A Bride for Donnigan

Chapter Nineteen

Brenna

When Fiona was a laughing, teasing two-year-old and Sean a four-and-a-half-year-old copy of his father, another baby girl joined the family, aided by the doctor who actually made it on time. Kathleen named her Brenna and Fiona managed to call her Bwee. She was another blond baby but she had more of Kathleen’s features than did Sean.

“Now you’re getting it right,” teased Donnigan. “A little of both of us.” Kathleen just smiled.

Sean and Fiona fell in love with their baby sister at once, but it was generally left to Fiona to do the mothering as Sean was much too busy being a “farm man.”

A few months later, Erma also had another baby and this one too was a girl, much to Lucas’s further consternation. But his oldest girl was busy working on her daddy’s heart, and though Lucas might not have admitted it, she had won him over totally. Erma shared the little tales of the doting papa with Kathleen and they both chuckled over them. Lucas tried so hard to convince everyone that he was totally and completely “all business.”

Brenna was a contented baby, for which Kathleen was thankful. With two other small children to care for, her days were more than full. Sean took over the task of gathering the eggs and feeding the chickens. It was his first step toward becoming a farmer.

But the garden always needed attention, and the pile of soiled baby laundry always loomed larger than the clean stock in the chest of drawers. It seemed to Kathleen that there was never time for rest. She was glad that her little brood was healthy and happy.

Brenna was now seven months old, sitting by herself and crawling all over the house. Donnigan was pleased with her progress, as he had been with each of his children. But Kathleen carried a nagging, frightening concern. The baby’s eyes were often crossed as she tried to focus on what she held in her hands.

Kathleen, herself raised with a handicap that had not been properly cared for, knew how devastating it could be. Why, if Donnigan had not accepted her “sight unseen,” she still didn’t know if any man would have ever married her. Her stepmum had thoroughly convinced her that she had an abnormality that no man would be able to overlook. Kathleen did not want any such handicap for one of her children.

Donnigan had helped her limp by making a lift for her boot. In fact, Kathleen hardly thought of her lameness anymore, and certainly Donnigan never made mention of it. But crossed eyes could hardly be hidden under swishing skirts. Brenna’s disability would be plain for all to see. So Kathleen fretted and worried and tried to make peace with the God she had been angry with so that she might evoke His intervention. Each day she watched the little eyes as they concentrated on what was held in the small hands, and still they crossed on occasion.

Kathleen kept waiting for Donnigan to speak of it, but Donnigan either did not notice or refused to admit what he saw. It annoyed Kathleen. Wasn’t he concerned about his baby?

At last she had to bring it up. “What can we do about Brenna?” was the way she approached him.

“What about Brenna?” he asked innocently, and Kathleen stirred restlessly, her temper immediately roused.

“Her eyes?” she said with a bit too much emphasis.

“What’s wrong with her eyes?”

Now Kathleen was really upset. “Don’t tell me,” she began, “that you haven’t even noticed that your daughter has crossed eyes?”

“What?” he answered, his tone even and controlled in spite of her sharpness. “You mean when she holds something?”

When Kathleen did not answer, Donnigan went on. “All babies do that. They outgrow it as soon as the muscles strengthen.”

Kathleen snorted. “And now you are an authority on all babies. Sean didn’t do that. Fiona didn’t do that.”

“Sure they did,” argued Donnigan.

“Not when they were as old as Brenna,” debated Kathleen.

“So she’s a bit slower in that area,” said Donnigan, refusing to get concerned.

Kathleen said nothing more. She was still worried about her baby, but it seemed Donnigan did not share her fear.

“We’ll keep an eye on her,” said Donnigan. “If she doesn’t quickly outgrow it, we’ll take her to a doctor in Raeford.”

“Outgrow it by when?” asked Kathleen, wishing for something definite.

“By a year,” said Donnigan.

It seemed much too long to wait to Kathleen, but it had to do. She would watch Brenna carefully and then make Donnigan keep his promise when she was a year old.

But Brenna outgrew her difficulty in focusing long before she reached her first birthday. Kathleen breathed a sigh of relief—but was just a bit annoyed that Donnigan had been right—again.

“There’s a letter for you,” Donnigan said as he entered the house, a box of groceries in his arms. Sean tagged along behind him, carrying a small box just like his father.

“Can’ny?” called Fiona, running to meet them. “Can’ny?”

Donnigan laughed and hoisted her up in his arms. “I think your mama might find a bit of candy in there some place—you little sweet tooth, you. Maybe your mama will let you have one now—and put the rest up to share later.”

He pinched her chubby cheek and returned her to the floor.

“A letter?” said Kathleen, moving forward. She never got letters. Oh, she did hope that it was from Bridget.

The letter bore a strange address but it was from London. Kathleen tore it open with trembling fingers, then quickly let her eyes run down the page until they fell on the signature.

“Why, it’s from Edmund,” she said, and immediately felt concern. Why would Edmund be the family member to finally get in touch?

“I’ll catch it later—I have to care for the team,” said Donnigan, to which Sean parroted, “I hafta care for the team,” and the two left the house together.

Kathleen wondered if Donnigan instinctively knew that she needed to be alone to read whatever the letter contained of news from home. She sat down on the nearby kitchen chair and opened the letter, totally forgetting about Fiona, who had climbed on another chair and was busily going through the grocery box in search of the promised candy.

My dearest sister Kathleen:

Kathleen smiled to herself. It seemed strange for the spoiled Edmund to be addressing her in such a fashion. Then she read on.

It has been some time since you left London to make your new home in America. Bridget tried for some time to get in touch but was unable to secure your address. “Oh, Bridget,” sobbed Kathleen, “I tried so hard to contact you.”

She has since married and is living quite happily in Belfast. The man she married is an Irishman with much concern for his homeland. The word “his” had been crossed out and Edmund had inserted instead the word “our.” Again Kathleen smiled. Edmund had never evidenced much love for Ireland. Indeed, Madam had seen that his loyalties were more toward France.

Charles left two years ago to join up with a cargo ship. It nearly broke Mere’s heart. I would have thought that he could find himself a trade nearby. We have heard from him a few times since, but mostly his days are spent at sea.So there is now just Mere and me, and our situation is rather distressful. You may wonder why we are in London. The marriage that was planned didn’t take place. He proved to be a scoundrel. We shall never forgive him. At any rate, we have continued on in the city but were forced to leave the house on Carrington when we couldn’t manage the rent.Mere is pleased that she sent you to America where you were able to better your situation by marrying a man of means. “Sent me?” sniffed Kathleen in disbelief.

Even though your going put great stress on the family here, we gladly sacrificed for your betterment. Now we are hoping that our charity will be returned. Whatever you might spare would be most appreciated.Affectionately, your brother Edmund. Kathleen sat staring at the page, unable to believe what she had just read. Tears formed in her eyes. It was good to hear from them—to learn that they were well. She thought of her young sister, now a married woman and back home again in beloved Ireland. And she thought of Charles at sea. Imagine that! Charles, a sailor. Perhaps on his way to becoming a captain. Kathleen smiled and wiped at her cheeks.

Fiona had found the bag of licorice and climbed down from her chair. She sat on the floor, out of view of her mother, and began to enjoy her treat. She had eaten three of the pieces before she thought of Brenna. Brenna was sitting on the floor happily playing with two of her mama’s pots. Fiona picked a candy from her sack and stuffed it in the baby’s mouth. It was not easy for the baby to chew, and the whole dribbling, sloppy mess soon tumbled out of her mouth again and trickled down the front of her gown. The licorice lodged in a fold in her lap. Brenna smacked her lips a few times and returned to her pots. Fiona, feeling she had shared adequately, went back to enjoying her treat. Kathleen still sat at the table, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose.

In spite of her joy in receiving news from home, she felt annoyance. “My, what a fine kettle of fish that must have been, and that’s the truth,” she muttered to herself as she scanned the page again. “No marriage. A scoundrel was he? And why not, I’m thinking. It takes one to draw one.”

Kathleen had never dared to dwell on her feelings for her stepmother before. Now they rose up within her, surprising even her with their intensity. So the marriage for wealth had not worked. My, couldn’t she just picture the anger of Madam.

Then a new thought occurred to Kathleen. “Why, if I hadn’t left how I did, when I did, I’d still be there making pennies hawking buns and pastries in the dirty London streets,” she murmured to herself.

A wave of thankfulness flooded through her. What she had left was so inferior to what she had gained. She closed her eyes tightly and let the emotion sweep over her whole body. What if—? What if she had never signed on to come to America? What if she had never married Donnigan?

She would still be poor and destitute and slaving for a family who did not even think to appreciate her services. She would still be limping around on a lame leg, her back aching at the end of the day, her mind convinced that she was a cripple that no one would want.

She wouldn’t have a husband. She wouldn’t have a family. She would know nothing about love. She—Kathleen stopped and opened her eyes to survey the family that had blessed her life. Fiona stood before her.

“A’ done,” she said with great satisfaction, passing Kathleen an empty sack. Licorice stains colored her chin and browned the front of her dress with ugly streaks. Kathleen gasped. “A’ done,” the girl repeated, dropping the bag in Kathleen’s lap.

“You ate them all?” gasped Kathleen.

“No,” said Fiona, shaking her head emphatically. “I give Bwee.”

Kathleen gasped and jumped to her feet, fearful that she would find the baby passed out on the floor, choked by licorice candy. But Brenna was cooing to herself and fumbling with the pots. All around her mouth and dripping down her front was the evidence of the licorice she never got to fully enjoy. Kathleen breathed a sigh of relief that she was all right and hurried to clean up the pair of them before their father returned from the barn.

“You are welcome to read it for yourself,” Kathleen told Donnigan as she nodded toward the letter on the small table.

Donnigan shifted the two children on his knees and picked up the letter. He read it all the way through, then read it again. Kathleen waited for his response as she moved about the kitchen getting the supper on the table.

“Sounds like they have fallen into hard times,” said Donnigan at last.

Kathleen didn’t dare make a response.

“How much do you think we can spare?” was Donnigan’s next comment.

Kathleen looked up. Was he serious? Was he actually thinking that Kathleen owed something to Madam?

“Donnigan. Madam has always been in ‘hard times’—only before she had Father—or me—to pay her way. I owe her nothing more. Nothing. Why, if she’d had her way I would still be there, walking those London streets, selling wares for that crotchety old baker.”

Donnigan had never heard such bitterness in Kathleen’s voice before.

He said nothing more—for the moment—but switched his attention to giving his two small daughters horsey rides on his foot.

When Donnigan felt that Kathleen had enough time to cool down, he brought up the matter of the letter again.

“I was thinking that we might spare a bit,” he said. “We’ve got that extra pig money in the bank.”

“If you start sending money to Madam, she’ll expect it as her due,” warned Kathleen.

“She is kin,” replied Donnigan evenly.

“No kin of mine—she simply married my father—and sent my grandmother to an early grave,” said Kathleen hotly.

“Your grandmother?” Donnigan had never heard that story.

“Sure now—and Grandmother O’Malley left Ireland when we did and settled with us in London. She cared for me after my mother died. Called me her little colleen. We would have been just fine too had not Madam taken a shine to my father. She worked in the local pub and he used to stop by for a pint after his day’s work.

“Before long she had convinced him they should marry—and I guess he was lonely without Mother. But she couldn’t leave Grandmother be. She taunted and tormented and picked on her all the time that Father was at work. Then at end of day when Father came home, she was nice as cream pudding to the old lady. I saw it all myself. Of course, Grandmother never said a thing. She didn’t want to come between a man and his wife. But it broke her heart, and that’s the truth of it. She just gave up and died—pining for my mother—pining for Ireland. I saw it myself.”

Kathleen stopped for a breath. Donnigan reached out an arm and drew her close.

“It was hard for you, wasn’t it?” he said, but it was more a statement than a question.

Kathleen found that she was crying. She had never talked to anyone about her grandmother before.

Donnigan let her cry against him. When she finally moved to dry her eyes and blow her nose, he spoke again.

“Is it too hard to forgive?” he asked her.

Kathleen sniffed and thought a moment.

“You think she deserves my forgiveness?” she asked stiffly.

“I was thinking of you—not her,” said Donnigan. “Unforgiveness is a heavy load to carry.”

Kathleen looked up in surprise.

“You had no choice—in what she did to you,” went on Donnigan slowly, “but you do have a choice in forgiving.”

“One doesn’t just decide to forgive—and make it happen,” said Kathleen with feeling. “You can’t just—will pain away. It goes far deeper than that.”

Donnigan nodded. “But somehow I think that you can choose to hang on to pain—to bitterness—sorta cling to it and coddle it and pamper it a bit so that it grows and grows.”

Kathleen had never thought of that.

“Would you like to talk about it later?” asked Donnigan, and Kathleen nodded her head.

Donnigan saw it as the first positive step.