Pamela felt strangely removed, like she had risen slightly above the woman who held her at knife point. It was many things—fear, dehydration, these last horrible few days. But mostly it was the man kneeling on the filthy floor, calmly trading his life for hers and that of their child. He looked at her, as though the other two people in the room, including the man who held a gun to his head, did not exist. There was for him only the two of them.
She did not know if she spoke aloud or if he did, or if they spoke as one mind, silent and together in this terrible moment.
I love you.
And I you, always.
Hanging there in the air between them was the vision of all that might have been. He smiled, a look to carry with her, along with all the gifts he had given her throughout the years of friendship and love. And heard the words inside her as if he spoke them out loud.
And I have fitted up some chambers there
Looking towards the golden Eastern air,
And level with the living winds, which flow
Like waves above the living waves below.
Soul within my soul. She could live within that which he would leave behind, and teach it to their child. His eyes were warm, the beautiful light-spilling eyes that had looked at her long ago and found within her gaze the missing parts of himself. This look was for her alone and there was nothing of fear or regret in it. Only love. I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
Had she not been looking so fixedly at him, she would have missed the small flicker of his eyes. And then he did speak out loud. “Pamela, move.”
Understanding was immediate. She dropped her weight away from Elspeth, having no other choice. She felt the shots before she heard them—two, almost simultaneous and she would have sworn too close together to come from one gun.
The air around her vibrated and she could feel the sway of the long ropes of ivy disturbed from their long slumber. She was afraid to open her eyes. But what was love if not courage and courage required one to look and to know, and so she opened her eyes.
Jamie looked back, his face fine drawn and ashen. The Reverend had toppled to his knees, and there was red flowering like a chrysanthemum across the white of his shirt. Then he fell all the way down, his eyes open. The woman lay still, the knife fallen from her hand, the blade gleaming dully in the lantern light.
Jamie came to her, and turned so that she might untie his hands. She did it swiftly, despite her fingers shaking with the shock of the last few moments. He kneeled down and shut the wide staring eyes of Elspeth, and then checked Lucien.
“He’s dead,” he said shortly. And then he came to her and took her in his arms. She was still afraid she was dreaming even though he was warm and smelled exactly as he should, despite the sharp-hot note of fear and fury that rose from his skin.
“The baby?” he asked, and she could hear the ragged note in his voice.
“She’s fine, Jamie,” she said just as the baby kicked hard as if to back up her mother’s assertion. Jamie laughed and held them both tighter. Death lay all around, but here between them was life, moving and kicking.
“We need to go, Pamela, now.”
He gave her his arm to lean upon for her legs were shaking and she felt distinctly faint. They crossed the room and she avoided looking at Elspeth or the four men who had been killed with such proficiency.
“Do you think he’s gone?” She looked toward the window.
“Yes, he did what he came to do,” Jamie said, a strange note in his voice.
Jamie was right, they must go now while there was the chance of it. But just before it was lost to her sight she looked back one more time through the window where a dark oak was framed in spectral bits of firelight, and said a silent thank you.
They went out of the building together, not speaking yet. The car, skewed sideways, sat waiting. Pamela felt more than a little surreal, like she was a tattered ghost who might rise out of her own skin and float away and rejoin all the spirits caught in that building.
Jamie got her into the car and then went around to the driver’s side. He pulled away from the building and they were well on to the road when she finally took a long shuddering breath. She looked back as they drove out into the main road, the workhouse no longer visible. She half expected to see a figure in the narrow gap between the trees, standing and watching them leave. But behind her there was only the movement of the wind through the trees and the empty road where ghosts might walk, but no man did.
“Jamie,” she said, gasping as the first real pain of labor struck through her lower back like a twist of lightning. “We need to get to the hospital.”
Chapter Ninety
On a Deep November Night
KATHLEEN YEVGENA KIRKPATRICK was born late the next afternoon, when the frost lay thick upon the fields and folds of the countryside around. In comparison to her siblings and to the days which had preceded it, her birth was calm and easy. To both of her parents’ great relief she was born healthy and sound, with a head of red hair which was startlingly bright.
Jamie felt like he couldn’t breathe until the doctor was done checking her over. The doctor handed him the tiny bundle and smiled. “They’re strong, these women of yours. Take good care of them.”
“I intend to,” Jamie said.
He took the first look at his daughter which was not blurred by terror, and found that she was, in all details, perfect. Skin fresh as a pearl drawn from the water and hair the color of fire in the dark—astoundingly red. So very tiny and delicate that it was frightening. And yet here and breathing and with no reason, the doctor had said, to believe her heart was anything but whole and strong. There would be, he knew, further tests, many of them likely, but for now he could breathe and just fall in love.
She opened her eyes and he fell into them. They were a deep jeweled green, and seemed wise far beyond her exceptionally new state.
Pamela smiled wearily, watching him and the baby. “She’s perfect, isn’t she?”
“Of course she is,” he said, as if there had never been any doubt that she would be so.
Patrick and Kate arrived shortly after the birth with Conor and Isabelle in tow. Isabelle, uncharacteristically subdued, came into the room on the heels of her brother. The children had only seen her once since her escape from the workhouse and Isabelle could not be reassured that her mother was not going to disappear again for a long stretch of time.
“Mama?” she said uncertainly and when Pamela held out a hand to her, Isabelle ran to the bed, burying her face in the covers.
“Would you like to see your new sister?” Jamie asked, gently touching Isabelle’s madly-curling head. She turned slowly and Jamie kneeled down with the baby in his arms, so that Isabelle might see her. Isabelle peered down at the small bundle.
“Sisser?” she asked tentatively.
“What’s her name?” Conor asked from his perch beside his mother. Conor, always one to want the details sorted, was getting down to what he saw as the salient point.
Pamela looked at Jamie over the bundle in his arms, which was beginning to squirm. “I thought, if you’d like, we could name her Kathleen,” she said. Kathleen had been Jamie’s mother’s name.
“Kaflee,” Isabelle echoed, small face turned up to Jamie’s.
“I would like that,” he said, eyes meeting Pamela’s. Her eyes shimmered with tears.
Jamie placed his daughter with great care into Conor’s arms. He did not fear Conor would hurt her, for even at the tender age of five, Conor took a grave care for things and people. Pamela stroked her son’s bent head, looking down at the baby with him. There was a hazy glow about her that made her even more beautiful to him than she had been before.
Isabelle crawled up into his lap and kissed his cheek. She’d had jam with her lunch. He could smell strawberries on her and the scent of sausage smoke in her dark curls. He kissed the top of her frowsy wee head.
“You goin’ a stay here? Mama, Jamezie stay here a’ night?”
> “Of course, darling, Jamie can stay here. But you must ask him if he would like to.” She looked up and met his eyes, a question in her own. He felt a constriction in his throat.
“Jamezie stay,” Isabelle said with satisfaction and clambered off his knee and back to the baby as if all were settled in her mind.
“Well, would Jamie like to stay?” Pamela asked, her voice low, the murmuring of the children a flowing note between them.
A heartbeat and then another, and then one more. “Yes, he would.”
Patrick, Kate and the children visited for another hour, Isabelle finally falling asleep beside her mother. Patrick came to Pamela’s side and bent over, kissing her cheek.
“Congratulations again, she’s beautiful. Ye’re not to worry about Conor an’ Isabelle. We’ll look after them as long as ye need us to.”
“How is Kate?” she asked, quietly.
“She’s managin’. I think she’ll want to talk to you eventually about what happened.”
Pamela nodded, throat tight and prickling with tears. She could hardly bear to think about Noah, never mind find words to explain the nightmare from which she had barely escaped and which he had not. For Kate’s sake she would find the words but she knew she would never tell her all that had happened.
Pat gave her a tight squeeze. “I’m so bloody relieved that ye’re all right, Pamela. Don’t hesitate if ye need anythin’. An’ if the police come back, don’t talk to them until Tomas or I are here with ye.”
“I won’t,” she said. “I’ve been well instructed by Tomas.” The police had been to see her and had questioned her, though they had been under very strict orders from her doctor to in no way upset her. Jamie had sat in on the interview which had the effect of keeping the questioning brief.
“I don’t know who yer avengin’ angel was,” Pat said, “but I’m goin’ to say a few prayers on his behalf tonight.”
“Me too,” she said, feeling vaguely troubled. She could have sworn she’d felt someone watching just before the shootings, just a presence that was different than the men who’d held her hostage.
“We’re goin’ to go while Isabelle is asleep here, or we might never get her away from ye.”
Kate gave her a quick hug before they left.
“I’m sorry, Kate. About Noah,” she said.
“I’m sorry, too, Pamela. You were there because of him. We might have lost you an’ the babby too. Please don’t fret yerself about it right now. We’ll talk when ye’re stronger.”
It was only the three of them then as Pat and Kate left with the children, Conor having given a solemn kiss to his new sister and then hugging his mother so tightly that she couldn’t breathe for a moment. The sun had set and there was a low flicker of light on the horizon outside the windows. Pamela realized suddenly how tired she was.
“You can sleep,” Jamie said, “I’m happy to just hold her.”
He looked down, silent, the dim light spangling his lashes. The baby was asleep in the crook of his arm, the delicate corona of her hair sparking red-gold as the light from the hall touched her and her father.
“Pamela. You know anything you need, or anything the children might need, I am more than happy to provide.”
“Except you,” she said, and then regretted the words immediately. “I’m sorry, Jamie, I shouldn’t have said that, it wasn’t fair.”
“What did you say except the truth?” he replied softly. “I will do my best to be there for all of you. You, Conor, Isabelle and this little one.”
“I know you will. I have complete faith in you.” It was true, he would do everything he possibly could for all of them. She could not ask for more than that. “We can figure it out as we go,” she finished softly.
When the hour grew late and it was clear Jamie was not leaving, a cot was moved into the room for him. A nurse closed the door so that they might have some privacy and the three of them settled in for the night.
Jamie stroked one finger over Kathleen’s head. Now that her hair was dry it was springing into delicate curls, gossamer-fine around her face.
“She reminds me of Stuart,” he said quietly. “She has the red hair and green eyes just as he did.”
She smiled. “I’m glad that she has red hair. Mostly, I’m incredibly grateful she’s healthy.”
Jamie nodded but did not speak. He looked up, eyes dark with emotion.
“I have no right to say it, Pamela, but I find tonight I cannot help it. I love you, and I promise you I’m going to make this right.”
“I love you too, Jamie.”
His gaze held hers for a long moment, their daughter between them. She thought of all the things which had brought them here to this moment and found within her the echo of Jamie’s own words to her, many months before. Within her, for this moment, there was no room for regret.
A little later, she fed Kathleen and then watched afterwards as Jamie changed her diaper and gently burped her. “Do you mind if I hold her a bit longer?” he asked, tucking the pink flannel blanket Kate had made for the baby more securely around her.
“Of course not,” she said, smiling, “I believe she’ll sleep soundest in your arms.”
Jamie lay down on the cot with Kathleen tucked in beside him and a pillow propped under his elbow. The baby settled with a small coo, closed her eyes and was asleep within seconds. Jamie leaned over and kissed her forehead, one hand cradling her small fiery head. Pamela’s throat grew tight looking at the two of them. She had never thought to see Jamie with a child of his blood in his arms. A healthy child, whole and sound and beautiful.
And so they slept father and daughter, the golden head and the downy red one glimmering in the low light from the bedside. Through the night, between spells of sleep, she watched them in their peace and wept a little for the family they would never be, and also for the family that they were.
Chapter Ninety-one
Cosan na Marbh
FATHER JIM ROSE FROM his prayers, and stood quiet for a moment at the wooden altar rail. The church was silent around him, though it had been as busy as a hive of bees earlier that day with the Ladies’ Aid Society meeting, and a bible class study group, which had become rather contentious concerning a passage about loose women. It had taken him a good half hour to calm the class down and wrap it up so that he might have his tea before it was fully night.
He took a breath and looked out the window beyond the nave. Much good it did him for it was as dark as forty black cats outside with the wind moaning and cackling to itself like a demented being.
It was a night for ghosts, or so his gran would have said. Raining cats and dogs with a heavy dose of sleet. He realized suddenly that there was someone in the church with him, for he felt a presence strongly, enough to send a ripple up his backbone and raise the fine hairs on his neck. He didn’t often get evening penitents coming in for confession in such miserable weather but occasionally a sinner would wander in from the streets looking to unburden his soul. Someone was in the confessional. There was the scent of the outdoors in the small church as if the person had brought the elements inside with him—pine and water and the twilight blue scent of fresh snow. There was no snow outside, just rain pissing down in proverbial buckets. The only place where there was snow in Ireland right now was high in the mountain passes.
He sighed. It was his job to listen to whatever this person needed to say but he had just taken a phone call from Patrick Riordan to say that Pamela was safely delivered of a wee girl. He had come into the chapel to light a candle and pray for the baby’s health. He knew the fears of both parents were well-founded though he had a sense that the baby would be just fine. He couldn’t really countenance any other thoughts for both Jamie and Pamela had suffered enough loss to last more than one lifetime. This child must be healthy and whole.
He adjusted his collar and touched his hand to the cross he wore around his neck before entering his half of the confessional.
The man on the other side of the screen was invi
sible, for the church was dark, lit only by the candles at the altar—lit in prayers for those departed, those lost, those mourned, those disappeared and never returned to the ones who waited for them.
“What can I do for you this evening?”
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“Do you wish to confess your sins, my son?”
“Aye, I do.”
Father Jim frowned slightly as he took his rosary out, wanting the security of its worn beads clasped in his palm. He could have sworn for a second that the voice on the other side of the screen was familiar for it had set off a small bell deep in his consciousness.
“Any time you’re ready,” he said. The booth felt tight, and he had a shortness of breath that was akin to the anxiety he had been host to ever since one terrible weekend in a cottage in the mountains where he’d been brought to hear the confession of a doomed man. “Begin where it’s easiest for you.”
There was a short, sharp laugh from the other side of the screen. “Easiest—I think it might be easiest to list the sins I haven’t committed. The list is long. Have ye time for this, Father?”
“Yes, of course I do.”
There was a deep breath from the other side of the screen and then a long sigh. The words just came after that, a sober recitation of fact that made the blood plunge toward his toes a little.
“I’ve committed murder. I’ve carried rage so long now it’s like breathin’ for me. I’ve been involved in crime an’ other things that would likely make yer blood run cold. I don’t know that there’s redemption for such as me, or if I should just resign myself to everlasting hellfire right now.” The tone didn’t match the words and the laugh he uttered at the end of this was without humor. Father Jim felt a strange sensation building in his stomach and small jets of adrenaline were going off throughout his body. He did know the voice, though he still couldn’t place it. The man was admitting to murder. This wasn’t entirely new in his experience for a man could not be a priest in this country and not have murder confessed to him at some point. Even if it was in a wee hillside hut with a blindfold over your head. The recitation of his sins after that was long, and Father Jim felt an exhaustion in the man’s words which was at odds with the youth of his voice.
In the Country of Shadows (Exit Unicorns Series Book 4) Page 101