CHAPTER 13
Late July 1846
Briana and Lucinda stood at the end of the lane leading to Lear House. Rain pelted Lucinda’s umbrella, sheltering them both from the rivulets of water that poured down its curved top. Briana could hardly look at the manor, which would soon be a shell of its former self, the doors bolted and locked, the windows closed and shuttered.
Lucinda, more stoic, took in the events with the analytic mind of a governess. Briana wondered what her sister was thinking under her thick veneer of inscrutability.
The manor would be surrendered to the insects and rats that, as of late, had made it a nesting ground in their search for food. Briana remembered the once grand splendor of Lear House, now perched on the hill like a gray tomb. Even the few clear, beautiful days could not dispel the gloom that had drenched the house in a summer filled with rain.
Sir Thomas had made good on his threat to close the manor by the end of June, but the process took longer than expected because the books had to be audited, a census taken, and certain valuables secured for shipment to Manchester. The owner’s wound, though superficial, had suppressed his enthusiasm for Lear House and Ireland. Although he told Briana and her father that he wanted to be back on English soil as soon as he could book passage, he was often hampered by fits of depression, which slowed his work. Briana noted he would take to his bed and remain sequestered until the evening meal was called. She supposed these bouts were related to his injury and the loss of Lear House, but she wondered whether other mental forces were at play.
As they stood, sister to sister, Briana imagined what was going on in Lear House with her father, Rory, and Sir Thomas enclosed inside. Rory was probably stone faced, seething, as he muttered about the worsening disaster of the famine. He could do nothing to fight Sir Thomas’s orders, or the weather, or the political forces that had conspired against them. He was also holding a secret that she shared—the almost overwhelming proof that Rory’s pistol had wounded the landowner. In much the same manner as her husband, Brian would cast a melancholy gaze as he went over the books, seeing his life’s work and the fortunes of his tenants wiped out on the page.
Lucinda gripped Briana’s fingers. The rare displays of warmth between them had become more frequent as Sir Thomas’s behavior had turned reclusive. Her sister needed someone to lean on now that the heated fantasy of a romance with the landlord had cooled.
Briana dodged the pelting rain from a sudden gust of wind. “We should probably see what we can prepare for dinner.” Food consumption had slowed after the shooting because the invited guests had vacated Lear House; still, supplies were nearly gone. Only a half bag of oats and one bag of meal remained—fish were hard to come by because of the continuing torrents, wild winds, and perilous currents. The pig was, of course, gone and no other meat had graced their table since the day of the ball. Daniel Quinn, who had subsisted on table scraps, had disappeared without a good-bye a few days after the guests.
“I hardly care to go inside anymore,” Lucinda said. They paused before the door, and Briana studied the gray eyes and pale skin of her sister’s face. Sir Thomas rarely spoke to either of them now, preferring to deal with others. Lucinda had taken the landlord’s remote attitude especially hard; Briana learned from her father that her sister strayed from her room only when required and often cried herself to sleep.
“You understand that he isn’t in love with me—if anything, I’m a conquest,” Briana said, hoping to assure her sister. She had never expressed this feeling so strongly before, but her sister’s melancholia forced her to speak. “And I’m not in love with him. There’s nothing he could say or do to sway me in my love for Rory.”
Lucinda gripped the umbrella handle, her knuckles turning white. “Yes. I don’t think he’s in love with anyone but himself.” The dark door of Lear House stared back at them.
“Have you given up on him?” Briana asked.
Lucinda pointed the umbrella at Sir Thomas’s bedroom. “At one time, I would have done anything he asked, but when I found out the night of the ball that he cared nothing for me, and that he only desired my services as a governess to keep his friends happy, my feelings changed. The shot intended for him hit my heart instead.”
Briana put her arm around her sister’s shoulder. “I’m sorry you were hurt, but I’m glad you can finally see through him. I’m sure it’s been painful.”
Her sister drew in a deep breath. “More painful than anything I’ve ever experienced—a hundred times more painful than leaving Father and you to teach in England.” She shook her head. “Yet I truly wonder if I’m over him. Being around him, seeing him, still hurts.”
“Speak of the devil,” Briana whispered, upon hearing footsteps. Her attention was drawn to the man in a great coat and hunting cap who opened the manor door. His left arm was drawn up in a white cloth sling that kept it crossed over his chest. Lucinda drew closer to her sister as they backed up on the wet terrace.
He stopped in front of them and tipped his cap. The rain wicked down the brim onto the slate. “I’ve informed your father that I’ll be leaving on the morrow. The things I’ve selected will be picked up and transported to Belmullet for the trip to England. The house will be locked, and no one will be permitted to enter. The heavier objects—the furniture—and some of my clothes will remain here, in case . . .”
“In case?” Briana asked.
He tilted his head, and his blue eyes shifted uneasily as if he didn’t want to respond. The rain ran down his cap onto his muttonchops. “Hardly proper to think about now, but in case the situation in Ireland should change. As of now, it’s impractical for me to keep two households.” He shifted his focus to Lucinda. “I’m sorry to say that the Wards have procured the services of another governess—one who is English.”
Lucinda drew her hand to her mouth, stifling her shock.
“I think their minds were quite made up after the ball,” the owner continued. “I’m sure you’ll find a post here. I’ll be happy to give you a reference.” His mouth arched in a harsh smile.
“There are no jobs here,” Lucinda snapped. “People have neither the money nor the proclivity for education—”
He cut her off with a wave of his right hand. “I’m sure there are jobs in Dublin or other Irish communities. Unfortunately, the matter is no longer my concern.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Briana said with equal vitriol.
“Don’t say something you’ll regret, Mrs. Caulfield.” His mouth narrowed. “I do owe your father and husband a debt of gratitude for aiding in my recovery, but the plight of the Irish people is beyond my control. You should be pleased that I’ve seen fit to give your father one hundred pounds to keep him from starving. If you’re lucky, he’ll share it with you. But remember, Lear House is bankrupt. Those notes will have to last for . . . who knows how many years. Let’s pray it’s not long.” He tipped his hat again. “Good day, ladies. Until we meet again. I’m taking tea elsewhere this evening.”
He walked away, disappearing in the rain along the western path to the cliffs.
“Pompous twit,” Lucinda said, her words lost on the wind.
Briana laughed at her sister’s observation but winced at the single tear that rolled down her pale cheek. She opened the door. “Let’s warm up. I have something to tell you.”
“At least we’ll have a quiet evening—without him.” Lucinda shook the umbrella, closed it, and left it leaning against the frame.
Their voices were muffled by the draped furniture; an eerie quiet had fallen upon the house. The gloom was broken only by the blaze that crackled in the library fireplace, chasing the damp chill from the room. Her father compiled papers behind the desk, while Rory, his back to the door, sat across from him. The two talked quietly as Briana and Lucinda passed by.
In the kitchen, they shed their wet coats and then looked for something to prepare for the evening meal.
“What shall we have tonight?” Lucinda asked in an airy manner. “Lamb chops with mint jelly, pottage with fish, potato stew, bread? And what for dessert? Bread pudding? Elderflower fool?”
Briana’s stomach ached at the mention of such delicacies. She opened the larder door and pointed to the remaining bag of oats and meal. “How about oatmeal and water with a helping of mush?”
“I’ll draw the water,” Lucinda offered, picking up a pan.
Briana rubbed her belly as a wave of nausea roiled over her abdomen.
Lucinda dropped the pan on the table, rushed to her side, and guided her to a chair. “What’s wrong? You look positively washed out.” Her sister kneeled beside her.
Briana fanned herself with her hands as sweat broke out on her forehead. She relaxed in the chair and took her sister’s hands in hers. “I do have something to tell you. I don’t know whether to be happy or sad.”
“What?” Her sister looked at her with curious eyes.
“I’m going to have a child.”
Lucinda looked like Briana felt. Her sister also didn’t know whether to be glad or horrified. Her eyes widened and she leaned back, rocking on her feet, stunned by the news. “I don’t know what to say.” Her mouth drooped in a frown. “How did this happen?”
Briana couldn’t help but laugh. “How did it happen? Oh, sister, I’m afraid we need to have a long talk. Father has been remiss in his duties.”
Lucinda blushed and shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t mean that. I mean—why did you decide to bear a child at this awful . . . time? How does Rory feel about this?”
“We didn’t decide,” Briana said. “An accident happened, although I’m not going to think of my child that way.” She ran her hands over her stomach, feeling her belly, which was still lean despite her pregnancy. “We prayed about it, protected ourselves, even practiced abstinence . . . when we had the strength . . . but a child is coming, no doubt about it. We tried—we really did.” She lowered her gaze. “I’d say Rory was happy when I told him. He wants to make life good for all of us now that a baby is on the way, but we both have doubts about the future.”
“What will the baby eat after your milk runs dry?” her sister asked. “Will you have enough nourishment? Where will you live with this child if we’re ejected?”
“Draw up a chair and sit beside me,” Briana said. “I feel like I’m a queen and you’re my subject. All these questions are making me dizzy.”
Lucinda got a chair, sat, and awaited the answers with glazed eyes, the seriousness of her questions etched into the lines of her face.
“We’ve talked about it.” She found herself reluctant to tell her sister of Rory’s idea of leaving for America. Now that her sister had no job with the Wards, would she think that she and Rory were deserting the family? Could they all leave together? She still doubted her father would desert Ireland no matter what came their way. What if her father needed help after they had gone? She and Rory would not be around to look after him. Lucinda would be happy on the Continent, but she would need to find a job. The prospect of leaving Ireland brought up many more questions than she could answer. Shaken by the possibilities, she pressed her fingers to her temples.
Lucinda looked on, concern filling her eyes.
“We pray that the potato crop is bountiful in August,” Briana said. “If not, we shall all have to make a decision.”
“Perhaps the lout will let the tenants live on the farms and Father and I in the cottage until that time.” Lucinda clutched her forehead. “I hate to think it, but he might evict us soon after Lear House is closed.”
The lout? Her sister had changed her tune about the landlord. But Briana was convinced that if the Englishman showed any compassion, or offered any token of affection, her sister’s revulsion would fly out the window like a loose canary.
“Perhaps,” Briana replied. “Father has money for food, but we’ve lost our connections and there’s nothing to buy.”
Lucinda nodded. “That’s why I’m worried about your baby. Maybe we can all go to Dublin, or England . . . or America.”
Briana rose from the chair and walked to the stove. “Rory heard of men who went to Dublin and England looking for work. He says the conditions there are as bad as Mayo . . . worse in some ways for Irishmen. America seems a better choice, but it would mean leaving everything—” She choked, wiped the tears forming in her eyes with the sleeve of her dress, and pointed to the peat stacked near the stove. “We might as well get started. None of these questions will get answered if we go hungry tonight.”
Lucinda got up and opened the kitchen door. “I’ll look for some dandelion greens. Soon we’ll have to send the men out for birds’ eggs. If rabbits weren’t so scarce . . . the horses . . .” Her words trailed off, but Briana knew what she was thinking.
Briana placed the peat in the stove and lit it. She yelled to her sister before she started out, “Don’t say anything yet to Father. He’s under enough strain.”
Lucinda nodded and shut the door.
* * *
Sir Thomas put his booted feet on the scratched wooden table, sipped poteen from a scarred pewter cup, and marveled at his adaptability. He had walked in the rain, leaving the aging grandeur of Lear House to come to the welcoming arms of a woman who lived on the eastern edge of the village.
The liquor warmed his gullet and numbed the lingering pain in his left shoulder. He had drunk one healthy draft already and was now on his second. Despite the alcohol’s hazy heat, and the comfort provided by his companion, he was eager to be on the next morning’s carriage. How happy he would be to settle into the leather seat and be rid of Ireland—perhaps forever. Lear House would stand as it had for centuries before. That’s what he wanted to believe. But times did seem different from the past: tenuous and fraught with peril.
He sipped his drink and his father came to mind—a stern man from West Yorkshire whose face reminded him of the marble busts of long-dead priests ensconced in moldy cathedrals—a man who would have whipped him within a lash of his life had he caught him in this situation. His father was a rock in the foundation of the Anglican Church and had little tolerance for humor and merry-making of any sort.
She called herself Julia, but he wasn’t even sure it was her real name. In truth, he didn’t care. She used to be pretty when he first started visiting her several years earlier in her small cabin on the edge of Carrowteige, but that was before the famine struck. Tonight, she looked haggard, old, and worn like the starving people Brian had described. He had come for sex, but because of the sling supporting his aching shoulder, and his miserable attitude, the evening had turned to companionship. Previously, in Julia’s cabin, he hadn’t worried about pretense, privilege, or the financial dealings of Lear House. Tonight was different. Oddly enough, he found himself asking the same question that the Walsh family had voiced on many occasions since his return to Ireland: How could this terrible disaster have happened?
“You haven’t been by much this year.” Julia sidled up to his chair, her back to the turf fire. “You’re the only man I entertain,” she said wistfully, as if she longed only for him.
“I hardly believe that I’m a solitary customer,” he replied. “I’ve been busy with business matters.”
“And entertaining English guests.” She threw her head back and laughed as her long, black curls fell about her shoulders. “I should slap you. Isn’t that what a lady of breeding does when she’s been insulted?”
“Slap me and you won’t get your coin.” He studied her face and tried to look past the hardships that had aged her. A faded beauty shimmered on the tired skin. The rain dripped into the cabin at one end of the roof, but despite the nasty weather, the alcohol and conversation assuaged his troubles.
“I’m no whore,” she said. “They would run me out of the village. Your money helps me get through the year.”
“Well, supper certainly wasn’t worth it.” He downed another swig of poteen. His head felt pleasantly empty now; even his teeth felt numb.
Julia glowered at him, taking offense to his statement. “Supper was fine. Food is hard to come by. I have to scramble for the bare essentials, and I’m doing better than most, I can tell you. There’s no seed potatoes left and the meat—”
He cupped his hand over her mouth. “Stop. I don’t want to know.” He imagined that the stringy gray meat she had served him was horse, or worse yet, donkey.
She pushed his hand away. “Goat, and I was lucky to get it.” She touched the sling covering his left arm and then gently massaged his forearm. “Not up for it tonight, heh?” Her brows rose as she thought of a question. “Who would shoot the likes of you?”
“I don’t know, and I may never find out.”
She leaned back, twirling a long strand of curls between her fingers, before giving him a broad smile. “I heard tell of a man at Lear House who got a pistol from a sea captain.”
He started in his seat, and then leaned forward. “Who’s the bastard? Tell me who—as if I don’t know. Who told you this?”
“Why does it matter? The truth is the truth.”
“Get my coat,” he ordered. “Only one man’s been to see a captain that I know of.”
She rose and retrieved his coat and hat from the peg near the cabin door. “No need to rush off. It gets lonely here being a single woman with the husband long dead.”
He stood, swaying on his feet, and then reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin. “Here. More than enough for services rendered. I doubt I’ll see you next year.”
She threw her arms around his shoulders and attempted to kiss him.
He winced and pushed her aside. “Watch out. The shoulder is still raw.” He put on his hat and coat and stumbled out in the rain. He staggered a few steps and then looked back. Julia stood in the doorway, her dark form silhouetted by the light of the peat fire. She was a sad figure, he thought, and most likely to die within the year unless she left County Mayo. But where will she go? The idea pained him, yet he shrugged it off. Where Julia went was of no concern. He stumbled forward, on his way to find Rory Caulfield.
* * *
They sat down to a meager supper in the kitchen at Lear House. Little was said, and even the prayers over the meal were tinged with sadness. The thought on everyone’s mind was not if, but when, the Constabulary would start evictions. Briana and Rory had looked at each other and then broached the plan of moving to America, but her father would have none of it. “I can’t think about it on my last night in Lear House,” he said.
“We do have one good bit of news to share,” Briana said, hoping to lift the mood. Lucinda shifted in her chair, deducing what was coming.
“What’s that?” Brian asked in a gruff voice.
“You’re going to be a grandfather.” Briana smiled, but only Rory returned her attempt at happiness. The announcement of a child was almost always a reason for rejoicing, but there was none of that in her father’s eyes or demeanor.
“Congratulations,” he said tepidly, and then went back to eating his mush. Under his breath, he muttered, “Another mouth to feed.”
She let her spoon and the subject drop.
After the meal, Brian and Lucinda trudged back to the cottage, leaving her with Rory in the kitchen. The need to be alone, to take in her sadness, overcame Rory’s insistence that she should return home with him. Protesting her obstinacy, he stopped at the cabin as she continued up the lane toward Carrowteige.
“I won’t be long,” she told him.
Tomorrow it will all be over. Briana couldn’t bear the thought of losing the home she had known all her life as she walked toward the village to be alone with her grief. Her sister’s umbrella protected her from the showery gusts. The rain pelted the back of her coat as she topped the slope and the village came into view. The buildings she had known all her life looked small and insignificant under the thick, drab clouds. Here and there a sliver of light burst forth from a grimy window or between the cracks of battered doors. The sadness that had plagued her in recent days struck again. Holding on to the umbrella, she doubled over near a burrow that had served as a shelter for the starving. Briana rubbed her abdomen and hoped that what she was experiencing was related to the food she had eaten, not something serious regarding her pregnancy.
She straightened, feeling slightly queasy, and started down the road.
A man strode through the rain. As he drew closer, she recognized the figure of Sir Thomas, but his usually confident swagger was disrupted by an off-balance sway. She was tempted to hide behind a scrub brush but instead decided to face him. He appeared to be drunk and, in that state, would probably have little recollection of their conversation in the morning.
He ambled through the darkness, his face as dull as his black clothing, and stopped a yard away, wobbling on his feet. “Who’s this?” he asked in a drowsy slur.
His eyes were hidden by the tilt of his hat; all she could see was the occasional flash of white teeth between the lips. The acidic odor of poteen wafted from his mouth. She tilted the umbrella backward.
“Ah, is it the fair Briana?” He took off his hat and teetered through a bow.
“You sound like a drunken Shakespearean actor,” she said, repelled by his condition.
“An astute observation. That may be, fair lady, but the disposition induced by your local drink has affected my temperament radically . . . altered my course by the minute . . . as I tramped through the village of Carrowteige.” A giggle burst from his mouth. “I was ready to find the bastard and kill him—give him a dose of his own medicine. But now I have something else in mind.”
His rambling speech puzzled her. “What are you talking about?”
“Simply put, the man who shot me.” He stepped even closer to her—so close she could see the hate in his eyes. The mirthful talk that had bordered on flirtation disappeared.
“I have no idea—”
“Of course you do.”
She waited, the rain pelting her from all sides.
“It appears a tenant received a pistol from a sea captain. I know of only one man who has made such a journey since I’ve been at Lear House.”
Briana knew it was useless to lie, and the disturbing image of her husband firing the pistol jumped into her head thanks to the owner’s accusation. More than the truth was at risk. They would all pay dearly if Rory was arrested.
She kept quiet, protecting her husband from a landlord who wasn’t as drunk as she thought.
“When I get to Belmullet, I’ll give word to the Royal Irish Constabulary,” Sir Thomas said. “They’ll get to the bottom of it. I’d like to see the villain spend time in prison or maybe get sent away—far, far, away from Ireland. What do they call it? ‘Transported,’ I believe.”
In her mind, she recounted the specifics of the evening Sir Thomas was shot—details the landlord already knew. Rory had gone for a walk on the beach, he had heard the shot, and then rushed to the house. The sand was still on his feet. That much was true. But the pistol had been fired.
“Should we visit your husband and see what he has to say?” He lumbered ahead, one boot slipping in the mud. He threw his right hand up, keeping his balance. “Damn this country! I’ve had enough.”
She could hold her tongue no longer. “My husband didn’t shoot you. He saved your life.”
Sir Thomas pointed to Lear House, dull and vacant on the slope. “He didn’t save my life. The wound wasn’t fatal. He came to my aid after the shot had been fired. His eagerness would lead one to believe that he was close by. Perhaps he’s a poor shot.”
“You are being unfair,” Briana protested. “He had nothing to do with it.”
“Then who?”
Her mind went to the Molly Maguires. Perhaps one of them, maybe Connor Donlon, had sneaked into their cabin, taken the pistol, and fired it. But casting suspicion on someone else and bringing up the Mollies’ hatred might only incite his passions. She didn’t want to spar with him anymore.
“See, you have no answer because you can’t defend your husband.” He turned and cupped his right hand around her cheek.
Briana twisted out of his grip, ready to strike him with the umbrella.
Sir Thomas lowered his hand and clutched his injured shoulder. His mouth turned down in a forlorn smile, as if he longed to be close to her yet knew it was impossible. “You’re quite beautiful.” He reached for her cheek again, but then withdrew. “Why would you want to live . . . in this squalor? Your sister wants more out of life, but you’re different. You’re satisfied with what you have as a lowly farmer’s wife.”
He dragged himself toward Lear House as she followed behind.
“I love Lear House and want the estate to live on forever,” Briana replied. “I’m happy being the lowly farmer’s wife. Mayo is my home.”
Sir Thomas chuckled. “An admirable dream for Lear House, but hardly practical.... Continue to say your prayers.” He swung his right arm out in a punch. “I was ready to thrash your husband, but I can’t fight one-handed . . . against a man who has proven to be a ruffian.”
“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said this evening.”
He stopped within sight of her cabin. “I am going to notify the Constabulary—fair warning. I’ll let them take care of the matter. I’ll give a deposition before I depart for England. If your husband is innocent, he’ll not be arrested.”
“He is innocent,” she replied as fear prickled over her.
He pushed back her umbrella and studied her face. “Beautiful.”
A cold rain pattered against her. She backed away as he continued to stare.
“You’d both be happy in England, away from this.” He sauntered down the road, swaying slightly, turned onto the path leading to the manor, and entered the somber dwelling. The door shut, perhaps for its penultimate time. She stood by her cabin wondering what Sir Thomas meant by both be happy in England. Who was the other person he was referring to—her husband or Lucinda?
Rory was asleep on his stomach, the lower half of his body covered by the blanket. She rubbed his back, and he stirred underneath her fingers. She undressed and slid into bed next to him. Her husband slept so peacefully that she didn’t want to wake him with the news that the Constabulary would be questioning him for shooting Sir Thomas Blakely. It was bad enough that she would have a sleepless night.
* * *
When she awoke, her husband was gone.
After dressing, she found him talking with his brother. The sun shone in broad, yellow streaks through intermittent clouds. The rain had let up, but the houses, the fences, the heath, dripped from the damp. Patches of fog hovered over the lane leading to the village.
“You just missed his highness,” Jarlath said, and then spat on the ground. He leaned against his cabin wall, his long legs stretched toward the road. “He didn’t even wave to his loyal subjects as he passed.”
“Not even a nod,” Rory said. “The carriage shades were pulled, so I didn’t even see him. A shiny, black one pulled by four horses the color of peat that looked better fed than the rest of Ireland. A sorry sight indeed.”
The men waved to her father, who had rounded the corner of Lear House. His head was bowed while he tromped up the lane. Briana shuddered at his unkempt appearance, hardly ever having seen him in such condition. He looked as if he had drunk the night away and then fallen asleep in his clothes. Soot from the turf fire smudged his face, and gray tufts of hair erupted from the side of his head. He had forgotten to belt his trousers, and they hung loosely around his belly. His shirttails fell in a white swirl around his thighs.
“He didn’t even leave me a key for the padlocks,” her father said, his voice quivering. “I asked him what we should do if there was a fire or some other disaster that required us to get into the house. Do you know what he answered?”
Not expecting a cordial response, Briana shook her head as did everyone else.
Brian frowned. “He said, ‘Let it burn.’”
“My God,” Jarlath said, straightening against the wall. “The man is a demon.”
“We can take an axe to the doors if we have to,” Rory said.
“There’ll be no need,” Brian said. “Lear House will sit deserted, as alone as it’s ever been, while we bide our time.”
The house already seemed cadaverous to Briana, as if it had been killed by its owner, as lifeless as a dead animal with clouded, milky eyes.
“We’re next,” Rory said. “The evictions will come—mark my words.”
Rory turned, balled his fists, and squinted into the morning sun toward the road that would take the carriage to Belmullet.
The waves of hate that emanated from her husband washed over her. She had known Rory since they were children, but for the first time she recoiled at his temper. His eyes flickered with murderous rage from the pernicious thoughts that billowed in his body. At that moment, she knew he could kill. The landlord was far down the road by now, so she gathered the courage to tell Rory what Sir Thomas had said.
“Please excuse us, but I must talk to my husband,” she said, and led Rory away from Jarlath and her father. They walked past Lear House and the tenant farms, toward the cliffs. Soon, after numerous “good days” to the other tenants, they stood watching the crashing waves and the blue, turbulent waters. Everything seemed in its place, as it had for centuries, as black-tipped gannets dove into the sea and gulls sailed on outstretched wings on the buoyant air.
They stood facing the wind, the sun at their backs. To their right, the rocky spires of the Stags jutted out of the water. To their left, the ocean swirled past the cliffs into the bay.
“You’re right about America,” she said, broaching the subject. “We must plan now with all haste.” She picked up a rock and threw it, watching it fall over the cliff. “Father won’t go, I’m sure. Lucinda might if we can sway her from England.... That leaves you and me.”
Rory stared out to sea.
“Perhaps you should go to America,” she said.
“And leave you here? What about our family, our child?” He planted his feet apart in a defiant stance. “That’s not our plan.”
“Sir Thomas is reporting the shooting to the Constabulary. They will be here in a few days to question you.”
His eyes pinched in a narrow gaze. “Why would he suspect me?”
A gull cried out, shot upward from the cliff face and spiraled overhead. She savored the fleeting moment. To fly with such abandon as the gull, to live unfettered in the air and on the ocean. What would it be like to be such a bird, free from the cares of human life?
“He knows you have a pistol. I don’t know who told him.”
“I told you Noel showed Connor and me how to fire it long before the ball, but they would never shoot—Connor’s a loose cannon, but neither he nor Noel are murderers.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Sir Thomas suspects you and will swear to that in a deposition. If they find you, you may be arrested.”
He grasped her hands. ‘I’ve heard some men are so eager for transport they commit crimes so they’ll be sent away from Ireland, but I’m not leaving you or Jarlath to hide in America. I’m innocent and I’ll swear to it.”
They walked away from the cliff as Briana’s mind raced; she knew her husband’s head was filled with similar dismal thoughts. She wanted him to leave, but Rory was right; to run away would be an admission of guilt.
They stopped in front of Lear House, where Lucinda, her head bowed, stood crying at the front door. Not wanting to leave her in such a despondent state, they turned up the lane. Lucinda blew her nose into a handkerchief, magnifying the dark circles around her red and puffy eyes. Her hair fell in limp strands around her face.
“Not a word from him,” Lucinda sputtered as they drew close. “Not a good-bye or a good luck.” She lifted the heavy padlock attached to the door and let it fall against the wood with a clank. “And now I can’t even get to the library to read the books I love. What are we to do? I might as well starve, because I have no appetite.” Lucinda collapsed in tears in Briana’s arms.
Briana grasped her sister’s thinning frame and stroked her hair, struggling to hold back tears herself. Lucinda’s emotional breakdown weighed on her as much as the threat against her husband.
“We have to be strong for a number of reasons,” Briana said. They were hollow words with little meaning other than an offering of support—useless words in the face of starvation and loss. But as she held her sister, an idea crossed her mind. Rory wouldn’t be able to book passage out of Belmullet or Westport after Sir Thomas notified the Constabulary; they would be on watch for him, making it almost impossible for him to flee Ireland. If he managed to escape, it would all but seal his guilt, but perhaps he could find someone who would hide him until the real shooter could be found. But who would take him in? Everyone was suffering. No Lear House tenant had anything to spare, and Rory wouldn’t leave the Walshes and Jarlath’s family to eviction and starvation while he ran from the Constabulary. There seemed to be no way out for her husband.
“Sir Thomas thinks Rory shot him,” Briana told her sister.
“I’ll face the constable if he comes for me,” Rory said. “I’m not leaving anyone behind.”
Lucinda looked at her sister, then at Rory, and a look of horror filled her face. “Sir Thomas thinks you shot him?”
“Yes,” Briana said. “Rory’s innocent . . . but the law is always on the landowner’s side.”
“He has influence with sea captains who are more than willing to take his money, but not the Constabulary, I think,” Lucinda said, and looked at Rory. “I’ll tell them I was talking to you when the shot was fired. After all, I was outside for a time. We both heard it and ran inside to see what happened.” She looked away as if she didn’t believe the alibi she had constructed.
“You were outside,” Briana said, knowing her sister had never talked to Rory before the shooting. “Let’s see if they dare come this far to question him.” She grasped her sister’s shoulder gently. “But there’s something else I want to ask of you. . . .”
Lucinda dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief. “What?”
“Would you go to America if we had to?”
Lucinda gasped.
Briana took in her sister’s astounded look, not knowing what her answer would be.
* * *
What a fool she is.
The carriage shuddered down the road, tossing Sir Thomas left and right in his seat. He had pulled the shades because he had no stomach for what Briana and the others had told him about the starving, the rats, the dogs, and the presence of death hanging over County Mayo.
The damn fool has no idea how beautiful she is. There’s something about her that fascinates me—her strength, her spirit! Yes, she’s pretty, but I’ve never met a woman like her. And what a poor excuse she has for a husband. What can he give her when I could provide everything a woman could want? She doesn’t understand that love will buy little. Affection flies away when there’s nothing to eat. Cold, hunger, and hardship will drive them to their breaking point. I pity her. . . .
His hand drifted toward the shade. He wanted to lift the black fabric. After all, it was childish to think that he couldn’t deal with the sights along the road to Belmullet: the godforsaken heath, ugly mountains, or interminable bog. He had seen death many times: His mother and father had died at home; his aunt and uncle had died of old age at the Manchester estate; even workers under his employ had succumbed at the mills. Why should the poor Irish lying dead in the ditches affect him? It was God’s will. They were meant to die. They had neither the power nor the privilege intended for the English.
He drew his hand away from the silk cord and settled back into the seat. Flashes of light blinded him when the shade rattled. Restless, he reached into his bag for a small book he had taken from the Lear House library. The dim interior wasn’t conducive to reading; in fact, the carriage wasn’t comfortable for much, although many Irishmen would have considered it a luxurious ride. He threw the book on the seat.
Sleep. Try to sleep. That will do it. God, get me out of this forsaken country!
He rested his head against the soft leather and closed his eyes. His stomach rumbled.
“My kingdom for a decent meal,” he said to the air, and thought of the limited food choices he faced in Belmullet before boarding the ship that would take him to Westport and then on to Liverpool. Everything would be better once he got aboard. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, for he’d had nothing to eat in the morning—he could take no more mush or oatmeal. The bumpy ride hadn’t helped. His left shoulder throbbed with every bounce. There was no getting around it. Something more than hunger was bothering him. Anger? Yes, anger and something else he hadn’t expected to feel. He had experienced it few times in his life, mostly when he had disappointed his parents. His father called it “remorse” and deemed it a “useless emotion.” If one does correctly the job of living, there should never be cause for remorse, his father had told him.
Remorse. For what? He thought on this awhile and then decided that perhaps he hadn’t been living correctly, as prescribed by his father. Am I to save Lear House and the people in it? It’s too much to ask! Times are harder now than when my parents were alive. They would understand the difficulty of my predicament. His musing switched from his mother and father to Briana. I would gladly save her, but she’s chosen another. What a fool she is when she could have had someone . . .
The driver clucked at the horses, and the carriage slowed as water splashed against its sides. Then a sound he had never heard rang in his ears, like the cry of the damned in hell. He lifted the left window shade, looking out upon the flat bog, and saw that the carriage was crossing a river wide from the summer rains, somewhat shallow in this part but flowing briskly in white ripples over the rocks.
Ragged men, women, and children stood like black statues in front of the brush that lined the shallow bank, the women screeching in agony, clutching at their husbands. They seemed to be parting, for there was a group of men already on the south bank. They looked piteously back at the women they’d left across the river. The women’s cries were hideous, nightmarish, and he wanted to block the noise from his ears.
The horses splashed through the rapids as the driver lashed the animals forward. Sir Thomas closed the shade again as the carriage sped past the starving men. He’d seen enough.