Passion's Joy (55 page)

The old woman stared at the fire as she mouthed the words "I don't like thee Dr. Fell, the reason why, I cannot tell, yet this I know and know for sure ... I do not like thee Dr. Fell.

"I scolded her, I did. Not knowing till it was too late that she—by God's warning—felt then what lived and breathed in that man's soul—"

She turned back and saw Ram with a gasp. "He killed her because of you. You, her bastard boy... ye don't deserve to know. So many years I waited for the devil to take ye life like he took milady... so many years ... He never did, not even as the madness got worse and worse, and when he finally died and ye still lived, I had to punish ye ... I had to! I never gave over Mary's letter and I won’t now. Ye had to suffer for being left alive when Alisha, my sweet, sweet Alisha died ..."

The old woman buried her face in her hands, and Joy moved to her with compassion. "Dear old woman, it isn't his fault. It was never his fault. Children are innocent. No one can blame a child when his mother dies upon their birth. It's a sad thing indeed, but it happens—"

The old woman's face frightened Joy to the depths of her soul. "Oh no." She shook her head. "That's not what happened. Milady didn't die upon the birthin' bed. I was there, I saw the whole thing." She looked to the bed, yet was seeing the scene that had haunted her all these long years. "I just readied the nursery. I came to take the babe from her, to give her some rest. I stopped in the doorway. He was there, speaking to her. His face! It was so calm he might have been passing orders to a servant or sitting for a pleasant afternoon tea. Alisha was crying though, but she was always crying, ye know. He said, 'I made many discreet inquiries and I discovered that brown eyes do not change color. Not that I ever imagined this boy was mine.” He was smiling— smiling!—and he said, still calm that he gave the matter some thought and either she or the bastard would live.

Those were the words he said to milady, words that became her death sentence. Choose Alisha, he said. Choose. Milady fell on her knees, tears, the endless tears fell from her eyes, and she begged, not him, for she knew well there was no mercy there. She was begging God, begging him to let her son live—

"He took it as his answer. He picked up the pillow and pushed her back to the bed. I thought I was dying! I couldn't breathe! I couldn't move! I tried! But I couldn't... move! I just stood there as he took her from me. My dear, sweet lady.”

Four stunned people watched as the old woman collapsed, falling to the floor, her numbed and stricken consciousness no longer shielding her from the terrible guilt. A corrosive burden that had haunted her whole life.

"Dear God." Sean finally released his breath as Bertha gathered the old woman in her arms, setting her back to the bed, comforting her like someone would a small child. Joy tore her eyes from the sight and saw Ram standing there, his face an exercise of pain and helplessness; the pain of learning the horrid truth of his mother's murder, the helplessness of not being able to change the tragic story. She went to him and he buried his pain in her embrace.

Before they left the old woman to Bertha's care, Joy found Mary's letter in the box. It was frayed and yellowed, and she clutched it tightly as they left the room, the old woman, the tragedy that was her life.

They returned to the study in silence. Knowing it would be a very long time before either of them could lose contact, Ram reclined in the chair, and she sat on his lap, held in his arms. Sean sat across from them, anxious to hear his mother’s last words. Ram's past was also his, and like all things, he would be there for Ram. No matter what, he would be there.

Joy slowly opened the pages of the letter, which numbered ten in all, and in a saddened and quiet voice that reflected the solemnity of their collective consciousness, she began reading out loud:

My dear sons:

My time is at end. Alisha once told me to trust Mistress Collins and 'tis upon her word that I bid this good woman to pen my words as I speak them now. I made her swear upon our dear lady's grave that she will place these words in your hands upon the death of Lord Barrington, when at last all will be safe. By God's will, so be it.

Where do I begin? When I search for the beginning as I so often do these last days of my life, I come to the first day Patrick Shaw rode into the bleak hills of Kilterian. I was but a girl of ten and three. My own mother had died two years before as you know, and I lived with the kindly Potters then. I remember that one day as if 'twere yesterday. The day was gray and cold like so many, and as I toiled in the fields, I looked up to see him. Tall and magnificent, he was a black form against the gray sky, riding a black horse, wearing a dark cape. He had raven black hair, too, and the darkest gaze I ever saw. He was more handsome than a mortal man should be.

Yet beneath the black cape was the cloth of a priest. He was sent to replace Father O'Donnell, who we had recently buried in the churchyard. Some said he was sent to our small parish in these rock-laden hills of Kilterian as punishment, that he upset the church with his scholarly knowledge and writings. I think this must have been true, for he didn't belong among us poor country folks, people who toiled from dawn to sunset pulling potatoes from an unyielding soil, people who knew only poverty and misery, beaten as we were under the cruel hand of the Protestants. Like a crystal vase set against the unmolded clay of the earth, he was far too fine and high for us. His passion was for noble ideas and thick books, things too far from common folk's grasp, and though he was good and kind to all, the intensity in that dark gaze of his was for things we could neither see nor know.

I was one of these people, a simple peasant girl and he, a man of God, married to the church and far above me. Yet, with a young girl's foolish idolization, I loved him fiercely and passionately. I went to every Mass he gave, yet I remember not a word he said. I saw him nearly every day, too, bringing him, as I would, a handful of wild flowers, a basket of berries and a bowl of stew when we had it. A few times, when he was not too busy with his books, he would sit me down to tell him the village news. How I lived for those times! I would amuse him with the village gossip, at times making him laugh with the simple stories of our lives. Other times he would solemnly ask for my advice on this matter or that, which I would enthusiastically give to him.

Always he listened with a smile.

Yet, for all of this, I could not know him. One time, I remember, I had in my way amused him, and he had laughed, drew near to me and kissed my forehead. "My dear child"—he smiled

—"if only you could know how you renew my faith in our inherent goodness." He turned from me and I heard him whisper, "A faith so tired and tried..." I had to ask five people before I understood what inherent goodness meant. Only then did I glimpse the things with which he struggled; it was evil, even then, and in the end, he met face to face with it—

Yet I race ahead of my story. I wish I could tell more about this man, Patrick Shaw, for he was your father, Ram, and your father, too, Sean—

Joy stopped as she reread these last words. She felt the tension filling Ram's body, and she looked up to see Sean staring in shock at her—the deliverer of his mother's words. "Joy—" Ram's pronouncement of her name was a demand that she read on, and she returned at once to the letter.

“Does this surprise you? I think it should not. You two have always been like brothers, in heart as well as in fact, and the two of you are so similar in so many ways, a thousand times I thought you two would guess the secret I kept. It was a secret I had to keep, not just for fear of jeopardizing your inheritance Ram, for I never knew if Lord Barrington knew for a certainty, but by the time you two were of an age to know, you both were of a height, strength and temperament to commit murder. As I knew one murder, I lived in fear of knowing another.

You both will want to know how this came to pass. It is the story of three different loves, none of which could ever be. It is a sad tale that has shaped my life and fate. Yet for all its sadness I cannot regret any one part.

The year after Patrick Shaw was sent to us, Lord Barrington arrived at Kilterian Castle with his young bride, the Lady Alisha. Lord Barrington was not the first nobleman who was known as a good and just man among his peers, yet a cruel and cold man among his underlings. You both well know how the villagers lived in fear of him, his petty tyrannies being too numerous to count, and I think 'twill not be a surprise when I tell that the simple common people of the village pitied Lady Alisha Barrington, a noble, highborn lady. Of course, at first I only knew her from afar, yet we all saw the terrible sadness that was always with her. The sadness was attributed to her banishment. She was an English woman, a highborn lady, a Protestant at that, forced to reside among poor common folks in Catholic Ireland, -separated from friends, family, all things familiar, for no reason anyone could guess. This was not so, for I was to learn her sadness went deeper, much deeper.

Lord Barrington left her alone for months on end, and within that first year, she began seeing Patrick. A secretiveness surrounded their encounters, no one could guess why a Protestant woman sought the comfort of a priest. Folks kept coming across them walking together though, always deep in communion, lost to everything but the words between them. Oh, how envy consumed me then! I envied her, not her silk gowns or maids or any of her finery. Nay, to this very day, despite all that's past, I envy Alisha her words, words that allowed her to know him as 1 never could.

It came to pass just before nightfall one day when Mistress Potter sent me out to chase her youngest home for supper. Tis a fool's game I play when I ask what if I found the lad that day so long ago? Would Patrick still be alive? Would he have saved Alisha her fate? Would Alisha still be alive? Would I not now know you, Sean? Alas, it never came to pass, for I searched for the lad in vain, fatefully wandering farther into the forest. A cool sea mist rose over the land, darkness fell fast, and as I came across them there, curiosity made me move closer. I just wanted to know what she said to him, foolishly thinking I would know the right words then. Yet what I heard as Alisha turned to him and clutched at the folds of his cloak was not what I was expecting. "Evil does exist!" she cried. "I live with it, I live with it!"

She dropped to her knees before him, tears streamed down her face. "Help me Patrick... dear Patrick, help me!" I shall never forget his pain as he stared down at her, helpless as no man should be. It was his moment of struggle, one he lost, for he took her face in his hands, dropping beside her, and he kissed her.

I wanted to die. I turned away and ran. The next hours are but a blur in my mind, and if I did not have you Sean, I should never know it really happened. I remember running, running until I, too, fell to my knees crying. I remember a despair and pain and cold such as I never felt since. When hours later I finally returned to the cottage all were asleep. I let myself in and lay down upon my cot, weeping still. Perhaps I slept, or perhaps I just dreamt that I was Lady Alisha and it was me he was kissing.

So it came to pass. For at some point I could bare it no more. I rose and wandered out. It was dark, and as I made my way to his room behind the church, I saw nothing and no one. To this day my purpose eludes me. Would I confront him? Threaten him? Was I only planning to show him my tears and ask for comfort? I don't know, I don't know.

The door was unbarred and I did not knock. The fire had died to red embers, and as I stepped toward the cot where he slept, glass crackled beneath my worn slippers. I could only guess he had thrown an emptied bottle of rum against the hearth. It frightened me that he might be drunk, yet now I see the fear as a virgin's fear, for I knew, I knew even before he woke and saw the vision of his dreams.

"Alisha, Alisha," he said, "you've come back." He reached for me, drawing me down to the cot. I uttered not a word, for while 'twas Alisha's name he called, 'twas me he loved that night.

The hardest thing I ever did was leave his arms that night, but my fear that he would wake to discover his mistake was great indeed. It pushed me to my feet, made me tremble as I gathered my poor clothes. He woke to see me there, and whether he still saw Alisha or me, the girl Mary, I never knew, for his last words said were: "God have mercy upon our souls."

It frightened me more, those last words, as though, he knew the devil waited there in the room. My fear must distort my memory, for I felt him standing there before I turned to see the dark shape of a man. The scream stopped in my throat. I don't remember running; but I must have, for I, with my peasant ideas, my youth and my lost innocence, knew that demons oft took the shape of men to celebrate our sins. I don't remember anything else, but the next day, as I pulled the glass from my feet, the news came that Father Patrick Shaw was found murdered, stabbed many times unto death.

You both have been told the story of what followed. The villagers believe to this day Patrick Shaw fought the devil that night and lost. They burned his church to the ground. Yet I cannot say for certain who the devil was or that the murder was committed in vengeance for a name called in

passion. If your mother, Ram, suffered the same terrible suspicion, she never voiced it, at least to me as we came together, drawn as we both were to the ruins and desolation of his church.

You must know I was lost and hopeless and had not a soul to turn to with my grief or fear. It will seem strange as I tell the rest, for any other woman would have hated me when I told that I had lain with her lover as he called her name. Yet not Alisha. My story came out, and when she cried, it was not for Patrick Shaw or herself, but for me. She cried for me! She a highborn lady and I a poor peasant girl, and yet we shared a fate, a fate as well as a loss, and as we met nearly every day by the ruins of the church, we came to know a different kind of love. Aye, 'twas a simple and good love, peaceful and filled with solace. Oh, the hours we spent holding each other, crying, talking in whispers, mourning our loss! And when my condition became apparent and the Potters abandoned me for not naming the father, 'twas your mother, Ram, whose monies supported me all these long years.