Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series) (2 page)

The taller of the two was still recovering from the sight of the girl. He was struck dumb the moment she opened her front door, and was not prepared to give such news to someone he might have asked to dinner. He didn’t think he would stand a chance after this.

He cleared his throat.

“He’s dead.”

She stared at him. There was a second’s pause.

Dead?

            For a moment, the word was foreign. Meaningless.

            The two officers shifted their weight as they waited for the girl to understand. It was a cold night and ice was forming on the steps at their feet. Steam shot from their nostrils when they exhaled, disappearing in swirling gray clouds.

Comprehension settled upon Evelyn and she shook her head, her pale fingers forming a steeple and sealing around her lips.

“No” was the only word she could manage.

            Refuse the truth. Block it out. Wake up.

            Anything to bring him back to life.

He had been a good man. A hard-working man. Over-indulgent maybe, but he had loved her with everything he had and everything he was. And she had loved him, too.

            “There was nothing we could do,” the tall officer told her. He was young and new to this line of work. Confidence was a skill he had yet to develop. “When we arrived, the state of things was…” He drifted off, searching for the right words. There
were
no right words. He sighed. “It was out of our hands. The deed was done. He would not be saved.”

            He wanted to say something comforting but came up blank. Men died every day. And in these particular instances, they were often Irish. Just like this girl’s father.

The older officer looked longingly over his shoulder at the deserted street. He wanted some hot coffee. He wanted to leave. The news was delivered, and the young Miss Brennan had no more need of empty condolences.

           
She’s no older than fifteen,
he thought.
The poor girl.

Her father, Emmett Brennan, had been one of a small percentage of wealthy Irish landowners, a successful tradesman out of Limerick. Her mother had run off with a sailor when Evelyn was just a baby, and had not been seen since. She was not missed, since Evelyn’s many servants and tutors met what needs her house and land could not, and her father was her dearest friend and companion. She needed nothing; she wanted nothing. Her life was steady, unchanging, and happy, and might have remained so forever.

If not for the famine.

In 1845, a potato blight swept through Ireland, destroying the country’s main source of food and leaving starvation and unrest in its wake. The people lost not only their crops, but also their means of living. Greedy English landowners had parceled out land in such small pieces that naught but potatoes could grow, and when the potatoes rotted, tenants could no longer fill their bellies, nor could they pay their rents. The English were merciless and drove them out to beg and starve, leaving them with nothing but the desire for food and revenge. 

Banning Flynn was Emmett Brennan’s business partner, and his wife, Cassandra Flynn, was English, a fact that was well known throughout Limerick. Although she had nothing to do with the rampant evictions of late, she was guilty by association, and therefore worthy of retribution. She was found murdered in an alley by a band of nameless vagrants, with a note pinned to her bosom that read, “down with the English”.

The message was clear. Though her son, Lucius, was only half English, he was endangered. As he had been brought up to learn the trade and look after its interests, his father was loath to ship him off to distant relations in England. Lucius had been his father’s apprentice since he was nine years old, and Banning was not one to throw away such a wealth of knowledge and experience. On the contrary, he had plans for Lucius that surpassed his son’s position in the company, plans to acquire a fortune through the avenue of marriage. As Banning had already chosen Lucius’ bride, he was not about to let the death of his wife and the fall of his country redefine the plans he had so carefully constructed.

His son and Emmett Brennan’s daughter were to marry. With Lucius’ knowledge of the trade and Evelyn’s fortune, Brennan & Flynn would become exponentially more profitable, and it was with this in mind that Emmett willingly accepted Banning’s proposal. Their children were perfect for one another, and after such tragic events as losing kin and country, they should be happy to be unified in holy matrimony.

Upon learning of this betrothal, however, Lucius Flynn and Evelyn Brennan were not so thrilled.

They had been friends once, but something had happened when they were children, something of which they had never spoken since the day it occurred. It drove them apart, and in the years that followed, they became estranged. Lucius found new friends among his father’s employment of rough seamen, as well as the loose women who kept them company. His reputation was sullied, and well-bred Evelyn Brennan was disgusted with this new and unimproved version of him. This did nothing to offend Lucius, for he was repelled by her royal grandiosity, and thus the two had not so much as looked at one another in years. They had but one thing in common: they were both horrendously willful, and though their lack of compatibility was apparent to both fathers when the arrangement was conceived, Emmett and Banning agreed that Lucius would soon bury his dreams of an adventurous life, while Evelyn would learn not to be so damned independent. Time, they said, would temper.

But time did no such thing.

The Brennans and Flynns embarked on a voyage across the Atlantic ocean, leaving their desolate country for one that promised safety and prosperity. They immigrated to the United States in hopes of a better future, one where their dreams could flourish and their plans would not be hindered by the hunger and violence that now thrived in Ireland.

 Though hunger was left behind, violence pursued them, and it was shortly after they arrived in New York City that it found them on that bitter January night.

The officers departed just as Banning and Lucius Flynn arrived. Banning leapt from the carriage while Lucius followed slowly, lagging behind.

Standing upon the threshold of her father’s house stood a ghost who looked very much like Evelyn. The color had gone from her face, the little freckles along her nose and the top of her lip standing out in contrast with her milky white skin, complementing the auburn color of her hair.

When Banning reached her, her pallor bore evidence that she was well aware of what he had come to say.

            “Dear God. So you’ve heard,” he said, hands extended to grab her gently by the arms.

            She stared at him, her own hands clutching the sleeves of his waistcoat. She tried to be strong, to hold off the panic building in her chest. She reminded herself to breathe.

            Inhale. Exhale.

“How did it happen?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Banning’s eyes flashed with the recent memory. It was only hours ago now.

            “There was an altercation,” he replied.

            Evelyn blinked and a tear fell onto the floor. Behind her the door was open, leaving the house exposed to the bitter cold. Lamps glowed within, emanating the illusion of warmth and security. If she had been in a proper state of mind, she might have invited her guests inside. As it was, they remained shivering in the darkness of the late January hour.

            “An altercation,” she repeated, her voice small and trembling. “With whom?”

            Lucius dragged his feet up the steps behind his father, his gaze never leaving the ground.

            “A nameless scoundrel,” Banning replied. “The man provoked Lucius, and your father stepped between them.”

            Hearing his name, Lucius’ eyes flicked toward Evelyn. He could not speak, could not convey his regret over what had transpired. Emmett Brennan was a better father than his own, and Lucius had loved him.

Lucius knew the dead man should be himself. He knew this all too well.

For an instant, Evelyn met his gaze, felt the flicker of panic in her chest blaze into anger. She looked away, gritting her teeth against the overwhelming desire to scream.

            Her father was dead, and Lucius was alive. Her father had saved a scoundrel, had laid down his life for this foolish, temperamental boy.

            “So,” she said, as evenly as her fury allowed, “Lucius is to blame?”

            Banning’s grip tightened upon her arm.

“No, lass. You mustn’t believe that. There is no one to blame but the bastard who provoked him, the fiend who wielded the knife.”

At this new bit of information, Evelyn teetered backwards on her feet. The tears she withheld choked her, and she coughed.

In barely more than a whisper, she murmured, “stabbed?”

Her father. A tender bear of a man, with ruddy cheeks so full they eclipsed his eyes when he smiled. So soft, so kind, so upright.

A slow death. A painful death. Blood and agony and fear. All without his daughter to soothe any of it away. All without his girl to fare him well.

Her anger melted away, leaving behind the cool ashes of despair and loneliness.

 It really did not matter who did it. Her father was gone. And she was still here, orphaned and alone.

Chapter Three

New York City, 1849

Penelope stroked the back of Lucius’ neck, smoothing his hair beneath her caramel-colored fingers.

“I want you to tell me everything,” she insisted, her voice smooth and persuasive. “I hate it when men hide behind their secrets.”         

Lucius chuckled.

“Well, if we’re going to be
honest
,” he started, lingering on the word, “I suppose I
do
have a secret.”

Penelope smiled hesitantly, somewhat surprised he had given in so quickly.

“All right,” she said slowly, “tell me everything.”

Lucius cast a look about the room. He was huddled in a dark corner, wrapped in the silky arms of a Madrid-born beauty, a haze of smoke engulfing them. Penelope had a thing for cigars.

She was grand. They had danced twice, and he knew she wanted more. But this was his last night as a bachelor, and there was an appetizing blonde woman sitting alone at the bar. He knew that if he didn’t get over to her soon, some other bastard would snatch her up.

“Are you sure you want to know?” he asked Penelope, his attention still divided. She, however, didn’t seem to notice. “After all, we’ve only just met. We have an entire lifetime to learn about one another.”

Penelope swung her head and released a drunken squeal.

“Tell me, Lucius Flynn!” she hollered.

Had he given her his last name? He must have, though he could not remember when.

“All right then,” he said, a little irritated. “You’ll have to come a little closer. I’m not about to shout back at you.”

Penelope pouted, then abruptly leaned forward.

Lucius cleared his throat. The following three words were not very easy for him to say. They still felt surreal, no matter how long it had been since they had become his reality.

“I’m getting married,” he nearly choked.

Penelope stared at him blankly.

Married. The date was set for Evelyn’s eighteenth birthday. And that date was tomorrow.

Lucius waited for some sort of hysterical response from Penelope, but nothing came.

This was not going well. Penelope was supposed to comprehend that he belonged to another woman, become terribly offended, and leave him with time enough to pursue the blonde. As it was, the poor girl seemed to take an awfully long time digesting the news. He wondered if she was normally dense or if it was just the brandy. Perhaps he should repeat it in Spanish?

“I’m not sure you heard me, Penelope. I’ve told you my grand secret. I expected a little more of a reaction after so much persuasion.”

To Lucius’ surprise, Penelope burst into laughter.

“Bah!” she blurted, spittle flying from her lips. “You’re not getting married! Men like you don’t settle down, Lucius Flynn. And if they do, they wait until they’re old and disgusting. Give it another thirty years! You are
far
from old and disgusting. Don’t play with me, love. You are
not
getting married.”

Lucius wiped his face, then patted her hand. The simple truth was that Penelope did not believe him. This was remedied easily enough.

“No, darling,” he replied, “I’m afraid it’s only too true. Tonight I am celebrating my own fall from this beloved world of debauchery.” He sighed tragically. “Now give me a kiss. I have some more flirting to do before tomorrow, when I sign my neck over to the noose of matrimony.”

She chuckled once more, twice more, and then her mood suddenly shifted as Lucius’ meaning sunk in. Consequently, she slapped him and departed in a huff.

Lucius watched after her, rubbing his cheek and straightening his jacket. She was gone, which was celebratory, but she could have left him without the sting.

He had underestimated her. Perhaps she possessed a shred of dignity after all.

“Trouble with women?” someone asked.

Lucius spun to see the blonde woman from the bar, and he nearly laughed with delight. Praise be to his patron saint! He didn’t even have to chase her down.

“Ah, yes,” he replied, taking her hand in his own. “I’m afraid Spaniards are too spicy for me.”

She tilted her head, humoring him. God, she was gorgeous.

“Then perhaps a German might do?” she asked.

He smirked and kissed the hand he had taken.

Oh, yes. A German would do quite well.

“My dear,” Lucius said, “my mouth is watering already.”

Hours later, night was receding as Lucius picked his way along the streets. He had decided to walk, had needed the time to think, to get his head on straight. He needed to talk to her. Not the German woman, or Penelope. They had served other purposes. But Evelyn was his betrothed, and there was something she should know about him.