Standing tall against the horizon was O’Malley Castle, a typical
tower house of dark gray stone. Rising several stories high, it com-
manded a view of the sea from all its windows. It had a wide moat,
and beyond that moat was-of all things-a rose garden, planted
by the late Lady O’Malley. After her death, now four years past,
the new Lady O’Malley kept the garden up. Now in full bloom, it
was a riot of yellows, pinks, reds, and whites, a perfect background
for the wedding of the youngest daughter.

Inside the tower house, in the main hall, the five older daughters
of the O’Malley family sat happily gossiping with their pretty step-mother while they sewed and embroidered the bride’s trousseau. It
had been a long time since they had all been together. Now, each
had her own home, and they all met only on special occasions.

They were as similar now as they had been as children. Medium-
tall, they all ran to partridge plump. It was the kind of comfortable
figure that kept a man warm on a cold night. Each was fair-skinned with soft peach-colored cheeks, serious gray eyes, and long, straight,
light-brown hair. None was beautiful, but none was ugly, either.

The eldest, Moire, was twenty-five, and had been married for
twelve years. She was mother to nine living children, seven sons.
Moire stood high in her father’s favor. Peigi, at twenty-three, had
been married ten years and was mother to nine sons. Peigi stood
even higher in her father’s favor. Bride, twenty-one, had been mar-
ried eight years, and had only four children, two of whom were
boys. Dubhdara tolerated Bride, and constantly exhorted her to
greater productivity. “You’re more like your mother than the others,”
he would say ominously.

Eibhlin, eighteen, was the only one with a religious calling. She
had been such a quiet little thing that they hadn’t even suspected her
piety until the boy to whom she was to be wed succumbed to an
attack of measles the year Eibhlin was twelve. As O’Malley con-
sidered a possible replacement bridegroom for his fourth daughter*
Eibhlin begged to be allowed to enter a convent. She genuinely
desired that life. Because her uncle Seamus, now bishop of Muirisk,
was present for the talk, Dubhdara O’Malley was forced to give his
consent. Eibhlin entered her convent at thirteen, and had just recently
taken final vows.

Sine O’Malley Butler was sixteen, wed three years, and the
mother of one boy. She was eight months pregnant but she would
not have missed Skye’s wedding.

The married sisters were dressed in simply cut, full-skirted silk
dresses with bell sleeves and low, scooped necklines. Moire was in
a deep, rich blue, Peigi in scarlet, Bride in violet, and Sine in golden
yellow. The lacy frill of their chemises peeked elegantly up through
the low bodices.

Eibhlin struck the only somber note. Her all-covering black linen
gown was relieved only by a severe white starched rectangular bib,
in which was centered an ebony, silver-banded crucifix. About her
waist the nun wore a twisted silk rope, also black, which hung in
two plaits to the hem of her gown. One plait, knotted into three
knots, symbolized the Trinity. The other, knotted in the same man-
ner, symbolized the estates of poverty, chastity, and obedience. By
way of vivid contrast, her sisters wore chains of wrought gold or
silver about their waists, and each woman had attached to her chain
a rosary, a needlecase, a mirror, or simply a set of household keys.

Because this was an informal home garthering, the married sisters
wore their hair loose, parted in the center. Sine and Peigi had added
pretty arched linen caps. And of course Eibhlin, whose hair had
been cut when she took her vows, wore starched and pleated white
wings over her white wimple.

Presiding over this gathering was Dubhdara O’Malley’s second
wife. Anne was the same age as her stepdaughter, Eibhlin, and a
pregnant with her fourth child as was her stepdaughter, Sine. Anne
was a pretty woman, with chestnut-brown curls, merry brown eyes,
and a sweet, sensible nature. Anne’s silk gown was of a deep win‹
shade, and fashioned identically to her stepdaughters’ gowns. But
over her ruffled bodice Anne wore a double strand of creamy baroque
pearls. None of the O’Malley daughters had resented their father’:
marriage to Anne and everyone liked her enormously. One could
not help liking Anne.

For nine years after Skye’s birth Dubhdara O’Malley had obeyed
his priest brother’s edict, and stayed out of his wife’s bed. He really
did not wish to kill Peigi. Free of yearly pregnancies, Peigi regained
her strength and even began to bloom. Then, one night, Dubhdara
O’Malley had arrived home from a long voyage. It was late. He had
no current mistress, and there wasn’t a servant girl in sight. He had
gotten drunk and sought his wife’s bed. Nine months later, Peigi
O’Malley died giving birth to the long-awaited son, born September
29th and baptized Michael. The little boy was now almost six.

Within an almost indecently short time O’Malley had taken his
second wife, a girl of thirteen. Nine months from their wedding day
Anne had birthed Brian; a year later, Shane; and in another year,
Shamus. Unlike her meek predecessor, Anne O’Malley possessed
good health and high spirits. This child she carried was to be the
last, she told her husband firmly. It would also, she assured him,
be a boy. Five sons should give him the immortality he craved.

O’Malley had laughed and slapped her playfully on the backside.
His daughters took this to mean that he was either in his dotage or
growing mellow with age. Had their own mother ever made such
a statement she would have been beaten black and blue. But then,
Anne O’Malley was the mother of sons.

Moire looked up from her embroidery to gaze with pleasure about
the hall. It had never looked so nice in their mother’s time for she,
poor soul, had spent much of her life in her own rooms.

The stone floors were always well swept now, the rushes changed
weekly. The oak trestles were polished to a mellow golden hue,
reflecting the great silver candlesticks with their pure beeswax tapers.
The big brass andirons were filled with enormous oak logs, ready
to be lit when the evening arrived. Behind the high board, promi-
nently displayed, hung a large new tapestry depicting Saint Brendan
the Monk on a sky-blue background, guiding his ship across the
western seas. Anne had designed it, and had been working on it
almost every evening. of her married life. It had been a labor of love, for the second Lady O’Malley adored not only her bluff, big husband,
but their sons and their home as well.

Moire’s eyes lit upon several big colorful porcelain bowls filled
with roses. Their pungent, spicy scent gave the room a wonderful
exotic smell. Moire wrinkled her nose with pleasure and said to
Anne, “The bowls are new?”

“Aye,” came the reply. “Your father brought them back from his
last voyage. He is so good to me, Moire.”

“And why not?” demanded Moire. “You are good to him, Anne.”

“Where is Skye?” interrupted Peigi.

“Out riding with young Dom. I am surprised at your father in
pursuing this betrothal. They do not suit at all.”

“They were promised in the cradle,” explained Moire. “It wasn’t
easy for Da to find husbands for us all, for we’ve none of us large
dowries. Skye’s marrying the heir to the Ballyhennessey O’Flaherty’s
is the best match of us all.”

Anne shook her head. “I fear this match. Your sister is a very
independent girl.”

“And it’s all Da’s fault for he has spoiled her terribly,” said Peigi.
”She should have been married off two years ago at thirteen, like
the rest of us. But no, Skye did not want it. He lets her have her
way all the time!”

“That’s not so, Peigi,” Eibhlin chided her sister. “Anne is correct
when she says that Skye and Dom do not suit. Skye is not like us
in temperament. We favor our mother while she favors Da. Dom
is simply neither strong enough nor sensitive enough to be Skye’s
husband.”

“Hoity-toity, sister,” said Peigi sourly. “It amazes me how much
the wee nun knows about human nature.”

“Indeed and I do,” replied Eibhlin calmly, “for whom do you
think the poor women of my district pour out their unhappiness to,
Peigi? Certainly not the priest! He tells them it is their Christian duty
to be abused by their menfolk! And then he adds to their guilt by
giving them a penance.”

The sisters look shocked, and Anne broke the tension by laughing,
”You’re more a rebel than a holy woman, stepdaughter.”

Eibhlin sighed. “You speak the truth, Anne, and it troubles me
greatly. But though I try I cannot seem to change.”

Anne O’Malley leaned over and fondly patted her stepdaughter
on the hand. “Being a woman is never, ever easy,” she said wisely,
”no matter what role we chose to play in life.”

The two young women smiled fondly at each other with complete
understanding. Then everyone looked startled as they heard shouting in the entry hall below them. As the noise came toward them up the
steps the O’Malley sisters glanced knowingly at each other. They
recognized the voices of Dom O’Flaherty and their sister, Skye.

As the two burst into the main hall, Anne O’Malley was again
struck by the beauty of the two young people. She had never seen
two more physically perfect people, and perhaps this was why her
husband insisted on the match. Anne shivered with apprehension.

Dom O’Flaherty threw his riding gloves on a table. At eighteen
he was of medium height, slender, with beautifully shaped arms,
hands, and legs. Having inherited his French grandmother’s color-
ing, he had glorious, close-cropped, curly golden hair, and sky-blue
eyes. He affected a tailored short beard that hugged the perfectly
sculpted sides of his face and ended in a softly rounded point.
Because he was angry, however, his fair skin was now an unattrac-
tive, mottled red. His handsome face with its long, straight nose and
narrow lips was contorted with rage.