“Oh, I don’t think so, Emily. I’d best be gettin’ home and—”
“Nonsense.” She took his hand. “I need a cup of tea and so do you.”
Delighted, but at the same time, apprehensive—Michael allowed himself to be led to the house.
To Somerville Manor. Michael had been there several times, but always because he’s been summoned to do some odd chore. But now, he was coming here as a guest of the lady of the house. The thought filled him with joy and terror at the same time. Just as they reached the front door, they heard the frantic clatter of hoof beats and turned to see Major Wicker’s carriage thundering up the drive.
“Lord Somerville’s been shot,” Wicker called out, reining in the horse. “Give a hand here.”
Michael rushed to the carriage and threw open the door. A pale Lord Attwood sat stiffly against the far side of the carriage, as though whatever had happened to Lord Somerville was contagious. Michael could see that Somerville, who was laying across the seat, was unconscious and bleeding profusely. He and Wicker carried the limp body into the great room.
As they gently laid him on a couch, Emily followed them into the room. Michael expected her to be hysterical, but, although she was ghost white, she was absolutely calm and in control. “What happened?” she asked.
Three scoundrels waylaid us outside the village church,” Attwood said, wiping perspiration from his brow with a silk handkerchief. “One had a pistol and shot your father without warning.”
Emily ripped away the front of her father’s bloody shirt, exposing a gaping wound in the center of his chest from which blood spurted forth. “Nora,” she said calmly, “hot water and plenty of linens. Quickly.”
The old woman, who was standing in the doorway paralyzed by fear, snapped out of her lethargy and hurried down the hall toward the kitchen.
Emily tried to wipe the blood from the wound opening, but the blood kept spurting out. Attwood, looking as though he were about to be ill, turned away. “We sent Rowe to fetch the doctor,” he muttered into his handkerchief. “I’ll go see if he’s coming,” he said, hurrying from the room.
Wicker, petrified by the thought that that could have been him on the couch, was panicked at the notion that there might be more assassins out there waiting for him. He poured himself a large glass of port with trembling hands and drank it down in one swallow.
Michael took a large towel and, gently pushing Emily aside, pressed the cloth on the wound. “I’ve seen this before,” he explained. “When it keeps gushin’, there’s nothin’ to do but keep pressure on it till the doctor comes.”
And he stayed like that, arms straight out, leaning over Somerville, and applying the weight of his body. In spite of his efforts, blood seeped through the thick towel and ran through his fingers. Through his hands, Michael could feel Somerville’s pulse grow weaker and weaker.
His arms began to ache from the strain of holding the unnaturally straight-armed position. He looked around to see if there were anyone who could spell him. Emily wasn’t strong enough. Attwood was gone. That left Major Wicker. But he’d be no help. The cowardly major, with one hand holding the port decanter and the other a glass, stared at the floor in a terrified stupor.
Just when he thought he couldn’t hold the position a second longer, the doctor rushed into the room. He pushed Michael aside and examined the wound. Then he put his fingers on Somerville’s neck checking for a pulse. He turned to Emily and shook his head. “It’s no use, he’s lost too much blood. I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done.”
Before Emily could protest that there must be something he could do, a terrible rattling sound emanated from Somerville’s throat. His whole body shook, and then he was still. The doctor felt for a pulse again.
Michael knew what the doctor would say. The blood that had been spurting from the wound had slowed to a trickle.
“He’s gone,” the doctor said to Emily. “May almighty God have mercy on his soul.”
The next morning, a cold rain whipped the men gathered in front of the Board of Works. News of Somerville’s murder had quickly spread across the valley.
“Sure it had to be a stranger,” Da said. “There's no one in these parts who would do such a terrible thing.”
Pat Doyle pulled his collar up against the driving rain. “Aye. And I don’t mind tellin’ ya that it’s a damn shame that if one of the landlords had to be murdered, it had to be himself.”
The other men nodded in agreement.
“Sure there’s not a man here who can say he’s ever been mistreated by his Lordship,” Da said.
“Aye,” Pat Doyle agreed. “And that’s a lot more than could be said of the others.”
Again, more heads nodded in silent agreement.
The door to the Public Works opened. They expected to see Mr. Browning. Instead, the stern looking chief constable of the region came out and stood with arms on his hips, facing the crowd.
“There have been rumors that the Board of Works will reopen. I have been authorized to tell you that those rumors are false. And I am also authorized to tell you that the Board of Works will never open in Ballyross until the murderers of Lord Somerville are apprehended.” He glared down at the men with undisguised loathing. “If any of you lot knows who these miscreants are, you would do well to tell me now.”
“We’ll not be informers,” someone shouted out from the crowd.
“Then you’ll not be workers either,” the constable shot back. “While you listen to the growl of your bellies, you might want to think of who it was that has brought you to this sorry state.”
And on those words, he turned and went back inside, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter Twenty Eight
In the days following the murder of Lord Somerville, a steady stream of gleaming black carriages—some from as far away as Dublin—climbed the long road to the manor house. Solemn men and tearful women, arrayed in well-tailored black suits and gowns, had come from far and wide to pay their last respects.
From the pantry window, Nora watched the growing number of visitors with increasing distress. She’d been a servant in the Somerville house, girl and woman, for over fifty years. She felt deeply the loss of her beloved master, but she had had no time to mourn properly because she’d been too busy trying to accommodate the wants and needs of the dozens of visitors—some of whom said they would require sleeping accommodations—and all of whom would require food and drink.
In the old days—the days before the great hunger—Nora would have thought nothing of sending the Ranahan boys off to Cork, or even Dublin, to fetch the proper provisioning for such an august group of guests. She would have had the services of the house’s half-dozen servants, and more from the village if necessary. With her customary efficiency, she would have supervised the scrubbing of the entire house from attic to root cellar, as well as the polishing of the silver service and the Waterford crystal. And while that was going on, she would have marshaled additional forces in the kitchen to prepare any number of sumptuous meals on demand.
But all that was in the past. Now, she and Rose were the only servants left. And Nora could hardly count on Rose, her half-witted niece, who was kept on by the family more out of charity than for her usefulness. And worse, there was no money in the household accounts to pay even the local victualers.
It was going on four in the afternoon when Emily came into the kitchen and found Nora, her head on the table, sobbing bitterly. Emily felt for the old woman. She knew she had taken Lord Somerville’s death hard—in some ways, perhaps harder than she herself had. She also knew that the old woman was working day and night trying to deal with the burden of so many unexpected guests.
She put her hand on the old woman’s shoulder. “Nora, what is it?”
Nora jumped to her feet, startled and embarrassed to be caught crying. Since a child she’d been told that servants were never to display emotion in front of their betters.
She wiped her tears with her apron. “I don�
��t know what to do, Miss Emily. There’s twelve people upstairs waiting to be fed and six of them have told me they intend to stay the night. How am I to feed them and prepare the rooms with only Rose to help?”
Emily put her arms around the old woman. “You let me worry about that. What do we have in the larder?”
“Just flour, Miss.”
“Have we any preserves left?”
“Aye.”
“Then that is what we will feed them.”
Nora stepped back, aghast. “Bread and jam?”
In spite of her own feelings of overwhelming sadness, Emily had to smile at the horrified expression on the old woman’s face. “It’s bread and jam, Nora. Not arsenic.
“But—”
“Never mind. Have Rose help. When you’re ready, bring it up to the drawing room.”
Upstairs in the drawing room, a small cluster of wide-eyed landlords from adjoining counties surrounded Lord Attwood as he recounted the scene in front of the village church that night.
The old lord, who had finally gotten over the fear of that night, growled, “Had I known the scoundrel was armed, I’d have horsewhipped him to within an inch of his life.”
“You describe the murderer as a common bog trotter,” one rotund man with a few strands of black hair plastered across his shining pate asked. “Where in the world would he get a firearm?”
“They’ve been robbing houses all across the land,” a reed-thin landlord from Skiberdeen whispered. “Just last week they stole a brace of shotguns from my property manager’s cottage.”
“All the more reason to tumble their damn houses,” Major Wicker, said, pouring himself another port. “Better yet, pack them off to America. It’s worth the few pounds to get them out of the county.”
The other landlords nodded vigorously at this sensible solution.
When Emily came into the drawing room, there were more than a dozen men and women engaged in hushed conversation. There was Lord and Lady Attwood by the fireplace, talking to Mrs. Wicker. And there was Major Wicker, as usual, hovering about the port bottle, like a hungry crow waiting to devour a dead field mouse. But as for the rest, she had no idea who they were. In a fog since her father’s death, she’d dutifully received each guest and nodded as they introduced themselves and offered their expressions of bereavement, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember one name.
“May I have your attention,” she said softly.
All conversation came to an abrupt halt. She knew they were all anxiously awaiting the banquet that was customary laid out for wakes. It was uncharitable she knew, but she suspected that some of them were here for only that reason. Two years ago, she would have been mortified to say what she was about to say. But she had done a lot of growing up in these last two years and she no longer possessed the genteel and foolish sensibilities of the young girl who had been summoned back from London.
“I know you all must be famished. In a little while, my housekeeper, Nora, will be serving bread and jam with tea.”
A stunned murmur swept the room and sideward glances were exchanged. Times were difficult of course, but still, they had expected to be served the usual courses of good meats, cheeses, and sweets.
Emily went on. “I understand some of you have traveled a great distance to be here for the funeral tomorrow and wish to remain the night. You’re most welcome. You’ll find fresh linens on the beds, but I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to make your own beds. I just don’t have staff to do it for you. I’m sure you understand.”
From the stunned expressions on their faces, it was clear they didn’t.
The next morning, the guests assembled in the drawing room for the burial service. There were less than the previous day—apparently the thought of making one’s own bed was more than some could bear and several had departed in the night.
After one last private viewing with Emily and Nora, the casket was closed and she and the others followed the cortège to the hilltop family graveyard.
A gentle rain, little more than a mist, fell on the hill where Lord Somerville was to be buried alongside his wife and six generations of Somervilles.
Michael had not been invited to the funeral—whether by neglect or design he didn’t know—but he went nevertheless. Standing a respectful distance from the group surrounding the grave, he hoped to get a glimpse of Emily, but her face was hidden beneath a black veil. He hadn’t seen her since the night her father died and he wondered how she was holding up. He was ashamed of himself, given the tragic circumstances, but since that night all he could think about was the way she’d taken his hand. And how angry he was that that wonderful moment had been taken away from them so abruptly.
Concerned about the future of his soup kitchen, Mr. Goodbody had asked Michael if he thought Emily would be disposed to continue its good works. Michael had assured him that she would. Of that he had no doubt. What troubled him was that she might go back to London and leave the estate in the hands of a property manager—or worse, sell everything off.
In any event, it would be her decision and her decision alone. Now that Lord Somerville was dead, she was the mistress of Somerville Manor and it was for her to decide whether to continue or shut down the kitchen. At first, Michael found it hard to reconcile that the young, impetuous girl who had been recalled from London was now mistress of Somerville Manor. But the truth was, she wasn’t impetuous any more. She had matured into a thoughtful, determined young woman.
As Michael watched the cortège slowly ascend the hill, he couldn‘t help but compare this fine, elaborate funeral with his grandmam’s. He was certain the gleaming mahogany coffin with its golden handles had no hinged trapdoor at the bottom to pitch his lordship’s body into a grave that would soon be filled with strange corpses. Instead of a gravedigger to mutter a pathetic little prayer, a bishop, arrayed in his splendid finery, had come all the way from the cathedral in Dublin to conduct the services.
Michael studied the crowd around the grave site. Clothed in black, in the mist of the rain, they reminded him of a flock of crows in a corn field. Of course he recognized Attwood and neighboring landlords, but the others were all strangers—except for Mr. Goodbody. He had been invited the funeral, much to Michael’s great annoyance. Michael glared at the Quaker, standing with hat in hand and staring at the ground as the rain plastered down his fine, yellow hair. But as much as he tried, Michael couldn’t be angry at the pleasant, congenial man who never seemed to get ruffled or angry. In his more reasoned moments, Michael had to admit that Goodbody had so much more in common with Emily, than he, a simple landless farmer. He couldn’t be angry at Goodbody, but he could be jealous and he was that. It hadn’t escaped him that Goodbody and Emily spent a lot of time together
Michael was brought out of his thoughts by the abrupt sound of silence. The praying had stopped. Emily stepped forward, scooped up a handful of dirt, and tossed it into the grave. Slowly, others followed.
Michael turned and went back down the hill. It was time to open the soup kitchen.
Chapter Twenty Nine
It had been nearly a week since Lord Somerville’s burial and in that time Dermot had gone missing. Lately, he’d been disappearing for long periods of time, but not for such an extended period of time as this. His absence created an atmosphere of tension in the Ranahan cottage and, although no one mentioned him, he was all that anyone thought about. Da, already in a black mood since the Board of Works had been shut down, and knowing that it would not reopen until the murderers of Lord Somerville were caught, sat by the fire muttering about his worthless son. Mam moved about the cottage, her lips moving in silent prayer, hoping for his safe return. She’d taken to going to the door every morning and peering down the road in the vain hope that she’d see her youngest son coming up the road through the mist. Michael watched all this and cursed his brother’s thoughtlessness. Wasn’t there enough worry in the house without this? And wasn’t the harvest due in less than a fortnight? And shouldn’t he be here to hel
p in the gathering?
Just before dawn, Michael and Da, after a breakfast of corn meal and a shared cup of buttermilk, were about to leave for the soup kitchen, when the door swung open and Dermot came in as thought nothing was amiss.
Mam rushed to him and threw her arms around him. “Thank God, you’re all right, son. Sure I was afraid you were dead and lyin’ in some ditch.”
Dermot pulled away. “I’m all right, Mam.”
“And where is it you’ve been all this time?” Da glared at his wayward son “You’ve had you Mam worried sick.”
“I was lookin’ for work. Me and Kevin went all the way to Knockmare.”
Michael studied his brother and his initial anger gave way to a growing sense of unease. He could always tell when Dermot was lying and he was lying now. Dermot was the laziest man he’d ever known. There was no way he, of all people, would walk all the way to Knockmare, more than fifty miles, to find work. And then there was another sure sign he was lying—his brother wouldn’t look him in the eye.
“And there was no work?” Mam asked, brushing the wild, straw-like hair out of Dermot’s eyes.
Dermot pushed her hand away and sat down at the table. “None. I’m hungry. Is there anythin’ to eat?”
Mam slid her small bowl of cornmeal toward him. “Here, son. I saved this for you.”
It was too much for Michael. It had not escaped his notice that lately his Mam always took the smallest portion of food for herself. When he protested, she said it was more important that he and his Da had the food in their bellies so they could do the hard work. She had always been thin, but now she had become gaunt and her one raggedy dress hung from her boney frame.
Michael grabbed Dermot by the collar and yanked him out of his seat. “You’ll not eat your Mam’s food.”
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