Eliza frowned as she studied the door, the secret space where she herself had hidden so many people. “I think you should show me, Mary,” she said gently.
They pushed back the barrels, and Mary unlocked the door. Inside, the small room was dim, lit only by one low-burning lamp. A tray of half-eaten food sat on the table, and a man lay on the rumpled cot pushed up against the brick wall. Despite the hot summer day, it felt cold and damp in there, the air sweet with the smell of medicine, wine, and coppery blood.
“Mary, what…,” the man said, his words heavy with panic. He sat up quickly, the bandage wrapped around his chest stark white in the shadows.
“It’s all right, Billy,” Mary cried, leaning over to urge him back down to the pillows. “It’s only Lady Mount Clare.”
He resisted her gentle push, glancing at Eliza. “You said she was in the country, that no one would know. I won’t put you in danger anymore, Mary!”
“She just now returned. You know she won’t give you away.”
Eliza stepped forward, her hands held out as if to show she meant no harm. “Mary is quite right. I won’t turn you in. I only want to help, if I can. You are Mary’s brother, yes? The fisherman?”
Billy cautiously lay back, his feverish gaze never leaving her. “Aye, or I was a fisherman. Not much work now, especially for an Irishman.”
“Especially an Irishman who joins the Defenders?” Eliza said.
“I had no choice! I’ve tolerated their abuse for too long,” Billy cried fiercely, trying to break away from Mary’s soothing hands. “We had to fight back, to get justice.”
“Oh, I know,” Eliza said. “Believe me, I do know.”
Billy finally lay back down, Mary smoothing the sheets around him. But still his eyes burned with the fervor of his cause, of fury too deep for any words.
Yes, she knew very well indeed how that felt.
“How were you injured?” she asked, sitting down in one of the old wooden chairs.
“He went off to Wexford, the fool,” Mary said. “That’s why we couldn’t find him before.”
“Wexford?” Eliza frowned, thinking of the town the United armies had seized, only to be run out again in a bloody battle by the British. “You fought there, and yet you managed to escape when the town was retaken? I heard they killed everyone they could find.”
“He went there to find his sweetheart, Sarah,” Mary said quietly. “To try and rescue her.”
“Mary!” he growled.
“No, Mary is right,” Eliza said. “I can be trusted, I promise.” Even with the officer upstairs, waiting for her. She wouldn’t betray an Irishman.
She remembered how she felt when Will was left on her doorstep, broken and bleeding. She remembered that sensation of her heart cracking, of losing part of herself. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on the edge of the bed. “You were injured trying to save someone you love.”
Billy studied her face carefully. Something there must have reassured him, for he nodded, the fire in his eyes crumbling to ash. “We had captured the town; it was in Irish hands. It seemed safe. But in the end, I couldn’t save her at all.” He took in a deep breath before he could go on. “I was fighting outside of town when we saw the smoke. We knew then that the soldiers had broken through, that they would take the town back and show no mercy to anyone there. I ran all the way…”
“She had been… violated,” Mary whispered.
“Killed like a dog in the street!” Billy shouted, beating his fist against the bed. “My Sarah. But I found one of the men who did it.”
Eliza closed her eyes tightly, afraid she would start crying. Tears never did anyone any good. “That’s how you were injured?”
“He stabbed me, aye,” Billy said with grim satisfaction. “But he got it much worse in the end.”
Eliza could imagine. What would she have done to the man who left Will at Killinan, if Will had died?
“I managed to escape and find Mary,” Billy said. “But I know they’ll find me eventually. People who could do such things to an innocent woman—raping her, leaving her for dead—they’ll surely hunt down an Irishman like me and tear me to bits. It’s what they’ve done to our kind for years, with none to stop them. But I won’t put Mary in danger any longer. I would have left a long time ago, if she hadn’t locked me in here!”
“I told you, you’re in no condition to be running,” Mary scolded. “Think of how Ma and Da would feel if you died.”
Eliza sat back, watching them argue. So many thoughts whirled in her tired mind—her own siblings, all the blood and violence they had seen in the last few days, Will, and her love for him. The whole world, burning away in flames, along with her hopes for freedom.
And she also remembered why she worked and fought so hard. For Ireland, and for people like Mary and Billy and his poor, dead Sarah, abused and kicked aside like trash for too long. She had worked for the ideal—a foolish one, perhaps, but a glorious one—that everyone deserved justice. That Ireland and all her people should be free.
She could not give that up now, even in the face of bloody defeat. Even in the face of losing Will.
“I will help you get away,” she said. “But for now, you must rest, as Mary says, regain some strength. You’re going to need it.”
And she had to decide what her next move would be.
The house was silent when Eliza made her way up to her bedchamber, her mother and sisters asleep and the servants vanished. But they had obviously been busy while she was in the cellar; a bath sat steaming by the empty grate, and food was laid out on her empty desk. And Will stood at the window, staring down at the street.
“I must promote Mary to housekeeper at once. She is terribly efficient in ordering the servants about,” Eliza said. She stood by the closed door, uncertain if she should approach Will or what she should say to him. He stood so very still, she feared he knew what she was up to downstairs. “Is the ivy still growing there?”
“Abundantly,” he said quietly. “I told you to have it trimmed back.”
“Why would I do that when it is so very useful? Come, we should take a bath while the water is warm.”
“You go first.”
“Certainly not.” She knelt down by the tub, testing the temperature with her fingertips. If he knew, if this was indeed the end for them, she wanted just a few more hours with him. Something to remember. “There is plenty of room for two.”
As he watched her, she shed her coat, slowly unfastening her shirt and drawing it over her head. She took off her boots and breeches, until she stood before him in only the strip of cloth wound around her breasts to flatten them for her disguise.
“I’m afraid I need some help with this bit,” she whispered, turning around.
There was a soft footstep on her carpet, then the gentle brush of his fingers over her bare shoulders, the nape of her neck, sweeping away the wispy curls that lay there. His lips followed, a soft kiss on her skin that trailed down her back to the line of the muslin. Eliza sighed, her head falling forward.
He loosened the knot, untwining the cloth slowly as she spun around. Faster, faster, until she landed in his arms, naked, laughing helplessly despite her worries.
Will laughed, too, kissing her on the lips. “Beautiful Eliza,” he whispered.
“Grubby, tired Eliza,” she answered. “But I’m happy to be safe here with you.” For however long it lasted. She feared it might be only a few hours.
She pushed his coat back from his shoulders, removing his shirt and breeches as she had her own. The bandage was white against his skin, still in place after everything. She carefully untied it, examining the repaired stitches.
“You see,” he said. “I don’t need a doctor.”
“I think you do, just to be sure. If one can even be found in Dublin. They’ve probably all been taken over by the Army.”
Will shook his head. “All I need is this.” He kissed her again, softly, tenderly, as if in wondrous greeting—or farewell.
She slowly drew back from the kiss, greedily taking one more, then yet another. “Come,” she whispered, clasping his hand. “The bathwater grows cold.”
He frowned as if he would protest, would drag her back into his arms, but then he nodded. He climbed into the tub, lowering himself stiffly into the water. Eliza slid in behind him, wrapping her legs around him as he leaned back into the curve of her body. Their skin was slippery, pressing them close together.
“Tell me something good,” she said, reaching for the bar of soap. Its rose scent mingled with the steam of the water, sweet and heady. She lathered it between her hands and ran the white froth over Will’s shoulders, down his arms. His taut muscles relaxed under her touch, and he closed his eyes with a deep breath, his head resting on her shoulder.
“Good things?” he muttered. “I fear I can scarcely remember any.”
“Oh, come, Will. Surely there is still something good in the world. Such as… scented soap.” She held up the bar, wafting it under his nose until he smiled.
“Rose scent, of course. I always think of you when I smell roses. So warm and sweet.”
“Sweet?” Eliza laughed, tracing a light, soapy pattern along his chest. “That’s the first time anyone has said that of me.”
“But you are.” He caught her wrist, inhaling deeply of the soft spot where her pulse beat. “It was like I was numb, until I came here and found you again. You felt like life to me.”
Life—in the midst of so much death and despair? Yet she knew it was true, for when she was with him, she, too, felt alive. Alive and happy, full of hope, despite everything.
“What else is good?” she said hoarsely.
“Hmm, the gardens at Killinan. I like it there. Black-faced sheep on green hillsides. Shakespeare.”
“Romeo and Juliet?” she said, remembering that night at the theater.
“Except for the ending.”
“Quite right. I have had my fill of sad endings.” But she feared there were still more ahead, for all of them.
“And I like your littlest finger,” he said, holding up her hand as if to study it.
Eliza laughed. “My littlest finger?”
“It’s very elegant. Just like all of you.” He slid the tip of that finger between his lips, nipping at it lightly with his teeth.
Eliza gasped at the sensation. “Sweet and elegant. It is a day for flattery.”
“Or a day for truth-telling?” He took the soap from her, rubbing the rose-scented bubbles along the soft inside of her arm. “Now you tell me of a good thing.”
She could scarcely think at all with him touching her like that. “Books. Those are good.”
“Even the dangerous sort?”
“Such as Paine and Rousseau? I am not sure now. Perhaps we should all read novels as Anna does.”
“Some would say those are even more dangerous.”
“Only for people of a romantic turn of mind, like my sister.”
“Are you not romantical, Eliza?”
“I am beginning to think I might be,” she murmured as his caress brushed against her breast. “Anyway… oh yes, books. The seaside. Family.”
“Family is important, indeed.”
“I am starting to think so. My mother and sisters are magnificent, don’t you agree?”
“Troupers of the first order. No one else could have made such a journey so valiantly. I wish they were my relatives.”
“Do you worry about your own family?” she asked.
“My family has always been most adept at looking after themselves,” he answered. “But I have always done my duty by them. I’ll keep on.”
Duty—always duty. “Food is also a good thing,” she said, trying to shrug away doubts and fears. “And I think we should have some. I feel rather faint with hunger.”
She slid out of the tub, reaching for one of the folded towels. She wrapped it around herself, listening to the slosh of the water as he shifted in the tub. He watched her as she sliced the bread and cheese and poured out soup from the tureen.
He slicked the wet hair back from his brow, rubbing his hands over his face as if he, too, ached with tiredness. “You need sleep as well as food, Eliza. You must be completely exhausted.”
“I’m sure we all are. It’s been a long journey. And believe me, I intend to sleep for days and days! As should you.”
A frown flickered over his face. “You know I have to go to the Castle first thing in the morning.”
“What will you tell them?” she said, staring down into her teacup.
“That I was injured. That the men in my patrol were killed.”
“And about General Hardwick? The battle at the bridge?”
“Yes, though I’m sure they already know.”
Eliza reached for another towel. “The water must be chilly now. Come, Will, you need to eat. Everyone needs their strength before facing the drafty corridors of the Castle.” And she needed to make her plans—now.
Chapter Thirty
Will watched as the rose-gold light of day slowly crept across the chamber floor, over the bed, finally touching Eliza’s face as she slept. That light was a formidable foe, indeed, he thought, for there was no force to stop it. It covered everything in its path, throwing all things that would stay hidden into plain sight.
Even love.
He had long known he loved Eliza, ever since the first time he saw her, when they were so young and foolishly romantic. He spent years trying to forget it, denying it, but some things simply refused to be denied. His heart was Eliza’s and would be until he died.
To know that she loved him, too, despite everything, despite all he had done in the name of duty, was the most precious of gifts. The bonds between them would never entirely break, no matter what happened. Or what he had to do now.
He reluctantly got out of their warm bed, dressing quickly. Mary had found him some old clothes that belonged to Lord Mount Clare, and though they were too large, they were of fine cut and cloth and were better than appearing at the Castle in his traveling rags. The fine garments, as well as the bath and a shave, at least made him look semirespectable.
There was nothing he could do about his hair, though. He ruefully ran his fingers through the short blond strands. He looked a proper “croppy” now. At least a hat would cover it on the streets.
Eliza murmured in her sleep, her fingers twisting at the sheets.
“Shh,” he whispered, leaning over to gently kiss her forehead. “Go back to sleep now.”
She went still again, sinking back against the pillows. Purplish shadows under her eyes, dark against her pale skin, showed how very tired she was. The weight she had carried for so long.
“Just rest, my love,” he said. “I will make sure that you are safe.” No matter what he had to do to accomplish that.
Eliza still slept as he quietly left the chamber, making his way down the stairs in the still-silent house. The city itself was just as quiet. Not even coal carts or milkmaids were about, as if the nighttime curfews extended into the morning—or as if everyone was too scared to stir out of doors. Windows were closed, despite the gathering heat, and the shop displays were empty.
Walls were plastered with posters and broadsheets, with cartoons of barbaric-looking “Paddies” piking old men and looting houses.
Will ignored those, stopping only to read the sheets that seemed to promise news. MASSACRE AT SCULLABOGUE! screamed one black headline. A killing of two hundred loyalist prisoners, mostly women and children, piked and burned alive in a barn in Wexford. Another massacre, of ninety, at Wexford bridge. County Down overrun and then recaptured. Possible sightings of a French fleet to the south.
Will frowned as he read the hysterica
l reports. It seemed nothing much was known for sure; fear and hysteria still held sway. Battles were fought where neither side gained, and no one surrendered. Arrests and hangings, both of United leaders who fought and of people merely suspected of rebellion.
He turned away grimly, setting his path toward the gray fortress of Dublin Castle.
He wasn’t sure what he had expected to find in those cold corridors—panic, noise, piles of guns. But once past the locked gates and the guards and the grim barred windows of Kilmainham Gaol, there was none of that. The place was eerily silent. The old Lord Lieutenant was gone, the new one not yet arrived, and it seemed everyone was keeping their heads down. Waiting.
A footman in red and gold livery led him along the corridors, past all the closed doors. At last they came to a room that was oddly familiar—the small private office where once he had found Eliza hiding at the queen’s birthday ball.
“Wait here, please, Major,” the footman said. “Someone will be with you very shortly.” Then he was gone, leaving Will alone behind the closed door. He went to the one window, staring down at the Castle courtyard. It, too, was deserted, the flagstone shimmering under the hot sun. So different from that winter’s night, when the space was full of revelers and frost covered the ground.
Will glanced back at the desk, at the tiny space beneath where he and Eliza had hid, pressed close to each other in tense fear, anticipation, and desire. The desire had not faded, despite everything they had faced. In fact, it burned hotter than ever.
Papers were piled haphazardly atop the desk, awaiting someone’s signature or seal. Once, Eliza had found them so important she risked her life. Now they seemed an insignificant pile of kindling.
Idly, Will shuffled through them, scanning troop orders already made obsolete by new battles. Letters from angry landowners that made him laugh bitterly. Appointments for new officials, men sent by the government at Westminster to restore order. But how could order possibly be restored when war still raged?
And then, at the very bottom, a creased list that appeared to have been passed through many hands. Neat columns of names, people Will recognized as liberal lawyers and writers, Catholic shop owners and shipping merchants, book importers. Pamela and Lucy Fitzgerald, their names crossed out after they left the country. In the margin was scrawled, People to be watched closely. Questioned?
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