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Authors: Cora Harrison
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did you know that Oisín was Malachy’s heir?’ She asked the question casually, arranging the linen folds above the baby’s face to protect his delicate skin against the intensity of the sun’s rays.
‘No, I didn’t.’ Nuala sounded hostile. It was impossible to speak to her of anything to do with Malachy. She immediately seemed to assume the air of suspected person, and turned sullen and uncommunicative.
If Nuala did not know, then Caireen did not know either, thought Mara, tenderly exposing her son’s stick-like legs to the air, and then carefully draping a piece of linen so that the sun did not burn his delicate skin. It had never been mentioned, she suspected. Malachy had no interest in that oak woodland. He sold the odd tree to Blár O’Connor, the wheelwright, or had one of his men cut up a few fallen trees after a storm, but that was all.
So it was likely that Caireen, new from Galway and used to English laws, thought she would inherit all. Mara disliked Caireen immensely, but, still, was it even sensible to suspect her of murdering her husband?
Probably not. Malachy alive was at least making money and could sponsor her three sons through to physician status. Suddenly a thought came to her.
‘Do you know when Ronan, Caireen’s son, will qualify as a physician?’ she asked Nuala.
‘Ronan is already a qualified physician,’ said Nuala in a surly manner. She looked away from Mara, but not quickly enough to hide the expression of rage on her face. She picked up a honey cake that Aislinn had put on the shared plate and snapped it in half with her strong white teeth, staring across the stony fields with an expression that she strove to make indifferent.
‘That was quick!’ exclaimed Mara. ‘I thought he had another year to go.’
Nuala shrugged her shoulders and then turned away from Sorcha’s curious eyes. Mara knew why her daughter looked puzzled. Nuala acting as physician was mature, poised and communicative. Nuala speaking of her father turned into a rude, angry adolescent.
‘It just happened a couple of weeks ago,’ she said.
‘So that’s why I didn’t know about it. I should have been informed. Did Malachy feel that he was ready?’
‘He examined him, got a physician from Galway, a friend of Ronan’s late father, to moderate the results; Ronan was declared a full physician two weeks ago.’ Nuala’s voice was toneless and lacking in any emotion, but Mara could imagine how she felt. Malachy was doing his best to deny his own gifted daughter the opportunity to achieve the ambition that had possessed her since she was a child, and yet he had gone to great extremes to rush forward the appointment of his stepson. Mara gave a quick glance at the tight-lipped face as she patted the girl’s hand with unspoken sympathy.
‘He probably faked the result. Ronan isn’t that good. Malachy would do anything to please Caireen,’ remarked Nuala, still in a dry, toneless voice.
Mara saw Sorcha look slightly shocked. The way Nuala referred to her father as ‘Malachy’, the detached way that she spoke of him, the depth of bitterness in her voice would create a bad impression on anyone, even someone as good-natured and unsuspicious as Sorcha. Mara hoped that Nuala would not talk about her father in front of too many people. Had she spoken of him like that in front of Boetius? There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment, and then Sorcha exclaimed, ‘There’s a horse coming down the road. Look, it’s stopping at your house, Mother.’
‘Visitor!’ shouted Domhnall.
‘Cumhal will say that we are over here, Domhnall. Look, he’s coming out of the school. Don’t shout any more. You’ll wake the babies,’ said Sorcha, watching Brigid’s husband, Cumhal, the farm manager, leave his task of making room for the sweet-scented hay in the huge barn and come out to meet the woman on horseback.
‘It’s Teige O’Brien’s wife, Cairo, from Lemeanah Castle, you know.’ Mara gave the
‘No, I didn’t.’ Nuala sounded hostile. It was impossible to speak to her of anything to do with Malachy. She immediately seemed to assume the air of suspected person, and turned sullen and uncommunicative.
If Nuala did not know, then Caireen did not know either, thought Mara, tenderly exposing her son’s stick-like legs to the air, and then carefully draping a piece of linen so that the sun did not burn his delicate skin. It had never been mentioned, she suspected. Malachy had no interest in that oak woodland. He sold the odd tree to Blár O’Connor, the wheelwright, or had one of his men cut up a few fallen trees after a storm, but that was all.
So it was likely that Caireen, new from Galway and used to English laws, thought she would inherit all. Mara disliked Caireen immensely, but, still, was it even sensible to suspect her of murdering her husband?
Probably not. Malachy alive was at least making money and could sponsor her three sons through to physician status. Suddenly a thought came to her.
‘Do you know when Ronan, Caireen’s son, will qualify as a physician?’ she asked Nuala.
‘Ronan is already a qualified physician,’ said Nuala in a surly manner. She looked away from Mara, but not quickly enough to hide the expression of rage on her face. She picked up a honey cake that Aislinn had put on the shared plate and snapped it in half with her strong white teeth, staring across the stony fields with an expression that she strove to make indifferent.
‘That was quick!’ exclaimed Mara. ‘I thought he had another year to go.’
Nuala shrugged her shoulders and then turned away from Sorcha’s curious eyes. Mara knew why her daughter looked puzzled. Nuala acting as physician was mature, poised and communicative. Nuala speaking of her father turned into a rude, angry adolescent.
‘It just happened a couple of weeks ago,’ she said.
‘So that’s why I didn’t know about it. I should have been informed. Did Malachy feel that he was ready?’
‘He examined him, got a physician from Galway, a friend of Ronan’s late father, to moderate the results; Ronan was declared a full physician two weeks ago.’ Nuala’s voice was toneless and lacking in any emotion, but Mara could imagine how she felt. Malachy was doing his best to deny his own gifted daughter the opportunity to achieve the ambition that had possessed her since she was a child, and yet he had gone to great extremes to rush forward the appointment of his stepson. Mara gave a quick glance at the tight-lipped face as she patted the girl’s hand with unspoken sympathy.
‘He probably faked the result. Ronan isn’t that good. Malachy would do anything to please Caireen,’ remarked Nuala, still in a dry, toneless voice.
Mara saw Sorcha look slightly shocked. The way Nuala referred to her father as ‘Malachy’, the detached way that she spoke of him, the depth of bitterness in her voice would create a bad impression on anyone, even someone as good-natured and unsuspicious as Sorcha. Mara hoped that Nuala would not talk about her father in front of too many people. Had she spoken of him like that in front of Boetius? There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment, and then Sorcha exclaimed, ‘There’s a horse coming down the road. Look, it’s stopping at your house, Mother.’
‘Visitor!’ shouted Domhnall.
‘Cumhal will say that we are over here, Domhnall. Look, he’s coming out of the school. Don’t shout any more. You’ll wake the babies,’ said Sorcha, watching Brigid’s husband, Cumhal, the farm manager, leave his task of making room for the sweet-scented hay in the huge barn and come out to meet the woman on horseback.
‘It’s Teige O’Brien’s wife, Cairo, from Lemeanah Castle, you know.’ Mara gave the
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