Conor's Way (39 page)

I now pronounce you man and
wife
.

He bent his head, and his lips grazed her
cheek. He offered her his arm, and they walked back down the aisle
together.

Man and
wife
.

A blessed numbness came over her. Conor
released her arm and stepped away, allowing the girls to gather
around her in the alcove. She watched as the reverend shook his
hand and led him across the small room.

"Prayers really do work, Mama," Carrie said,
throwing her arms around Olivia's waist and hugging her tight. "I
promise I'll say my prayers every night now. I will."

Olivia shook her head slowly, trying to think
past the numb haze that had fallen over her and listen to her
daughter's words. "What are you talking about, Carrie?"

The child pulled back and beamed up at her.
"It's wonderful, isn't it? I asked God to make Mr. Conor my new
daddy, and He did! I got what I asked for!"

Olivia's fragile composure finally shattered.
She burst into tears.

***

Playing a role was nothing new to Conor.
False smiles came easily, even the one he gave the reverend, who
probably didn't mean to sound condescending when he said, "I'm
proud of you, son," and shook his hand.

But when he looked over at Olivia, surrounded
by her girls, with her face in her hands, he knew she was crying.
He felt her tears, and he suspected they were not tears of
happiness. He thought of the night before, of the tears that had
cut him like a knife, and he felt the knife twist again. His false
smile faltered.

"I believe this belongs to you."

Conor glanced down at the leather pouch the
reverend held out to him. "Sure and it does," he murmured, taking
it. "Where did you find it?"

"One of the local men found it and brought it
to me a couple months ago. He mentioned at the time that he'd found
it in Jackson Field—which I believe was the place where that
prizefight was held in July—and when I opened it, I found a
crucifix inside." He paused and gave Conor an apologetic smile. "I
didn't mean to pry, but I'd hoped to find a name or some other clue
to the owner, you see. Amid all that fuss yesterday, I learned that
you were a prizefighter and that you were Irish, so I thought
perhaps it might be yours."

"Thank you." Conor opened it and began
rummaging through the contents, hoping to hell the man who'd found
his pack hadn't appropriated the most important item inside.

"Nothing missing, I hope?"

Conor's fingers closed around the bottle of
Irish still tucked amid his clothes. "No, Reverend," he said, and
closed the pack, then slung it over his shoulder. "Nothing missing
at'all."

Mountjoy Prison, Dublin, Ireland, 1867

Fish guts. For the tenth straight day.
Conor's stomach revolted at the raw, slimy mess on a tin plate that
he was expected to eat. He couldn't do it, not again. He couldn't
smile at the guard who brought it to him as if he hadn't a care in
the world; he couldn't eat it as if it were the grandest meal he'd
ever had the privilege of tasting; he couldn't even look at it.
But he thought of Megan and the offal of the Derry fish market,
and with a cry of pure hatred, he grabbed the plate in his chained
hands and tossed it, sending fish innards flying against the
stalwart body of the prison guard who asked him where the guns were
hidden.

Exhaustion. He longed for
sleep. They would not let him. They walked him around and around
the walled yard of the
gaol
, hour after hour, changing
guards at regular intervals. When Conor slowed, they pushed him
with their sticks. When he stumbled, they dragged him to his feet.
When he closed his eyes, they poured icy water over his head. When
they asked him about the guns, he laughed in their
faces.

Floggings. They peeled flesh from his back
and screams from his throat. He prayed the wounds would fester and
he would die, but the doctor was called in to save his miserable
life so that he could tell them about the guns.

Hate. Through it all, he
thought about the food-laden ships that had sailed out of Lough
Foyle. He thought of his mother begging for her home, and his
sisters starving in the streets, and his brother being beaten to
death. He thought of all the other Irishmen sitting in
British
gaols
for
treasonous crimes against a government they did not recognize. He
thought about all of that, and hate coalesced to a ball of fire in
his belly. He sang every republican song he knew as they beat him;
he hurled every curse he'd ever learned as they starved him. When
they gagged him...he hummed the tunes and cursed them in his
mind.

He lost track of the days. He began to hear
voices in his head. The brawny body that had made him the champion
of pub boxing deteriorated to a massive rack of bones. But still,
he would not break.

After eighteen days, they took him to the
warden.

"'Oh, they're hangin' men and women for the
wearin' o' the green,'" Conor sang, his voice a hoarse croak, a
parody of his once, low rich baritone, as they dragged him into a
small, dark cell with a long table, burning coals in a grate, and a
thin, anemic man who looked more like a clerk than a prison
warden.

They snagged the chains on his wrists to a
hook from the ceiling that forced Conor to stand on his toes.
"'When we were savage, fierce and wild,'" he went on, trying to
keep in tune when his throat felt as raw as the fish guts they
insisted on ramming down his throat.

The warden watched him impassively for a
moment, then turned toward the grate. He pulled an iron from the
fire, then glanced over at Conor, who was still singing. He smiled
at him pleasantly, then lifted the poker out of the fire to examine
the tip that glowed orange in the darkened room. "We're going to
talk now, you and I," he said when the song ended. "And I'm sure
you'll have a great deal to say."

Conor kept his gaze fixed on the poker as the
man brought it closer to him, then closer still. "Aye," he
whispered. "I do have something to say."

"Yes." The man nodded with understanding. "I
thought you might."

Conor spit. It hit the warden's cheek and
slid slowly down his cadaverous face. "That's all the talk you'll
be getting from me, you fucking British bastard. So you might as
well stop wasting your time, and kill me now."

The warden wiped away the saliva from his
cheek with an unhurried movement of his hand. He lifted the poker
and blew on the fiery orange tip, turning it to stark white.
Slowly, he shook his head. "Paddy, we've no intention of killing
you. We'll just make you wish you were dead."

The girls were so excited that it took
forever to settle them down enough for sleep. Through the long ride
home, supper, and several games of checkers, they had chattered
nonstop about how wonderful it all was, how great it was that Conor
and Mama were married, and how they couldn't wait to tell their
friends about it when school started Monday.

Conor endured all of the attention they
showered on him and did not show the least sign of impatience with
them. But Olivia noticed that each time they talked about how he
was going to stay "forever," Conor's lips tightened ever so
slightly, and she knew he was only tolerating their worshipful
adoration, not enjoying it.

Finally, the chatter eased into exhaustion,
and Olivia was able to put them to bed. Thank the Lord, they fell
asleep almost immediately.

When she returned downstairs, he was still in
the library. He looked up from the book in his hands as she entered
the room. "Girls asleep?" he asked.

"Yes."

This was their wedding night.

They looked at each other, and the
awkwardness was a tangible thing between them.

She didn't know the proper etiquette for
wedding nights. She wondered if she should sit down, but that would
mean conversation, and making small talk seemed unbearably trite.
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then lifted her
hand and smoothed her hair with a nervous gesture. "I thought
they'd never fall asleep," she murmured to fill the silence.

He watched her for a moment as she hovered
just inside the door.

"Go upstairs, Olivia."

Was he telling her to go away, or was he
simply hinting that she should precede him to make whatever
feminine preparations she felt necessary? She studied his
unreadable expression and did not know. "Of course," she murmured.
"Would you put out the lamps before you come up?"

She took a pitcher of water upstairs with her
and bathed, remembering how he had looked at her when he'd said she
was beautiful. She brushed out her hair and left it loose about her
shoulders, thinking that he preferred it that way. She put on her
prettiest lawn nightgown and fastened the pearl buttons, thinking
about how he had undressed her in that Monroe hotel room. The
memories made her shiver with apprehension and anticipation. She
turned down the sheets, plumped the pillows, and waited. But he did
not come.

She wandered about her bedroom, pacing and
fidgeting, trying to banish her growing nervousness. She turned
off the lamp, slid between the sheets, and strained to hear his
step on the stairs. She lay in the dark and listened to the clock
on her vanity table tick away the minutes. But he did not come.

Finally, she could stand it no longer. She
put on her wrap and went downstairs. The lamps were out; the house
was dark and silent.

She found him on the back porch. He had moved
one of the kitchen chairs outside and was sitting in it, staring
out at the moon that hung low in the night sky, with his long legs
sprawled out before him and his head resting against the wall
behind him. In his hand was a bottle.

He turned his head to look at her, taking in
her bare feet, loosened hair, and delicate nightgown, without the
slightest change in his expression.

Keeping his gaze locked
with hers, he lifted the bottle and took a swig. "Ah," he said
appreciatively, giving her a wicked smile. "Now, that's what I call
a wee drop of the
craythur
."

Although the hand that held the bottle was
steady, and his voice was unwavering, Olivia was not fooled.
Visions of her father with his bourbon, or later, his cheap
moonshine, danced through her mind, and she remembered every
anguished line of his face, every cutting remark, every slurred
laugh. She remembered all the nights she'd hauled him to bed to
sleep it off, all the mornings of profuse apologies and
promises.

Heartsick and dismayed, she pulled the edges
of her robe together at her throat with a shaking hand as she
studied Conor's face. It was harsh and cold in the silver light.
"You're drunk."

"I am, indeed." He lifted the bottle and
swirled the liquid contents thoughtfully. "I am participating in a
fine Irish tradition. Every self-respecting Irishman gets drunk on
his wedding night. Did you not know that?"

Wedding
night
. He said the words with such
loathing, she tightened her grip on the collar of her wrap and
wondered about all the other nights like this that were to
come.

He lifted the bottle in a
toast. "
Slainté
,"
he said, and downed another swallow of whiskey.

Her father's ghost rattled dangerously again.
Olivia stiffened her spine. "I won't have spirits in my house," she
said quietly.

He threw her a sharp
glance. "Don't you mean
our
house, Mrs. Branigan?"