Read an Excerpt
Cliff of the Ruin
A Novel
By Bonnie McKernan
Abbott Press
Copyright © 2012 Bonnie McKernan
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4582-0670-1
Chapter One
The Veil of Possibility
Tuesday, June 3, 1879, Stillwater, New Jersey
Stepping away from the easel, Mae closed one eye to assess angular features where they converged. She shook her head and muttered, "Not yet."
Mr. Harris's ruffian appearance was not the problem; to the contrary, she was sure anyone who knew the man would say she had captured his essence entirely. But to the trained eye, a subtle discrepancy appeared in the vicinity of his nose, in the planes of his cheeks, or maybe in the shading of visible stubble.
She consulted the preliminary sketches dispersed around her, affirming that her perfection-obsessed abilities had not failed her. Returning to the portrait, she took another step back and absently held the paintbrush to her lips—until an earsplitting clang made her drop it.
"Breakfast!" came the call from outside.
Mae picked up the brush, wiped a smudge of burnt sienna from her boot, and stuck her head out the nearby window to see Margaret's rotund frame under the woodshed bell.
No one responded to the morning call—not Charlotte collecting eggs in the chicken coup, or Aaron milking cows in the barn—so Mae, welcoming the diversion, stepped in. "Bloomin' thing. Sounds like a sick canon!"
As Margaret raised the long handle of the water pump, placing a pail beneath it, she looked up to Mae's second-floor perch. "Would that be the bell or me?" she asked with some disdain.
Mae grabbed a strawberry from a bowl on the drawing table and stuck her head out further. "The bell," she said, taking a bite. "You sound like a sick banshee."
Margaret swung the pail to the left and watered the patch of herbs along the woodshed. "I've warned ye before about speakin' of the shee in me presence, Mae. They don't like bein' talked about, much less used fer jestin'. If ye vex them, they'll hurt ye fer sure!"
Mae laughed. "I appreciate the warning, but vexed fairies are the concern of Irish housekeepers with too much time on their hands. I have much more important matters to address up here."
"The head on ye and the price of turnips!" said Margaret, yanking a wooden spoon from her apron. "Get down this instant, or this here be addressin' yer arse!"
Smirking, Mae pulled her head back inside the window, pleased that her morning had gotten off to such a satisfying start. Her smile died quickly, however, when she saw Mr. Harris's portrait again.
The flaw in the rendering of his face still confounded her, which was a first for the over one hundred paintings she'd completed to date. Squinting at the canvas, she finally identified the mistake. The wrinkle by his nostril was a shade too dark, giving him the appearance of having just whiffed a rotten egg.
Mae knew that fixing it wouldn't be a problem.
Wanting to fix it might be.
* * *
All heads bowed as Aunt Gwen slowly led grace, raising the volume slightly whenever anyone tried to speed it along. Upon "Amen" conversations erupted and finally settled around the weekend's grand festivity: the wedding of Deirdre Frey.
As Margaret set a tray of steaming biscuits on the table, Aunt Gwen picked up the pan of scrambled eggs from the cook-stove and started dishing. "I told Deirdre and her mother we would help with the food. Aaron, you've got to sharpen your axe; we need six hens for savory pies. Mae, you and Charlotte will pick more strawberries for tarts. Margaret, I need you to make the shopping list for the baking. Oh! And for a wedding present, I promised Deirdre some knitting wool," she said, turning back to Aaron. "Have you rounded up the boys for shearing yet?"
"Thursday," said Aaron, stuffing a biscuit into his mouth. "And they're willing to do it for the same price as last year, but this year there's a condition. Niahm and Mae have to serve lunch."
"What?" chirped Mae, spilling the tea she was pouring. "You said no, I hope?"
Aaron laughed. "Why would I do that? Seemed a harmless request."
Charlotte giggled, her little hands pushing another napkin Mae's way. "I like those boys. They're fun!"
"They're blaggards," said Margaret sourly as she passed around the black pudding.
Aaron studied the elder woman's scrunched-up face as he stabbed three black disks and dumped them onto on his plate. "Come now, Margaret, don't get your feelings hurt. They still love you and your cooking. And if it's the attention you'll miss, well"—he smiled wide—"you've still got me."
"And what'd I do fer such a blessin'?" muttered Margaret, taking a seat. Though she still appeared angry, her newly bloomed cheeks revealed that Aaron's charms had worked again.
"Yes, sir," said Aaron, shoveling food into his mouth. "My love spreads around like sunshine." He belched and wiped his chin on his sleeve.
"More like manure," muttered Mae into her teacup.
Aaron flashed a smile. "Isn't it nice to know that, unlike some people, I don't wait for love to come and bite me in the arse?"
"Aaron Kendrick!" shot Aunt Gwen.
"No sir, I do the biting!" shouted Aaron, pounding his chest.
Several groans emanated from around the room. Aunt Gwen closed her eyes as if suffering a cramp.
Mae delivered a hard stare across the table. "May I remind you, dear cousin, that the topic of my courtships—"
"Or lack thereof," said Aaron to his fork.
"No matter how cleverly disguised," she continued, "has been banned from this house? I'm quite sure Uncle Frank would not like to hear that his warnings are being ignored in his absence." Mae looked around the table. "Am I right?"
"Right," said Aunt Gwen, glaring at Aaron.
"Yes, Mae," said Charlotte, nodding dutifully.
"Yup," said Aaron, smiling like a drunkard.
Margaret was eyeballing the ceiling.
"Good," said Mae smugly. "Then maybe I won't have anything to tell him upon his return today."
Aaron gulped the rest of his coffee and stood up to spear some rashers across the table. "Okay, Mae. You win. I promise to do better. Let's move on. This Thursday, I believe your new green dress will do just nicely."
Mae looked at him, confused. "What's Thursday?"
He sat down, threw a rasher into his mouth, and grinned. "Three strapping bachelors shearing some sheep."
* * *
New York City, New York
The preliminary trial finished at noon. It took the judge only ten minutes to dismiss what had taken William Teague over two months to assemble, an outcome that came as no surprise. For despite the evidence—witness accounts, the deposition of a doctor, medical bills, and even the very law itself—Mundy v. Mundy had been doomed from the start. Will tried to console his young client following the decision, but she gathered her four children and immediately fled the courthouse.
Over a sandwich at the beer garden, Will sat with his good friend Brady Collins, who just so happened to represent the defendant, Mr. Mundy.
"The fact of the matter is that, until the courts catch up with legislation, we're just never going to see this thing turn around," said Brady, re-stuffing a napkin into his collar. "What purpose does it serve to no longer sanction corporal punishment within the family sphere when courts continue to espouse such nonsense as privacy of family? None, I tell you! Marital chastisement is best left for resolution behind closed doors. Incredible!"
Will sat back in his chair. "So you were listening," he said, blinking repeatedly to chase the drowsiness from his eyes. "Do you think resolution was on the mind of Mr. Mundy when he knocked three teeth out of his wife's mouth?"
Brady shook his head, took a swig of beer, and bit into his roast beef sandwich. "And as for the other charge," he garbled, lowering his voice to a whisper, "it wasn't going to wash. Not only impossible to prove in marriage, it is still viewed as a gosh-darn crime against property. That says it all, right there." He swallowed and slammed his fist on the table. "It is 1879 for Pete's sake, and look how the tentacles of coverture hold fast and true!"
Will noticed a few heads turning and tried not to smile.
Brady Collins was not your typical New York lawyer; in fact, in manner he was no different than most of his clients, the rough and tumble outcasts of the tenement neighborhoods. Will knew his friend hated having to defend Mr. Mundy, but he also knew he didn't have a choice.
"At the very least, I thought I had something with Mrs. Mundy's missing teeth," said Will. "Surely that constitutes permanent damage."
Brady nodded. "I don't know why the judge didn't agree."
Yes you do, thought Will. It was something they both saw every day: women held captive to a judicial system that didn't recognize them as citizens. No representation, no rights, no voice. Hardly sustainable in a modern society, one would think.
Brady remained quiet for a moment, playing with a ribbon of lettuce on his plate. "Well I liked your rather desperate attempt at the end there, just before the judge threw us out." He straightened. "We have hundreds of societies for the protection of animals, but not a single one in the city, in the state, or the entire country for battered women." He returned to slouching. "Very good, that."
Will watched Brady drain the rest of his glass, appreciative of the compliment and disheartened that the fact had fallen on deaf ears. "So which was it? Desperate or very good?"
"Both. But you know you could have cleaned up a bit before the prelim. You needed every advantage, my friend. What happened to that dazzling smile, impeccably pressed morning suit, and incessant strutting I'm so used to seeing?"
"I do not strut."
"Even handsome men have to look as though they give a shite. Get a haircut. Reintroduce yourself to the razor. Get some sleep." Brady stood up and threw some money on the table. "Speaking of which, I have to see Grace. The little woman thinks her husband has been working too hard lately. Might get me some sympathy when I get home," he said with a wink.
Although undaunted by the harsh appraisal of his appearance, primarily because it was true, it was the unfortunate glimpse into Brady's love life that compelled Will to respond. "I'm afraid, my friend, you're mistaken on one count."
Brady's head jerked. "What? You don't think I've been working hard?"
"Oh, you've been working hard. Very hard, indeed," said Will, reaching for his coffee.
Brady frowned. "I won't be getting sympathy, then?"
Will hesitated. "Sympathy. I regret to say that's entirely possible."
"Then what? What was I mistaken about?"
Will brought his cup to his lips. "Grace is no little woman."
"What!" roared Brady.
With an arm instinctively shot out to ward off a blow, Will choked on his own laughter, adding very quickly, "What I mean to say is, Grace will never, ever, not in a million years, be at risk for marital chastisement. I can't tell you how relieved that makes me feel. Warms the heart, really."
"Weak!" said the six-foot-two, 300-pound man standing over him. "Very weak." He bent down close to Will's ear. "Truth be told, that's what I love about her. She'd have me nuts in a cracker should I ever cross the line—so in that regard, you speak the truth." Brady backed away, shaking a finger menacingly. "It's what leaves you in one piece, my friend. And for future reference, little implies sweet—and that's what Gracie is."
"Prima facie. Convincing argument. Give her a kiss for me."
"No, I don't think I will."
"See you Monday, then."
"Okay."
* * *
Stillwater, New Jersey
It was nearly two o'clock when the sound of the coach was heard rumbling down the road, picking up speed as it descended down the hill past the Frey's to Living Springs Farm.
Aunt Gwen, Charlotte, and Margaret ran out of the house in quick succession, while Aaron lay immobile beneath a dancing willow at the Ram's Head—so named for the outcropping of rock shaped like a curling horn at the top of the hill beside the house. Mae remained on the front porch, snapping peas, enjoying a breezy refuge from both the sun and the stifling kitchen, watching as the cloud of dust finally pulled into the carriageway.
It would seem that Uncle Frank and Niahm had opted for the midmorning train out of Hoboken, which meant they were in a train filled to capacity, and Mae wondered if the early arrival was worth the overheated ride. Her answer came a moment later when two smiling faces emerged from the carriage, taking in Charlotte's cheers and Aunt Gwen's gushing like they were heroes home from war. "For crying out loud," muttered Mae. "It was just a shopping trip."
Pushing through the gate, Uncle Frank pulled his wife over and planted an exceptionally long kiss on her lips.
"Put silk on a goat, and he's still a goat!" snapped Margaret, covering Charlotte's eyes.
"How many did Niahm get you for?" laughed Aunt Gwen, taking her husband's hand and leading him up the porch steps.
"Two and a coat," said Uncle Frank. "One of the frocks will cost more than an entire semester's salary, and that's to say nothing of the hats! Who knew so much thought went into passementerie—fringes, braids, to gimp or not to gimp, ribbon, tassels, cords, pom—"
"There, there," cooed Aunt Gwen, standing above him on the stair. She tilted his head to kiss his bald spot. " 'Tis over now. Tell me, what news of Mr. Geraghty? Is his leg healing to your satisfaction?"
Uncle Frank smiled. "Saw him two days ago. Doing remarkably well. And young Dr. Peters concurs." Uncle Frank looked up and spotted Mae leaning against the post. "How goes my Marvelous Mae?"
"Never better, Uncle," said Mae cheerfully, hugging her bowl of peas.
"Good," he said, giving her head a pat. "Oh, I'd like to have a word with you later. Not pressing, mind you. Maybe after supper?"
Mae nodded, slightly apprehensive. A "word" with Uncle Frank meant a brilliant idea was about to be revealed, usually involving a colleague or student he wanted Mae to meet. These schemes rarely came together, and the last one that did failed miserably. It involved Mr. Harris, her suitor for three weeks, one of the most awkward and unpleasant courting experiences of her life. Only when Mr. Harris met her best friend Deirdre—to whom he proposed marriage eight weeks later—did Mae's torture subside.
Uncle Frank turned to his children. "What say you all to a dip in the river?"
Charlotte screamed with delight. "Niahm! Help me get ready!"
Niahm, who had been trailing quietly behind, smiled at her little sister as she hoisted a small trunk up the steps. "Can't. Must unpack. Mae will do it," she said, brushing past Mae without so much as a greeting or a smile.
"Bejapers! The heat!" said Margaret, shooing everyone inside. "We'll be scalded alive!"
In no time, Mae, Charlotte and Aaron were sitting at the river's edge, engaged in the activities of painting, eating, and reading respectively, enjoying the shade of oak and willow trees lining the water.
"You came, after all!" exclaimed Charlotte, jumping up.
"Had to come," said Niahm, approaching with parasol in hand. She took hold of Charlotte's shoulder for balance as she slipped a foot out of her boot to daintily test the water with her toe. "Ma practically threw me out of the house."
"That wasn't just Ma chasing you out," said Aaron, looking up from his book. "Da too, no doubt."
Niahm looked over her shoulder and winced at her brother. "That's disgusting!"
"Did you really have to say it, Aaron?" scolded Mae.
"Say what?" asked Charlotte.
"Nothing," said three voices in unison.
Wiping her paintbrush, Mae returned to the scene she was painting: Aaron's lean body reclined over a book, with mottled sunlight highlighting his ash blond tresses, defining the muscles under his ill-fitting shirt, and brightening the tops of his smiling, tanned cheeks. In the background, brighter sunlight gleamed on the river, with massive ferns proliferating both banks and one grand oak standing firm beside rushing waters. Just as she had done every summer since childhood, Mae added a couple of palm trees and a few stabs of color, usually orchids or Birds of Paradise, so the surrounds were not of a riverbank in New Jersey but a lagoon in the South Pacific. She regarded her creation for several critical moments before setting it aside and lying back.
Closing her eyes brought more enchantment: the sounds of trickling water, the twittering of birds, and the occasional clunk of an acrobatic fish. The very essence of peace, she thought dreamily, drawing the sweet-smelling air deep into her lungs.
"Aaron, you promised to throw me!" screeched Charlotte.
Aaron sat up. "Did I promise?" he yawned, scratching his head. Hopping to his feet, he adjusted his cut-off breeches and pushed Charlotte into the water, much to her scream-filled delight.
Niahm sat on the blanket beside Mae and carefully arranged her skirts to prevent wrinkling.
"Did you see him?" asked Mae.
Lashes fluttered as two dull emeralds focused. "Did I see who?" asked Niahm stupidly.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Cliff of the Ruin by Bonnie McKernan Copyright © 2012 by Bonnie McKernan. Excerpted by permission of Abbott Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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