were not so pathetically real, she would scoff at her circumstance.
With a sinking feeling, she realized that she was once more at the mercy of forces beyond her control. The Macleans were likely to believe Roberts, but they might also, like most people conscious of their position in society, be quite willing to deprive her of employment in order to keep scandal from beneath their roof.
“Oh, Holy Mother, what shall I do?” She had not yet saved enough to live on while she sought a new post. If she were dismissed, she would be destitute.
Waterford, Ireland: February 1857
Aisleen sat stiff-backed in her chair as her mother ladled a generous serving of Soup Meagre for the man who had asked for her hand in marriage.
“ Och , won’t that set a man up just fine,” Patrick Kirwan declared in a hearty voice tainted, in Aisleen’s mind, by an uneducated brogue.
Aisleen stared down at her own soup plate, where bits of cabbage, parsnips, onion, and sorrel swam in a creamy puree. Fresh vegetables were difficult to obtain. Only the wealthy could afford to pay for their importation from England. She had already appraised Mr. Kirwan’s well-appointed dining room, noting that it was larger than the combined tiny rooms she shared with her mother. Mr. Kirwan was a man of parts. What was his interest in her impoverished mother?
She had been horrified when she arrived in Waterford three weeks earlier and found her mother talking excitedly about the man. Their marriage was all but accomplished, and she had not even been informed.
“Will ye not say grace for us, Aisleen?” Kathleen Fitzgerald asked when she had served them all.
After a quick, reassuring smile at her mother, Aisleen recited grace, noting from under lowered lids that Mr. Kirwan made the sign of the cross with the easy grace of a man accustomed to the gesture. So he was Catholic. That was small comfort. What was his interest in her mother?
“Well now, isn’t it as fine a supper as ever any man had set before him?” Patrick Kirwan praised as he reached for his spoon. “Gracious company and gracious surroundings; a man could think himself apace with kings.”
Aisleen looked across at her mother and, to her consternation, found her blushing. Kathleen Fitzgerald looked radiant and very pretty with her rich golden hair caught back from her face in a black hair net. Her gown of green-and-black check accentuated her slender waist and full bosom. Except for the fine lines about her mouth and eyes, she might have been a young girl with her first beau.
Aisleen glanced again at Mr. Kirwan and saw that he was smiling boldly at her mother. He was big, broad-shouldered, and deep-chested and had a quick, engaging smile. She understood her mother’s interest in a man who wore a splendid frock coat when much of Ireland remained ill fed and nearly naked from the lingering effects of the famine years. But what were his reasons for pursuing her mother? When he suddenly looked across at her, Aisleen looked away.
It was the flash of good humor in his gray eyes that she suspected most. Nicholas Maclean had had charm, and yet he had cost her her job without regret. Never would she forget his smirking salute as Roberts handed her up into the carriage that took her away. He had smiled as though they had shared some great lark that was at an end. Her own father had been charming to a fault, until he began to drink. Charm was suspect.
To keep her thoughts at bay, Aisleen lifted a spoonful of soup to her mouth. “Why, Mother, this is delicious.”
“Thank ye, dear, but part of the praise should go to Mr. Kirwan. He’s responsible for the fresh vegetables as well as the slice of veal and oysters from which I’ve made our supper pie.”
Mr. Kirwan smiled. “Were little enough, yer mother refusing the salary I offered her.”
“What salary?” Aisleen questioned sharply. “Didn’t she tell ye?” Patrick Kirwan asked. “Kathy, darling, ye promised ye’d talk it over with the
With a sinking feeling, she realized that she was once more at the mercy of forces beyond her control. The Macleans were likely to believe Roberts, but they might also, like most people conscious of their position in society, be quite willing to deprive her of employment in order to keep scandal from beneath their roof.
“Oh, Holy Mother, what shall I do?” She had not yet saved enough to live on while she sought a new post. If she were dismissed, she would be destitute.
Waterford, Ireland: February 1857
Aisleen sat stiff-backed in her chair as her mother ladled a generous serving of Soup Meagre for the man who had asked for her hand in marriage.
“ Och , won’t that set a man up just fine,” Patrick Kirwan declared in a hearty voice tainted, in Aisleen’s mind, by an uneducated brogue.
Aisleen stared down at her own soup plate, where bits of cabbage, parsnips, onion, and sorrel swam in a creamy puree. Fresh vegetables were difficult to obtain. Only the wealthy could afford to pay for their importation from England. She had already appraised Mr. Kirwan’s well-appointed dining room, noting that it was larger than the combined tiny rooms she shared with her mother. Mr. Kirwan was a man of parts. What was his interest in her impoverished mother?
She had been horrified when she arrived in Waterford three weeks earlier and found her mother talking excitedly about the man. Their marriage was all but accomplished, and she had not even been informed.
“Will ye not say grace for us, Aisleen?” Kathleen Fitzgerald asked when she had served them all.
After a quick, reassuring smile at her mother, Aisleen recited grace, noting from under lowered lids that Mr. Kirwan made the sign of the cross with the easy grace of a man accustomed to the gesture. So he was Catholic. That was small comfort. What was his interest in her mother?
“Well now, isn’t it as fine a supper as ever any man had set before him?” Patrick Kirwan praised as he reached for his spoon. “Gracious company and gracious surroundings; a man could think himself apace with kings.”
Aisleen looked across at her mother and, to her consternation, found her blushing. Kathleen Fitzgerald looked radiant and very pretty with her rich golden hair caught back from her face in a black hair net. Her gown of green-and-black check accentuated her slender waist and full bosom. Except for the fine lines about her mouth and eyes, she might have been a young girl with her first beau.
Aisleen glanced again at Mr. Kirwan and saw that he was smiling boldly at her mother. He was big, broad-shouldered, and deep-chested and had a quick, engaging smile. She understood her mother’s interest in a man who wore a splendid frock coat when much of Ireland remained ill fed and nearly naked from the lingering effects of the famine years. But what were his reasons for pursuing her mother? When he suddenly looked across at her, Aisleen looked away.
It was the flash of good humor in his gray eyes that she suspected most. Nicholas Maclean had had charm, and yet he had cost her her job without regret. Never would she forget his smirking salute as Roberts handed her up into the carriage that took her away. He had smiled as though they had shared some great lark that was at an end. Her own father had been charming to a fault, until he began to drink. Charm was suspect.
To keep her thoughts at bay, Aisleen lifted a spoonful of soup to her mouth. “Why, Mother, this is delicious.”
“Thank ye, dear, but part of the praise should go to Mr. Kirwan. He’s responsible for the fresh vegetables as well as the slice of veal and oysters from which I’ve made our supper pie.”
Mr. Kirwan smiled. “Were little enough, yer mother refusing the salary I offered her.”
“What salary?” Aisleen questioned sharply. “Didn’t she tell ye?” Patrick Kirwan asked. “Kathy, darling, ye promised ye’d talk it over with the
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