Sins of the Mother: A Novel

Prologue

SAN FRANCISCO, DECEMBER 1958

Sister Marie scurried along the dark corridor as fast as her pudgy little legs would carry her. Even though she would never admit it to the other nuns, alone in the cloisters at night she often got scared. This evening was worse than usual. A storm had knocked the electricity out again, and the flame from her candle cast eerie silhouettes on the stone walls, as though shadow demons lined the path on either side, lying in wait for her to pass.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want, she murmured under her breath, trying to draw courage from the words. He makes me lie down in green pastures.

As she continued to recite the psalm, Sister Marie shivered, this time from cold rather than fear. Even the heavy wool habit couldn’t keep her warm at this time of year. Just before Thanksgiving last week, the weather had finally turned. The cold, bright sun set earlier these days, and then the infamous San Francisco fog rose up from the sea, covering the thick legs of the Golden Gate Bridge before rolling in toward the shore, the white mist creeping across the city and snaking its way up here to the Sisters of Charity Orphanage on Telegraph Hill. Sometimes, lying awake in her eight-by-ten-foot cell, Sister Marie imagined the fog oozing in through the keyholes and under the doors, like something from one of those monster movies her younger brother liked to watch.

Stop that, she scolded herself. It was this overactive imagination that had led the canoness at her last convent to suggest that she might not be suited to life as a nun. But even though she had struggled through her postulancy—the six-month period to determine whether she should take the veil—Sister Marie hadn’t wanted to give up. It had finally been agreed that she should be allowed to continue with her novitiate—the training to take vows—but on the condition that she go outside of the closed order. Moving to the orphanage had seemed like the best option. She adored children and had always known that motherhood would be the hardest aspect of secular life to renounce. Now she wouldn’t have to.

The orphanage had been founded by the Sisters of Charity back in the nineteenth century, funded with donations from the city’s upper-class Catholics. At present there were ninety-seven children in the institute’s care—and tonight there was about to be one more. A call had come through late that evening, just as the nuns were about to retire, asking if they had room for another child. It was a baby, apparently only a few days old. Apart from that, no details had been imparted about the new arrival: not its sex, nor the reason for it being abandoned here. It was most curious.

Sister Marie had been assigned to stay up with Mother Superior while she waited for the child. But as the hours dragged on, she’d begun to grow bored. Tired of her fidgeting, the reverend mother had eventually sent her to fix them both a late-night supper. It had been bad enough getting down to the kitchen in this creepy building. Now, on the return journey, the nun’s progress was slower, as she was carrying a tray laden with mugs of cocoa and a plate of thickly sliced bread, spread with butter and jam. It would have been slower still if a gust of wind hadn’t blown through the corridor at that moment, extinguishing her candle and plunging the cloisters into blackness. With a little squeal of fright, Sister Marie let go of the tray. The crash of metal and china on the floor echoed around the vast walls, sending her scuttling the last hundred yards to Mother Superior’s office.

She burst through the door without knocking. Reverend Mother, she panted, hardly able to get the words out, you’ll never guess what happened … Without pausing for breath, she launched into an explanation of her adventure. It was only as she started to calm down that she took in the scene properly: Mother Superior was on her knees, clutching a string of rosary beads, and had been in the midst of praying. Oh, my goodness! A hand fluttered to her chest. I interrupted you! I’m sorry, really I am. About supper, too.

Enough of your apologies, my child. Mother Superior’s voice was low and calm. I have no need for refreshment. Just, in future, perhaps, you could make your entrance a little less dramatic. My old heart can’t take the excitement.

There was the barest hint of amusement in the rheumy eyes—the novice was renowned throughout the order for her histrionics. Using the desk, the old nun hauled herself up, her joints creaking as she stood. She winced.

Are you all right, Mother? Sister Marie rushed over to take her elbow.

’Tis nothing. She waved the younger woman away. The cold brings out my arthritis. She lowered herself slowly and painfully into the wooden chair and then nodded at the seat opposite. Sit yourself, child. We still have a long wait ahead of us, I fear.

With that, Mother Superior bowed her head and fell into a contemplative silence. Sister Marie opened her mouth to speak and then closed it again, knowing she ought to resist the urge to talk. That was something else she found hard to deal with—speaking only when she had something worthwhile to say. As she was a natural chatterer, these periods of quiet went against her nature. It was so much easier for the reverend mother, she thought enviously. There was a stillness about her, a sense of serenity that the novice was certain she would never possess, no matter how many years she was here.

In the dim candlelight, Sister Marie studied the older woman’s face, soft and lined, as fragile as crepe paper. She was well over seventy now and still going strong. She spoke little about herself, although there were rumors of a decade spent in the missions in Africa, her time cut short after contracting a disease that had weakened her heart. But despite her physical fragility, there was still an unmistakable inner strength about her.

Sister Marie sensed that, like the abbess at her last convent, Mother Superior had doubts about her suitability to take the veil. Secretly she did, too. Life as a nun was even harder than she had imagined. The tiny cell, starkly furnished with only a wooden bed, writing desk, and dresser; rising every morning at 5:30 to go to chapel for an hour of prayer. But although the superior was free to dismiss a novice at any time, Sister Marie guessed that the decision of whether to continue would ultimately be left to herself. The reverend mother was one of those rare people who did not sit in judgment and truly believed the words Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.

The two women continued to sit in silence, with the younger nun trying hard not to fidget, alternately wishing for the visitors to hurry up and arrive so that she could go to bed and feeling guilty for the thought crossing her mind. Eventually, she must have nodded off in the chair, but the sound of a car drawing up on the street outside jerked her awake.

Sister Marie jumped to her feet. That must be them. She couldn’t keep the relief out of her voice.

A moment later the bell rang, confirming that she was right. Only then did Mother Superior stand, too.

Outside, whoever had rung the doorbell had retreated to the warmth of the car. It was a fancy car, too, Sister Marie noted. Black and sleek, a Lincoln Capri, and this year’s model, 1958. That the car was expensive surprised her. Usually when a newborn came to the orphanage, the mother was an unmarried girl who’d gotten herself in trouble and the baby would simply be left on the doorstep. But this was clearly a very different situation. Sister Marie wondered if Mother Superior knew any of the details; unfortunately, even if she did, she was unlikely to divulge them to her gossipy underling.

Sister Marie looked on with undisguised curiosity as the driver stepped out of the car. He was a tall, distinguished man in his late forties, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a navy cashmere coat that must have cost more than it did to feed the entire orphanage for a year. The collar was pulled up, as though he wished to disguise his identity—or maybe she was just being fanciful again. He walked around to the back of the car and opened the rear door, reaching in as though to retrieve a bag. From her position on the stone steps, Sister Marie couldn’t see inside, but she thought she heard a woman weeping softly. Perhaps she was mistaken and it was just the newborn, though, because a moment later the man emerged carrying a small bundle of blankets, which promptly started to howl.

Without making any attempt to soothe the crying child, he crossed the drive to where the reverend mother stood. His face was blank, and he didn’t say a word, leaving Sister Marie to assume that all relevant information had been imparted over the telephone earlier. Mother Superior took the child from the man’s arms. The baby was obscured by the blanket it had been wrapped in, so the older nun pushed the material back. As she caught her first view of the child’s face, she frowned, as though something wasn’t quite right, and then a moment later her expression softened.

God love you, Mother Superior murmured tenderly. Her composure recovered, she looked up at the man and said, You can be sure that the child will be raised as a good Christian.

The man nodded once to acknowledge her words, then headed back to the car.

Sister Marie followed the elderly nun inside. Goose bumps covered her arms, and the hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end. She still hadn’t laid eyes on the baby, but she sensed that something was amiss with the child. Whatever was wrong, it had been enough to unsettle the normally unflappable Mother Superior. And that knowledge disturbed her more than anything else.

PART 1

1946–54

Small Beginnings

Mighty things from small beginnings grow.

—JOHN DRYDEN, BRITISH POET, 1631-1700

1

COUNTY CORK, IRELAND, JULY 1946

Stop! Not here—someone might see!

Franny broke from the man’s embrace, struggling to sit up in the long grass. Her breaths were coming short and fast, although it wasn’t all due to the fear of being caught. Wanting was written across the girl’s flushed cheeks. But she was determined not to give in to her desire. Before marriage, it was a mortal sin, and while she liked to think she was too sophisticated to believe the Church’s teachings, it was hard to ignore seventeen years of sermons.

Still lying on his back, Sean reached up with one large, callused hand and brushed a lock of auburn hair from her face. The rich red color reminded him of the glossy coat of the sika deer that roamed the Irish countryside, he was always telling her. He had a way with words, did Sean.

Ah, come on now, my pretty little colleen. There’s nothing wrong with what we’re doing.

That was easy for him to say. If her parents found out about them, there would be hell to pay. Canoodling with a boy from the neighboring farms would have been bad enough, but Sean was a laborer, a hired hand toiling on her father’s land. To the snobbish minds of those reared in small-town Ireland, that would be the worst crime of all.

Sensing her fears, Sean gave her the hangdog look she had grown to know so well over the past few weeks. All I’m wanting is a bit of a kiss and a cuddle. You wouldn’t deny a hardworking man like me a little peck on the lips now, would you?

Franny felt her resolve weakening—as it always did when it came to Sean Gallagher. With his impish grin, black hair, and blue eyes, he reminded her of Clark Gable in Gone with the Wind. Like Rhett Butler, Sean was a free spirit, unconcerned by social conventions. He had grown up in Limerick but hadn’t been back for years. Instead he liked to travel, going wherever there was work. When England had needed extra laborers to work in the munitions factories during the war, he had been one of those to go over. Her parents looked down on his wandering spirit, but to Franny, desperate to escape her hometown and see the world, there was nothing more attractive. Until four weeks ago, she hadn’t thought that someone so exciting would ever come to sleepy Glen Vale.

He’d arrived from Cork at the beginning of June, to help with the fruit-picking. The first time Franny had seen him, Sean had been standing on a stepladder, thinning out the apple trees, his bare back glistening in the late-afternoon sun. While her sister had stood by giggling, Franny had bravely gone over to speak to him. Of course Maggie—the nasty little snitch—had told their mammy all about it later, and she’d gotten the strap. But it had been worth it to get Sean’s attention.

Just stay five more minutes, he pleaded, reaching up to lace his fingers through hers. As he tugged her toward him, she caught his scent. He smelled of his day working in the fields: a strong, manly odor. Look, there’s no one close.

Franny glanced around. He was right, of course. The meadow was fallow and far from the farmhouse. No one ever came out here. But still …

No, she insisted, getting to her feet. It’s late and Mam will be wanting help with the tea. If I don’t get back soon, she’ll tan my backside.

I wouldn’t mind doing that meself, Sean said, reaching up to playfully slap her on the bottom.

Ouch! Pretending to be offended by the overfamiliar gesture, Franny drew herself up. You, sir, are no gentleman. It was a line from Gone with the Wind, said in a perfect imitation of Vivien Leigh’s southern drawl. Franny had a talent for impersonations and within a few minutes of meeting someone could mimic his accent and mannerisms perfectly.

It took Sean a moment to get the reference. And you, miss, are no lady, he returned in a somewhat stilted impression of Clark Gable.

They grinned at each other for a moment, enjoying the shared joke. Sean took her hand. Meet me later, will you?

Franny hesitated. It was never easy for her to get away.

Oh, come on, sweetheart, her beau chided. Otherwise I might have to take a trip into Cork and find meself a new woman.

He said it in jest, but to Franny the words were like a threat. It was her greatest fear: that Sean would lose interest in her if she didn’t do what he wanted. He’d probably met all manner of sophisticated women in England; how was she, a little farm girl, to compete?

But drawing on all her acting skills, she managed to hide her anxiety. Keeping him guessing was the best way to keep him interested, she’d decided long ago. Maybe I’ll meet with you, she said, with a touch of haughtiness. And then again, maybe I won’t. Without another word, she picked up her skirts and started to run back toward the farmhouse, her golden-red hair flowing out like flames behind her.

As she ran through the cornfields, the long sheaves scratching at her bare legs, Franny knew she would be in trouble again. Not that that was anything new. She was always being told off, usually for skiving from her chores to go to the cinema in the neighboring town.

What are you doing, wasting your time at the pictures? her father would grumble.

But Franny couldn’t get enough of the Hollywood films, which allowed her to escape from her dull life for a couple of hours. She went to the movies whenever she could, and she dreamed of one day being a star like Rita Hayworth, Betty Grable, and Jane Russell—of living in glamorous Los Angeles rather than boring Glen Vale.

Franny hated the rural area where she’d grown up. Located about forty miles outside of Cork, the village and surrounding countryside housed no more than three hundred souls. It was an impoverished, gray place, where the men either worked or drank their lives away and the women were given to religion and childbearing—and raised their daughters to expect nothing more from life.

But Franny did want more. She had been born to stand out. At seventeen, she looked exactly as Irish girls were meant to, in a world where Maureen O’Hara set the standard. Along with her vibrant auburn hair, she had large, mischievous green eyes, skin like freshly churned butter cream, and a small, upturned nose sprinkled with pretty freckles. Her soft, voluptuous body would have given Lana Turner a run for her money, and her flame-red hair was matched by a passionate nature, her personality as vibrant as her looks. It was as though she had been recorded in Technicolor, while the rest of the county languished in black and white. Her big plan was to escape Glen Vale as soon as possible. And today, she was one step closer to getting what she wanted.

Slipping a hand into her pocket, she was relieved to find that the letter was still there. It had arrived that morning, informing her that she had been accepted to train as a nurse in London. She was thrilled. Not because she particularly wanted to be a nurse but because it was her chance to leave Ireland. Once in England, she would find some way to do what she really wanted—become a movie star.

But first there was one large hurdle to cross: getting her father’s blessing. She knew he wouldn’t want her to go. He couldn’t see beyond Glen Vale, had never been farther than Cork, in fact. He wasn’t an adventurer like Sean, who was already talking of going back to London. The city’s in ruins after all the bombing. They’ll be needing builders, mark my words, he’d told her. Franny often daydreamed about the two of them living in England together.

As she neared home, Franny felt her spirits deflate a little. The farmhouse and surrounding outbuildings were low, uninspired brick structures, built for function rather than aesthetics. Outside, she used the water pump to cool the heat from her face. It wouldn’t do for anyone to suspect where she’d been. The kitchen windows were steamed up, meaning she was late for dinner. Cursing, she quickly dried her hands on her apron and hurried inside.

Flinging the kitchen door open, Franny was greeted by the wet, salty smell of boiled bacon and cabbage. She pulled a face. It was always this or stew—why couldn’t they eat something different for a change?

Her mother was bent over the stove, using a fork to test whether the potatoes were cooked. Seeing Franny, she automatically tsked with disapproval. Where’ve you been, child? Theresa Healey was typical of Glen Vale women. Once she had been a beauty like Franny, but years of childbearing and poverty had worn her down. Franny’s greatest fear was ending up like her mother.

With Sean Gallagher, no doubt. This was from Franny’s elder sister, Maggie. It was said nastily rather than as a joke. Maggie liked to cause trouble, especially for Franny. At twenty, she was a plain, dour girl who envied her younger sister’s pretty face and buoyant nature.

Their mother looked over sharply. I hope there’s no truth in that, my girl.

Franny said nothing, just contented herself with a scowl at her sister, who poked her tongue out in reply. Unlike Franny, Maggie had no interest in anything other than getting married. Skeletally thin, she had a mean mouth and cold eyes, and the permanent look of someone who felt she’d been handed a raw deal in life. It’s not fair, she would moan. If I had only half Franny’s looks I’d be wedded by now. But privately Franny thought the lack of suitors had less to do with her sister’s appearance and more to do with her constant bellyaching.

Theresa sighed wearily—something she did a lot—and said, Supper’s about ready, so best get setting that table, girls.

Yes, Mam, Franny and Maggie chorused.

They studiously ignored each other as they began laying cutlery and plates. The crockery was mismatched, and apart from the basics, it was a bare table: flowers and napkins were a luxury the household couldn’t afford. At six on the dot, Theresa started to serve up. The men didn’t need to be called in from the field—the daily routine never altered.

Franny sat on one side of the table, and Maggie took a seat opposite—the better to glare at me, Franny thought—with their mother between them at one end. Sean came in next, greeting the women warmly. Franny had warned him early on not to sit next to her, afraid that they might give themselves away, so he seated himself beside Maggie, winking at Franny as he did so. Franny’s father, Michael, arrived last. As he took his place at the head of the table, a hush fell over the room. They all bowed their heads for grace.

For what we are about to receive, Theresa said, as she did every night, may the Lord make us truly thankful.

With that, they all opened their eyes and began to eat. Theresa had already doled out the meat, making sure the men had the lion’s share, and now they passed dishes of boiled potatoes and cabbage around the table. This was all done with the minimum of words. There was never much chatter at mealtimes. Michael Healey was a silent man, and, as the head of the house, his preference filtered down to the others.

So how’s the work going? Theresa asked.

Michael shrugged and made a noncommittal noise. It was up to Sean to say, We should be finished soon.

And have you made any decision about what you’ll be doing after that?

Everyone tensed as Michael asked the question that came up at least once a week. It was no secret that once the fruit was collected he wanted to keep Sean on to help with the harvest. The farm was getting too much for him lately, and, as he was fond of complaining, it wasn’t as if he had any sons to help him out. Of the six children Theresa had borne, there had been only one boy, Patrick. A strong, strapping lad, he should have taken over the farm one day. But, like Franny, he had been eager to see the world. While her father, a Unionist man who hated the English, had agreed with Prime Minister Eamon de Valera’s policy of keeping Ireland out of the war, Patrick had seen it as his chance for adventure. On the day of his eighteenth birthday, he’d gone to England to volunteer. Less than a year later, he had died on the beaches of Normandy. Now Michael’s only reference to his son was to complain that the English had robbed him of his help on the farm.

Other than Patrick, Maggie, and Franny, there had been three stillbirths, and after the last, the doctor had warned Theresa against trying for more children. That meant Michael had no natural heir to the farm. It was because of this he wanted Sean to stay on to help bring in the wheat, but the young man had always been typically noncommittal. As before, the farmhand said now, I’ve no idea what I’ll be doing, sir. I’ll see when the time comes.

The older man shook his head in disapproval. It’s a strange way you live, going from place to place, with no security or roots.

Da! Franny chided, hating the way her father took every opportunity to put the boot in with Sean.

Well, it’s true. He lives like a tinker.

There was an awkward silence, but Sean didn’t seem upset. It suits me that way. And it’d be a strange world if we were all the same, wouldn’t it?

Franny beamed at him. He was well able for her father, and that was something she admired.

Now Sean patted his belly and burped loudly. As usual, that was delicious, ladies. I’ve never eaten so well as I have since coming here. You’ll be hard pressed to get rid of me.

He winked at Mrs. Healey, who scowled back. She knew Sean Gallagher’s type. A lovable rogue: charming and entertaining, but not someone you’d want near your daughters. Seeing the enraptured look on Franny’s face, she felt a twinge of unease. She’d have to keep a close eye on that one. Her youngest child was a romantic and far too pretty for her own good.

There’s no need to thank Franny for the meal, Maggie piped up. She didn’t help a bit.

Their father seized on the information. Is this true, Franny? You’ve been shirking your duties again?

Franny glared at her elder sister, longing to wipe the smug smile from her face.

Yes, Da, she said, trying to look contrite.

And where were you this time?

Studiously avoiding looking at Sean, she said, Out walking. I didn’t realize how late it had got.

Her father snorted. You’ve got to learn some responsibility, my girl.

Yes, Da.

But he ignored her and continued talking. In fact, I think it’s about time you started helping out a bit more around here. Your mother’s slowing down. From tomorrow, you’ll take over looking after the small livestock. That should keep you out of mischief.

Franny was horrified. She couldn’t think of anything worse than being around those filthy, smelly pigs or the goat that always seemed to find a way to chew her hair.

But what’s the point? I’ll be off to England in a few weeks. It was more of a question than a statement. No one rushed to agree with her. Da? she prompted.

What?

Franny felt a flicker of fear, knowing how easily he could get into a temper. But she couldn’t back down now. I said, I’ll be in London soon. We talked about this, me going to train as a nurse. Well, the letter came today. I’ve been accepted, she told him proudly.

She took out the crumpled envelope to show him. She’d read it so many times that it was already well worn. He ignored her outstretched hand and continued eating.

Michael, Theresa chided gently. The child’s trying to show you something. Franny flashed her mother a grateful look. She was more sympathetic than her husband to her daughter’s wandering spirit. She knew there was no point trying to clip their youngest’s wings.

With a grunt, Michael threw down his fork and snatched the letter from Franny. He quickly scanned the contents and then tossed it onto the table. What would you be wanting to go over there for?

Because there’s nothing for me here!

Now’s not a good time. Maybe next year.

Franny had heard this before. It would be the same every year, until she was too old or too worn down to have her dreams anymore. She looked desperately at her mother for help, but Theresa dropped her eyes to the table. Michael wasn’t a violent man, not like some, but he still wasn’t above the odd whack when the mood took him. Franny was on her own.

But, Da—

He banged his fist on the hard wooden table, cutting her off. Will you ever shut it, girl! His eyes flashed dark and angry, and instinctively she recoiled. I’ll hear no more on the subject.

He grabbed a hunk of bread and mopped up the meat and gravy on his plate, shoving the makeshift sandwich into his mouth, brown juice spilling out and down the sides of his face. Franny looked at him in disgust. Her gaze moved to Sean, and she saw sympathy in his eyes. At least he understood how she felt, that she couldn’t stand to be trapped in this place, never having the chance to live.

Sean got up then. I’d best see to the livestock before dark. He carried his plate to the sink and washed it. As he let himself out, he gave a backward glance at Franny. She saw the invitation in his eyes as he left.

Up until then, she still hadn’t decided whether to see Sean that night. But in that moment, Franny made up her mind. She would go to him, after all. She would prove to him, and to herself, that she was meant for more than this dump. And to hell with the consequences. Who knew? Maybe then he would take her with him when he left Glen Vale.

2

Her eyes, they shone like diamonds, Franny sang out, swaying jauntily as she did so. I thought her the queen of the land …

It was Saturday night, and the Healeys were hosting a ceili in their cramped parlor. About twenty people were there, from nursing babies to elderly grandparents, and they had spent the evening storytelling and singing, everyone taking a turn. These weekly gatherings of friends and neighbors had been a part of Franny’s life ever since she could remember. As a child, she had been raised on the folk songs, and as soon as she’d been old enough, she’d started singing them herself. She loved having the opportunity to perform.

As everyone in the room joined in with the chorus, Franny couldn’t help wishing that Sean was here to watch her sing. But he hated the ceilis, calling them old-fashioned, and preferred to go out drinking poteen with the other young farmhands. So instead, they’d secretly arranged to meet later, and Franny couldn’t wait.

It was another hour before the evening finally came to an end. By then Franny was itching for everyone to leave so she could sneak out to see her lover. As she stood waiting impatiently with her mother and older sister, Conrad Walsh approached. A bashful young man, good-looking in a conventional way, he wore a brown suit that was shabby but neat: a little like him.

You played well tonight, her mother told him. He’d accompanied the singers with his accordion. She nudged Maggie. Weren’t we saying that earlier, love?

Maggie could only nod at Conrad—she was always struck dumb around him.

Well, thank you, Mrs. Healey, and you too, Margaret. He looked past her to where Franny hung back. But I think the real star tonight was Franny. He smiled shyly at her. I haven’t seen you around much lately, how’ve you been?

I’m grand, as always, Con, she returned jauntily. Unlike Maggie, she found it easy to talk to boys, especially Conrad Walsh. Having grown up on the neighboring farm, he was almost like a brother to her. A quiet, studious young man, he had more finesse than the rest of the lads in the area. The priest had wanted him to go on to the university, and he’d talked at one point about becoming a doctor. But after his father had died of a heart attack the previous year he’d been forced to take over the farm. Now he was supporting his mother and five siblings, and from all accounts doing a fine job of it. He’ll be the making of that place, her father was fond of saying.

Still looking at Franny, Conrad said, Are you going to the dance on Friday?

What else would I be doing? she teased.

He was referring to the annual summer social, held in the local town hall. Franny was hoping Sean would take her.

Well, er … Conrad hesitated, clearly wanting to ask her to go with him. But as he looked between Maggie and Theresa, he chickened out. Save a dance for me, will you?

Ignoring the furious look on her sister’s face, Franny smiled up at him. It’ll be my pleasure.

Conrad blushed deep red. Then, after mumbling good-bye, he hurried back to his elderly mother.

Later, after everyone had left, Michael said to his wife, I saw you talking to Conrad Walsh.

He’s a good lad, Theresa acknowledged.

Aye, her husband agreed. No doubt he’ll be coming to ask me the question about Maggie soon.

Consolidation of smallholdings like the Healeys’ and the Walshes’ was becoming more widespread. It was common knowledge that Michael Healey favored a tie-up between the two farms, through the marriage of his eldest daughter to Conrad.

Humph, Maggie snorted. "Conrad’s never going to notice me with her—she glared at Franny—flaunting herself in front of him."

Oh, give over. Franny had heard the same accusation many times before. Her easy way with men was seen by the small minds of Glen Vale as evidence that she was forward. But though she liked flirting with boys, Sean was the only one who meant anything to her. Conventional Conrad couldn’t measure up to the dangerously handsome laborer. If you want Conrad to notice you, it might help if you opened your mouth when he speaks to you.

Unable to think up a smart retort, Maggie turned to their father. "Mark my words, Da. There’ll be no marriage between me and Conrad while she’s around."

If she’d been hoping to gain some sympathy, she’d picked the wrong person to appeal to. Michael simply shrugged. Well, if he’s not keen on you, Maggie, then our Franny will do just as well.

Michael! his wife scolded.

But it was too late. Maggie let out a cry of distress and raced up the stairs to her room.

What? Michael looked around in bewilderment. To him, this was business; female sensitivities had no place here. What did I say?

Franny ran after her sister. She found her in the tiny bedroom that the two girls shared, lying facedown on the bed, crying. Franny went to sit beside her, putting a comforting hand on the other girl’s shoulder.

Ah, come on with you, she said, trying to jolly her elder sister along. It’s not like I want Conrad. He’s all yours, sis, I promise.

The words were meant to be comforting, but Maggie rounded on her, red eyes flashing. Oh well, thank you kindly. She pretended to touch her forelock. How very generous of you to let me have your castoffs!

Franny was immediately contrite. Oh Maggie, you know I didn’t mean it like that.

But her sister didn’t want to hear it. Get away from me, you little hussy, she hissed. Go to that gypsy you’re so willing to open your legs for. Seeing the shocked expression on Franny’s face, she smiled nastily. "You think I don’t hear you sneaking out at night to see that Sean? I know exactly what you’re up to with him, and I’d have told Mam by now if I wasn’t sure you were going to get into trouble all on your own. So go to him and leave me alone, dear sister. I want nothing to do with the likes of you."

Maggie turned away then, burying her head into the pillow. Franny sat there for a moment, speechless. The venom in her sister’s voice had shaken her. It frightened her more than discovering that Maggie knew about Sean. She wanted to make things right with her elder sister but didn’t know how, so instead she got up and left the room. She would let Maggie calm down and try to reason with her later.

It was hard for Franny to forget her sister’s vicious words. Even much later, when she was lying in Sean’s arms, she couldn’t stop thinking about them.

She must really hate me, Franny mused.

Sean, busy grazing her neck with his lips, raised his head briefly. Ah, forget about her. She’s just a dried-up old cow.

Sean! It was one thing for Franny to criticize her sister, but she didn’t like to hear it from others, even her lover. However much Maggie irritated her, they were still blood and he was the outsider.

Sean was immediately contrite. Look, I’m sorry. It’s just we have so little time together, and I don’t want to waste it talking about your feckin’ sister.

It was a good point. There were precious few opportunities for her to sneak out to meet him. Why bother taking the risk if they weren’t going to enjoy themselves?

As always, you’re right, she conceded. Then, to show she was sorry, she tilted her head back and kissed him. After a moment, Sean groaned deep in the back of his throat and pulled her on top of him.

It was a month since that first night she’d come to him, and by now they had the routine down pat. The first time hadn’t exactly been pleasant for Franny. It had been more awkward and embarrassing, really, and she remembered quite a bit of pain. She had bled on and off for a few days afterward, and at first she’d wondered if something was very badly wrong; she’d even sworn to herself that if it cleared up she’d never do the same thing again. But once everything was back to normal, it was easier to forget her fears than refuse Sean.

Sometimes Franny wished they could go somewhere other than the small, hard bed in his one-room cottage. It wasn’t exactly the most romantic setting. He’d promised that once he had some money together he would take her to a hotel in Cork. They’d spent hours planning the occasion; concocting the lie she would tell her parents so she could stay away overnight. But, like a lot of Sean’s promises, the longed-for treat had yet to materialize.

Now he turned Franny onto her back, kneeling between her legs. It was only then that she realized he had forgotten something.

Wait! she said. What about the—?

He looked confused for a moment, and she hoped he wouldn’t make her say it out loud. She didn’t particularly like the French letters that he’d gotten off a soldier while he was in England—the army gave them out to all the men—but if they stopped her getting pregnant, she was happy to use them.

I’ve run out again, he said, sitting back on his haunches. She averted her eyes, wishing he’d cover himself up. However intimate they had been together, she couldn’t get used to his unashamed nakedness.

Could we not do … the other stuff, then? she asked, as delicately as possibly. This had happened once before, a few weeks earlier. They’d gotten around the problem then by Sean showing her other ways to pleasure him. Unfortunately, this time he didn’t seem interested.

It’s not the same, he said, moving back across the bed toward her. I want to be inside you.

An image of her worn-down mother popped unbidden into Franny’s mind, and she shrank away from him.

But I don’t want a baby! She made no effort to keep the alarm out of her voice. She wasn’t sure what worried her more—eternal damnation or getting pregnant. Before, her monthlies had always been something to dread. But now seeing the reassuring stain on her knickers was a cause for celebration.

Sean burst out laughing, and she felt more of a fool than before. Is that what’s worrying you? Well, you’ve got nothing to fear on that count. Then, to her embarrassment, he began to explain how she would be safe if he didn’t spill his seed inside her.

But why haven’t we done it that way before? She wasn’t willing to give in quite yet.

I didn’t think you’d believe me.

Franny bit her lip and said nothing.

Don’t you trust me? It was the hurt look on his face that did it for her.

Of course I do. It was always so hard to win an argument with Sean, even when Franny thought she was in the right. Somehow she always ended up giving in to him. I just don’t want anything to go wrong, that’s all.

He grinned down at her. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. I swear.

Afterward, Franny lay in Sean’s arms. Usually the cuddling was her favorite part, but today she couldn’t relax. Birth control was illegal in Ireland, so it wasn’t easy to get hold of the French letters. Luckily Sean knew somebody who worked down at Cork docks, and he smuggled them in from England. The black-market price was exorbitant but worth it for the peace of mind.

Are you going to see that friend of yours soon? Franny asked now.

Before he fell off to sleep, Sean promised drowsily that the next time he went into town he would sort something out.

But a week later, he came back from Cork empty-handed. Apparently his contact hadn’t been around, but he swore that he would go back the following week to see him.

Unfortunately, when the next weekend arrived, the docker still wasn’t anywhere to be found. Franny worried about continuing to lie together without taking any precautions. But she had no one to discuss her fears with, no one to ask whether it was normal or not—apart from Sean. And he kept assuring her that it was perfectly safe and that he was being careful. And after she’d given in that first time, it was hard to justify why they should stop.

3

Are you planning on stirring that anytime today, missy? Or are you hoping that if you stare at it long enough it will make itself?

The sharp tone in her mother’s voice jolted Franny out of her daydream. The women were in the kitchen, baking a barmbrack for Halloween that evening. Looking down at the mixing bowl in her hands, she saw that the yeast mixture was no closer to being folded into the flour than when she had started twenty minutes ago. The girl sighed then, and it was as though she had all the troubles of the world on her shoulders.

Sorry, Mam. I’m not feeling too good.

Theresa peered at her daughter. Franny was a good little actress and certainly not above feigning sickness to get out of work. But the girl’s pale face and listless demeanor told her that this time she wasn’t faking.

If you’re not well, then why don’t you go upstairs and lie down?

Franny considered this for a moment, and then said, Thanks, Mam, but I think I’ll get some air instead. That’ll help clear my head.

Theresa gave a brief nod. Go on with you now. Maggie can do your chores instead.

That’s not fair! Maggie burst out. "Why does she get out of working?"

Because she’s sick, their mother said firmly. She’d do the same for you if you were poorly.

Maggie snorted her disbelief. The only bug she’s got is laziness, she muttered. Franny had already taken off her apron and was on her way out of the door, but hearing her sister’s words she turned back.

Will you ever give over, Maggie? Her green eyes flashed with anger. No wonder no man wants you. Your moaning is enough to make anyone with sense run a mile! With that she flounced out of the kitchen, banging the door behind her.

Maggie stared after her, open-mouthed.

What’s up with her? Theresa was genuinely confused by her younger daughter’s behavior. Franny was the good-natured one in the family. She usually brushed off Maggie’s little jibes with a laugh. It was unlike her to be cruel.

Maggie, recovering quickly, said, Mooning over her man, no doubt.

What man? Theresa looked over at her sharply. That Sean, you mean?

Her elder daughter hesitated for a moment, as though she was about to say something, and then seemed to change her mind. Oh, I don’t know. I’m just guessing. Forget I said anything.

Theresa didn’t press her daughter further, but as she began to knead the dough, her thoughts were on Franny. She had a bad feeling she knew exactly what was up with her youngest. And if she was right, it would mean trouble for them all.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a week since my last confession.

Franny felt the same prickle of nerves that she experienced every time she knelt in the confessional box. It didn’t matter that the priest was behind a curtain and couldn’t see her face, he knew precisely who she was from the moment she opened her mouth. She wasn’t even sure why she’d come here today. But after escaping the farmhouse she hadn’t known where else to go, and the tranquillity of the old stone church at least provided a quiet place to think. It had just been a coincidence that the priest was holding confession that afternoon, and she certainly had her share of sins to confess. But now she was here, her courage had deserted her.

Go on, child, the priest prompted.

The girl opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t form the words. After all, what was it she meant to say—that she had fornicated, not once but several times, over the past few months and that her actions had resulted in what she had feared most: a baby, a bastard child, conceived out of wedlock and likely to be born that way unless she did something quickly?

Franny’s suspicions about her condition had been there for a