by Ann Moore
He leaned on his shovel and wiped the sweat from his forehead, then paused as a light came on in an upstairs room of the big house below and the shadow of a figure crossed the window.
Abban watched him for a moment, then said, “Hard to be so near, to see her, but unable to offer a bit of comfort.”
Morgan nodded. “They say she fainted dead away when the soldiers rode up with his body.”
“I don’t think it was from a broken heart, though, Morgan boy.”
The two men looked at one another.
“Someone poisoned his food, and it wasn’t Brigid or the wee child.”
Morgan looked again at the house. “Are you saying our Grace is capable of murder?”
Abban moved closer for a better view; Grace was now in the yard, crossing to the barn. “I’d not call it murder,” he said softly. “Who else was there to defend the life of her child and herself? Must be a terrible thing for her to bear,” he added, shaking his head. “A secret like that.”
Morgan watched her leave the barn and carry something to the house.
“Best we finish up and get away.” Abban pulled him gently back toward the grave. “Nothing we can do for her now.”
Morgan studied Abban’s face for a long moment. “There is something,” he said. “If you’re willing to risk that old neck of yours yet again.”
Abban gave him a weary smile. “And wasn’t I just waiting for yourself to bring it up?”
The two men finished filling in the grave, smoothing the mound of dirt and covering it with a blanket of pine needles. Anchored in the ground at its head was a wooden cross that bore the inscription NOLAN JACK SULLIVAN, 1836–1847, IRELAND’S BRAVE BOY.
They took off their hats and bowed their heads in a moment of silent prayer, looking up again when a raven’s cry broke the stillness.
“Where’s he being held, then?” Abban asked.
“Cork City Jail.” Morgan pulled his cap down low over his brow and turned up his coat collar against the chill.
Abban did the same. “Better pick up your feet then, boy,” he said, starting off down the hill. “’Tis a long, long walk to Cork City.”
Twenty-four
EDWARD Donnelly was disgusted with Ireland and everyone in it. How his brother could have taken an Irish wife and made a home here was beyond his comprehension, although the girl was certainly good-looking. By Irish standards, at any rate. Too thin to provide a man much warmth on a cold winter night, but that was merely his own taste in women, and Bram had always had an odd eye.
His first night in the house, damp even for late April, had been troubling at best. There were no servants to attend to his comfort and no head cook, other than this Brigid woman, a mere shadow of a person who was painful to look at and difficult to understand for all her mumbling in that strange tongue, and yet she alone inspired in him some sympathy as she knew to take his coat and put a whiskey in his hand. There appeared to be no other man about the place and it was the Irish wife who saw to the horse and carriage he’d hired. The house itself was in ill-repair. Several windows were broken and the roof was in need of attention, as one chimney had collapsed and shutters hung askew. He could see no animals other than a bony cow in the barn with his own horse, but chickens lived in a back room on the first floor. The Irish wife had apologized for this, explaining the necessity of hiding them from thieves, but he found this hard to believe, as he was familiar with the Irish penchant for keeping livestock in one’s living quarters. He had witnessed the piles of hardened manure in front of cabin doorways throughout his ride to Donnelly House, and had observed the pale, listless children sitting on top. Horrible-looking children, most of them, sticks for arms but enormous bellies and swollen legs. And in the city—foul, disgusting place with lanes reeking of stink—he had even seen children with hair on their faces! A physician whom he’d befriended on the boat had said he might see such things as a result of poor diet and hygiene, and had advised him to avoid crowds, as the disease in this godforsaken place was on everyone. He’d expected the same kind of low-living degradation one sees in London slums, but he never imagined it to be so inescapable, and the sight of wizened children’s faces covered with hair was something he sorely wished to put out of his mind.
His brother’s daughter was no monkey, thank God. A weak, frail little thing, confined to her bed, a mess of reddish hair like that of her mother, but clearly the high forehead and strong chin that marked every Donnelly. The baby boy, too, appeared to have escaped the poverty of character predominant in his Irish countrymen. Though he showed no real sign of resemblance to the mother and lacked the strong features of the father, he was still an infant. In an embarrassed mumble, the mother explained that her milk had dried up and she was feeding it cow’s milk instead. Apparently, it had not quite taken to this change, and was thin and spotty. It fussed a great deal and was only comforted in the arms of the Brigid woman, who sang an unfamiliar melody to it with great repetition.
He’d asked to see the body of his brother, and was surprised to find him laid out in humble field clothes on the drawing room table. There was no light and the draperies had to be drawn back in order for him to look upon the face he barely remembered. It had aged, and the trauma done to it had not enhanced any part of its appearance. The room was cold, as befit the keeping of a corpse, but Edward felt more than a chill of damp. There was no stir to the air, as if no one had looked in on the body since its laying out. The only mourners who stood in attendance in the outer room were the wife, the housekeeper, and an old man they called Jack, who looked as if he could crawl into a grave himself and be right at home there. Condolences had arrived from two former business associates, as well as from Captain Wynne and the O’Flahertys of Dublin. But that was all. He’d imagined the many tenants, caps in hand, women weeping, paying their respects to their dead squire, but not a one had come to the door. Ungrateful lot. Mean-spirited, he was sure of it. The books were a mess, but it looked as though none of them had paid any rent in over a year! No wonder his brother was unable to send money home if he could not run an estate any better than this!
All this trouble and annoyance, and he’d not had anything substantial to eat since he arrived—nothing more than a bowl of thin soup and some hard bread. Apparently, there really was a shortage of food in this godforsaken country. He had assumed that those of better class could buy what they needed, but the wife said this took special permission from the captain of the guard and entailed a trip to Cork City. Then the food had to be smuggled back home against the threat of looters and bandits. It was simply mind-boggling.
The funeral was to be held this afternoon, after which he hoped to look over his brother’s affairs and come to some agreement with the Irish wife. She, of course, was not entitled to anything from the estate, but would act as guardian for her son’s best interests. If, of course, she appeared competent, which he doubted. In the meantime, he would take a nap and dream of dinner in London.
It was a small funeral. Brain’s landowner friends, those who were still in the country, refused to come out for fear of ambush. Grace’s family was there: her father, looking tired and confused; Granna, who kissed Grace immediately, cooed at the baby in her arms, then somberly greeted Mister Donnelly, telling him quietly what a fine brother he’d had in the Squire and how they’d all loved him like a son; Ryan and Aghna stood wide-eyed and fearful, each with a hand on young Thomas, who stood between them. They’d brought a few of the neighbors to make a show—the O’Dugans and Julia Ryan—and Grace was grateful for that, as Brigid had stayed behind to watch over Mary Kathleen and Old Jack, in his bed and looking to die before the day was out.
The Reverend Birdwell, from her mother’s old church, had come at Grace’s request and had given a very tactful, Protestant service beside the grave. Grace did not realize she’d been holding her breath until it came time to throw in the fistful of dirt. This she did with a steady hand, much to her surprise. Relief bloomed within her with each shovelful of dirt tha
t hit the coffin. The group then returned to Donnelly House.
Refreshments were meager, but no one said a word, until finally Reverend Birdwell broke the silence.
“And is Sean not well?” he asked Grace with concern.
Grace glanced at Granna, who moved closer and took the whimpering baby into her own arms.
“Sean’s not well, no, Reverend,” Granna said quietly. “He lies abed.”
“Who is this Sean person?” Edward looked down his long nose at the old woman.
“He’s Grace’s brother, sir,” she answered. “A fine boy. Crippled, though, and often sickly.”
Edward wrinkled his nose in distaste. “This is not a family ailment, I hope?” He glanced at the baby in Granna’s arms.
“Oh, no, sir,” she said quickly. “He was in an accident years ago, trying to save his mother—my daughter, bless her heart—who drowned.”
Edward’s eyes widened in alarm. “Oh, my.” He downed his glass of sherry and looked about for something stronger.
Grace brought out the whiskey and filled everyone’s glasses. She was just about to excuse herself to look in on Mary Kathleen when the front door rattled, and in stormed Captain Wynne, followed by his guard.
His eyes found Edward’s face in the group at once. “Forgive the intrusion, Mister Donnelly, sir, but we’ve come to search for a fugitive.” He motioned for one of the soldiers to go upstairs, the other to search the rooms downstairs.
Out the window, Grace could see soldiers heading for the barn and storage sheds. “Who is it you’re looking for?” she asked.
“Your brother, of course, Missus Donnelly.” He eyed her carefully, caught between ready suspicion and necessary respect in the presence of her brother-in-law. “He has made an escape.”
“This is outrageous!” Edward puffed out his chest and strode across the room. “As you may be aware, Captain, we have buried my brother today and are in a time of mourning.”
“Yes, sir, again my apologies.” Captain Wynne held his ground. “But Missus Donnelly’s brother, who was being held in connection with the Squire’s murder, has escaped, aided by two other wanted men, and we think they will attempt to see their families before trying to leave the country.”
“Is this true?” Edward turned toward Grace.
“Absolutely not,” she insisted. “My brother’s a cripple!”
“You are not aware, madam, that he is accused of murdering your husband?” Red spots appeared on his cheeks as his voice rose in doubt.
Patrick cleared his throat and stepped forward. “The boy was taken in for questioning two days ago. We told Grace he was sick in bed as she’s got enough grief on her shoulders.” He stood next to his daughter, his hand on her arm. “We stand by his innocence, and we’ve heard nothing of an escape.”
“But he’s been charged with murdering my brother?” Edward looked incredulously from Patrick to the captain.
“Yes.” Captain Wynne reached into his breast pocket and pulled out an official-looking document. “This is his confession.”
“Confession!” Patrick spat. “The boy’s no more guilty of murdering Squire Donnelly than I am!”
“Let me see that.” Edward snatched the papers and looked through them. “This appears to be in order,” he said. “Your brother has confessed to the shooting. He says he acted alone and not as part of a conspiracy, that he was motivated by your ill treatment.” He glanced again at the last paper, then passed it to Grace. “This is your brother’s signature?”
“I’m not sure,” she said evenly, though with its confident hand and obvious flourish, it could be no other.
Edward’s eyes narrowed. “What is this so-called ‘ill treatment’ to which your brother refers?”
“The Squire beat her near to death,” Patrick said quietly but clearly. He did not lower his eyes.
“She lost—” Ryan began.
“Nearly lost the baby,” Granna interrupted, kissing the cheek of the little boy in her arms.
An uncomfortable silence filled the room.
“It appears he is not here,” the captain announced after a soldier entered and shook his head. He turned to Grace. “But if he should turn up and you do not report it, then I will arrest you, as well.”
Anger flushed Grace’s cheeks and she pulled herself up to her full height. “I’ll not give up my own brother to British soldiers,” she answered defiantly.
“He’s a murderer.” The captain stared her down.
“He’s not capable of murder, and you know it, having seen his poor twisted body. And he’s weak in the mind, as well. Swayed by the desire to be a hero.”
“Ah, but I have his confession.” He smiled.
“No, I have his confession.” Grace held it up, tore it in half, and dropped both pieces into the fire.
One of the soldiers scrambled to the hearth, pushed her out of the way, and retrieved the singed and smoking documents, which he handed to the captain.
“I ought to arrest you right now for that,” he said between gritted teeth.
“Here, here now.” Edward put his hand on the captain’s arm. “She’s a grieving widow, not herself, as unpleasant as it all seems. I shall have finished my business here in a day or two, can you not wait until then to pursue this matter?”
The captain looked from Grace to Edward and back again. “You’ve not heard the last of me, Missus Donnelly,” he said, then turned on his heel and left.
Edward waited until the soldiers had ridden to the road before he turned on Grace. “Now, my dear sister-in-law, perhaps you’d better explain yourself. It appears your family has been putting on a front for my benefit and I would like to know why.”
Grace thought fast. “They have found it hard to forgive him the beating he gave me on one occasion,” she said, moving to the fire and standing with her back to the heat. “They have come today only out of respect for me.” She smiled at them, but her eyes warned them to agree with everything she was about to say. “I forgave my husband and came back to bear him the son he had so longed for. You cannot know how troubled he was this past year with the letters from your father about money and there being none to give. You’ve seen the books. He had to sell the mills and other things to keep us in what little food we have. Surely you can understand the frustration that builds in a man when he cannot provide for his family,” she implored. “And indeed must sit by and watch all he has built come to naught.” She lowered her voice and looked away toward the window. “I am ashamed for him to say it, but he fell into the habit of drink for a short time. I provoked his anger by giving away what little food we had to strangers on the road and he just went round the bend.” She forced earnestness into her voice. “Never was a man more contrite and loving than my husband when he’d realized what he’d done. He swore off the drink, cleared his head, and turned his hand to the easing of our plight.”
“And your brother did not realize you had reconciled?” Edward found himself wanting to believe her—she was beguiling in an Irish sort of way.
Grace shook her head. “Sean is no murderer. My husband was ambushed by a renegade band of evicted tenants—of this I am sure.”
Patrick nodded. “Our Sean has always been too close to his sister, as she was his company all through their growing up. He’s claimed the deed as his own to appear a hero in her eyes, but it’s no more than that.”
“That captain seems quite convinced of his guilt,” Edward said dubiously.
“He must bring someone to justice,” Patrick answered. “Squire Donnelly was a man to be reckoned with in these parts, and of course, he’s English.”
“Of course,” Edward murmured. He turned away and looked out again at the dismal darkening sky.
“You must be exhausted,” Grace said at once. “All the travel and turmoil.”
“Aye,” the others agreed, nodding and moving toward the door.
“We must be riding for home now, Grace.” Patrick embraced his daughter, then stepped aside. “We’ll stop
at the Sullivans and take little Mary Kate with us. I’ll bring her back in a day or two.”
Grace nodded gratefully. They’d worked this out in private, knowing that Mary Kathleen might well let it slip that Phillip was not her brother.
“Good night then, Mister Donnelly. Sorry for your troubles. May your brother rest in peace and may you have safe travel home.”
Edward accepted the outstretched hands offered him by the men, as well as the women’s shy farewells. When Grace had ushered them out into the night, he ran a hand over his face and felt how deep the weariness ran. This was an odd house full of sly doings. The whole country was sly and unsettled; he would be glad to leave it. He poured himself another whiskey—the one good thing about this place—and was about to go upstairs when he heard a mewling from the cradle by the fire. He went to it and peered in at the face of the boy who lay wrapped within. A Donnelly boy. His own blood. He could see some resemblance now that he looked closely; it was there in the set of the eyes and the jut of the chin. Yes, clearly a Donnelly. He felt a kinship to the child and pictured himself the guiding mentor of a strong, intelligent young man. But that would never be. He didn’t intend to ever see Ireland again. Perhaps when the boy was old enough for education, he would send for him, he mused, still enjoying the image of himself as benefactor. But no, he shook his head. Too Irish by then. The accent would keep him out of good society; his mind would be undisciplined, his will unruly. He laid a finger against the child’s cheek and was rewarded with a smile and a coo. Phillip Edward, they called him. The old man would like that. For all his brashness and head-strong ways, Bram had been the favored brother in the Donnelly home, and his father had hoped until the end that the Irish estate would fail and he’d have his youngest son back again, contrite and grateful for reacceptance. Now Bram was dead and Lord Donnelly was being eaten away by guilt and grief. He’d lost interest in financial affairs and Edward was not yet ready to assume such responsibility—he still enjoyed a life of relative ease with little demand made upon him. But a grandson might rekindle the old man’s interest in life; Bram’s son, a namesake, might well convince the old man that he’d been given a second chance. And if Edward were to rescue this poor child from his ignorant Irish relations and bring him back to England under his guardianship … well, he might just rise at last in his father’s estimations. Edward smiled warmly at the baby in its cradle. It might just work. He eyed the whiskey in his glass, then raised it.