leadership. This is her debut novel, however she has had several short stories published, as well as non-fiction articles.

  Previously published fiction works:

  “Separate Dreams” Mist on the Mon (an anthology)


  “Summer Dream” Amore Magazine

  “A Rose for Annie” Woman’s Way Magazine (Ireland)

  “Black Gold, Fool’s Gold” Appalachian Heritage Magazine

  “New Year’s Promise” Woman’s World Magazine

  “Separate Journey” Hamilton Stone Review

  “A Grand Day” Ireland’s Own Magazine