stony-hearted lord in his place? In a way, he reminded her of Powers, hiding behind a mask to protect the vulnerabilities he’d buried deep within.
He raised his glass and declared, “I will have my son back again, and it will be soon.”
She prayed for all their sakes that it would be as soon as he wished.
• • •
Matthew lingered outside the Cat and Lantern for several moments, studying the passersby, wondering how humanity could descend into such a teeming mass of destruction. In Ireland, there had been the staggering human corpses, the walking dead just barely holding on to their last breaths and those they loved, and many the lord who didn’t view the Irish as humans at all. Therefore no real loss and perhaps a blessing to the world that so many should perish.
But it had never in a month of Sundays been like this. Now, he’d not once been to Dublin Town, so perhaps it was just as evil, but he hoped not. He hoped that his beloved country didn’t take part in this sort of human misery.
Because of his extensive reading, he knew what the sores on the faces of the begging children meant. He knew how short their lives would be and the pain they would always be in. And Christ, half the women over thirty—if you could even manage to make out their true age—life had so hardened them. They too had the marks upon their faces, covered up with powder, but visible all the same. They’d not be long for the profession . . . Or they’d be working for only the lowest of the low. Men who didn’t care if they had the pox . . . because they had it too and worse.
His stomach turned.
He, Matthew Cassidy, was about something different. Something grand. He was about changing this godforsaken world and the devils who ran it.
There had been a time when he’d hoped, like his father before him, that due process would change things. That if the Irish lords who cared went to London and pled their case before the House, they could at long last convince them that Ireland was worthy of more than the crush of a boot. The absolute failure of their petitions had convinced him that there was only one way that Ireland could find prosperity.
Total destruction of the parliamentary system that ran the most tyrannical state in all the world.
Once the English were gone from Ireland, they could start fresh. Build everything back as God had intended. All these people, maybe even the English peasants, could know happiness and not have to fear cholera, violence, and starvation day after day without their high lords controlling every aspect of their wee lives. And children could grow without the fear of having to sell themselves just to buy a bit of bread or meat not good enough for dogs.
“Eh, Matthew!”
Matthew whipped toward Francis McNamara, a burst of joy at the familiar face lighting his heart. “And if it isn’t yourself!”
“It is indeed. Shall we go and get a pint of the finest?” Francis McNamara’s dark eyes glinted, slightly shining, as if he’d already had a few drinks of the good brew. But nothing could ever dampen the glee that seemed a perpetual part of the blond lad’s countenance. Not even his shabby clothes or the dirt smeared across his cheeks and neck to help him blend into St. Giles and the people of Church Street.
Like Matthew, he was the son of an educated man and was also determined to see Ireland shrug off the yoke of the English.
Matthew clapped his hand on the gray, raveling fabric of his friend’s shoulder. “Let’s drink to this hellhole.”
Francis leaned in, his lips tilting into a devilish grin. “And to our brotherhood. And how we can show these poor devils the strength of the Irish.”
Matthew nodded sagely, feeling the first joy he’d felt at stepping on the sod of the enemy. Not even his sister’s beautiful face had lifted his spirits. Even with all his love for her, he still saw their mam every time he looked upon her. Nor would he ever be able to shake her betrayal
He raised his glass and declared, “I will have my son back again, and it will be soon.”
She prayed for all their sakes that it would be as soon as he wished.
• • •
Matthew lingered outside the Cat and Lantern for several moments, studying the passersby, wondering how humanity could descend into such a teeming mass of destruction. In Ireland, there had been the staggering human corpses, the walking dead just barely holding on to their last breaths and those they loved, and many the lord who didn’t view the Irish as humans at all. Therefore no real loss and perhaps a blessing to the world that so many should perish.
But it had never in a month of Sundays been like this. Now, he’d not once been to Dublin Town, so perhaps it was just as evil, but he hoped not. He hoped that his beloved country didn’t take part in this sort of human misery.
Because of his extensive reading, he knew what the sores on the faces of the begging children meant. He knew how short their lives would be and the pain they would always be in. And Christ, half the women over thirty—if you could even manage to make out their true age—life had so hardened them. They too had the marks upon their faces, covered up with powder, but visible all the same. They’d not be long for the profession . . . Or they’d be working for only the lowest of the low. Men who didn’t care if they had the pox . . . because they had it too and worse.
His stomach turned.
He, Matthew Cassidy, was about something different. Something grand. He was about changing this godforsaken world and the devils who ran it.
There had been a time when he’d hoped, like his father before him, that due process would change things. That if the Irish lords who cared went to London and pled their case before the House, they could at long last convince them that Ireland was worthy of more than the crush of a boot. The absolute failure of their petitions had convinced him that there was only one way that Ireland could find prosperity.
Total destruction of the parliamentary system that ran the most tyrannical state in all the world.
Once the English were gone from Ireland, they could start fresh. Build everything back as God had intended. All these people, maybe even the English peasants, could know happiness and not have to fear cholera, violence, and starvation day after day without their high lords controlling every aspect of their wee lives. And children could grow without the fear of having to sell themselves just to buy a bit of bread or meat not good enough for dogs.
“Eh, Matthew!”
Matthew whipped toward Francis McNamara, a burst of joy at the familiar face lighting his heart. “And if it isn’t yourself!”
“It is indeed. Shall we go and get a pint of the finest?” Francis McNamara’s dark eyes glinted, slightly shining, as if he’d already had a few drinks of the good brew. But nothing could ever dampen the glee that seemed a perpetual part of the blond lad’s countenance. Not even his shabby clothes or the dirt smeared across his cheeks and neck to help him blend into St. Giles and the people of Church Street.
Like Matthew, he was the son of an educated man and was also determined to see Ireland shrug off the yoke of the English.
Matthew clapped his hand on the gray, raveling fabric of his friend’s shoulder. “Let’s drink to this hellhole.”
Francis leaned in, his lips tilting into a devilish grin. “And to our brotherhood. And how we can show these poor devils the strength of the Irish.”
Matthew nodded sagely, feeling the first joy he’d felt at stepping on the sod of the enemy. Not even his sister’s beautiful face had lifted his spirits. Even with all his love for her, he still saw their mam every time he looked upon her. Nor would he ever be able to shake her betrayal
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