The Irishman's Daughter Page 18

  Sir Thomas dampened a bitter laugh. “Do you have any idea how much it costs to support my home in England? Lear House is a luxury. Manchester is my legacy and heritage, as well as the employer for a staff of seven. They are indispensable to me. I’d heard of other owners closing their homes in Ireland, but I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to that. I had no reason to believe it would, but now I see the truth of the matter. There is no other choice.”

  Brian looked up, stone-faced, unable to counter his employer’s argument. The thought of losing the manor crushed him, as if an unseen weight had tumbled upon him. He had devoted his life to the manor—the estate and the surrounding lands were the only home he had ever known. From his birth in the village, to his employment by Sir Thomas’s father, through his marriage, the birth of his daughters, and the death of his dear wife, Lear House had stood witness to it all. Now it was ending, and with it, the life he had always known.

  He stared with damp eyes at his employer.

  Sir Thomas rose from the desk. “If there is nothing to be done, you will continue to work until the time comes to close Lear House.”

  * * *

  Briana could not stop thinking about how badly the conversation with the landlord had gone the night before. Her father was at his wits’ end; her sister was crushed by the owner’s ultimatum and the prospect of governing three children while the landlord entertained his guests. She was also concerned about her husband, who had greeted her coolly when she arrived at the cabin after helping clear and clean the dishes at Lear House the previous evening. He was no happier this morning when he found out that she had to cook the landlord’s breakfast.

  She desperately wanted to rid her mind of turmoil, and a walk after breakfast was the best medicine she could think of. However, her love of walking was tempered by the crumbling burrows of the starving who had crowded the lane less than a month before. There were no dying people now, but their suffering remained foremost in her mind.

  The day was cool, the clouds the color of pale slate. Fortunately, it had not begun to rain, and she occupied her mind by picking light yellow primrose, brilliant yellow flag, and the white fragrant blossoms of hawthorn. She gathered them in a reed basket and was on her way back to the cabin when she spotted Sir Thomas striding toward her on the path leading up from the sandy bay.

  “I’ve been searching for you,” he said, casting a lingering gaze over her body. But the carnal stare disappeared as quickly as she noticed it.

  She had no desire to speak to the landlord and held her tongue. Her sister saw the obvious in Sir Thomas: his good looks, money, and property; all obliterated, in Briana’s opinion, by a grandiose proclivity for privilege. Sadly, Lucinda would be happy with him for a time—until he abandoned her for the arms of a mistress. She imagined him secretly sweeping his lover up a grand staircase in Manchester while Lucinda, blissfully unaware of his doings, sat alone in the dining room fretting about the perfect china service for her next tea party. She loved her sister, but she knew how vain and pompous she could be, faults that would tie her blindly to the landlord.

  Briana waited for Sir Thomas to speak.

  “The flowers are beautiful,” he finally said. “Are they adornments for your father’s cottage?”

  He sounded almost civil. “No,” she replied, a bit embarrassed by her timidity. She shook it off, realizing that the landlord knew nothing about her marriage to Rory. “They’re going in a small vase in our cabin.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he gave her a questioning look. “Your cabin?” He put his hands in the pockets of his blue waistcoat. For a moment, he looked like a child who had lost a toy.

  “Yes. I guess my father didn’t tell you.” She decided to walk on; he could either follow or remain behind.

  He caught up and walked beside her. “Your father and I talked about many things—mostly unpleasant—but he never mentioned that you had moved out of the cottage.”

  Briana turned, and the wind caught her hair, blowing a strand over her eye. She tucked it behind her ear. “I married Rory Caulfield some weeks ago. We live in the cabin near the lane.” She pointed up the path to her home, whose thatched roof was barely visible.

  The landlord didn’t miss a step. Briana had no idea whether she had shocked him or merely entertained him. He seemed unperturbed, judging from his gait and expression. They strolled a few yards along the lane.

  “I don’t believe I’ve met him.”

  She repressed an exasperated sigh. “I believe you’ve seen him—once or twice. You probably don’t remember, of course.”

  He dismissed the rebuke with a smile. “Well, I offer my best wishes for a long and bountiful marriage.” He extended his arm in a gallant gesture.

  Briana hesitated, unsure whether to accept his courtesy, but then relented, thinking there was no reason to be rude; in fact, some civility on her part might benefit Lear House. She hooked her arm through his, but he withdrew it, kissing the crown of her hand. As his lips touched her skin, she longed for the gesture to be over. His fingers chilled her as much as his lips. She excused herself with a curt, “Thank you.”

  They stopped near the cabin, and she waved to Rory and Jarlath, who were kneeling next to a potato ridge. Beyond them, a farmer was mending a thatched roof while his wife handed him the rushes. Rory returned her wave, but with an obvious distaste she could discern even from her distance.

  “I have a favor to ask of you,” the landlord said. The wind ruffled his hair, and he shook his head as if savoring the breeze. “I do love it here. It’s a shame that I may have to close Lear House until this nasty business is over.”

  She bristled at his threat to close the manor and his audacity to ask for a favor in the same breath. “You act as if you have no choice,” she responded.

  “I don’t. I can’t support two households, particularly one that is empty of funds—and food.”

  “Nothing can be done? Can’t you sell off land in England, or take a loan against your home?”

  He chuckled. “And throw good money after bad? Absolutely not. Consider my position, Briana.” He gazed at Rory and Jarlath and the other tenants working the fields. “My grandfather, my father, and I have supported this land as our birthright, but times have changed. What was once a modest proposition has now become expensive to maintain. And with a crop failure, there seems to be no alternative.” He brushed his hand through his hair. “I’ve been fair, but I can’t be faulted for the negligence of tenants to keep their obligations. Sadly, I think Lear House’s days may come to an end.”

  “I can think of nothing else.” She looked down at the flowers in the basket, some already withering.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and looked genuinely glum. “If I could think of something to save Lear House I would.” His lips parted in a narrow smile. “But about my favor . . .”

  Briana nodded.

  “The Andersons, the Rogerses, and the Wards are coming at the end of the week. There’s no telegraphy in this part of the world and no way of reaching them by post before they depart. They will arrive, and I will be entertaining guests in a house with limited food.” His mouth crinkled in concern.

  She understood his plight but felt little sympathy for him or his society friends. “You could deliver a message to Belmullet and tell your guests to take the next ship back to Liverpool.”

  His eyes widened with distress. “I would never be able to hold my head up in Manchester if I did that.” He clasped his hands. “Your father and I have duties to attend to. Do you know someone who would make the trip to Westport for five pounds, meet with my connections, and bring back the food we’d need?”

  Briana gulped, taking in Sir Thomas’s words. Five pounds was a fortune for her and Rory. She’d be more than willing to make the trip if she couldn’t talk her husband into it. “I can arrange it. Who should we talk to?”

  “Either Captains James or Miller. One of them should be in port. Both owe me favors and, I think, would be most happy to fulfill my wishes. If
not, there are others.... Money talks. Have the supplies shipped to Belmullet and then on to the store.”

  Briana remembered the lean sea officer Captain James, who had rescued her from the drunken sailor who made unwanted advances.

  “Whom do you have in mind for the trip?” Sir Thomas asked.

  “My husband and I.”

  “It’s settled then. I suggest you start tomorrow. Order as much as you can for the next month. Another trip may be required.” He pulled twenty pounds from his pocket and handed it to her. “Spend it on supplies—five pounds is for you.”

  “Expect us back in four days.” She pocketed the notes and thought of Lucinda saddled with the household chores. “My sister will not be happy.”

  Sir Thomas grinned. “I’m sure your father can find a woman to cook and clean for a few days in your absence.” He bowed, kissed her hand, and struck off in long strides down the road to Lear House.

  She returned home, threw open the door to let in the fresh air, and fussed with the flowers. After cutting the stems, she drew a cup of water from the bucket, poured it into the glass bottle, positioned the flowers, and placed them on the small table. The colors burst forth against the shaded walls, brightening the murky day and her mood. She fingered the note and marveled at her good fortune. Then a question struck her. Why didn’t Sir Thomas make his request through her father? The answer seemed obvious—he was looking for her. He wanted to see her. That’s why he was so kind.

  She stepped out of the cabin and peered around the wall. Her husband and Jarlath were walking along the neighboring ridges, inspecting the crop. There was no time to waste; they might start today if she packed what food they could spare and readied the ponies. They could spend the night at the Kilbanes’ cottage, as she and Rory had done on their first trip.

  She walked up the hill, skirting the conacres, until she found Rory and Jarlath outside a neighbor’s hut.

  Smiling, they turned and greeted her heartily.

  “It’s nice to see you both in a good mood,” she said.

  “Take a look, my love,” Rory said, and pointed to an adjacent potato ridge. “We have reason to be in a fine frame of mind.”

  Briana peered at the mound. Vibrant green leaves had burst forth from the vines—the first sign of a healthy crop. She threw her arms around her husband’s shoulders, hugged him, and then blew a kiss to the earth. “This is wonderful, but I have even better news.” She pulled the twenty pounds from her pocket and waved it in front of them.

  Jarlath whistled. Rory stared at her with his mouth agape.

  “Where did you get that?” Rory asked.

  She suspected that he knew the answer but paused to keep him in suspense. She relented after her husband’s face soured. “Sir Thomas is entertaining guests and wants us to make a trip to Westport to secure food.” She held the notes close to his face. “Five pounds is ours.”

  Jarlath whistled again.

  “Just for going?” Rory asked.

  Briana nodded. “How soon can you get the ponies ready?”

  “In an hour or so.”

  “I’ll gather supplies,” she said, and left them at the ridge to take in the extra bit of good fortune she had added to their day.

  * * *

  Lucinda did not take the news of the journey well, complaining that she would be stuck cooking and cleaning while her sister enjoyed herself in Westport.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Briana said to her sister. “You would never make the trip on a pony, let alone enjoy it.”

  Brian reminded his elder daughter that the road to Westport was lined with sadness and potential danger and that Briana and Rory would be doing the landlord and, thus, Lear House a great favor. After Lucinda continued her complaints, her father assured her that he could find a woman willing to do the cooking—at a cost. The thought of wasting money caused Lucinda to reconsider her position.

  For her part, Briana poured corn meal mush into cups and covered them with cheesecloth, placed the few leftover fish fillets in a tin, and wrapped soda bread in napkins. All the food fit into a satchel that Rory could strap to his pony. Supplies were scarce: No cheese was left in the larder, the potato scones had been depleted months ago, and the oat jars were almost empty.

  A few minutes after noon, she and Rory were on the horses, the animals’ bodies thinner than she had remembered. Because oats and potato slops were scarce, the ponies now grazed on the heath like sheep. Their ribs protruded underneath their mottled coats. Still, the animals took to their natural rhythm through the tussocks, their hooves dodging the watery hazards of the bog. The ponies’ muscular strength and the wind pushing at her back exhilarated her.

  “Don’t push them too hard,” Rory yelled at her. “We’ll be lucky to make it to Westport.” He handled the reins lightly, saying, “The last thing we need is a dead horse.” He took a swig from the leather flagon they carried for water.

  Crossing the river at the shallows, after allowing the animals to graze and drink, they headed south toward Bangor and the rise of the Nephin Beg. Soon the land sparkled with mist as drizzle from a gray sky peppered their faces. They tightened their caps and stiffened their collars against the cutting wind as they traveled east of the iron-colored waters of Carrowmore Lake. In their favor, the chill from the Atlantic remained at their backs.

  The joy of riding soon turned to monotony under the dull sky. The sceilps dotted the side of the road as if whole villages had burrowed into holes. Except for the cry of the wind, an eerie calm permeated the hills and bogs along their route. Under the somber clouds, no animals moved and no birds sang as far as they could see and hear. Even the peat-fire smoke that should have been swirling from the hillside huts had disappeared. The world had withdrawn into silence.

  For several hours they traveled saying little to each other, more concerned in protecting themselves from the wind and damp than carrying on conversation. When the mist ended briefly and the sky brightened to a light gray, Briana shouted to Rory, “You’ve been quiet on this trip. In fact, you’ve been quiet ever since the Master arrived.”

  Rory slowed beside her and uttered an audible ugh. “I wish you wouldn’t bestow that title upon him.”

  “I understand your dislike of Sir Thomas,” she responded, “but like him or not, Rory Caulfield, he’s the owner and we have to make the best of it. You’d be better served to think of a way we can use him to our advantage rather than exacting revenge, as your Mollies seem hell-bent to do.”

  Rory’s face tightened. “Well, Briana Caulfield, I detest what’s happening in Ireland and I want to do something about it. Is that wrong?”

  “Yes, when it leads to violence.” Briana decided not to debate the issue as a chill settled over her.

  A few miles down the road as the peaks rose on both sides of them, Rory’s face relaxed a bit, his demeanor more open to suggestion as if a thought had struck him. “I’m missing a Molly meeting to do this for the Master, but food is more important than talk,” he said. “What if you’re right? Instead of working against the man, I might ‘kill him with kindness,’ as the proverb says.”

  Briana was happy to see this potential shift in her husband’s thinking. As the day proceeded, they plotted ways to save the manor, but their talk of quick relief was quelled by the estate’s lack of food and funds.

  The afternoon had grown long when the Kilbanes’ cottage came into view. From their first sighting they knew something was wrong. The dwelling had a deserted look about it—the feeling that one instantly recognizes from a house that’s been abandoned.

  They brought the horses to a stop on the edge of a boggy woodland. The sparse vegetation surrounding it would be enough to sustain the animals for the night in the absence of grain.

  Rory dismounted and walked to the cottage door, which hung at a lopsided angle from the frame. Briana watched anxiously as he peered around it before stepping inside. He disappeared for several minutes before reappearing with a puzzled look.

  “They�
�re not here,” he said. “It looks as if they haven’t been here for some time. The traveler’s room is empty too.” He rubbed his chin. “Even the dog is gone.”

  Briana swung off her pony. “Gone?” Her skin crawled with dread.

  “Yes. The fire pit is cold and dusty. The place has been ransacked. Empty pots and pans are scattered about, but there’s no food.”

  Something horrible had happened—she was certain of it. Rory led the horses to a stream not far from the road.

  Gooseflesh broke out on her arms as she stepped inside. The cottage was just as Rory had described: the table on its side, the cupboard drawers open, the straw beds a jumble of clothes and blankets. The Kilbanes’ business of hosting travelers had thrived over the years, but their source of income, through the exchange of goods or money, had dried up with the famine.

  The clouds and mist outside made the interior even murkier. She looked for an oil lamp but found none. Why would the Kilbanes disappear? She had just asked herself that question when she heard Rory swear behind the cottage. She ran out the door and rounded the corner to the back of the dwelling.

  Rory stared at the ground and held up his hand. “Don’t come any farther! Don’t look!”

  But the warning came too late.

  The Kilbanes lay on the ground, their bodies decomposing on the damp earth. Frankie’s legs had been chewed to the bone by animals. Aideen was stretched on her side, but Briana could see that her lovely face was partially gone—the skull and jaw bones, and teeth, showing through parts in her hair.

  Her stomach churned and she fought to keep from retching as she turned away.

  “They’ve been shot,” Rory said.

  He put his hands on her shoulders as she looked back toward the road on which they had come. Shaking, she longed to be on that road now, heading back to the safety of their cabin and the sanctuary of Lear House.

  Rory’s voice quivered. “God rest their souls. Probably murdered by robbers who took their food and money.”

  “Murder,” Briana said, and the word ricocheted through her brain.