CHAPTER 21
“I’m going to Northampton.” Father McIntyre pushed savagely past Sister Margaret and weaved between children. He did not pack a bag, no water or food. He did not saddle his horse but rode bareback, kicked her sides roughly, sending pebbles flying under hooves.
Father McIntyre had been drowning in the muddy water, the pull of sledge beneath his feet stronger than his will, but now anger pulsed and dangled a branch into the water and he clutched it with both hands. The brown mare barreled past the church onto the cliff road. Vertigo swirled. Father McIntyre kept his eyes closed, turned his head away from the endless waters. He hugged the horse’s neck as if it were a ledge, its hair reaching into his nose and whipping his face. And he stayed this way until the crash of the sea weakened.
He thought of Leonora’s little hands, red and swollen, and he unbent his spine, kicked the horse harder. His black cassock flapped loudly above the hooves, the sound resolute as they flew. Balled fists held the reins—the hands of a man, not the hands of a child; whole and clean hands, not cut and sore. He was not a child, he was a man, and it was his job as a man to protect a child.
In Northampton, the priest’s legs were stiff and heavy from constant clutching and his thighs twitched like a cow trying to rid herself of a fly. For a moment, his reserve wobbled, but he forced the picture of Leonora’s hands to his mind as he entered the red-carpeted lobby of the Duxton Hotel, saw her knuckles as he took the wide steps two at a time. He needed the anger to keep him strong and alert. He breathed hard, closed his eyes to channel her wounds and gave three hard knocks to the double pine doors of the Fairfield suite.
“Bring it in!” Eleanor Fairfield’s voice rang from inside.
He pounded again. She opened it swiftly and snapped, “I said you can bring . . . !” Her eyes widened. “Why, Father McIntyre, this is unexpected! I thought you were Housekeeping back with the laundry. Please, do come in.”
The sitting room was plush with Oriental carpets and polished oak. A large, gilded mirror owned half a wall. Mrs. Fairfield lowered into a high-backed chair, a queen on a throne, and motioned to the horsehair sofa. “Please, Father McIntyre, have a seat.”
“I’ll stand,” he said coldly. “I won’t be long.”
“All right.” She studied him carefully, sleepily. “So, to what do I owe the honor?”
“I’ve come to talk about Leonora.”
“So I guessed. However, I was expecting you later in the week. No matter. My lawyers just finished the paperwork, so you can sign the contract today. It will save you another trip.” She reached for a brown leather case and placed it on her lap.
“There won’t be an adoption.” The words smoldered, heated the lining of his mouth.
“Is that so?” Eleanor Fairfield raised her eyebrows and the corners of her lips tipped in amusement. “And why is that?”
Father McIntyre tried to hold his temper, but his ears burned and his bottom lip trembled. “I won’t allow a child to be beaten!” he growled.
Her brows dropped, all levity erased. “What are you talking about?”
“I saw her bloodied hands!” His teeth chattered. “I won’t tolerate child abuse!”
Eleanor Fairfield pushed her back into the chair and stared at the right wall, ruminative. When she turned back, her face was drawn and serious. “I’m a hard woman, Father McIntyre, but not a violent one. Mrs. Applegate hit her?”
“Don’t play games with me, Mrs. Fairfield. She said you gave her strict orders.”
“Yes, to teach her, Father McIntyre!” she defended. “To teach her, not hurt her.”
Her anger mirrored his own, sapped him. He tried to push her. “I fired the tutor.”
“Good.” She nodded. “I’ll find a replacement.”
The fight waned. He needed the rage, the fire. “I believe the result will be the same, Mrs. Fairfield. Your expectations are too high for the girl.”
With that, the softness left her face and the glint returned. “I can assure you, Father, I want her bruised no more than you do.” She leaned forward, defiant. “However, I’m surprised by your passion on the subject. ‘Spare the rod, spoil the child’—isn’t that the saying, Father? I’ve always heard the church was a strong proponent of corporal punishment.”
“The only outcome of abuse is fear and a broken spirit.”
“Mind you, most of the world thinks differently,” she toyed. “I have to say, you impressed me with your vigor just now. I don’t have much trust in priests. Find them quite selfish and out of touch.” She clapped quickly with wrists held high. “Let’s start fresh, shall we?” She pointed again to the sofa. “Please, have a seat and let me get you a drink.”
His legs were suddenly weak from the gallop, the anger. He drifted to the sofa, his figure dwarfed by the large camelback. “I’ll have tea.” He wasn’t sure who the enemy was anymore.
“Tea? No, have a drink with me. A real drink and a chat.”
The priest took the brown drink from her hands and did not ask what it was.
“You’ve never inquired about my husband,” noted Mrs. Fairfield as she took her own drink and sat back into the throne, crossing her long legs leisurely. “Don’t you want to know if he’s a good man? After all, he’s also adopting Leonora.”
“So,” Father McIntyre asked flatly, “is he a good man?”
“Yes,” she answered. “He’s smart and good and kind. Kinder than me. You would like him. He’s in mining, in case you were interested.”
“I’m not.” It felt good to pinch her ego. Father McIntyre leaned back, his whole mind and body alert to her moves. He sipped the liquid slowly and she smiled as if his silence tickled her.
“So, tell me, Father . . .” Mrs. Fairfield gave a quick laugh to a passing thought and sipped her own tall drink. “What did you tell the couple that wanted to adopt Leonora?”
His fingernails bit into his knees. “I told them she didn’t want to go with them.”
“Huh!” She laughed and held her glass up in a toast. “Brilliant! Blame it on the child. A noble choice.” Her tongue played in her cheek. “I’m guessing you aren’t a very good liar, Father McIntyre, which of course can be a virtue or a curse. So, tell me, did they believe you?”
“No.” He released the pressure on his knee. “I don’t think so.” He raised his eyebrows and turned back to his drink. Through the glass he could see his fingers, warped and bloated, could see the shadow of her form in the bottom as she watched him. “Why is it so important that Leonora be the one?”
Her foot dangled from the dress, the hem flirting with the air. “Because she’s a ghost.”
“I’m not following you.”
“She leaves no fingerprints. She has no past, no history, no name. If she disappeared tomorrow it would be like she never existed at all. Poof!” She snapped her fingers. “No one would know she was gone.”
His expression turned hard as granite. “I would.”
“Yes,” she said, smiling. “And I’ve taken precautions that you’ll never share that information.”
“The contract?” he scoffed, nearly spilling his drink. “A name signed in ink is only as strong as one’s word. A man’s word may change over time. Even a priest’s.”
She laughed. “I’m not an idiot, Father McIntyre. My lawyers tear through contracts daily. I know of how little worth they are. No, my assurances go much deeper, I promise you.”
Mrs. Fairfield stared into her glass, seemed to search for words within the liquid. “My sister recently passed away.”
“I’m sorry,” he said automatically.
She shot him a look of buried pain and snarled, “Don’t be sorry for me.” She composed herself, rubbed the folds of her dress. “Anyway, she was in Sydney when she passed, a mental facility. She hanged herself.” She said the words calmly, but her neck lengthened. “I was the one who sent her there. Thought Sydney the farthest civilized place I could find, and I was right.”
With a sudden switch, she smiled and raised her glass. “I invented a story, Father McIntyre. I was quite elaborate in my telling, too. All about my beautiful, brilliant sister living the exotic life in Australia. I even created a daughter for her.” She pinched her lips. “I don’t make many mistakes, but that was one of them. When my sister died, everyone wanted to know what would happen to the child. ‘The poor darling! ’ they cried. ‘Surely, you’ll bring her home!’ they cried. ‘A child must be raised with family!’ ”
Eleanor Fairfield put the drink to her lips and finished it, rattled the empty glass in her hand as if calling for a waiter. “And that, Father McIntyre, is why I’m adopting Leonora. She will be my long-lost niece and the only history she will bring is the one she is taught.”
Father McIntyre’s mouth fell open. He wondered if she was joking, but the truth sat in the frigid, set lines of her face.
“Ah,” she said. “I’ve shocked you. You think I’m a woman without a heart.”
Eleanor studied him, then reached for her checkbook. “I promised you twenty-five thousand dollars. If it helps you sleep at night, I’ll make it thirty thousand.”
The corrosiveness of the money severed all restraint, and before he realized it he whipped the pen out of her hand and threw it at her feet. “I’m not in the business of selling children!”
She stood and faced him, her tall frame matching his own.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Father. You sold Leonora just like a slave, auctioned her off to the highest bidder.”
“How dare you!” He tried to find an excuse, felt his own mind cripple. He stammered, “The ch-children . . . I was trying to help—”
She cut him off and paralyzed him by the poison of her words. “You teach them and train them and then sell them off to people too poor to hire proper help.” She pushed him into the murky water. “Your intention might be godly and noble, but the outcome is the same.” She tore the branch from his hands. “You throw them to the wolves and pat yourself on the back as they’re eaten!” She held his head under the waves.
He stepped back. The room closed and he couldn’t remember where the door was. “Why?” he asked, desperate. “Why are you saying these things?”
She inched toward him. “Because beneath those black clothes, you are a man. You may indeed be a good man or you might be a bad man, I quite don’t care which. But once dressed in that suit, once leashed with that collar, you become something greater than a man, don’t you? You become a man of God; you become a treasured child of the Heavens. What a prized and fortunate human you are. The ultimate hypocrisy! You see, naked you are a man, as weak and flawed as any other. Clothed you are a priest!” An old scar revealed itself in the rawness of her tone. “I dislike hypocrites and I hate priests!”
The water filled his lungs and plugged his ears until every part throbbed and drowned. In his mind he ran from the room with fury, but in truth he fled slowly as a coward and the door slammed against his back.