“I heard the same from his lips.” Gooseflesh prickled up his arms, and he thought back to the time at the bay when Noel had shown him and Connor how to shoot the pistol. Quinn had watched from the dunes and had disappeared shortly after. The poet had been staying with Brian at the cottage the night Sir Thomas was shot. “Blakely told the constable to come after me, but there was no proof I’d fired the pistol.”
The large man’s forehead furrowed into rows of flesh. “Did you shoot him?”
“No.” Rory took a sip from his mug. “I’m not a murderer.”
Rory wondered if the poet had killed the Kilbanes too. He was certain Quinn had stolen the flute from them. Suddenly, it seemed the connections were too clear-cut to be coincidental. The poet’s actions were coming into focus and, stunned, Rory wondered if the man might try to kill him and Brian as mad and desperate as he might be for food and money. What if Quinn was ransacking Lear House at this moment looking for the pistol? He brushed these suspicions from his head. He had to remember that his feeling about Quinn was a supposition, not a fact. It was a stretch to identify the poet as a murderer. Perhaps one day he would have the courage to ask him.
Orange offered him a puff from his pipe, which Rory declined. The big man cocked his head. “Yes, I’d say you’ve got your hands full. I’d watch my back if I were you.” He patted his wound.
“I’ve told the constable, but I can’t turn in the poet while we’re living illegally in Lear House,” Rory replied. “I’ll bide my time.”
“Your secret is safe with me, brother,” Orange said.
They talked for some time about the Mollies, with Orange revealing the rumors of a burgeoning plan to assassinate Queen Victoria. A plot to kill the Queen—better they take on the Prime Minister and Trevelyan. The treasonous madness was descending around him like a smothering shroud, and he felt powerless to stop it.
Before they said good-bye, Orange asked about Briana and whether Rory had received any word.
The hour hand moved past one. He hoped to be back at Lear House before dark. He strapped two sacks of meal to the pony’s side, pocketed the money in his bag, and struck off. The pounds were an added surprise from the sale of the silver pieces. He wished he had remembered to take his pistol on this trip and vowed never to forget it again.
* * *
When he arrived at Lear House, Rory found his pistol untouched where he had stashed it behind books in the library. Still, he slept uneasily for the next few nights. Brian, Quinn, and he made their beds in the kitchen to take advantage of the stove’s warmth, but Rory kept one eye open to track the poet’s movements at night. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred.
The wind continued to howl from the northeast through the winter months, dropping a barrage of snow and rain upon the manor. Rory, in spirit, thanked Orange daily for the meal, because the store on the bay stood silent and shuttered with nothing to sell. The pounds he had been given were useless.
Quinn earned his keep by daily collecting the peat that had been cut and abandoned by the tenant farmers. The poet also washed and clothed Brian, who was able to do little as his mind grew weaker. Food grew scarce again by late February, and Rory resorted to a scheme he would never have considered in better times.
The wind quieted one day in late March as the sea fog rolled in from Broadhaven Bay—a rare event when Rory could smell the ocean brine in the air. He dressed in the landlord’s hunting jacket and boots, taking gloves along, and gathered a hammer, several wooden stakes, and a long, sturdy length of reed rope.
From Lear House, he walked east, past the gully and the fresh water spring that ran toward the bay. The fog hung in thick veils across the heath, but when he gazed upward he could sometimes see the white disc of the sun skirting above the clouds. Better climbers than he had been lost in the fog, sometimes tumbling to their deaths off the cliffs. Benwee Head was particularly dangerous, for its sheer face jutted so high above the sea that no man could survive the fall. But today he needed food and hoped the fickle sun would guide his way.
He stopped near a yellow line of rock that led down the cliff face to the sand below. Seabirds often made their nests in the area and he was counting on finding them, or their eggs. He remained optimistic, peering down the cliff face into the misty haze, despite Quinn’s protest that it was too early for mating season. When the fog parted, he spotted lines of foam running from the bay to the shore; the waves broke gently as opposed to those crashing violently in winter gales.
He withdrew the stakes from his bag and hammered the wood into the turf, trying several times to secure them through the frosty layers of bog. After testing them, Rory was convinced they would not fail. He looped and knotted the rope several times around the wood, gripped it with his hands, and leaned at a precarious slant to see if the stakes would hold his weight. They did.
The cliff awaited him. The area he had chosen was steep, but rock striations jutted out at angles. His legs would buttress his descent.
He put on the cloth gloves, tied the rope around his waist, and took a deep breath. First he dropped three yards, then four, then six, until he was eight yards down from the precipice. Small rocks tumbled from the face, through the fog, to the sand. They were lost in the mist, as he would be if he fell. He would surely die, and it would be days, maybe weeks, before anyone would find his body washed up on the beach.
He gripped the rope in his right hand and the outcrops with his left, dropping another yard down the cliff. The rope was almost at its end.
A hand’s length away in a hollow sat a black-legged gull that looked at him with indifference as if it had never seen a man before. Rory rocked to the left toward the bird, and, after uttering a shrill cry, it launched into the air with ease, sailing on broad wings until it disappeared in the fog. He smacked against the cliff face, close to the nest. It was littered with downy feathers, and the remains of a few cracked eggshells lined the sides, but there were no fresh eggs or chicks—as Quinn had predicted. He cursed himself for making such a foolish trip. Another hollow, to his right, with no bird in sight, yielded the same result.
His hands ached and his stomach roiled with hunger as he climbed the slope, praying that his footing would hold. When he came within reach of the cliff top, he grabbed the peat with clawed hands, dragged himself across the wet turf, and then collapsed on his back gasping for breath. What could he do now?
He collected the gear and cut across the bog until he came to the trail leading down to the bay. The waves streamed in like they did at the cliff. He hoped to find something to eat, but there was nothing on shore. Neither a dead fish, nor mollusk, just a smooth coating of sand. He was drawn to a rocky point where seaweed with long, brown stems undulated in the surf like strands of hair. He pulled one up from the cold water and realized he was hungry enough to eat it.
* * *
The seaweed tasted bitter, smelled like brine, and had a stringy consistency unlike anything he had ever eaten. Rory had soaked it in a bucket, scoured it with his hands, and then boiled it. After supper, his stomach churned and he fought to keep the fibrous mess down. Quinn refused to eat it, preferring to dine on day-old mush. His father-in-law sipped the seaweed broth, took a couple of bites of the meal, and then wandered off to the library, an overcoat flapping against his thin frame.
Quinn helped Rory clean the pots and dishware. When they were close to being done, the poet looked at him and said, “He’s dying, isn’t he?”
Rory looked up from his drying and threw the towel into the pot. For the first time in days Quinn had said something that made sense. Perhaps the poet wasn’t as crazy as he thought. “I don’t know. Brian is suffering from a madness I can’t explain. It reminds me of what happened to Mrs. Haughan five years ago. She hung on for a long time.”
Quinn stoked the fire. “He’s always been a friend to me—many times when others would look away. Yes, Brian Walsh was always a kind man.” The poet rubbed his hands over the warm stove and then put them to his face as if he w
as about to cry. “I don’t want him to die. Let someone else die in his place.”
Rory sat at the table. Except for the light of one candle, the kitchen swam with shadows. “I don’t want him to die either, but he’s in God’s hands.” As soon as the words left his mouth, they struck him as spineless, an attempt to rationalize an illness over which he had no control. But for more than a year, all life in Ireland had been in God’s hands. There was no other way to understand what was happening. Anger burned within him as he contemplated how tenuous life had become. Why did God place this plague upon the land? Why was he ripped apart from the woman he loved? There seemed to be no end to the madness of life, the destructive horror of existence. As the foul mood swelled within him, he blurted out, “Did you shoot Sir Thomas Blakely?” There. It’s out now. He had said it and a feeling of relief mixed with dread spread over him.
Quinn turned, his face layered in shadow by the candle; his features stern but his manner calm.
He rose from his chair and lurched toward the poet. Quinn would have no chance to overpower him if he struck first. His anger at the poet, and the world, spurted out of him. “Where did you get the flute you play? Did you murder the Kilbanes?”
Quinn held up his hands, signaling Rory to keep his distance, and rushed to the kitchen door. “I’m going to find Brian. He needs help.” He disappeared into the dark hallway.
Rory followed the poet determined to get answers; instead, he found Brian slumped over the library desk. His father-in-law was asleep, not dead, and sputtered questions as Rory lifted him from the chair as if he were carrying a newborn. “Where am I? Who are you?”
The questions pierced his heart as he carried Brian to his straw bed near the stove.
Saying nothing, Quinn soon reappeared, sat on his own bed, and held one of Brian’s hands.
The gesture moved Rory—there was still humanity left in the poet despite what crimes he may have committed in the past.
“You won’t answer me?” Rory asked.
“There’s no need—what’s done is done,” the poet said. “The past can’t be changed.”
“But the constable believes I shot Blakely. You could clear my name and I could go to America.”
The poet studied him with eyes encircled by darkness. “And go to prison myself or be transported. I’ve heard that the cell is better than the way we live. I only want justice . . . wrongs to be righted. When I’m through helping my friend, you’ll get your answers.”
Quinn wouldn’t solve the mystery. Rory would, as he told Orange, have to bide his time. He lay down on his bed next to his father-in-law.
Quinn continued to stroke Brian’s hand until the candle flickered out.
* * *
A few days later, after his temper had cooled and his mind had regained some peace, Rory asked the poet, “Will you help me write a letter to Briana? I must get it to her soon.”
“Do you know where she lives?” Quinn asked.
“No, but I’ll hold the letter until I find out. Then, I’ll post it. . . . If I don’t write now, Briana may never see her father alive again.” He lowered his gaze. “I don’t want that to happen.”
“Tonight, then,” the poet said. “We’ll write the letter together.”
That evening, Quinn retrieved paper, pen, and ink from the library. They sat at the kitchen table, the poet writing in Irish as Rory dictated his letter. The sturdy rock walls of Lear House protected them from the wind and damp as the candle glowed soft and yellow. For the first time since he had seen Orange at Glencastle, he felt as if he was doing something positive to lessen the fear that surrounded him. However, in the letter, he could reveal only so much.
My dearest Briana,
I hope this letter finds you holding our child, and both of you in good health. Daniel Quinn is writing my words and he may embellish it with my blessing, but, above all, I want you to know how much I love and miss you and our child, whom I’m certain is at your side. Both of you fill my thoughts every hour.
Know that I am well and have been able to find food and shelter through my own resources, but the days grow more treacherous as each one passes. Your father and the poet are currently in my care and we have been able to survive the winter at Lear House. We look forward to spring and the hope of a plentiful harvest for Ireland this summer. However, that will not come about on the estate. All have been ejected and have had to make their own way.
Of more pressing news, it pains me that I fear your father has not long to live. I understand that you and Lucinda now have a life of your own, but I know that he would love your company as much as I, and, perhaps, it would strengthen him to see your loving faces. I also long to see our precious child, but a journey may be too hazardous for the newborn.
God speed, my love, come what may. I will never leave your father’s side as I know your wish would be to see your father well again. I pray your letters will come soon, so that I may write to you in Boston.
Your loving husband,
Rory
Quinn read the letter to him several times before Rory pronounced it ready to post.
Two days later, nearing April, he carried the letter to Belmullet to buy any food he could find. The pony stumbled along, weak from its own scarce foraging, and several times he was forced to dismount and walk beside the animal. When he arrived, he was happy to see the masts of a tall ship in the harbor. A line of wet, bedraggled people waited on the quay. Many had no shoes. They sat huddled around their bags, waiting to board the ship. A sailor told him the vessel had sailed from Liverpool and was soon to return to Quebec to pick up a load of lumber harvested in North America. The news cheered him as he made his way to the post office.
“Have you anything for Rory Caulfield?” he asked the postmaster, a bent old man who had seen many days in the building.
The man looked him over and then said, “Rory Caulfield of Lear House?”
“Yes.”
The man’s eyes flashed. “There’s no one at Lear House—at least there’s not supposed to be, from what I heard. Everyone was ejected.”
“That’s true, but I’m Rory Caulfield and I’m hoping to receive letters from my wife in Boston.”
The postmaster turned and thrust his scrawny hand into a wooden letter box. He withdrew a pack bound with string and faced Rory. “I was holding these until Mr. Caulfield turned up. They’ve been here for less than a week.”
“May I post a letter to Boston?” Rory asked in a rush. “I’ve got money for a stamp.”
“The ship departs in a few hours,” the man said. “It sails to Quebec first, but I imagine the letter will get to Boston in three weeks, maybe sooner, if the vessel isn’t quarantined because of illness onboard.”
He hadn’t considered that thought, but looking at the miserable crowd ready to board, quarantine seemed a real possibility.
Six letters were bound with the twine. He snapped the string and looked at the white envelope on top. It was from Lucinda, who had carefully put the South Cove address in the upper left corner. He ripped it open and skimmed it quickly to make sure the numbers on the envelope matched those in the letter.
“Would you do me a favor and write the post address on this,” he said to the man. He withdrew his letter and handed it to the man, who, with a grumble, granted his request.
“It’s going to cost you since it’s going by sea and then most likely by land.”
“It’s a grave matter and needs to get there fast. If I could send it on wings I would.”
The postmaster laughed and shook his head at Rory’s imagination.
Rory paid for the stamp and left with the Boston letters. He still needed to find food for Lear House and for the animal. Saving the pony was the most important thing he could do, but he couldn’t wait to get home and have the poet read the letters to him.
* * *
The sound of Lucinda’s footsteps rushing up the stairs startled Briana from her reverie. Her sister flung open the door with breathless excitement
. She waved a letter above her head. “It’s from Rory!”
Nothing could have brightened an early spring day more than a letter from her husband. Leaving Shona upon the bed, she rushed to her sister, her excitement bubbling up. “Let me see!”
Lucinda held the envelope in front of her, and Briana reveled in the handwriting. Of course Rory couldn’t have written the letter himself, but it didn’t matter—the important fact was that a letter from her husband had been delivered to Boston. He was alive!
But what if it was bad news? She collapsed on the bed and caressed Shona as if the love for her child might dissipate her fear. “Read it to me,” she told Lucinda. “I’m too nervous to look at it.”
“I’m the same,” her sister said. Lucinda’s hands trembled as she placed the letter on the desk and stepped back.
“Bring it here and we’ll look at it together.”
Lucinda picked up the letter, trudged toward the bed as if her feet were made of lead, and sat next to Briana. With a trembling finger, her sister lifted the flap, withdrew the stationery, and read aloud.
Stunned when the last word faded, they both slumped on the bed. A deep sadness soaked into Briana, while Lucinda, crestfallen, gazed at the floor. Briana cradled her baby close, not thinking much about the soft squirm of the infant. They were silent until Quinlin, in the care of Mrs. Coleman downstairs, let out a childish guffaw, which echoed up the stairs.
“What are we to do?” Lucinda asked. She folded the letter and returned it to the envelope.
“I must go to Ireland,” Briana said without hesitating, “on the first ship I can book passage.”
Her sister’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Madness. Utter madness. Rory says that Father’s time is limited, and he may already be—”
“Be what?” Her protest came out louder than she wished, for the baby was asleep; surely her sister could see that at least one of them must go. “What are we to do?” she asked. “Wait until everyone is dead before we can deliver the money to save them? It will be too late for Father and Rory if I don’t go. We can’t let that happen.”
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