Of Irish Blood (27 page)

Both the girls smile at this. “We’re their companions,” Antoinette whispers to me. The taller woman lets out another spate of French. I hear
“Napoléon”
and
“le gloire.”
Antoinette translates. Very freely, I’d say.

“Madame la Contesse wants you to know that her great-great-grandfather was an O’Cahan, that’s O’Kane, a chieftain of the O’Neills, and left Ireland in the Flight of the Earls, 1607. Since that time, her family has given officers to the armies of the king of France and Emperor Napoleon, too. But only because, well, the emperor made it worth their while—that’s the gist of it.”

“Close enough,” I say.

More French.

“We have all served,” the other woman, the duchess, says, speaking in English. “I am glad to meet an American. My great-grandfather journeyed to your country.”

“Really?” I say. “To New Orleans? My family came to America through New Orleans.”

“Non,”
she says. “He served with the marquis de Lafayette in your revolution and then died in France defending his king.”

“With Lafayette?” I say. “Well, thank you. We appreciate his help. Of course, my family wasn’t in America yet. Still, plenty of Irish in Washington’s army. Generals too.”

She nods. The duchess says, “Ah,” as a woman older than either of them moves toward us, being helped by a girl about twenty-one. I get up, find two chairs, and set them in front of the others. Where’s Maud, I wonder. Can’t imagine she’s finishing up the cooking.

“May I present the Élisabeth de Meaux,” the duchess says to me.

“Bonjour,”
I say.

“Good afternoon,” she replies. And her English too has a definite brogue. I wonder from which of the Irish Wild Geese she is descended. I take a stab.

“And did your great-grandfather leave Ireland with O’Neill, too?” I asked.

“Oh, no. I am French, only French.”

“But you sound … your accent…”

“My tutors were Irish. You see, my father,” and she straightens her back, “Charles Forbes René de Montalembert, was a dear friend of Daniel O’Connell, the Liberator.”

The other two titled ladies nod but I am completely and totally confused. I know the name O’Connell. Granny Honora would speak of the bold Daniel.

“We all admired him,” the duchess says.

“He came often to our house,” Élisabeth goes on. “I remember as a little girl standing with all the household to bid him
adieu
in 1847, the year of my tenth birthday.”

Granny Honora’s Black ’47—the worst year of the Great Starvation. So this woman is what—I did the calculation—seventy-nine.

“A few weeks later,” she says, “I found my mother sobbing.
‘Monsieur O’Connell est mort,’
she said. “Our families were very close. My great-grandfather served with Daniel’s uncle, the Count O’Connell, in the Irish Brigade, fighting with our French king against the English. And then went with him to serve in the British army.”

“What?” I couldn’t conceal my astonishment.

“The revolution,” the sweet-faced duchess says.

“Wait a minute,” I say, “so they fought against the British then for them?”

“Even the Liberator was a royalist after all. He wanted a free Ireland with Victoria as queen,” the countess replies.

The young woman with Élisabeth de Meaux speaks up. “Don’t try to sort it out,” she says to me. “We Irish have a way of fighting for all sides. I’m Mary O’Connell Bianconi.”

“And are you related?”

“I am Daniel O’Connell’s great-granddaughter.”

“The de Montalemberts have always been great friends of the Bianconi family, too,” Élisabeth says.

“I’m staying with them,” the girl adds.

Bianconi? That’s a name I’ve heard too.

“My other great-grandfather brought public transportation to Ireland with his coaches,” she says.

“Wait!” I say. “My grandmother spoke of the Bianconi coaches. My grandfather got a job as a blacksmith with the company during the Great Starvation. The work saved them,” I say. “They would have died without … Here we are with our families’ histories intertwined. Meeting like this. Amazing.”

“It is,” Mary says. “But such connections often happen with we Irish.”

We Irish. I like that. “And you live in Paris?” I ask.

“I do. I’m a nurse. You come from America?”

“Yes, I’ve been here two years.” But before I can explain, Maud Gonne comes swinging toward us, arm in arm with a woman almost as tall as she is. A bit older though. Gray curls showing under the brim of a very military-looking hat. The skirt and jacket she wears are made of a dark green wool. And a leather belt is crossed over her chest. She’s in some kind of a uniform. Another Joan of Arc? I wonder.

“Ladies, may I present my dear friend Constance, Countess Markievicz,” Maud says. “And an officer in James Connolly’s Irish Citizen Army.”

I stand up and half bow. But she puts out her hand. I grasp it and we pump away for a few minutes. I’m not about to salute her.

“Isn’t shaking hands the American way?” she asks, her voice very like Maud’s, the same accent. And I think, I know her. Know her story. Hadn’t the Chicago
Citizen
written about the Gore-Booth sisters? Daughters of the gentry, but working for the Cause. Sister Veronica said Constance had married a Polish nobleman but now it looks like she’s enlisted in some army herself. Very chummy with the titled ladies, as she speaks to them in perfect French.

“I could murder a cup of tea,” Constance Markievicz says to Maud.

“Good,” Maud says. “Shall we, ladies?”

We move into the dining room, where cakes and cut sandwiches are piled high on china platters. The lovely young woman from midnight Mass stands behind a large silver teapot.

“Iseult, my cousin,” Maud had said.

About twenty I think, and this close I notice what I’d missed at church: She’s the image of Maud.

Antoinette, Sheila, and Mary Bianconi help the duchess, the countess, and Élisabeth de Meaux to the table. I stand next to Constance Markievicz, ready to explain who I am and ask her if she knows Peter. But before I can speak, she does indeed murder her cup of tea, drinking it down in one long swallow.

As soon as she finishes, I start. “Uhm, Countess, er Maud may have mentioned that I know Peter Keeley. And…” But loud noises coming from the other room interrupt me. Someone pounding on the front door. English agents? French police arresting a nest of German spies?

I look at all these well-dressed women, frightened now. Should we run out the back? How do you say “Cheese it, the cops” in French?

Young Iseult moves away from the table, runs to Maud. “It’s him. It’s him. Breaking in.”

Maud puts her arm around her. “Don’t be afraid.”

Barry Delaney comes up. “How dare MacBride come here!” she says.

So not the police. The major.

“He dares because the court gave him the right,” Maud says to Barry. “Take Iseult. Go to Seán’s room.”

She half pushes them in front of her down the hall.

“Maud could only get a separation, not a divorce,” Constance Markievicz says to me in a soft voice. “Some complications of international law. Neither she nor MacBride are French citizens. Maud accused him of violence against her and Iseult but the court found him guilty of only one count of drunkenness and gave MacBride the right to visit Seán. Maud’s terrified MacBride will grab Seán and take him to Ireland, where the courts will give him custody.”

Tough. What if I’d married Tim McShane? Had a child? Tied to him forever! Horrible to think of having to go to court to get free. God, the scandal of it. Our family disgraced. Or worse. I can still feel Tim’s hands on my throat. Men murder their wives, the mothers of their children, all the time. I understand Iseult’s panic, the fear behind Maud’s reassuring words.

More noise at the front door.

Maud’s back.

“Constance, come with me to the door.”

“No, I’ll go,” I say. “Better if he sees someone he doesn’t know.” Funny how men who abuse their wives don’t strike out at random women.

“Tell him we’re not here,” Maud says. “We’ll go down the back stairs.”

I imagine myself saying, “Oh, Major MacBride, I so enjoyed your speech in Chicago.” Sweet-talking him until the others could get away.

Maud and Constance. Fierce women, all together, willing to take on the British Empire. Scared of this fellow because as Maud’s husband he can march in here and wreak havoc. His right. Dear God, what about her right? England invading Ireland. John Bull abusing Erin. Ireland’s a woman, God help her.

Antoinette and Sheila stand like bodyguards in front of the three titled French ladies. But Mary O’Connell Bianconi, the nurse, steps forward.

“I’ll come too,” she says.

As we get closer to the front door the pounding gets louder. I take a breath, draw myself up, look at Mary, and say, “Who is it?”

But no male bellows back at me. Instead, I hear women’s voices, all talking at once. And then laughter. Whew.

I open the door.

“You,” I say.

Because who’s there surrounded by five other women? Only Gabrielle Chanel. They surge into the room.

“Tell Maud it’s all right,” I say to Henrietta. I step back to let the group in.

Gabrielle Chanel thinks I’m the maid.

“Où est Madame?”
she asks me.

And then here comes Maud, all smiles, with Constance.

“Coco, you came. And brought your friends! Wonderful.”

The women with Gabrielle, clients, I’d say, all uncorseted and wearing the jersey dresses she’s becoming known for, surround the French countess, the duchess, and Élisabeth de Meaux.

Maud’s trying to sort out names and introduce the women.

Some of the group with Chanel reply to Maud in English. Not just any English, but my English. These women are Americans. They are about my age, thirty-five or so. Younger than Maud Gonne and Constance the countess, who must be near fifty, but sticking it well, as my uncle Patrick might say. Of course, the French duchess and countess had long ago placed themselves out of time. Friendly to me, these women.

“I’m Natalie Barney,” the tall dark-haired woman announces.

“Barney,” I say. “Irish?”

She laughs. “Perhaps somewhere far back. Most people know me in Paris as ‘l’Amazon’”—she strikes a pose.

“Sorry. I don’t know you,” I say. “I’m from Chicago.”

“Chicago?” she says. “And here how long?”

“Two years.”

“Oh, my petite, you have not begun to—what is that phrase in English?—scratch the surface.”

“Obviously,” I say. “And you’ve been in Paris…”

“Forever,” she says. “In Paris when I was a child. My sister and I went to school at Les Ruches, taught by Marie Souvestre herself. Surely you’ve heard of her!”

“I haven’t,” I say.

“Well you must know about her famous student, Eleanor Roosevelt,” she says.

“Don’t know her, but then I’m from Chicago,” I say.

“Stop saying that,” she says. “What difference where you’re from? I’m from Dayton.”

The January sun withdraws and Maud lights the gas lamps. Groups form and re-form. Only the French noblewomen remain seated, the center of this kaleidoscope, as more women arrive throughout the afternoon and into the early evening. We eat the cakes, drink the tea, and talk and talk and talk. Natalie tells me her father made his money selling railroad parts to George Pullman in Chicago.

“Oh, Pullman,” I say. “I had a cousin who worked there, lived in Pullman, until he couldn’t stand it anymore. So many rules. The company owned the workers’ houses and told them how to behave. My cousin joined the strikers and said Pullman was a bloodsucker and…” My voice trails off. “Sorry. I forgot about your father.”

Natalie shrugs. “Pullman was a horrible capitalist exploiter and my father a bigoted class-obsessed tyrant. The best thing my father did for my mother and me was to die young and make us rich. I’m spending his money to create a beautiful life for myself and my friends, support the arts. You must come to see us at the Temple des Amis,” she says.

“The Temple of Friendship,” I say. “That sounds nice.”

“Maud has never joined us there,” she says. “Afraid, I suppose. Can’t risk scandal because of MacBride and the court.”

I nod, though I’m not sure why visiting Natalie would damage Maud’s case against the major.

“Men,” she says. “Allow them in your life and they’ll control you. Liane could never see that she was shackled, even though she was the most sought-after courtesan in France.”

What is she talking about? Liane? Courtesan? If only Madame Simone had come. But even she would have been flummoxed by the next woman who comes up to us. Very stern-looking, wearing a man’s suit.

“The great painter Romaine Books,” Natalie says. Again the pause for recognition. Again I nod but think, who are these women?

“And this is the Duchess de Cleremont-Tonnerre.”

“Elisabeth,” the duchess says.

“She’s a real Frenchwoman,” Natalie says. “Not a rich American who snagged a nobleman.”

All in all, it’s quite an afternoon.

At about five o’clock I think all we need now is for Gertrude Stein to march in with Alice B. Toklas. And guess what? They do. And very surprised to see me.

“What are you doing here?” Alice says. “We heard this is a gathering of the most distinguished women in Paris.”

“You heard right,” I say. “Would you like to meet our hostess? I’m sure she won’t mind you crashing her party.”

“Friends from Chicago?” Maud asks me when I bring them over.

”Pittsburgh,” I say.

“Was I there?” she asks.

“You could have been. You might not remember. No lake.”

“But rivers,” Gertrude says. “Three of them.”

“Pardon me,” Alice says to Maud. “This is Gertrude Stein. Gertrude Stein, the famous writer and collector.”

“Of course,” Maud says. “John Quinn speaks of you.”

Alice smiles. I leave them chatting and go over to the woman standing with Élisabeth de Meaux.

“Ah, Miss Kelly,” she says. “Come meet Sylvia Beach. I knew her when she was a child. Her father was the pastor of the American Church in Paris.”

“He took us back to New Jersey, but I couldn’t wait to grow up and return to Paris,” Sylvia says.