He looked away. Apparently, accepting her calling to be a bride of Christ was one thing—as a Catholic, how could he argue with that—but to see her with a man, to see her dishonoring those intentions, was quite another. Especially when it was clear he would have liked that man to be him. Except he hadn’t known the truth. He hadn’t known she had no intention of actually taking her vows.
“I . . . I just wanted to talk to her. So I followed her to the pond. But she kept sayin’ I didn’t understand. Dat I didn’t know.” His voice raised in disbelief. “But I did. O’ course I did. Since the day she came to the abbey.” He shook his head. “An’ I tot she was different. I tot she cared. She just couldn’t care how I wished. She lied. She lied.”
He was spiraling into despair and anger, and I needed to bring him back. But we also needed the truth. We needed to hear his confession while he could and would give it.
“I was so angry. And she turned away, she dismissed me. So . . . so I grabbed her. I had to make her listen, to make her understand. But she pulled away. Made me rip off her veil. The way she looked at me.” His face contorted in pain. “Told me not to touch her, and den she ran. I told her to stop. I just wanted to explain. But she wouldn’t stop. Why couldn’t she just stop?” he pleaded to the heavens.
“So you pushed her?” Gage guessed.
He shook his head, and I could see in his eyes that he was reliving it. “I . . . I caught her shoulder an’ tried to turn her, but she pulled away. Her dress ripped and . . . and she tripped and fell backward. Onto that rock. I didn’t mean for her to hit her head. I didn’t know it was there. How’d it get there?” he demanded in rage, as if we had the answer, as if someone had played a cruel trick. Then his shoulders crumpled. “I didn’t mean for her to . . . to die.”
“But she did,” Gage pointed out, though there was no recrimination in his voice. “So why didn’t you tell someone what happened?”
“How? I . . . I knew what they’d tink. I knew what they’d say. Same as Mother Mary Fidelis did. I’m an orphan, an afore dat a bastard’s son. Blood will show. Dat’s what she told me. Said she’d prayed ’bout it. Dat she couldn’t protect me. Not from such a wicked act.”
Had Mother Fidelis truly been so brutal? From my short time with her, I’d discovered she was blunt and sometimes sharp, but I had not thought her merciless. Or had she known something Davy wasn’t telling us.
“But Davy, you moved Miss Lennox’s body. You dragged her closer to the abbey and removed the stone. Why?”
Had he left her the way she was, no one would have thought her death had been anything but a tragic accident. No one would have ever known.
His eyes were wide, almost blank. “I don’t know. I wasn’t thinkin’.” He turned aside. “I couldn’t leave her out in dat field. Not like dat. But den I heard dem callin’ her name, and I . . . I ran.”
“Taking the stone with you?”
He nodded. “I . . . I trew it in the pond the next day.”
I tightened my own grip around Gage’s torso, anchoring myself to him, trying to figure out how much of what Davy was telling us was the truth, and how much a lie. I didn’t want to contemplate it at all, but we still had one more fact to face. He had killed Mother Fidelis. And I didn’t believe for one second that both deaths had been accidents.
“So tell us what happened when Mother Mary Fidelis confronted you?” Gage said, saving me from having to pose the question.
Davy’s grip tightened on the tree again. His mouth clamped tightly shut as he gazed down over the side of the rock toward the rushing river.
“Why did you kill her?” Gage persisted.
His eyes when he lifted them were hollow holes. “Don’t ye already know?”
I stared at him dumbly, trying to understand, feeling I’d missed something very important.
“She spoke the truth. My da was a rotten blackguard. Hung at Gallows Hill.” His jaw hardened. “She would know. ’Tis why she sent me away.”
I sucked in a harsh, shocked breath, and I felt Gage stiffen beside me.
“Ah, now ye see. ’Tis her fault I was anywhere near Miss Lennox.” His face tightened in pain. “’Tis her fault I could hurt her at all.”
I could barely form the thoughts in my head, let alone speak them. This revelation made it all so much more horrifying. So much so that it was difficult to do anything but stare. I supposed I could see the resemblance—the height, the eye color, the red in their hair that I’d glimpsed briefly when I’d examined her wound—but Davy must have taken more after his father. Was this why Mother Fidelis had really distanced herself from her family? Was this the past they had referred to, that they would not let her forget? Was this why she’d insisted she have time to pray before she spoke to me?
While we stood there rigidly, stumbling over our own thoughts, Davy inched his way back toward the precipice.
“Davy, don’t . . .” I gasped, taking an unconscious step forward, though Gage impeded me from going anything farther.
“It’s for the best,” he said, and I could see in his eyes that his mind was made up.
“But what of Mrs. Scully?”
If anyone had ever loved Davy, it was certainly her, and I could see in his face that he recognized that. He seemed to hesitate.
“Don’t do this to her,” I begged. “It will break her heart.”
His eyes went blank. “No more than seein’ me hanged.”
“Davy . . .” Gage began.
But before he could utter another word, Davy released his hold on the tree and dropped over the side. I shrieked as he disappeared from sight.
From where we stood, we could not witness the impact, but Anderley, Bree, and Mr. Baugh were not so fortunate. Their bodies jolted at the sight, flinching as they turned away. Bree moved deeper into the woods with her back turned while the men forced themselves to lean over and look again. Gage shuffled forward to see down into the gorge, but I stayed where I was, clutching my arms close to my body.
When he returned to my side, I couldn’t help but look up into his grim face with a desperate hope. “Could he have survived?”
He shook his head and then gathered me into his arms.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The sun slanted through the abbey’s parlor windows, casting long rays across the floor that almost touched the rug beneath the furnishings on which our disconsolate group had gathered, but not quite. Gage sat beside me, still clutching my hand after our retelling of the events earlier that day. Marsdale perched on the other side of me, his head turned away toward the empty hearth so that I could not see his face, but I felt the tension in his body. The mother superior and Mother Paul sat at either end of the settee across from us, their eyes round with shock, their brows etched with sorrow. It seemed no one knew what to say next. The weight of everything that had happened was still too much.
Then the reverend mother inhaled a bracing breath, seeming to steady herself to face what must come. “I knew Mother Mary Fidelis had had a child,” she admitted. “But not that he survived, and certainly not that he was Davy Somers; otherwise, she would not have been eligible to profess. She was one of the first to join me, you know. When I was still in York preparing to begin this branch of the order. She was older than most postulants, more considered.” She sighed heavily. “Or so I thought.”
“When did Davy come here?” I asked.
“He already lived in Rathfarnham, doing odd jobs for the chapel and a few other establishments in the village.” She glanced upward around her. “When we took over this house, the gardens were in such a disarray. The orchard was essentially a bog, and the wall needed serious repairs. We thought Mr. Scully could use the help, particularly from a young, strong back. Davy was barely thirteen, but he was a good lad. And Mrs. Scully took an instant liking to him. She’d never been able to have a child of her own. I . . .” her gaze flicked to Mothe
r Paul “. . . we never knew he was anything to Mother Mary Fidelis.”
I nodded. Their bewilderment was genuine. Which left me wondering whether Mother Fidelis had carefully manipulated matters—joining Reverend Mother Teresa’s order because of where they were bound, and finding work that would bring her son closer—or if their reconnection had been an extraordinary coincidence.
There were so many questions we didn’t have the answers to. Some of which, given the content of their letters, I suspected her family would be happy to provide, along with a healthy dose of speculation. But in the end, they were answers that would make no difference.
Two women were dead because of a desperate young man’s need for affection. Because one of those women had sent him away as a young child rather than raise him. I didn’t know the circumstances involved, but I couldn’t believe God would call a woman to do such a thing. Not like this. Not when it meant behaving in such a shameful, secretive manner.
My eyes strayed to where Marsdale still stared vacantly into the hearth. As for Miss Lennox, her death had simply been a horrible accident. A death that should never have happened, but could never have been foreseen, though that was little comfort to those who cared for her.
“So what’s to be done now?” Reverend Mother touched the cross dangling around her neck. “What of Davy’s body? Have the Scullys claimed it?”
“It was swept downstream,” Gage replied. “It’s yet to be found. Most of the authorities are still tied up dealing with the aftermath of the violence that exploded during the parade.” From what we’d seen of Rathfarnham as we’d woven through the wreckage and debris, the smashed windows and toppled carriages, the pavement still splashed red with blood in spots, it would take weeks, if not months, for the village to recover. “His body may take some time to locate, or . . . it might never surface.”
From the tone of his voice, I knew that Davy Somers was no longer the chief priority in Gage’s mind. Speaking to his father, to Wellington, and giving them a piece of his mind were foremost. As was informing the government what a hash they were making of the situation in Ireland, and how foolhardy they were to allow these parades when they couldn’t control them.
“Is that where you wish to go first?” I asked him later when we were seated alone in the parlor at the Priory after dinner. “To London?”
“Yes. I think it’s best. We intended to go there anyway when our wedding trip was so impolitely interrupted. And that’s where I shall find the men I need to speak to.” His voice was brisk with purpose.
“Then that’s where we’ll go,” I replied, using my finger to swipe around the top edge of the sketch I was finishing, smudging the charcoal. I lifted it to examine it more critically. “That will give me time to put my plans into action as well.” I turned the drawing so that he could see it.
“That’s Mrs. Scully.” His eyes flicked to my face in question.
“Indeed. I think I shall use her likeness as part of my next exhibit. The Faces of Ireland.” I tried to read his expression, but it seemed remarkably vague. “I know it’s been several years since I’ve shown any of my portraits, but I thought it might be time. Perhaps . . . perhaps if I display portraits of these people, it will humanize them to those who think of them as nothing but a squalling mass.”
He rose from his chair to cross toward me, taking the sketchbook from my hands.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Perhaps he didn’t want his wife exhibiting artwork. After all, painting a portrait commission was altogether different than creating a public display.
His eyes when he looked at me again were warm. “I don’t. In fact, I think it’s an excellent idea.”
“You do?”
“Yes.” He set the book aside and pulled me to my feet. “This inquiry was difficult for you, wasn’t it? In a different way than the others.”
I nodded, lifting my hands to straighten the folds of his dark cravat as I tried to find my words.
“I know something’s been troubling you.” He brushed a stray hair back from my forehead. “I haven’t wanted to pry, trusting you would come to me when you were ready.” His eyes searched mine. “But perhaps I should have.”
“Maybe,” I admitted hesitantly. “But I think it’s likely I would have dodged the question.”
“Is that what you’re doing now?” he asked with a gentle smile when I didn’t say anything more.
I shook my head, and then gasped a nervous laugh. “It’s only . . . this has been the first inquiry in which I didn’t have any personal motivation, and it’s made me confront a few things I hadn’t before. Well, that and our marriage.”
He waited patiently for me to continue as I feigned great interest in his collar.
“You started to speak to me of it the other night.” I swallowed, darting a glance up at him, hoping he might read my mind. Why was it so hard to say the word? “About children.”
Gage rubbed his hands up and down my arms soothingly. “Yes. I said there was no hurry. It would happen in time.”
“Yes, but . . . when it does. What then?”
His head tilted in confusion.
“I mean,” I swallowed. “Will you still wish for me to assist with your inquiries? Or will you want me to stay home with the children?”
“Well, like most people of our station, I suspect we’ll have a nanny. Though I anticipate you’ll wish to be more present than most gentlewomen in their young children’s lives, as your sister is. But beyond that, there’s no reason you shouldn’t be able to assist me.” His eyes softened in reassurance. “I meant everything I said before we married. I want you to continue to pursue the things that interest you—your art, our inquiries. Perhaps we’ll be a bit more selective in the crimes we accept to investigate. We have the freedom to do so. But there’s no reason to stop altogether.” His brow furrowed. “Unless you wish to?”
“But what of the danger?” I pressed. “You already fret when I must take any risk. How much more will you worry when I’m enceinte or we have a child at home?”
“The same.”
I pursed my lips in skepticism.
“I will always worry, whether you are heavy with my child or not. Which doesn’t mean I won’t expect you to take more care. Though I don’t believe I’ll have to remind you to do so. I know you, Kiera. You might not balk at placing yourself in peril, but you would do so if our child’s life was also at risk.”
I frowned at his chin. The very thought of exposing my child to danger made my chest tighten and my stomach dip.
Gage’s fingers tightened around my upper arms. “But where is this coming from? Why now?” He forced my chin upward with one finger so he could look into my eyes. “Do you wish to stop?”
“No,” I admitted, and was gratified to see his shoulders relax in relief.
“Then what troubles you?”
“That . . . I should want to.” I forced the words out even as shame scalded my cheeks. “That the fact I don’t means I won’t be a very good mother.”
His pale eyes softened with a tenderness I didn’t deserve, and I closed my eyes to it. “Kiera . . .” he began, and I cut him off.
“Don’t.”
“Kiera,” he insisted, cupping my jaw with his hand, trying to make me look at him. “You have it all wrong. Don’t you realize that the very fact that you even care to ask these questions already tells me you’ll make a wonderful mother.”
“That’s absurd.”
“It isn’t. Just because you have a child doesn’t mean you have to give up the other things that make you happy. Would you rather spend your time attending balls, and arranging charity functions, and paying calls on acquaintances you could care less to know?” The normal duties of a woman of my status.
He already knew the answer to that, but I replied anyway. “No.”
His eyebrows rose. “Our investigations and your pa
inting won’t take up any more time than those other things, and at least they will be enjoyable and worthwhile.” His expression softened. “You will still be able to be a good mother, Kiera. Perhaps a better mother for not stifling yourself because you think it’s best for our children.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way, but his words rang true. They settled inside me like a warm blanket, loosening the stranglehold of anxiety, the dread of what was to come. I leaned closer, resting my head against his shoulder and pressing my nose into the folds of his cravat, inhaling his comforting scent mixed with starch and his spicy cologne. His arms immediately embraced me.
“Thank you,” I murmured as I lifted my head. I wrinkled my nose. “Perhaps my worries are silly . . .”
“They aren’t,” he replied, cutting me off. His eyes were bright with sincerity. “I don’t want you to ever feel hesitant about bringing them to me. Your worries are my worries, whatever they may be.” He pulled me close again, his fingers absently toying with the closure of the caped collar on my dress. “I’m your husband. That’s what I’m here for.” His mouth curled into a charmingly rakish grin. “Among other things.”
An answering smile tugged at my lips. “Yes. I should have known better. I may have been wed once before, but that was quite different, and I’m finding I’m rather new at this marriage business.”
“We both are.” He chuckled. “But we’ll find our way.” He pressed a kiss to my lips. “Whatever comes, we’ll weather it.”
“We have thus far. And we’ve endured far more storms than I suspect most couples do.”
“In our line of occupation, we’re bound to encounter a few squalls.”
I laughed at his heavy-handed continuation of our strained metaphor, and he leaned in to kiss me again. Though it turned out to be shorter than either of us wished when we were interrupted by a rapping on the door.
He heaved a sigh, and turned to face Dempsey, who had been tiptoeing around us all day. “Yes?”
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