by Laurel McKee
"Oh no, my lady!" Mary protested, shaking her head. "I can't take that from you. It's too valuable."
"It's only for an emergency, if you or your brother need to leave the country in a great hurry." She pressed the bracelet into Mary's hand, closing her fingers over it "And bring your parents to stay here, if you like. You can keep an eye on this mausoleum for me until I return. Can you do that for me, Mary?"
The maid slowly nodded. 'If it will help you, my lady."
'It will." Eliza pushed herself up from the settee, terribly weary. "Now I must make my preparations. I'll leave at daybreak."
Chapter 17
Eliza could smell it long before she saw it. The sour, acrid tang of smoke, thick on the hot summer air.
She pulled up her horse at the sharp curve in the road, pressing the sleeve of her riding jacket to her nose as the two footmen drew their pistols. It had been a quiet enough journey thus far, despite the inns crowded with fleeing people, and they made good enough time. They stayed mostly to the back lanes, away from the villages and the roads clogged with those same fleeing people; the new policy of free quarters meant far too many soldiers about.
They had met with few people that day, stopping only to water the horses at a stream and gulp down a quick meal. But now it seemed their solitude was at an end.
Eliza listened close. She could hear no flames, only smell that terrible lingering smoke and see the dark gray plumes of it drifting lazily into the sky. And then, too, she heard voices, shouts and sobs.
"My lady, we should turn back," one of the men said. . She sensed the panic lurking under his words, and she felt the tightness of fear in her own chest But she knew she could not flee. Though the village ahead was not her own, they were not far from home. She had to help if she could.
"Fm sure whoever did this is gone by now," she said, trying to stay steady. "We should see what we can do."
"But we must see you safe to Killinan Castle, my lady!" the other guard protested. "The longer we are on the road..."
The greater the perils. Eliza was all too aware of that. But she urged her horse ahead.
At first, it almost seemed the village was deserted. A few of the cottages were already in smoking ruins, the flames burned away to a smolder. Gardens were violently churned up, the summer vegetable crop destroyed. Two cows lay dead by the side of the road as terrified chickens ran through the dirt and the falling ashes. Their squawks drowned out a more terrifying sound—human screams.
As Eliza listened carefully, she could make out incoherent, shouted words. They seemed to come from the woods stretching behind the village. She urged her horse forward again, her heart pounding.
"My lady!" her guard called. "We should go back."
"I have to help if I can," she answered. But knowing that didn't stop the metallic taste in her mouth.
She dismounted at the edge of the trees, holding tightly to the bridle as she crept forward. As the woods closed in behind her, blotting out the bright, hot sun of the day, the panicked voices grew louder.
In a clearing was what was left of the villagers—and a group of soldiers in red coats. Eliza's gaze swept over the scene, and for an instant, it seemed horribly frozen to her, like an exhibit in a macabre waxworks exhibit. The soldiers' red coats were streaked with smoke and blood, and their faces were written with a grim determination as they faced a distraught, shrieking collection of women.
At the edge of the clearing was a wagon, and three soldiers hauled a young man roughly onto its wooden bed. His bare back was streaked with crimson blood, his head lolling as if he was unconscious. The ropes that held him for the flogging still hung from one of the trees.
"He didn't do nothing!" a young woman shouted, lunging forward to try and catch at the man's naked feet One of the soldiers shoved her back hard, and as the woman fell, Eliza saw she was very pregnant.
An older woman knelt by her, holding her in her arms. "Hush, Annie! The baby..."
"But he didn't do nothing," the girl, Annie, insisted hysterically. "They can't take him away!"
"Oh, but we can," one of the officers coolly replied. "We have the writ here, stating this man is hiding pikes for the United Irishmen. I'm sure a stay in the gaol will make him more cooperative. Perhaps you would care to join him there, miss?"
The older woman clutched the pregnant girl closer. "You wouldn't dare!"
'Traitors must pay the price for their actions," the officer said. He seemed to be enjoying himself. He gestured to one of the other men, who started toward the girl
Eliza had seen quite enough. "What is the meaning of this?" she called in her best "ladyship" voice, striding into the clearing as she let go of her horse. She stopped behind the two women.
The surprise of her arrival slowed down the soldiers in their grim task, but only temporarily. They finished slinging the poor, unconscious man into the wagon, and the soldier who was bid to fetch Annie paused to frown at Eliza in confusion.
She gave him her haughtiest, most countesslike stare, then turned her glare onto the commander. She was aware of a man on horseback, near the treeline, his red coat dappled in shadows, but as he said nothing, she ignored him for the moment.
"Well?" she said. "What is going on here?"
"And who might you be?" the commander said, recovering from his surprise.
"I am Lady Mount Clare, and you are very near my family's estate at Killinan Castle. I demand to know the meaning of this outrage. Is the British Army now in the business of terrorizing innocent women and old people?"
The officer gave her a sneer, but she could see from the shift in his gaze that he would not insult a countess. "These innocents have been making and hiding pikes, my lady. Probably meant to murder your own family and neighbors."
"Indeed?" Eliza gave an exaggerated glance around the clearing. "Where are these pikes, then?"
His lips tightened. 'They hid them before we arrived. They must have been warned."
"You mean you did not find them?"
"I told you, my lady—they must have been warned of our coming. I am sure you would know nothing about that."
Eliza felt her face flame with a flash of anger. "You mean to say that because your informant was wrong, because these people are innocent of wrongdoing, you flogged a boy and torched their village?"
'These vermin must be made to talk one way or the other. The safety of the country depends on it"
Her gloved hands curled into fists, Eliza took a step toward him. She was brought up short by Annie's sudden scream. She looked down, horrified to see a stain spreading across the girl's brown skirt. Was she losing the baby?
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," the older woman whispered. 'The baby's coming."
"The baby," Eliza murmured, cold with a new kind of fear. The poor girl couldn't give birth in the dank woods!
"Baby or not, this woman is an accomplice to treason," the officer insisted. "We have to take her in, along with her villain of a husband."
Eliza stepped in front of the girl, her arms held out As if that would hold back a group of soldiers! "You will do nothing of the sort."
"My lady..."
"Leave it," the man on horseback said suddenly, his voice hoarse and rough from the smoke. He sounded amused and ... and strangely familiar. But Eliza had no time to puzzle it out. Annie let out another scream, and Eliza fell to her knees beside her. Somehow, she felt far more helpless faced with a coming baby than with an armed patrol.
The commander listened to the man on horseback. "Let's go, then," he told the soldiers. "I'm sure the man will tell us all we need to know once he is conscious."
He swung up onto his own mount, leading the soldiers and the wagon with their prisoner from the clearing. The mysterious officer vanished, and Annie was left to her fate.
Eliza glanced back to see her guards hovering uncertainly at the edge of the trees. Some guards they were, she thought wryly.
"Will one of you please ride on to Killinan village and bring back a cart and the
midwife?" she called, worried Killinan would be in a state much like this one, burned and deserted. "And bring me my saddlebags."
As the confused villagers slowly gathered around, crying or muttering angrily, Eliza leaned toward Annie. The sobbing girl screamed again, shrinking back against the older woman who held her.
"Shh, lass, 'tis only Lady Mount Clare," the woman said soothingly. "Don't you know her?"
Eliza glanced up at her, suddenly recognizing her face. "You are Bridget Riley, yes? I remember—you used to sing at the ceilidhs at Killinan when I was a girl."
"That I did. And you used to dance until daybreak there, my lady."
"That was a long time ago, indeed," said Eliza. "This is your daughter?"
Bridget cradled the crying girl against her shoulder, as if she were a baby herself. "Aye, my Annie. And the young man they took away is her husband, Davey."
"They said he was one of them Defenders, that he made pikes," Annie gasped. "He never did! He was just a farmer."
"Just wait until the Duke of Adair hears of this," Bridget muttered fiercely. "He'll see this right."
"Adair?" Eliza said. She remembered tales of the Duke of Adair, an Irish lord who fought fiercely to hold on to his estates—and who protected his tenants with an equal ferocity. He was an Irish patriot to the core, but far too independent to take the United Irish oath.
"This is his land," Bridget said. "He takes care of his own."
Eliza was almost afraid to know what that meant to someone like Adair. But Bridget would not say more about him, nor was there time. Annie gave another piercing scream.
"Hush, Annie, you've got to lie still," Bridget said. "The baby will come too fast"
Eliza shrugged out of her riding jacket, sliding it carefully beneath Annie. It wasn't much, but it was better than lying on dirt and twigs. One of her guards gave her the saddlebags, and she rummaged through them until she found a container of water and a handkerchief. Soaking the heavy linen, she used it to bathe Annie's face. The girl. slowly quieted, sinking into a stupor of pain.
'There now," Eliza murmured. "Just rest now. The midwife will be here soon, and you and your baby will be just fine."
She was not so sure about the baby's father, though. Eliza shuddered as she thought of the young man's bloody back. But she could not help him now. She could only help these people right in front of her.
"Tis lucky you came along, my lady," Bridget said. "They would have taken Annie, too, no matter that she's about to have the baby."
"I only did what any sane person would do," Eliza answered. Though it did seem as if sanity was in short supply of late.
Bridget shook her head, holding her daughter closer. 'They would just say we brought it on ourselves and go on their way."
She meant no one else from an aristocratic family would help, Eliza thought sadly. Most of them probably huddled in the luxury of their great houses, while the peasants suffered and died.
The truth was, suffering and death could come to any one of them at any moment No great house could protect them now. As she looked down at the sobbing Annie, she smelled the blood and dirt and smoke—and wondered just what she would find at home.
Chapter 18
Eliza slumped over in the saddle, so numb and exhausted she could only stare up at the house. It was there; it was whole. The pale gray stones were intact, the stern Palladian facade balanced by the romance of the old medieval tower at one end, the only remnant of the original castle. The late afternoon sun gleamed on the many windows, turning them pinkish gold.
But it was also eerily quiet. Usually at this time of day, Killinan was a veritable beehive of activity, especially if her mother was having one of her many parties. Servants rushing to and fro, merchants and caterers arriving. Or, if Lady Killinan was going out, the carriage would be waiting with the liveried footmen. Smoke would be billowing from the kitchen chimneys, and gardeners would be finishing up their tasks on the vast grounds.
Now there were no parties, no outings. But the gardens were as lovely as ever with their rolling, velvety green lawns, symmetrical beds colorful with red and yellow blossoms, shaped topiaries, and gurgling fountains. Those gardens were her mother's great pride, the most famously beautiful in all Kildare County. Today they were deserted.
Eliza studied the blank windows, taking in the perfect stillness. Not even a bird sang. Had her family fled, then?
Her footman helped her from her horse, and for a moment, she held on to the saddle, swaying at the sudden feel of solid earth under her feet. She took in a deep breath, hoping the cool, clover-greenness of home would erase the sour scent of smoke and fear. But the air was hot and thick, and she could imagine the flames followed her even here.
She draped her saddlebag over her shoulder as feeling finally flooded back into her feet. "I will go back to the village later, once the horse is rested," she said. She wanted to check on Annie, who had just been barely settled in the midwife's cottage before her little son arrived.
"Of course, my lady," he answered. "Shall I go with you?"
"No, no, you need to rest. It has been such a long journey." She needed to rest, too, yet she feared it would be a long while before she could sleep. Even though she could hardly put one foot before the other, her nerves felt all a-jangle.
She hurried up the wide marble front steps and into the shadowed foyer. It, too, was silent, as echoing as a cave, the curving staircase with its lacy gilt work soaring up from the black and white tiled floors. Her ancestors stared down at her from their portraits, surmounted by ornate white plaster wreaths that contrasted with their dark sternness. High above, a domed ceiling was painted with a blue sky, curious Greek gods and cherubs peering at the follies of humans below.
It all looked just the same as ever, and even in the quiet, Eliza blessed its solid reality, its haven of familiarity. She took off her hat, dropping it onto the base of a statue of Artemis, along with her saddlebag. Her curls escaped their net, and she impatiently shoved them back.
And at last she heard a sound, the heavy thud of booted footsteps on the stairs. She spun around to find a man making his slow way down, and at first, she did not know him. He was not very tall but was well muscled, his dark hair tied back tightly from a square face.
And he wore a red uniform.
Eliza shrank back against the statue's stone base, but it was too late. He already saw her.
"Eliza," he said, none too happy. "Your mother said you were in Dublin."
"George!" Eliza answered, equally surprised—and unhappy. George was a sort of distant cousin to her mother, though closer in age to Eliza than to Lady Killinan. When they were children, his parents often came to visit Killinan Castle, which Eliza hated because George often pulled her hair and threw her books into the fountain.
They saw him much less often in later years. The last Eliza heard, he had married some Ulster heiress and joined a regiment there in the north. Yet here he was.
"What are you doing here?" Eliza asked.
"Now, is that any way to greet a kinsman?" he said, leaning on the banister as he smiled down at her. "It has been far too long since we saw each other. Though I see you are quite as lovely as ever, cousin."
"And you are as great a liar," Eliza answered. "I have been traveling for long hours and don't look lovely in the least"
He laughed unpleasantly, coming down the rest of the stairs. "Nonsense. The Blacknall beauty will always shine through. Perhaps especially with Anna?"
There was a glint in his hard gray eyes as he said her sister's name that Eliza did not care for. "And how is your wife, George?" she said pointedly.
He shrugged. "She does well enough, from what I've heard. I have not been home in a long while; duty has called me here."
'To subdue the discontented populace of Kildare?" Eliza said doubtfully. From the family gossip she had heard, George was best at subduing bottles of brandy.
He scowled at her. "I don't like your tone, dear cousin. We all must do our duty,
and mine is to uphold law and order among ignorant, violent Irish peasants who don't know what's good for them."
"We all do what we must, I suppose. But I don't see any violent peasants here in my mother's drawing room, do you?"
His eyes narrowed, and she remembered too well the angry boy who once pulled her hair. "I came here to warn your mother. We will disarm Kildare, by whatever means necessary, and that includes her own estate. She is too kind and trusting to see sedition even when it is right under her pretty nose."
"I am sure she appreciates the warning." Eliza started to turn away, but George suddenly grabbed her arm, crushing her linen shirt sleeve and the soft skin beneath.
She tried to wrench away, but he held fast
"You always were a smart girl, Eliza," he said harshly. 'Too smart by half. You never knew your place, and Mount Clare wasn't man enough to take a horsewhip to you and correct you. But you had best tread carefully now, cousin. Rebellion won't be tolerated, even in a Blacknall."
Eliza glared up at him. A horsewhip, was it? She wished she had one right now to wipe that smug look from his face.
Then she smelled it That heavy scent of stale smoke, thick in his hair and on the red wool of his coat And...
"Is that blood on your sleeve?" she gasped, staring at the long rust-red stain. She remembered the burned cottages, the gash on the old man's forehead—the boy dragged away from his pregnant wife.
She had been too exhausted to see it before, but now it was much too clear. It had been him, the man on horseback at the village. It was George. "You," she whispered.
He let her go, stepping away as he shook his head. "Just remember what I said, Eliza. You are not as clever as you think."
"Good-bye, George. My felicitations to your wife. She is such a... fortunate woman," Eliza said tightly, restraining the overpowering urge to slap him. George was nothing. She needed her energy for other battles.