Call Home the Heart (38 page)

 

 

From everything she had said about her family, he knew this tack
would be an absolute last resort for them both. He could just
imagine her imperious old father whisking her away from him
forever.  "But Muireann, you've done so well. Why tell him now?
Things will get better."

 

 

She met his gaze full on, and shook her head. "Because my pride
won't fill people's bellies. Maybe it's about time my parents knew
the truth, all of it. I'm tired of feeling ashamed of what I've
done."

 

 

Lochlainn frowned. "Ashamed? Why should you be? You've been
marvelous the way you've kept your head all this time."

 

 

Muireann hauled the pot over to the fire, then sat down on a kitchen
bench heavily. "I've been ruthless and unkind. Just look how I
treated old Thomas. I'll try Colonel Lowry first, to see if there is
any more money forthcoming from Mr. Blessington and Mr. Henry's
ill-gotten gains. If nothing can be released, then I shall consider
writing to Father. But who knows? With any luck I might get some
very expensive Christmas presents we could sell," she said, trying
to sound optimistic.

 

 

Lochlainn dreaded her parents seeing her in such desperate
circumstances. Surely her father would insist upon her selling
Barnakilla and going back to Fintry with him once he knew the whole
truth.

 

 

At the same time, though, Alistair Graham couldn't force her to sell
the estate, could he? She could always leave it in his own hands,
and then when her father simmered down, she could come home to him
again.

 

 

He was going to suggest it might not be such a bad idea if she went
home for Christmas, which was only a few weeks away. But somehow it
seemed so underhanded. He also loathed the thought of even being
parted from her for one day, let alone indefinitely.

 

 

Muireann went back to the stable block and sat in her freezing
office as she sought to balance the books. She tried not to think of
her family, the little nephew she still hadn't seen, and Christmas
the year before, when she had attended every ball of the season with
Augustine.

 

 

"Any luck?" Lochlainn asked when he came in that night from hunting,
and saw her looking completely forlorn.

 

 

Muireann threw her arms around his neck to warm him, and shook her
head. "We just have to keep on going as best we can until the
spring, unless we get help from home. I'll write to Neil, ask him to
cash in all my shares. That is, if there are any left."

 

 

"You could always go home. There's your sister and her baby,
Michael, and your other cousins."

 

 

She withdrew from his arms slightly, shaking her head. "No, I'm
staying here. This is my home. I'll not leave you to go off to have
a good time with my family when you all need me."

 

 

Lochlainn kissed down the side of her neck while his long, lean
fingers worked at the fastenings of her gown. Soon his mouth was
feasting on one rosy nipple. He prayed God they would be given some
form of reprieve. For surely He had to know that without Muireann,
he was nothing and no one.  And the good Lord only knew what
would happen to them all if she ever left.

 

 

 

By Christmas, some help had come in the shape of Muireann's many
presents from her family, who assumed she hadn't come over because
she was still in deep mourning.

 

 

Much to her surprise, there was also some charitable relief from the
Stephenses, who couldn't bear to see Muireann suffering so
cruelly.  Colonel Lowry also advanced her a small sum, claiming
it was from Mr. Blessington's funds, when it had actually come from
his son Anthony in Dublin. The Colonel half-wondered if the
raven-haired beauty hadn't turned his son's head after all, so angry
was Anthony when the Colonel had spoken to him of Barnakilla's
imminent collapse.

 

 

But with the cold winter weather came disease, which spread through
the crowded cottages and main house like wildfire. The tenants began
to die of fever all over Barnakilla. They were mainly the people
from the Lowry and Cole estates, who had arrived in poor enough
condition to start with.

 

 

But soon even the tenants from Barnakilla itself began to die of the
typhus, which turned the patient's faces black as coal before death,
and produced the most foul odors.

 

 

There was also relapsing fever, which turned the patient's skin a
yellow color. Though they eventually started to improve slightly,
they would suddenly be struck down again by the mysterious malady.

 

 

As the diseases spread, Emma and Sam closed the school, and despite
Muireann's ardent pleading, they took to the roads together.

 

 

"What you tried to do for us was very kind, Muireann, but once a--"
Emma began.

 

 

"No, I don't believe that!" Muireann shouted at the lovely young
woman. "Please, stay, give it a few weeks longer!"

 

 

"What we eat here could go to others. Don't worry, we'll be fine. If
things start looking up, we'll come back," Sam promised. "You did
your best, Muireann. You gave us a chance. Showed us a whole new
life that could be ours for the asking. We won't forget that. Don't
think you've failed. Only the potato did that."

 

 

He hugged her tightly as Lochlainn looked on.

 

 

Sam and Emma disappeared out of the kitchen door into a swirling
snowstorm which coated the landscape in a fleecy blanket.

 

 

Muireann's tears began to fall then, and she shuddered.

 

 

"You were very fond of them," Lochlainn remarked quietly. "How did
the three of you meet?"

 

 

"I had an, er, accident in the street in Dublin, and the two of them
came to my rescue. They needed work, so I brought them here,"
Muireann said vaguely, avoiding his piercing steel-gray gaze.

 

 

"An accident? Nothing serious, I hope."

 

 

Muireann made no reply, but moved over to the scullery sink and
began to pump water for the dinnertime soup, unwilling to discuss
the matter further.

 

 

 

As the sickness continued to spread, Muireann appointed some of the
single women to nurse the patients in a small makeshift hospital she
had created after the deaths of several elderly people emptied one
of the large new cottages which had been built over the summer.

 

 

"At least if we isolate the cases, the fever will have less chance
of spreading to the others."

 

 

Lochlainn was unwilling to allow Muireann to expose herself to the
horrors of the fevers, but she shrugged and said wearily, "What
choice do I have? They need to be looked after. Let's just hope I'm
one of the lucky ones."

 

 

Lochlainn lost his temper at last. She seemed to be daring death,
without a care for him or the rest of Barnakilla. "Why does it
always have to be you?" he snapped. "Why can't you let someone else
do the dirty, disgusting jobs around here?"

 

 

Muireann stared at him for a moment in amazement. "I have to do it
myself. I must lead Barnakilla from the front. These people will
never trust me, never go along with my schemes if they see me
shirking, or see any sign of weakness. Why are you always trying to
protect me?" she demanded, putting her hands on her hips and tapping
her foot in exasperation.

 

 

"Because you don't belong here, don't you see!"

 

 

Muireann sat down heavily then, misunderstanding his words. Despite
everything, she had failed. She would never be able to call this
place home, she knew that now. Even Lochlainn thought she was
wasting her time trying to carry on such a futile struggle.

 

 

They had talked about this in October, and two months later, she
could see he had been right. She ought to just go back to Fintry
before she did any more damage. But how she would miss the lough,
the stunning landscape of mountains and forests which swept down
majestically to the shores of the Erne. How could she give all this
up? Give Lochlainn up?

 

 

"Thank you for your concern. Now if you will excuse me, I have some
laundry to scrub," she stated coldly, turning away from him.

 

 

Lochlainn tried to pull her into his arms, but she wriggled away and
declared, "Mr. Roche, I told you to go. Are you deaf?"

 

 

She looked at him then with something akin to hatred, and Lochlainn,
convinced the day had finally come when she no longer wanted him,
simply left.

 

 

Muireann sat there dazedly, and in an uncharacteristic bout of fury
swept all the empty saucepans clattering to the floor.

 

 

What has it all been for? she wondered angrily as she threw her
cloak over her navy blue woolen gown. Ordering the dog to stay in
his basket, she marched out to the potato pit, which she viewed as
one might an enemy. She would have succeeded, if only the blight
hadn't come. But now, all of her struggles had been for nothing.

 

 

She walked to the edge of the estate, listening to the soft crunch
of her boots on the newly fallen blanket of snow. She reveled in the
peace and solitude of the woods, admiring the tall trees. Though
bereft of leaves, they still looked majestic. She touched the
trunks, and the ground, then began walking around the whole estate,
taking in the pastures, the quarry, the stable block, the cottages.
As she came back around to the mansion and stables, she saw the
workers scurrying to and fro, and wondered to herself if she should
indeed sell it all and go back home.

 

 

It wasn't as if these people were her family or friends. They had
all been complete strangers when she had arrived, even Lochlainn. He
had just told her she didn't belong at Barnakilla. Maybe it was time
to stop trying to fool herself. Her mother and sister had always
told her to try to be more womanly, that her expected role in life
was to marry a man who could protect her.

 

 

She had failed in that regard with Augustine. But why couldn't she
find someone else? She never would meet a man her parents would
approve of if she remained on a debt-ridden, decaying estate. Yet
the beauty, the happiness she had felt there, the golden glowing
days, the warm passionate nights. . .

 

 

Muireann shook her head then. It wasn't real. Lochlainn came and
went like a demon lover from that Coleridge poem. She must look it
up, she thought idly, as she wandered into the stable block to see
how the weavers were getting on.

 

 

Everyone there smiled and greeted her cheerily, but she could see
their pinched faces. It was her arrogance that had brought them to
this. Surely there had to be someone who was willing to take all of
this on, to save these people from certain destruction?

 

 

 Muireann went back inside her office and wrote to Neil and
then her father. In the letter to her brother-in-law she expressed
her doubts as to her ability to keep going at Barnakilla any longer,
and her intention to ask her father for help on the pretext that the
potato failure had resulted in unforeseen financial difficulties for
her. There was really no need to tell her father she had been lying
to him all along.

 

 

She sealed the letter to her father in the one to Neil, and wrote to
Anthony Lowry in Dublin, asking him to gather together all the
papers regarding Barnakilla with a view to selling it to any
interested parties who were willing to match her price.

 

 

She calculated that price by looking at how much she owed on the
mortgage, how much the businesses would bring the new owner, and how
much she would need to pay the workers on the estate a stipend to
tide them over in case they were evicted. She then added up the
rents, and added that to the figure.

 

 

Sealing the letter with a heavy heart, she stared at it as it lay on
the blotter. She was almost tempted to tear it up, but decided in
the end it would do no harm to post it just in case.

 

 

She went out and tethered Bran and Misty's foal to one of the carts,
and loaded up several live pheasants, rabbits and piglets. She sold
the animals in town, and bought what few staples she could find with
the money. Despondently, she posted her letters, and was just
getting back onto the box when she noticed a huge coach and four
standing in front of the Horseshoe Inn.

 

 

She instantly recognized the Caldwell coat of arms. 
Augustine's cousin Christopher Caldwell must have at last returned
from abroad.

 

 

 

Her guess proved correct, for the very next day the stately brougham
drew up in front of the house, and a dissolute young blond
gentleman, a trifle portly around the middle, with a rapidly
receding hairline, came knocking on the front door.

 

 

 Muireann, who just happened to be coming around the front of
the house with a huge load of woolens to take into town, saw the man
standing on the steps tapping his cane impatiently against one leg.

 

 

"Hello, can I help you?" she called over to him.

 

 

The young rake took in her appearance, especially her hair tied back
in a kerchief, and her apron, and said, "Of course you may, my
beauty. I've come to pay my respects to your mistress, compliments
of the Christmas season and all that, but no one seems to be
answering my knock."

 

 

He snaked one arm around Muireann's slender waist, and grinned
lewdly.