Chasing River (Burying Water #3) (23 page)

“So on the following Sunday, she again marched through the fields, along the stone wall, over the hill, her body weaker from hunger, her dress even more tattered and filthy. The man was not out on his horse this time. She found him standing before a two-hectare-sized garden patch, the soil freshly tilled, his arms folded over his chest, his brow furrowed.

“ ‘What are you going to plant?’ she asked by way of greeting. He looked at her for a long moment before saying, ‘I don’t know, Miss Marion. What do you think I should plant here?’ She was surprised to know that he remembered her name but she pretended not to be and said, ‘You’re in Ireland, so potatoes, of course,’ which made him burst out laughing. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, holding out his hand to show her the beans. ‘But just in case of that pesky blight, I was thinking these, too. And some corn and cabbage.’ She nodded her approval. Beans and corn were expensive to plant. He asked her how her family had fared over the winter, and she shared the news of her father. His father had died as well, over Christmas, he admitted. When Marion had met this man the fall before, he hadn’t been the landlord, after all. His father had in fact owned the land.

“The young man’s name was Charles Beasley, and he was happy to see Marion alive and well. She had been a pretty young ginger-haired thing the year before, the day she marched onto his family’s property with fire in her eyes. She still was, though far too thin for his tastes. It had been a long winter for him, sitting in the comfort of his family’s estate home near Bath, wondering if the bags of milled oats he’d dropped at her door that day would be enough to keep her alive. It was long enough to concoct a plan. He had already inquired about the McNally family in secret on the day he arrived in Ireland and knew what had happened to her father. He figured it was only a matter of time before that fiery little Irish girl would show up again.

“So when she did, he was ready. He told her that he planned on staying on his estate for the summer to ensure proper management of the land, and he needed servants to care for him, and workers for his crops. He asked if she and her sisters could move into the servants’ quarters of his house and fulfill those roles.

“Even though he’d basically saved her and her sisters from certain death the winter before, Marion didn’t trust this Englishman, or his intentions. But she also had no choice. The tenant farmer whose land they lived on hadn’t paid his taxes and they’d all be evicted soon enough. The five McNally girls would be left to beg on the sides of the road. So she agreed.

“Despite the horrendous poverty that all of Ireland faced, life for Marion and her sisters improved drastically that summer. They had fresh water to drink and bathe in from the stream nearby; dry, warm beds to sleep in; cotton and wool for new clothes. For the first time in their lives, they knew what it felt like not to be hungry. They stayed within the castle’s walls, as did Charles for the most part, not wanting to risk contracting the typhus or dysentery that was running rampant through Ireland during those years.

“Marion assumed it was only a matter of time before Charles expected other things—manly things—from one of the five girls. She hoped it would be only her that he targeted, given she was the oldest. And she assumed it would be her, given the looks he stole her way on a daily basis.

“But he never did. Charles Beasley stayed on in Ireland, not leaving for England in the winter, and not once in the five years that the McNally girls lived under that roof—their rightful roof, through their lineage—did Charles Beasley try anything untoward. He could have. Those girls would have given him what he asked for in exchange for their family’s lives. While the entire country around them struggled through starvation and revolts against England for abandoning them in their time of need, valuing the market before Irish lives, somehow Charles held onto his land, giving the girls a home where they could grow into strong, independent Irishwomen.”

River clears his voice, and when he begins again, it sounds huskier. “The same heart condition that ailed Charles’s father took hold of Charles the winter of 1851. It was on his deathbed that he finally confessed his love for Marion. By then almost twenty, she had grown into a beautiful bird, and could have had any suitor she desired, had she put herself before her sisters. She finally admitted that she had grown to love him as well, and wished that things could have been different. ‘But they can’t,’ Charles whispered through a weak smile.” River’s own smile mimics the emotion. “ ‘You’ll always be an Irish Catholic peasant girl and I’ll always be an English Protestant lord.’ Marion wasn’t a woman who cried often, but she wiped her tears from her cheeks then, to say, ‘If the likes of me was never going to be good enough for the likes of you, then why do all this?’ With the last bit of strength left in Charles’s body, he reached for her hand, grasped it tight. ‘Oh, my dear Marion. It was the likes of me who would never be good enough for the likes of you.’ ”

A sharp ball forms in my throat as River suddenly grows silent. Nothing but a few sniffles and the odd clank of a dish from a kitchen behind the walls can be heard.

“Marion and her sisters left after Charles passed on and made their way to other parts of the country, met their husbands, and married. But Marion never stopped thinking about Charles Beasley, a man she was supposed to despise because of what he was, but a man she loved because of who he was.”

With a slow, heavy sigh, River catches my eye for a moment, offering me a secretive smile before he leans into the microphone again. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I cried myself to sleep a lot when I was a little boy.”

A round of chuckles, followed by loud applause, ricochets off the stone walls as River clasps hands with Fergus, and the old man steals back his hat to cover his bald head.

“What is . . . hey, are you crying?” Rowen asks with sincere interest, peering down at Ivy, whose face is ducked in her lap, her compact mirror opened.

“No,” she mutters, running her pinky finger along the bottom corner of her eye.

“You are!” Rowen claps his hands. “I don’t believe it. You, I can see it,” he throws a hand my way, “but I’d never have guessed that
this
one would be a romantic.”

“It was a sad story!” she hisses, turning to glare at him as she throws a soft punch into his stomach.

River’s return, his hands rubbing my shoulders affectionately as he squeezes around my chair to his, distracts me from the interesting spat across from me. “Your mother did
not
tell you that story when you were seven years old.”

“She did! At least twice a week. You can ask, I begged her.”

What would River and Rowen’s mother be like? I push that curiosity aside—I’d love to meet her—and ask, “So that must make you a true romantic?”

That earns a smirk. “I guess I am.” He pauses. “Is that bad?”

“No, not at all.”

Tugging my chair closer to his, until our thighs press against each other, River quietly plays with my curly locks of hair as the next storyteller takes the stage.

I try to listen, but it’s hard, my mind constantly wandering to a seemingly far-off place. A place where this thing with River isn’t simply a vacation fling, the expiration date looming. A place where he kisses me and begs me to make it work. Where we lie in bed and make plans for future visits; where he sees the Oregon mountains and fields that I’ve grown up with; where he meets the sheriff for the first time; where I meet the Delaney family. Daily Skype and phone calls and texts that turn into talks of one of us moving. Could I actually move to Ireland? I guess I could . . . if we married. What would I do? Work in the bar? What would I need to do to be certified as a nurse here?

By the time Shannon O’Callahan has stepped off the stage to a round of applause—mine hollow because I didn’t hear a word of her story—my imagination, inspired by a wish, has created an entire life for River and me.

“I’ll make sure Ivy gets home safe,” Rowen offers, holding the taxi door open.

With the slightest eye roll at me, she slides into the backseat. “Call me tomorrow night, if you want,” she says through the open window just as they pull away.

“Why wouldn’t your brother want a ride home?” I ask as River guides me toward his car, his arm roped around my waist.

“You want the truth or the gentleman’s response?”

I answer him with a pointed look and he chuckles softly.

“He’s hoping his night with Ivy hasn’t ended yet.”

The very idea makes me laugh. “What . . . him and Ivy? I thought she was going to stab him with her fork earlier tonight, when he started teasing her about getting emotional. Why on earth would he think she’s interested?”

“Well . . .” River holds the passenger-side door open for me to climb in. “I
may
have led him to believe that with a few things that I said earlier.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “Because you actually thought Ivy might be interested in Rowen?”

His green eyes are sparkling when he slides into the driver’s seat. “Because I highly doubt she is.”

I start giggling. “You realize that she may actually hurt him, right?”

He cranks the engine and entwines his fingers with mine, and we shift the car into first gear together. “I’m kind of hoping she does. Not too much,” he quickly adds, a cute frown puckering his face. “Just a little bit. The bastard deserves it for the pranks he’s played on me.”

River weaves his car through the narrow streets, deftly avoiding bar revelers—really, there doesn’t seem to be a night when the streets
aren’t
filled with people enjoying Dublin’s bar scene—whirling around the roundabouts, a comfortable silence settling into the car.

“How much of that story is true?”

River opens his mouth, then hesitates for a moment. “If it weren’t for Marion McNally and Charles Beasley, I wouldn’t be sitting here today, that much I do know. Marion and her sisters all went on to marry husbands and bear children. It was the youngest, Sally McNally, whose lineage I can be thankful for. In every single generation, the first-born girl carried Marion McNally’s namesake. Which is why my ma’s name is Marion. And as fate would have it, she married a Seamus.”

“That’s just . . .” Tears well in my eyes. “. . . an incredibly tragic but uplifting story.” I smile to myself. “That’s why you wanted me to see that monument, isn’t it?”

He pulls my hand to his mouth, kissing my fingers, before setting us back onto the gear to shift around a corner. As if telling me that he’s so happy I understand the deeper meaning. Or, at least, that’s what I want it to mean. “Ma never let us up from the dinner table until every last scrap of food was cleaned from our plates. While Da’s side fared slightly better with the pub to support them, her family struggled greatly. The famine and starvation, the way the English government virtually abandoned us during those years . . . all of that is true, and I could tell you a hundred more stories about it. It’s why Ireland was in a constant state of rebellion for a hundred and forty-odd years after. It’s why the Irish Republican Army began in the first place. It’s why we fought—” He cuts himself off, inhales deeply.

Irish Republican Army. “The IRA.”

“Yeah.”

“So, your family was a part of that?”

He glances at me once before refocusing on the road. “They were, up until the mid-seventies. My great-granddad and his brother fought in the Easter Uprising, back when violence seemed to be the only way that England would listen.”

“I read about the uprising yesterday, at the museum. The British won that, didn’t they?”

“They did. But they executed fifteen of the republican leaders and the Irish people hated them for it. That little uprising of two thousand Irishmen started the revolution. It’s why we’re free of England’s rule today.”

I can hear the pride in his voice.

“And then my granddad and his brothers fought in the civil war. He actually knew Éamon de Valera well. The Republic’s third president,” he adds for my benefit.

“And your dad?”

“Him, too . . . for a while.” He clears his throat. “My uncle Thomas—Da’s older brother—was killed in the Northern riots in ’69, when he was eighteen. So, yeah . . . my granddad and dad were right pissed with anything British or Protestant. They fought with the IRA for a time.”

I’m trying to keep an open mind here, even as I listen to River admit that he comes from a long line of men who fought in the name of the IRA. Does that mean that River’s family members are . . . terrorists? I can’t ask him something like that. Besides, he said that was forty years ago. And it’s not River, I remind myself. It’s kind of like Bonnie’s family, who is German. Her great-grandfather was an actual Nazi soldier in the war—a secret that she’s told only me. That’s not her fault, or her parent’s fault. I need to look at this the same way. “You said they stopped fighting? What changed for them?”

“Times changed. Violence—especially the kind that was happening then, with plenty of innocent casualties—wasn’t the answer anymore.”

“Huh. I bet you have a lot of stories.”

“Some.” He sighs, squeezing my hands. “For another night, maybe.”