Nell (19 page)

She envied him those hands. Jillian suspected most women did. They were the hands of a pianist, long, slender, and exquisitely shaped. Avery was also extremely intelligent and unusually discriminating. Unfortunately, a number of his previous acquaintances had been indiscreet. He would not only have to marry, he would have to give up the lifestyle he preferred. “What would you expect of me, Avery?” she asked.

He swallowed the last of his whiskey and looked at her over the rim of the glass. “We would give the appearance of a happily married couple, live together, vacation together, appear at necessary functions. There would be a small amount of public speaking. That's all.” He set his empty glass on the table, leaned forward, and spoke earnestly. “I know what I am asking of you is quite unfair, Jillian. You are a young and lovely woman. I was prepared to be your husband in every sense of the word. Now that you know about me, it isn't possible. If you marry me, you will be giving up a life of your own for as long as I am alive. What possible reason could you have for accepting my proposal?”

“Will you be giving up your life, Avery?”

He looked surprised. “Is· that your requirement?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Surely—”

She cut him off with a wave of her hand. “Please don't think that I have any misguided scheme to reform you. But you must understand that you will occupy an extremely public position. Each time you step outside your door, the media will be there. Your reputation must be spotless, Avery, or I cannot accept your offer.”

“Why would you even consider such an offer, Jillian?”

She took a deep breath. “I want to adopt a child.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I want to adopt a child, and I can't unless I'm married.”

Something flickered in his eyes and disappeared. “Will any child do, or is it someone particular you have in mind?”

Jillian laughed and relaxed. “You are also very intelligent, Avery. It is a particular child. Her name is Cassandra. You were straightforward with me, and I intend to be with you. Do you remember when my brother was killed?”

“It was a terrible tragedy.”

“A boy on our estate was blamed for his death, but it was rather more complicated than that. His sister was involved with Terrence. That night, she told my brother she was carrying his child. After Terrence died, the girl disappeared. I tried to find her but never did. Five years ago, I did find the child. She had been raised in institutions. I've been sponsoring her. She's attending boarding school in Ireland.”

“I'd envisioned a baby, not a half-grown child.”

“Does it make a difference?”

“Of course it does.” Avery's hands were shaking. He reached for his cigarettes, remembered he'd given them up, and cursed softly before recovering. “A child will disrupt our lives. She'll need to settle in, to accustom herself to our ways. It will be very difficult.”

“Casey will be in school for most of the year, Avery. Surely you can bear to spend the holidays with a little girl who very much needs a family.”

She had succeeded in shaming him. He was asking her to give up a normal life, children of her own. It was a small price to pay, after all, for a woman like Jillian. “Your brother must have been very dear to you.”

Jillian's gaze never faltered. “Yes.”

“You humble me, my dear,” Avery said gently. “I apologize. If you do me the honor of becoming my wife, I shall welcome Casey into our home.”

Jillian released her breath and smiled happily. “Thank you, Avery. You won't regret this. I promise you that.”

Belfast, Northern Ireland

Frankie walked down the Falls Road next to the Peace Wall, crossed the street near Finley's Pub, picked up a copy of the
London
Times
at the news agent, and pushed through the double gates of the Sinn Fein headquarters. Nodding to the man in charge, he climbed the stairs to his office.

“Danny, boy,” Brian Dougherty called out to him from down the hall, “did y' hear the news? There's t' be a new minister for Northern Ireland. Avery Graham is under consideration.”

Frankie pulled out a cigarette, swiped a match across the side of the desk, lit the tip, and inhaled. “Graham's a good man for a Brit,” he said, blowing out a cloud of blue smoke. “We could do worse. But it'll never happen.”

“Why not?”

“He's sweet.”

Dougherty slid a copy of the
Belfast
Telegram
into Frankie's field of vision and pointed to a front-page article. “It looks like he's taken care of that wee problem.”

Frankie perfunctorily glanced at the paper. Then he took a second look. The headline at the bottom seemed to leap off the page, and for a full minute it felt as if his heart had shuddered to a stop. He read the headline again: “Fitzgerald heiress to wed candidate for minister to Northern Ireland.” Frankie blew into his hands to stop their shaking, shrugged his shoulders, and leaned over his paperwork. “It doesn't concern us, so long as his politics are right.”

Dougherty left the paper where it was. “We've got a solicitor on the internment cases. He should have a report by morning.”

Frankie forced himself to pay attention. “Finucane's office?”

“Aye.”

“I'll speak to him.”

Brian frowned. “Are y' all right, Danny?”

Frankie threw back his head impatiently. “Have you nothing to do, Brian?”

Dougherty chuckled and left the room. Danny had been ill-tempered lately. Most likely, Colette had been pestering him again about a weddin' ring. Poor lass. She'd waited long enough.

Frankie waited a full five minutes after Brian had disappeared down the hall before picking up the paper. He stared at the pictures at the bottom of the page. They weren't formal engagement pictures, and they weren't taken together. Avery Graham's was a professional head shot. Hers was not.

She was dressed in a loose white shirt tucked into jodhpurs and riding boots that emphasized long, shapely legs and slim hips. Her hair, neither light nor dark in the black-and-white photo, hung in a silky tangle to her shoulders. Eleven years certainly laid their mark on a woman. If it weren't for her eyes and that mouth that would make a celibate reconsider his vows, he would not have known her. Jillian Fitzgerald had grown into a beauty, just as he'd imagined she would.

Frankie never understood the flood of emotions that swept through him that day or what it was that made him decide it was time to marry Colette after eight years of sharing a flat and a bed. The day after they stood up together at St. Mary's Church, he made one last desperate appeal to Our Lady of Refuge, an orphanage for girls in County Fermanagh.

The nun in charge of records recognized his voice. Immediately, she connected him to the mother superior.

Mother Cecily Agnes had endless reserves of patience, but Frankie Maguire, alias Danny Browne, was beginning to concern her. The little girl's worries were nearly over if only this persistent young man would just go away. She made a quick decision. “I'm sorry, Mr. Browne,” she improvised. “An application for the child's adoption has been accepted. Her file is sealed.”

His voice was tight and bitter. “She's my niece. You had no right to give her away.”

Her voice lowered. “I will not mention what you told me in confidence, Mr. Browne. But you are hardly in a position to take care of a little girl. How can you, in all decency, deny her the opportunity to be raised by a loving family?”

The silence on the other end of the phone relieved her and confirmed her first opinion of Danny Browne.

“The child's record has been sealed,” she repeated. “When she comes of age, she may choose to open it. I shall pray for you, Mr. Browne.”

The amusement in his voice made her wince.

“You do that, sister. I'm sure it can't hurt,” he said, and hung up.

Mother Cecily hung up the phone, crossed herself, and prayed to the Virgin for understanding and forgiveness. A lie of such magnitude had rarely escaped the lips of a mother superior.

Belfast, 1994

The explosion came from across the river. Danny Browne cursed, pushed himself away from the table where he was reading the
Irish
Times
, and ran down the steps of the Linen Library, across Grosvenor Road to the lower Falls and the checkpoint.

The soldier manning the gates scanned his papers, searched him, and waved him past. Small groups of men clustered at the end of Divas Street on the border of the Protestant Shankill. The street was a shambles. Strewn with mangled bodies and their bloody parts, it looked like the front line of a war zone. The target, a mixed pub, was a smoking rubble. Charred beams lay in piles, wood sticks that were once stools and tables burned steadily on the macadam. Jagged shards of glass caught the reflections of a mockingly benevolent sun. Moans from the scalded throats of victims floated to the ears of the bystanders.

“Jesus Christ,” Danny muttered, pushing his way through. “Jesus fucking Christ. Someone call an ambulance.”

John McCullough, chief of INLA, a splinter, more radical sector of the Irish Republican Army, saw Danny among the spectators. He took one look at his face and moved out of the shadows of the safe house, through the crowd, until he stood behind him. Clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder, he whispered in his ear. “Now, Danny, this has nothin' t' do with you. Mind your own business.”

White-lipped, Danny shrugged off the man's hand. “I warned you, John. If you had anything to do with this, I swear on your son's grave that you'll pay.”

“You're not that important, Danny boy. Not all of us recognize your authority.”

Danny's eyes narrowed, and he turned so that his words would not be mistaken. “This time you will.”

A rumbling sounded from the end of the road. He turned around in time to see three Saracens surging toward them at tremendous speeds. People dove for cover or ran screaming down the street in the path of the high-powered British tanks. Others stood, frozen in disbelief, as the guns swung back and forth, focusing on targets and spraying bullets into the fleeing crowd. Like wet sandbags, men, women, and children dropped soundlessly to the pavement.

A stream of curses spewed from Danny's mouth. Avoiding the tanks, he ran through the streets in the direction of Little India and the Kashmir Road. Bursting wildly through the door of the flat, he shouted his wife's name. “Colette! Are you here? For Christ sake, answer me.”

Mrs. Flynn poked her head in from next door. “She's gone shoppin'. Tim called and said he'd be home tomorrow. Connor's with me.”

Relief, so sweet that he swayed and nearly fell, swept through Danny. He braced himself against the wall. His son was safe. “Where is the lad?” he asked.

“Eating a bite of bread and jam. There's trouble at the barrier. Say hello to the boy before y' go lookin' for Colette.”

Danny nodded and followed her into the kitchen of her flat Four-year-old Connor grinned engagingly. “Hello, Da.”

Love, complete and unconditional, washed through Danny. He picked up the boy, positioned him on his lap, and hugged him hard. Ignoring the stranglehold of his father's arms, Connor continued with his meal. “Mam's goin' t' buy ice cream,” he said happily.

Tousling the boy's straight black hair, Danny laughed. “I hope y'll leave some for Tim this time. Your brother enjoys his ice cream as much as you do.”

Connor drank down the last of his milk and wiped away the mustache above his lip. “Why are you home, Da?”

Danny buried his face in the warm, damp place between his son's chin and shoulder and inhaled the sweetness. “There's been a bit of trouble. I came t' see that you were behavin' yourself for Mrs. Flynn.”

Fixing his blue eyes on his father's face, Connor nodded. “I'm good, Da. Mrs. Flynn says I may watch her telly.” He appealed to the woman. “Isn't that right, Mrs. Flynn?”

“It is, darlin'.”

Danny stood and set the boy on his feet. “I'll be goin' to pick up your mother now. Be a good lad, and y'll be havin' that ice cream before you know it.”

Connor smiled happily and held out his hand to Mrs. Flynn.

“Don't bother yourself,” Danny said to the woman. “I'll let myself out.”

Out on the streets, the icy fear that gripped him when he first saw British tanks roll down the Springfield Road returned. He could only hope that Colette had found shelter with friends. He turned down the Falls Road and froze. Four bodies lay motionless in pools of blood. Two men were dragging the moaning and wounded into doorways. Burning lorries blocked the lanes, and the smell of gasoline and rubber polluted the air. There wasn't an ambulance in sight.

Rage blotted out Danny's fear. This was retaliation, not self-defense. These were families, unarmed, helpless, innocent, going about their business nearly a mile from the pub bombing, not IRA activists. A fist closed around his heart. Where was Colette? Making his way past the bullet-riddled walls of the wood and brick row houses to the barricade, Danny stopped everyone he knew. No one had seen her. At the gates, his identification card was refused.

“Sorry, mate,” the guard said. “No one comes through.”

Danny's hand clenched on the post. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to speak politely. “My wife is missing.”

The guard pointed to the phone. “Call the hospital. Nearly forty people were taken to the Victoria. If she's there, come back. I'll see about a pass.”

All lines were down. Grim-faced, Danny walked to the Divas Flats, ignored the elevator, and climbed to the seventh floor. It was empty. He sat down in a chair, his back to the door, lit a cigarette, and waited. Ten minutes passed. Footsteps sounded in the hall and stopped behind him. Still, he didn't turn.

A raspy voice broke the silence. “What can we do for y', Danny?”

“I need a favor, Paddy.”

He taunted him. “The chief negotiator for Sinn Fein needs a favor. That's rich. It's been a long time since you've come t' us.”

“Is what happened today any of your doing?”

“In a manner of speakin', although the Provos are not entirely responsible.”

Danny's mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “There'll be hell t' pay for this one and months of negotiation down the drain.”

“We've been there before.”

Turning, Danny stared into the face of the man who'd been his mentor. It was an Irish face with a red complexion, light eyes, a square grizzled chin, and lightly veined skin. Padraic Fergus looked years older than he was. “Colette is missing,” Danny said shortly. “I want the hospitals checked and a pass to get through the checkpoint.”

Padraic nodded. “You'll have it, Danny. My prayers will be with you.” He ignored the contemptuous look Danny threw at him. “Wait here. I'll be back.”

Three hours later, Danny sat in a chair in the waiting room of the Royal Victoria Hospital. The frozen knot that was his heart refused to allow him the satisfaction of feeling. Even searing, unforgiving pain would be preferable to this emptiness.

The nurse touched him on the shoulder. “You can see her now.”

Danny stumbled into the room where Colette lay staring at the ceiling. A sound came from his throat, and she turned. Tears filled her eyes. “I can't feel anything, Danny. It was a plastic bullet.” She laughed hysterically. “The doctor said I was lucky it wasn't the real thing. Then he told me I won't ever walk again. Oh, Danny, who'll take care of Connor and Tim when he comes home?”

He pulled up a chair, sat down, and took her hand. “Doctors don't know everything. We'll find a way, Colette. Somehow we will. Tim's a grown man, and Connor”—he swallowed—”Connor will be grand. You'll see.”

“Poor wee lad,” she said brokenly. “No one's watched him but me. You didn't want me t' work, Danny.” There was feeling in her hands, and she clutched him desperately. “Remember how you told me that a wee lad needs his mother and that we would manage?”

“I do.” He kissed her fingers. “Hush, lass. We'll sort it out. You'll be up and about in no time.”

Belfast, 1997

“It's a waste of time,” Colette argued angrily from the wheelchair where she spent all of her waking hours. “I don't want t' go back t' the hospital. Nothing's helped so far, and nothing ever will.”

Danny closed the door gently behind him. Connor was due home soon, and he didn't want the boy to hear the argument that his parents kept alive between them. “It's a chance, Colette,” Danny said reasonably. “Do you want t' stay in that chair forever?”

She turned on him. “If it bothers you so much, Danny Browne, y' know where the door is. I'm not askin' any favors from you.”

Balling his hands inside his pockets, Danny walked to the window and stared outside. The view was a wall painted with orange, white, and green political slogans: “Sciorse,” “Free the POWs,” “No Conditions.” Construction rubble littered the sidewalk, and boys playing at hurling climbed over it to fetch the ball. Unbidden, his mind called up an image, clean and pure, of green grass, dark woods, and golden dogs. Ruthlessly, he pushed it back. “I'm not goin' anywhere,” he said gently. “You've never been selfish, Colette. Do it for the boys if not for yourself. Don't listen to me. Ask Connor and Tim if they want you t' take the chance.” Forcing himself, he crossed the room to kiss her cheek and squeeze her shoulder.

Mrs. Flynn knocked at the door. “I'll fix supper for Colette and the boy a bit early tonight, Danny. Rumor has it we won't have power too much longer.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Flynn,” he said, zipping up his jacket. “Be sure to have a healthy portion yourself.”

Kildare Hall, County Down

The final words of the Archbishop of Armagh filtered through Jillian's pain. “Let us lay Avery Graham, beloved husband and father, brother and friend, to his rest.”

Lifting a shaking hand, Jillian stroked Casey's curly, mink-brown hair. Behind dark glasses, her eyes burned with the effort of holding back tears. How had they come to this? It happened so quickly, Avery's aggravated cough, his raspy voice, the whispered conversations, the fatigue, the bloodstained handkerchiefs he'd been unable to hide, and finally the diagnosis, cancer of the lung. He was dead in three months.

Casey felt Jillian squeeze her hand, but she was too miserable to acknowledge the comfort. She was twenty years old, and Grandmother Fitzgerald had drilled her in the importance of appearance at public functions. But this time something deep within her rose and refused to accommodate Lady Fitzgerald's sense of decorum. There wasn't a better man in the world than Avery Graham. Mourning had never seemed more appropriate. What would they do without him? Unchecked tears streamed down her cheeks.

In unison, the select group of invited friends and relatives chanted, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Casey leaned her head on Jillian's shoulder and wept.

Across the flower-adorned casket, Jillian caught the eye of Thomas Putnam. He smiled bracingly. The young prime minister had flown in from London that morning to attend the service, a testimony to her husband's sensible and honest politics. Avery had been a Conservative. The Putnams were Labour.

Jillian sighed. She would miss Avery's wisdom. He alone had kept the lid on the simmering cauldron of Northern Irish discord. Both the loyalists and the nationalists trusted him. Even the skeptical Irish Republican Army occasionally listened when Avery spoke. Whom would Putnam appoint now? Who would keep the peace that Avery had maintained at Stormont despite the backbiting, the refusals to negotiate at the same table, the name-calling, and the occasional acts of violence by radical groups from both sides? So much unfinished business to sort through. Jillian didn't know of a single man in the entire United Kingdom who could step into Avery's shoes.

She never once suspected, not when the prime minister stayed at the reception longer than his obligatory thirty minutes, or when he singled her out and spoke of innocent inconsequential matters, not when he asked to speak to her alone and questioned her about the Drumcree problem, and certainly not when he remained after the guests had gone, explaining that he needed a personal favor. It wasn't until she was seated in the library, on the expensive Victorian settee where generations of Fitzgeralds had taken their after-dinner port, after he'd repeated the words for the second time, that she understood what it was that he asked of her.

Her face paled, and the famous Fitzgerald composure that her mother had worked so tirelessly to instill slipped momentarily, rendering Jillian speechless. When at last she found her voice, she politely declined.

He brushed aside her refusal. “The position is temporary, Jillian. I need someone of influence, someone who knew Avery's mind.”

“It's impossible.”

“Why?”

“I already have a position teaching at the university. Besides, I know nothing about negotiating with those people.”

Putnam thrust his hands into his pockets and walked to the window. He was a commoner, born to a professional family with means. Good schools, a penchant for public speaking, and a nationwide frustration for the politics of Margaret Thatcher and her mouthpiece, John Major, had brought him the most influential position in England. He did not understand the minds of the aristocracy.

Jillian Fitzgerald was lovely, elegant, and, despite her husband's position, as remotely unapproachable as if it were the eighteenth century instead of the twentieth. But she was a Fitzgerald, and Irish memories were long. His advisers had assured him that she would be the most acceptable choice, a woman whose Protestant ancestors had fought for a united Ireland.

“I thought you'd taken a leave to be with Avery, and
those
people
are your countrymen, Jillian. Who else will understand them better?”