Nell

by Jeanette Baker

  Sympathy and something stronger than mere disappointment shone from his eyes. “It seems that you took the decision away from her.”

  Colette’s voice trembled. “Do y’ think she’ll come back, Danny? I never had a friend like her before.”

  Reaching out he pulled her into his arms and rested his chin on her head. He stared bleakly out the small window. “I know, love,” he whispered, “but I wouldn’t worry. Jillian Fitzgerald knows something about loyalty.”

  Lost in her own misery, Colette didn’t bother to ask him what he meant.

  ***

  Jillian, dressed in sweatpants and an Aran sweater, a glass of sherry in one hand, a news clipping in the other, sat cross-legged on the floor of the library at Kildare. File folders with papers spilling haphazardly out of them surrounded her.

  “Are you looking for something in particular?” Casey asked from the doorway.

  Jillian shook her head, stuffed the clipping into the pocket of her Aran, and smiled nervously. “Come in. I can use the company.”

  Casey flopped down on the couch, groaned, stretched her arms, and tossed her head so that her curly hair fluffed around her face. “I’ve got to go back to school soon. If I don’t, I’ll never catch up.”

  Biting her lip, Jillian stood and added more turf to the fire. “I suppose it’s best,” she said slowly. “There’s nothing more to do here.”

  Casey sighed. Her mum would never come out and say what she really wanted. “I could stay another week if you need me.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Jillian replied bracingly. “I’ll be fine. In fact, I’ll be busy. You belong back at school.”

  Widening her gray-green eyes dramatically, Casey sat up and placed both palms against Jillian’s cheeks. “I would like to stay until after the Stormont meeting,” she said deliberately. “How do you feel about that?”

  “As if you’re the mother and I’m the daughter,” replied Jillian sheepishly.

  Casey grinned and leaned back on the couch pillows. “You’re very retentive, Mum. But you already know that.”

  “How could I not be, with you reminding me every minute?”

  “I suppose you didn’t really have a chance growing up with Grandmother,” Casey said thoughtfully.

  “I suppose not,” said Jillian, finally amused. Casey was part elfin loveliness, part practical sage, and by far the best thing that had ever happened to the Fitzgerald-Grahams.

  From the moment they brought her home ten years ago, she’d charmed the entire household, a petite hazel-eyed minx with skinned knees, corkscrew curls tumbling in every direction, and a histrionic sense of drama that never failed to bring Avery to his knees. He’d adored her and she him. The unnatural, museum like pallor that settled over the household when she returned to school demoralized Avery and Jillian to such an extent that they drove down the next day to bring her home for good. She was enrolled in the local public school, and a tutor was hired to supplement her lessons. Casey, who’d spent her entire ten years in institutions, was only too happy to remain at home with a doting father and a mother young enough to be her sister.

  With a child’s intuition, she understood without being told that she was dearer to both Jillian and Avery than they were to each other. Her connection with Jillian was understandable. They were members of the same family, closely related by blood. Yet she’d felt it with Avery as well. From the moment they brought her home, she was the one who made their family complete, and she felt her responsibility deeply, coming home from university often and shortening holidays with friends. Leaving Jillian so soon after Avery’s death was not to be thought of. Of course, there was always Grandmother Fitzgerald.

  Casey repressed a shudder. Never had two women with the same gene pool turned out so differently than her mother and her maternal grandmother. Not that Lady Margaret was rude or unkind or even unpleasant. She was just so unfailingly proper, so frustratingly opinionated, that it was difficult to bear her company for more than twenty minutes.

  Occasionally, when her grandmother drove up from London, and Casey looked up from the telly or the book she was reading, she would find the older woman’s eyes on her with an expression in them that could only be described as calculating. Mum and Grandmother Fitzgerald had very little in common and rarely agreed on anything. The strain on Mum to stay polite during Grandmother’s monthly visits took its toll on her. Fortunately, Grandmother had moved to a flat in London after she was widowed. No, Lady Fitzgerald could not be counted on for support when Casey left for school.

  She nodded at the slip of paper working its way out of her mother’s pocket. “What’s that?”

  Jillian’s hand flew to her side, and she flushed guiltily. “It’s nothing.”

  “May I see it?”

  Slowly, Jillian pulled the photograph from her pocket and handed it to Casey.

  “He’s nice.”

  “Who?” Jillian asked casually.

  “The man in the middle. It’s Danny Browne, isn’t it?”

  The color drained from Jillian’s cheeks. “Yes.”

  “I saw him speak once, in Belfast. Father knew him, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Jillian said again.

  “Why are you looking at his picture?”

  “There are others in the picture,” replied Jillian defensively.

  Casey’s straight black brows drew together, and she looked curiously at her mother. “Why are you looking at this picture?” she amended.

  “Those men are part of the nationalist negotiating team,” Jillian improvised. “I’ll be speaking with them at Stormont.”

  Handing back the photo, Casey stood. “I’m going out to the stables. Ned says the new foal is due soon. Would you like to join me?”

  Jillian shook her head. “Say hello to Ned for me. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Sipping the last of her sherry, Jillian turned her attention back to the man in the picture. It was all very clear now, the deep-set, rain-washed eyes, skin more olive than fair, his lean height and squared-off jaw. No one who’d known Frankie Maguire as she had could mistake the man he had become. Who would have thought that Frankie, alias Danny Browne, the loyalists’ curse, would turn out to be Colette’s husband? Something hard and hurting and completely unreasonable twisted inside her chest. He had promised to come back for her, and all this time he was married to Colette.

  For most of the last two hours, Jillian had debated whether or not Colette had intentionally deceived her in order to gather information for her husband. In the end, she’d decided against it. Politics had never entered their conversations. There was an integrity about the handicapped woman that could not be manufactured. Colette valued Jillian’s friendship too much to abuse it. The omission may have been deliberate, but Colette’s reasons were pure. Jillian was sure of it. Now, the least she could do for the woman was to keep her husband’s secret.

  A strange lethargy had taken hold of her. She wanted nothing more than to curl up on the couch, pour herself another sherry, and pull an old Jane Austen novel from the bookshelves. Instead, she stuffed the papers back into their files and climbed the stairs to her bedroom.

  After a lengthy bath, she turned off the lights and stared out the long windows. It was nearly ten and closing in on July, the longest days of the year. Dusk had settled over the pasture. The tall figure of the Kildare kennel keeper surrounded by six frisky, white-bibbed pups appeared over the ridge. Jillian caught her breath. Deep inside her, something old and forgotten woke, uncurled, and readied itself for an imminent and painful rebirth.

  The trembling began in her legs and moved upward throughout her body and into her fingertips, until she could barely untie the sash of her robe. Still shaking, she climbed into bed and pulled the duvet up over her shoulders.

  ***

  Stormont had b
een the seat of Northern Irish government until 1972, when the horror of Bloody Sunday flashed on television screens throughout the world, ending loyalist home rule, a power imbalance the Protestant majority had enjoyed and mercilessly abused since the plantation era of the seventeenth century.

  Jillian, dressed in an attractive green suit that deepened her eye color to pine, walked through the front entry and looked around. The marble floors and Greek pillars of the impressive entry narrowed to long paneled halls with carved wooden doors. Behind a large desk, a young man in military guard’s uniform stared at her curiously.

  “May I be of service, miss?”

  It was past time to be afraid. She lifted her chin. “I’m Jillian Graham,” she said crisply. “I believe I’m expected.”

  Instantly, his demeanor changed. Leaping to his feet, he nearly climbed over the desk in his hurry to assist her. “Indeed you are. Please, allow me to show you the way, Mrs. Graham.”

  She smiled faintly. He was very young. “Thank you.”

  Jillian followed him down the long corridor to two elaborately carved double doors. The guard knocked firmly on the wood panels. Both doors swung open, and she stepped inside. Six pairs of masculine eyes stared at her curiously.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said quietly. “I’m Jillian Graham, my husband’s replacement but certainly not his equal. I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with me until a more suitable candidate is found.”

  A collective sigh broke the silence. Danny Browne suppressed a grin. She was every bit the diplomat that her husband had been and far more attractive. Had she deliberated for months over her entrance, she could not have chosen one more suited to wither the objections of her opponents. Her humility had scored innumerable points with both sides of the negotiating table. That, coupled with her appearance, an aristocratic name that was featured throughout Irish history, and her step down the social ladder to marry a commoner, gave her instant validity among the men elected to determine the future of the Six Counties, the same men whose ancestors had mucked out the stables and toiled in the fields of the mighty Fitzgeralds of Kildare.

  He wondered if she would recognize him and what would happen then. Pride wanted her to see him as he was, a man of position who’d come from nothing. Practically speaking, it would be a disaster. He was Francis Maguire, alias Danny Browne, an escaped felon wanted for murder. Reason told him she would have no choice but to report him to the authorities. But something else, a sixth sense perhaps and more than a hint of personal experience, reminded him that Jillian Fitzgerald had not always behaved predictably.

  Once, long ago, she’d lied for him, braved her father’s wrath to take his side and kiss his mouth. Could a person change so much in twenty years? Across the table, his eyes met the cool, level ones of Avery Graham’s widow, and his chest tightened. She was beautiful and polite and nothing at all like the girl he remembered. Nodding briefly, he opened his notebook. “Shall we begin?” he asked.

  They met much later, by accident, coming out of the facilities. Danny would have passed by with the barest of acknowledgments, but Jillian stopped him with her words.

  “How is Colette?”

  “Well, thank you.”

  “Is the surgery still scheduled for Thursday?”

  Danny ran his fingers through his hair impatiently. Fancy her remembering that. “It is.”

  “Will you be there?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Graham. She is my wife, after all.” His scornful look was meant to wither, but she disregarded it completely.

  Jillian kept her eyes on his face. He was making this harder by being difficult. She’d hoped, after this morning when she agreed with nearly every point of his position, that she would see something close to approval in his eyes. “I promised her I’d be there. Do you mind?”

  “Why should I? It’s Colette’s surgery. She can invite the whole bloody world for all I care.”

  “Thank you,” Jillian said formally, and moved away, more shaken than she appeared. Why hadn’t he recognized her? Had she changed so much that there was nothing left of the Jilly Fitzgerald he’d known? Or perhaps it was something altogether different. Perhaps she had never meant as much to him as he had to her.

  Driving home to Avery’s town house on Lisburn Road that evening, she couldn’t help wondering about the relationship between Frankie and Colette. They appeared to be an odd match, the woman old and used up before her time, Frankie fit, youthful, handsome enough for the cinema. How had they met, she wondered, and what was Colette like before the handicap had sapped her looks and energy?

  She turned into the garage, gathered her briefcase, and fumbled for her keys in case Mrs. Wilson, her housekeeper, had stepped out. To her relief, the door opened before she turned the lock, and the smell of roasting meat wafted to her nose.

  “Welcome home, Mrs. Graham.” Jane Wilson relieved Jillian of her case and ushered her inside. “I’ve a good meal cooking,” the woman said. “Would you care for tea or something stronger?”

  “I’ve a long night ahead,” answered Jillian. “Tea will be fine.”

  “I hope your day was a pleasant one.”

  Jillian walked wearily up the stairs. “It was certainly interesting. Has Casey arrived yet?”

  “She called earlier. You’re not to wait up. She may drive up in the morning rather than take a chance on the weather tonight.”

  Jillian’s brow wrinkled. The sky was perfectly clear, and Casey had a reliable automobile. It wasn’t like her to worry about the weather. “Did she say anything else?”

  “No, Mrs. Graham, but she did sound a bit preoccupied. Very unlike Casey, if you know what I mean.”

  What could Casey be up to? Jillian considered the possibilities. Was she seeing someone? And if she was, why wouldn’t she say so? More than likely, Avery was responsible. He had been a loving and proud father but not particularly receptive to any of the young men his daughter brought home. His attitude had given Jillian considerable worry. She was determined that Casey would live a normal life, which included, among other things, a husband and children.

  Smoothing the lines from her forehead, she walked into the bathroom. Casey was twenty years old, nearly an adult. There was no reason she couldn’t stay overnight in the country.

  Slipping off her shoes, Jillian turned on the tap and watched the tub fill. After discarding her clothes in a heap on the floor, she poured bath salts under the flow, watched them foam, and stepped in, sinking down until the water reached her chin. The day had been informative but exhausting. There was so much she didn’t know about politics. History was her specialty, Tudor history specifically. Except for what she read in the news, she had little knowledge of Irish politics after the sixteenth century.

  Frankie Maguire certainly knew his history, as did David Temple. The two were well matched in intellect, although Temple was university-educated and Frankie was— She frowned. Frankie’s background after he’d left Kilvara was another subject she knew little about. She would take care of that lapse tonight and tomorrow. Out of consideration for Colette’s surgery, and to bring herself up to date on the issues, Jillian had requested and been unanimously granted a recess until the following Monday.

  Without looking in the mirror, Jillian pulled on leggings and a sweater before twisting her hair back into a knot at the back of her head. A knock sounded at the door. Jillian opened it and stepped back to allow Mrs. Wilson to bring in her dinner tray.

  “Don’t stay up too late, Mrs. Graham,” the older woman cautioned her, taking in the delicate shadows beneath her eyes. “Nothing stays in a mind that isn’t well rested.”

  Jillian smiled. Jane Wilson, a lifelong employee of the Fitzgeralds, had been admonishing her for years. “Are you telling me I’m not in my best looks, Mrs. Wilson?” she teased.

  “Of course not,” the woman protested. It would
take a great deal more than lack of sleep to diminish Jillian’s beauty. The severe styles she chose would have rendered a less classically lovely woman unfit to be seen outside the bedroom. The sleek do she preferred emphasized the purity of her jaw, the sharp, clean edge of her cheekbones, and the symmetry of her features. Not that she would have voiced her thoughts. Jillian had never been one to appreciate her own appearance or anyone else who made too much of it. “Ring if you need something,” Mrs. Wilson said before exiting the room. “I’ll be watching the telly in my suite.”

  After carrying her food to the table, Jillian arranged her papers, sat down on the couch in front of a crackling fire, and began to read. Four hours later, she stared into the glowing embers of the dying fire and cursed the Labour Party leader, Thomas Putnam, and the ignorance of a country whose educators and leaders believed that by leaving out the entire perspective of nearly fifty percent of the population, the “Catholic problem” would simply fade away.

  There was no possible solution to the political nightmare in Northern Ireland that would appear reasonable to loyalists and equitable for nationalists. The horrific part of it was that she was now committed. Her face was on the front page of every newspaper in the western world, and the marching season, that orange-sashed, bowler-hatted, swaggering mentality that was no longer accepted anywhere in the United Kingdom outside Ulster, was a mere three weeks away. God help her. She alone had the power to order the marches stopped, if only someone would listen to her.

  Twenty

  Frankie was in his wife’s room, holding her hand, when Jillian arrived at the Royal Victoria the morning of Colette’s surgery. Their heads were very close, and they were speaking softly to each other. The tenderness on Frankie’s face and the unreserved love on Colette’s raised a lump in Jillian’s throat, and she turned away toward the waiting room, leaving them alone in their shared grief. Ashamed of her speculation about their relationship the night before, she wondered, not for the first time, if she hadn’t thrown away something very precious in her arrangement with Avery.