The Maiden of Ireland by Susan Wiggs

Author:Susan Wiggs
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: MIRA
Published: 2014-09-24T21:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Mr. Hopewell, captain of the merchantman Mary Constant, always traveled with his wife. Younger than Caitlin and childless, the lady warbled like a lark at daybreak as she bustled around the stateroom.

“We’ll surprise everyone for certain, oh my, yes. Here, the bath’s ready and I’ll just find something for you to wear.”

Caitlin stood in her shift in the hip bath. The fresh, scented water felt heavenly, and she wished the bath were big enough to immerse her entire body.

“Here’s a silk velvet.” Mrs. Hopewell pulled a garment from a chest. “It will look stunning on you, oh my, yes. See?” The orange confection, bubbling with lace and bows, resembled a floral arrangement rather than a dress.

“I’ll be after wearing my own clothes, thank you.” Caitlin bent to dip her hair in the water.

“Oh, but you mustn’t. Your—er, what is this thing called?”

“Kirtle.”

“Your kirtle is simply in tatters.” She drew out another dress, this one yellow and black. The Mary Constant carried a seemingly endless supply of clothing and furnishings, some seized from the Irish and others confiscated from the English settlers who had embraced the cause of Irish independence. “You can’t go to your own wedding looking like a beggar woman.”

Caitlin scowled. It would serve Hawkins right if she did. “Mrs. Hopewell,” she said, her voice cool but polite. “Those are English fashions. I know it’s hard for you to understand, but I’m proud to dress as an Irishwoman.”

“Like it or not, Miss MacBride, you are an English subject about to become an Englishman’s wife.”

Scrubbing furiously at her hair, Caitlin winced. “Other conquered people submit to the ways of their aggressors,” she said. “That’s not true of the Irish. The English who came here under Elizabeth adopted our ways, our culture, our mode of dress. Now they’re as Irish as a singing harp. Many of them are fighting Cromwell alongside their Celtic hosts.” She scooped water over her hair. “I’ll go to this marriage dressed as my mother went to hers, as her mother before her did.”

But I will not have willingness in my heart as they did, she thought bleakly.

Under her breath, the little woman muttered, “Stubborn as Mr. Hopewell on the Sabbath day. Perhaps there’s something…” She opened another chest. “These come from Castle Kellargh.”

“Spoils of war.” The words stung with the bile of distaste.

“I’m afraid so. But the Irish put up a fierce resistance. The army had no choice but to devastate the area. They poisoned the wells, burned fields and houses.”

Caitlin fixed her hostess with a piercing stare. “And did it ever occur to you that the army left women and children homeless and starving?” She indicated the chest. “And naked?”

Mrs. Hopewell held her ground. “War is an ugliness. Innocent victims suffer. I pray that one day your countrymen will capitulate and adopt English ways.”

“And why should we let our self-rule be taken away, our very faith outlawed? You’re bound to be disappointed, Mrs. Hopewell. For as fervently as you pray for capitulation, we Irish plot to drive you from our shores.

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