“I think I’ll wait outside.” James pointed to the door and left his brother to figure things out.
* * *
Sarah caught Joseph’s gaze and glanced away. He remained standing. “Why are you here, Joseph?” She couldn’t look at him and keep her voice normal, but smoothing her skirt seemed to help. Only a short while ago he stood with Shannon, their heads bent close over Wee Joseph. Just like a family. She blinked back the threatening tear.
“I wanted to speak with you about something.” He paced. It must be important.
“Is the cottage satisfactory?” Again, she glanced up, but still couldn’t hold his gaze. Instead, she watched his feet walk back and forth over her mother’s imported carpet.
“Fine, fine. I spend so little time there now. You probably don’t need to keep going. What with Wee Joseph with my parents and my eating most meals with them, you needn’t work so hard at the cottage.”
“Oh.” Her heart dropped. Again, she was no longer needed. “I don’t mind, really.” This time she caught and held his gaze. Please don’t take the cottage from me too.
“Sarah,” He coughed and stared at the floor. “I… um… you love Wee Joseph, don’t you?”
“Like my own.” Would he take him away from her as well?
“I’ve been thinking. We’ve been friends for a long time, right?”
Sarah nodded. Where was this going?
“The Widow needs to be able to have a life of her own. Wee Joseph needs a mother.” Joseph paced harder now. Was he about to tell her he planned to marry Shannon? How many times must her heart break? She would leave this place. She couldn’t stay here any longer. Where could she go?
Joseph dropped to one knee and took her hand.
“I was thinking we should get married.”
All air sucked from her chest. Did she gasp out loud? Those words, those were the words she had longed to hear.
She blinked. “What did you say?”
“I just asked you to marry me. You would be able to be a full-time mother to Wee Joseph. You and…”
And then she heard it, or rather, realized she hadn’t heard it. Never once had Joseph said anything about love between them. Nothing had been said of his feelings for her.
He only wanted a substitute for Kathleen.
Sarah rose to her full height and mustered every ounce of dignity she possessed. “No thank you, Master Crockett. As you have pointed out to me more than once, I am not Kathleen.”
She fled the room, closing the door on her hopes and dreams.
Chapter Twelve
Anger oozed from every pore. Sarah began up the stairs feeling embarrassed and hurt. By the time she reached her bedroom, her feelings had expanded into full-blown rage. What made him think he could just use her to replace Kathleen? Did he think so little of her? Did he know her so little to think she’d marry him just to give his son a mother?
She picked up the hand mirror on her dressing table. Her image reflected red-rimmed eyes and a blotchy face. Tears made one ugly. Her hand reacted, the mirror raised for a dramatic throw. Only she stopped, the last drop of common sense hitting its mark. She flopped on her bed. The mirror dropped from her hand a safe distance from the carpeted floor.
“Why, Lord? Why is this so hard? Why can’t he love me?”
It has only been six months.
“I know. But he asked me to marry him. Why? How could he do that?”
Isn’t that what you want?
“Not without his love. I couldn’t bear it without his love.”
Love bears all things, Sarah.
“But not this. It is too hard.” She sat up and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I need to leave. I’ll visit mother’s family in Glasgow.”
What will that change?
“I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW.” She began gathering clothes and travel necessities.
What about your promise?
Sarah froze. The promise. The reason she had spent so much time helping. The reason she had not moved on with her life.
That promise.
“I can’t keep it.” Her knees buckled beneath her and she slumped in a heap, sobbing. “I can’t.”
She’d never run from a challenge in her life. But this was no mere challenge. It was everything. “I can’t keep it, Lord. Don’t ask me. It’s too hard. I just can’t do it.” She waited for the voice inside to argue, but all she heard was What about your promise?
* * *
“What were you thinking?”
Joseph seldom saw his father this angry. He didn’t like feeling as if he were again a small child. “Maybe I wanted to check on something here at the house? I don’t know. What do you want me to say? When I finished my business at the Stewarts’, James had gone. I chose to come here before going home. More habit than thinking.”
“I was explicit. No one is to be out after dark. No one is to go anywhere alone. That wasn’t only for the women, Joseph. Did you even carry a sidearm?”
“It’s back at the cottage.” His father started to respond, but Joseph cut him off. “Father, I’m sorry. We were together, but he gave me some privacy with what I had to do. I thought he only stepped outside the door. He probably figured to go on to the cottage, thinking I’d catch up. I’m sure he’s just fine.”
His father, normally a gentle, caring man had also been a soldier. This business with the Combers probably felt like war to him, leaving him to pace the floor, a tiger ready to strike, his fist pounding into his palm. Joseph had never seen his father like this.
“What would you want me to do, Father?”
“It’s a little late for that now, do you not think?”
Joseph stared at the floor. He knew he was wrong. His father still worried about him, about the family, about the community. He shouldn’t have given him more worry.
As if Antoine read his mind, he waved his hand erasing the words from the air. “Oh, I am sorry. Stay here tonight, and pray James is safe at your cottage. Tomorrow we will look for your brother.” Antoine patted Joseph’s shoulder as he left the room, shaking his head, though Joseph could have sworn he heard him mumble again, “What were you thinking?”
* * *
“What was I thinking?” Alain-Robert mused as he slipped out the door of The Stray Dog. He walked around back to the stand of elms where, after finding some privacy among the trees, he stopped to relieve himself. He had nursed his tankard of ale as long as he could, avoiding everyone.
Everyone but the host.
One didn’t avoid Cullen O’Keefe so much as Cullen O’Keefe blended in. He wasn’t what one might call handsome. Neither was he ugly. If anything, he was round. His head was round, his eyes were buggy, his nose, bulbous. His mouth naturally formed a circle when deep in thought, leaving small rosettes of color on his plump cheeks. He had a dirty blond circlet of hair left on his pate surrounding a bald spot at his crown. And, it seemed he had the appearance of being about as tall as he was wide. Cullen O’Keefe was a round little man who tended to roll in and around the conversations at the Stray Dog without anyone taking much notice.
To be that invisible proved to be an art worthy of cultivation.
Enough mind wanderings. He would have to start for home soon.
But he didn’t want to go, not yet. A little while longer, and no one at home would notice him. He preferred this easier way. Disappear and no one expected anything of you.
A light from the shebeen gleamed, brightening the night. Someone left the tavern. To wander home, he supposed.
And then it was dark again.
He wanted to go back in but lingered a moment so his eyes could adjust. No need to trip on the way.
As his pupils again became accustomed to the darkness, Alain-Robert de Grillet realized he was not alone. Someone, no, make that two, were ahead of him on the path.
He froze, using the low branches of a large elm for cover. The figures leaned into one another, one supporting the other, their voices indecipherably slurring. Then they
stopped, and the one on the left leaned against a tree.
Hearing a thud like a dropped melon, Alain-Robert watched in horror as one figure again struck the other one.
Transfixed, he watched the single dark figure retreat into The Stray Dog. Just as the door opened, light poured out, and the figure turned to survey his handiwork.
Alain-Robert closed his eyes and slid down the side of the elm. Arms wrapped around his legs. He shook uncontrollably. “What do I do? What do I do? I am such a fool. Stupid, stupid, fool.” He pounded his head on his trembling fists.
Maybe the man wasn’t dead. Maybe he needed help. Alain-Robert sat straight. But if he helped the man, would the attacker know who he was?
The man was probably already dead. But if he wasn’t… Alain-Robert’s head banged into the tree.
“Ouch.”
Terrified at the sound of his own voice, he jumped to his feet and scanned the area once more. There. On the pathway. Who was it? Had he heard?
Alain-Robert recognized the whistle before he saw the face. Even so, just his gait gave the man away. Perhaps he should step out and explain what he’d seen. But should he? Make up your mind before it’s too late.
And then it was.
The whistler tripped and fell headlong over the injured man. Alain-Robert held his breath, quiet as stone, as the whistler stood, and dusted off his pants. An exclamation echoed in the darkness. The whistler picked up the injured man and carried him to The Stray Dog. He kicked at the plank door and shouted to those inside.
* * *
“Hey, Cullen, open—” The door nearly knocked James over, the last thing he wanted. The man he carried didn’t need any more injuries.
“Who ye got there?
“Don’t know, Cullen. Help me lay him down on the bar.”
“What d’ye do?”
James wasn’t sure who called out the question, but he hadn’t expected to hear such a sneer. It made him pause a second while setting the man down to see who he carried. The wounded side of his head turned away. At once everyone recognized the battered man.
“Christopher Dougherty.”
“Ye killed Christopher Dougherty, ye did.” While the words came from his left, the push came from his right.
“No. No, I just found him on the pathway. I brought him here to get him some help.”
No one listened.
“Hold on, give me some room. We don’t know if he’s dead or alive—let me check.” James pushed the crowd back from the body.
One close look told the tale.
“He kilt Christopher Dougherty. James Crockett kilt Christopher Dougherty, he did.” Seamus Flaherty led the charge, but Kevin O’Rourke shouted the words. “Ye had words today, and Christopher said the Crocketts threatened his very life. Now look what he’s gone and done.”
The crowd pressed in.
A line of sweat trickled past his ear to his neck as his pulse picked up speed. James now knew fear—this moment presented real, unadulterated fear.
Glass shattered.
Everyone spun toward the sound. Cullen O’Keefe stood atop a wobbly table, a broken bottle poised like a weapon. “The next one of ye to take another step toward Master James, ‘ere, will be findin’ his person accommodatin’ a few more holes than the Maker first intended. Are we clear on that, lads?”
No one answered. But there was silent assent.
The crowd backed away, and James breathed again. Barely. He turned to Cullen, who seemed to be the only voice of reason. “I didn’t kill him. I only found him outside and brought him in.”
“Yer shirt’s all bloody.” Kevin O’Rourke didn’t back down easily. Others began mumbling about his bloody shirt.
“I tripped over him—that’s how I found him. Besides, you saw me carry him in. I was bound to have some blood on me.”
Cullen jumped down, broken bottle still brandished. His patrons parted before him. “Master James, I’m thinkin’ it’d be best all ’round if I sent me nephew for the sheriff. Ye can make yerself comfortable behind the bar ’ere ’til he arrives.”
James spotted the nephew; a long, lean towhead, out the door before Cullen finished speaking.
No one seemed concerned about this teen running into trouble on the way to get the law. That made James wonder. Did the crowd really think he did it and all was safe out there now? What if one of them did it? Might everyone know who killed Dougherty, but planned to blame him?
There was nothing he could do about it now. Fuming, he found a barrel standing on end behind the counter and made himself comfortable, as directed. It would be a long wait. He continued to keep a serious watch on Kevin O’Rourke, Seamus Flaherty, and their crew.
How did he get into such messes? This was not what he planned.
And then he remembered. Neither was this what his father had planned.
* * *
It felt very strange to be seated with the family. Though everyone went out of their way to make her comfortable, Shannon still found it odd to be included in a family gathering. She folded her hands in her lap, adjusted her skirts around her chair, laced her fingers on top of the dining room table, unlaced her fingers and brushed a stray tendril from her forehead only to twiddle her thumbs in her lap again. How she longed for the sanctuary of the nursery.
Part of her worried one of the babies might wake. Another part of her felt so out of place, she wanted to bolt.
Miss Lucy leaned over, patted her hands, and offered a friendly smile. It helped. She gave Lucy’s hand a gentle thank you squeeze and watched to see why Master Crockett had called this meeting.
“I hoped to have resolved questions before I called you all together. But, apparently, I need to make sure everyone understands a few things.” Master Crockett’s voice sounded calm, but firm. She listened. “Rumors fly at the moment. That is all they are, rumors. We have not one shred of evidence. I am looking into it. But the rumors tell us we may again be dealing with the Combers.”
Shannon quickly scanned the other faces around her. The Combers rarely bothered Catholics, their focus being the Protestants of the area, so she had never learned to fear their name. One look at the others, though, showed her they had.
Master Crockett spread his hands. “Now, we don’t need to get in a panic. We just need to be cautious. I’m expecting each of you to abide by some basic rules. No one goes out after dark. No one.” He paused and stared directly at Master Joseph, who gazed at the table.
“And when you do go out in the daytime, you women will be with at least one man. He will be armed. We will not provoke a fight, nor will we stop helping those in need. But we will not be foolhardy. Is this understood by one and all?”
Miss Mary Frances waved her hand in the air. “But what about James? Where is he?”
A strange look passed over the master’s face before he assured his daughter he would speak with his son first thing in the morning. God bless Miss Mary Frances for inquiring. Shannon had also wondered but felt awkward about asking.
Once again Master Crockett, standing behind the Mistress, repeated, “Is this understood by all? I need to know I can depend on you.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Yes, Father,”
“Oui, my husband.” Louise patted his hand as it rested on her shoulder. A sudden jab of envy made Shannon avert her eyes.
Each in turn nodded or spoke their assent. When Master Crockett focused his gaze on her she sat up straighter in her chair, looking him square in the eye. “Aye, Master Crockett.”
His smile lingered a moment, and he gave her a nod of approval before moving on to Miss Lucy. That smile, more than anything else, made her feel like a member of the family. Maybe now she really was one of them, she mused.
But what in the world did that mean?
* * *
Joseph couldn’t sleep. What with the reprimand from his father, the dismal failure of his proposal to Sarah, and the heightened security around the house, he couldn’t focus on anything. And, of course, there
was his wayward brother who left him to face his father’s ire. Was James really in danger?
He’d relit his lamp and tried reading The Breviate. That tribute to a dead wife did nothing for the turmoil, in spite of the intentions. Laying aside the book his father loaned him, he finally wandered to the nursery to watch his son sleep.
Apparently, Wee Joseph took after his father. He sat wide-awake on the widow’s lap. Grabbing her index fingers, he pulled himself to a wobbly stance, and blew bubbles of spit with delight.
“Yer so strong. Aye, that ye are, young master, that ye are.” Shannon cooed back as she rubbed her head in his belly.
An amazing sense of accomplishment filled Joseph, though he couldn’t understand why. He hadn’t done anything.
But his son had. “Come here, son. Come see your da.”
Instead of obeying, Wee Joseph grabbed handfuls of his nurse’s hair.
“OW!”
Joseph wanted to laugh, but he managed to control himself, revealing only a smile. “Here, son, none of that. You’ve got to let go of the lady’s hair.”
He tried to untangle the baby’s fingers from the locks, but Wee Joseph began to wave his tight fists up and down.
“Ow. Help me, please.”
This time Joseph couldn’t restrain the laugh. He picked up the baby in one arm and worked to release Shannon’s fine hair from the tight little fingers. It took nearly a minute, but she was freed.
“Ye can keep the scamp awhile.” Standing, she smoothed her hair into place. “He’s not ready to settle in for the night.” She grabbed a tiny fist and kissed it.
“I can understand that. I’m not ready either.” Joseph lifted his son over his head, moving him like a bird in the sky.
“Somethin’ on yer mind, Master Joseph?”
“A lot of things are on my mind. Not the least of which is your bad advice.” Thinking about it now brought back feelings of confusion, embarrassment, and hurt he’d shoved aside with his father’s reproof. He lowered Wee Joseph back to chest level.
The Crockett Chronicles- The Complete Collection Page 38