Annie Quinn In America by Mical Schneider

Who started the cry to storm his lordship’s iron gates and tear open his storehouses? Who slipped away when the British dragoons arrived on horseback to scatter the crowd? You want to know who led the men in their ragged coats and with their flickering torches out into the snow and up to the high stone walls of Cortland Manor. Where was your uncle last December, the night of the riot?Īh, so that’s what you’re after, Annie thought. Was there no pity in the man? Father buried, Bridget in America, the potatoes coming up all rot and stink, and Mam with five children to feed. Two years now the potato crop had failed, and two years it had been since the family had seen any real money. If she lingered, he’d remember that her family hadn’t paid the rent. You’re one of those Quinn brats, ain’t you? Your father rents an acre from his lordship, near Cortland Manor, eh?įor sure, sir, Annie said, stepping to the side to pass around him.

The brim fit low over his pale forehead, and he raised a glinting single lens to his eye and peered at Annie. He inspected the hat closely, brushed it off, and set it back on his head. In truth, she was only sorry she had to be polite to him. Richard Denby, the rent collector for Lord Cortland. Without looking, she knew the hat belonged to Mr. Give that to me, a sharp voice cried, and long fingers in a soft leather glove tore the hat from Annie’s hand. The sleek fur was warm and thick, like a cat basking in the sun. As if in a dream, Annie reached down and picked it up. A top hat flew into the air and rolled in the dusty road. She stumbled forward and collided headfirst with a black frock coat above fine trousers and new boots. She was hungry-ravenously, dizzyingly hungry. A farmer and his wife, bass and soprano, hawked spring lamb, new cheese, and fresh green onions. A cart rumbled past with crates of squawking chickens.

The toasted scent of oven-made bread wafted out of the baker’s shop. Annie Quinn wound her way among the crowds at the Ballinrea market letting the fiddle tune sing in her head and her fingers tap a beat on her empty soup pails.ĭon’t go looking about, she told herself.

Annie Quinn In America by Mical Schneider