“I’ll be having what the lady’s having,” replied Devlin.
“Right, sir! And that’s a vodka gimlet, right Bri—” he shot a look at Devlin and back to Bridget—”Miss?”
“Yes, thank you, Danny,” she purred. As he scuttled away she turned and looked at Devlin with newfound respect. “He’s never called me ‘miss’ before. It’s always been either my first name or ‘dear’. What an influence you have on the man!”
With a lazy smile, he replied, “He’s smart enough to know what’s good for him.”
“Oh really?” She looked down the bar to watch Danny rummage with ice and mix to prepare Devlin’s drink and turned back. “I’ve seen him bash drunken men twice your size, sir.” She appraised his perfectly tailored seersucker suit. “Why would a man such as you be a threat to his well-being?”
Danny returned and placed the drink down, carefully centering it in front of Devlin. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No. Thank you, Danny; I’ll let you know.”
“I’ll keep an eye, sir.” He departed to look after other patrons, but kept glancing back every so often until Devlin took a sip and nodded in his direction.
“You didn’t answer my question, Mister Griffin.”
“Devlin, please.”
“Very well, you may call me Bridget.”
He gave a small smile. “Not Bridey? We both have a brogue, you know.”
She closed her eyes. “I detest that name.”
“Very well! Bridget it is!” She opened her eyes to see his smile. His lips smiled, yet his eyes watched her like a cobra sizing up a mouse. “I hail from Dublin itself. And you, Bridget?”
“My family’s from the coast. County Kerry.”
“You certainly don’t look like a fisherman’s wife…”
She replied with a shudder. “Not everyone in Kerry is a fisherman, nor a fisherman’s wife, Devlin.”
“Is it safe to assume you’re no man’s wife?”
“‘Tis. A simple housekeeper am I.” She took another sip and looked at him. “I’m still curious as to the nature of your influence on our Mr. Boyle. His serving you so well, in such a crowded saloon… how is that—’what’s good for him’?”
Keeping the same watchful expression, he answered, “You said our Danny was good at ‘bashing’ large men, yes?” When she nodded silently, he added, “There are things far worse than a bashing… and Danny knows enough about meself that he’s cautious, is all.”
Her eyes widened and her voice dropped to a whisper. “You’ve killed people!”
He gave a slight shrug. “Since the Great War, many men in this city can claim such a thing.” He nodded in the direction of the military base, where at that moment Melanie was directing her husband and children to their family automobile.
“Oh. So you’ve been in the war then?”
His face grew serious. “I’ve never worn a uniform.” His lazy gaze took in the lounge where they stood. The noise level had grown with holidaymakers enjoying themselves. “Let me put it this way… Danny works for the owner of this establishment, a man named Isaac Cohen. Mister Cohen and I have a business together. He has contacts that distill whiskey, and there’s a great thirst for such a product in New York.”
“You’re a bootlegger!”
He gave his head a small shake. “No. I’m the man who solves the problems that bootleggers occasionally run into.” He gave that smile again, with his cobra-like eyes. “Do you understand now?”
She nodded, wide-eyed. “But… what’s it like…?”
His voice low, he said, “To kill a man? Killing’s easier than people think, Bridget. Once done and done, ‘tis nothing to do again. Aye, the first time’s the hardest, but the others come easily… you’d be surprised.”
As she watched his face, a thrill went down her spine. She believed every word he spoke because of how Danny Boyle acted in his presence. An actual hired killer! She was surprised at how she wasn’t afraid of him.
***
A while later, she was walking up the drive to the Crawley home. She stopped short when she saw the car in the drive. The major and the crumpet had said they were planning to stay until after the firework display. What were they doing home so early?
She heard sharp words and loud voices coming through the open window of the parlor, and carefully crept forward.
“Goddamn it, Melanie! What do you expect of me!” It was Kevin, shouting at ‘the crumpet.’ Bridget smiled and crouched beneath the window.
Chapter 6
Bridget squatted down beside one of the rosebushes smiling gleefully as the storm raged above her head.
“What do I expect of you, Kevin? I expect you to side with your family!”
“What a terrible thing to say! Of course I side with my family!”
Melanie’s voice took on a more reasonable tone. “Then why, darling, is this even a question? Why, dearest, are we arguing? She can continue on elsewhere as a washerwoman. I absolutely refuse to have her in our home any longer!”
Bridget’s ears perked up. They were arguing over her! Her position in the household! She eased closer to the window.
Kevin’s voice took on a gentling tone. “Darling, don’t you think you’re being hasty? The twins love her.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain about how Agnes feels about Bridey, Kevin. And as far as Alice is concerned, the entire world is her friend—the child doesn’t have a mean bone in her body!”
“Oh really?”
“Don’t you ‘Oh really’ me, Kevin Crawley! You weren’t the one having to sit there while that ogre of a woman chastised your children’s language! Thank God I had been friends with Princess Mary when I was a girl! She said to me as I was leaving that she and her parents—the king and queen mother I might add—were looking forward to seeing me again when your transfer goes through! That took the wind out of the general’s wife’s sails for now, but Mary returns to England in a fortnight, and that ogre of a Mrs. Abbot will be spinning her webs until your transfer is official!”
“It sounds to me that our future is firm, Melanie.”
“No it’s not! When I give Bridey her notice, I’ll be making a special visit to Mrs. Abbot and I’ll act sooo grateful for her counsel over the girls’ behavior. Only then will she be nullified!”
“I don’t understand…”
“I’ll be doing that at the Officer’s Wives Luncheon. They have them monthly. I’ve not gone before, but by God, I’ll be a regular attendee until we kick the dust of this town off our shoes. I’ll butter up Mrs. Abbot in public. When word of that gets around, she won’t be able to say another word against me to General Abbot nor anyone else in position to harm your career.”
“Melanie, I’m terribly impressed by your skills at intrigue.” Kevin’s voice had taken a light tone. And in that light tone, Bridget felt her own future slipping away. She grasped a handful of branches of the rosebush, crushing them in her hand.
“My father, the baron, had spoken to me many times of matters such as this, Kevin, that’s all.” Melanie’s voice was closer to the window; Bridget froze and kept her head down, facing the ground. Thank God she had worn her brown dress and black cape.
Kevin’s voice had drawn closer too. They had to be standing together at the window. “So you’re quite sure your mind’s made up?” He sighed.
“Yes, Kevin. Absolutely.” There was a rustle of her dress as she must have turned to face him. “What I fail to understand is your advocating so strongly for this… this commonplace girl. I understand you share a heritage with her—you’re both from Ireland—but really, is that enough?”
“I just think you’re being harsh on her. You had already planned to hire a proper governess after you have the baby.”
“That was until I was so humiliated today, Kevin. I need to demonstrate to Mrs. Abbot a certain strength; terminating Bridey is just the ticket.”
“So, a sacrificial lamb, eh?” Bridget wasn’t sure if she heard a smile in
his voice or not, until she heard Melanie’s chuckle.
“I suppose so. But it’s worth it.” There was a pause. “But really, Kevin; you took that girl’s side so strongly!” Another pause, and Melanie asked in a voice Bridget could tell was forced lightness. “Should I be threatened by this girl? Does she have you under some sort of spell?”
“Of course she does. She’s a Druid, I suppose—wise in the ancient pagan ways of the Irish before St. Patrick!” It must have been a stunned look on Melanie’s face which caused Kevin to let out a guffaw. “No darling! There’s no hold she has on me! It’s you I adore!”
“You’re a terrible tease, Major Crawley!” Bridget heard the slap of Melanie’s hand on Kevin’s breast. They had to be right at the edge of the sill! One look to the side and she’d be caught out! She stopped breathing.
“All joking aside, Kevin—why did you defend her so strongly?” Melanie’s voice was tender in its curiosity.
He let out a sigh. “I see a lot of me in her, I suppose.”
Melanie’s laughter tinkled into the evening air. “Really! Forgive me, but I fail to see a single common thread between you! An exalted war hero, handsome and dashing, on his way to pay court to the king of England and a common, horse-faced, walleyed, washerwoman!”
Horse-faced? Walleyed? Bridget’s hand on the branches of the bush twisted in silent rage.
“Well, I’m not surprised, my dear. But there are aspects of Bridey I recognize. Like I did when I was young, I had a dream of becoming a soldier, and she has a dream of Hollywood and fame. Were you to traipse the back alleyways of Lowerton, you’d see clearly the obstacles in her upbringing she had to overcome to simply get a position here in our home; let alone fan the flame of such a dream as she has.”
“Dream? Kevin, the girl’s delusional! Do you really think she has the looks of a moving-pictures star? Really! With that lantern jaw, broad cheeks and those eyes which go everywhere but straight?” Melanie ended her evisceration of Bridget’s pride with a light laugh.
“Well, her chin’s not nearly as pert and delicate as yours of course, and it’s just a lazy eye. She’s not walleyed, Melanie. She’s a sturdy young lass who will be a good wife for a man.” He sighed. “And in America, who knows what she could become? After all, there are women who fly aeroplanes down there you know.” His voice became more distant; they must have stepped back from the window. “When will you give her notice?”
“Not for a week at least; I want to put an advertisement in the newspaper and get some applicants before I let her go. So mum’s the word, Kevin.”
“Of course, darling.”
They must have been leaving the parlor, because the last thing Bridget heard was Melanie’s voice, and her laughter. “Bridey Walsh, the washerwoman movie star!”
Bridget twisted the branches until they snapped off in her hand. It wasn’t until she flung them to the ground that she realized the thorns in the rosebush had left her palm bloody. She stared at the crimson stain in her opened hand, rage obscuring the pain.
Chapter 7
Bridget woke with a start, drenched in sweat. Devlin Griffin’s voice in her dream was still ringing in her ears, and echoing through her mind. “God helps those who help themselves, Bridey.” She threw the covers off and sat up, planting her feet on the floor.
“Oh God, no! Sweet Mother of God, help me!” She panted, arms clutched around her stomach, she bent over at the waist. The very idea was too horrible to contemplate! Like a small mouse trying to fend off a cat, her mind fought against the other statement of Devlin Griffin’s. “Killing’s easier than people think, Bridget… you’d be surprised.”
“No it ‘tisn’t! ‘Tis a mortal sin!” she whispered hoarsely. “I’d burn in hell forever!”
She slipped from the mattress to her knees. Clasping her hands together, elbows on the mattress, she prayed with the fervency of Jesus in Gethsemane. “Oh God, don’t let me do such a thing! Take this temptation from me! I beg of ye, Lord, help me ta be good!”
She stopped breathing. She squeezed her eyes shut, so tight her lids hurt as she awaited an abatement of her black hatred, a sign from the Almighty.
With a whoosh, she sucked in a breath. Panting and gasping, she steadied herself and stood on shaking knees. She turned on the overhead light, and stepped to her dresser. She peered into the mirror. She couldn’t see anything abnormal about her eyes at all, thank God. But wait…
She recalled earlier in the year when Photoplay Magazine ran a ‘star search’ contest. She had gone to Mr. Hyfund the photographer to have a picture done to send in. He had insisted that a profile of her would be the best. She thought nothing of it; after all, he took photographs of people every day. So she had a profile photo done of the left side of her face and sent it in. It was a disappointment to read about the winners six months later, but at the time she resolved to enter every year.
But now the question was, why did the man cajole her into a profile photo? She gazed at her right eye, but saw nothing.
She opened the top drawer of her dresser and took out her hand mirror. Staring into it, she gazed at her image in the dresser mirror from an off-angle.
“Oh my God!” she hissed. Her right eye was at an odd angle, floating almost to the top of her eyelid! Putting the mirror down, she clutched the edge of the dresser top, her knees watery.
She could get an operation! And what sort of surgery, Bridey? And pay with what money? There had to be exercises she could do! And if there were, don’t ye think your mum would have had it done then, girl? She had to do something! She was going to be a movie star! Oh really? Ye think so, lass?
A white-hot pain skewered Bridget’s head from behind her eye. She shut her eyes, tears of agony trailing down her face. Tilting her chin down, she could barely breathe, huffing for air like she was suffocating. The pain didn’t let up; instead it wrapped itself around the back of her neck, a white-hot brass rod. She pulled her lips back, her teeth clenched almost to the point of cracking. Huffing for air, she expelled snot and spit with each explosion of breath.
As quickly as it had come, the pain left—nothing but a memory of the agony she had just went through, not an ache nor a twinge remained.
She lifted her face again to gaze into the mirror. That flaming bitch! Damn her, damn her, damn that woman!
“Killing’s easier than people think, Bridget… you’d be surprised.”
No, not really… she wouldn’t be surprised at all. Of course.
She left her room, and quiet as a mouse, padded down to the cellar.
Chapter 8
The poor major looked as guilty as Judas. He couldn’t look Bridget in the eye no matter how many times she tried to make conversation with him when he came down in the morning. She prattled on lightly about how enchanting the fireworks over the lake had been the evening before. When she learned that the Crawleys had missed them by coming home early, she cooed with sympathy.
“I’m doing all I can, Major Crawley, but I’m worried over the missus,” she said.
“Oh? What do you mean, Bridey?” Funny, when he called her by that name, it was as sweet as chocolate to her ears.
“I’m no doctor, sir, but her color gets quite bad every day now. Just the other day she had a fainting spell, and it was the third one in the last week!” She knitted her hands together. “I know it’s not my place, sir, but I’m worried for her health. She gets these… ‘spells,’ I suppose. They’ve been going on for the last two weeks and have been more and more frequent!”
The Haunting of Crawley House (The Hauntings Of Kingston Book 1) Page 5