Nell

by Jeanette Baker

  A muscle throbbed in his neck, and for a moment she thought she’d angered him. But his voice, when he answered, was as courteous as ever. “I hope not, lass.”

  “That isn’t an answer.”

  “I can give you no other.”

  “Don’t you know?”

  Frankie shook his head. “No. I don’t.”

  Casey stood. “I want to see him.”

  “Why?”

  “I must ask him.”

  “Is his answer that important t’ you?”

  Casey considered his question and answered honestly. “I think so.”

  “You know their story, lass.” He quoted from the manifesto of the Irish Republican Army: “Out of the ashes rose the provisionals.”

  “I know it. I’m a Catholic, too, Uncle Francis.”

  Frankie stood and smoothed her curly hair with both hands. “But a very different sort of Catholic from the rest of us.”

  She lifted her chin. “I can’t help that.”

  “No,” he said gently. “I wasn’t criticizing, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Tears burned beneath her eyelids, but she refused to blink. “Will you tell him that I want to see him?”

  Frankie nodded. “Aye. I’ll tell him.”

  Casey bit her lip.

  “Is something else troublin’ you, lass?” Frankie asked gently.

  She lifted green eyes to his face. Fitzgerald eyes. She was as much a Fitzgerald as she was a Maguire.

  “It’s Mum. You weren’t nice to her when you and Connor stayed at Kildare.”

  Frankie sighed, quelled the urge to reach for a cigarette, and ran his fingers nervously through his hair instead. “No, I wasn’t. I should probably apologize for that.”

  “She’s different lately, Uncle Francis.” Casey hesitated.

  “Go on.”

  “I think it’s because of you.”

  Frankie’s mouth lifted at the corner. “Do you, now?”

  “Yes.”

  He reached out and took her hands. “This isn’t for you to worry about Jillian and I will sort it out.”

  “Do you love her?”

  “Casey, lass, if that’s so, shouldn’t Jillian be the first to hear me say it?”

  Casey pulled her hands away, jumped up, and began to pace the room. Words, jumbled and wounding, poured from her lips. “Well, if you do, why don’t you tell her so? I’m so tired of all this old baggage. She kept the lie you asked her to keep so that your sister wouldn’t go to prison.”

  He noticed that she didn’t acknowledge Kathleen as her mother.

  She stopped in front of him. “All that’s over now. Don’t you see, Uncle Francis? It was meant to be. I don’t think my birth parents were very good people. But you and Mum are. This can’t all be a coincidence. First Mum finds your wife, and then I find Tim. I believe the two of you have been given a second chance.”

  “It isn’t that easy,” Frankie began.

  “Why not?”

  He laughed. “You’re quite the romantic, aren’t you?”

  “Is there something wrong with that?”

  Frankie shook his head. “You don’t understand, Casey. Jillian is a Fitzgerald of Kildare Hall. Her people were kings of Ireland. She knows the prime minister by his first name. The queen mother drops in for tea with your grandmother, for Christ sake.” He waved his arm to encompass the room. “Look around you, lass. This isn’t exactly Kildare Hall. How would I fit into the life of a woman like that?”

  Casey’s lower lip trembled. “The same way I fit in, Uncle Francis. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a Fitzgerald and a Maguire. And I drove all the way from Dublin to see Tim Sheehan.”

  Frankie was ashamed of himself. When he left Kildare Hall, he was certain that Casey’s loyalties lay with Jillian. He wasn’t sure if she would ever seek him out. Now that she had, however inadvertently, he was behaving badly.

  “I’m sorry, lass,” he said gently. “I haven’t forgotten who you are or why you’re here. Go on back to Mrs. Flynn’s and finish your tea. I’ll find Tim for you.”

  ***

  Casey sat in her favorite corner in Bewley’s Café on Grafton Street in Dublin, absentmindedly stirring her tea. An untouched maple pastry, Bewley’s specialty, and a side salad with too many carrots and too little lettuce wilted before her. She had no appetite. She was worried about her mother. Jillian had lost weight that she couldn’t afford, and the brittle, preoccupied look she’d worn throughout Avery’s illness was back. Casey wanted to come home permanently, but Jillian wouldn’t hear of it. It would all be over soon, her mother assured her. The deadline for an agreement was approaching, and with it would come the end of Jillian’s tenure. She would resign her position and go back to the life she had planned for herself.

  The problem was obvious. Casey could see it clearly, and she knew her mother could, too. Without their forced encounters at Stormont, Jillian and Frankie would no longer have a legitimate reason to see each other. She pulled at the corner of her pastry. There was nothing more she could do. The two of them would have to sort it out between them.

  Sighing, she reached for her bag, pushed herself away from the table, and stood. A tall blond man in his early twenties blocked her way.

  “Hello, Casey,” he said.

  Her mouth dropped. “Tim Sheehan?”

  “In the flesh.”

  “Where have you been?” she demanded, digging her fists into her waist.

  He tucked her arm through his. “Shall we take a walk?” Without waiting for her answer, he led her out the door, past the street musicians and the shops, through the wrought-iron gates of Trinity College to the cobbled path. He adjusted his gait to hers. A cold breeze blew through the trees, and there was a promise of rain on the wind. Casually, as if he had the right, he turned up her collar and pulled her hand down into the warmth of his pocket.

  “I know it was you at the barricade.” Her words were sharp, accusing, an attempt to deflect the warmth that rose within her at the feel of his hands on her skin.

  His fingers grazed her cheek. “How?”

  Casey shook her head. “I know you, the sound of your voice, the way you’re built.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. It was you. That’s all that’s important.”

  “Why is it important?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Tell me, Casey.” He stopped to face her. His voice was urgent, desperate, his eyes electric blue. “I drove like a maniac for three hours to ask you that question. I need an answer.”

  Tears choked her throat. She shook her head and looked away.

  “Do you need me to say it first, lass? Is that it?”

  Again, she shook her head. She, who was so good with words, could not force them past her lips.

  He lifted her chin with one hand and tucked the flyaway hair behind her ears with the other. “Listen to me, Cassandra Graham of Kildare Hall. If you’re foolish enough to care for a wayward lad like myself, I’ll not throw it away.”

  She felt the warmth of his hand on her head and the soft pressure of his lips on her forehead. Then he pulled her against the leather of his jacket and hugged her hard. Closing her eyes, Casey wrapped her arms around his waist and burrowed her head against his chest. Her words were muffled. “I was so worried about you. Why didn’t you call me?”

  He smiled into her hair. “What would I say? I didn’t know you wanted me for anythin’ more than a mathematics tutor, although I was a bit suspicious at the end.”

  She wouldn’t look at him. “Oh?”

  “Aye.” He set her away from him. “I wondered why a lass who passed her levels in the top two percent would need a tutor.”

  “How did you know?”

  “The scores are p
osted.”

  Casey flushed. “It was the only way I could think of to make you notice me.”

  “All you had t’ do was say it, lass.” Reverently, he touched her cheeks, the bow of her lip, the short, straight nose. “There aren’t many who would refuse you.”

  “I wasn’t sure.” She leaned against him. “You never appeared the least bit interested in anything other than books.”

  It was heavenly talking with her like this, holding the weight of her slight body against his. She shifted in his arms, turning to see his face.

  “Tim,” she murmured. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

  He swallowed. This wasn’t a girl from the streets he held in his arms. It was Casey Graham, and she’d asked the question whether or not she knew the game. Careful, lad, he said to himself. Go slowly. “Are you in a hurry, lass?” he teased her.

  “Yes,” she said, surprising him. “I’ve imagined what it would be like for so long that I can’t wait any longer.”

  Suddenly, he was nervous. She was too honest, too young, too good. “Shouldn’t we talk a bit first?”

  “No. Kiss me first. Then we’ll talk.”

  No match for such a request, Tim lowered his head and tasted what he’d never dared imagine. When her small hands slid around his neck and locked and her mouth opened beneath his, he knew that he wouldn’t walk away, no matter what it was that she asked.

  Later, after they’d cleared up just when it was that each of them first noticed the other, Casey brought up the subject Tim hoped she wouldn’t.

  “How long have you been involved in the IRA?”

  He met her eyes steadily. “Not long.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “You know the answer to that.”

  “You’re a university student, Tim. Those people are from the streets. You have other options.”

  “Not all of us do.”

  “My mother and your stepfather are working very hard to see that they do.”

  Tim frowned. “If and when they succeed, I’ll resign.” He changed the subject. “Just how do you know my father?”

  Casey opened her mouth and closed it again. Did Tim know that Danny Browne was really Frankie Maguire? “Didn’t he tell you?” she hedged.

  “He said that you tracked me down through a clerk in the housing office.”

  “That’s right.” She was grateful that she could be partially truthful. “I had no idea that Danny Browne was your stepfather.”

  Tim shrugged. “He didn’t want it advertised.”

  Casey squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry about your mother.”

  Tim’s jaw hardened. “She wasn’t the same since the shootin’. That’s the woman I’ll miss, the one I remember from before.”

  “I met your brother.”

  Tim smiled. “Connor is a grand wee lad. I wish he had better memories of his mam.”

  “Were your parents happy, Tim?” she asked casually.

  “Before the shootin’ they were happy enough.” Remembering his manners, he smiled. “Were yours?”

  Casey chewed her lip before answering. “I thought they were, but now I’m not sure.” She wondered if he could hear her heart pounding. “Did your father tell you that he brought Connor to Kildare Hall?”

  “What are y’ tryin’ to tell me, Casey?”

  She pushed back her hair and tried to sort out the confusing jumble. “A long time ago, my mother met yours in the hospital. They were friends.”

  Not by the flare of a nostril did Tim reveal his skepticism. Jillian Graham and his mother could never have shared a friendship.

  “When my father died and my mother took his position, she met your father. Mum was at the hospital when your mother died. She took Connor home.” Her brain moved quickly, discarding the dangerous subjects. “When Connor was hurt, he stayed with us. Your father stayed, too.”

  “So?”

  Casey clasped both of her hands around Tim’s large one. “Would you mind terribly if they cared for each other?”

  “Who?”

  “Our parents.”

  Tim stared at her in disbelief. “My father and your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  Tim threw back his head and laughed loudly. “That’s rich. Danny Browne and Jillian Graham.”

  “Why is it so impossible?”

  Tim searched for an answer. “Why? Because my stepfather is an ardent nationalist and your mother is an aristocrat.”

  “What if they get beyond that?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know your mother, Casey, but I know Danny Browne. That will weigh with him more than anything.”

  “There’s more.”

  Suddenly, Tim didn’t feel like laughing anymore. “Go on.”

  Casey shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it isn’t my story to tell. You’ll have to trust me.”

  He couldn’t argue with her logic, not when there was so much he couldn’t share with her. Threading his fingers through her hair, he pulled her head down to his shoulder. “I didn’t drive all the way down here to talk about other people.”

  She laughed up at him. “What did you drive here for?”

  “This,” he said, lowering his head to cover her open mouth with his own.

  Twenty-Nine

  Not by so much as the tightening of a jaw muscle did Frankie Maguire reveal the rage he felt at the cryptic message he held in his hand. Gary McMichael wouldn’t even meet with him face-to-face, and yet he expected him to sign a settlement that would place the future of nationalist Ireland in the hands of loyalists.

  He looked up. Jillian’s eyes behind the enormous glasses she wore for reading were wary and speculative. They were alone in the nationalist conference room. “Did you actually believe this would be acceptable to us?”

  “No.”

  Surprise flickered across his features. “Why did you bother?”

  She sighed and removed her glasses. He noticed that her lips were slightly chapped as if she’d run her tongue over them again and again. “I’m obligated to show you every proposal, no matter how absurd. You can accept it or discard it, as you please.”

  “Is there anything else on the table?”

  Jillian frowned. “Why would you ask me that?”

  “I know Gary McMichael. His first offer is always outrageous. Gradually, he moves to something more palatable.”

  “But not close enough to accept?”

  “Not yet”

  “You won’t get what you want, Frankie. To throw everything away because you refuse to compromise is foolish. The people of Northern Ireland, Catholic and Protestant, are tired of war.”

  “We can’t accept an internal settlement. You know what happens on the elected councils. Sinn Fein isn’t allowed a single representative position.”

  She leaned forward. “What will you accept?”

  He could smell her perfume. His stomach clenched. “An all-Ireland tribunal, dismantling the RUC, a bill of rights, housing, jobs for Catholics, all political prisoners released, and an end to British occupation in the Six Counties.”

  “Will the IRA agree?”

  Frankie’s eyes, gray as the Irish Sea, met hers without wavering. “I don’t know.”

  “You must have an idea.”

  “If Sinn Fein agrees, the chances are good.”

  “What about the splinter groups?”

  “I can’t speak for the paramilitaries. Neither can McMichael.”

  “In other words, the killings will continue.”

  Frankie passed a hand in front of his eyes. “I imagine so, for a while, anyway. There is a small segment of our population, nationalist and loyalist, who have an interest in ma
intaining the status quo. When they realize they have no support, they’ll go away. We’ll be like every other country with an occasional crazy man for the press to go on about.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “I have to, Jillian. If I don’t, the last twenty years of my life will have been for nothing.”

  His intensity startled her. For the first time, she realized what it all meant to him, what he had given up to become a negotiator for a political party that had only just begun to be recognized as legitimate. Jillian wet her lips. “The deadline is very close, Frankie. I can’t guarantee that my replacement will be as sympathetic as I am.”

  “I didn’t realize you were.”

  “That’s not fair.” Hurt was all over her face.

  He rose and walked to the window, fists balled deep in his pockets. “I apologize.”

  She followed him, stopping an arm’s length from where he stood. “That’s very big of you, but do you mean it?”

  The muscles of his back were tight and bunched beneath his shirt. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to slide her arms around his waist and rest her head against his shoulder. But she knew better.

  When he spoke, his words were filled with regret and a kind of bitter, wry humor. “I do mean it, lass. For some reason, my words don’t come out properly when I’m with you, which is odd because there was a time when you were the only person they did come out with.”

  Jillian hadn’t forgotten the boy with the aggravated stutter and how it miraculously disappeared in her presence. Hope rose in her chest. She was inexperienced with flirtation. This was the only man she had ever wanted. She moved close enough so that if he turned around, they would share the same breath. “Do I make you nervous, Frankie?”

  Even though she hadn’t touched him, she knew when his body tensed. “Aye,” he said at last. “You make me very nervous.”

  Behind his back, she smiled. “Why?”

  “Because you make me want things that are impossible.”

  “Nothing is impossible.”

  He turned around, and his hands closed around her upper arms. “Stop this, Jillian. I can’t carry you up the stairs of that enormous house you live in, love you whenever the mood strikes, raise the children we could make together, and still be Danny Browne of West Belfast.”