Spirit of the Nation ★ Female America

11. Ireland's Visit

September 9, 1863

The White House

Washington, D.C., United States

"...After Lir banished his wife, the swans served their time in each lake. Three hundred years in Lake Derravaragh, three hundred on the Straits of Moyle, and three hundred on the Isle of Inish Gloria. They became famous throughout all of Ireland, with everyone wanting to get a look at them. But one day, when their service ended, they returned to the shore and met a priest, who blessed them, and they transformed back into their human selves. However, their bodies were shrunken with old age, and they did not live to see another sunrise."

I released the breath I had been holding. "Oh, that one was sad."

Ireland leaned back in her seat and smiled. "Some say they were baptized before the end, if that helps."

I laughed, resting a hand on the tightness in my chest. "A bit."

Her company over the last several weeks had been godsent. My days spent confined to a bed were the loneliest days of my life, with only news of the war to break the monotony. Many thousands of Americans had already fallen on the battlefields—brothers, cousins, and countrymen alike. Sadness and fear were my constant companions.

Ireland alone corresponded with me. A connection with another Nation fulfilled something much deeper than any human friendship ever could. Were it not for her...

Turning my head, I watched her recline on the wicker sofa beside mine, her eyes shutting peacefully. A warm summer breeze whispered through the rose garden, and only the sound of a gardener's tools disturbed the peace.

"Ireland...," I said softly.

She looked at me expectantly. Reading the words on my face, she gave me a wry smile. "It's the least I could do, Meiriceá," she said. "You've helped me in ways no one else could. Would."

Memories of the Irish famine rose up. Not long ago, before the war, the US had sent humanitarian aid to ease their suffering. With the many thousands of Irish immigrants that we received per annum, it seemed a natural thing. "You would've done the same for me," I said dismissively.

She hummed in thought. "If I could've."

Suddenly, a bout of tightness seized my chest. I pressed my hand there in a quick and familiar motion, forcing myself to take shallow and even breaths. Ireland didn't even notice this time. As the pain began to ease, I heaved a troubled sigh.

"Truly, Ireland," I said, my voice wavering with emotion.

Ireland's pleasant smile faded. Reaching over, she placed her hand on the arm of my chair. I took her hand and squeezed, feeling a swell of sisterly love.

"If you don't mind my asking," she began hesitantly, "what happened between you and Fhrainc?"

My eyes fell to the blanket in my lap. "I..." I pressed my lips together in search of the right words. "I came to the realization that...his hatred for England motivated his early support."

Her voice was stricken. "I'm so sorry."

I shook my head wordlessly. France's recent invasion of Mexico, no doubt taking advantage of our time of turmoil, had perhaps forever ruined our friendship. It blatantly violated the mutual understanding that our nations once had, as well as the Monroe Doctrine for that matter.

"There is...something that I've been keeping from you these past few days," Ireland admitted suddenly.

My eyes went to her face as she reached beneath her skirts and into her pocket. She produced a letter that I warily accepted.

The unposted envelope was thick with many pages inside. The red wax seal bore the crest of Buckingham Palace. I quickly flipped it over to the front.

Mary Banneker

His uncovering of my most recent code name was a mystery. My jaw clenched in anger.

"You saw England?"

"I know," she responded dismissively. "We were renegotiating a trade deal. I had to go and put on a wee show for him."

My eyes snapped to her face as surprise washed over me. Though our diplomacy with the British Empire had softened somewhat over the years, my feelings had not. A recent incident in the news had even hinted at British support for the Confederacy.

I hated England with all my being.

"I'm surprised at you," I murmured, unable to conceal my disappointment.

She turned her nose up indignantly. "You'd be surprised what a famine will do to your pride."

I grimaced and looked away. I opened my mouth and shut it again. I shouldn't have said that.

My attention returned to the letter. The disdain that always festered deep inside of me shot to the surface. His presumptive audacity to write to me, and at such a time! Did he intend to manipulate my view of the war? Did he intend to throw himself behind whatever abhorrent Nation might be born of it? Was he reveling in my pain? My anger smoldered.

"Titus?" I called, waving to the gardener. His head popped up from his work.

Ireland shifted uncomfortably in her seat as he approached. "Meiriceá," she warned under her breath.

When he arrived, I promptly held out the letter to him. "Burn this, please."

"Mei—" Ireland cut herself off and sighed. "Mary!"

My hand wavered slightly."I know you have no choice in the matter, but I do," I said stiffly.

She said nothing.

In the awkward moment, Titus' eyes went between us. "...Ma'ams?"

"Please," I repeated, giving the letter a slight shake. "Burn it."

He took it right away. "Yes'm."

I settled back in my seat as he left, attempting to ignore my companion's fiery gaze. I didn't feel an ounce of regret, and I made sure to show it on my face. I smoothed the blanket in my lap.

At length, Ireland scoffed. "I hope your head is on right, you barmy lass."

~

Meiriceá | America

Fhrainc | France