COLM SULLIVAN AND MAUREEN Kelly were married on November 1, 1880 at the lighthouse keeper's cottage. John Larkin brought in a Catholic priest from nearby Searsport to perform the ceremony, rather than have word of the union spread by the local clergy. Witnesses to the wedding were John, his new coachman Daniel Borelli, the butler Nigel Barton-Brooks, family chef Claude Mondoux (at Colm's request), and Nigel's wife and head maid at the mansion, Clea Barton-Brooks (at Maureen's request). No one else from the mansion was present.

    Colm tried to make the occasion a bit special by lighting a fire in the hearth and leaving candles burning on the mantle and on various tables. Maureen wore a simple gown of brown cotton with a white-laced shawl. She seemed terrified, refusing to meet Colm's eyes. Colm himself wore gray trousers and a white shirt, his long blond hair pulled back in a club. He stood next to Maureen as Father Martin Neeson married them in the living area of the cottage, with the witnesses behind them. The ceremony was brief. Colm seemed to repeat the wedding vows as if in a trance. Maureen spoke so softly that it was almost impossible to hear her. When the rites were over, Colm brushed his closed lips against Maureen's cheek. He felt her shudder.

    Colm offered the priest and witnesses tea when it was all over. Everyone politely refused, and soon the newly married couple was left standing alone in the living area of the cottage. The wedding seemed like a dream, but it was true. Colm was now a married man and an expectant father. He and Maureen signed legal documents that would later be recorded at Larkin City Hall. The formal document stated that "Colm Michael Sullivan, age 20, bachelor," had married "Maureen Katherine Kelly, age 15, spinster," on November 1st by Father Martin Neeson in Larkin Village, Maine, in front of the witnesses. It was legal and binding, and a fait accompli, as Claude would say.

    Maureen stood quietly in the living area after everyone left. Colm did not know what to say to her. They'd had no time to speak to one another before the ceremony, or in the days preceding it. Colm did not blame poor Maureen for being ill-at-ease, and even a bit frightened.

    He tried to lighten the mood. "I'm glad that's over, aren't you? Are you hungry? Thirsty? Can I do anything for you?"

    She looked at him, and he noticed for the first time how translucent her pale skin was. He could almost see the veins along the column of her throat and temple, and in the small hands she held together in front of her. She moistened her lips. Avoiding direct eye contact, she said: "I'm not very hungry, nor am I thirsty. I was wondering . . ." She hesitated, looking away.

    "You were wondering what?" Colm prompted her gently.

    "Where do you want me to sleep? I have to live here now, you know, for appearances sake."

    Colm was at a loss. He had not thought of the sleeping arrangements with his new wife. "Well, there's only one bed in the cottage, so I suppose we'll have to share it." He saw a flash of dismay in her face. "I will not act the proper husband with you until the time is appropriate. I'm just being practical. There is but one bed, and I cannot sleep on the floor for the next several months, nor can you."

    She nodded and whispered. "I understand. I'll do my best to make you a good wife, Colm, and a mother to your child when it comes."

    Uncomfortable with the awkward situation, Colm said: "I'll go and make us tea, and I'll warm up some beef stew that I made last night. Why don't you go and get settled in the bedroom, put your things away." He looked around the room. "You did bring some other clothes with you, didn't you?"

    "Only a nightgown and robe." She blushed. "I'll have to send for my other clothes and my books tomorrow. I didn't bring anything else with me, I'm afraid. Mr. Larkin was in a rush to get me here on time."

    "Oh. That's fine. After tonight, you can cook and make tea. Do you know how to cook?"

    "Yes. I can sew, cook and read and write. I suppose I'll be here much of the time, since Mr. Larkin told me I can't be Miss Molly's maid any more. I hope I won't be too much of a burden. I'll do as much as I can for you in the cottage, if that is agreeable?"

    "It is. I hate cleaning up the crockery, to be honest."

    "I'll be happy to do that tonight, if you wish."

    "No. You settle yourself in, and I'll take care of supper tonight."

    Maureen nodded and went into the bedroom, while Colm went to the kitchen. He put the leftover stew into a pot and lit the stove. Then he put the water on to boil for tea. Shaking his head, he began to lay out crockery on the table so that he and his wife - he still couldn't believe that the timid Maureen was his legal wife - could eat supper together later. He might as well speak to himself, he thought, because Maureen was not much of a talker.

    As he fussed in the kitchen, he realized he hadn't heard one word about Molly's welfare since he and John had agreed upon the marriage. Did Molly know he was marrying her maid today? Did she even care? His child was in Molly, and the baby was due in late May or June. Did Molly care about that? He knew the answer, however painful it was to admit. Her hateful words, the look of disgust in her eyes had made it quite clear. He still could not believe she turned on him, not caring how much she had hurt him. He was alone, more alone than he had ever been in his life. He may have a wife now, to help him raise his child, but he still felt alone. Colm's heart had been stolen, so how could he ever entertain loving or cherishing another woman?

    "Will there ever be a time when I can look upon Maureen with tenderness?" he thought. "With love? I cannot foresee it now." He was weary and ready for his bed, although he knew Maureen would also rest there now. He needed to put his mind at ease, at least for one night. He prayed the next dawn would bring him hope for the future. He wanted to keep his sanity for the child, and for the life they would have together.

    Then he paused, thinking about Maureen, his wife. She was very small in stature, like Molly, but she had auburn hair and green eyes. Her skin was the color of fresh Irish cream, and she was pretty in her own way. Her waist and breasts were very small, and her hands were delicately boned. She was shy and hard to talk to. He needed to assure her that he was a good person who would not mistreat her. Maybe one day they would have a child, or children, but how could he make love to anyone but Molly?

    Maureen, alone in the bedroom, looked around with interest. Even though she had been in the cottage before while chaperoning Molly, she had never paid attention to the bedroom. It was nice, she observed, very comfortable and airy. While it was cold outside, it felt warm inside, with a two-sided hearth. Maureen set her nightgown and robe, both a drab green, on the bed. The quilt covering on the bed looked well used, but white and clean.

    She took a deep breath, and then walked over to the French doors to look out. It was too dark to see anything, but she heard the waves crashing on the shore below. Suddenly, she was sad. She missed Molly, because she loved her former mistress dearly. Maureen had worshiped Molly for so long that she had often wished she was more like her in some ways, but she simply did not have the same character within her. Yet Maureen would do anything for Molly, even taking part in this marital subterfuge to preserve Molly's reputation.

    However, secretly, Maureen was curious about Colm. He had been Molly's lover, and now he was her husband. "Life is so strange," she reflected. She thought he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. In truth, Maureen had a bit envious of Molly when she was seeing Colm. She smiled as she gazed out the window. She was scared, true, but she was also exhilarated at the same time. She was no longer a personal maid at the mansion. She was now Mrs. Colm Sullivan. She tested the name on her lips silently, and then another one, Maureen Sullivan. She liked it. She liked it very much.

    All she had to do now was wait for Molly to give birth to her bastard, and then maybe Colm would pay attention to his legal wife. She was anxious for the day when she and Colm could finally become intimate, when they could make their own child. And surely that day would come.

    Colm was in the doorway of the bedroom. "Are you ready to eat, Maureen? It's ready."

    Maureen looked at him, smiling her small smile. "Yes, Colm. I'm ready."

    IN LATE JANUARY 1881, Molly sat by her bedroom window watching the red beacon from the lighthouse flash rhythmically through the cold fog. Colm would be up there now, she knew, doing his job - doing the job she had saved for him, had suffered for. She shifted uncomfortably. Her back ached. She was now five months along, though it was not easily discernible through the loose gowns and long shawls she wore. No one save Clea and her family saw her anyway.

    Clea came in carrying a tray. "Are you ready for some tea, miss?"

    "I suppose so."

    "Yes, miss." Clea set the tray on a small table and poured the tea into a delicate cup.

    "Why won't you tell me about Maureen's wedding?" Molly prodded.

    "Because Mr. Larkin instructed me not to speak of it to you."

    "Do you always do as you're told?"

    "Yes, Miss." Clea handed Molly the tea. "It is my duty. Your mother told me you would do well to learn that."

    Molly grunted. Of course, her mother was behind Clea's carefully worded barbs, so very polite and correct. "Will you tell me just a little bit about the wedding? A little bit won't hurt," she pleaded.

    "There's no point in being curious, miss. It's done. Your lighthouse keeper is married."

    "He's not my lighthouse keeper," Molly snapped.

    Clea raised her eyebrows and glanced pointedly at Molly's swollen belly. At that moment, Anne Larkin entered the bedroom without knocking. Molly did not bother to hide her surliness, which was not stemmed by Anne's pretty cream chiffon gown and flushed cheeks.

    "Stop baiting Clea, Mary Margaret. She is just doing as she's told."

    "Go away, mother. I didn't ask for your company."

    Anne stood in front of her daughter, eyes cold. "If you had sought my company more often in recent months, perhaps you wouldn't be carrying a servant's bastard."

    "True, because, if I had spent my time with you, I'd be a drunk by now. Did you drink your lunch today, mother? Your color is unusually high."

    Anne blushed. Molly never considers her words, even in front of the servants. She turned to Clea. "You may leave us now. Return in half an hour."

    "Yes, Ma'am."

    "Why did you bother sending Clea away? She knows you're a drunk. You can't hide your weakness for the bottle from the servants."

    Anne closed her eyes briefly, ashamed of her daughter and mortified by her waspish tongue. Being with child seemed to make her more obstinate. "You're not behaving as your father wants you to," Anne finally said, overcoming her distaste for her daughter. "He wants you to learn some humility while you're confined. Instead, you seem to be getting worse. Did your time fornicating with the lighthouse keeper affect your brain, as well as your morals?"

    Molly's eyes glittered dangerously with hate. While Molly's pregnancy had nothing to do with Anne, it fueled her obsessive hatred and made Anne's quiet watchfulness unendurable. "Go to hell," Molly hissed. "You're nothing but a mindless, addlepated, weak-willed bitch. Daddy must have been possessed by the fairies when he married you. You were never his choice, you know. Grandfather O'Quinn told me as much. You were a piss poor replacement for the real love of his life, your sister Maeve. How dare you stand there like a cow with a stick up her arse and judge me? Get out of my sight, you dirty old dried up excuse for a woman!"

    Anne was aghast. She had never heard John in his blackest moods use such language. "I believe you're going mad. If I tell your father that you're becoming unbalanced, he'll have you committed. Make no mistake about it." But her doubts showed on her face.

    Molly's voice came like ice. "Go ahead, tell him. Tattle. Do it! But remember, if I'm crazy, no one will be surprised when I slit your throat. If I have to be locked up, it might as well be for a good reason."

    "You don't mean that."

    "Try me," Molly snarled. "Try me and find out the hard way, bitch."

    "Calm down, Molly, I didn't mean to . . ."

    "Get out!" Molly shrieked, the sound of her voice echoing in the room. "Get your stinking face out of here and leave me in peace."

    Rooted with shock, Anne stared at her daughter.

    Molly glared at her again. "Are you deaf, old woman? I don't ever want to see you in here again. You're upsetting me, and it's not good for the baby. I'll tell Daddy that, too. Now get out!"

    Anne backed away. Was Molly going mad? Whirling around, Anne ran from the room, closed the door behind her and leaned against it. What was the matter with her daughter? She had never been an easy child, but now she seemed demented. Was she really losing her mind? Suddenly, as though Molly heard her thoughts, Anne heard her daughter's laughter, an eerie, candescent sound that made the dim hallway feel more isolated. Then, accompanied by Molly's rising shriek, something smashed against the door and shattered.

    Anne ran.