by Bliss Bennet
Applause rang out from all corners of the room as Sean O’Hamill made his bows. But Fianna kept her hands clenched in her lap. How young they all seemed, these men, many just boys, really, thronging in the tight confines of the coffeehouse, their dreams fired by the idealism of the yet untried. Did they truly think their paltry donations would do anything to help a land that had suffered the tyranny of English rule for centuries?
And what of Sean? The boy she remembered from her childhood had always grown red with frustration whenever he’d tried to persuade others to join the cause, the very fervency of his beliefs overwhelming his ability to speak. How had he learned to address an audience like this, with conviction stirring enough to lead strangers not only to praise his words, but to open their purses?
The boy she’d known then would have done anything for his family, even a bastard niece. But would the man?
From across the room, Sean caught her eye, then moved on to stare fixedly at Kit. The smile he wore to greet others faded, giving her a glimpse of the far more bitter man secreted behind the genial front. Had he discovered information about Major Pennington’s whereabouts in the week since they’d first met? Or had Sean summoned her here for some other purpose of his own?
By her side Kit stared just as intently at Sean as her uncle glared at him. Before his speech, Sean had followed her lead when Mr. Wooler introduced him, pretending he and Fianna had no prior acquaintance besides their meeting of the week before. But if he continued to glower at Kit with such obvious dislike, he’d be bound to raise suspicion. As if Kit weren’t already likely to find her actions tonight suspect. How many more tales could she spin before she trapped herself in the tangle of her own falsehoods?
“A powerful speaker, is he not, Miss Cameron?” Kit whispered. “He’s taken the entire crowd here well in hand.”
“Powerful indeed. But the Patriot is known as a gathering place for London’s radicals and reformers,” she answered, gesturing to the men crowding around her uncle. “I doubt few others in England would be as receptive.”
“Or less willing to consider what he hasn’t said, as well as what he has,” Kit replied, rising as Sean made his way through the crowd to their table. She frowned at his cryptic words.
Sean greeted them affably. “Thank you again, gentlemen, for attending my talk this evening. And for bringing such a flower of Irish womanhood to listen, too.” He nodded in her direction as he took the seat offered him by Mr. Wooler. “Mother Erin and her real-life daughters ever inspire us to sacrifice in the cause of our aggrieved nation.”
As he sat back beside her, Kit’s arm pressed casually but firmly against her shoulders. Damn these forward Englishmen! Even if he meant it as a sign of protection, not possession, Sean would likely read it as the latter. Kit was not the only man whose suspicions would be raised this night.
Leaning forward out of Kit’s embrace, she set her hands on the table. “Are Irishwomen to play no role in the struggle for freedom, then, besides that of muse?”
“Oh, surely not, Miss Cameron,” Mr. Abbington-Pitts exclaimed. “Governing is the work of men, not of ladies.”
“Women do seem somewhat unfit for the action and decision required of such work, do they not?” Mr. Wooler said with an apologetic nod in her direction.
Yes, no matter how taken with her beauty, any man could regain a modicum of control by asserting his superiority over her sex. One reference to the purported inferiorities of women, and all the males in the room, even one as seemingly shy of females as poor Mr. Wooler, could rest safe in the knowledge of their God-given masculine advantages over the likes of her.
Of course, such mistaken assumptions were precisely what had allowed her to triumph over so many of the foolish men who had betrayed her father. Somehow, though, in the presence of those who claimed to support the rights of all mankind, she could not forbear from protest.
“What of the women revolutionaries in France?”
“Indeed.” Kit’s sleeve brushed against hers as he placed his folded hands on the table, sending a rill of awareness up her arm. “From what I understand, many Frenchwomen participated in the calls for freedom, and even in the workings of government that followed the downfall of the monarchy.”
“Only acting under the influence of their menfolk, surely,” Wooler said.
“Or led astray by their willful natures. Quite unsexed by designing men.” Abbington-Pitts nodded in agreement.
“Hardly women at all,” Wooler added.
Did Kit find such women’s actions admirable? Or did he share the disparaging opinion of his friends?
Her eyes narrowed. Not that Kit’s opinion mattered to her in the least.
“They do say that all a woman can give to her country is her sons, and her tears.” Sean nodded at the two men, then turned sharply back to Fianna. “But perhaps you see yourself playing another role, cailín?”
Did Sean hope to draw her into his intrigues? To urge her to leave off her own quest to take up his? Raising funds to assist widows and fatherless children was the least of his reasons for coming to London, of that she was certain.
Might she find the acceptance she sought, the family she longed for, with Sean? The possibility tempted her. But how long could she keep Sean from the knowledge of her illicit arrangement with Ingestrie, and her new one with Kit? Few Irishmen looked with anything but contempt upon a kinswoman who had been taken without leave by an Englishman; she could only imagine the curses likely to rain down on the head of one who had entered into such agreements of her own free will. No, far better to keep to her own chosen path. The McCrackens need never know the lengths to which she’d gone to secure retribution against her father’s betrayers.
Fianna’s lips narrowed. “Whatever role my God and my family deem me worthy of, that I will take.”
“And for now, your family requires you remain in London?” Sean asked, echoing her slight emphasis on the repeated word. At her nod of assent, he added, “Then I have not a doubt that whatever you seek will surely be discovered within its bounds.”
Did a message lie beneath the simple platitude? Was the Major somewhere in London? She grasped her own wrists, feeling her pulse quicken beneath her palms.
“But family ties lead us in many directions, I find, do you not?” Sean added, leaning forward in his chair. “When you have completed one task, may not another one take its place?”
Beside her, Kit stiffened at the clear invitation in Sean’s voice.
Mr. Abbington-Pitts slapped Kit on the back with an uneasy laugh. “Better watch yourself, Pennington, old boy, or O’Hamill here will have spirited poor Miss Cameron away to help with his campaigning before you can blink an eye. Lord knows I’m far more likely to turn out my pockets if a pretty woman does the asking, no matter what the cause.”
Abbington-Pitts gestured to the man standing behind Sean, whose upturned cap held a small collection of banknotes and coins.
“My uncle will be sorry he missed you, sir,” Sam Wooler said, rising to add his own contribution. “I’m certain if you cared to write down your speech, he’d be most interested in printing it in his paper.”
Sean glanced down at the news sheet resting under Kit’s free hand. “Ah, the radical press. How lucky you are here in England. In Ireland, we rarely have a chance to read dissenting views, as your government pays the publishers to print only its version of events.”
“And you’re certain there is no truth at all to such accounts?” Kit asked, leaning forward and setting his palms on the arms of his chair. “I am, myself, much disturbed by their reports of violence in your country. And not all of it perpetrated by English troops.”
“‘Whoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also’? A worthy sentiment, sir, but not one likely to lead to political change.” Sean smiled dismissively, then turned toward Mr. Wooler. “Will you join your friends in supporting—”
“And will thievery and murder bring about change, Mr. O’Hamill, when tur
ning the other cheek will not?”
The room fell silent.
Her uncle rose and faced Kit. “Do you accuse me of a crime, sir?”
Kit rose, too, leaning on fisted hands set on the scarred wood of the table. “No, sir, I do not. But I do wish to know whether this money you collect tonight will pass into the hands of those in need, or instead to those who see violence as the means to freeing themselves from oppression. If the latter, I’m afraid I will not be able to contribute.”
Fianna stared at the stern set of Kit’s jaw, willing the fluttering in her belly to still. Could this forceful man be the same one she’d regarded as a mere stripling only a few days earlier?
Sean sneered. “Ah, one of those who believe only the deserving poor merit help, are you? Only those who snivel, and grovel, and accept that it’s God’s will that they be forever ground beneath the heels of their ‘betters’—these are the only ones who merit our aid?”
Kit raised his voice, just loud enough to be heard over the renewed murmuring of the crowd. “You misunderstand me, sir. I have no argument with those who openly resist such false, pernicious doctrines. Only with those who believe using force is the best means of so doing. I’ve heard reports that some Irish insurgents, under the guise of collecting for the destitute, use those funds to purchase firearms. I’ve heard they conduct raids and thefts to secure additional weapons. I’ve heard they’ve beaten and mutilated those who protested such infringements of their property and persons, or who reported such attacks to the constabulary. And yes, I’ve heard they’ve even committed murder, when such raids go awry. According to reports in the Dublin Evening Post, the county coroner conducted twenty-five inquests for murder in Limerick alone these past six months, the majority reputedly perpetrated by insurgents. Do you wish to claim that all these accounts are false?”
Several hands besides Mr. Wooler’s pulled back from the collecting hat, waiting for an answer.
Fianna bit down, hard, on her lip. To contain the torrent of denial his words provoked? Or the shocking smile that rose in admiration of the skill, and passion, with which he had uttered them?
The taste of blood on her tongue jerked her free from the tumult of her emotions, sharpened her focus once again on the murmurs of the men circling their table. Sean was not the only accomplished speaker in the coffeehouse tonight. Which man would the crowd follow?
Sean’s hands fisted, then slowly unfurled. “You would be right to call me a liar if I made any such claim, sir. Men who have watched their children wither and die from want, watched their daughters and wives insulted and abused by English ‘gentlemen’”—Sean’s eyes shot in her direction before returning to Kit’s—“such men sometimes find themselves overtaken by uncontrollable anger. Yet should the innocent many be made to suffer for the sins of the few?”
“Not if you assure us that these funds you collect will be used to support the innocent, not those who raid gentlemen’s homes in search of cash and arms.”
“You would accept the assurance of a man such as myself?” Sean scoffed, his smile tight with scorn. “An Irisher, with no claim to the lofty title of gentleman?”
Fianna held her breath. How cunning of Sean, not only to recognize the innate sense of justice that lay at the heart of Kit Pennington, but to manipulate it to his own advantage. For somehow she knew, even before he spoke the words, what Kit’s answer would be.
“I accept the word of any man, no matter his rank or station. That is, until he gives me cause to doubt it.”
The two men stared at each other across the table, the tension between them as palpable as if each strained at opposite ends of a rope.
After nearly a minute’s silence, Sean reached out and took the collection cap from Mr. Wooler. The coins within it jingled as he thrust it toward Kit.
“For the women and children. I give you my word.”
Kit reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a sovereign, then placed it with deliberate care into the hat. “For the women and children. And for any who work through peaceful means to secure the rights of all.”
Kit stepped away from the table and held his arm out to Fianna. “The hour grows late, Miss Cameron. Shall I summon a cab, and see you back to your lodgings?”
Even now Kit thought to protect her honor, pretending that she had rooms of her own. Would Sean be taken in?
She nodded her assent, then watched as he made his way to the coffeehouse door, his friend Abbie dogging his steps.
“Not willing to wait for my help, cailín? I might have saved you from such a fate, trading yourself to your enemy’s kin.” Sean spoke from behind her, his body turned so as to give the impression he was engrossed by the conversation of the men beside him. “But at least you’ll gain something from the devil’s bargain, which is more than most bean na hÉireann who’ve had the misfortune to be defiled by an Englishman can claim.”
His breath whispered against her neck, raising a horripilation of anger and shame.
“But when your task is done, Máire O’Hamill, you come to me. Young Pennington’ll not bother you again, not after these hands have taken recompense for what he’s stolen.”
Her cloak fell over her shoulders then, held in place for a moment by the heavy weight of her uncle’s palms.
She held her shudder in check until they lifted, and Kit was once again by her side. “Bid you good evening, sir,” he said to Sean, holding out his arm to her.
Sean bowed and stepped aside.
“Go mbuailimid le chéile arís, Miss Cameron,” he murmured as she brushed by him.
Until we meet again.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“See you at Milne’s dinner party, Kit? Or do your affairs keep you otherwise occupied?”
Abbie’s playfully lecherous leer was surely meant to amuse, or even to welcome, a gesture from one fellow man of the world to another newly joining the mistress-keeping club. Yet as Kit watched Fianna disappear behind the door of Benedict’s lodging house, he felt none of the anticipation of a man about to join a paramour for a night’s pleasure, warmed by the certainty that his lust would soon be satiated. Oh, anticipation, yes, and lust, damn him for a fool, most certainly. But suspicion and self-righteousness, and, if he were being truly honest with himself, the unfamiliar burn of barely suppressed jealousy, promised the next few hours would end with little satisfaction for either party.
“I thank you for the ride, Abbie. And Fianna is not my mistress,” he heard himself blurt, the feebleness of his response almost as galling as the smile crinkling about Abbie’s eyes. With an inarticulate snarl, he slammed the door of the carriage shut in his friend’s face.
“Drive on,” he called to Abbie’s coachman, slapping his hand against the side of the carriage. Even the noise of the horses’ hooves against the cobbles could not quite drown out Abbie’s shouts of laughter.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he followed Fianna into their lodgings.
She had not even stopped to light a candle, relying on the thin light of a streetlamp to guide her down the passageway. Did she think to bolt herself inside her bedchamber without even speaking to him? He’d kept his silence in the carriage, not wishing to question her in front of Abbie. But no such scruples restrained him now.
Catching up to her in three long strides, he stilled her hand before it could reach the door’s latch.
“Miss Cameron. A word, if you please.”
With his free arm, he gestured back toward the drawing room, then turned back down the passageway, silently willing her to follow.
He pulled off his gloves and lit a single candle, then stalked about the room, peering into its shadowy corners. “You left a note for me, you say? I wonder where it could be?”
“Did you not take it with you?” she asked, settling into the armchair, as self-possessed as a queen upon her throne.
“I never read it in the first place.” The flame sputtered as he set the candlestick on a table by her side.
She did not flinch at
his accusation, merely turned her impassive face towards his. “You had me followed, then.”
“No. I followed you myself.”
“How tiresome for you.” Her laughter bit far deeper than Abbie’s, though it tinkled as light as a glass bell. “Or perhaps you enjoyed it, skulking about the shadows like a thief in the night. Not an activity in which many preachers engage, I’ll warrant.”
“I’m not a preacher, nor do I plan to become one. As you are well aware.”
“A preacher, a parliamentarian; little difference between the two,” she said with a careless toss of her head. “Both need to avoid offending their patrons. Best not to give alms to the indigent, then, or at least to the undeserving indigent, as Irishwomen such as myself all too often tend to be.” She smiled, as if impervious to the insult in her own words. No, as if such a belief reflected poorly upon him and his people, rather than on her own.
He shook his head. Such taunts were meant to distract him. But he’d not be drawn away from his own purpose.
“Whom did you expect to meet at the Patriot? I thought you had no connections in London.”
“No protectors, nor friends. But one may always make new connections.”
Kit folded his arms across his chest. “Or revive old ones?”
“Mr. Wooler, do you mean?” she asked, her eyes opening wide in mock innocence. “A pleasure to see him again, to be sure. But he was not the connection to whom I referred. Perhaps if you read my letter?” She handed him a sheet of foolscap, pulling her hand away before his fingers could touch hers.
He brought it close to the single candle, reading through it before tossing it back upon the table. Setting the candle on the table beside her, he folded his arms across his chest.
“You would risk your own safety, walking alone about the streets of London at night, just on the chance of hearing word of the man for whom you seek? Why did you not wait until I returned?”