“That I did. An’ a grand place it was. Then.”
“It isn’t anymore?”
“Nay. The Ropers, the family who inherited after the ole earl died, they’ve let it go to ruin. ’Tis used for various tings now. ’Twas a dairy farm for a short while.”
“You’re jesting. That beautiful building I saw through the trees beyond the main street?”
He nodded. “’Twas weed-choked, grown over, an’ scattered wit cowpies last time I saw it. A time or two, I tot about sneakin’ in through one o’ the tunnels to see what’s become of it for meself. But for sure, it’d only make me sad.”
I had to agree. Just imagining it in such a state made me sad, and I hadn’t grown up there. However, something else he’d said, had caught my attention. “There are tunnels leading to the castle?”
“Oh, aye. Put there durin’ the wars betwixt the Roundheads an’ the Royalists.” His eyes sparkled at the telling. “Just one o’ the castle’s quirks, along wit the ghosts, an’ tales o’ the Hellfire Club parties, an’ a missing lassie.”
I narrowed my eyes skeptically. “Are you having a pull at me?”
“Oh, nay. If’n I was goin’ to do dat, I’d be tellin’ ye all about me buried treasure.”
I laughed, and he rocked back in pleasure, delighted to have amused me. His eyes slid back down toward Gertrude’s grave, and he seemed to cock his head in thought.
“Though I should be tellin’ ye some believe there’s treasure here, buried next to Miss Gertrude. Figuratively speakin’, dat is.” When I didn’t respond, he leaned toward me as if imparting a secret. “Robert Emmet’s bones.”
I cleared my throat. “Who’s that?”
His head reared back in shock. “Ye don’t know?”
I shook my head.
“An’ you sleepin’ in his sweetheart’s home.” He shook his head and clucked his tongue. “For shame. Well, I’ll tell ye. Robert Emmet was a patriot who led the 1803 Rebellion.”
I held up a hand. “Wait. Different than the 1798 Rebellion?” My head was beginning to cloud again with confusion. How many rebellions had this village taken part in?
“Aye, but 1803 was much shorter. Just one night. Though it resulted in Emmet bein’ tried for treason and executed.”
“And his sweetheart?”
“Sarah Curran. Miss Gertrude’s younger sister. She and Emmet fell in love an’ became secretly engaged because Mr. Curran didn’t approve. Emmet was captured ’cause he were tryin’ to see her one last time afore he fled to France.”
“That’s terrible,” I exclaimed, imagining how distraught Sarah must have been. “But why would Emmet be buried here beside Sarah’s sister?”
His heavy eyebrows lifted. “Because he knew Sarah was wantin’ to be buried here. So he made his friends promise to dig him up from the grave the government stuffed him in an’ rebury him here. ’Cept Mr. Curran wouldn’t let Sarah be laid to rest here.” He leaned closer, his eyes alive with speculation. “’Sposedly because of all the criticism he’d received for buryin’ Gertrude in unconsecrated ground, but I tink the old devil guessed what their plans were an’ he wouldn’t have it. Not while he still lived.”
I sighed, staring down at the empty ground next to Gertrude’s grave. “Well, that’s sad. You would think he could have at least given them that. Though I suppose this is all conjecture anyway.” I gestured toward the earth. “There’s no proof that Emmet is really buried here.”
“No, there isn’t.”
But I could hear in his voice, in the roll of that lovely Irish brogue, that proof or no, he believed it.
As if sensing my thoughts, he looked up at me and smiled. “But I’ve kept ye long enough,” he declared, and I glanced around to see how dim the light had grown. “It’ll be full dark soon. Do ye tink ye can make yer way back alone?”
“Yes. I think I can manage.” I pointed down the trail leading to the left. “Would this way be shorter?”
“Aye. ’Twill lead ye in through the gardens proper an’ round to the side gate.”
“Thank you,” I replied, and then offered him a smile of my own. “I enjoyed talking with you.” I meant it. His storytelling and easy, avuncular banter had cheered me immensely.
“Ah, go on wit ye now. Ye’ll be given me a big head.”
But I could tell from the twinkle in his blue eyes that he was pleased.
CHAPTER TWELVE
True to his directions, within a few short minutes I found my way into the formal gardens of carefully laid out fruits, vegetables, and flowers, and around to the side gate that opened onto the front drive. Dempsey informed me that my husband had not yet returned, so I took my tea alone in the front parlor and then went up to bed.
Though it was silly considering how often in the past I’d sought my own solitude, I found myself almost wishing Bree would dawdle over my nighttime preparations, but if anything she seemed to be more hurried. I could tell by the dark circles under her eyes and the tight lines at her mouth that she was tired. So when she rebuffed my third attempt at conversation, I fell quiet, allowing her to finish her tasks and seek her own bed. After all, the past few days, with packing and unpacking and modifications for travel, had been more wearying for her than me.
But even with her own preoccupations, Bree was not unobservant. She paused at the threshold to glance back at me where I still sat on the dressing table bench, absently fiddling with the handle of my hairbrush. “I’m sure they’ll return shortly.”
I didn’t pretend not to know who she meant. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right. Good night, Bree.”
“Good night, m’lady.”
I puttered around the room, opening and closing drawers, studying the paintings—though they were by no means worthy of even a minute’s contemplation—deciding what dress I would wear the following morning. Eventually, I found myself reclining in bed with a book, listening to the rain tapping against the windowpanes, but even that couldn’t distract me. When finally I heard the sound of horses’ hooves on the drive outside, the hands of the clock on the mantel were inching close to midnight.
I waited impatiently, following Gage’s progress through the house by the sound of his voice and footsteps. Finally the floorboards outside our door creaked, and the door opened to allow him to slide into the room. He closed the door softly and turned, only to stop short at the sight of me watching him.
“I thought you would be asleep,” he admitted, pulling his arms from the sleeves of his frock coat as he moved toward his side of the bed.
I watched as the coat fell to the floor and he sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots. “I was too restless. This house is strange and . . .” And it felt wrong lying here without you beside me. I didn’t say the words. I was worried they sounded too needy. But he glanced back at me as if I had.
I dropped my gaze to the coverlet, running my fingers over the lace. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his cravat drop from his hand. “I take it Anderley won’t be attending you tonight.”
“No. I sent him to bed.”
I closed my book, trying to ignore his waistcoat being added to the growing pile. “Did you eat dinner?”
“At the Yellow House.” His lips quirked. “Marsdale was there again.”
When his trousers joined the pile, I found I couldn’t keep silent any longer. “You know, you could drape all of that over the chair or the end of the bed. It would make less work for Anderley.”
Gage paused in unbuttoning his shirt to look at me, and I wiggled my toes, fighting the urge to squirm. “I assure you, Anderley doesn’t mind. But would you rather I did so?”
I shrugged and looked away, trying to stifle the irritation I felt at his even asking that question. “Do as you wish.” I reached over to set my book on the side table, and turned back to find Gage still studying me.
“You’re cross with me,�
� he remarked in disbelief.
“Of course, not,” I lied, and then asked to distract him, “Was your excursion successful?”
He stared at me a moment longer before sinking down onto the edge of the bed in nothing but his shirt and smallclothes. “Not in the least. That patron Anderley wanted me to observe did prove to behave suspiciously, but only because he was a pickpocket.” His shoulders slumped as he shook his head. “Gossip here flies faster than in any London ballroom. It appears that everyone already knows why we’re here, and none of them will talk to us.”
To you, I thought. I’d yet to be given the opportunity to speak with anyone outside of the abbey. Unless you counted the chief constable. And I didn’t. It was true, Gage’s charm normally proved to be quite effective in getting people to talk, but this wasn’t a London ballroom or a Scottish village. This was Ireland, and I wondered if in this situation his polish and natural charisma didn’t work in his favor.
“Though I intend to return to the constabulary tomorrow and have a word with Constable Casey. I would wager quite highly he was listening to our conversation with Corcoran earlier today, and that he’s to blame for some of this stubborn silence.” He glanced at me, hesitant all of a sudden. “I’d ask you to join us, but I suspect matters may grow quite unpleasant.”
“And I have my work to do at the abbey,” I finished for him in a taut voice.
“Kiera,” he cajoled, leaning toward me. “You are cross. Because I left you here?”
It was then I noticed the rouge smeared near his collar, though Gage wasn’t finished talking.
“It was a perfectly dull and infuriating evening. I can’t even begin to count the number of glares and cold shoulders I suffered. I half expected to discover I’d developed chilblains.”
“Oh, I suspect Colleen would’ve blown on them for you.”
Gage’s face creased in confusion. “What?”
I arched my eyebrows and nodded toward his collar. “Or was she just blowing on your neck?”
He reached up to pull his collar aside to see it better, and then turned back to me with a tight furrow between his eyes. “Surely you realize this means nothing. The girl was hovering about us all night, trying to bring me more pints. And Marsdale, as you can guess, was absolutely no help in discouraging her.”
It was wrong of me, but I rather enjoyed seeing him sweat for once. After an evening spent fretting over him and his absence, it was somehow satisfying to turn it back on him, spiteful though that may have been. Of course, it helped that I had already witnessed Colleen’s small bids for his attention the night before, and how he’d ignored her, offering her not even a polite smile.
When I didn’t reply immediately, he hastened to add, almost in affront, “Tell me you’re not actually doubting me in this, Kiera?”
I turned to stare at the ceiling above the door with a sigh, ignoring his query. “I must say, I can’t blame her for trying. She must live a hard life, and I don’t imagine many of the men that frequent the Yellow House are much to look at.” I tilted my head. “Although I have noticed a few rather good-looking lads. That Celtic dark hair and those bright blue eyes are quite a potent combination.”
“Kiera,” he growled, for an entirely different reason.
I bit my lip, trying to hide my mirth, but he saw it anyway. My amusement ended on a squeak as he pounced on me, planting a sound kiss on my mouth.
“That was rather poorly done,” he murmured, staring down at me.
“Yes, well, you deserved it,” I replied pertly. “Serves you right for coming home smelling like another woman.”
“I do not smell like another woman.”
“No,” I admitted, smiling again at his affront. “But you do smell like a tavern.” I wrinkled my nose and tugged at the shoulder of his shirt. “Get rid of this.”
The look that flashed in his eyes then had nothing to do with anger or annoyance. “Gladly.”
• • •
I awoke the next morning rather more tired than I would have wished, but far from vexed by that fact. Not when Gage’s apology had been so delightfully thorough.
We discovered it had rained most of the night, but although a few dark clouds still lingered in the east, the sun was already peeping through, setting the water droplets still clinging to the grass to sparkling life. In that moment, staring across the countryside of impossibly rich greens iced in tiny dancing crystals, I found it difficult not to entertain the actual possibility that this land was magical, populated by fairies and pixies and other assorted sprites, who both caused mischief and spun such beauty.
I made no protest as Bree and I were delivered to the abbey and Gage and Anderley set off for the constabulary barracks. Gage was right. There would undoubtedly be unpleasantness and more than a few curses exchanged, and I decided I didn’t need to be part of that. Constable Casey was unlikely to tell me any more than he would tell Gage, and though it could be hoped he would at least remain civil if a lady were in the room, from our encounter with the man the day before, I would not wager on it.
I spoke briefly with the mother superior, this time in a small room next to the abbey’s modest library, which I assumed to be her office. She appeared wearier than she had during our previous encounters, but that seemed only natural given the strain she must be under. I had little to tell her that she didn’t already know, though I did ask if any of the sisters or the students had reported a gentleman lingering near the abbey in recent weeks.
Her brow furrowed in concern. “No. Do you think he might be the culprit?”
“I think it’s rather too soon to speculate, but he is someone we would like to talk with, if he can be located.”
She nodded. “I will see what I can find out. If this man didn’t try to enter the abbey grounds, perhaps the matter was never reported to me. I do encourage the sisters to use their discretion in such matters.”
I could only imagine. If every small detail or difficulty was brought to her attention, she would never accomplish anything. I began to rise to my feet to take my leave when she spoke again.
“Mother Mary Fidelis mentioned you would wish to speak with her again this morning.” Her eyes were understandably inquisitive, but I had no way of knowing how much of our conversation the day before Mother Fidelis had revealed to her, or whether she had made known my frustration with her.
So instead I answered simply, “Yes, I would.”
“She’s taken her drawing class out to the gardens. She said you were welcome to look for her there.”
I thanked her and took my leave, eager to discover what Mother Fidelis had to tell me. Had her prayers been answered? If so, what had the answer been?
However, another thought occurred to me as I passed through the abbey’s cloak room to the back entrance out onto the terrace. The sisters’ and students’ outdoor shoes were all lined up in pairs along the walls, except for those belonging to Mother Fidelis’s class. In their case, their indoor shoes were placed on a shelf above the accumulating dust and dirt on the floor.
Why had Mother Fidelis chosen to take her class outside today of all days? This early in the morning, the ground and plants would still be wet from last night’s rain. I supposed there was always the possibility that she wished for them to attempt to draw the droplets of dew trembling on the petals and the reflection of the water in the sunlight, but both techniques were quite difficult to capture accurately and rather advanced for such a class. Had she another reason for coming out here? Had she hoped we would be able to talk more privately with her students scattered about the garden?
I descended the terrace steps, staying to the central walk for the moment, trying to spare Bree the necessity of repairing the hems of my walking dress and reddish fawn corded silk redingote. It was one of my least favorite ensembles, purchased for me by my sister, who was far more aware of fashion than I. Apparently, the puffed upper sl
eeves and close-fitting lower sleeves from elbow to wrist were extremely stylish. I just thought them uncomfortable. Though I didn’t mind the simple bonnet of rice straw trimmed inside the brim with lilac gauze ribbon.
At first, I didn’t encounter anyone, though I peered down each of the lanes that branched off into the various sections of the garden. I assumed I would hear them before I saw them, but if Mother Fidelis was monitoring them closely, I supposed that might not be the case. I began to wonder if the reverend mother had misunderstood, and Mother Fidelis had elected to stay indoors. Or perhaps she’d taken the students down to one of the meadows at the southern end of the grounds. Until I saw a flash of movement ahead near the summerhouse.
As I moved closer, I spied a trio of girls perched on the steps. Though they were spaced apart, one of girls, the bold Miss Walsh from the day before, kept leaning forward to pester the girl in front of her, making their third companion giggle. This third girl was the first to notice me, and her eyes widened in alarm, as if she’d been caught putting spiders in the nuns’ beds. Miss Walsh, on the contrary, sat straighter and offered me an innocent smile even though it was quite clear I had witnessed her tugging on the other girl’s blond braid. The subject of her torment glanced up at me with a frown and returned to her sketching.
I moved a few steps closer, also bringing into view the pair of girls who were perched on a bench farther down the path to the left. There was no sign of their teacher.
“Mother Mary Fidelis. Where is she?” I asked the third girl, not about to give Miss Walsh the stage.
I glanced down at the blond girl’s drawing as I waited for the giggler to find her tongue, recognizing it to be a credible effort. Though I could see she had not been able to resist including the two girls on the bench in it rather than just sketch the flowers. She glanced up at me, almost defensively, and I knew without her having to say a word that she would resent any compliment I tried to give her. So I decided to offer her some assistance instead.
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