Nell (18 page)

Will
I
see
you
again?

Nell's laugh was nearly a sob. “Once more, you ask me a question for which I have no answer.”

Good-bye, Nell.

She watched as the mist rose from the ground once again, closing in, swallowing first Jillian's body, then her face, and finally her voice.

“Farewell, Jilly,” Nell whispered into the encroaching grayness.

***

Donal found her in the small sitting room attached to her bedchamber. She was nursing Maeve and humming a ballad of Ulster. The babe pulled greedily at her breast. He could hear his daughter's delicate sucking sounds from across the room, and his heart leaped in his chest. Finally, it was all here, within his reach, everything he'd dreamed of.

Feeling his gaze, Nell looked up, saw him, and a light flared within her.

He crossed the room and knelt by her chair, resting his hand on the tiny dark head at Nell's breast. She hardly dared ask the question. “Is it all right, Donal?”

His face changed, became still and unreadable. “Robert Montgomery is dead, Nell.”

She swallowed and nodded.

“There was no other way.”

“I know.”

“I'm sorry.”

She leaned forward and rested her forehead against his. “I am truly sorry for Robert. He was a good man. But he knew from the beginning how it was with me. I never deceived him. Perhaps he believed that I would come to love him.” Her smile was soft and tremulous. “But I am a Geraldine. We love only once.”

With her words, Donal felt the ache he carried in his heart dissolve. Lifting her chin, he covered her mouth with his own. “Nell.” He laughed shakily and pulled away. “I brought someone with me. I hope you will approve.”

She shifted the now sleeping baby to her shoulder. “I will always welcome your guests to our home.”

“He is not a guest. 'Tis a priest. I brought Father Michael.”

Hope and a queer breathless feeling made her chest tight.

“I brought him to marry us, Nell, and later to accompany us to the Royal Abbey where Maeve will be christened.” Suddenly, he felt unsure of himself, as if he'd never made the journey to Maynooth two long years ago, never sat with her under the stars or felt the softness of her body beneath him on the furs.

Pressing his lips against her forehead, he murmured against her skin the words he'd held in his heart. “When I was but a lad, my father told me of the mighty Geraldines who ruled all of Ireland outside the Pale. He told me of a palace called Maynooth and a princess who lived there. If I was a wise lad, he said, I would travel to Maynooth and wed the princess, for the blood of a Geraldine would strengthen the O'Flaherty line.”

Nell waited, spellbound, for him to continue.

“I wanted none of it,” he said, his callused hand smoothing back her hair. “You see, my mind was filled with a wood sprite who had claimed my heart on the eve of Beltane. But to satisfy my father, I journeyed to Maynooth to see the princess. She was beautiful beyond belief, and for the first time I felt as if an O'Flaherty chieftain had set his sights too high. But then we sat under the stars, and she told me of her part in that long-ago Beltane, and I knew that her father and mine were wise men after all. She was my destiny.”

“I was the princess,” said Nell.

“Aye.” He rubbed his thumb over her lips. “You are my destiny. I knew it then, I know it now. Please marry me, Nell.”

She pulled his head down to her mouth and whispered against his lips. “When you came to Maynooth and we met in the gloaming, I knew you weren't sure that you wanted me. But I wanted you, from the very beginning, just as I want you now.”

Donal threw back his head and laughed. Then he kissed her open, smiling mouth and took the baby from her arms. “I'll leave you to prepare.”

“For what?”

“The wedding, of course.”

“Today?” Nell's mouth formed a perfect circle of surprise.

Donal cradled the infant in the crook of his arm. “The good father is anxious to leave for the abbey at first light. He is afraid that Maeve may expire before she is saved.”

“Is that the only reason, my lord?”

His glance was wicked, and all at once she remembered how very young this man who would be her husband really was.

“I intend to spend tonight and every night in that bed with you, Nell. I imagine Father Michael knows that, too, which is why he wishes to see us properly wed.”

The color rose in her cheeks, but she did not couch the words that came to her mind. “Make haste, then. This time I would have a true wedding night.”

He met her glance from across the room. Suddenly, they were no longer sparring, and the air was charged and alive between them. “I promise you, Nell Fitzgerald,” Donal said softly, “I will allow nothing to come between us on this night.”

A gurgling sound broke his concentration. He looked down at the bundle in his arms and grinned. “With one exception.”

Nell laughed. “An exception who demands food every hour.”

“I foresee a most unusual wedding night.”

“You don't really mind, do you, Donal?” she asked anxiously.

“I would have it no other way,” he said, and Nell believed him, for anyone could see from the way he handled his wee lass that Donal was a man made complete by his children.

Belfast, Northern Ireland, 1979

From the guard towers, long fingers of light illuminated the silent grounds of Long Kesh prison, better known as the Maze. Slowly, the beams crawled across the empty yard, revealing a patch of grass, broken pavement, and chain-link fences bordered by three rows of barbed wire. It was very quiet, too quiet. The normal din from the IRA barracks where Irish politics was argued nightly had been reduced to an occasional oath or shout of laughter.

Two yards past the front guard entrance and seven feet below ground, Frankie Maguire turned off his flashlight and held his breath. He was down on all fours, crawling through an escape tunnel eight men had sweated for sixteen months to carve out of the rain-soaked earth. Failures, cave-ins, and close calls had postponed the escape for nearly six months beyond its scheduled date. Now that it was here, sheer stupidity would most likely bring the guards down on them.

“For fuck's sake, Frankie,” whispered Liam O'Toole. “Don't stop now. There's sixty of us behind you, and we're nearly there.”

Frankie held up his hand. “It's too quiet,” he said after a minute. “Doesn't anyone have the brains t' make it look like an ordinary night?”

“What do y' expect when the average age in there is nineteen?”

He was right. There was nothing to do but continue. Frankie turned his flashlight back on and crawled as fast as he could nearly half a mile over the supports to the exit point. His knees were bloody by the time he pulled himself up out of the hole into the darkness of a summer night. Thirty men climbed out behind him before the shriek of sirens pierced the silence. Someone had sounded the alarm.

Like beetles under an unearthed stone, the men scattered in all directions, scrambling under fences, across roads, into ditches, some into the glaring headlights of Land Rovers operated by the RUC, some down through Dundalk and South Armagh across the border to safety in the Republic, some into safe houses stocked by nationalist supporters with food and provisions. More than half moved up into the hills and boglands of the breathtakingly beautiful county of Antrim, only to be rounded up and transported back to the Maze to serve the term of their sentences.

Frankie decided against crossing the border after spending an uncomfortable night in an abandoned famine house near the ocean. At first, every instinct told him to leave Ulster, to make a new life for himself in the welcoming, sympathetic, and Catholic Republic of Ireland. But something held him back, something he could neither understand nor explain. When his adrenaline rush slowed and rational thought returned, he knew in which direction to walk.

Before dawn, he made his way through the thickly forested glen to the back road. He followed it to the town of Carrickfergus. Judging by the loyalist colors painted on the curbs of the east side of town and the green, white, and orange painted on the curbs of the west side, it was a mixed community.

Frankie turned to the west. An RUC roadblock loomed before him. Fighting the survival instinct screaming in his head, he continued toward the barricade. A small boy, no more than three, ran out of the doorway of a nearby house. Thinking quickly, Frankie picked up the child. A woman opened the door.

“Where've y' been, Danny Browne?” she called out. “I've been waitin' on you for nearly two hours.”

“Sorry, love.” Frankie smiled engagingly. “Roadblocks held me up.”

“I suppose it can't be helped,” she said grudgingly. “Y're here now. Come in. There's somethin' on the stove for you.”

Frankie forced himself to saunter casually up the walk and into the house. He set the boy on his feet, pulled out a chair, and sat down at the table. For a long time, the only sounds were the bubbling of oats, the hiss and whistle of the kettle.

“Thank you,” he said at last. “I'm—”

She interrupted him. “It had better be Danny Browne for now. I'm Colette Sheehan. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Frankie watched her dish healthy portions of oatmeal into two bowls. “How long have the barricades been up?”

“Since the prison break.” She placed the bowls on the table, lifted the toddler to her lap, and picked up a spoon. “Are y' hungry, love?” she crooned, holding the food to the lad's mouth. The boy opened his mouth obediently. After half a dozen more bites, he pressed his lips together and shook his head. His mother laughed and released him. He ran into the sitting room and began to stack wooden blocks on top of each other. His mother turned her attention back to Frankie. “You've escaped, haven't you?”

“Aye.” He saw no point in lying.

“Are you IRA?”

“Aye.”

She stirred her oatmeal, and Frankie watched her. She was a pretty thing, near his own age, with black curly hair, rosy skin, and clear blue eyes. “You're not t' be worrying about it, Mrs. Sheehan,” he assured her. “I'll be gone as soon as they clear out the roadblock.”

“What were you in for?”

“Murder,” he said bluntly.

Her cheeks whitened. He hurried to reassure her. “It was an accident. I didn't mean t' kill him. He slipped and fell. They put me away, and after that, when I was inside, I joined up.”

She released her breath. “I'm sympathetic, mind you, but I don't want no killin'.”

He nodded and resumed his meal.

“Y' don't have to go right away,” she said suddenly. “Sometimes they keep the barricade up for more than a day.”

“Your husband won't be wanting me in the way.”

“Tommy was killed by a loyalist bomb durin' the last marchin' season. I'm alone with the boy. It would be a help to me if you stayed awhile.”

“Who is Danny Browne?”

“He was my fiancé. We broke it off when he left for London.” She reached for his empty bowl and walked to the sink.

Frankie had spent four celibate years in prison, and Mrs. Sheehan was endowed with full curves in all the right places. He cleared his throat. “I don't mind staying for a bit if you'll have me.”

She smiled over her shoulder. “I work at the café on the corner, but only until three. Tim, my boy, will sleep until noon. Do y' mind tendin' to him until I get home?”

Frankie looked up in surprise. He'd just confessed to escaping a prison sentence for manslaughter, and she was enlisting him to care for her son. Recovering, he nodded his head. He knew very little about children, but he couldn't refuse after she'd offered to take him in.

The hours he spent entertaining the lad passed quickly. Frankie was actually enjoying himself. Colette breezed in shortly after three and beamed to find her boy sticky with applesauce but apparently content. “I'll make tea,” she said, moving to the stove.

Frankie downed three cheese sandwiches and a pint of Guinness before he realized that she was watching him. Suddenly self-conscious, he wiped his hands on a towel. “Is something wrong?”

She shook her head. “I'll put Timmy to bed. You can clean up if y' want.”

He heard the sounds of water running, splashing, and the delighted shrieks of a happy baby. Grinning at the thought of chubby wee Tim in those fuzzy jumpers babies wore, Frankie rolled up his sleeves, forcing himself to stay in the kitchen and keep at the dishes.

“Danny,” Colette called out from the back room. “Tim will be wantin' to say good night.”

Frankie frowned. The name change would take some getting used to. Still, Danny was as good a name as any. He dried his hands and walked into the room Colette shared with her son. Timmy stood up in his crib, hair damp and cheeks rosy from scrubbing. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and he held out his arms. Frankie laughed and picked up the boy, lifting him high in the air. The baby smiled and kicked his legs, chuckling out loud when Frankie bussed first one cheek and then the other.

“He likes you,” Colette said approvingly.

“He's a grand little lad, Mrs. Sheehan,” said Frankie, laying the boy down in the crib.

“Colette.”

“If you like,” he said easily.

She followed him back into the kitchen and picked up a towel to dry the rinsed dishes he'd stacked efficiently on the counter. “How old are you, Danny?”

“Twenty.”

She rubbed the plate and set it on the shelf. “Are y' married?”

“No.”

Colette sighed. “Thank God for that.”

All at once, he understood. “Colette, I can't—”

“Don't say it,” she cut him off. “I'm not askin' for anythin' from you.”

He rinsed the last dish and pulled the plug. The water made a sucking sound as it disappeared down the drain.

“I'm twenty-five,” she said quietly.

Frankie leaned against the sink and crossed his arms. She really was appealing and incredibly vulnerable.

“I saw you comin' down the hill,” she blurted out. She didn't have the words for the feeling inside her chest when she'd seen the lean, black-haired boy with the sun at his back walking toward her. “I don't care what y've done,” she said instead. “I'm five years older than you. Is it all right?”

He reached for her then, pulling her into the V of his legs. “Aye, lass,” he said gently. “It's all right with me.”

Kildare Hall, 1986

Avery Graham accepted the glass of aged Irish whiskey that Jillian held out to him. He frowned when she walked to the tea tray and poured a cup. “Am I drinking alone today?” he asked.

“I don't drink during the day. Surely you know that by now, Avery,” she replied.

He ignored the slight edge in her voice, rose to stand beside her, and sipped his whiskey. “Have you considered my proposal, Jillian?”

She looked at him, and his stomach clenched. Avery enjoyed beautiful things. Jillian Fitzgerald was twenty-four years old, a generation younger than any of his peers, wealthy, well bred, tall, slender, elegant, and so beautiful that it made his heart ache whenever he looked at her. “Surely you've reached a decision by now,” he prodded her gently.

Jillian hesitated. “I've thought a great deal about it, Avery.”

“Go on.”

She set down her teacup. “Please forgive me for being presumptuous, and if I'm wrong, I do beg your pardon, but we are talking about marriage, are we not?”

“We are.”

Again she appeared hesitant.

“For God's sake, Jillian, there is no reason on earth why you should be afraid of me.”

“Of course not.” Pink color flooded her cheeks, but she met his gaze steadily. “You see, Avery, for a very long time I've been under the impression that you prefer men to women. Therefore, I have never considered our relationship in terms of marriage.”

“I see.” He lowered his eyes to the amber liquid in his glass and kept them there. “May I ask you a question, Jillian?”

“Certainly.”

“You've suffered my presence for some time now. There are those who might say you've encouraged me.” He laughed raggedly. “Christ, I've even kissed you.”

Jillian was in control once again. “Not very ardently, Avery. As for encouraging you, I like you. I consider you to be a very dear friend.”

“But not a husband.”

She tilted her head, and her eyes narrowed. “I'm not wrong about you, am I?”

“No.”

“Why do you need a wife?”

He laughed, and the tension broke. “What I love most about you, my dear, is your intelligence.”

She waited while he walked to the liquor cabinet to freshen his drink. He did not return to stand beside her but sat down on the couch.

Slowly, she made her way across the room and sat across from him, tucking her hands beneath her knees. “If you can't tell me, I will understand, but I will not be your wife.”

He looked startled. “Do you mean to tell me that you are actually considering my proposal?”

“Yes, if you tell me the truth.”

“I should like the same consideration from you, my dear.”

Jillian nodded.

Avery looked around at the elegantly appointed room. It was an eclectic mixture of old and new, by far the most charming sitting room in Ulster. Wood floors gleamed under a crystal chandelier, antique candlesticks wrought in the eleventh century for a woman named Nest, ancient matriarch of the Fitzgeralds, Ireland's own Helen of Troy and Jillian's direct ancestor, sat opposite each other on the mantel. A gilt-framed mirror reflected Queen Anne tables, and a Louis XVI desk was artistically arranged on the Persian rug. Family portraits of the earls of Kildare lined the walls, and a Minton tea service sat on a silver tray. “Surely it isn't the money,” he said dryly.

“No, Avery. I don't need money.”

“I have a great deal, you know.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “Congratulations. So do I.”

“Your mother will be pleased.”

“My mother is not a fool.”

He sighed. “Very well, Jillian. I'm under consideration for a very influential appointment. I've been asked to serve as secretary to Northern Ireland with the stipulation that I marry. If I do not, my political career ends where it is now. Too many people, you see, have begun to suspect what you already know. Marriage, to someone like yourself, will still the rumors.”

Jillian marveled at the naïveté of a man in his middle forties. Avery Graham was a brilliant politician. More times than not, his had been the voice of reason in a government on the verge of collapse. His politics were conservative, as with all Irish Protestants, but he was fair and one of the few who understood the benefits of power sharing between the nationalists and the loyalists of the Six Counties. From a professional but not aristocratic family, he had attended good schools, took his seat as a member of Parliament on his twenty-seventh birthday, and continued to be faithfully elected to the same seat ever since.

If Jillian had not spent so much time in his company, his sexual orientation might have escaped her. He was an attractive man, tall and very lean, his raillike thinness accentuated by loose-fitting, expensive clothing. Ash-blond hair was combed straight back over a high, sensitive forehead. His nose was long and straight, his lips thin, his chest narrow and slightly concave, a result of the asthma that kept him inside during Ireland's glorious springs. He had pale blue eyes, very fair skin, and the most beautiful hands she had ever seen.