Somewhere outside of the room a soft rain fell. Cecil’s private club would be filling with men dressed in tweed and dark gray, men who walked on plush carpets, looked out windows molded with dark wood, and sank into chairs conversationally arranged around comfortable fires, men who understood that the rules of etiquette included never embarking upon embarrassing topics, never involving themselves in objectionable situations and never, ever discussing religion, the state of one’s finances, or politics unless one was very sure one’s companions were of a similar state of mind.
Within ten minutes Cecil had broken every one of those rules. His collar felt very tight and he had the dreadful feeling that after today his relationship with Meghann would never be the same again. Slowly, he nodded. He could barely manage the words. “I imagine that the boy’s name was Michael Devlin,” he rasped.
Meghann’s eyes widened. She looked quite pleased. “Why, Cecil, that is very, very good, and I mean it sincerely. You are surprisingly astute.”
Cecil loosened his tie. It felt much better. Perhaps he wouldn’t go to his club today. Yes, that was it. He felt a bit of a headache coming on. Better to go straight home and insist that he not be disturbed. “I’ll be leaving now, Meghann. I’m sure you’ll want to tell Father on your own.”
Meghann smiled. “Nonsense.” She reached for the phone. “You are a part of this firm and my very dear friend. We shall tell him together.”
Twelve
Theodore Thorndike would be a formidable opponent. Meghann knew his position in the world of business and politics had been achieved through sheer talent. He was brilliant, calculating, and deceptively charming, with the manners of an ambassador and the killer instincts of a barracuda. Unlike Meghann, he rarely defended anyone he wasn’t sure of clearing completely, resulting in an unimpeachable reputation. Four years ago he was elected to the Commons, and most of his legal work had fallen to Meghann, Cecil, and a slew of associates at various levels of their professions. Thorndike and Sutton was an old and prestigious firm, the clients conservative and wealthy.
From the very beginning, when she was a law clerk in the office, Meghann felt uncomfortable about limiting her services to those with exorbitant bank accounts. The law was sacred and should be upheld equally for everyone. She came from a country where it was applied randomly, benefiting some and ignoring others. When she took over David’s half of the firm, she decided to offer her services to certain charity clients. It was her way of atoning for the accident of birth that had given her more than enough talent and brains to rise above the circumstances of her past.
When she married David she believed that Ireland and its ghosts were behind her. But she found that a lifetime of memories was not so easily eradicated. Every round-faced woman with lined hands reminded her of Annie and deserved a bit of a rest and a cozy tea. She carried biscuits in her purse for the cleaning woman’s freckle-faced children who waited patiently on the stoop for their mother to finish and because every lad in a stocking cap hawking The Big Issue in Piccadilly could have been Michael or Connor or Dominic or Liam, she bought the entire stack of magazines and sent him home with a five-pound tip.
There was more, of course. The guiltier the conscience, the greater the contributions, and Meghann’s conscience was very guilty. So every Christmas she sent a generous check, anonymously, to the Redemptorist Monastery in West Belfast, and every fall, all children with the potential to pass the rigorous course work at Saint Louise’s Preparatory School were able to attend, thanks to the David Sutton scholarship fund and Meghann’s staggering salary.
At first Theodore had offered an amused, raised-eyebrow objection to Meghann’s philanthropic tendencies, but when he realized how inflexible she was on the subject, he withdrew his reservations and never mentioned them. He would just have to do so again, Meghann decided firmly. Michael would be her charity client.
A certain core honesty rose up within her and demanded she acknowledge the difference between Michael Devlin and the others she had defended. Michael was a well-known political figure, a member of the Sinn Fein elite. Although he had never been convicted of a crime, his voice was banned on national television and his passport had been revoked. Defending him would raise questions about her background, her sympathies, her loyalty, and her religion. Once the public learned that Meghann was defending a man known for his affiliation with the IRA, a man accused of killing a popular political hero and injuring his small daughter, her clients would leave in droves. Theodore would not be pleased.
She recognized his soft knock. Cecil groaned and sank into a leather chair. Meghann lifted her chin, walked deliberately to the door and opened it.
Immediately she took the offensive. “Good afternoon, Theodore, and please come in. I have some news that I’m afraid you’ll find rather shocking.”
“Really?” His dry, controlled voice carried a trace of amusement as he stepped into the room and walked to the liquor cabinet. He neither spoke nor turned until he’d filled a tumbler with whiskey, straight up, and swallowed a healthy measure.
Meghann, watching the loose flesh of his throat jump, remembered Michael, his head thrown back to swallow a pint of Guinness, and marveled at how the same action in two different men could bring out such opposing emotions.
“What have you done, my dear?” he asked.
She looked directly at him. “I’m going to defend Michael Devlin.”
Not by the flicker of a muscle did his expression change. He leaned against the cabinet, comfortably slouched as if she’d told him the hallway needed refurbishing. Meghann knew exactly what he was doing. It was what she would do, process the information and look at all possible ramifications before answering. Finally he spoke and his words, although she had expected them, shocked her.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
She cleared her throat. “You misunderstand, Theodore. I’ve already accepted Michael Devlin as my client. I’ve been working on his case for several weeks now. It is impossible to back out even if I wished to.”
He brushed her response aside. “Rubbish. Leave it to me. I’ll secure a competent attorney for Mr. Devlin, although I doubt it will make a difference. The man’s guilty. No jury in England will acquit him.”
Meghann walked behind her desk and sat down in her chair. “He already has a competent attorney,” she said quietly.
Theodore looked at his son, slumped and silent against the rich maroon leather of the chair. “Cecil, please leave us. I wish to speak with Meghann alone.”
Meghann’s voice stopped him. “I wish Cecil to stay. He has some interest in the way this conversation resolves itself. Nothing you say should be held back from him.”
Theodore’s gray eyebrows rose for an instant, and then his face relaxed into an expressionless mask again. “Very well, Meghann. This insanity will hurt the firm. Clients will leave us and your reputation will be destroyed, all for a man who hasn’t a hope of being acquitted. You aren’t a nameless nonentity any longer, Meghann. Your past is exactly where it should be, in the past. There is no atonement for leaving Belfast and making a better life for yourself. Stop punishing yourself for succeeding.”
Her expression became more and more mutinous as he continued. “For God’s sake, support the Irish if you must. Send donations, write letters, do whatever you wish, but do not destroy what you’ve accomplished for someone as worthless as a cold-blooded murderer of women and children.”
“Michael is not a murderer.”
Theodore’s eyes lit with suspicion. “So,” he said softly, “it’s Michael, is it?”
Two spots of color stained Meghann’s cheeks. “I knew Michael Devlin when I was a child. We grew up together.”
“I see.” Theodore lowered himself into a chair across from his son. “You plan to defend a client on a murder charge with whom you have a personal relationship?”
“I haven’t seen Michael Devlin in fifteen years.”
“Then why the profound interest?”
&n
bsp; Meghann saw no reason for fabrication. “His mother raised me after my parents were killed. I owe her a great deal”
He was quiet for a long time, and although his eyes were fixed on her face, Meghann knew he didn’t see her.
“I’m very sorry to say this, Meghann, but I cannot allow it,” he said at last. “You will not drag the firm that David and I worked to establish down into the mud.”
“You forget that I have as much to say about the direction of this firm as you do.”
Theodore shrugged. “Perhaps. However, I offer you an alternative. Before your client list is worthless, I propose offering you a fair price for your shares.”
Cecil gasped, but his father ignored him.
“Since you are particularly astute in business matters,” Theodore continued, “I needn’t point out that once your name is linked with Devlin’s, you will no longer be in a position to bargain. I won’t throw my money into a poor investment.”
Meghann’s chin tightened stubbornly. “I’ve called a press conference for tomorrow.”
Theodore rose, walked to the door and opened it. “I shall expect an answer before then. Good night, Meghann. “He looked expectantly at his son. “Are you coming, Cecil?”
With a strangled mumble, Cecil stood, threw Meghann a beseeching glance, and preceded his father out the door.
Meghann’s hands shook. Carefully placing one high-heeled foot in front of the other, she made her way to the liquor cabinet, poured herself a liberal glass of whiskey, added water, and sank down into the chair still warm from Cecil’s body heat.
An apple log fire burned in the fireplace. She loved a comfortable fire. There was something sensual about the leaping light, the crackling wood, the delicious, tension-draining warmth. She thought more clearly when she stared into a fire.
Meghann slipped off her shoes, curled her legs beneath her and sipped the amber liquid until she felt the slow, steady heat burn its path down her throat and into her stomach. She was more than tired. The emotional strain of her weeks in Donegal, the depth of her feelings for Michael, and the loss of her job had taken its toll.
Her hand reached for her mother’s brooch. It was unusually warm. Her head fell back against the chair, her eyelids, heavy from fatigue and alcohol, fluttered and then fell. Centuries flew past, back, back, and still farther back to when the bards sang of a lass from Tirconnaill, a lass named Nuala O’Donnell and the boy whose heart was hers.
*
Dublin Castle, 1591
It was Christmas, and Rory was determined to escape. The walls ran with wet, and rats scurried beneath the fetid straw upon which he slept. The rage he’d felt when he was chained and brought back to prison without seeing me had deepened into a festering bitterness that only vengeance would soften. He paced the stone floor like a rabid dog, wondering what had become of his wife and his land.
Tomorrow priests would come to say Christmas Mass. He swore, though he burned in hell for all eternity, there would be one clergyman leaving who had not come and one staying behind who did not belong. He would find a way through the sewers and return for Henry and Art, although Art would never last the journey. He coughed endlessly and the shakes were full upon him, but Rory would sooner cut out his heart than leave him to die in Dublin Prison.
Luck was with him, for of the three men dressed in the robes of Rome, one was from Tirconnaill and it wasn’t necessary, after all, to do the man harm. I had sent him for the very purpose of aiding an escape. Somehow the priest had obtained a map of the prison. The sewer grates were easily removed, and the three were out of their cells and away from Dublin as easily as mice from sprung traps.
They headed south toward the O’Byrne stronghold, and snow, such as they had never seen in Ireland, fell upon them. Their feet were bare, their clothing in tatters. The air grew even colder as the snow changed to sleet and like sharpened swords fell upon them from the sky. Rory could no longer feel his toes. Art dropped, exhausted, after the first twenty leagues, and Henry and Rory dragged him between them, their footprints staining the snow with blood. When Art fell unconscious, Rory knew that they could continue no longer. The condition of his feet was grave. It was decided that Henry should go on to the O’Byrne castle while Rory stayed behind with my dying brother.
How long is a day and a night and another day in the darkness of endless sleet? Forever, it must have seemed to my brother and Rory. Time after time, in the two days before O’Byrne found them, Rory held his hand over Art’s lips to be sure he still lived. His breath was faint but still warm.
After two days O’Byrne and his men found them. Their limbs were stiff and frozen, their clothing one with their bodies like another layer of flesh. Art did not live to see O’Byrne’s stronghold, and Henry’s grief was terrible to behold. He swore to fight the English until his dying day.
Three toes on Rory’s left foot and two on his right were black and bloodless. A surgeon was summoned to cut them off. He felt no pain, but it took time to walk properly again, and the rage in his heart would not be put aside.
He stopped to see Red Hugh O’Neill before moving on to Tirconnaill. The O’Neill welcomed him like a son, thanking him profusely for rescuing Henry and weeping when he learned the details of Art’s death.
“’Tis a sad day for an earldom when a son dies,” he mused. “Art was ever a robust lad. Damn Elizabeth’s soul for destroying my boy. I rue the day she turned against me.”
“I do not.” Rory spoke softly, but the rage within him would not be quieted. He too had lost a son and a daughter, and his wife was left to mourn alone. “Because of the English queen I’ve had no word of my wife in a year. I pledged on my honor that I would join with you against Elizabeth, and I shall. We shall make Catholic Ireland her enemy, as Philip of Spain and Mary of Scotland are her enemies.”
Hugh stared at my husband from beneath bushy, gray-flecked eyebrows. “Well spoken, my friend. How many men will you raise from Tirconnaill?”
“’Tis two years since I’ve stepped on the shores of River Eske. I’ll have an accounting by the end of the month.”
He clapped large hands upon Rory’s shoulders. “Godspeed, Rory O’Donnell. ’Tis good to have you home. Perhaps my daughter will learn to smile again.”
My mother, the Lady Agnes, waited at the portcullis gate. Rory reined in his horse to hear her.
“Nuala spends much of her time tending the monastery gardens,” she said. “Stop there first. There is more that you should see.”
Rory told me later that her gray eyes were clear as glass and the sympathy in them was nearly too much to bear. “You speak in riddles, my lady. Is there something I should know that I do not?”
“Nuala has buried three sons and a daughter, my lord. She is not the same woman you once knew.”
Rory must have wondered if she’d lost her mind. “We have been apart only two years,” he told her. “I learned of Patrick’s death and my daughter’s. How is it possible that Nuala has buried two more of our children?”
“She was delivered of twin sons three months ago. They did not last the night. It was very cold and they were too young to live outside the womb.” Resting her hand on his knee, she spoke clearly, deliberately. “Nuala is in great pain, Rory. I fear for her. Treat her kindly and do not leave her alone again soon.”
He nodded and turned his horse east, greatly troubled by Agnes’s words. The monastery grounds were desolate. Hobbling the horse, he limped through the doors into the sanctuary. There, entombed in the walls with their names engraved on plaques, was proof that he had sired four children. With trembling fingers he traced the outlines of delicate script, Patrick, Joan, Cormack, and Hugh, his children, three he had never seen nor held nor buried.
I felt his presence long before I saw him, and my heart lifted. Rory was home, or nearly so, and my days of darkness were over. He would be pleased to see that Tirconnaill had been well maintained in his absence. The fall harvest was strong and profits larger than ever before. Complaints from
the tenants were few. The castle had been resealed, the rushes changed and carpets beaten before the worst of the cold settled in. For the sake of economy, oil-soaked rushes lit the servant’s quarters, but in the finer parts of the castle, candles of finest wax stood tapered and slim, filling wall sconces and chandeliers. My only fault was that of all the children I had borne, there was still no heir for Tirconnaill.
Darkness had claimed the land for many hours before I heard the portcullis gate creak upon its hinges. There was a shout and then a most unnatural silence. My nerves were stretched as they had never been, and I waited no longer. Pulling my fur-lined cloak about my shoulders, I ran through the long hall, down two levels of stairs, through the banquet room and out the huge oak doors into the courtyard, where I stopped abruptly.
He was alone on his knees, both hands gripping the hard-packed winter soil, his lips pressed to the ground. His horse waited patiently, in full saddle, reins dragging behind him.
I watched my husband tremble and his body shake with full rocking tremors. I heard the guttural sobs wrenched from that dark place within his heart that no mortal outside of himself could heal. Pressing my fist against my mouth, I knew not whether to announce my presence or turn away and wait until Rory had made his peace with Tirconnaill.
We were wed only four years, but we had come a long way together, Rory and I. I was Nuala O’Donnell and my husband was the earl of Tirconnaill. Still, he was only a man, a man who blamed himself for the troubles that had settled upon his people. If ever Rory and I were to reclaim what once was ours, it would start now in Dun Na Ghal’s courtyard of ancient memories, haunted by generations of ghostly O’Donnell ancestors.
Silently I walked to where he lay and knelt beside him. The huge winter moon picked out the silver glints in his hair. Rory had the most beautiful hair. My hand reached out, drawn to the lovely glittering gilt color, but before I could touch it, my wrist was wrenched and I ended up flat on my back on the ice-hard ground, just as I had been the first time Rory had ever looked upon my face.
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