Chapter Eighteen

Ivy climbed the massive oaks lining the dirt drive. I imagined the Daly kids climbing these trees while growing up. In summer, the towering trees’ thick leaves likely canopied the drive, forming a tunnel. Now their bare branches quivered in the wind, along with my knit beret hanging on the end of one. That frickin’ bird must have dropped it there. My heart did a little happy dance. After several attempts, I jumped high enough to snatch it from the low branch. I smiled, slipping the damp cap in my coat pocket.

This was a good sign.

Yet a nervous feeling fluttered in my chest as I neared the Daly house. I glanced over my shoulder at Grandma’s home growing smaller in the distance. Closed green drapes prevented me from peeking through the house’s tall white-paned windows. No welcome mat sat at the front door. No sign of life except for the fresh tire tracks and car in the drive. A shiver crept up my back. I eased out a shaky breath, curling and uncurling my fingers several times before pressing the button next to the red-painted door. Rather than a low ominous ding-dong, no ring sounded inside. I pressed the button harder.

A few moments later, the door creaked opened, revealing a tall, refined-looking elderly woman wrapped in a maroon shawl. Her gray eyes gave me a wary look.

“May, I help you?” she asked.

“Yes, ah…” I cleared my throat. “My name’s Caity Shaw. I’m related to the Coffeys who lived down there.” I gestured toward Grandma’s house.

Rather than slamming the door in my face, a smile curved her thin lips, and she opened the door wider. “Related to Agnes, were ya? Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in some time.”

This lady’s parents had obviously never threatened to drop her off at Agnes Coffey’s if she was naughty. She appeared to have fond memories of my great-aunt.

“I’m her sister Bridget’s granddaughter.”

Curiosity narrowed her gaze, deepening the wrinkles in her forehead. “Well, this is a surprise, isn’t it now?”

I nodded faintly, even though it wasn’t a question requiring an answer. We stared at each other a moment before she stepped aside, ushering me in. Dark wood-paneled walls and floors made the entryway feel as damp and cold as outside.

“May I take your coat?” She apparently noticed my hesitation, and added, “Sorry for the lack of heat. Just arrived from Dublin and was about to light a fire in the sitting room. This house is a beast to heat, with fuel costs. My late husband, Charles, always told me to sell it, but I still can’t bring myself to give up the family home.”

“Did you grow up here?”

She nodded. “Born and raised in this house.”

My heart skipped a beat. “You didn’t happen to have a brother John, did you?”

“Why, indeed I did.”

My mind raced with questions. I tried to organize my scattered thoughts, not wanting to interrogate the woman and scare her off.

“Come into the sitting room for a cuppa.”

I slipped off my green coat, and she hung it on a rack next to a long black one. I went to remove my dirty wellies.

“Ah, that’s an American habit, isn’t it? No worries, the boots will keep the toes warm from the cold floor.”

My dirty purple wellies made me feel even more out of place next to Emily in her proper black heels buffed to a shine. I followed her down an unlit hallway, trying to step lightly on a worn red runner covering the wood floor. Gilded-framed paintings of distinguished-looking men lined the walls. It was like strolling through an exhibit at a Paris art museum. A tarnished metal plate on a frame read J. P. Daly. The landlord who’d been targeted by the angry tenants and whose sister had been mistakenly shot. His dark eyes and stern expression raised the hairs on my arms. He didn’t look like a kind or fair man.

Emily opened a large door to an orangish-peach room. I blinked back the daylight pouring in through the cream-colored drapes held back with gold-tasseled ties. She lit a stack of peat in a large white marble fireplace, which had to be a complete nightmare to keep clean. Yet despite a light dusting of cobwebs on the ceiling’s white crown molding, the place was neat and tidy. More portraits filled the walls along with numerous paintings of horses, some with dapper-looking gents in red riding outfits.

“My father owned several racehorses. It’s popular here in Ireland, ya know.”

I nodded, recalling my winning bet on Paddy’s Sassy Lassy.

“Please, take a seat.” She gestured to a green velvet couch and matching chairs with ornately carved wood trim.

I thought of the three-legged chair on the dirt floor in Grandma’s house.

I sat on the couch. A claw-foot wooden cocktail table displayed a silver tray with a matching silver teapot, sugar bowl, and creamer. Four red floral china cups and saucers sat to the side of the tray. I checked a teacup bottom. An English manufacturer.

Emily arched a curious brow.

I explained about Flannery’s china company.

“Ah yes, I’m familiar with them. They have some lovely patterns.” She gestured to the cup and saucer. “You must keep one in memory of your pilgrimage to your grandmother’s homeland. They were my grandparents’, J. P. and Catherine Daly’s.”

“Thank you.” A nice addition to my growing collection. I nodded at the elaborate tea service. “Are you expecting company?” I felt bad for intruding.

She shook her head, pouring a cup of tea. “My son and his family couldn’t make it until tomorrow. I’m delighted you’re here.” She handed me the cup. “So now, do tell me. Why are you here?” I apparently looked taken aback by her question. Her features softened. “Not here, here, as in my house, which is grand, luv, but why are you here in Ireland, at your grandmother’s old home?”

“I recently learned she was from Ireland. She died when I was only seven, and I want to know more about her.”

She accepted my answer, pouring herself some tea.

I took a deep, encouraging breath. “She was married to your brother John, wasn’t she?”

“She was.”

“I have their wedding photo taken in Dublin.”

A perplexed look narrowed her gaze. She took a photo album from a table and paged through it, finding Grandma’s wedding photo. “Is this the snap you’re referring to?”

I nodded slowly.

“It was their engagement photo.”

“We thought it was a wedding gown.”

“My brother purchased it when he still had access to family money. He knew they wouldn’t have the means once they moved to England.”

“They lived in England?”

“By our relatives in Lancashire.”

The marriage certificate I had was for a Lancashire church.

“He didn’t go by the name Michael, did he?”

She shrugged. “He may have after he left home. Michael was his middle name.”

I told her about the marriage certificate.

“I would say that was likely him. No longer caring to have anything to do with the family likely included his family name. It belonged to our grandfather John Patrick, usually referred to as J. P.”

Thoughts of Grandma and John Daly standing at the altar in a cold stone church in England, the pastor’s voice echoing through the empty building, broke my heart.

Emily gazed reminiscently at the flames dancing in the fireplace. “She was a lovely girl.”

I stopped shy of sipping my tea, lowering my cup. “You remember my grandma?”

“Yes. Not well, mind you. I was a very young girl, much younger than John. But I recall how she and her sisters would play in the yard and climb trees, their laughter carrying up to our house.” She smiled. “Oh, how I longed to go down and play with them. But, of course, a proper young lady had to worry about keeping her dress clean. And instead, I studied French and mathematics at that same desk there.”

A writing desk sat in front of the window facing Grandma’s house in the distance. I imagined Emily staring outside, wanting to go play. I couldn’t recall Grandma’s laugh as well as she seemed to. I wasn’t sure if it was because I’d rarely heard her laugh or my memories were vague, having been so young when she’d died. However, like Emily and unlike Mom, my memories of Grandma were happy ones. Wearing her purple apron and drinking hot cocoa from her teacups.

Emily had lived in this stately home and envied Grandma in her tiny stone cottage. Had Grandma longed to live in this house and learn French? However, she’d married John for love since he’d known marrying her would cut off his cash flow.

“It was no wonder John adored her. He always had. Nobody could blame him. Except for my parents, of course.” She rolled her eyes. “That feud had gone on much too long.”

“Because of the land?” I asked.

She nodded. “And the attempted murder of my grandfather.”

My stomached clenched. “The Coffeys were involved?” I muttered.

“In a sense, at least according to my grandfather. He was certain your ancestor”—her gaze narrowed—“whose name I don’t recall, had witnessed the murder of my grandfather’s sister yet refused to cooperate with the authorities or testify. Of course, looking back, one couldn’t fully blame your ancestor, if he even had indeed witnessed anything a’ tall. A person would have been reluctant to turn on his neighbors at such a time of unrest. My grandfather took his silence as condoning the deed.”

At least my ancestor hadn’t been directly involved.

“We were told from a very young age not to mix with the Coffey family, which of course made us want to do it all the more.” A mischievous glint filled her eyes. “My mother once caught Agnes and me walking home from school together. I was deathly afraid of what my father would do, but she never told him. He was all about the wealth and prestige. Even when much of his land reverted back to the Irish, Father’s attitude never changed. Didn’t even allow his own son to be buried in the family plot.”

“When did John die?” I felt a strange sense of relief that he’d died and hadn’t abandoned Grandma for another woman or family money.

“Shortly after they married. From TB. Tuberculosis. Known as the poor man’s disease at that time, which of course added salt to Father’s wound that his son should die of such an inferior disease. They were living in Lancashire, where he’s buried.”

“How sad. She had no family there to comfort her after he died.”

“Her mother wanted her to return home, but her father wouldn’t allow it. She lived with her sister nearby for a short while before traveling to America.”

“Do you know why she went there? Friends, family?”

She shook her head. “Sorry, luv. Don’t recall ever having heard.”

Mom would certainly be more understanding once she learned why Grandma had kept her tragic life in Ireland a secret. She’d be more sympathetic to her distant emotions and for not having been the most nurturing mother. It had been a survival tactic, after her family had disowned her and the man she’d loved died. Marrying into a wealthy family could have provided her opportunities for a better life. That was why the Irish had immigrated, hope for a better future. She could have remained near her family if they’d accepted her marriage. And in the end, she’d lost them all. No wonder she’d claimed they were dead.

They’d been dead to her.