The Bairn of Brianag

I swallowed my sobs, terrified lest my mother find me, and poured the last traces of Robbie's seed and my virginity into the slop jar, poured more water from the pitcher into the basin, and washed my hands and face. I was dressed half an hour before time for breakfast. I sat at the window, staring down at the pattern in the fabric of the window cushion, waiting for the breakfast gong, waiting for thought to return, waiting for the pain to become bearable enough that I might be capable of walking down the stairs and sitting at the table with my family.

After breakfast, I went into the drawing room as usual, and took up my embroidery.

I heard Kevin and my father go out but I did not look up. The door closed behind them, and my mother came into the room where I sat. I looked at her. Her face was white and her lips a tight line.

"What is this?" she said, and held my nightdress out to me.

I had used my time to prepare for her attack. "It is my nightdress," I answered her quietly.

She shook it out. There were dark smudges on the back of it, where I had sat next to the roots of the oak tree. "Where did you go, in your nightdress, to acquire such soil?" my mother said in a low voice.

I put down the embroidery on the sofa beside me. "I went out to sit on the steps, Mama. I could not sleep."

Her hand struck so quickly I was completely unprepared; my head snapped back and my ear went suddenly deaf. I raised my hand to my cheek, not looking at her. I knew that to answer her now would only bring more of the same.

"You little slut," she hissed at me. "Which of them is it? Is it that new buck your father bought last month? Or is it another of the field hands? Hercules? Tell me! Which one!" She was beside herself with fury.

I had never understood the accusations she threw at me when she was angry with me; I was too ashamed to tell my father or my brothers. How could she say such things?

Why would any girl allow herself to be used by a slave? I could not imagine such a thing happening.

My mind was moving quickly and clearly now. I knew that my mother would never openly make such accusations; it was her way of abusing me in private. I realized also that it would be better for her to believe that I had a Negro lover than to know the truth, at least for the present; so I kept quiet and waited for her rage to expend itself.