An Irish Hostage

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An Irish Hostage Page 27

by Charles Todd


  I hadn’t intended to say anything to him. Much less this. I could have bit my tongue, but it came spilling out anyway.

  He turned fully now, released the tree limb, and put his arm around my shoulders in the old way, and it was comforting. I leaned against him.

  “It hasn’t been easy for either of us,” he said. “At least I know what I want, but it’s not possible.”

  “I’m sorry. Can I help?”

  He laughed then, that chuckle deep in his chest. “My dear girl—”

  There was a sound nearby. Simon tensed, moved away from me, and reached for his revolver.

  Terrence called, “I’m coming in.”

  And he joined us in the croft. “How is he?”

  “I don’t know for certain. You saw him earlier.”

  He grimaced. “God knows. He’s alive. There’s a chance. Has he come to his senses?”

  “Briefly. He didn’t speak, but I believe he recognized me. I spoke to Maeve. Mrs. Flynn. And the family is setting off to Mass.”

  “Yes, I watched them leave.” Then he asked, “Why was Eileen with them?”

  “She’s grateful to God for saving Michael. She feels this is her last opportunity to show how grateful she is.”

  “There are times I’d like to shake her,” he said grimly.

  “I couldn’t dissuade her. Neither could Michael.”

  “She should never have left him alone.”

  I agreed but I left it there. “Was Niall among them? He was the only person I couldn’t account for.”

  Turning his attention to the problem at hand, he went on. “Yes. I made certain of that. I’ve brought one of the donkeys. I thought it might be simpler than dragging him about on that sheet again. Besides. It’s beginning to tear.”

  I knew he was right.

  It took us a quarter of an hour to wake the Major up enough to tell him what we were about to do. “It will be painful,” I warned him truthfully. “But we need to put you in a clean bed where the chance for infection is less. Maeve—Mrs. Flynn—has agreed to take you in, and right now the family have gone to Sunday services. It’s imperative that we move you quickly.”

  He said, “You—you put Mrs. Flynn—in danger.” He seemed to lose his concentration for a moment, then added, “Stay here.”

  “You have too many open wounds. It’s not safe,” I replied, and he lay back, too weak to argue.

  Terrence left to bring the donkey closer, and I said to Ellis, “We can’t put you over his back. You must ride astride. Can you manage that?”

  He nodded. The soldier, accepting necessity.

  And he did manage. It must have been an agony to get him to his feet, then walk him as far as the opening. It took both men to put him on the donkey’s back, while I held the reins.

  “I’ll come back for the rest,” Terrance said, handing me my kit. “You take the lead, walk him slowly. We’ll see that the Major stays on board.”

  He was already exhausted, his shoulders drooping. But his good hand was clenched in the donkey’s mane.

  I began what was to become a rather harrowing journey, as I watched a mental clock. How long would Mass be today? Was Father O’Halloran one who gave a long homily or a short one?

  One of us needed to be at the house, watching. But all three of us were needed here.

  It was so slow, our progress. I turned often to watch the Major’s face, to make certain nothing was going wrong.

  We left the sound of the sea and hungry gulls behind, close now to the orchard.

  The donkey smelled his paddock and wanted to pick up his pace, and it was all I could do to slow him down.

  Simon and Terrence were talking to the Major, encouraging him.

  As we made our careful way among the gnarled trees, I nearly tripped over something hidden in the tall grass. A broken bough, I thought, thankful that St. Patrick had rid Ireland of snakes long ago. This was a perfect habitat for them.

  We got through without too much fuss, then had to convince the donkey that he had a little farther to go before he could return to his usual home.

  Terrence went ahead to be certain that the stable block was clear, and then we began the long stretch across the open lawn.

  I stopped so short the donkey nearly pushed me over. There was a face at the kitchen window.

  Keeping my head, I said, “Someone is in the kitchen.”

  Terrence swore under his breath. “Molly?”

  “I sent her home. But she might have worried about the roast—”

  The face vanished before I could be sure who had been there.

  And then the door in the kitchen passage opened, and I saw Michael standing there, beckoning us forward. He was rather stooped, and I knew his ribs were still painful—and would be for weeks to come.

  Smiling at him, I urged the reluctant donkey down the slight incline toward the house, carefully watching the Major. He was almost gray with pain and exhaustion but his fist still clutched a handful of the donkey’s rough mane, and the slits that were all I could see of his eyes watched me. I smiled for him as well.

  It seemed an eternity before we reached the door. And then Terrence and Simon were helping the Major down. I spared a moment’s worry about those steep, narrow stairs, then said to Michael as I kept a firm grip on the reins, “How did you know?”

  “Something in your eyes this morning. You didn’t appear to be recovering from a headache. Where are you taking him?”

  “Your mother-in-law’s room.” I moved the donkey out of the doorway so that the Major could be brought in. “She’s agreed.”

  And then he too was stepping out of the way, back into the kitchen.

  We got the Major into the house somehow. I thought it was as much his will as our help. In the end, we had to take him through the kitchen and front room to the wider front stairs, while Michael held on to the donkey. There, one step at a time, Simon and Terrence moved him up the flight.

  Maeve was at the top. I heard her click her tongue as she looked down at the battered man making painful progress toward her, but she said nothing, except, “The room is ready.”

  I kept watch, staring down the lane. Please, God, don’t let them come now.

  Eight steps from the top—seven—six—

  The lane was still empty.

  I hurried back through the house, relieved Michael of the reins, and started leading the donkey back to his paddock.

  “Watch the lane,” I told Michael. “Give them a little warning.”

  The donkey, now that he was getting his way, was reluctant to come with me. I cajoled and pulled, wanting him out of sight and out of the way. I hadn’t thought to ask Terrence if they’d walked to the church or taken the carriage—

  Finally the stubborn little beast had had enough, and trotted beside me the rest of the way, and I had all I could do before opening the gate, to pull off his bridle. He was braying now, but I managed it at last. He went through the gate and into the pasture with a trot that took him across to the small shelter, and he began to eat.

  I was just closing the gate and making certain it was latched, when I remembered my cup. Snatching it up, I ran back to the stable and shoved the reins on a hook in the tack room. Out of place they might be, but out of sight they most certainly were.

  I started down to the house, scanning the ground for any droppings that would give us away, but thankfully there were none.

  Michael was snatching up the bundle that Terrence had dropped by the door, and was waving frantically to me.

  They were coming!

  Lifting my skirts I ran for the house, cup in hand. Michael had already vanished.

  Terrence was holding the door now, bundle in hand. I waved him off, and he disappeared.

  I was in the kitchen when I heard voices coming toward the house. I could only hope that seeing Terrence on his own meant that Simon had got away.

  My breathing had eased, though my heart rate hadn’t, and I was washing out my teacup, the kettle already on the
cooker, when Eileen came into the kitchen.

  She said, “You look flushed.”

  I said, “I just had words with Michael. He wanted to walk outside, but I didn’t think it was the best idea. Maybe in the cool of the evening you can take him for a brief stroll.”

  “You worry too much,” she said lightly.

  “How was the service?”

  “All right. The homily was about the Israelites wanting to be free of Babylonian captivity. English captivity of course is what was meant. I just wanted to slip out, but I couldn’t, I was under Granny’s eye.”

  The kettle had come to a boil, and she busied herself with making tea. “I hope you didn’t mind—I came in earlier, while you were still asleep, to collect my dress. You didn’t stir.”

  “Once the headache started to fade, I went deeply asleep. You could have rearranged the room for all I knew.”

  Laughing, she said, “I told Michael we would be leaving this week.”

  I turned to her. “I don’t know—”

  “Of course he’s ready. He says as much. And the Major is surely dead by now. We tried, we did our very best. I’m sad about that—he came here to support Michael, and it’s horrible the way it’s turned out. Still, we can’t wait much longer.”

  “Yes, we must give leaving some thought,” I said. “Take a cup of tea to Michael, and tell him I’m so sorry for forbidding him to go out. I meant it for the best.”

  And she did. I prepared a tray to take up to Maeve’s room before Mrs. Flynn discovered that I’d sent Molly home.

  There was the pot of tea, two cups, some little cakes, and the jug of milk.

  I had just started to the stairs when Niall came clattering down them. “Is that for my grandmother?”

  “No, I promised your aunt I’d bring her tea. And I felt like a cup myself. I’ll be down shortly. Or you can make it yourself.”

  I was eager for an excuse to go up and see for myself what was happening.

  “Let me have that one instead.”

  “No,” I told him firmly. “You’re perfectly capable of doing it.”

  “You don’t care much for me, do you?” he asked.

  “I’m not in the mood for a row, Niall.”

  “Granny told me Terrence had kissed you. Are you staying on after Eileen leaves?”

  “I’ve no idea,” I said. “Why don’t you ask your brother?”

  “I would. Only I don’t think he’s in his room. He comes and goes like a ghost in the house.”

  I walked past him, went up the stairs feeling relieved that we hadn’t had real words. That would get back to his grandmother. When I reached the top of the stairs, I was braced to meet her and have her take the tray from me. I made it to Maeve’s door and managed to tap lightly without spilling anything.

  She opened her door a crack, then saw who it was and opened it wider.

  “I thought you might care for tea,” I said in a normal voice. “If you don’t, just tell me.”

  “Oh, it’s a lovely thought, Bess, thank you. Come in.”

  Shutting the door behind me, she laid a finger to her lips, then took the tray and set it on the little tea table by her chair.

  She was chatting with me as if I’d really come for tea, as I moved toward the closed door to her bedroom. It wasn’t completely shut, I had only to touch it for it to start to swing open.

  The curtains had been drawn, leaving the room dimly lit. I could make out the bed and the figure lying still in the middle of it. I was about to step in when another figure moved into my line of sight and bent over the bed.

  Thoughts flew through my mind—that Maeve had betrayed us, that someone had come to finish what had begun at Dún Aonghasa. And I had no weapon.

  There was a tall, ornate candlestick on the chest by the door. I closed my fingers around it and started for the bed.

  Maeve called my name, and in the same instant, the figure at the side of the bed turned.

  I nearly dropped the candlestick.

  It was Simon, wearing different clothes. I had the fleeting thought that Terrence was going to have an empty wardrobe very soon.

  “I didn’t know you’d stayed,” I stammered. “No one told me.”

  “They were here before we’d got him fully settled,” Maeve was whispering just behind me. “Terrence managed to reach his room while Niall was with his grandmother. There was no time to find a safe place for Simon.”

  Simon? Not “the Traveler”?

  He’d mended her chair . . .

  Simon was grinning at me in the old, familiar way he had. I set the candlestick carefully back where I’d found it.

  “No one told me,” I said again, then walked to the handsome bedstead that must have been part of the master bedroom of the house, and looked down at our patient.

  He was asleep.

  “There was a little laudanum in your kit,” Simon was saying. “He needed relief from the pain. Mrs. Flynn managed to find it.”

  I’d lost sight of it. Terrence must have taken it up when he collected his bundle. And then I saw it standing at the foot of the bed.

  I nodded. “I’m glad.” And gladder still that the Major appeared not to have opened any wounds, and he was sleeping well enough that I didn’t wish to rouse him.

  Maeve said, “If you can, look in on Terrence. I think his arm is bleeding again.”

  I wasn’t surprised. It had needed stitching last night.

  We had just returned to her sitting room when there was a knock at the door. Loud and imperative.

  Maeve glanced at me uneasily as she crossed the room. By that time, I was seated next to the little table, teacup—empty—in hand.

  She opened the door, and I saw Mrs. Flynn’s angry face just beyond Maeve. Her gaze flew to me.

  “Where is that lazy girl?” she demanded. “The roast is sitting there on the cooker, but there are no potatoes made, no other dishes prepared. You were the last down this morning. What did you do with her?”

  “She wasn’t feeling well. I sent her home.”

  “You had no authority to do that, young woman!”

  “I feared it could be catching. There’s a problem in the village with food that has gone off.” I frowned. “Has there been any typhoid in the surrounding villages recently?”

  She stared at me, her mouth open to rebuke me. Instead, she demanded, “Typhoid?”

  I shrugged. “It’s summer—it’s possible.”

  She turned and stalked away.

  Maeve closed the door.

  “I ought to go and help with the meal,” I said, rising.

  “You haven’t had your tea!” she scolded me. “And you’re a guest in this house.”

  “Still. I brought it for you—and of course Simon.” I made my way to the door as she said, frowning in concern, “What’s the trouble with Molly? Is she really ill?”

  “She was in tears when I came into the kitchen this morning. It was a good excuse to send her home. Fewer eyes—”

  “Molly is only a child,” she protested.

  “Children can gossip,” I said, and opened the door.

  Molly was in the kitchen, the potatoes scrubbed and ready for the oven, with a vegetable and cheese dish waiting to be put together. She looked up in alarm as I stepped into the room.

  “What did you tell her?” she whispered.

  “That I was afraid you might be ill. I didn’t think I ought to say you were crying.”

  “No—oh, no.” She looked around, as if fearful that the very walls had ears. “I ought to warn you, Miss. English or not, you’ve been kind to me. The police are searching everywhere for an escaped prisoner. Just—just be very careful. The Constable had you once. Make certain—”

  She broke off, terrified, as a heavy banging started on the front door of the house.

  I said quietly, “You’ve done nothing wrong—stay here in the kitchen, go about your duties.”

  And I stepped through to the front room, saying to Michael, who was rising from a ch
air, “Lie down. Pull up the covers. If they question you, try to pretend you are still half out of your head—”

  Eileen, shock in her face, said, “Dear God—” And she began to open up the covers she had tidily arranged on the bed, and helped him move into them.

  Niall opened the door, I heard his voice asking what was happening.

  I couldn’t hear the response. I was already racing up the back stairs to warn Maeve.

  Heavy boots invaded the front hall, and voices grew louder.

  Maeve opened her door, I whispered the warning that they hadn’t come for the Major—not directly—then slipped into my room.

  And I stood there behind the door, listening as they began to search the house.

  It was then I noticed a streak of mud on my boots. It clearly wasn’t from the garden beds.

  In a panic, I found a clean cloth, my little tin of polish, and got to work, praying they wouldn’t come to my door next.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  My prayers were answered. I heard the Constable and his men come tramping up the stairs knocking first on Mrs. Flynn’s door.

  She didn’t take the intrusion well. Her voice carried as she said, “This house doesn’t harbor runaway felons. And you shouldn’t have lost him in the first place.”

  There was argument, negotiation, and then she agreed to the Constable himself searching her rooms while his companions cooled their heels in the passage.

  I had just shoved the stained cloth into my pocket and the tin back into my valise when the pounding on my door began.

  Opening it, my gaze met and held the Constable’s. He hadn’t got over the embarrassment of losing this prisoner, and his voice was cold as he demanded access to my room.

  I didn’t explain that it was Eileen’s. I simply moved aside and let them in.

  They poked and prodded, leaving the definite impression that what they were after must be a leprechaun. No reasonably sized man could hide in my valise or in the cabinet that held the washbasin and pitcher and matching chamber pot.

  It occurred to me that they were punishing me for having evaded them.

 

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