“Connie—the pictures,” he said gruffly.
She smiled. “I’ll be right back.”
Connie returned with a huge cardboard box, which had probably been stored under the bed, judging by all the dust bunnies clinging to it. She set it in the middle of the living room floor and began pulling out yellowing scrapbooks, packages of photos, negatives held together with rubber bands, and envelopes full of newspaper clippings. The old black photograph album that Kathleen remembered was at the bottom.
“Is this it?” Connie asked. She turned her head to one side and sneezed. “Phew! Excuse me. Sometimes I think my old vacuum cleaner just pushes the dust around instead of picking it up. It’s getting so hard for me to bend over anymore and clean like I used to—”
“Connie… Connie,” Leonard said, interrupting again. “Kathleen didn’t come to hear a litany of your cleaning woes.”
Kathleen turned to him, ready to leap to Connie’s defense, but the tender expression on his face as he spoke to his wife stopped her short. She had seen that expression on him once before, when he’d greeted his mother. Then another thought struck Kathleen: Maybe it had been there all along. Maybe she had never bothered to study her uncle very carefully years ago.
“Will you look through this with us, Uncle Leonard?” she asked, sitting down on the sofa beside him. She felt a wave of nostalgia as she smelled the familiar aroma of cigar smoke on his clothing. It was as much a part of him as his Communist rhetoric. Joelle plopped down on the other side of him as if she’d known him all her life.
Uncle Leonard began paging through the album, explaining each picture as if he had taken it himself just a few days ago. Kathleen had forgotten how intelligently and articulately he spoke—like a college professor delivering an important lecture. Too bad his intellect had been wasted on his useless Communist causes. She longed to ask him how he’d adjusted to the downfall of the Soviet Union and the end of his dream—or if he still held out hope for China and Cuba to bring about a Communist revival. But now was not the time.
Leonard paused when they came to a page of old black-and-white photos of Fiona. Joelle did look remarkably like her: the same oval face and porcelain complexion, the same dreamy, slanted eyes—“bedroom eyes” people used to call them. In one photo Fiona looked like Joelle dressed up as a flapper for Halloween, wearing a raccoon coat and slouch hat, posed by the running board of a vintage car.
“Fiona was a beautiful woman,” Leonard said. “These were all taken after she moved to America, of course. She was much too poor to own a camera over in Ireland.”
He turned another page, and Kathleen saw Fiona with her children, Leonard and Eleanor. Fiona looked much too young to be a mother. In these and all the other pictures, she’d struck a graceful pose, looking as seductive and glamorous as a movie star. In fact, the poses reminded Kathleen of ones she’d seen in old movie star magazines from the 1920s. Fiona also looked extremely well-to-do—the clothing and cars, the jewelry and furs, the nice furnishings in the background all painted a picture of wealth and luxury. She couldn’t get over the fact that Uncle Leonard and her mother had grown up wealthy.
“Here we are after we left New York City and moved to Deer Falls,” Leonard said, turning another page. “It was during the Great Depression, of course, so there are fewer photographs. This is Eleanor at the lake. She was a lifeguard during the summer months when she was in high school.”
“A lifeguard…” Kathleen repeated incredulously. “I didn’t even know she could swim.”
“Oh yes. Your mother was as sleek and graceful as a seal in the water.”
Kathleen thought of the Eleanor she had known, lying weak and lethargic on the sagging sofa, and she found it impossible to visualize her mother any other way. She recalled what Joelle had said earlier about learning her mother’s story so she could understand her better, and for the first time that Kathleen could ever recall, she wanted to understand her. The picture that Cynthia Hayworth had painted of Eleanor seemed like a completely different woman than the mother Kathleen remembered. She ached to know who her mother had really been, why she had done all the things she’d done—and what had led to her murder.
Grandma Fiona’s life was another mystery that Kathleen had never bothered to unlock. Who was this glamorous woman in the photographs who had lived and loved a generation earlier than Leonard and Eleanor? What secret had Rick Trent used as an excuse to file for an annulment?
Kathleen ached to know it all, and as much as she hated to admit it, she knew that Dr. Russo had been right. She needed to follow that broken strand of yarn backward to see where it led. If she understood her mother, maybe she could begin to understand herself.
“What was Grandma Fiona like?” she asked her uncle.
“She was a remarkable woman. Eleanor and I never, ever doubted that she loved us. She gave her life for us—in spirit, if not in fact.”
“Uncle Leonard, do you know why my mother left home? And why she never visited grandma?”
“That’s not a simple question to answer. I’d have to back up and tell you Fiona’s story, first, because they are interconnected. My mother’s maiden name was Quinn—Fiona Quinn. She left Ireland with her father when she was only eighteen years old and started life all over again here in America. …”
Chapter
21
COUNTY MEATH, IRELAND— 1919
Fiona… Fiona, wait. …”
Fiona Quinn had just pegged the last bed sheet to the clothesline when she heard someone calling her name. She turned and saw Kevin Malloy hurrying up the lane toward her, tugging a donkey and a jaunting cart filled with hay. Fiona paused to watch him, admiring the easy stride of his long legs and the way his muscular body filled his clothes. Kevin was tall and sturdily built, thick-necked and thick-armed from his labors. He tethered the donkey to the clothespole and reached to pull Fiona into his arms.
“Not here, Kevin! Someone might see us.” She twisted away, blushing as she glanced up at the rear of the manor house. Kevin grabbed her hand and led her behind the blackthorn hedge, where they could kiss in private. She loved the strength of his brawny arms, the eager, fumbling way he held her, kissed her.
“I shaved this morning,” he said breathlessly when they finally pulled apart. “I was hoping I’d see you.” Fiona ran her hand along his square jaw. His usual dark stubble was gone. He bent and brushed his lips against her neck, sending shivers through her. Fiona didn’t want him to stop, but she didn’t want to get into trouble with the housekeeper, either, for abandoning her work.
“That’s all, Kevin,” she said, gently pushing him away. “Tomorrow’s my half-day. Meet me here at one o’clock, and we’ll have all afternoon together.”
His hand lingered on her shoulder. “Promise?”
“Of course. Who else would I be wanting to spend my half-day with?”
“You’re so lovely, Fiona. Any man in County Meath would be only too happy to spend the afternoon with you, if you’d let him.”
Fiona smiled at his praise. She wasn’t used to being told she was lovely.
“Well, I don’t want to be with any other man, Kevin. Just you.”
She smoothed her hair and straightened her apron, then glanced around as she ducked out from behind the hedge again. She hoped no one had seen them kissing. Kevin followed her back to the yard and picked up her empty laundry basket for her.
“Will your father be coming tomorrow to collect your pay?” he asked.
“Aye, he always does. Every Sunday. The money is still warm from the estate manager’s hand when it goes straight into my father’s. Why?”
“I can’t wait any longer, Fiona. When he comes tomorrow, I’m going to ask him if I can marry you. I love you.”
“Oh, Kevin…” Fiona didn’t know when she’d ever felt happier—or more afraid. “I don’t know…”
“Don’t you want to marry me?”
“Of course I do! More than anything in the world! It’s just that… well, I??
?m a bit frightened of my dad, you see. He fought in the Easter Rebellion.”
“I don’t care. I’m not afraid of Rory Quinn or any other man. You leave him to me.”
She felt a swell of love at Kevin’s courage. “All right,” she said, smiling.
“Tomorrow, then…”
Kevin nodded and backed away from her, his eyes holding hers as he untied the donkey. Then he waved and led the donkey up the lane toward the barn.
For the remainder of the day Fiona alternated between joy and dread, imagining the wonder of being married to Kevin Malloy, yet fearing her father’s reaction to his proposal. Fiona was nearly eighteen and certainly old enough to marry. And most fathers with nine daughters to feed would be glad to be rid of the eldest. But Rory Quinn would not be at all happy at the loss of Fiona’s wages.
Early the next morning, Fiona attended Mass at St. Brigid’s with some of Wickham Hall’s other servants. The parish priest had a beautiful tenor voice, and the sound of it always sent chills up Fiona’s arms, even though she couldn’t understand the Latin words. She had always loved going to Mass: inhaling the scent of incense, listening to the soft rustle of rosary beads, feeling the touch of holy water on her forehead, the taste of the wafer on her tongue. She had once considered taking holy vows, but her father hadn’t allowed it. He’d obtained a job for her as a scrub maid at Wickham Hall, instead.
Each time Fiona attended Mass she would gaze at the crucifix above the altar until the sight of Jesus’agony would finally make her look away. He had suffered for her sake, the nuns had taught her—for her sins. She couldn’t imagine why.
She returned to the manor as soon as Mass ended and hurried through her chores. At noon she collected her weekly pay from the estate manager and ran out to the yard to meet Kevin. He was waiting for her behind the blackthorn hedge, eager to sweep her into his arms and continue where they had left off yesterday.
“It seems like I’ve been waiting for days!” he complained.
“I know. Why is it that a half-day of work goes by so slowly and our half-day off flies by so fast?”
He answered her question with a long, bruising kiss, then held her at arms’length, studying her. “You look beautiful today, Fiona.”
“I look exactly the same as I did yesterday,” she teased, “only I’m not wearing an apron. And my clothes aren’t soaking wet from work.” Fiona had been a wash maid at Wickham Hall for three years, ever since finishing school at age fourteen. She spent her entire day scrubbing things— dishes, laundry, floors, vegetables—whatever needed to be scrubbed. It seemed as though her clothes were perpetually damp down the front, her hands red and chapped.
“I went to Mass this morning,” she told Kevin between kisses. “I asked the Blessed Virgin to please let everything go well with my father today.”
“Mm-hmm… I’m glad…”
She kissed Kevin for a few more minutes, then reluctantly pulled away.
“Dad will be here any minute. We’d better watch for him.” They ducked out from behind the hedge and slowly walked down the lane to meet him, hand in hand.
Fiona recognized her father by his short, wiry frame and stiff stride as soon as he rounded the bend in the road. He wore knee-high boots and a woolen cap that was too large for him and fell down over his forehead. He carried the scent of sheep with him wherever he went. She dropped Kevin’s hand as they stood in the middle of the road, waiting for him.
“Let’s have the money, girl. All of it.” Rory Quinn held out his hand, palm up. She dropped the coins into it and watched him count them. He looked up at her and smiled when he’d finished. “Good girl.”
“Dad, there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” she said. “This is Kevin Malloy. He works with me at Wickham Hall.”
“How do you do, sir,” Kevin said, sweeping off his cap. His dark brown hair was stiff with sweat and creased from his hatband.
Fiona watched her father study him from head to toe, and she saw Kevin as Rory must be seeing him: a big, square lad in laborer’s clothes, with a chipped front tooth and dirt under his fingernails. His hands always looked dirty, even after he’d scrubbed them with strong soap. Fiona wanted to defend Kevin, to explain that he was hardworking and cheerful, never angry or moody like her father often was. Kevin reached to shake her father’s hand, then rested his arm around Fiona’s shoulders. Rory Quinn reacted immediately.
“Get your blooming hands off my daughter!”
Kevin dropped his arm and his face colored slightly, but then he bravely groped for Fiona’s hand as if staking his claim.
“I-I love her, sir. We’d like to get married if it’s all right with you.”
“Well, it’s not all right with me! You’re nothing but a boot boy!”
“That’s not true, sir. I work in the stables with the coachman, and—” “And a stable boy is all you’ll ever be. You’ll surely never be getting ahead in life, that’s for certain.”
“I earn a good wage. I can provide for her—”
“My daughter deserves more than what you can provide, more than a dirt floor and a house full of hungry mouths to feed. Is that all you want, Fiona? To work hard and birth babies till the blooming day you die?”
“I love Kevin, Dad. We don’t need much—”
Rory Quinn made a harsh sound to show his disgust. Kevin bravely took a step toward him.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but I’m learning how to manage Mr. Wickham’s motorcar. I keep the engine running for him, and… and I can drive it, too. I’m quite handy at it. I make an honest living, I do.”
“So do I—as a blooming sheepherder!” Rory stormed off toward the stable with Kevin and Fiona trailing after him.
“Where are you going, Dad? You can’t—”
“Quiet, Fiona!” He found the head coachman, an older man named Barclay, and without a word of greeting or explanation, Rory gestured to Kevin. “This lad work for you?”
“Aye. What’s he done?”
“He’s taken a liking to my daughter, that’s what, and I’ll thank you to make sure he keeps his blooming hands off her from now on. I’ll not have him taking liberties that aren’t his to take.”
“But he hasn’t, Dad. Kevin wants to marry me.”
“And I said no!” He spoke the words fiercely, his face inches from hers, then he turned to Mr. Barclay again. “Kindly keep the lad away from my daughter. Make sure his half-day isn’t the same as hers from now on.”
“Aye, I understand,” Barclay said with a nod. “I’m a father m’self.”
“Come on, Fiona.” Rory gripped her arm and pulled her toward the estate’s main gate. Mr. Barclay laid his hand on Kevin’s shoulder as if warning him not to follow.
“Dad, no!” Fiona cried. “It’s my only afternoon off.”
“Don’t I know that well enough? You’re coming home with me, where I can keep my blooming eye on you.” He glared over his shoulder at Kevin. “And don’t you be getting any notions about running off with her, either. You’ll both lose your places here, and then how will you make your way in the world?”
“Please don’t make me go home,” Fiona begged. “It’s my first afternoon off in two weeks!”
“Yes, please, Mr. Quinn,” Kevin begged as he hurried after them.
“Give me a chance to prove to you—”
“You’ll get no such chance from me. Maybe a life with you is all that my foolish daughter wants, but I want much more for her than that. Look at her—she’s beautiful.”
“Aye, I know she is, sir.”
“Then you should know that I’ll not be giving her away to the likes of you. Good day.”
Fiona wept all the way as her father dragged her back to the tiny stone cottage in the village where she had grown up. “Look at this,” he said when they reached the threshold. “You want to live like this all your life?”
He made a sweeping gesture with his hand as if to include the cottage’s dirt floor, the roof that needed thatching, the smoky interior,
the overcrowded room, her squalling baby sister.
Fiona didn’t understand his question. This was the only life she knew. If she could live here with Kevin, it would seem like a palace.
“Can’t you see this isn’t Wickham Hall?” he asked.
“Of course I can see that, Dad.” The family Fiona worked for lived in unbelievable luxury. In fact, the manor house’s scullery was bigger than this entire cottage. But Fiona had been born here. She saw no sense in envying what was out of her reach. Her father, on the other hand, had always aspired for more—not that he had any means of getting it that Fiona could see. Rory had gone off to Dublin to take part in the Easter Rebellion three years ago, hoping that the fight for independence would lead to a better life. It hadn’t.
“You were lucky to get away without being arrested or killed,” Mam had told him when the rebellion failed. “So much for finding a better life.”
Smoke from the peat fire stung Fiona’s eyes as she ducked inside the cottage. Mam sat at the table peeling potatoes for their dinner. “I’ll do that,” Fiona said, taking the pan of potatoes and peelings from her. It would be an easier task than trying to soothe her baby sister.
“Go along with all of you! Outside!” Rory shouted, chasing three of Fiona’s younger sisters out the door. “Leave a man to think in peace.”
All nine of the Quinn children were daughters, much to Rory’s regret. “My girls are my pearls,” he would tell the lads down at O’Connor’s Pub. “I have a whole string of them—lovely to look at, a fine decoration hanging about your neck. But as far as a man’s concerned, they’re not worth a farthing for getting on in life.”
He seemed deep in thought as he sat in his chair by the hearth. Fiona tackled the potatoes, still angry with him for ruining her afternoon with Kevin, but she was worried, too. Her father had the same expression on his face that he wore when he was planning something: his head lowered until his chin nearly touched his chest, his brows meeting in the middle as he stared at the floor. She wondered if he was thinking about her and Kevin. None of them spoke as Fiona diced the potatoes, then helped her mother chop cabbage to make the colcannon. There would be a bit of mutton in it today because it was the Lord’s Day—and payday.