by BJ Hoff
He had begun to perspire, though the day was comfortably cool. His shirt clung to his back, and his collar felt wet and sticky around his neck. “Well—” he said, and then again, “well—this is quite…a surprise, isn’t it?”
She stared at him, still waiting.
“I—I may need some time to take this in, T’reesie.” He laughed, a harsh, dry sound that even to him sounded like the croak of an injured blackbird. “A man doesn’t hear this sort of thing every day, you know. Why didn’t you write? You might have warned me.”
He suddenly felt defensive, meeting her accusing gaze with one of his own.
“ ’Tis not the sort of thing you put in a letter,” she countered. “Besides…I wasn’t certain…until recently.”
Brady looked away, trying to think. He had known from the moment he walked into the house and saw Jane watching him like an ill-tempered gnome that trouble was afoot. And when Terese made no gesture of welcome but insisted that they go outside “to talk,” the stone of dread sitting on his chest had grown heavier still.
She had provided him with no hint of what was to come, but once outside, simply turned to face him with the blunt pronouncement that she was going to have a child. His child. Had she pulled a gun on him and squeezed the trigger, she could not have shocked Brady more effectively.
He was still dazed, still fumbling to collect his wits. Somehow he had to deal with this. Not only for himself, but for Terese as well. She was looking to him for a solution. But where was he to find it?
“I—ah, you won’t like my asking this, but I think I must,” he ventured, his disgust with himself building even as he formed the words. “You’re quite sure that it—that the child is mine? I mean—”
She hesitated only a second before rearing back and slapping him hard across the face. Stunned, Brady touched his hand to his burning cheek, suddenly wanting to strike back at her—to hurt her for the way she had complicated his life. Why couldn’t she have been sensible and taken precautions?
His resentment cooled as quickly as it had flamed. He was being unfair, and he knew it. Terese was seventeen years old. She had spent her entire life on a remote island that, to hear her tell of it, must surely be even more primitive and backward than the Claddagh. He could hardly expect her to be sophisticated in such matters. The responsibility had been his, and he had been careless.
And this, then, was the consequence.
“I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it. “That was uncalled for. I know you haven’t been with anyone else.” He went on, ignoring the murderous look she had turned on him. “Terese…I am sorry. Don’t let’s quarrel. That’s not going to accomplish anything. We have to go somewhere private.”
“Why?” she spat out. “So you can accuse me of being a harlot?”
Groping for patience, Brady reached for her hand. She backed away, her eyes still blazing.
“This won’t accomplish anything,” he repeated firmly. “Go inside and tell Jane that you’re going with me to have a bite to eat. Make her understand that you are coming with me and she needn’t argue matters.”
He saw her uncertainty, saw the anger and pain she was obviously trying so hard to hide, and he felt like the worst kind of bounder. How had he forgotten how young she was? In the midst of his self-disgust, he suddenly wondered if she was well. The high color so common to her complexion had faded to an unhealthy pallor, and her eyes were deeply shadowed. She had gained a bit of weight—he supposed that was only to be expected—but the extra pounds did nothing to soften the sharpness of her features. Indeed, she seemed even more tightly strung than he remembered, with a look in her eyes that appeared almost feverish.
Finally she spoke. “I already have the afternoon off,” she said grudgingly.
At his questioning look, she said, her tone still sullen, “I was going into the city anyway to make some purchases.” She paused, studying him. “You’re right. We must talk. I will go and tell Jane we are leaving.”
Brady stood where he was, waiting for her to return. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, feeling for all the world as if he had stepped into someone else’s bad dream. He hadn’t the vaguest idea what he was going to say to her. Somehow he had to reassure her without making any sort of foolish commitment. No doubt she was hoping for marriage, but as far as he was concerned, marriage wasn’t even an option. He would help her, even support her and the child if it came to that. But he wouldn’t marry her, and he wasn’t about to give her any false hopes to that effect.
He remembered then what he had been planning to do before Terese had stunned him with the news of the child. It struck him now that her condition needn’t change anything. In fact, it might even prove the deciding factor in her decision. The Vanguard article—and the subsequent offer of immigration—would give her a chance at a whole new life. Surely she would see it for the opportunity it was.
The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. He would arrange her passage and set up a bank account for her in the States. Once there, no doubt this Mrs. Harte that Jack had mentioned would make any arrangements necessary to get her settled. She might even see to having the baby adopted, if that’s what Terese wanted—and he had no doubt that she would. She could then get on with her life. As could he.
It would all work out, he told himself. She would listen to him—he would make her listen—and she would do the sensible thing.
35
A PLAN FOR THE FUTURE
One heart,
wounded and weary,
searches for the remnant of a dream.
CAVAN SHERIDAN, FROM WAYSIDE NOTES
The small, out-of-the-way tavern where Brady had taken Terese was empty except for two elderly men seated at a corner table. The midday trade was gone by now, and it was too early as yet for the shopkeepers to be filing in.
Brady had ordered meat pies and tea for both of them, but Terese had scarcely touched hers. Although they had been talking for over an hour, she was only now beginning to grasp the full significance of what she’d heard. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth about yourself before now?” she asked him, not for the first time.
He sighed and swiped a hand through his hair. Terese knew him well enough by now to know he was growing impatient with her. She didn’t care in the least. He had deceived her from the beginning. He owed her an explanation, no matter how long it took, and she meant to have it.
“I’ve already explained that, Terese. Jack has drilled it into me over the years that I shouldn’t tell anyone anything. Especially women. You have to understand that my brother is the consummate cynic,” he said with a thin smile. “Jack is convinced that every woman who gives him a second look—or gives me a second look, for that matter—is only interested in his money. And to tell you the truth, he’s had a few experiences that would seem to prove his point.” He paused. “Let’s just say that he’s impressed it upon me to keep my mouth shut about who I am—and who he is. Jack…is a very wealthy, powerful man, and it’s probably not in my best interest to go around boasting that I’m his brother.”
Terese twisted her mouth. “So that’s the way of it, then? You think if a woman knows about your family’s money, she’ll try to trap you into marriage?”
He gave her a dark look, and she knew she had made him angry. Again, she didn’t care.
“It’s not as if I actually lied to you,” he said, his tone defensive.
Terese laughed, a harsh, ugly sound even to her. “Oh, indeed not. You simply neglected to tell me the truth. How could you have deceived me like that, Brady? Knowing as you do how desperate I am to get out of Ireland, to go across—yet you kept your brother’s entire scheme to yourself? How could you?”
He leaned back, watching her. “I really was going to tell you everything when I came back from Limerick, Terese. If you don’t believe me, I’ll show you the notes I’ve already made for the next article—the article about you. And I had every intention of arranging for your passage to the States as soon as p
ossible—if that’s what you want, that is. Now that’s the truth, whether you believe me or not.”
“Why should I believe you?” Terese shot back, forgetting herself and raising her voice to the point that the men in the corner slanted curious looks in their direction. She leaned toward Brady, still fiercely angry but lowering her voice. “How do I know you’re not lying to me now?”
He frowned. “What would be the point, Terese? Be reasonable. I’m trying to help you—in case you haven’t noticed.”
“So you’re going to post my shame in a newspaper for an entire city to read? Ship me to America like a useless piece of baggage and pass me off to some…immigrant society as a charity case so you can get on with your life?”
The quick look he gave her told Terese she’d hit a nerve. She realized then that he had worked all this out in his mind before he’d even talked with her. She wanted to slap him again. Had they been alone, she probably would have.
“You are despicable!” She hurled the words at him, pushing away from the table so violently that she almost knocked the chair to the floor.
He reached across the table and caught her wrist. “Terese, listen to me!”
She tried to pull free of him, but he held her. “Listen to me, I said! Neither of us counted on this happening, but it did. I’m trying to take responsibility for it, but you’re going to have to meet me halfway. Just don’t expect me to act as if I’m happy about it—that would only be more pretense.”
Again Terese tried to yank her hand away, but he refused to let her go. Finally, grudgingly, she sank back into the chair.
“Terese,” he said, still holding onto her wrist, “I didn’t mislead you about my feelings for you—I do care about you. And if you want to stay in Ireland, I’ll look after you—and the child. You won’t lack for anything. But I’m not going to marry you.” He stopped, regarding her with a speculative look. “Besides, I was under the impression that the most important thing to you was getting to the States. If that’s still what you want, I can make it possible. The baby is…a complication,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “But it’s not the end of the world.”
“A complication?” she hissed, incredulity surging within her. Again she half rose from her chair. Inflamed now, she began to harangue him in the Irish, not caring that he would understand nothing of what she said.
“Stop it!” His voice rang in the room. The tavern keeper and the two men across the way paused to stare.
Terese, trembling with anger and disillusionment, was too upset to be embarrassed. Brady glanced around, as if only then mindful of his outburst. A shock of hair had fallen over one eye, and his face had turned a deep, dark crimson, but this time when he spoke he dropped the tone of his voice so that only Terese could hear him.
“Sit down and listen to me.” He groped at her forearm, and the strength of his grasp burned her skin. “I haven’t told you everything yet. There’s more, and it’s something you need to know. Now stop acting like a spoiled child—I think you’ll want to hear this.”
Terese glared at him, wanting to strike out at him again, hard—hard enough to make his head ring. She wanted to scream at him, punish him.
More than anything else, she wanted to weep.
Refusing to look at him, she slid dejectedly down onto the chair, wondering what more he could possibly tell her. She felt the pain of his deceit—his betrayal—bitterly, like a knife in her heart. She did not think he could hurt her any more than he already had. Certainly, he could not help her.
Finally, he released her arm, gesturing with one hand that she should wait. As Terese watched, he withdrew an envelope from his shirt pocket, unfolded what appeared to be a letter, and, after a slight hesitation, slid it across the table to her.
“I didn’t know about this, Terese,” he said. “I swear to you, I only learned about it yesterday.”
She looked at him, then at the letter, but made no move to touch it.
Brady inclined his head toward the letter. “It’s from Jack—my brother. It seems that your brother, Cavan, has been working for him—for some time now, apparently. Read it.”
Her head snapped up, and Brady could see that his words hadn’t registered. She stared at him in bewilderment.
“Read it,” he repeated, again gesturing toward the letter. “Apparently, Jack hired your brother some time ago as his driver. Now he’s talking about putting him on staff at the newspaper.”
She frowned. “What are you talking about? Cavan is in Pennsylvania with our uncle Tibbot. He’s not in New York.”
Brady shook his head. “I don’t know how long it’s been since you’ve heard from him, but if you’ll just read the letter, you’ll see what I’m talking about.”
He watched her closely as she picked up the letter and began to read. After a moment, she uttered a choked sound of astonishment, bringing one hand to her mouth. She looked at Brady, her eyes wide, before returning to the letter.
He could tell that she was reading the same words over and over again. Once she opened her mouth as if to cry out, but no sound escaped her. She must have spent a good five minutes or more going over the same page before finally meeting Brady’s eyes across the table. “It is Cavan,” she said. Her voice sounded as if she were strangling. “It must be! Your brother—how else could he know my name? You never told him…about us?”
Brady shook his head. “No. Jack could have learned your name only from your brother.” He saw the pages of the letter trembling in her hand, the tears glistening in her eyes. His heart wrenched, and self-loathing poured through him like a poison.
“Cavan.” The name was like a prayer on her lips, and Brady feared she might dissolve into a fit of weeping.
Her hand, still shaking, went to her throat. “You truly didn’t know?”
“I didn’t, Terese—honestly, I didn’t. Jack has never mentioned your brother’s name until now. I would have told you if he had. I wouldn’t have kept something like that from you.”
They stared at each other in silence. Her look was openly skeptical, her eyes smoking, and Brady could almost see the war of emotions going on in her.
She swallowed with obvious difficulty. When she finally spoke, her voice was thick and unnatural. “To think that all this time, Cavan has been…there, with your brother. And I didn’t even know…” She shook her head slowly, as if to clear her mind. “He wouldn’t know where I am…or what has happened…he doesn’t know anything about me—”
She broke off, looking positively stricken. Brady reached across the table to take her hand, and she made no attempt to pull away. “Terese…do you see what this means? If you want to go—if you want to leave Ireland and go to New York, your brother will be there. You’ll have family waiting.”
Slowly, deliberately, she withdrew her hand from his, staring at her fingers as if they might have become diseased. When she looked up at Brady, her eyes appeared almost feverish. “Do you think I could face him now? That I could allow him to find out—what I’ve done?” Her hand dropped to her stomach. “Cavan will still remember me as a child! A little girl running after him. I couldn’t face him after what I’ve—”
She stopped, an anguished cry exploding from her as she hurled the letter across the table at Brady. She stumbled to her feet, wild-eyed, her face splotched with color.
Brady jumped up, reaching for her. She turned on him, shrieking, “Leave me alone!”
Indifferent now to the curious looks of the others in the room, Brady lurched around the table and caught her by the shoulders. “He’s your brother, Terese! He’s not going to condemn you—”
She brought her arm up in an arc, violently shoving him away. “Shut up! You don’t know! You don’t know anything! And you don’t care!” She put her face in her hands. “Oh, God in heaven, how could I have been so blind, so foolish? I’ve let you ruin me! You’ve ruined everything! Now I’ll never get away from this infernal place! I’ll never be able to face Cavan, not after this! I’ll rot here on this u
gly old island, me and the child—your child!”
Brady finally managed to grasp her shoulders and bring her about to face him. She was on the edge of hysteria, and he shook her, trying to bring her to her senses. “Terese! Stop it! Listen to me! Sit down and just listen to me. I have a plan. Everything is going to be all right, but you have to do what I tell you.”
She had gone pale, staring at him mutely, as limp and lifeless under his hands as a rag doll. Brady coaxed her back to the chair and pulled up beside her. “All right,” he said, careful to keep his tone soothing, “here’s what you’ll do.”
Over an hour later, they parted, Brady promising to arrange her passage the next day. “You’ll need to go soon, if you’re going,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes. “While you’re able to travel.”
Terese merely nodded.
“You’re sure you don’t want me to walk you back to Jane’s?” he asked.
Terese shook her head. The familiar tenderness in his gaze no longer moved her. She was exhausted, drained. She wanted nothing more than to be alone, so she could think. She had decisions to make, no matter how loath she was to make them.
She had listened to him, had agreed with him because there seemed to be no alternative. But as she watched him walk away, toward the bridge, she wondered if she could really go through with this. Brady had been insistent that it would work, that indeed it was the best way, perhaps the only way.
She had to hand it to him—he was clever. Smart. Quick-witted. A great schemer, Brady was. He had made it all sound so reasonable, so easy, back there in the tavern…
“Your brother needn’t know about us. In fact, he can’t know,” he had insisted. “If Cavan finds out, then he’ll be sure to tell Jack. And I’m afraid my brother won’t take it too kindly. Jack’s a hard man. He can be as mean as a snake when he’s riled. Oddly enough, he tends to be a bit old-fashioned about things like this. If he were to find out that you and I—that the child is mine—”