“The sheep, I suppose. Gather Shona and get to the kitchen. If there’s trouble, get out the back door fast and we’ll meet at the general store.”
She picked up the child and wrapped her in the blanket. “And what am I to do if Sir Thomas shoots you on sight—run to the bay with the baby? Madness. I’ll remain here. He wouldn’t harm a child.”
“You’ll do no such thing. Get in the kitchen and be quiet.” He retrieved the bag containing the pistol and ammunition from its hiding place in the bedroom, having removed it from the library. It would do him no good unless he threw it at the landlord’s head, for the weapon was neither loaded nor primed.
Clutching the bag, he led Briana and the baby down the stairs.
“It’s the devil himself, isn’t it?” Quinn asked when they entered the kitchen. His hands were behind his back. “You can’t fight the devil—only remove him from your soul. He’ll make short work of us.” He revealed his hands—in one he clutched a butcher’s knife.
Briana skirted the three straw beds on the floor and found a seat at the table. “Are you mad, Quinn? Put that knife down. He’s not going to harm us. I’ll see to that.”
Rory gave her the eye and stuck the pistol under his shirt so it rested between his stomach and the waistband of his breeches. “How will you arrange that?” Thoughts of Sir Thomas lusting after Briana burst into his head. In some ways, Briana’s maturity and beauty had blossomed with motherhood. What would Blakely want from them now that they had been discovered?
“By reasoning with him,” she said.
Quinn dropped the knife on the table beside Briana.
The crunch of carriage wheels in the lane echoed through the hall. For a few minutes, they remained frozen in the kitchen while they listened as trunks scraped against the slate terrace. Then the gate rattled, the chain dropped, and the door opened.
Sir Thomas stretched out his arms until he found the draped hall table. The landlord was framed in the light—three men followed him into the house, all equally as blind as they waited for their eyes to adjust to the dark.
The landlord dropped his greatcoat on the table and shouted a few orders to the men. They dragged a large trunk and two cases into the hall. Sir Thomas turned his head toward the kitchen door, stopped, and took off his gloves. “So, it is true.” He edged down the hall, choosing his steps carefully. “Sometimes I find it hard to accept rumors, the words of underlings, but I will learn to pay more attention to gossip. I should have known better than to doubt their word over a trespasser and a man who wants me dead.”
Quinn opened the shutter, flooding the kitchen with light. The landlord, attired in a black waistcoat, breeches, and boots, stood with his hands planted against the door frame. “So you’ve all come to greet me—the poet, the beauty, and the man who tried to kill me.”
“I’ve never shot anyone, nor taken anything that wasn’t freely given,” Rory said, holding his spot. “We’re here because we have no other home—and no place to turn to.”
Sir Thomas laughed. “Well, I suppose that is true if you haven’t been charged with theft or murder, but knowing the inept Irish Constabulary . . .” His eyes lighted upon Briana and the baby she held in her arms. “Oh, the beauty has a child—I doubt from immaculate conception.” He said those last words with a sneer born of rage.
Rory could take no more insults. He lunged at the landlord, but the man sidestepped him and knocked him to the floor with a blow to his back. The pistol jabbed his stomach, and he grimaced in pain.
Briana, clutching Shona, rose from the chair. “How dare you strike him! He’s weak from hunger.”
“I’ve every right to strike a trespasser—even string him up—if there was a decent tree in this God-forsaken country.” Sir Thomas ordered two men to pick Rory off the floor. “Allow me to introduce my herders,” he told Briana. “They’re the ones who told me that someone was living in Lear House.” He put a finger to his lips. “Villagers can be secretive. No one—not one—would tell them the names. But, I suppose, I shouldn’t be surprised.”
The men dragged Rory from the floor and plopped him in a chair. His head ached, but his pride had suffered more. What had happened to the man who had defeated Connor in the town square? He was weak now, barely able to throw a punch.
The landlord leaned toward Briana, breathing in her face. “Let me see the child.”
“You’ve been drinking,” Briana said.
“That reminds me,” Sir Thomas said. “There must be a glass buried somewhere in these cabinets.” He ordered his driver to get brandy from the coach. “Yes, I’ve been drinking since I got off the ship at Belmullet. What a miserable country. I’m here for a few days, only to make sure the house is secure and my flock is in place.” He wagged a finger in Briana’s face. “I was wrong about the house.”
The driver returned with the brandy and excused himself. “Let Constable Davitt know that I have uninvited guests,” he shouted after the man. “Be back in three days, or be damned,” the landlord ordered.
“Would you like a drink, my friend?” Sir Thomas said, and sat next to Rory. “It may be the last you take before I have you arrested. The constable will know by morning, and by tomorrow afternoon you may all find yourself in prison.” The herders chuckled as they sat on the straw beds.
He wanted to shoot the landlord between the eyes, but his rage turned to sorrow as he realized he could only grovel before Sir Thomas. “I would like that drink.”
“Rory?” Briana cautioned.
“Pour us all a drink,” the landlord said to Quinn. The poet needed no prodding, since it had been several weeks since he had partaken of liquor. He rushed to get the glasses.
“Would you like one, my dear?” Sir Thomas asked Briana. She shook her head.
Quinn put three glasses on the table, and the landlord poured the brandy.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Sir Thomas said. He pushed back in his chair and put his booted feet on the table. “A toast to your health.” He raised his glass and snickered. “Poor choice of words.”
Rory took a swig of the brandy. It burned his gullet but fortified his courage. “Arrest me, but leave my wife out of it. Quinn had nothing to do with trespassing either. He’s here because he cared for Brian Walsh.”
“How is the old man?” Sir Thomas asked with a wicked grin.
“My father’s dead,” Briana said coldly.
The landlord’s smirk faded. “Starvation?”
“No,” Rory answered, “but it might as well have been. He died from a fall—he was weak from hunger.”
“I liked the old man.” Sir Thomas paused and lifted his glass. “But I have nothing to do with the law or what is done to lawbreakers. I wish I could do more, but it’s out of my hands.”
“As it is with all the English,” Rory countered.
The landlord swiped at his boots and then put them on the floor. “I suppose it would do no good to cast you all out in the night—especially a child—so you can stay in the kitchen on one condition.”
Rory’s stomach fluttered from the effects of the brandy. “What’s that?”
“A simple request, really. That you watch me eat my supper.” Sir Thomas pointed to the two large cases at the end of the hall. “I don’t think there’s enough food for everyone.” He rose from the table. “I’ll be upstairs stoking the fire. And tonight I’ll sleep soundly behind a locked door.” He grabbed the brandy bottle and started down the hall, but before climbing the stairs he opened his waistcoat, withdrew a pistol, and held it up to the light. “And I’m armed.”
* * *
He enjoyed eating the dried meats and fruits in front of them. He was particularly generous with the herders who were acting as bodyguards of sorts during supper.
There were beans in the crates as well, which Briana offered to cook in exchange for three plates of them.
The woozy impact of the brandy opened his heart for a time, and he allowed them the beans and some scraps. The poet was partic
ularly grateful for the handouts and consumed them greedily. Briana took the food as well and coaxed her sulky husband to eat after he had initially turned down the offer.
It served them right. After all, they were the ones that had broken into his house, used what they could, made it their home—although, from what he could tell, they had stolen or damaged nothing except the clothes the men had commandeered for their own use. He could never wear them again. But the wine and liquor he had stashed behind a false back in his wardrobe was untouched—a good thing with the poet in the house.
He asked Quinn to help him cart his trunk and the two cases upstairs so he could keep an eye on them. The poet obliged, although the look in the man’s eyes made him uncomfortable despite the presence of his pistol concealed under his jacket. Quinn seemed to be searching for something, for what he couldn’t be certain. He couldn’t wait to be rid of him. The poet was another that would be out of the house by tomorrow night if the driver completed his task of contacting the constable.
The fireplace had warmed the room by the time he had dismissed the herders and was ready for bed. He took off his clothes, slipped into a nightshirt, and drank the last of the brandy. He was alone again. Even the village woman who had given him comfort had disappeared. He had seen the jumbled remains of her home as the carriage passed by.
Another bottle was concealed in the wardrobe—the one that Brian and Rory had received from the sea captain on their trip to Westport. He lifted the wood panel, grabbed the half-empty bottle, and returned to bed. His pistol lay hidden under his pillow. Perhaps he wouldn’t need it, but one could never be sure with the ruffians sleeping below.
He fell into a hazy, dream-filled sleep until he was awakened by a baby’s cry. The front door scraped open and then closed. From his bedroom on the front of Lear House, he heard the infant’s wail.
“Shut up, shut up,” he cursed to the air. He threw on his coat, leaving it open over his nightshirt, wanting to end the incessant cry. Before he fled down the stairs, he swigged another gulp of brandy, believing it to be his last of the night.
* * *
Briana, rocking the baby in her arms, stood at the bottom of the stone steps leading into Lear House. The front door stood open behind her. The wind plowed off the ocean in strong gusts, sending broken clouds shooting across a nearly full moon. On the bay, whitecaps sparkled in the shimmering light.
Shona was wrapped in her white blanket, which flapped wildly against Briana’s body. The child wasn’t used to Ireland or the loss of her comfortable bed in Boston and had been cranky since supper. Rather than use the back door, Briana had walked to the front, as far away from the kitchen as possible so as not to disturb her husband or Quinn. They were trying to catch what sleep they could with so much to think about. She found it hard to sleep as well. What if Rory was arrested and carted away by the constable tomorrow? She couldn’t bear the thought of her husband in prison. Rory and Quinn’s diminished strengths would be put to the test if tomorrow was their only chance to escape.
She jumped when a hand touched her shoulder.
She turned to find Sir Thomas behind her looking bedraggled, anger firing in his dark eyes.
“The child woke me up,” he said, “but I was dreaming of you.” He swayed toward her.
“I’ve no control over the cries of a three-month-old,” Briana said. “Besides, you’ve had plenty to drink. I doubted you would hear anything.” She stepped away from him. “Maybe a walk by the bay will calm her down. She doesn’t like this place.”
“No.” He grabbed her by the arm. “Don’t go. Let me look at you.”
Briana pulled away from him, eager to distance herself from the landlord.
He soon caught up and walked beside her. “Why is it certain women adore money and privilege above all else and others can’t be bought for any price? You’re among the latter.”
“I’m flattered,” Briana replied, “but you’re well aware of my reason. He’s sleeping in your house.”
Sir Thomas lifted the blanket covering Shona’s face and squinted in the moonlight. “She’s as pretty as her mother.”
The wind roared overhead as they descended to the beach. The surging waves added their own deafening crash as the moon appeared, casting their shadows across the sand.
“This is how the legend got started, isn’t it?” Sir Thomas yelled into the wind.
At first, Briana was unsure of what he was getting at, but a spit of fear bit into her. The legend of Lear House—the children of Lear? She clutched Shona tighter to her breast.
“She was jealous of her husband’s children,” he shouted, “so she turned them into swans to swim the oceans for nine hundred years. She got her wish—and a husband filled with grief.”
He whirled and grabbed Shona from Briana’s arms.
She screamed, but her cries vanished in the fierce wind and booming waves.
Sir Thomas ran down the gentle slope to the bay with the baby in his arms.
She stopped, numb with fear, as the landlord stepped to the water’s edge, the waves surging at his feet, holding the child above his head like a sacrificial lamb. His greatcoat fluttered in the wind; his nightshirt rippled against his body.
A voice behind her yelled, “Put the child down, English bastard.”
Quinn brushed past her and stopped a few yards from Sir Thomas. He held a pistol in his hand, aimed at the landlord.
Sir Thomas lowered the child, and Briana ran to him.
“Who is that?” he asked as he handed Shona to her. “What’s he doing?”
She seized Shona and ran back to Quinn. “Don’t, you’ll hang,” she shouted at him.
“I missed once, but I won’t miss again,” Quinn yelled. “I’ll make sure they never find the body. The sea hides its victims well.” He shook the pistol at the landlord and cocked his head toward Briana. “Go to your husband and tell him what I’ve done for Brian Walsh.”
“Don’t kill him,” she pleaded.
“Go!”
Briana ran to save the life of her child. She looked over her shoulder to see Sir Thomas advancing in drunken steps toward the poet. A pop sounded in the air, and a brief flash lit the dunes. She knew what had happened.
Sir Thomas Blakely was dead.
EPILOGUE
As he had many times before, Quinn disappeared by daybreak. He had not come back to the house after the shot had been fired. In those early hours, Rory and Briana searched Lear House and found nothing but the landlord’s bags and the two crates of food. However, the landlord’s pistol was missing and couldn’t be found. In the morning, they took what provisions they could pack, along with their funds. Rory turned the ponies out with the sheep before leaving the house.
They ran into the herders as they ascended the hill toward the village and told the men that they were leaving upon the owner’s orders and that he had gone to bed the previous night asking not to be disturbed. In another two days the carriage would return from Belmullet to an empty house. The constable, if he came at all to arrest the trespassers, wouldn’t arrive before late afternoon. They would be far away from Carrowteige by then. They planned to avoid the Constabulary, but if detained, they now knew the truth.
Briana looked back at Lear House as they topped the hill. Everything had changed and the world was different. The sun burst forth for a moment on the manor, brightening it to a silvery gleam on the green heath. As far as she knew, she would never see her old home again or the land where she was born. The house and its owner were dead.
As they walked, Rory asked her if she thought Quinn had murdered the Kilbanes. She replied that Quinn’s hatred for the English and the landlord, particularly after Brian’s death, fueled his rage against Sir Thomas. Perhaps he had stumbled on the Kilbanes’ cottage after their murder. Quinn had no reason that she could think of to kill the couple.
When they reached the river where the villagers said good-bye to their loved ones, they held on to each other—Shona strapped to Rory’s chest—an
d waded through the shallow waters scalloped by rippling whitecaps. The wind whipped against them and reminded Briana of her walks along the cliffs she was leaving behind forever.
They hoped to make Bangor by nightfall and find Connor and his family. If not, they would find shelter and then make their way to Dublin, where it would be easier to book passage out of Ireland than in County Mayo. In Dublin, they would book passage to Liverpool and then America.
She shed no tears as they walked along the road near Carrowmore Lake, the Nephin Beg rising up brownish green in the distance. The walk to Dublin would be long and hard, but a better future awaited them. Her sister, Quinlin, and the Colemans would be their new family, in a home of their own making. Rory’s love would guarantee a home no matter where they lived.
For the first time in many months her soul was filled with hope and peace.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
In late July 2017, I stood near Benwee Head looking out over the North Atlantic as plump opalescent clouds dumped a chilly rain on my head. The temperature was about 58 degrees Fahrenheit, but a buffeting wind off the water made the brisk air seem much colder. To my right, the Stags of Broadhaven rose from the ocean in their jagged formation. Few visitors had ventured forth on this wild and windy day to the cliffs west of Carrowteige, Ireland, known for their breathtaking views from the numerous walking trails traversing the boggy headlands.
The experience was one of many sobering moments I experienced in Ireland while doing research for The Irishman’s Daughter. I had eaten a full breakfast at our hotel in Westport; grabbed a snack at the Ballycroy National Park visitor center about halfway in our travels; and, upon arrival, even purchased a to-go lunch at the local village store. I wasn’t hungry, neither was I cold, when the rain clouds raced in from the Atlantic. When the elements became too harsh I retreated to the warmth of the rental car. I was lucky to have the comforts afforded me that day. I had to remind myself that this was July—the weather was murky to say the least—the climate not exactly hospitable even for the height of summer. I imagined how hard it must have been to eke out a living on the heath in 1845, and, in the following years, to survive The Great Hunger.
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