The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2)
Page 51
He was different. He squared his shoulders and scanned the area as if he walked a course strewn with obstacles only he could see. Sudden movements snapped him to attention. When he thought she wasn’t looking, he would open his jaw and move it side to side while jiggling a finger into his ear. He was so physically attentive—holding out his hand to steady her, brushing the backs of his fingers across her cheek, looking at her intently directly in the face—that she wondered if his hearing was worse than he let on. The same tortured look haunted his eyes that she had seen after his rescue of her on the mountain. He had killed. In cold blood. For her. Again. She feared the weight of that knowledge would only grow greater with time.
He pressed his forehead against hers. “I would do anything to get you to stay.”
“You can’t leave, and I can’t stay. It’s just the way our lives are right now.”
“I know.”
“You’ve made choices I’m not sure I can live with. You need time, and I won’t put my life on hold while you figure out yours. We both have things to sort out.”
He nodded. “I know that, too.”
“I’ve spoken with Electra. I’m going back to my farm. She’s going to put in a good word for me with syndicates that send horses to the Rolex events in Kentucky. With Aintree behind me, I’m in a stronger position as a trainer. The folks in Perc aren’t thrilled about me coming back, but they’ll leave me alone. At least this time they’ll have no questions who they’re neighbors with.”
“And your horses?”
She sighed. “When we left, Electra found them new owners. I’ll have to start from scratch.”
Michael reached into his pocket and produced a sheaf of papers. “Not so much,” and handed them to her.
The papers were the complete documentation for three horses. Proof of pedigree, ownership registration, bills of sale, vet certificates, and shipping instructions were in order.
“Planxty and Kilkea!” She almost screamed in surprise. Another document froze her. “And Bealltainn!”
His furrowed eyebrows told her he had no problems hearing her exclamations. A smile grew at the corners of his mouth. “Electra and I formed a partnership and bought them from Doherty after Aintree. They were supposed to be the first animals at Ballyronan’s stable. They still can be,” he paused, giving her a hopeful look, “whenever you’re ready.”
“Maybe in time. No promises.”
“Please don’t say no, but I’ve also made arrangements for some employees at your farm.”
She tensed, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. He brought his finger under her chin, guiding her to look at him. “I’ve arranged for Tim to get the help he needs. I owe him that much.” He stopped her before she could say more. “I’ve hired others who are good with horses, and they’ll keep an eye on you.” He kissed her forehead as he repeated her words. “It’s just the way our lives are right now.”
She graced her thumb over his lips. “I need time. My mountain farm is the only place I can think of to go to.”
He pressed her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm, folding her fingers over and squeezing tightly. “I love you, Jessica. This mess has been all my fault. It’s all over. The Charity no longer exists. I’m creating a new enterprise. It won’t be as it was.”
“No? Well, neither will you.”
The words were meant to sting, and they did, stunning him to silence. He looked at his watch. “It’s almost time for your flight. I’ve provided one of my jets to get you into Louisville before the horses are loaded up for the final leg of the trip to Perc via Pullman. They’ll have had all vet examinations and required stops. You’ll be able to check them out before they go up to the farm.” He picked up a stone and threw it over the rocky cliff. It clattered down and plunked into the ocean. The motion masked his feelings. It took several more stones before he was able to talk again. “Murray made sure your house was prepared for you, too.”
She warmed at his thoughtfulness. “Please give him my thanks. He knows I don’t hold him responsible for what happened, right?”
“Yes. It was a rough night for him, but he’s okay. He sends his love.”
She faltered, not willing to admit the strong tie she felt, too. She rubbed her arms. “It’s time for me to go.”
They drove to the airport in silence. The Belfast International Airport was nearly empty in the early morning hour as they entered through side gates closest to the private and charter flight departures. The private terminal was a large metal building with an ornate awning and some plants in front the door. The interior lighting was dim, and the furniture was marginally better than found in the commercial flight area. A lone janitor buffed the floors to a shine and a uniformed concierge leaned wearily on his desk.
A man wearing an ill-fitting suit and thick-soled shoes stepped forward, straightening his lapels and rubbing the sleep from his face. He reached into his jacket’s breast pocket. Michael instinctively moved his body in between the man and Jessica and reached for something in the small of his back. The man produced an envelope of papers and a wallet-sized leather case. He opened the case to show a badge and photograph ID that proclaimed him a Special Agent of the Security Branch. Michael remained tense.
“Miss Jessica Wyeth?”
She nodded.
“You are determined to be inadmissible for entry into Northern Ireland, having entered under false and fraudulent means. You are hereby ordered to leave immediately. This is the decree for your deportation.” He gave her the papers and put his hands on his hips. The motion pulled back his jacket enough for her to see a gun secured in shoulder holster.
She huffed and shook her head. “I get it. I’m leaving.”
Michael put his arm around her waist and walked forward, close enough that the agent had to step back to get out of their way. He walked her to the waiting Gulfstream, MMC emblazoned on its tail. A door opened in the fuselage, and the pilot and crew descended via the unfolded airstairs. Each of the three people were dressed in neatly tailored navy blue uniforms. The pilot stepped forward. Her salt and pepper hair secured in a neat bun at the nape of her neck.
“Greetings Mr. Connaught, Miss Wyeth,” she said with a curt nod to each. “I’m Captain Laramie. This is our co-pilot, First Officer Andrews, and cabin steward, Mr. Devins. They’ll be assisting us during the flight.” They shook hands and exchanged greetings. She continued, “We’re cleared for departure when you’re ready.”
“Thank you.” Michael cleared his throat, voice thick. He didn’t say more.
The pilot stood for a moment waiting, then she signaled the crew to return to the jet.
The pain of separation etched into Michael’s face. “Soon,” he said, bringing his mouth over Jessica’s. He didn’t rush their final kiss.
She felt his emotions better through his kiss than if he shared them with words. She responded and let her body yield into his. Together they breathed, savoring their embrace.
“Soon,” she said, and walked up the airstairs. She paused at the top step but didn’t turn around.
The cabin was huge for one person. The polished wood and soft lighting accented the living room-like space. The only hints she was aboard a jet rather than in a plush hotel were the curved walls, and each richly padded leather seat had its own seatbelt. A separate area was configured as a bedroom, covers turned down on the full-sized bed.
Mr. Devins acclimated her to the cabin. “Mr. Connaught’s butler had all your items delivered,” he said, opening a closet and showing her suitcases and boxes. “He also sent you these.”
The basket of home-baked scones almost made Jessica cry. Murray’s sweet and loving thought touched her.
Uncomfortable with the attention, she quickly chose a seat by the window. Mr. Devins settled her in, reciting the standard safety procedures. He made sure she had everything she needed for the takeoff before he left her alone. As the jet started to taxi, she looked out the window toward the terminal and saw Michael, hands jammed into his pock
ets and shoulders hunched, watching. He waved when he saw her looking. She pressed her face to the pane to see him as long as she could.
Once airborne, she gathered the packets of letters from her mother, father, and Reverend Mother. She opened them and used the length of the table to organize them by date. She read each in the chronological order they were written. Pictures progressed in time by showing the open and innocent faces of youth to expressions worn and wise. Over the next nine hours, she read as much as she could, digesting all she learned and knowing sleep would not come before she did. The most important lesson learned was she was wanted, loved, and protected in ways she never could have imagined. A letter kept in her father’s rosewood box had the worn look of being opened and read many times over. It was the last letter Bridget wrote. The handwritten date read March 1, 1988, a short time before she died and merely weeks before Gus was killed, triggering all that came after. Bridget was fifty-five years old.
Jessica curled herself up on the bed and allowed herself to enjoy the novelty of sleeping in such style while flying. Hugging a pillow to her chest, she read the letter again and again until she fell asleep.
To my beloved Gean Cánach,
Your daughter is a wonder of this world. She’s soon to graduate college and you would be proud of her accomplishments. She is beautiful and strong, and I cannot imagine a young woman more poised and ready to begin her life in the world.
You must understand that my body is losing the fight with injuries of long ago. The doctors in the States are keen to offer medicines and surgeries, but none promise cure and all promise pain. I’ll have no more of either in my life.
I have no dying wish to see you. I have been content knowing your prayers include me and your daughter. If I’m able to write another letter after this, I will fill it with news of J and G, but for this one, I must speak of us.
Your last letter again spoke of your doubt of faith and of you questioning decisions made in your life as if you could redo them. As I look at our lives, I do not question for a moment that God has had His hand in each question formed and every answer found. He has held us in His hands every second of every day. We did the best we could do and changed many lives for the better. Your efforts in getting people to sit and listen to opinions they hate is crucial work.
You can only do what you do as a Sagart. As a common man, you would be cheated from your voice. You say it is people who willingly give you power, as if it is some form of trickery you use to get them to trust you. I disagree. It is through God’s grace you heal. Go ahead and doubt God, but do not doubt in you. Ours is a faith we must leap to, it is not a fact of life. We are kept apart so our country can mend together. The simple fact that our daughter is free of the burden of our sins and our history is proof enough that our choices were right and good. So, leap with the joy of her freedom, then maybe your faith will strengthen. Do not talk again of leaving the priesthood. It is where you are able to be your strongest.
I dreamed of our times at the lough and your visits to me at MP. As with the trick of sleep, I could smell the incense in your clothes and feel our fingertips touch. The memory made me young again.
Oh, my Gean Cánach. I feel your love every day with the gift you gave me of seeing our daughter grow. Words cannot thank you enough.
Forever,
Cliodhna
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
MOST PEOPLE THINK writing is a solitary event, but it takes a community to breathe life into a book. I have many to thank.
The Troubles would not have come into existence if it were not for the readers of The Charity and their persistent asking, “What happens next?” I hope I’ve created an answer that will keep them up nights... again. My beta readers, too, have my undying devotion for their unvarnished opinions and keeping true to their pinky swears. Naming each would take pages and I’d inevitably forget someone important (as each one is), piss him or her off, and feel guilty and horrible the rest of my life.
Special nod goes to my editor, Karen Aroian, who guided me with a gentle hand, slapped me upside the head when necessary, and helped make this book shine.
The Sisters in Crime of New England has a singular hold on my heart. Your members have uplifted, supported, corrected, carried, dunned, connected, inspired, and flogged me. Thanks for being an incredible resource and community.
The Bishop’s Cathedral and the Beltany stone circle in Raphoe, Ireland, St. Peter’s Cathedral in Belfast, Northern Ireland, and Aintree Racecourse in Liverpool, England exist. The peace line in Belfast (called peace wall by some) is taller today than in years past. I have taken liberal license to describe physical features, locations, and histories.
This book allowed me to delve into the crannies of my family’s history. My grandmother was born in the Republic of Ireland, yet her birth certificate states her nationality as English. The story of the Irelands is not finished.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CONNIE JOHNSON HAMBLEY grew up on a small dairy farm north of New York City. When she was five years old, an arsonist burned her family’s barn to the ground. Memories formed that day grew into the stories that have become The Charity and The Troubles.
Hambley uses every bit of personal experience to create a story that is as believable as it is suspenseful. Leveraging her law and investment background in ways unique, creative, but not altogether logical, she has enjoyed robust professional pursuits that include writing for Bloomberg BusinessWeek, Massachusetts High Tech, and Nature Biotechnology.
Hambley writes about strong women from their perspective in situations that demand the most from them. No special powers, no gadgets, no super human abilities. Just a woman caught up or embroiled in something that she has to get out of, hopefully alive.
Find her at:
Twitter: @conniehambley
www.conniejohnsonhambley.com
Table of Contents
The Troubles
Praise for the Novels of Connie Johnson Hambley
Copyright
Author's Note
Saturday, June 15, 1996
Six Weeks Earlier
Raphoe, Ireland
August 1957
Raphoe, Ireland 2
November 1959
Raphoe, Ireland 3
April 1966
Raphoe, Ireland 4
Belfast, Northern Ireland
Aintree Racecourse
Saturday, June 15
Aintree Racecourse 2
Belfast, Northern Ireland 2
Liverpool, England
Manchester, England
Antrim, Northern Ireland
Manchester, England 2
Ballyronan, Northern Ireland
June 1966
Antrim, Northern Ireland 2
Belfast, Northern Ireland 3
Manchester, England 3
North Channel, Irish Sea
Ballyronan, Northern Ireland 2
Manchester, England 4
September 1966
Ballyronan, Northern Ireland 3
Manchester, England 5
Ballyronan, Northern Ireland 4
December 1966
Ballyronan, Northern Ireland 5
Belfast, Near Stormont
Manchester, England 6
Ballyronan, Northern Ireland 6
Manchester, England 7
Belfast, Northern Ireland 4
Somewhere in Northern Ireland
Geneva, Switzerland
Northern Ireland
Antrim, Northern Ireland 3
Larne, Northern Ireland
Belfast, Northern Ireland 5
Stormont
Sisters of the Holy Cross Convent
Acknowledgements
About the Author