“Could you see what he looked like?”
“Not well. ’Twas too far.”
Mr. Scully’s shoulders had relaxed, I noticed, so Davy clearly had not given away anything he was not supposed to. His eyes even seemed to have narrowed in thought, and I wondered if he might have guessed who Davy was describing.
“Did either of you see this gentleman? Or do you have any idea who it might be?” I asked the Scullys.
Mrs. Scully shook her head and glanced at her husband, who sat stonily. “I’ve not seen anyone strange about. Though I s’pose it could be someting to do wit the new school.”
Gage’s head lifted. “The day school?”
She nodded. “Some people don’t want the nuns teachin’ Rathfarnham’s children.” Her mouth twisted. “Afraid they’ll never drive out their popery dat way.”
I could tell from Gage’s expression this wasn’t the first time he’d heard such a complaint. Maybe the workmen he’d spoken with earlier had told him something similar.
I glanced toward the empty hearth, wishing I could make sense of all this. Kingfishers, Ribbonmen, strange gentlemen, and day schools—it was enough to make my head spin. And none of it explained why Miss Lennox had been killed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Upon our return to the Priory, by unspoken agreement we all retired to my and Gage’s bedchamber. We were all too conscious of this being a strange house filled with curious ears belonging to a staff that was not our own to speak of private matters elsewhere. In fact, Bree admitted she’d been forced to dodge more than one prying query as she made her way through the servants’ domain and up to us.
Anderley had not yet returned from the Yellow House, so it was only the three of us clustered together in a corner of the room. I reclined against the headboard propped up by pillows, my shoes and pelisse already discarded on the floor and the bed beside me, while Gage relaxed in the chair nearby, still respectably dressed but for his loosened cravat. Bree gathered up my pelisse and bustled over to the wardrobe.
“Before we hear from Bree,” I said, sitting forward slightly, “will one of you please explain to me about these tithes, and secret societies, and Ribbonmen? Because I haven’t the faintest idea what anyone is talking about.”
Gage’s lips curled into a smile. “The Ribbonmen are a secret society who seek to promote the interest of Catholics, particularly in regards to what they view to be the unfair practices of Protestant landlords toward their Catholic tenants.”
I arched my eyebrows. “And I suppose the Protestants have a comparable society.”
“The Orangemen. Named after the Protestant William of Orange, who, as you know, defeated the Catholic King James II of England’s troops at the Battle of the Boyne in 1690, and became King William III of England, Scotland, and Ireland.”
“Aye. The so-called Glorious Revolution. Granted greater liberties, so long as ye werena Catholic,” Bree remarked dryly, shutting the wardrobe with a sharp thud.
Gage glanced at her, but did not comment. “The Orangemen are sworn to preserve Protestant dominance.”
“And let me guess,” I sighed. “The Ribbonmen and Orangemen don’t like each other?”
“Not in the least. And their clashes have resulted in a number of innocent deaths and violent destructions of property.”
That explained Chief Constable Corcoran’s worry over them.
“Then the tithes? What have they to do with all of this?” I looked toward where Bree was bending over to pick up my shoes. “And Bree, for goodness’ sakes, pull that dressing table bench over here and sit. Your bouncing around the room is making my head ache.”
She dropped the shoes by the door and did as I asked without the complaint I knew she would have voiced had I kindly suggested she do so.
“The tithes are an enforced payment in cash or kind—livestock, for example—for the upkeep of the established state church, which, in this case, is the Church of Ireland,” Gage explained. “We pay them in England and Scotland, too.”
“Yes. I know that. But why is there some dispute over them?” I paused, suddenly grasping the implication. “The payments go to the Church of Ireland, but you said over eighty percent of Ireland is Roman Catholic.”
“Precisely. So they are being forced to fund the maintenance of churches they don’t attend, and clergy who do not serve them. Then in order to provide for their own mass houses and priests, they must make another voluntary contribution, which is simply too much for many of the subsistence farmers, who barely grow enough to survive as it is.”
“Which is why they’re revolting?”
“Yes. Refusing to pay their tithes, I gather.”
“But won’t the government seize their property then, to account for the tithes?”
“They’ll try.”
“But that doesn’t mean the Catholics will let them do so peaceably.”
Gage tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I suspect that job falls to the constabulary, which accounts for Chief Constable Corcoran’s frustration.”
“I overheard some o’ the day women talkin’ aboot it at the abbey. Mrs. Scully and the like.” Bree had wrapped her arms around her middle as if her stomach ached. “They spoke as if the protest was s’posed to be peaceful. That they’re s’posed to let the tithe men take their property if they come to collect it when they dinna pay. But when the government puts it up for auction, no one was to buy it.”
Gage tilted his head. “Make it more costly for the government to enforce the collection of the unpaid tithes than the tithes were worth. It’s clever. If it works.”
“Aye. They were worried their husbands wouldna be so good at the peaceable part.”
I shifted so that I could lay my head back against the headboard more comfortably. “Well, seeing Mr. Scully’s reaction to Gage’s questions about the Ribbonmen and the activity in that field behind the abbey, I can understand why.”
This surprised a grim smile from Gage. “Yes. He wasn’t exactly subtle, was he?”
“The only way he could have been any clearer is if he’d stated outright that he was a member.” I looked to Bree, who was staring at the bedside table, seeming lost in thought. “Did you discover anything else today?”
She blinked, focusing her gaze on me. “There was one thing. But I’m no’ sure we should give it credence.”
“What do you mean?”
She frowned. “Do ye remember the girl I told ye was weepin’ a river yesterday?”
Goodness. Had we truly only arrived in Rathfarnham yesterday?
“The simple one?” I replied, fighting my own weariness.
“That be her. Well, she told me that Miss Lennox had a suitor.”
I glanced at Gage to see what he had made of this comment.
The lines around his eyes tightened. “Why did she think that?”
“I couldna get a clear answer from her, but she kept insistin’, and mutterin’ something aboot a boys’ school.”
Gage sighed in exasperation, uncrossing his leg from over his knee and letting it fall to the floor with a thunk. “Nutgrove. It lies to the east, about a mile or two beyond that pond. One of the men I spoke to today mentioned it. How many potential groups of suspects are we to be given?”
“Do you really think it’s worth exploring merely on this girl’s suggestion?” I argued. “Miss Lennox joined the convent to become a nun, after all. She was renouncing the possibility of marriage. Why would she be meeting a suitor?”
“I don’t know, but I find that to be a much more believable explanation for her being outside the abbey walls than that she was chasing a bird.”
“True.” I paused to consider the possibility, but then shook my head. “But it still doesn’t make any sense. After everything she’d risked, the ostracism from her family, from everyone she’d known and loved, why would she enter a c
onvent only to sneak out to meet a boy?”
“Maybe he wasna a suitor,” Bree suggested. “Maybe she did go to meet a man, but the interest wasna romantic, but something else.”
We all fell silent, evidently finding that scenario much more plausible. Though that still left any number of unanswered questions. Why? And who? Was he the gentleman Davy had seen near the pond? Did he kill her?
Gage scraped a hand through his hair and sat forward. “Whatever the truth, we’ve much more investigating to do before this inquiry is any clearer. I want to hear whether Anderley overheard anything at the tavern today, and I should look in on Marsdale.” The corner of his mouth quirked. “There’s always some chance he’s stumbled upon something important in his usual fashion.”
I smiled, thinking of our first inquiry together, and Marsdale’s unwitting assistance in breaking a crucial alibi.
“I propose we proceed as we’ve begun. You both remain at the abbey and discover what you can from there, while Anderley and I try to convince the villagers to share what they know with us. Maybe if we’re persistent enough, we can wear them down.”
“Good luck wi’ that,” Bree remarked dryly, one of her dimples peeping out.
His eyes lightened at her jest, though frustration still marred his brow. “So I’ve noticed.”
With that decided, they both left so I could rest before dinner. When I awoke, the shadows in the room had deepened, and the sky outside the window had taken on the muted glow of evening. I rolled over to find a folded piece of foolscap resting on the bedside table—a short note from Gage. Apparently, Anderley had returned and wanted his opinion of a suspicious patron at the Yellow House. He told me not to hold dinner for him; that he would return as soon as he could.
I felt a moment’s irritation he had not woken me to tell me why this patron was suspicious, or asked me to join them, but then discarded it. If it had truly been important, he would have done so. This was probably a minor matter he’d elected to pursue now rather than sit twiddling his thumbs waiting for tomorrow. Besides, the mother superior had been right. I’d needed this nap.
Pushing upright, I stretched and rang for Bree. I asked her only to repair my appearance, feeling it was pointless to dress for dinner when I would be eating by myself. It had been some months since I’d done so, and the first time since my marriage. I found I did not like it, and elected to take a book down with me to help pass the time and distract me from the silence. Of course, it didn’t stop me from noticing the ticking of the clock on the mantel behind me, or the clink of my silverware against the plate, but it did give me something to look at besides the long, empty table.
By the time I’d finished, I was more than eager to escape, telling Dempsey I would forgo my tea until later, hopefully after Gage returned. Instead, since it was such a lovely evening, I elected to take a stroll. Bree brought down a shawl for me, and I set off through the front door and around to the beginning of a trail I’d seen this morning before our departure. Somehow I felt less lonely if I kept moving. I’d noticed this long ago, and, perhaps, so had Miss Lennox. Perhaps that was the key to her roving. Not birds or assignations, but pure lonesomeness.
The trail led farther into the property, under the deep shade of the trees. Here and there small woodland creatures scurried across the path, seeking their burrows, dens, and nests for the night. The air swelled with the chill of evening as it gathered in the dark places beneath the trees and spread outward. With it came the crisp scent of night—the sharp earthiness of evergreens, the musk of peat fires, and the fullness of the nearby sea. I followed the path as it wound through the woods, with no real destination in mind except to breathe in the stillness.
Since the moment we’d received Lord Gage’s letter, we’d been scrambling to apprehend what was happening, struggling to catch up. It was disorienting and maddening. And wholly unnecessary. If he’d merely given us a bit more information—a better summary of Miss Lennox’s death, the people involved, and the fraught political and religious climate—we would have been better prepared to dive in. Instead, I felt like we were always one step behind, and never fully comprehending the cues in front of us.
I paused at the edge of the forest, to stare out across the fields of crops that rolled away toward the horizon. The neat rows of low-lying plants hiding the potatoes growing beneath the surface, the waving sea of golden, knee-high barley, and even a small pasture where cattle grazed amid the sweet green grass on the opposite side of a stream, its water sparkling in the last rays of the dying sun. To the south, I could see smoke from a chimney curling up away from a cluster of trees to join the mare’s tail clouds trailing overhead. The shrill “chee-kee” cry of a kingfisher brought my gaze back to the trees surrounding me just in time to watch it lift off from a perch on one of the highest branches and beat its wings north toward the abbey and then on to its burrow in one of the surrounding riverbanks. Unlike Miss Lennox and the other sisters, he was not restricted to one patch of sky.
Had Miss Lennox come to realize that? That she couldn’t follow the birds wherever they led her? Had she been reconsidering her decision to become a nun? Though if it came to that, I couldn’t imagine the reverend mother begrudging her choice. After all, she was merely a postulant. No vows had yet been professed. I supposed that was why they had these stages. To allow time for the woman to be certain of her decision, of her calling, before it was too late.
It was such a monumental choice. I imagined they all must doubt their conclusion at one time or another, as we all did with important decisions. Mother Paul had said she’d felt guided by the Lord into her profession as a nun, that many of the sisters did, but was His will so easy to tell? I had rarely felt certain about what path I was to take, the direction I was meant to go. Even now, I still struggled with guilt and doubts about my past at times, worried they were indications I’d chosen wrong. But perhaps the sisters were different. Perhaps their answers came clearer.
It was an unsettling thought somehow, and it left me feeling cold and a bit bereft.
I wrapped my shawl tighter around me against the chill of a stray breeze trailing its fingers along my neck, fighting back my dark thoughts, and retraced my steps to the point where I had seen the path branch, this time turning toward the south. The light was dim beneath the trees in this part of the woods. The leaves rustled overhead in the growing force of the wind. Bree had been right this morning. A rainstorm was coming, but not for another hour or more.
Even so, I thought it was better not to dally. Something under these trees made the hair on the back of my neck bristle and my eyes dart to catch every moving shadow. I tried to dismiss it as my own melancholy, except I felt almost as if someone was watching me. Who, I didn’t know. At one point, I thought I saw the retreating figure of a woman in a dark skirt, but when I hastened forward, I realized it had been a trick of the light.
I scolded myself for my ridiculousness and pressed on, noticing that my surroundings had begun to change. Here the trees were younger, their trunks thinner, their height shorter than those closer to the house, and there also appeared to be more of an order to their planting. I soon understood why.
A stone slab lay before me on the forest floor just off to the side of the path. Glancing around me, I could see that the trees had actually been planted in concentric circles around it, as if shaping the very grove around something. I slowly approached to find my impression hadn’t been far off, for affixed to the slab was a brass plaque. I leaned forward to read.
HERE LIES THE BODY OF GERTRUDE CURRAN
FOURTH DAUGHTER OF JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN
WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE OCTOBER 6, 1792
AGE TWELVE YEARS.
I stepped back, staring down at the solitary grave and wondering what had happened to poor Gertrude. Who was this father who had been so moved by her death that he’d positioned her final resting place almost within view of the house? Had it been out of
love, or guilt?
So absorbed was I in my contemplation that at first I didn’t hear the man coming down the trail until he passed through into the inner ring of trees. I looked up at him in surprise at the same time he spotted me and slowed to a stop. He was dressed in dirt-streaked clothes and a broad-brimmed hat. A pair of leather gloves tucked into the pocket of his coat flopped against his side with each step. If that hadn’t been clue enough, the large, round basket brimming with bright red fruit, which proved to be wild strawberries, clutched in one hand and the large pruning shears in the other gave him away. This must be the Priory’s gardener. And almost certainly the reason I’d felt someone was watching me. I’d probably sensed his approach from some distance off and just not been able to see him.
“Found ole Gertrude’s grave, did ye?” he remarked, moving closer.
“Yes.” I stared down at the plaque. “Though she wasn’t old. Not truly. I was wondering what happened to her.”
He nodded, setting the tip of the pruning shears down in the dirt and allowing the handle to rest against his leg so that he could reach up to remove his hat and rub the crook of his arm over his head of thick, mostly gray hair. “Fell out a window, poor lassie.”
“How awful.”
“Aye. And they say her da weren’t never the same.”
“How very sad.”
“It is, m’lady.”
I glanced sideways at him. “You must be the gardener.”
He removed his hat again, and made a little bow. “Homer Baugh at yer service, m’lady.”
I arched my eyebrows. “Homer? That’s quite an auspicious name.”
He grinned broadly. “Aye. Me mam worked as a maid at the castle. Used to study the books in the library when she dusted. Decided if she e’er had a son, she’d name him Homer. Married me da, the castle gardener, soon after. An’ for sure, here I am.”
I smiled, imagining his mother, who as a maid had probably had a limited education, carefully reading the spines, choosing the name printed on one of the thickest books. “You must have grown up following your father around the castle’s gardens then?”
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