As Emily listened to Michael, she recalled with a sudden fury the self-satisfied expression on Rowe’s face as he sat at Lord Attwood’s dining room table proudly telling everyone how he’d been ridding his land of useless farmers by packing them off in ships.
Michael fell silent. He was looking into the fading fire with eyes unfocused, as though he were looking at something very far away.
She knew what he was thinking. “In spite of the danger and hardship, you wish you were going, don’t you?” she asked.
“Aye.”
“If my father offered you and your family passage to leave your home, would you do it?”
“By God I would.”
Emily felt a sudden clenching of her heart at his quick and unflinching response. She had hoped that he might have at least hesitated.
“But my Da will never leave the land,” he added.
“But you could go,” she pressed. “Why would you stay?”
“These are desperate times and my family needs me.”
He said it without a trace of rancor and Emily was astonished that he would put his own future second to his family’s. She was also disappointed, because in some crazy way, she’d hoped that he would have mentioned her as another reason for staying.
She assured him that she could walk back to the house alone, but Michael insisted on walking with her. He mumbled something about dangerous men afoot at this hour and how she might be in need of protection. They both pretended to believe that.
When they got to the courtyard, Emily glanced up at the moon, standing motionless in the sky as though it had been snagged by the craggy peaks of the western mountains. “It’s such a beautiful moon, isn’t it?
Michael wanted to say she was beautiful. He wanted to say that compared to her, the moon was nothing. But all he could say was, “Aye.”
Emily wanted to ask Michael why he had so little to say to her. She wanted to hear about this intriguing man’s dreams. She wanted to know where he would live in America. How he would earn a living. Instead, all she said was, “Well, I must go inside. It’s very chilly.”
“Aye. Tis.”
Later that night, while Emily lay in her comfortable four-poster bed and Michael on his straw pallet, each savored the time they’d spent together. And yet, as sweet as it was, they each felt a certain regret because they knew that they’d been given a very special moment and they had not seized it.
Chapter Twenty Seven
March 1848
Ballyross, Ireland
It was late in the evening and Lord Somerville was sitting by a roaring fire in the library reading. The door opened and Emily came in carrying a tray.
“What’s this?” he said, removing his reading glasses.
“I brought you hot milk.”
“Why thank you, Emily,” Somerville said, genuinely touched. “You know your mother used to do that.”
“I know. Nora told me.”
She handed him a well-worn mug that the servants used. It had a chip on the rim and it was discolored from a lifetime of use, but it was the best one she could find in the cupboard. Emily was no longer shocked when she looked into a cupboard or a sideboard and saw empty shelves and drawers where the good china and silver service used to be kept. She assumed her father was still selling off the household goods to that dreadful man, Kincaid, but she said nothing. She knew it was difficult enough for him without her commenting on it as well.
She sat on the arm of his chair while he sipped his milk and they stared silently into the fire. “Do you remember much about your mother?” Somerville asked suddenly.
Emily was taken aback. Since they’d made their peace in the garden that afternoon, there had been no mention of the past. By tacit agreement it was understood that their lives had begun anew that day and there was nothing to be gained by dredging up the past.
“Sometimes I think I do,” she answered tentatively. “I’ll remember a story she read to me or a picnic down by the lake. But then I think I may have imagined these memories. I’m never sure.”
Somerville studied the fire and a great sadness filled his eyes.
“Do you miss her terribly, Father?”
“Every hour of every day. I should never have sent you away,” he said suddenly.
“Don’t reproach yourself. You weren’t equipped to care for a rebellious child all alone.”
Somerville smiled at the memory. “You were that. Do you remember the time you galloped Shannon through Lord Attwood’s garden party and interrupted the croquet game? I thought the man would have apoplexy.”
Emily laughed. “I thought you would have apoplexy.”
Somerville sipped his milk and a smile played about his lips. “We did have some good times here at Somerville Manor, didn’t we?”
She patted his hand. “We did and we shall have many more when all this is over.”
Somerville touched his daughter’s cheek and his eyes were filled with melancholy. “When I’m gone I hope you can stay on here.”
The tone of desolation in his voice alarmed her. “Of course I will. And so will you. For many and many years to come.”
She’d answered instinctively, but in so doing she’d also answered the question that had been on her mind for quite some time. She’d assumed she would eventually go back to London when this great strife was over. But now, she’d just heard herself say she would stay on and she realized she meant it. When she had come to that decision, she couldn’t say.
The past two years had certainly been difficult, watching her world slowly come apart. It saddened her to walk into a room and see an empty space on a wall where a painting or a tapestry had been. It infuriated her knowing that that horrible man Kincaid now owned her property and could do with it what he would. And she still hadn’t gotten used to the drastic changes in their eating habits. Nora had always prided herself on her cooking, and delighted in outdoing herself by creating new and different dishes. Over the years, she’d taken advantage of every opportunity to charm secrets out of visiting chefs from Paris, London, and Milan and, in the process, had become something of a gourmet cook in her own right. But even the greatest cook is at a disadvantage when the ingredients are limited to tough mutton and stringy chicken—when Nora could get even that. Emily also lamented the loss of Shannon and felt a great emptiness in her heart every time she went into the barn and saw his vacant stall. And it upset her to see how her father was deteriorating. Since she’d been back, she’s seen him visibly age from the burden of trying to maintain the estate in the face of famine and economic disaster.
Yet, paradoxically, in spite of all these difficulties, the past two years had been the most rewarding period of her life. For the first time, she felt as though she was doing something useful. To take some of the weight off her father’s shoulders, she’d assumed responsibility for running the house. She supervised Nora and the dwindling staff, teaching them to cut corners where they could. In the evenings she sat in the kitchen with Nora and the maids mending and sewing worn linens. By day she poured over the household accounts and, to her surprise—and Nora’s amazement—she’d learned to haggle with the food purveyors like the rest of the old crones.
In the past two years she’d learned how much the servants earned and how much food cost. In the process, she’d been astonished to learn how much money it took to run an estate the size of Somerville Manor. In short, she’d learned more in the past year than the ten years she’d spent in those fancy European finishing schools.
There was a knock at the door. They both looked at the clock on the mantle that had just chimed eight. “Who could it be at this hour?” Emily asked.
She rose to go to the door, but, Somerville put a restraining hand on her. “No, Emily, I’ll get it.”
He tried not to alarm Emily, but she detected the note of unease in his tone. And she thought she knew why. Lately, there had been an disquieting increase in the number of reports concerning vagabonds attacking landlords and burning their homes
and possessions.
Somerville took a pistol from the desk drawer. “Just a precaution,” he said, looking embarrassed as he tucked it into his dressing gown pocket.
Somerville opened the door and one of Lord Attwood’s young male servants, hat in hand, was standing there. “Sir, his Lordship asks that you come to the village church on an urgent matter.”
“Very well. Tell his Lordship I’ll be along presently.
Jerry Fowler, Dermot, and Kevin stood in the shadows across the road from the old village church. They’d been waiting there since they’d followed Lord Attwood. When they’d met earlier this evening, Fowler had taken them to Lord Attwood’s estates with the intention of burning down the old lord’s barn to the ground. He hadn’t told his young recruits that this was his opening gambit in the war against the landlords, because he wasn’t sure they’d have the sand for it.
But, just as they’d arrived at the estates, they saw Attwood’s carriage coming down the road, and Fowler, taking advantage of the situation, changed his plans and they’d followed him to the church.
Now, hiding in a stand of trees across the road from the old church, Fowler hatched an improvised plan: they would waylay Attwood on his way home and give him a sound beating.
As they anxiously waited in the shadows, Fowler couldn’t believe his good fortune when, minutes later, Major Wicker, and Mr. Rowe arrived in a carriage and went inside. Now he had three of them.
“What do you think’s goin’ on?” Dermot asked.
“Must be some kind of big meetin’,” Fowler said. Now if only—” He stopped when he saw Lord Somerville on horseback canter up to the church and dismount. Jerry Fowler had long since lost his faith in God, but at times like this he was tempted to doubt his faithlessness. It was as if God himself had intervened to deliver all four landlords into his hands at the same time. For a moment, as he watched Somerville tie the reins of his horse to the back of Wicker’s carriage and hurry into the church, he considered torching the church and killing all four at once. But remnants of his earlier religious upbringing, which he couldn’t totally excise, remained with him. If there is a God, he told himself uneasily, I’ll surely burn in hell for all eternity if I set fire to His house.
Dismissing that plan from his mind and, knowing that he would come up with another, Fowler rubbed his hands together. “Lads, this is it. At last, our time has come.”
“What are we to do?” Kevin asked.
“What have I been tellin’ ya, for Jasus sake? Haven’t I been sayin’ we’ve got to teach the landlords a lesson? Well, now’s our chance, me buckos.”
Dermot saw the wild expression in Fowler’s eyes and a knot formed in his stomach. He glanced at Kevin and saw that he, too, was afraid. Still, as afraid as Kevin was, Dermot knew Kevin would never admit it. Well, I’ll be damned to hell if I’ll admit I’m afraid, Dermot told himself. And so, he had no choice but to go along with whatever plan Fowler had in his daft mind.
At the sound of a knock, Father Rafferty shuffled over to the door and unbolted the lock. In all his fifty years as a priest, he’d never locked a church door, but now, things were different. In these hard times, he’d been hearing of miscreants breaking into churches and stealing candleholders, poor boxes and even, God forgive them, tabernacles.
He opened the door. “Thank you for coming on such short notice, Lord Somerville.”
“Yes, yes,” Somerville muttered, irritated that he’d been called away from his home at this hour of the night. He glanced at the other three. “What’s this all about?”
“It’s my fault, I’m afraid,” Father Rafferty said. “I’ve been hearing rumors that the Board of Works will reopen again, and I just want to get the facts so I can reassure the men that they will have their work.”
“It is a rumor,” Attwood said. “And an unfounded one at that. Trevelyan has shut down the Works and good riddance I say.”
“But sure the men need work,” Father Rafferty protested.
Attwood thumped his silver cane on the floor. “Damn the men. Get it into your head, man. We have no more money to pay them. We’ve been bled dry.”
“Perhaps, you could petition the government—”
“Petition? Petition who?” Major Wicker asked sarcastically. “Trevelyan? The bloody bastard thinks this famine is our fault.”
“There is something we can do,” Somerville said, trying to restore a note of civility into the conversation. He wasn’t a Catholic, nor were the others, but that was no excuse for their rude tone to the old priest. “I suggest we forgive the past due rents and provide the tenants with seed so they’ll plant next year.”
“Never!” Wicker shouted. “I’ll evict every last man on my properties first.”
“Major Wicker,” Father Rafferty said, stunned that a good Christian, even if he was a Protestant, could say such a thing. “Eviction is sure death.”
“Then perhaps that is the will of God,” Lord Attwood said.
And on that discouraging note, the meeting was over before it started.
When Fowler saw the four men coming out of the church, he slipped a rag over his face and motioned for Kevin and Dermot to do the same.
As the men approached the carriages, the three masked figures materialized out of the darkness.
“Who are you?” Lord Attwood asked sharply. “State your business.”
“We seek justice and retribution,” Fowler said.
“Off with you buggers before I put the constables on you.”
Attwood’s dismissive tone enraged Fowler. All his life he’d been hearing that tone of voice and he would have no more of it. He stepped up to Attwood and jabbed his finger into the old lord’s chest. “You’ll not kill us off, landlord. They’ll be no more tumblin’s, no more—”
Before he could finish the sentence, Lord Attwood, enraged that a filthy bog trotter would dare touch his person, stepped back and slashed Fowler across the face with his cane.
Fowler, more stunned than hurt, stumbled back, blood gushing from a gash across his cheek.
Unlike the others, when Somerville had seen the three men approach them, he felt no fear. Since he’d allowed Goodbody to open the soup kitchen in his barn, he’d gotten to know some of these people, including John Ranahan and his boys. Over time, he’d begun to feel empathy for these poor wretches. Lord knows, they were not a bad sort. But they had their troubles. He, and his fellow landlords, stood to lose money to be sure. But it was only money. These poor beggars stood to lose everything they had—as little as it was—including their lives.
He was in the act of reaching into his vest pocket for a few coins when he saw Attwood strike one of them across the face. Stunned by Attwood’s violent action, Somerville stepped forward and grabbed Attwood’s upraised arm. “For God’s sake, man…”
At the same time, Fowler, reeling from the humiliation of the blow, yanked a pistol from his waistband.
A terrified Dermot saw Fowler raise the pistol towards Attwood. Oh, my God, no… He lunged at Fowler and grabbed his arm, hoping to deflect his aim. Instantaneously, a deafening explosion ruptured the quiet night.
The six men, standing no more than six feet apart, stared at each other through a cloud of blue gunpowder smoke now mingling with a white mist rising from the ground frost. For a moment there was complete silence, as though no one could believe what had just occurred.
Then Lord Somerville slumped to the ground.
As Attwood, Wicker, and Rowe rushed to his aid, Fowler, Kevin and Dermot turned and ran off into to the darkness.
“Scatter, men. Scatter,” Fowler shouted as he jumped over a ditch and ran off toward a grove of trees just outside the village.
Dermot, going the opposite way, ran and ran until his legs ached so that he stumbled and fell headfirst into a mud puddle. Too exhausted to get up, he lay there, covered in mud, half-expecting at any moment to hear the piercing whistles of the constables and the thump of boots on the road. But all he heard was the wind gently rustl
ing the leaves in the trees over his head. A vision of Somerville slumping to the ground brought hot tears to his eyes. For a long as he lived, he would never forget the terrible sight of him laying on the ground, gasping for air, as a dark stain spread across his white silk shirt.
“Jasus, Jerry”—Dermot pounded the mud with his fists—“You’ve killed him. And you’ve killed us all as well.”
After they’d finished cleaning up the soup kitchen for the night, Goodbody had excused himself and gone off to his room behind the barn, leaving Michael and Emily alone. And leaving Michael in a great state of confusion.
All day long, as he watched her ladle out soup or tend to a sick child, he longed to be alone with her. In his mind he thought of all kinds of wonderful and clever things to say. But now that they were alone, his mind was a blank.
Finally, Emily broke the awkward silence. “Michael, would you like to come to the house for a cup of tea?”
She tried to make her question sound casual, but Michael immediately understood the enormity of what she had just said. In spite of their tentative relationship—often derailed by mutual misunderstandings and irritations—it was tacitly understood, at least by him, that there would always be a distinct difference between them. After all, she was the landlord’s daughter and he was just the tenant farmer’s son. It has not escaped Michael’s attention that Goodbody had been to dinner in the house often, but in all the time that he’d known her, she’d never once invited him.
He heard her words again. “Would you like to come to the house for a cup of tea?”
My God, of course he would. He wanted nothing more than to have tea with her—in her house or on the moon, as far as he was concerned. He was about to say yes, when the little voice in his head spoke to him. “Tea in the Manor House? And what do you know about drinking tea out of a real teacup? You wouldn’t know where to sit or what to do. If you go, Michael Ranahan, you’ll make a proper eejit of yourself.
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