by Maureen Lang
The maid returned, leading Berrie into the parlor. “Mrs. O’Donnell will be down shortly, miss,” she said. “May I bring in some tea?”
“No, thank you,” Berrie said, despite her desire for something warm and soothing. The thought of putting something into her roiling stomach both enticed and revolted her. “I’ve no wish to be an inconvenience. I shan’t stay more than a few moments.”
The maid curtsied. “Very well, miss.”
The room hosted a variety of bric-a-brac, and for a moment Berrie pictured Conall here, with his unsteady gait, his inability to understand the word no, his attraction to shiny items like crystal and porcelain. Any number of items would be in danger if he were allowed access.
“Miss Hamilton?”
Berrie turned at the inquiring voice behind her, seeing a woman enter who was about Berrie’s own age. She was pretty; her eyes were small, her nose narrow, but her smile demanded all notice. Stark white, straight teeth were the epitome of health.
“I’m told you have a few questions for me, only I don’t believe we’ve had the honor of acquaintance.”
“If I am in the correct home, we have a friend in common: Finola O’Shea.”
The woman’s light brown hair was severely pulled back so her attractive smile showed off those teeth and generous mouth. “Finny is your friend too? How nice. I’ve known her nearly all my life. How is it that you know her and yet you and I haven’t met?”
“Finola and I are new acquaintances. We have a connection through Escott Manor, where she stayed for a short time. In between visits here, I believe. Is there any chance Finola is still here?”
“Oh no. She asked her brother if she could return home, and he agreed. To be honest, I don’t know why Thaddeus agreed to let Finny return. Generosity isn’t in his disposition.”
“Her brother must have had a change of heart,” Berrie said, “about letting Finola stay with him.”
Nessa O’Donnell harrumphed. “I take it you’ve never met Thaddeus?”
Berrie shook her head.
“So like his father it would make you doubt the wisdom of God, having created not one but two such men.”
“Her stay with him is only temporary, of course,” Berrie said, “until Conall is twelve. Then, if they haven’t something else in store, they can return to Escott Manor.”
“Ah, yes, Finny told me about that offer from the headmistress. It’s really too bad it didn’t work out for them to stay there right along. Conall won’t be twelve for another eight years.”
Berrie was surprised by the woman’s frankness. She must not be aware of the charges Finola was bringing against Duff. Otherwise Berrie was certain the woman would have brought it up the moment Berrie revealed her link to Escott Manor—the very place that employed Finola’s alleged attacker. Berrie decided to keep her identity as headmistress to herself. “I was wondering if you could tell me how I might visit Finola?”
She stared at Berrie. “I’m surprised you don’t know, if you’re friends.”
“She knew where to find me, and since her plans were uncertain when she left Escott Manor, she didn’t bother to give me a forwarding address yet.”
That seemed logical enough, even to Berrie. Mrs. O’Donnell told her where the O’Shea manor house could be found, an hour north of Dublin. On her way out, Berrie knew she must try to ask one more question without alarming the other woman.
“Tell me, Mrs. O’Donnell,” Berrie asked, “did Finola ever mention a man by the name of Duff Habgood, one of the men who work at Escott Manor?”
Mrs. O’Donnell shook her head. “Finny hasn’t been of any mind to talk about a man, not since her husband annulled their marriage. She vowed never to trust one again, and Finny isn’t the kind to go back on a vow, especially to herself. Why do you ask?”
“I thought she and Mr. Habgood were friends,” Berrie said and left it at that. She bid Mrs. O’Donnell a good day, then found her way outside, where Jobbin waited with the wagon.
She gave him directions to the O’Shea manor house. They wouldn’t arrive until almost dark, but there was little to be done about that. She couldn’t wait another day.
Settling back, Berrie mulled over the information she’d received. Finola had gone to the O’Donnell home after leaving Escott Manor. If Duff had supposedly accosted her while she was in residence at the school, and if Finola and Mrs. O’Donnell were the hob-or-nob friends Mrs. O’Donnell seemed to portray, wouldn’t Finola have confided in her about an attack? Especially if she were going to make the incident public by bringing action against Duff?
Berrie was more certain than ever no attack had taken place, but even if something improper had happened between Duff and Finola, if it had occurred after Finola left the school, might that make a difference? He’d been in Dublin, searching for families in need of their school. Had he come upon Finola by accident, and had she misinterpreted a simple greeting as something more than it was? Duff admitted he’d been enamored of her; perhaps he’d forgotten himself and hugged her upon sight. Maybe Finola was so embittered against men in general, because of the way her husband had treated her, she would take any revenge upon Duff that she could. An innocent substitute for the wrongs her husband had enacted.
Such theories filled Berrie’s mind as Jobbin drove the wagon at a brisk pace north of the city. It was more vital than ever that Berrie speak to Finola, to make her see what sort of trouble this caused the school. It endangered Finola’s own welfare, not just Duff’s, if she still hoped the school would be part of her future.
If Berrie wasn’t able to change Finola’s mind about this accusation, all might be lost.
49
* * *
The telephone rang. Rebecca glanced at the clock. Almost eleven. Only Quentin would—
She scrambled to answer, nearly dropping the receiver from unsteady hands. After issuing a successfully calm greeting, her mind didn’t register her sunken heart until moments after realizing the voice on the other end was a woman. Despite her disappointment, the momentary shot of adrenaline had fully awakened her. Rebecca had been at her desk, almost too tired to work a moment ago, but she had a few things to catch up on before the judges’ visit day after tomorrow.
“Is Dana there?” the voice said after her hello.
“Dana? Yes, she’s here, but I’ll have to fetch her; she’s retired for the night. This is Rebecca Seabrooke. May I ask who’s calling?”
“Oh, Rebecca! We’ve never directly corresponded. This is Dana’s sister, Talie Ingram.” A pause, filled by a slight echo on the line. “I’m sorry, it’s almost eleven o’clock there, isn’t it? I’ve been so busy I didn’t realize how late it must be for you.”
“If you’ll hold the line, I’ll see if she’s awake.” Rebecca popped up from her chair.
“No, don’t.”
Rebecca caught back the receiver, her movements still jerky, spurred by emotion that had nothing to do with the call. “Yes, what’s that?”
“Don’t wake her. In her condition she needs all the rest she can get. I only called to let her know I’m coming. I have a million things to do before my mother gets here to watch the kids. Tell Danes I’ll be there tomorrow night by this time, right at the door.”
“So you know about the baby?” Rebecca was breathing more naturally now. She sat down again.
“Aidan called a couple of days ago. He’s pretty worried about her.”
“Yes, so am I.”
“I don’t know if I’ll be any help, but I’m coming to offer whatever support I can. And to see if I can convince her to return to Ireland and to Aidan as soon as possible.”
“That’s wonderful. Dana told me you went through this sort of pregnancy yourself, not knowing what was ahead.”
“Longest months of my life. I’m living proof that the fifty-fifty chance is real, but from what Aidan says it sounds like she thinks it’s 100 percent guaranteed she’ll have a fragile X child.”
“I think that’s an accurate assessme
nt.”
“You tell that sister of mine every minute she worries is another minute wasted. Oh, forget that. She won’t listen to you any more than she’d listen to me. Just tell her I’m coming. One more thing, then I really have to go. This is a little awkward. I hate to ask favors, but Aidan seemed to think it would be all right if I stayed there with you and Dana. Will that be all right—you know, with the owner? I’m not sure cousin-umpteenth-removed counts as family, so I don’t want to impose.”
“It will be fine,” Rebecca said. How easily she offered this roof, when it was entirely possible she wouldn’t have much to say about its usage before long.
Talie said good-bye and Rebecca hung up. Dana’s sister might not be able to fix anything, but Rebecca guessed she was certainly going to try.
50
* * *
I continue my letter from a very unexpected spot, Cosima—Jobbin’s wagon. You will hardly believe me when I tell you all I have to say. I can only ask you to pray. How can the Lord God abandon me, when the school, I am still convinced, was His plan? Oh, Cosima, is all lost? Have I truly failed so miserably?
When Jobbin stopped the wagon, Berrie peered beyond the canvas only to wish the journey weren’t yet over. At first glance the house appeared little more than a pile of crumbling rocks. Indeed, the entire fence was more rubble than design, and an archway leading to the front door looked so precarious that Berrie felt it would be unwise to stand beneath it. Surely Finola didn’t live here with her brother? On the other side of the dilapidated fence, between the structure and the gate, grew a garden Berrie’s entire family would collectively shudder at upon sight. Overgrown, weed-infested, a jungle in its thickness so that no single plant could be deciphered from another, much less admired. A tree, long dead and devoid of bark, watched over as a testimony of what was to come to the rest of the neglected ground beneath it.
“Wait here, miss,” said Jobbin, and Berrie was only too happy to oblige. She’d worried Mr. Truebody might not welcome her usage of Jobbin’s time or his wagon should Mr. Truebody know, but upon her hesitation Jobbin had assured her it was his own time and his own wagon should the justice of the peace remind him she was no longer his employer. Now she was thankful for him yet again. “I’ll make sure we’ve the right home and be back out here for you quick as that.”
She watched him enter through the squeaky gate; it hadn’t been closed before and refused to close even with his effort. Sight of him was quickly devoured by the garden, only to reappear again on the other side below the deteriorating arch that once might have bidden a friendly welcome to all who approached the tall wooden door. Still, her heart pounded while he stood beneath the arch and rapped soundly at the door. She was certain that all would crumble at any moment if not for the sturdy vines crawling up between the cracks, green mortar lending the archway its last vestige of strength.
Though she heard his knock all the way to the wagon, no one responded. He waited, tapped again, waited. Then, turning round, he walked back outside the archway, disappearing once again into the thick wild growth. She spotted his balding head and he appeared like an odd sort of featherless bird, one that couldn’t fly but could only hop from spot to spot.
He was gone altogether once he rounded the side of the manor, and she settled back in her seat to wait. The day was cool and promised to be cooler still with the setting of the sun. Even if this was the right home, and even if she was able to speak to Finola, it appeared this night would be spent in the wagon. They hadn’t passed a single inn nearby, and she had no idea where one might be found. The wagon floor would be the roughest bed she’d ever known, and she’d sleep on the emptiest stomach, but she didn’t worry about that. It was Jobbin she thought of. He would have to sleep under the stars, or under the wagon itself if stars gave way to rain clouds.
She took the moment of solitude to pray, knowing it would require no less than God’s hand to unveil the truth. She prayed He aided the search for that very thing.
Before long she heard Jobbin’s call, followed by the rumble of the wagon as it accepted his weight.
“All’s well, miss. I’ll pull the wagon up and around. Just a moment we’ll be right as ninepence.”
The wagon lurched forward, and she peeked out to see where they went. A lane curved alongside the wasted manor house, descending to a view of the green Irish landscape more lovely than even around Escott Manor. Trees too often stood in the way there. Here she saw a wide expanse of the sun-streaked horizon, beneath which were endless square pillows of crops and meadows in various shades of green, each divided by the trimmed lace of neat hedgerows.
Jobbin soon pulled the wagon to a halt, and Berrie slid to the other side, where he waited to help her down. Standing on the footboard, she looked at the home before her. This angle offered an altogether different view. Neat brick fairly glowed beneath the orange sunset, with mullioned windows glimmering like so many eyes taking in the view. The lawn was trimmed here, absent of flowers or much fauna, but neat nonetheless. Only the edge, where stones peeked around the corner, hinted at the withering limb that was attached on the other side. Why it hadn’t been demolished and removed, Berrie couldn’t tell.
“I was told the family’s not at home but that we can wait inside,” Jobbin said as they walked closer to the open door. The room proved to be a kitchen with tall hearth, wide wooden table, wash sink, and shelves lining an entire wall. The scent of baking bread made Berrie’s mouth water even as her stomach twisted.
An older servant introduced herself as Moira and went about gathering ingredients to serve with tea, though age slowed her progress. She was similar in years to Dowager Merit, Berrie’s grandmother, but far more sprightly, smiling as easily as the dowager frowned. She chatted about how good it was for Miss Finola to receive visitors, that she’d been sick of heart since returning home and this would surely brighten her spirit.
Berrie wasn’t so sure. She was here to challenge her story, to do nothing less than call Finola a liar and beg her to stop the insanity of a legal battle. She wasn’t going to leave until the truth was known.
Berrie should have refused the warm hospitality Moira offered, if only because she knew the servant wouldn’t present a sip or crumb if she knew why Berrie was here. However her demanding stomach wouldn’t allow a refusal. She watched Moira painstakingly butter bread and press boiled eggs with red tomatoes, making room on a plate of what looked like ginger cake and shortbread waiting nearby. It all looked wonderful to Berrie, but she guessed anything would. She must eat to rid herself of her nervous lightheadedness. But the tea was barely steeped when a boy burst in from the kitchen door, and Moira left the array of food untended on the cook’s table to face him.
“They’re back! Oh—pardon me, miss,” said the boy, dressed in worn brown trousers and a jacket that must have been a castoff from a child of comfortable means some years ago, with its frayed collar and buttons torn from a double-breasted style. He looked at Berrie, then at Moira.
“This is a friend of Miss Finola’s, Paddy. Come to visit.”
The boy’s eyes, nearly as brown as his jacket, went wide. “A visitor? That’s good—isn’t it, Moira? Good?”
“Of course it is!” Her words encouraged, but the wrinkles on her brow deepened.
Berrie watched the exchange, puzzlement growing. Was it so odd to have a visitor in this part of Ireland? or just to this manor house?
There must have been an entry other than the kitchen or the pile of stones she’d seen before, because moments later Berrie heard a commotion from up the stairs leading to the rest of the manor. She stood, prepared to follow Moira to be announced as Finola’s visitor.
“Sit, sit,” Moira said, her voice low. “It’ll be best if you wait just a moment, and then I’ll see about your visit.”
Then she left the kitchen, going slowly up the stairs.
Berrie was tempted to follow and announce herself. But when she moved to do so, the boy called Paddy stepped in her way.
&nbs
p; “If you’re Miss Finola’s friend, like you said, it’s best to wait here for Moira.”
“Why is that?”
He tilted his head. “You don’t know Finola very well, do you, miss?”
“Well enough to visit,” Berrie said.
“Then maybe it’s her brother you don’t know well enough.”
Berrie contemplated whether to wait or go unannounced, but there was something on the boy’s face that made her believe it would be best to follow direction. It wasn’t long before the sound of footsteps echoed from the hall up the stairs, and Moira stood there silently, bidding her to come.
“They’re in the upstairs parlor,” Moira whispered. “Though I was at a loss to tell them your name, miss.”
“Didn’t Jobbin—my driver—announce my name?”
Moira shrugged. “If he did, I must have forgotten.”
Berrie followed the maid, seeing walls in need of paint, floors as worn as the carpets trying to hide them. They passed the arch to a dining room, where stood a long table and only three chairs, no sideboard or wall coverings, not even a screen before the fireplace. At least little Conall would have nothing to tempt him to break, but what of keeping him away from the fire?
Moira stopped before a tall wooden door that creaked on its hinges when she opened it. All Berrie saw in the dimly lit parlor was a piano, a pair of settees, and one lamp table. Two tall windows on the far side let in light, but they were so shrouded in draperies that the effect of sunlight was minimal.
“Cecily! How wonderful to see you,” said Finola, stepping forward and grabbing both of Berrie’s hands in hers.