Chapter 25

The week that followed Michael's homecoming was a joyous time for Anne. The two of them walked and rode over the plantation, sailed the river and bay, and planned the future of Gentleman's Folly. He said nothing of leaving, and she was afraid to ask. It was almost the honeymoon she'd never really had.

Michael was warm, laughing, and attentive. And the presence of his foster sister, her son, and Blanche Tully seemed to add to the sense of real family. Anne found that she genuinely liked both women and adored small, mischievous Conall. Michael's behavior around Kathleen was so obviously that of a concerned brother that Anne felt foolish and mean-spirited to have ever doubted the nature of their relationship.

And if secret fears lurked in the corners of her mind, Anne was able to forget them each night when they closed their bedroom door against the world. Their lovemaking was both passionate and tender. Sometimes, Michael brought her grandfather's violin upstairs and sang and played just for her. Once, he even shared an original composition he had written. It was so beautiful, so haunting, that it brought tears to her eyes.

"What is it called?" she asked.

He smiled and rested the bow across his knee."'Annie's Song.'"

Michael returned the violin to its case and slid into bed beside her. Tenderly he kissed her eyelids, her brow, and finally her lips. "You make me happy," he admitted as he looked deeply into her eyes. "I've never felt this way before. Never..."

"Can I ask you something?" she'd murmured between caresses.

"Anything."

"What is your real name?"

For long seconds he didn't answer, and the only sounds in the room were the rise and fall of their breathing and the crackle of wood burning in the fireplace. Applewood, she realized. Only apple could smell so sweet.

"You ask hard questions, woman."

"Please, I want to know. I think I have a right to know." She didn't tell him—couldn't—that her monthly time was late, and she suspected she might have good reason to know.

If they'd made a child of their love, she wanted to be able to tell that child what his or her father's name was. It was important, vital. She could recite her family lineage back four hundred years on the Davis side to one Owen Davis from a wild holding in the Welsh mountains.

"I'm not sure," Michael answered, so faintly that she wasn't certain she'd heard. "When my mother left my father the first time, she took me aside and told me that he couldn't have children."

"Oh, Michael, how cruel of her," she'd said, pulling him tight against her and feeling his muscles tense with an ancient pain.

"I loved him as much as I loved her. I didn't believe her, so I went to Father and demanded to know. He told me that in every way that mattered, I was his son."

"It was true?"

"True... and false. Whoever sired me, she never said. I was angry, called her names that should never have come from a boy's mouth."

"She should have left well enough alone."

"Aye, so I think now. But then—ah, then, Annie. I was young and sure of so many things. I didn't believe I had a right to her husband's name. That's why I took Ryan Collins when I joined the 'moonlight boys.'"

"And was it Ryan Collins who was arrested and nearly hanged?" she demanded. He laid his head against her breast, and she stroked his soft, thick hair.

He caught her hand and raised it to his lips. One by one he kissed her knuckles, and then turned her palm so that he could kiss the pulse at her wrist. "When I reached America, I'd had time to think. If the only father I'd ever known had claimed me, who was I to reject him?" Michael's breath exhaled slowly. "In his memory, I took his name back again."

"O'Ryan?"

"Aye. Michael O'Ryan, as I was christened."

She chuckled and shoved him away playfully. "Michael O'Ryan of Belfast?"

"And Shannon," he admitted. "And a few other places I'd rather not mention."

"You scoundrel," she teased. "You tricked me into thinking that O'Ryan was an assumed name when all the while—"

Laughing, he sat up and enveloped her in a heated embrace. Pressing her back against the heaped pillows he began to kiss her in earnest, all the while trailing exploring fingers over her breasts. "I told you the truth," he murmured, nibbling at her lower lip. "If you chose to think me a liar..."

And then they were concerned with other matters than his name and never quite got back to the subject until breakfast the following morning. There, Kathleen and Blanche joined in the conversation.

"I once visited a Ryan Collins in prison," Kathleen said with a barely suppressed giggle. "Poor fellow. Quite homely, he was."

"Ghastly," Blanche agreed. "But he was an enemy of the Crown and a ruthless rascal."

"What came of this rascal?" Anne asked as she passed the honey.

Kathleen shrugged. "Hanged, I believe."

"He was not hanged," Michael insisted, blue eyes twinkling. "Being a fellow of stout heart and wit, he escaped in the very shadow of the gallows."

"I suppose he took ship for the colonies?" Anne suggested.

"Alas, no," her husband said. "Gallant lad that he was, he dove into the river and drowned. Seems he'd forgotten that he couldn't swim a stroke."

"He drowned," Anne said.

"Oh yes. A tragedy," Michael went on. "And the tide was so swift that they never found his body."

Kathleen chuckled. "You are insufferable. Don't believe a word of what he says, Anne. He's always been like this. If you keep on, he'll convince you that you are a Collins."

"He drowned, I tell you," Michael insisted. "There was even a witness."

Anne lowered her head in mock exasperation and covered her face with her hands. "Cormac Payne?"

"It might have been," Michael agreed. "Now there was another stout fellow of courage. He—"

"Enough!" cried Kathleen. She tossed a biscuit and struck him full in the forehead, and they all laughed and laughed until Gerda came into the dining room to see what the commotion was all about.

"You explain it," Michael said. He kissed Anne and bid the others a good day. "I'm off to Swan's Nest to buy a bull," he said. "Sean's coming with me. And I'll be home in time for the evening meal." He turned and winked at Gerda. "Cook something good, and don't let my bride anywhere near the kitchen."

Later that morning, Anne, Kathleen, Blanche, and Conall joined a group of women and children in the orchard. Blanche spread a blanket on the grass for Kathleen and tied a rope around Conall's waist. Kathleen attached the other end to her wrist so that she could keep tabs on her son while Blanche helped with the apple picking.

It was a glorious autumn day, with white fluffy clouds above and the smell of ripe fruit in the air. Since she couldn't see to assist in the harvest, Michael's sister made herself useful by sorting apples, dividing the perfect fruit from the bruised or insect-damaged.

Two older Irishwomen cut away the soft spots and tossed apples into separate baskets, some to be ground and pressed into cider, others to be peeled for applesauce. Gerda and her assistants prepared and carried the midday meal outdoors so the workers could take their dinner in the orchard.

By afternoon, more than half the apples had been picked, and the laborers had lost all shyness with one another as Kathleen led them in singing round after round of ballads and riddle songs. Her voice was a clear, flawless soprano that rose above the rustle of the wind and the faint cry of the shore birds.

... What is whiter than the milk?

Sing ninety-nine and ninety,

And what is softer than the silk?

And I am my true love's bonny.

The women and youngsters, Irish and Marylanders, black and white, joined in lustily for the chorus.

Oh, you must answer questions nine, Sing ninety-nine and ninety, Or you're not his, but one of mine, And you'll n'er be your lover's bonny.

Anne clung to a ladder, her feet on the next-to-highest rung, and reached for a shining red apple. Her hair was braided in a single plait and covered with a handkerchief; her skirts were rucked up. Her blouse was torn and smeared with rotten fruit, and yellowjackets buzzed around her head. She couldn't remember ever working so hard or having such a good time at apple picking.

"Miss Anne!" Charity came running. "Miss Anne. You gotta come right now. The sheriff and Mr. Whitfield and Miss Mary are at the landing. I think Sheriff Clough, he's come to arrest Mr. O'Ryan!"

* * *

Anne smoothed her hair and her skirt and petticoats as she ran toward the dock. She dashed through the sheepyard and past the strawberry patch. Just before she ducked through the hedgerow and onto the bay path, she stopped, took a deep breath, and tried to regain her dignity.

Sheriff John Clough, Anne's sister, and her brother-in-law were only a few yards away, striding toward the house. A half-dozen somber men, strangers all, followed closely on their heels.

"Miss Anne," the sheriff said as she stepped out in front of them. He was a big man, and she had to look up at him. Graying and severe in appearance, John Clough was impeccably dressed, as always.

"Good afternoon, John. Mary." She stepped forward and kissed her sister on the cheek. Mary, her pregnancy now obvious, seemed ill at ease. Her eyes were red and puffy, as if she'd been weeping. "It is good to see you, sister," Anne said.

Then she glanced at George. "You catch me at a disadvantage. We were just getting in the last of our apple crop. I wasn't expecting company."

"Is your husband at home?" Clough asked sternly.

"We know he's been here. You may as well give him up," George said.

"Mr. O'Ryan?" Anne tried to look unconcerned. "If he'd known you were coming, I'm certain he would have stayed at home. Can I help you with something?"

The sheriff frowned. "I'm afraid this is quite serious. It would be best if we spoke directly with Mr. O'Ryan."

She glanced at Mary. "I don't understand. How does this matter concern George?"

"This is hardly the place for this conversation. Can't we go to the house—?" Clough began.

"You and my sister are always welcome at Gentleman's Folly," Anne said, cutting him off. "But my brother-in-law isn't. I would appreciate it if you'd tell me what this is all about."

"Your husband Michael O'Ryan is an imposter," George said. "His real name is Cormac Payne, and he's wanted on a charge of murder on the high seas."

"Absolutely ridiculous," she replied. "I don't know who this Mr. Payne is, but Michael is a well-known gentleman. I believe this is more of your nonsense, George." She glanced back at the sheriff. "George wants to control this plantation and—"

"I do control this land," George corrected. "I hold the mortgage on it, and I demand my money immediately."

"You're lying," Anne flung back. "He's lying. Sheriff, you know that Obediah and Stoddard Rawlings—"

"Rawlings and Rawlings belongs to me," George retorted. "I've owned the establishment for some years."

"Mary, is that true?" Anne demanded.

Mary nodded as tears rolled down her cheeks, smearing the light dusting of face powder.

"The debt is mine," George insisted. "It's obvious to me that my wife's sister is totally unsuited to manage my property." He pointed at her. "I have serious doubts about her mental condition, since she's clearly under the influence of this criminal."

"Unfortunately, Miss Anne, it is my duty to arrest Mr. O'Ryan and turn him over to the authorities in Philadelphia for trial."

"He's not Cormac Payne!" Anne argued.

"I hope not," Clough replied. "In that case, he should be able to clear himself of these accusations. If not—"

"This is all a mistake!"

"Yes." George smiled unpleasantly. "It is a mistake, and you've made it."

* * *

Anne looked out her bedroom window for the hundredth time. Below, in the garden, she saw one of George's hired men leaning against a piece of marble statuary.

So much for her idea of jumping out the window and going to warn Michael that the sheriff was waiting for him.

She hugged her arms against her chest and paced the floor. She'd been furious when George had ordered both her and her sister up to her room and locked them in, but she couldn't waste energy fuming over that. She had to think of a way to stop Michael from walking into a trap.

Mary lifted her head from the pillow and sat up on the bed. "Oh, Anne, I'm so sorry about this," she said. "This is all wrong."

"Wrong? Of course, it's wrong! It's craziness. George is doing this for money."

"Have you considered that he might be right?" Mary asked gently. "That Mr. O'Ryan might be this Cormac Payne—this murderer?"

"He's not!" Anne seized Mary's hand. "Can't you see? It doesn't matter if he is or not, not to me. I love him!"

"You thought you were in love with Mr. Preston and he was—"

"It isn't the same, Mary. O'Ryan—Michael's not the same. He's really a good person. He cares about me. And no matter what he's done, I won't let them arrest him and take him away."

Mary grimaced, and Anne released her hand. She was sorry to have hurt her. Mary didn't look well at all.

"Men can be very difficult at times," Mary said. "Even George."

"Even George? Especially George. He's a greedy, ill-tempered—"

"Don't, please don't." Mary wiped away an invisible tear. "Don't you think I know his shortcomings? I live with him every day... It's not easy. But he is my husband and the father of my children. I owe him a certain... respect—even gratitude."

"Not love?"

"Don't be childish. A woman marries because she must. How else would she have a family, a social position?"

"The two of you seemed as though you were in love when he courted you. Papa didn't like him, you know."

"Papa liked George's money well enough." Mary sighed. "And yes, I'll admit I found him handsome... in a gentle sort of way. Best of all, he could take me off this isolated plantation."

"You've always seemed happy to me."

"A woman makes her own happiness, Anne. Only a fool looks to someone else, least of all a man, to give it to her."

"But you are here with him," Anne pointed out. "It looks very much as though you approve of what George is doing."

"That's ridiculous. He didn't want me to come down here. We had a terrible quarrel. He left Philadelphia without me, but I defied him and followed on my own. I took a coach to Head of Elk and had the bad luck to meet George there. He was livid, but he was afraid to send me back home without an escort. So here I am." She grimaced. "He's still very, very angry."

"George has always been angry with me," Anne said. "He's never liked me, not from the first day."

"Perhaps it would be best if Mr. O'Ryan answers their charges."

"No, it wouldn't be," Anne said vehemently. "Think! Philadelphia is George's town. His money can buy any verdict he desires, and he wants to be rid of Michael."

She stopped short of telling her sister that Nora Cleary was the only witness to what really happened aboard the Providence. Anne seriously doubted that a jury would put faith in the testimony of an Irish female who happened to be friend, employee, and countrywoman of the accused.

She was so worried about Michael that George's threat to take Gentleman's Folly didn't matter. Without Michael...

He'd promised he'd be back from Swan's Nest in time for supper, and by the sun, it was already after five. Anne decided she could wait no longer.

"Can I trust you?" she asked Mary. "I have to do something. Will you stay here and stall them from finding out that I'm gone?"

"You're going out through the panel in the dressing room?"

Anne nodded. "If you don't help me, I don't stand a chance."

"What do I say if George asks for you?" Mary folded her arms across her ample breasts and rocked back and forth. "I don't know. I just don't know."

"Tell him I'm on the closestool. Tell him anything. Just give me a little time. Please, Mary. You're my sister. You can't betray me."

"All right," she agreed. "But you're only going to make this worse."

"I'll have to chance it." Quickly, Anne changed into a dark dress and sensible shoes. Then she removed the panel and climbed the hidden stair to the attic, as Grace had done when the pirates attacked the house.

When she reached the top, she paused and listened. Below, she heard the scrape and click of wood against wood as Mary fitted the hatch back into place. "Good girl," Anne whispered.

Stepping as carefully as she could, she moved from the attic of the main house into the one over the winter kitchen. She crawled through another hatch into Grace's room and took the girl's hooded cloak from a nail. She tied a scarf around her head to cover her hair, smeared ashes on her cheeks, and donned the cape.

Anne took the narrow back steps to the kitchen and pressed her ear to the door. When she heard nothing, she pushed the door open a crack. Gerda looked up from the table and opened her mouth in surprise. Anne put a finger to her lips.

Seated with his back to the staircase was one of the men who had come with George and the sheriff. He was drinking a cup of coffee and devouring one of Gerda's apple turnovers.

Anne's heart was beating so hard that she wondered why he couldn't hear it rattling against her chest. Gritting her teeth, she stepped into the kitchen and started for the back door.

"Take that basket and fetch me some eggs from the henhouse, Nan," Gerda ordered. "And take care not to crack any of them."

"Yes'm," Anne mumbled. She snatched up the basket and went out onto the porch. Keeping her head down, she walked swiftly toward the chicken run. The man in the garden didn't even glance in her direction.

When she reached the grape arbor, she changed direction and made her way to the barn. She opened a side door and slipped inside. It took only a few moments to throw a saddle and bridle on the nearest horse. Then she scrambled up into the saddle and rode boldly into the barnyard.

"Hey, you!" someone cried.

Anne dug her heels into the gelding's side, leaned low in the saddle, and thundered away at a full gallop.