Carnal Gift
Prologue
Skreen Parish, County Meath, Ireland, January 30, 1751
Brighid of Maelsechnaill put the bacon and oatcakes on the table, her heart humming with excitement. Her father stepped out of the back room, dressed, and washed for the day. His gaze met hers, a special twinkle in his blue eyes and a smile on his face. They shared a secret, and soon her father would tell her brothers.
She smiled back, reached for the butter crock, put it next to the oatcakes, smoothed her apron. She wanted the breakfast to be perfect, and it was. The oat porridge was thick and hot, but not lumpy. The oatcakes were cooked, but not burnt. The bacon was crisp, but not blackened—just the way her father liked it. There were eggs, fried potatoes,
bainne clabair,
and a potful of hot tea.
bainne clabair,
and a potful of hot tea.
Her father pulled out his chair, sat, motioned the boys to the table. Like a swarm of locusts, they descended — Fionn, Rhuaidhri, little Aidan. Though not kin, Aidan had lived with them for two years now and was one of the family as sure as if he’d been born into it. Brighid helped Aidan put a napkin around his neck, took her seat, slapped Rhuaidhri’s hand as he reached for the bacon. “Not yet, Rhuaidhri!”
When all were seated and quiet, her father bowed his head, folded his hands, prayed. As excited as she was, she heard scarce a word of it, but crossed herself when it was done—and waited.
Her father didn’t serve himself as he usually did after the prayer, but gazed intently at Fionn and Rhuaidhri. “Fionn, Rhuaidhri, I’ve news for you. Your sister has become a woman.”
Fionn’s blue eyes widened, and he smiled at her. “Well done, little sister.”
She smiled back, her heart filled with a warm rush of love for him.
“But, Da’, how can Brighid be a woman? She doesn’t have big dugs like—“From the sudden silence and the pained look on Rhuaidhri’s face, Brighid knew Fionn had pinched him good under the table. She’d pinch Rhuaidhri herself later. She’d have breasts one day. They just needed time to grow. Her father fixed Rhuaidhri with a gaze that spoke trouble. “Your sister is a woman now, a maiden chaste and fair as ever there was in Ireland. You’re to show her respect and courtesy, or I’ll know the reason why.” He took a gulp of tea. “She shall have ribbons and lace for her hair—and a trip to the fair comes May Day.”
Brighid’s heart soared. She might have squealed aloud at this news, but she was fourteen now and mustn’t behave like a giggling girl of seven summers. Instead, she smiled.
“The fair!”
The boys’ faces brightened as well.
“The fair!” Aidan bounced up and down in his chair. “I expect the two of you to protect Brighid and to guard her virtue, as I’ve no doubt the lads will soon swarm to her like bees to honey. She’s got her mother’s look about her. There isn’t a prettier lass in the county, nor all of Ireland I’d wager. Her safety and happiness depend on the menfolk in her life, and we shall not fail her.” Fionn nodded, his expression grave.
Rhuaidhri, looking contrite, nodded. “Aye, Da’.” Brighid felt herself blush to the roots of her hair but couldn’t hold back a smile.
“And, Brighid, you’re to have the back room now. A young lass needs privacy in a household of men.” For a moment, Brighid was speechless. How could her father have known? She’d felt so uncomfortable lately, trying to dress and undress, bathe and sleep with her brothers in the room. “Thank you, Da’.” “You’re welcome,
mo Aisling ghael”
A smile on his handsome face, he reached for the bacon. “Now let’s eat the fine breakfast you’ve set before us.” The food was gone in less than half the time it took to prepare it, but Brighid knew that meant they’d liked it. She kissed her father on the cheek as he headed toward the door, his lesson books tucked under his arm. His whiskers were rough against her lips, his skin warm with the smells of pine and tobacco—her father’s own special scent.
mo Aisling ghael”
A smile on his handsome face, he reached for the bacon. “Now let’s eat the fine breakfast you’ve set before us.” The food was gone in less than half the time it took to prepare it, but Brighid knew that meant they’d liked it. She kissed her father on the cheek as he headed toward the door, his lesson books tucked under his arm. His whiskers were rough against her lips, his skin warm with the smells of pine and tobacco—her father’s own special scent.
“Are you off to gather rushes today, my Brighid?” “Aye, I am. There’s much to be done before tomorrow night.”
He nodded his approval, started out the door. Then he turned back to her. “Your mother would be right proud of you, so she would.” He tickled a finger under her chin and strode out the door. “Come along, Rhuaidhri, Aidan. Let’s not be late.”
As she watched him go, Brighid felt a pricking behind her eyes, but refused to cry. She barely remembered her mother, as she’d died, weakened by famine, when Brighid was only three. But Brighid had tried to be a good daughter, one her mother would have been happy to claim had she lived. To hear her father say such words. The midwife had told her she might have confusing feelings or want to cry more now that she was a woman. Brighid cleared the table, made quick work of the dishes. She placed more peat on the fire—the hearth fire must stay lit until after May Day—then took off her apron, put on her cloak and scarf, and set out. The day was mild and sunny, as if nature itself shared her joy. Brighid walked down the lane that came up to the door and set across the field to the edge of the lake where the rushes grew tall. As a virgin—and especially since her name was Brighid—she was to gather the family’s rushes for Imbolc, blessed Saint Brighid’s special day. The rushes must be pulled by hand by a maiden, not cut with iron. They must be gathered in silence and hidden from the rest of the family until tomorrow night, when they would be woven into crosses for the house and cowshed, made into girdles for the cows, and used to make the Brideog—the little St. Brighid doll. She knelt in the high grass, began to pull rushes out of the ground, wondering if her father spoke truly. Was she pretty? Would young men be drawn to her like bees to honey?
She knew her father wouldn’t allow her to marry until she was sixteen. She’d heard him tell the midwife he felt fourteen was still too young for motherhood. The midwife told him she helped girls of thirteen and fourteen birth children all the time, but her father had stood fast. She would not wed until she was sixteen.
Because she trusted her father, she was not angry with him. Most country girls were married before they were sixteen, and many had children. But her father was the wisest man she knew. He was a teacher and had read all manner of books. He taught boys and girls to read, do math, and love Irish history. If he believed it best, she would wait until she was older and not complain. She wanted a husband, to be sure, a man brave and fair to woo her with sweet words, stolen glances, and wreaths of flowers. He would be strong and tall like Fionn. He would be kind and gentle like her father. And they would have children, as was their duty. She wanted four girls and four boys, and she had already chosen their names: Roisin, Ana, Mealla, and Laoise for the girls, and Ciaran, Breacan, Lochlann, and—She stopped, listened.
Someone shouted her name. She stood, rushes bundled under her arm, saw Rhuaidhri running down the road, Aidan lagging behind.
They spied her, dashed through the grass toward her. She motioned to Rhuaidhri to stop, but he paid her no mind. She was to gather rushes in silence, and no one was to see them. But now they had come along, and she would have to start over. She started to scold Rhuaidhri, saw the terror on his face, little Aidan’s tears. Her stomach lurched.
“They took him!”
No. It couldn’t be. “What?”
“The
iarla
’s men took Da’!”
iarla
’s men took Da’!”
Aidan dashed forward, clutched Brighid’s hand, sobbing. There was a buzzing sound in her ears. The rushes fell, forgotten, at her feet. “What happened?” Her words were a whisper.
“They found us sittin’ along the hedgerow. They dragged him away in chains! Oh, Brighid, they beat him!” Tears poured down Rhuaidhri’s cheeks. He dashed them away. “I could not stop them. I tried. They laughed and kicked me.”
She felt tears gather behind her eyes, felt the tripping pulse of panic in her veins. Then she saw her little brother was bleeding from a cut on his lip. She was a woman now. She must not give in to her own childish tears, but must comfort the others.
“You were very brave, Rhuaidhri. And you, Aidan.” She wiped the blood from Rhuaidhri’s mouth with her scarf, tried to ignore the sick feeling in her stomach. “Come. We must find Fionn.”
Chapter One
November 10, 1754
“Cinfath a’ chuirfeadh Dia a smacht ar bhas linbhT” Why would God let a baby die?
Brighid slipped the worn leather brogues onto Aidan’s feet, distressed to see how big the holes in the toes had become. “Only God and His saints know the answer to that, a phraitin”
She stood, took the little woolen coat from its nail in the wall, and helped Aidan put it on. Its sleeves were too short by several inches. She’d taken the hems out as far as they could go last winter. He was almost ten now, she reminded herself. He’d need a new coat, and a warmer one, as he now spent more time outdoors with Fionn learning men’s work. He’d need a new pet name, too. A young man would hardly find it fitting to be called “potato” in front of the other boys.
“I feel bad for the baby.” Aidan wrapped his red woolen scarf around his neck.
“Aye, me too.” She felt just as bad for the babe’s young mother. Muirin had labored two long days to bring her first child into the world. Brighid, though unmarried, had gone to help, bringing herbs to soothe and calm the mother. There had been little the women could do to ease Muirin’s suffering. They’d held her hand, given her sips of tea, wiped her brow, offered silent prayers, called for the priest. But the child had slipped into the world blue and lifeless, the cord tight around its neck. Muirin’s husband had died some months back of a fever of the lungs, and the child was all she’d had of him. The babe’s stillbirth had touched Aidan deeply, and no wonder. His own mother had died in childbed. Though his father had tried to raise him, he’d been killed in a skirmish with the hated English when Aidan was four. Only twelve at the time, Brighid had taken him in and had raised him with the help of her brothers—and, for a time, her father.
Now it was time to bury the babe and consign its soul to God. With churchgoing made a crime by the
Sasanach,
Father Padraig had called a Mass at the Old Oak. It was remote enough that their chances of being caught and punished were slim, and it was holy ground, consecrated by priests and the Old Ones who came before. Fionn wouldn’t be joining them, as one of the cows had taken sick with the milk fever. They needed her milk, and the butter, curds, and cheeses that came from it, to make it through the winter. Fionn would spare no effort to see the cow cured. He would pay his respects later.
Sasanach,
Father Padraig had called a Mass at the Old Oak. It was remote enough that their chances of being caught and punished were slim, and it was holy ground, consecrated by priests and the Old Ones who came before. Fionn wouldn’t be joining them, as one of the cows had taken sick with the milk fever. They needed her milk, and the butter, curds, and cheeses that came from it, to make it through the winter. Fionn would spare no effort to see the cow cured. He would pay his respects later.
Brighid put more peat on the fire. Fionn would grow chilled working in this weather, and she didn’t want him to find the hearth grown cold when he at last came in to rest. Poor Fionn did the work of two men now that Da’ was gone—or three, as he had taken on Muirin’s outdoor chores when her husband died. He never complained, never said an angry word. But Brighid could see how tired he was each night. She fed him the best pieces of meat from the stew pot to help him keep up his strength, but often he was so weary he could scarce finish his supper before falling asleep.
Aye, Rhuaidhri did his share of hard work, too, but at sixteen he hadn’t the patience for farm work that Fionn had, nor the knowledge. Hot-tempered and restless, he hurried through his chores, his mind always somewhere else. Rhuaidhri had been hit hard when the
Sasanach
took Da’ away. The happy and gentle boy he had been had vanished overnight.
Sasanach
took Da’ away. The happy and gentle boy he had been had vanished overnight.
Brighid and her brothers had never seen their father again. The breakfast she’d cooked with such care that morning had been the last meal he’d shared with them. Soon after, he’d been put on a ship and taken to Barbados to be sold as a slave alongside other Irish the
Sasanach
deemed criminals—teachers, scholars, priests, fighters. It was said plantation owners worked their slaves to death in the cane fields and that if hard work didn’t kill them, strange and terrible fevers would.
Sasanach
deemed criminals—teachers, scholars, priests, fighters. It was said plantation owners worked their slaves to death in the cane fields and that if hard work didn’t kill them, strange and terrible fevers would.
But Brighid would likely never know what became ofher father. He’d been fifty-one when they’d taken him, no longer in his prime. She couldn’t even be certain he’d survived the long journey. She could not bear to think of her father in such horrid conditions, his back bent in the fields, his skin marred by the lash. A strong but gentle man, he’d always been more poet and dreamer than farmer. He’d never raised a weapon against the English invaders, never raised a fist to any man nor his hand to his children. That his life could come to such an end bespoke
Sasanach
cruelty.
Sasanach
cruelty.
She missed her father, missed him so fiercely she felt at times as if her heart were being torn from her breast. She missed his sense of humor and gentle teasing. She missed the deep, warm sound of his voice. She missed the way he’d always made her feel safe, loved, special.
Aisling,
he had called her. His dream. His vision. When she was little, he’d held her on his lap and read to her until late in the night. He’d told her stories of the old days in front of the hearth, taught her to sing the old songs. He’d comforted her in sickness. He had been her world. She’d felt protected knowing that no matter what came with the sunrise, her father would be there. But that was long ago.
Aisling,
he had called her. His dream. His vision. When she was little, he’d held her on his lap and read to her until late in the night. He’d told her stories of the old days in front of the hearth, taught her to sing the old songs. He’d comforted her in sickness. He had been her world. She’d felt protected knowing that no matter what came with the sunrise, her father would be there. But that was long ago.
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