LIKE MA the day of the Oughterard massacre, I couldn’t sleep. The vivid images conjured up by her diary rushed around in my head. She was a sweet and gentle woman when I knew her—passionate, sure, and sometimes a little crazy. But the wild young girl with a knife in her hand . . . could that have been my Gramma Nell?
Yes, it could very well be her; the only one in Galway who realized that Daniel O’Kelly was a traitor, that could be Ma too.
“Ma doesn’t miss much, that’s for sure,” my own mother would say to be when I was a gosson. “And I don’t think she’s afraid of anything in the world except perhaps hurting Pa’s feelings.”
What effect did that wild and vivid story have on Nuala? If it is keeping me awake, what will it do to a sensitive girl who by now thinks she is Nell Pat Malone?
She might start carrying a knife too!
I laughed at that picture.
I told myself repeatedly that Nuala was a child, only a year and a half older than Kel when she died. Because she was so good-looking and so smart and so talented and, well, yes, so sensitive to my pain, it was easy to fool oneself into thinking she was at least twenty-five.
She had the right to time of her own in which to grow up, discover herself, develop her talents, create her own world.
Didn’t she?
A marriage now would be a terrible mistake for Nuala. It would foreclose the rich possibilities that lay open before her, even if she couldn’t see them clearly.
Having thus reassured myself, I dozed and then fell into a deeper but troubled sleep.
I was awakened by a knock at the door, soft and quiet. I lay there in bed, wondering if I had imagined it. No, there it was again.
I wasn’t quite sure what time it was or even where I was. I staggered out of bed and, still in my shorts, stumbled to the parlor and over to the door of the suite.
“Yes?” I said thickly, realizing now that I was in a hotel room, but not sure yet where or why.
“Angela.”
A woman’s voice. At this time of night. What time of night was it anyway? Did I know any woman named Angela?
Had I arranged an assignation with an Angela? How could I have worked up the courage to do that?
I opened the door a crack, recognized Angela Smythe, with a “y” and an “e,” and remembered in a burst of illumination where I was and who Angela was.
“May I come in, Dermot?” she said breathlessly.
How could I refuse?
I opened the door and let her in. I remembered that I was in my shorts and felt momentarily embarrassed.
“You look beautiful,” she said. “I don’t have long, Dermot.” She hugged me and continued to cling to me. “I’m leaving on a new assignment, the States actually. I had to see you.”
“Are you in trouble, Angela?” I held her close and felt her breasts firmly against my chest and her heart pounding wildly.
“Trouble? Oh, no. Not really. My colleagues here were unhappy with me, but they could hardly complain to the Foreign Office, given the nature of the case. They suggested I ask for a transfer.”
“Your name is not Angela Smythe?”
“Of course not. Don’t ask what it really is. Everything else I told you was the truth.”
“So?”
“I didn’t call you again and I canceled Angela at the embassy because I found that I could not keep my part of the agreement. Do you understand what I’m saying, Dermot?”
“I think so.”
I also understood that she wanted to make love with me.
“I beg you to be careful. My colleagues are harmless, perhaps even on your side now. They were as shocked as I was to learn about the Consort.”
“Consort?”
“Of St. George and St. Patrick. They’re the dangerous ones, or some of them. Be careful of them. And don’t ruin everything if you do find out the whole truth. There is so much at stake, Dermot. The agreement is only a first step, but it’s all we have.”
I was a tiny fraction of a millimeter away from taking her to bed. I was entitled to a little pleasure, wasn’t I? How could it hurt anyone? She wanted love, needed it probably. So did I.
So why didn’t I take advantage of a situation for which many men would long?
I’m not sure. Maybe the presence of the diary on the table behind me and Nuala’s insistence that Ma was lurking in the room stopped me.
Ma would not have approved. Definitely not.
“I appreciate the warning, Angela . . . and the integrity of your visit. I’ll keep in mind everything you said”—I gently disengaged from her—“and if you don’t mind, I’ll look you up in Washington when I go home, which will be soon.”
She got the message—and took it with style. “Yes, please do, Dermot. I’ll be in the trade section of the embassy. If you merely walk into the office, I’m sure you’ll be able to find me.”
“Good-bye, Dermot.” She kissed me quickly. “Please be careful.”
Back in bed and now wide awake, I was filled with regret, not a sense of virtue.
I was what Ma would have called in an irate moment a “galoot.” I had done nothing with my life or my talents. I had failed Kel. I had messed up in school. I was a bumbler at the Exchange and had made my wealth by a stupid mistake. Now I was messing in a foolish and possibly dangerous quest and letting down a couple of women, who were even more beautiful than Kel.
Eejit!
Consort? What’s a consort? I asked myself. A queen’s husband?
More likely a fancy name for a consortium. Or maybe it was vice versa. St. George and St. Patrick? The patrons of the two British Isles. Well, that wasn’t fair to St. Andrew or St. David, who had been assigned Scotland and Wales respectively, was it now?
The patrons of England and Ireland. Did those two even talk to each other in heaven?
None of it made any sense. Nothing made any sense.
You’re a fool I told myself.
Finally I slept, only to be awakened at nine o’clock with a handwritten note from Lord Longwood-Jones inviting me and Nuala to lunch the next day at his town house.
What were those two handsome folk up to now?