Kilpara (24 page)

“
What happened?”

“
I’d been on a riding-school
outing, trotting my pony along with other pupils close to the
racetrack at Ballybrit, when a small animal, possibly a hare or a
fox, crossed our path. The pony reared up and I would’ve fallen off
if it hadn’t been for a jockey who saw the whole thing. He ran
over, grabbed the reins and calmed the animal down. I was never
comfortable riding after that. You must think I’m a terrible
coward.”

If she could read my thoughts at that moment,
she’d know I wasn’t thinking she was cowardly, just charming and
desirable. I had to fight the temptation to pull her into my arms
and kiss away the frightened look on her face.

She stared at me anxiously.

“
You’re not a coward,” I said. Her
face relaxed and we started walking in the direction of Kilpara.
“Everyone’s afraid of something.”

“
I’m sure you’re not.”

She was so serious that I laughed. “I am, but
I hide my fears well.”

She smiled at that and I wished she’d go on
smiling forever.

“
Tell me about America,” she said.
“Is it truly as big and uncivilized as people say? Are there
cowboys and Indians?”

“
It’s a large country compared to
Ireland,” I said. “There are cowboys out West who herd cattle in
large open spaces. These days more people are traveling out there
and staking land claims. New settlements are interfering with
native Indians who’ve owned that territory for
centuries.”

“
How do the Indians feel about
these migrations?”

“
They're determined to keep
strangers out. But the white man has more sophisticated military
methods. So it's likely they'll lose eventually.”

“
What will happen if they’re
overcome?”

“
Difficult to say. A treaty maybe,
confining them to a reservation.”

“
How sad,” she said. “To capture
one’s freedom and land is like stealing one’s heart and soul.” She
said this with such fervor that I wondered if she suspected who I
was. Growing up at Kilpara, she must have heard about the
O’Donovans and known how they were forced into exile. Or maybe she
was referring to Ireland’s conflict in general. Possibly I was
mistaking her fervor for regret. I found myself wanting to trust
that she held a genuine sense of fairness. That I could beseech her
to convince her father Kilpara had seen the sweat of O'Donovans for
hundreds of years and it was my father and mother's birthright to
be buried there among their kin. As I glanced sideways at her
delicate features, I wavered. My request could have the opposite
effect and evoke her anger instead of the kindness I hoped for.
What then? No, I wasn’t sure enough of her temperament to
comfortably take such a risk. I must take my argument to Purcenell
and hope for understanding. The sooner the better.

We had arrived at Kilpara and I was reluctant
to let Morrigan go.

“
Where are my manners,” she said
suddenly. “Since you saved me from a terrible accident, I should
introduce myself properly. Morrigan Purcenell. This is my home.”
She pointed unnecessarily to the structure before us.

“
Will I see you again this
evening?” I asked.

She smiled. “Yes, I’ll be at Larcourt with my
father.”

She thanked me again and ran lightly up the
steps. I stood gazing at the house long after she went inside.
Reluctantly, I mounted my horse and rode back to
Larcourt.

While Kilpara sat some distance away from
Lough Corrib, Larcourt sat close to its banks. Later that afternoon
when he guided us around the premises, Sloane proudly told his
guests it was built in the sixteenth century. Several portraits of
Queen Elizabeth hung in a gallery. He pointed out that she had been
a regular visitor at Larcourt during her reign nearly three hundred
years ago. He named paintings by foreign artists that filled many
of the rooms, along with suits of armor and imported Asian rugs and
furniture. I surmised this was a family who had made their fortune
as traders.

As Sloane led his guests toward the gardens, I
lingered behind to admire the stone archway curving around the
front door, the concrete benches with claw-like legs bordering each
side of the outside platform, the granite steps widening fanwise to
the path below, edged by balustrades on either side for assistance.
Spreading out from the bottom of the steps were manicured
flowerbeds amid green lawns with arrangements of scented
delphiniums, irises, peonies, violas, and other flowers I didn’t
recognize.

Following the path behind the powerful stone
structure, small woods stood off to one side. Windows overlooked a
rear lawn flocked with daisies that spread to a private dock where
stone steps led down to moored rowboats. I gazed at guests pursuing
their favorite pastimes. Some rowed out to the middle of the lake
while others played croquet on the lawn or watched from tables
sipping tea.

I found my assigned dressing room where my
evening clothes had been laid out. From the window, I glimpsed the
lake’s smooth surface broken by a dollop of small islands, its
opposite bank overshadowed by craggy mountains. A chambermaid
arrived with hot water and emptied it into a basin. She placed
fresh towels next to it, then excused herself. I relaxed in a heavy
armchair before washing in lukewarm water and dressing for dinner.
Events crowded my mind beginning with Sloane and the dark Daphne
Thornton and ending with the incident by the river. It was obvious
that Sloane intended to marry Morrigan, but it appeared the
mysterious Daphne had other ideas. I was curious to know what
Morrigan's feelings were for Sloane. Was she as fascinated with him
as he was with her?

Many of the visitors were already sipping
drinks in the gallery when I arrived downstairs. A comfortable
looking couple was the first to greet me. The man introduced
himself as Sir William Wilde. He was tall and stately with long
white hair and beard, a high forehead and straight nose. His estate
was several miles away he told me, built on what he called ‘the
magical site of a mythological battle.’ He entertained me with
stories of ancient Irish races until the dinner bell
sounded.

After we were seated at the long dining table,
I saw Morrigan again. She sat to the right of Sloane looking
naively beautiful in a deep purple gown. Her hair that had been
loose earlier was held high in a comb and dangled at the nape of
her neck in thick curls. I assumed the man who sat on Sloane’s left
was Thornton. He was a tall, distinguished man with a long, thin
face and piercing dark eyes set against black hair with graying
temples. A thick mustache covered his upper lip. The mysterious
Daphne sat next to him and I presumed she was his daughter because
of the striking resemblance. She had his dark looks. But where her
father’s eyes held a cheerful expression throughout dinner,
Daphne’s eyes smoldered each time Sloane smiled at
Morrigan.

Ligham’s wife sat next to Purcenell and Ligham
next to her. She kept Purcenell amused throughout the meal.
Sloane’s parents commanded the other end of the table,
distinguished and looking fit for an elderly couple. Various family
members were scattered among other guests at the dinner party. I
listened listlessly to two surgeons whose conversation revolved
around surgical theatre procedures. I was relieved when a woman on
my right, an American, rescued me from this monotony. Hearing her
voice, I realized how starved I was for American
company.

“
I’m Delia Parnell,” the woman
introduced herself. “But I must confess I haven’t been back to the
States in ages. How are things since the War?”

“
Recovering,” I said.

“
I’m longing to visit and hope to
go back soon, but for now, I'm content with Paris, a nice change
from Ireland. Have you been there?”

“
Not yet.”

“
You should visit sometime. I first
met Sir Sloane and his pretty young wife there. That was before her
tragic accident.”

“
Wife? Accident?” I
repeated.

“
Yes, the accident happened soon
after they were married. She was such a pretty young thing. So
Irish in her nature, unlike Sir Sloane, who finds the common Irish
barely tolerable. He’s not at Larcourt very often you know. He
prefers his estates in Dover or London, and of course, Paris. He
owns several shipping properties throughout Europe. They’ve been in
his family for centuries.”

“
And his wife,” I reminded
her.

“
Anglo-Irish. Brought up in Derry.
By no means a strong swimmer. She went out on Lough Corrib in a
rowboat one day with friends and it sank somewhere near the middle
of the lake. The water was choppy that day. The others with her in
the boat tried to save her but couldn’t reach her. They eventually
gave up and swam ashore. Poor little Fiona. Very tragic. Sir Sloane
has been in mourning ever since. It’s good to see him finally
entertaining again.”

“
Why did the boat sink?”

“
I’m not sure.” Mrs. Parnell looked
doubtful. “Something to do with a faulty bottom. Such a terrible
tragedy. Tell me, has New York changed much? I do love the shops
there. And the theatre.”

After the meal, the women moved out into the
gardens and the men congregated in the library. Talk turned to
politics. I quickly lost interest and glanced out the window,
searching the women seated around a table until my glance fixed on
Morrigan's face. She didn't see me watching her as she engaged in
animated conversation with her companions. The evening wore on and
the number of guests dwindled, until all that remained was Sloane,
Thornton, Ligham, Purcenell, Wilde and a surgeon named Austin.
That’s when Sloane invited us into a private room. Here was a round
table much like those found in any saloon, except it was made of
heavy oak and smoothly polished. In the middle stood a pile of
chips and several unopened decks of cards. Low comfortable
armchairs were set around the table. Beside it stood a billiard
table, the first one I’d seen since arriving in Ireland. I would’ve
liked to try it out, but the other men were already claiming their
places at the table.

A young houseboy stood close by ready to serve
drinks to the card players as the game got underway. The players
quickly became absorbed in the task at hand, allowing me the
opportunity to openly assess each man’s ability.

Austin was a man who appeared to enjoy the
company of his peers and played for diversion but didn’t really
focus on the game well. He had little confidence in his playing
ability and dropped out each time the bets rose too high, although
I was sure he held a hand that was potentially a winning one. Wilde
was a conservative player, analyzing the odds, betting only when he
thought he had a better than average chance at winning. Thornton
played much the same way; they were both predictable. Purcenell was
an excitable player, making errors and allowing himself to be
continually baited by Sloane who liked to bluff. Purcenell became
furious and confused whenever he was caught by Sloane’s deceptive
maneuvers. Ligham was also excitable but controlled it better than
Purcenell. He showed his nervousness by continually touching his
mouth and running his hand through his hair. When he had a good
hand, his eyes locked with each player in turn and held a plea in
them. He was on edge until the players threw down their cards and
he claimed the pot.

Throughout the evening, I was cautious not to
attract attention, allowing each player to identify himself by the
way he played his cards. Then came the hand that I could tell from
the onset was going to be different. Sloane was intent on beating
Purcenell. I decided to come to Purcenell’s rescue. I hoped he
would notice this and thus gain favor, enough that he would feel
obligated to reciprocate.

Ligham dealt the cards. We picked up our hands
and assessed them. Sloane opened the bidding. A smile played on his
lips, his eyes lighting up in obvious pleasure with his deal. He
looked around the table inviting challenge; his gaze rested on
Purcenell. I called his bet, raised it five pounds, and motioned
Ligham for one card. Sloane looked at me warily, satisfaction
leaving his eyes as they narrowed.

“
I hear the Fenians are rampant in
America,” Thornton said, continuing the conversation that had been
ongoing. “Trying to avoid arrest and get support for their damned
cause. Bloody Irish never realize that they’re better off under the
Crown.”

“
Who are the Fenians?” I asked,
feigning ignorance. In the midst of tying up loose ends for Emmons,
I had heard rumors of a large sale of ammunition. The business
partners had discussed among themselves the notion that the
government sold guns to Irish Fenians who planned to attack Canada
and hold it ransom for Irish independence. The plan seemed too
outlandish to be true so I didn’t give it much credence. No one
else seemed concerned this action would ever amount to much. I
wondered now if an attack had been carried out.

“
The Fenians are nothing more than
a bunch of Irish ruffians,” Sloane answered. Turning to Thornton,
he said, “You’re presuming Stephens made it to America. Reports say
he escaped to France and that’s where he is now.”

Thornton looked at Sloane, called the bet, and
passed Ligham three cards for three new ones.