The Angel of Innisfree

By Patrick F Rooney

The Angel of Innisfree, a Victorian-era historical romance, weaves a story of love overcoming every obstacle during one of the most tumultuous periods in history. It's 1848, the Irish Potato Famine has claimed more lives than anyone cares to count, and English landlords are evicting their tenants with a ruthless lack of compassion. Revolutions in Europe are transforming the basic foundations of society while inventions such as the telegraph are changing the way the world works.

Young Brian O'Rourke, an ingenious, Catholic, violin prodigy in a family of outlawed Ribbonmen peasants meets Elizabeth Reilly, a talented Protestant pianist from London, while she's visiting her father in a nearby castle. After secretly promising themselves to each other at the age of sixteen, Elizabeth returns to London to study piano with Chopin, while Brian immigrates to New York on a famine ship. Brian joins the nascent telegraph industry, where he uses his expertise to help slaves escape on the Underground Railroad, travels to California to work on the Transcontinental Telegraph, and to Washington to help President Lincoln during the Civil War. Meanwhile, Elizabeth launches a successful career as a concert pianist in Europe, while impatiently waiting for Brian to contact her to let her know he's alive.

This enduring romance captures the passionate spirits of two people determined to find each other regardless of the forces conspiring to keep them apart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrick F Rooney
• Release date: Jul 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9780990743637

Patrick F Rooney

Patrick Rooney is an author of techno-thrillers and historical fiction. A native of New Mexico, he attended the University of New Mexico, where he earned a Bachelor’s degree in Music Theory and Composition, and New Mexico State University, where he earned a Master's degree in Electrical and Computer Engineering. He subsequently earned a Master's Degree in Business Administration from The University of Denver. He honed his writing craft while working as a software designer in the computer industry. He has written two novels. Patrick lives in Broomfield, Colorado, where his interests include playing and composing music, travel, yoga, and investment management.

Book preview

Creevelea Abbey. Dromahair, Ireland. September 4, 1848.

The Shakespeare play Brother Bernard is reading aloud to me, As You Like It, is making me laugh. The antics of noblemen living with peasants in the forest and a woman that disguises herself as a man so she can spy on her beloved are hilarious.

It feels good to laugh again—something I haven’t done much lately. It’s hard to be cheerful when I watch people starve to death every day.

My attention strays to the rain as I listen to Brother Bernard. It’s been drizzling all afternoon, making the sloped roof of his small, canvas wedge tent sag down almost to our heads.

Three elderly women wander onto the grass in front of us—sisters by the looks of them. Their bare feet, sopping wet dresses, and tousled hair give them the appearance of walking scarecrows. They meander among the abbey’s roofless walls for a moment before they walk toward us. We often get vagrants seeking shelter here in the tent, especially when it rains.

Brother Bernard stops reading and picks up a sharp stick as they approach. One of the women stoops down and tries to enter.

Move along now, he says, poking her leg. There’s no room for you here. The Viking meadow is on the north side of the lake. Cross the footbridge and go left on the trail and you’ll find it.

The devil be with you! she snarls as she turns away.

Her sisters follow her through the tall grass toward the footbridge.

Brother Bernard repeats the previous line he read, and continues from where he left off. We share a few more laughs, and then he finishes the play, and closes his book.

The rain has dissipated to a fine mist now.

So Brian, he says, "what did you like most about Shakespeare’s As You Like It?"

I shift my legs and lean back against the tent, which butts up against one of the abbey’s thick exterior rock walls. I’m not sure what to say. The gray and black ruins stare back at me impassively when I search them for a response.

I wonder if the monks who used to live here ever read Shakespeare.

My gaze returns to Brother Bernard. I liked the lines that said ‘all the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts.’

He nods at me as he smiles. Why do you like that passage?

I don’t know... maybe because it’s true.

What do you mean?

I’ve watched hundreds of people die in the meadow—children, farmers, old people, shopkeepers, even teenagers like me—and everyone goes stiff in the end. The roles they played in their lives don’t seem to matter when death takes them. It’s as if they’re leaving the stage at the end of a play. The earth still rotates. The seasons still change.

The brown-robed, fifty-three-year-old Frenchman—his hair cut short in a tonsure style, with a shaved patch on the crown—purses his lips as he studies me. Do you really believe that the roles we play don’t matter?

Another difficult question. I guess I’m not sure.

The sun emerges from behind a cloud, prompting the dark gray walls of the dilapidated ruins to sparkle with reflecting light. A gentle breeze urges the thick scent of ozone into my nostrils.

I feel sad as I look at Brother Bernard. I’m going to miss him.

I’ve enjoyed having you as my mentor, I say. Studying French, Latin, mathematics, and literature has been enlightening, but most of all, I loved playing the violin with you.

I enjoyed our time together too, my son. You have an inquisitive mind... and you’re quite mature for a sixteen-year-old.

He steps out of the tent and stretches his arms up toward the sky. I follow him. It feels good to stand up after sitting for so long.

Let’s play some music before I go, he says, after we put the tent away. It looks like the weather is clearing.

We yank the stakes out of the muddy grass, coil the ropes, and fold the tent into a rectangle. Brother Bernard lays the tent dry-side-up on the wall, and we sit down next to each other. He takes his violin out of its leather case, as I grab mine from my burlap backpack.

Several misty banks of fog hover around us, drifting like cotton-robed ghosts along the ground.

I’d like to play Vivaldi’s Summer Concerto, he says. Do you want to try the solo part this time?

I’d love to.

He sets his music on a rock in front of us, and we brace our violins beneath our chins.

Imagine the notes to be like raindrops in a storm, he says. Let the musical tension build with each repetition of the theme, like a brook that becomes a stream that flows into a river.

He watches me closely as I raise my bow. I nod, and we release the first subtle melody—a gentle hint of the storm to follow. Vivaldi’s Summer Concerto is always challenging, especially the solo part, but I’ve memorized the notes, so all I need to do is channel the music through the strings.

The intensity builds slowly. Sweet at first, then cogent, insistent, demanding, until we’re flailing our bows releasing an ocean of sound that echoes off the rock walls. We queue each other with nods as the piece ebbs and flows, forceful, then relaxed, strident, then calm—and in what seems like a moment, the eleven-minute concerto is over, and we round our bows with a flourish at the end.

The final notes reverberate around the abbey’s roofless partitions for several seconds—walls that witnessed celibate monks singing Gregorian chants for centuries before the religious wars came. The gurgling chortle of the Bonet River below the abbey returns as the music fades away. The river, flowing west toward Lough Gill, is boisterous after the recent rainstorms.

Brother Bernard grins. I don’t think there’s much more I can teach you, my son.

Thanks. I’ve learned a lot from you these past two years.

I hope you get to perform with an orchestra someday. It’s like a rainbow for the ears when all the instruments harmonize together.

I hope I do too.

He places his violin in its leather case, while I store mine in my burlap backpack.

I’m looking forward to resuming my role as a teacher at the Conservatoire de Paris, he says, as he shoves his case into his backpack. "One of my fondest memories is playing with the Conservatoire’s orchestra during the debut of Hector Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique in 1830."

A misty rain begins, prodding the dark green hills around us to emit an earthy, pungent redolence. The rain then stops as quickly as it began.

I grab a burlap pouch out of my backpack and hand it to Brother Bernard. Da said to tell you he appreciates the schooling you’ve given Mary and me. He’s sorry he can’t pay you anything more than this bit of oatmeal.

Tell your father that I appreciate his generosity. He’s a good man. He was very kind to share his home with me during those bone-chilling nights last winter. I enjoyed playing music and swapping stories with your family around the fire pit.

We enjoyed having you, Brother Bernard.

He opens the pouch, pours some oats into my hand, and some into his own, and we gobble down the precious grains. I lick my fingers when I’m done to get every morsel. The snack does little to quench the hunger gnawing at my gut.

He stows the pouch in his backpack.

Why didn’t your brothers take advantage of my lessons while I was here? he says.

Patrick and James say that book learning is a waste of time when you’re fighting to stay alive.

The monk shakes his head. Your brothers should pay attention to history. The Anglo-Irish government authorities prohibited Catholics from attending school for centuries after the Protestant plantations. Keeping a population ignorant and hungry makes them easy to subjugate.

I nod my agreement. Mary said she’s sorry she couldn’t say goodbye. Da took her to Manorhamilton to find her a husband this morning.

Your sister’s a clever girl. I’ve noticed that women are just as smart as men when they have the opportunity to study.

Indeed.

A double rainbow appears above the arched walls. We gaze at it for a moment in silence.

I’m glad we met here for our lessons, he says. This Franciscan friary, which was built in 1508 by your ancestor, Owen O’Rourke, was a center for learning and spiritual meditation in the Kingdom of Breifne, before Oliver Cromwell’s troops destroyed it in 1649. He built the friary on a site that St. Patrick used as a church in the fifth century. Several generations of my ancestors came here from France to study.

I wonder if my ancestors are looking down at us, I muse, as I stare at the rainbows. I feel their spirits here sometimes—or at least I think I do.

Where’d you get that oatmeal? he says.

I survey the hills to make sure no one is listening. Da and my brothers and their Ribbonmen friends flipped over a grain wagon outside Manorhamilton yesterday. The English were bringing the grain to Sligo for export to England. More than two hundred people converged on the site and scooped up every morsel. My brothers filled a couple of bags for our family.

He nods. It’s hard to understand the lack of compassion shown by your Protestant overlords. There’s more than enough livestock and grain produced in Ireland to feed everyone, yet they continue to export dozens of shiploads of Irish produce every day, while thousands of people here are starving to death.

What caused our potatoes to turn into black slime again, Brother Bernard? It’s the third year in a row. Is God punishing us?

His gaze veers to a fog bank floating toward us. It’s impossible to know God’s plan.

The fog shrouds us as it passes, leaving a delicate mist in its wake.

Where will you go when you leave here today?

He stands, pulls a map canister out of his backpack, extracts a map of Western Europe, and unfurls it on top of the thick rock wall. I’m six inches taller than he is when I stand up next to him.

He points at Sligo on the map, which is eight miles west of us, on the other side of Lough Gill. I’ll board a ship here tomorrow morning, he says. He traces a path with his finger along the western and southern coasts of Ireland. And from there I’ll sail to Galway and Kinsale. I’ll then board a steamer in Kinsale. His finger moves from Kinsale to France. And cross the Celtic Sea to Brittany, where I was born. After a brief visit with my sister, I’ll return to Paris, and resume my teaching position at the Conservatoire.

He turns and looks at me with a concerned stare. I think you’ll need to leave Ireland soon if you want to survive. Things are going to get very ugly here this winter.

Why do you say that?

The Crown is sending more troops to Ireland to squash subversive groups such as the Ribbonmen and the Molly Maguire’s, after the Young Irelander Rebellion in Tipperary last July. The English Parliament is determined to rid the country of rebels, as well as tenants that can’t pay their rent. You’ll see mass evictions and starvation if you stay... even worse than what you’ve witnessed the past two years.

That explains why I’ve seen so many soldiers on the roads recently.

I saw English troops patrolling all the routes to the ports when I travelled across Ireland this past summer. Tell your brothers to be careful. The Crown will hang them, or sentence them to life in prison, for stealing that much grain.

A shiver jolts my spine. The damp air is cooling as the sun drops toward the horizon.

Personally, I’d prefer the gallows, he says. I spent a week in Dublin’s Kilmainham Gaol last year. The prison cells are freezing, damp, and crawling with rats. The guards made us break rocks with sledgehammers from dawn to dusk, to make gravel for the roads. I couldn’t imagine a more dismal hell on earth.

Why were you in prison?

The Irish Constabulary in Dublin arrested me for sleeping in St. Stephen’s Green.

That seems like a harsh punishment for such a minor infraction.

Yes, it was, but it’s typical with the Protestant warden, since I’m obviously Catholic.

What’s going to happen to the leaders of the Young Irelander Rebellion? I heard they’ve been imprisoned.

They’ll probably be hanged, or sent to the penal colony on Van Diemen’s Land.

The monk pulls a world map out of his canister and unfurls it on the wall. He points at Ireland. Here we are. He moves his finger along the west coast of Africa and across the Indian Ocean to an island south of Australia. And here’s Van Diemen’s Land.

That’s really far.

Yes, it is, and the voyage is dangerous. It takes two-and-a-half to three months, depending on the weather. He points at North America. It only takes three to six weeks to reach Canada or the United States from here. That’s where I’d go if I were you.

He rolls up his maps and shoves them into the canister in his backpack.

A large black and white magpie lands on a stone arch across from us as we sit down. It’s Maggie. I recognize her by the tiny white spot beneath her black beak. I rescued her after she fell from her nest when she was a fledgling, and fed her worms until she was strong enough to fly.

She greets me with a warbling screech when we lock eyes.

I have some going-away presents for you, the monk says.

He digs deep into his backpack, pulls out a pair of used leather boots, and hands them to me. Try these on. He chuckles. They should fit you. I have large feet, even though I’m short.

I push my bare feet into the boots, lace them, stand up, and walk around in a circle. These are grand, Brother Bernard. I’ve never worn shoes before.

I wish I had some socks to give you. You’ll get blisters until your feet get used to them.

I won’t mind. My feet are pretty tough already.

I have something else for you.

He slides a bundle wrapped in a blanket out of his backpack. He removes the blanket, and hands me six wooden sticks with flags attached.

These are your country’s new tricolor flags, he says. One of your Young Irelander leaders, a fellow named Thomas Meagher, brought them back from Paris earlier this year, after he met with the rebels that overthrew the French monarchy. The green and orange stripes on the outside represent the Catholics and Protestants of Ireland, and the white stripe in the middle symbolizes hopes for peace between them.

I wave one of the flags above my head. This is grand. Thank you.

Would you like to learn how to use flags to send messages, something I learned when I fought at the Battle of Waterloo, in 1815?

I didn’t know you were in the military.

He raises his eyebrows. I had no choice. Napoleon conscripted me into the French army when I was twenty.

He pulls a sheet of paper out of his backpack and places it on the wall. The paper has drawings of stickmen holding flags in each hand.

Those are the flag signals, he says. Each position represents a letter, a number, or a message control command. Stand in front of me, and I’ll show you how to use flags to make an optical telegraph.

I hand him two flags, keep two, and lay the other two on the wall.

You begin each new word with both flags down, he says, as I face him. "Move your right hand forty-five degrees for the letter A."

I look at the drawing and emulate his movements.

Good, he says. "Raise your right hand to ninety degrees for the letter B."

I move my right hand another forty-five degrees. I get it. I look at the paper and move another forty-five degrees. "And this is the letter C."

That’s right.

We practice each letter, number, and command for several minutes. Brother Bernard then pulls a Leitrim and a Sligo county map out of his canister, and unfurls them on the wall.

You should take these with you, he says. Your father’s Ribbonmen could use flags to send messages to each other from these hilltops. He points at locations marked in red on the maps. This might help them intercept shipments that are on their way to the ports.

Won’t Clements’s soldiers see our messages too?

He chuckles. That’s very insightful, Brian. Yes, the enemy will see them too. That’s why it’s a good idea to use coded messages. Your brilliant Irish field marshal, the Duke of Wellington—who was born in Dublin by the way—decoded our messages during the battle of Waterloo. Having information about our pending troop movements helped him defeat Napoleon. We didn’t realize what he was doing until it was too late.

How do you send a coded message?

First you create a cipher. For example, add the number three to each code. He chuckles. "I use the number three, because it reminds me of the holy trinity. You represent the letter A by sending the flag signal for the letter D. E is used to represent the letter B, and so forth."

I see. That’s very clever.

The monk gazes at me with a serious stare. "There is a danger, though."

What’s that?

The Crown may view your spying activities as an act of war, and they’ll certainly retaliate if you steal their grain shipments.

I shrug my shoulders. Things can’t get much worse than they already are.

He nods. That’s true, which is why I gave you these flags. Norah Gallagher, a seamstress in Manorhamilton, made these for me, in exchange for some French lessons I gave her children. I’m sure she’ll make more if you ask her.

I need to show these flags and maps to Da first, to see if he approves.

I shove the flags, maps, and flag signal paper into my backpack. We then sit down next to each other on the wall. He pulls a tobacco pipe out of a pocket in his cloak, lights it, and exhales a lungful of smoke.

What was it like, I say, being a soldier in Napoleon’s army?

He puffs on his pipe before he responds. It was horrible. I’ll never forget the look in that English soldier’s eye when I gutted him with my knife. His blood and excrement gushed over me as we wrestled, and then he died in my arms. That’s why I became a monk. I shut myself away from the world after the war.

That must have been awful. I’ve seen a lot of people die, but I’ve never caused it myself.

He sucks on his pipe and exhales. You should go to America, Brian. You can make a good life for yourself there.

I don’t want to die on a coffin ship. I’ve heard that sharks follow the ships, waiting for the dead bodies the sailors throw overboard. Besides, my father wouldn’t let me. He says this is our land, and these are our people, and it’s our responsibility to take care of them. We’re the last of the ruling O’Rourke clan in Leitrim.

Be careful of catching diseases on a ship if you do go, he says. "I witnessed a terrible outbreak of cholera in Liverpool. The boarding houses near the docks were crowded with refugees—sometimes twenty to a room. I noticed that everyone in the house succumbed to the same illness after one person got sick. The doctors say that miasma, what they call evil air, causes the disease, but I’m not so sure. The entire city would have gotten sick if it was evil air."

He puffs on his pipe. Most people believe that disease is God’s providence… that there’s nothing that can be done about it—but I think the sick were contaminating each other. Cramming people into close quarters on a ship is another good way to spread disease. Try to sleep alone if you can, and stay away from anyone that gets sick.

How can we leave? Da says our clan has been here for over a thousand years.

You’ll have to if you want to survive. Over half a million people have died of starvation and related diseases the past two years, and another half million could die this year. The English estate owners want their Irish property cleared of tenants, so they can use their land for livestock production. Sheep and cattle farming are more lucrative than grain production, now that they’ve abolished the Corn Laws, and it takes one-tenth as many farmers. The Crown is also levying a tax on landlords, when their indigent tenants go to the workhouses, so it’s cheaper to just evict them.

My mind strays to the gurgling babble of the river beyond the meadow... flowing ever onward to the ocean—the ocean that could bring me to America. Da says our clan ruled these lands for seven hundred years, before the English came. He named me after our ancestral leader—Brian O’Rourke. He says it’s my responsibility to take care of our people.

The monk dismisses the hills with his hand. You won’t be able to help anyone if you’re dead. You’ll starve to death... or end up in prison. Besides, do you really want to raise a family in a country governed by tyrants that have no regard for their own people?

How can we buy tickets for a famine ship? Da doesn’t have any money.

"Use your brain. You’re a smart boy. You can always earn a shilling by warming a man’s heart with a song. You also know how to read and write, you can speak French and Latin, and you’re brilliant with mathematics. You learned Euclid’s Elements much quicker than I did."

The formulas and equations just seemed like puzzles to me.

You can have the violin music we played together if you’d like.

I point at my temple. Thanks, but I’ve already memorized the violin parts.

He chuckles. That’s what I mean, son. You have special gifts. God has blessed you with a sharp mind, and a voracious capacity to learn. Always remember, though, that knowledge and wisdom aren’t the same thing.

What do you mean?

Wisdom is being able to see the world for what it is, rather than what you want it to be.

This seems important, but I’m not sure why. I’ll have to think about it later.

I pray that you don’t let your precious gifts go to waste, he goes on. That’s why I read you the Shakespeare play. I think it’s saying that our lives belong to us... to do with as we like.

The gleam in his eye awakens something inside me. Maybe I can go to America someday.

Ma says I have special gifts too, I say. She says she saw it in my eyes when I was born.

He chuckles. Is that so?

I never know what having special gifts means, until someone points them out to me—things I take for granted, like learning languages quickly, or memorizing melodies on my violin after I hear them once.

He nods. "I wish I had those abilities."

I used to think that my dark eyes and black hair were the reason for my special gifts. As you know, my brothers and sister have reddish-blond hair and blue eyes. I chuckle. I thought my dark eyes meant that I had something different growing inside me when I was a child, like some kind of animal that would die, if I didn’t feed it. I know that was silly now that I’m sixteen.

He laughs, and takes a long puff on his pipe.

My two older brothers, nineteen-year-old Patrick and eighteen-year-old James, like to tease me about how different I look, but they’re the first to defend me when someone implies that Ma wasn’t faithful to Da. They also taught me how to fight so I can stand up for myself—bare-knuckled boxing that draws blood when you aim for the nose—and how to throw knives. Mary, our seventeen-year-old sister, is the best when it comes to spiking a target with a dagger, though.

I’ve been wondering about a few things, I say. "I guess I should ask you now, since you’ll be leaving soon."

What are your questions, my son?

I’m reluctant to ask him this, but I’m also curious to hear what he’ll say. Is murder a sin if you’re in combat, like when you were conscripted into the army?

He stares at the ruins for a moment before he answers. I don’t really know. I guess I’ll find out after I die.

I also want to know why God punishes us with starvation, disease, and war.

The monk studies me with a steady gaze. That’s another good question, my son... another one I can’t answer. At some point, I think it just comes down to faith.

Faith?

Yes. Faith—that there’s a higher power, something to lean on, that’s bigger than all of us.

I feel ignorant about God—what he, or it—really is. Relying on faith seems vague.

His eyebrows rise. Can I trust you with a secret? Maybe this will help you understand the world a little better.

Of course.

He stares deep into my eyes. Although I’m a monk, and a teacher, I’m also a vassal of the state. I work for the French government. I use my spiritual avocation as a disguise.

What do you do for them?

He looks around furtively. My government sent me here at the request of the Holy See. I’m one of several agents in Ireland keeping an eye on things. Unfortunately, my government has been in turmoil since the February Revolution, so they’ve called us all home now.

The Holy See… do you mean the Vatican… the pope?

That’s right. You’ll recall from our history discussions that Catholicism has been under siege in Britain for centuries, ever since Henry the Eighth divorced Catherine of Aragon, so he could marry Anne Boleyn. We’ve been keeping a close watch on Britain’s rulers ever since.

Is the pope going to help us?

He shakes his head. No. Although the Catholic Church is very wealthy, they don’t have an army of their own. They rely on countries like France and Spain to fight their battles. However, neither country wants to start a war with England right now.

"Why did you come here, to Dromahair?"

I like staying here when I’m not travelling around Ireland. The monks at Creevelea Abbey educated several generations of my ancestors. My clan is from Brittany, in northwest France. We traded with your O’Rourke clan for centuries, before the British came. That’s why I learned your native language so easily. We share the same Celtic tongue.

I see.

The monk taps his pipe against the wall and empties the ashes. He then stows it in his cloak.

I have one more thing to give you before I leave, he says. Follow me.

We walk to the abbey’s covered water well. There’s a wooden bucket tied to a thick rope attached to a crankshaft, beneath the circular roof.

He pulls a four-inch stone key out of his cloak. I’m entrusting this key to you, he says. You should only use it if you need a place to hide. It opens a secret chamber beneath the abbey.

He drops the key into the well. It disappears with a plop beneath the dark water.

How deep is that? I say.

About ten feet below the water line. You can swim, can’t you?

Yes.

I stare into the moss-walled cylinder. I can swim, but I hope I never have to jump in there. I’m sure the water is freezing, and I’d have to climb up the slippery rope to reach the edge.

We walk back to the wall. He squeezes the folded tent into his backpack, lifts it, and I help him secure the belts around his waist and shoulders.

He hugs me for a few seconds, and steps back holding my shoulders. I wish you luck, my son. You’ll be in my prayers.

You’ll be in mine too, Brother Bernard. Have a safe journey.

I watch him as he trudges west on a trail that leads to the southern edge of Lough Gill. He turns and waves at the top of the hill, and vanishes on the other side.

I secure my backpack around my shoulders, cross the footbridge over the Bonet River, and turn left on a footpath that leads to the north side of Lough Gill. I zigzag along the jagged shoreline for a mile past the inlet, veer north at a fork in the trail, cross a dirt road, and ascend the hill to our home.

Wisps of smoke from a peat fire are wafting out of our crooked chimney when I arrive ten minutes later. I hide the six tricolor flags in a crevice beneath two large rocks. I’ll show them to Da tomorrow morning when the light is better.

The clatter of galloping hooves pulls my gaze down to Parke’s Castle, on the north side of the lake. A covered carriage pulled by two white stallions enters the castle gate, followed by four English soldiers on horses.

Hmm. The castle must have important guests for Solicitor Reilly’s eviction brigade to accompany them.

Most of the five-mile-wide lake is visible below me. Da says our location here is a good vantage point to observe our lands. Parke’s Castle—currently occupied by Viscount Clements’s eviction solicitor, Charles Reilly—stands on land our O’Rourke clan governed for centuries, when we ruled the Kingdom of Breifne.

Ma emerges from our mud and stone hut and stands next to me. I’m glad you’re home, she says, hugging me sideways. Did Brother Bernard leave today?

Yes, he did. I’m going to miss him.

I’m sure you will. He was very kind to tutor you without asking for anything in return.

Indeed. I point at my leather boots. Look what he gave me.

That was nice of him. Your brothers will be envious. Maybe I’ll knit you some wool socks for Christmas.

That would be wonderful, Ma.

The setting sun casts a silver iridescent glow across the lake.

Our castle sure looks grand in the evening, she says.

Is it really ours? Brother Bernard told me the castle was built by the Protestants.

That’s partially true. Your father’s ancestors built the original castle. The Crown confiscated it after Queen Elizabeth executed Brian O’Rourke for treason in 1591, for giving shelter to soldiers from the Spanish Armada. The Crown then gave the castle and all the land around it to English noblemen, during the Protestant plantations in 1620. An Englishman then built his own castle, using materials from the original O’Rourke castle.

She stoops down and enters our one-room stone hut. I follow her inside, and stow my backpack in the corner.

Ma shoves a peat brick into the fire pit. Your brothers went with Da and Mary to Manorhamilton this morning. They should be back soon.

She stirs a pot of oatmeal next to the fire. I hope we get some good news tonight. Mary’s a pretty girl, but a bag of oatmeal isn’t much to offer as a dowry.

Ma casts her gaze at Mildred, our pig, who is lounging on the hay of our family bed. Mildred would be an enticing dowry, she says, but Da wants to keep her for food this winter.

Mary’s only seventeen. Why does she need to be betrothed now?

Finding her a husband with money will ensure she doesn’t starve to death this winter. All the potatoes we planted on the hillside are rotten.

Brother Bernard said it’s the same all across Ireland. He thinks a half-million people could starve to death this winter. Maybe it’s time to immigrate to America.

Ma shakes her head. Your father will never leave his land.

I contemplate the smoldering coals in the fire pit.

Ma pulls a comb from her pocket. Sit down next to me so I can fix your hair. You need to look proper… when you usher the dying into eternity.

I sit down cross-legged with my back to her, and she starts to unsnarl my tangles.

My beautiful Black Irishman, she says. You look a lot like your grandfather. He had black hair and dark eyes too.

Why do you call me Black Irish? I’m not black.

She chuckles. I know. It’s just a saying, because of the Spanish blood in your veins. Some of the Spanish Armada soldiers stayed in Ireland and started families with O’Rourke women. That’s where your Spanish blood came from.

I stare at the oatmeal. May I eat before I go down to the meadow? I’m hungry.

We can’t eat until Da returns. Don’t worry. I’ll save some for you.

Do I really need to keep going to the meadow? It’s depressing... watching people die every night, especially the children.

Your father will be disappointed if you don’t comfort them.

She finishes combing my hair. There. You look very handsome.

Thanks, Ma.

I stand up, sling my backpack over my shoulder, and we duck our heads as we exit. The lake shimmers with an orange radiance as the sun kisses the horizon.

There are a lot of people in the meadow tonight, she says. A family trudged up our trail to beg me for oatmeal today. They must have heard about the grain wagon. I had to turn the poor souls away. We only have one bag left for ourselves. We won’t have any if Mary is betrothed.

I hug her. Goodbye, Ma.

I turn and trudge down the trail. A star appears above me as I reach the meadow.

I climb to the top of the Viking rock, and pull out my violin. Da says that our ancestors placed the stone here over a thousand years ago, when this was an important meeting place.

There are at least three dozen people lying on the grass below me. Some of them are moaning, huddled in fetal positions, holding their stomachs. Many have green teeth and leaves tangled in their unkempt hair. Others are already stiff, lifeless. Several emaciated children gripped by the dysentery that accompanies cholera are lying in fetid pools of diarrhea. They’ll be dead soon—a welcome escape from their tortured lives, I presume. The three sisters I saw earlier are here too.

Several tinkers are milling about in the woods. They’ll descend like vultures to steal the clothes and shoes from the dead after I leave.

I raise my violin to my shoulder, and begin the same way I do every night, playing the melody from Chopin’s Funeral March.

CHAPTER 2. ELIZABETH REILLY

Parke’s Castle. Newtown, Ireland.

The last chord echoes around the rock-walled parlor for several seconds before it fades away. I pull my hands off the piano keyboard and open my eyes.

Abigail Hughes, my portly forty-five-year-old governess, stirs from her sleep in the rocking chair next to the fireplace.

That was nice, Elizabeth, she says, as she covers a yawn with her hand.

Thank you, Miss Hughes. That’s the first time I’ve played Bach’s 4th invention in D minor from memory without looking at the music. The piano Father borrowed sounds marvelous, don’t you think?

It certainly does.

I turn and survey the room. Flames from the fireplace are casting a warm glow over the dark Victorian furniture and Indian rugs on the stone floor.

It feels good to be home after so many years away, I say.

How long has it been since your mother died?

Nine years. I was seven when Father sent me to live with Aunt Bess in London.

Miss Hughes stands up and lays her half-finished needlepoint handkerchief in the seat. It was nice of Viscount Clements to let your father borrow the piano so you can practice.

It was indeed. I love the way the bass notes rumble around the rock walls in here.

"I’m going to the kitchen for some tea. Shall I send the maid up with some for