‘Thank you for coming, Mr O’Leary. The mare is in the stables. Let me walk with you.’ Kitty shoved her hands into her pockets where they trembled out of sight. ‘Isn’t it fine today,’ she said lamely.
‘It’s just grand,’ he replied.
They walked round to the stables where the boy who had cycled into Ballinakelly with the letter was now sweeping. ‘Seamus, would you do me the favour of emptying my wheelbarrow? It’s in the garden, full of weeds. It can all go on the bonfire in the field. I’ll show Mr O’Leary my mare.’ The boy nodded, leaned his brush against the wall and hurried off.
Kitty opened the stable door and they stepped inside to where Kitty’s grey mare stood on a bed of straw, in rude health. Jack patted its neck and looked down at Kitty. ‘So, what’s the urgency?’
‘It’s Michael. He’s after me,’ she hissed, putting her hand on her chest to quieten her heart. ‘I’m afraid, Jack.’
‘What have you got to be afraid of Michael for?’ he asked, frowning.
‘He burned the castle, Jack.’
Jack nodded, not surprised. ‘I suspected as much.’
‘He burned the castle and he set a trap so the British would catch you red-handed.’
At this, Jack stopped patting the horse. ‘What are you saying, Kitty?’
‘I’m telling you the truth.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He told me himself.’
‘When?’
‘When I rode over to the farmhouse the morning after the fire. I knew it was him. I went to confront him.’
‘And he told you he’d betrayed me?’
‘Yes. He told me he burned the castle and betrayed you.’
‘Why would he do that now? We were fighting on the same side.’
‘Because of me.’ Her eyes glittered in the dark stable. ‘He didn’t want you to have me.’ The horse gave an impatient snort and nudged Jack for some attention. He put a hand on its muzzle absent-mindedly. ‘I would have told you, but you were arrested and then when we finally saw each other I didn’t know where to start.’
‘Well, you can start now.’ His voice was hard. He looked at Kitty steadily. ‘From the beginning.’
Kitty took a deep breath. ‘Bridie is little Jack’s mother.’
Jack reeled. ‘Jaysus!’
‘My father took her.’ She swallowed. ‘Michael claims he raped her.’ She shook her head vigorously. ‘But I can’t believe that. I won’t believe it. I don’t believe my father is capable of that sort of . . . violence.’ She hit the word hard and rubbed her neck. ‘So Michael burned the castle in revenge.’
‘Jaysus!’ he said again. ‘How did you come by the child?’
‘Bridie must have sent him to me somehow before she left for America. That’s why my father won’t let me come home, because Jack is his and he’s too ashamed to look at him.’ She took a deep breath, recalling the morning at the Doyles’ farmhouse. ‘Michael told me that while the RIC were all distracted up at the castle, you were stealing guns and taking them to a safe house. But he made it very clear he didn’t intend for you to get there.’
Jack pulled Kitty into his arms and held her fercely. ‘Michael didn’t betray me because I was in love with a Prod, but because he wanted you for himself. The bloody bastard!’
‘He’s been watching me, Jack. I’m frightened he’s going to hurt me.’
‘I won’t let him hurt you, Kitty.’ She closed her eyes, squeezing out a tear. How she longed to tell him that he already had.
Jack waited in a ditch for Michael Doyle. The sky was bright with stars but thick clouds gathered above the ocean, moving swiftly inland on an ill wind. He had fortified himself with whiskey and sufficiently blunted the edge of his anger so that he was no longer crazed and irrational. His heart was a stone in his chest. Because of Michael Doyle he had been locked away by the British. Because of Michael Doyle his dream of starting a new life in America with Kitty had been shattered. Because of Michael Doyle the girl he loved had been forced to leave her home and move to London where he couldn’t find her. The rage now simmered quietly in his gut as he waited for Michael Doyle.
The eerie hooting of an owl was carried on the breeze from the distant woods where the shriek of the Banshee came loud and often these days. The sea was a constant hiss as it crashed against the rocks in great swells. Cows slept in spite of the wind and occasionally lowed. Jack heard the rustle of a small animal in the heather and then the sound of footsteps on the track as Michael slowly made his way home from the pub.
It was a lonely road, that road from Ballinakelly to the Doyle farmhouse. It wound through the rocky hills, meandering softly like a stream, benign in the moonlight. The footsteps grew louder, scrunching on the grit and stones. At last the black, burly figure of a man came into view, silhouetted against the charcoal sky. Jack got to his feet and walked into the middle of the road. Michael flinched. He had too much of a history of ambushes not to be alarmed.
‘Jack O’Leary,’ he said and his voice betrayed his relief and the fact that he was drunk. ‘I thought you were a hoor of a garda! What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve come to see you.’
Michael swayed like a ship’s mast. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ He slurred his words as if they were too big for his tongue. The two men faced each other – two men who had once fought side by side as brothers.
‘Did you or did you not burn down Castle Deverill?’ Jack’s eyes glinted like steel as the wind tore a fleeting hole in the clouds, allowing the moon to shine down like a light.
‘What if I did? That castle was a symbol of British supremacy. You know that. It had to go.’ He laughed wildly. ‘Is that why you’ve waited all night in the ditch to see me, Jack O’Leary?’
‘You didn’t do it because it was British. You did it to avenge your sister. Don’t lie to me, Michael!’ Michael grimaced but said nothing. ‘You set a trap for me, didn’t you? You wanted me out of the way!’
‘Who the devil have you been speaking to? Get your facts right, O’Leary! Why would I want to lose a good man?’ He blinked hard, trying to remain focused.
‘Because I had the woman you couldn’t have!’
‘You think I’d send you to your death over a woman! Jaysus, you had too much time to think inside!’
‘I didn’t think enough! I never thought you’d rat on one of your own!’
‘You’ve been listening to women’s gossip,’ he snarled.
As Michael’s lip curled Jack realized just how naive he’d been. ‘You told the Tans I’d be at the railway station, didn’t you?’ he said, the full truth exploding in a blast of clarity. ‘That’s why you walked free when I was put away! A warrant was out for both our arrests, but you walked free. You bastard! I should have worked it out, but I never thought you’d stoop so low.’
‘You’ve lost your mind, Jack. Go home and get some rest!’ Michael began to walk again, but Jack stood in his way.
‘What are you doing sniffing around Kitty Deverill’s place? What business do you have to be there?’ he demanded.
‘What business is it of yours to ask?’
‘I’m asking now.’
‘She has my nephew or didn’t you know?’
‘You leave that boy alone.’
Michael grinned, his teeth white against his inky face. ‘Has she sent you out like a hound to warn me off?’
‘You’ll not lay a finger on her or her boy. Do you hear?’ Jack raised his voice against the wind. ‘You’ll leave them both alone.’
‘When did you become so soft? The fight’s not over. But you sold out, didn’t you, Jack O’Leary! There was a time you burned for a free and independent Ireland, and yet now you want to settle down by the hearth with that whore—’ Jack’s fist hit him before he could finish his sentence. Michael recoiled, putting his fingers to his face and tasting the blood on his tongue. ‘Jaysus! What’s got into you?’
Jack was trembling. He held up his fist. ‘You call her a wh
ore again and I’ll finish you off for good.’
But Michael Doyle enjoyed taunting him and, propelled by drink, was unable to stop. ‘She asked for it, Jack. She came to my house. She came to me willingly. I didn’t ask her but I gave her what she wanted.’ He narrowed his eyes and smirked. ‘I threw her onto the table and fucked her, Jack! I fucked her from behind like a whore. Did she tell you that?’ Jack was stunned. He hesitated, arm in the air, trying to make sense of Michael’s words. He was slow to react: Michael’s fist dealt him a blow to the stomach before he had time to strike. Jack bent double and gasped for breath. ‘Were you not man enough to take her, Jack? Did you have to leave it to me to show her what a real man is capable of?’ Michael kneed him in the ribs and Jack fell to the ground with a groan. ‘Don’t you ever threaten me again, do you hear?’ he shouted. ‘We’re not on the same side any more, Jack. You were too lily-livered to continue the fight. Michael Collins sold us down the river and you were right there behind him, happy to give it all away! But look what happened to him? Dead on the road in Béal na Bláth. The war is not over, Jack. And you’re on the losing side.’
Michael drew his foot back and kicked him in the kidneys, but Jack’s fingers had found a large stone and were curling around it. His fury numbed the pain in his ribs. All he could think of was his beloved Kitty, thrown over the table, and Michael thrusting into her. He lifted the stone off the ground and threw it at Michael, hoping it would make contact somewhere. Hoping it would give him time. It did more than that. It struck him on the temple. Michael fell backwards, hitting the grass like a vanquished giant in a fairy tale.
Jack staggered to his feet, holding his winded stomach. The clouds opened again and the silver eye gazed down at Michael Doyle, nursing his wounded head. ‘Jaysus, Jack!’ he cried, writhing in agony. Jack was so full of rage he wanted to finish him off. He wanted to kick the life out of him. But Michael was drunk, and helpless now as he tended to his injury with a trembling hand and Jack didn’t have the flint heart to kill him.
‘Don’t you ever go near Kitty again, do you understand?’ he growled. ‘Or I’ll finish what I started and the Devil will take your soul.’
The following morning Kitty was in the dining room having breakfast when there was a knock at the door. A moment later Bridgeman stood in the doorway. ‘Mr O’Leary is here to see you, Mrs Trench,’ he said.
Robert frowned at Kitty. ‘Isn’t that the vet?’
‘Yes,’ Kitty replied calmly.
‘Did you call for him?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’ Robert raised his eyebrows. ‘Odd lot, the Irish.’
Kitty smiled. ‘Darling, that’s not kind. I’ll go and see what he wants.’ Kitty hurried into the hall. When she saw Jack, one eye black, his lip cut and bruised, her heart went cold.
‘Good day to you, Mrs Trench.’ He took off his cap.
Kitty stared at him in horror. In her mind’s eye she saw Miss Grieve dead on the gravel. Hadn’t they been here before? ‘What have you done?’ she whispered.
‘Michael Doyle won’t be troubling you any more,’ he replied flatly. ‘I’d have killed him if he hadn’t been so blind drunk.’
Kitty drew in a sharp gulp of air and put her hand on the door frame to steady herself. ‘I think you should take a look at her, Mr O’Leary,’ she said loudly, striding past him towards the stables. She didn’t speak until they were alone. Only the mare was once more privy to their conversation.
‘Oh Jack. What happened?’ she asked, gazing up at his battered face.
‘Why didn’t you tell me, Kitty?’ he groaned. The dreadful pain in his eyes told her that he knew what Michael had done. ‘Why didn’t you . . . ?’
‘I couldn’t . . .’ she whispered.
‘That’s not something you can carry on your own, Kitty. It’s too big for one person.’ He put a hand on her arm. ‘I would have helped you bear it.’
‘I was ashamed.’
‘Of what? You have nothing to be ashamed of. You didn’t ask for it.’
Kitty’s face burned. ‘But I went there, Jack. I went there of my own accord. I went to shout at him for burning the castle. What was I thinking?’
He took her stricken face in his hands and held her gaze. ‘You’re a bold girl, Kitty Deverill. But boldness isn’t a crime and he had no right to touch you. No right at all. May he burn in Hell.’ He wiped her tears with gentle thumbs and pressed his lips to her forehead. ‘Let me carry this for you, my darling. Let it all go.’
Kitty howled against his jacket. ‘I can’t live without you, Jack,’ she said, wondering how she had ever thought it possible. ‘And I don’t want to.’
Chapter 35
Kitty rode her mare over the hills at a gallop. The sky was a rich display of indigo and gold as the sun slowly made its way towards the horizon to dawn on the other side of the world. The sea was a violet bed of satin, its foam like lace, its rippling waves like folds rising and falling gently as the wind swept over it in a tender caress. Jack’s house was isolated, at the bottom of a dusty track, surrounded by woolly fields and a sandy inlet that went out to the ocean. He was waiting for her there, ready to take her horse to the stable where there was water and shelter. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. This time his face was full of joy. The lines of trouble had eased, his eyes were no longer windows into pain and his mouth curled with delight as it always used to do before Michael Doyle had taken away everything he loved.
Holding her hand he led her into the cottage. The fire was lit in the parlour. The place smelt of turf smoke, dusty books and baking bread. He turned back and grinned and in that moment he was the boy she had known all those years ago, with his hawk and his dog and his love of every living creature, even the spiders and rats that Bridie had been so afraid of. He stepped onto the stair where the carpet was frayed with age and began to climb. Neither said a word as she followed him upstairs. There was something magical in the silence that neither wanted to break.
He took her to his bedroom. He didn’t have much: a large bed, a simple wooden chest of drawers, a wardrobe, a standing mirror and a bookcase. The window was open, the curtains billowing on the breeze that carried on its breath the earthy smell of early spring. His eyes told her he had waited years for this. They told her that his love had no limits and no conditions. They reassured her that it would heal the wounds of the past and reduce to ash the residual memory of Michael Doyle.
He slipped his hands around her neck, beneath her hair where she was still hot from her ride, and caressed her cheeks with his thumbs. He gazed upon her face as if his desire was to commit every feature to memory. They needn’t rush. They had time. Here in this remote cottage they were a world apart. Jack bent his head and all the longing, all the dreams and fantasies of youth, went into his kiss. Kitty ran her hands over his shirt, feeling the warmth of his body beneath, and closed her eyes. She wasn’t afraid. In Jack’s arms she was safe. In his familiar embrace she could erase everything that had come before.
She pulled his shirt out of his trousers and unbuttoned it. She traced his ribs with her fingertips, where the bruise had muted to a dirty brown, and over his chest. Unlike Robert’s, Jack’s was hairy and muscular, the chest of a man who hadn’t the money to pay others to do his work for him. Kitty found it deeply arousing and pressed her ear to hear his heart beating beneath and to inhale the scent that she knew so well.
Jack tugged her blouse out of her slacks and lifted it over her head. She stood in her chemise and breeches, the skin of her shoulders pale against the red of her hair as it tumbled about them in thick waves. Unable to resist, he sank his face into her neck and kissed her there. The sensation of his rough bristles and lips was too much and Kitty pulled away and sat on the bed so that Jack could help her remove her boots and breeches. They both sensed an urgency now, an accelerating impulse to entwine so tightly that nothing could untangle them. Kitty’s inhibitions had no place in this room, with Jack who had known and loved her for as long as they
could both remember.
He stood at the foot of the bed and unbelted his trousers. As he bent his head his brown hair fell over his forehead and Kitty was reminded of the time he had helped her hunt for frogs in the river. He was still the same, just more weathered, time and experience having deepened the lines around his mouth and eyes, and darkened his skin. She felt her heart expand with gratitude that God had seen fit to preserve him, in spite of everything he had put himself through.
When at last Jack climbed over the bed to lie beside her, it was as if the intervening years had never been. He ran his hands over the soft undulations of her body as if he were the first and she took pleasure from his caresses as if her trust in a man’s touch had never been broken. As Jack made love to her she discovered that this act that she had so abhorred was not a repulsive thing after all, but the manifestation of two people’s deep and enduring devotion.
Robert’s novel was published at the beginning of May. Kitty was the first to read it. She lay on a rug on the lawn, surrounded by flowers and shrubs which she had planted, inhaling the sweet spring air and devouring the love story that Robert had so clearly written for her. It was a beautiful tale and Kitty couldn’t put it down. He wrote with a fluid, lyrical style that drew the reader into the plot, and on occasions she laughed out loud, which was unusual because Robert wasn’t particularly witty in person. She was so proud of her husband. Although he had been paid very little for it, she hoped that it would sell well enough to justify writing another. They had sold the house in London, turning their back on England forever. She had committed to a future in Ireland. It was where she belonged. It was where she was happy at last and it was where she could be close to Jack.
The spring flowered into summer and little Jack was growing boisterous. He loved exploring the beaches, playing with the dogs Robert had bought from Peter’s bitch’s litter and having fun with his cousins. Kitty didn’t seek out her father. She visited her grandmother and the Shrubs, spent time with her sister and Grace and sneaked off to see Jack whenever she was able to disappear without raising suspicion. As long as her father didn’t wish to see her, she would give him a wide berth. She was too busy thinking about Jack to care.
Songs of Love and War Page 41