Nell (20 page)

“Any random person on the street,” she replied quickly. “You don't know your history, Mr. Putnam. The Fitzgeralds are hardly Irish. We came from Wales, and before that Italy. Somewhere around the eleventh century, the Fitzgeralds crossed the sea into Ireland, and then we became English, not Irish.”

He smiled. Putnam was the quintessential politician. He knew when to retreat and when to push forward. It was time to give it his best. “You're leaving out a bit, aren't you, Jillian? Your ancestors lost everything, including their lives, for an independent Ireland. An entire house, a family, was wiped out at Tyburn, land and estates confiscated and burned, never fully recovered. The Fitzgeralds were kings of Ireland.”

Strange images filtered through her mind, a blackened landscape, smoking ruins, a girl, thin and pale and desperately afraid. She pushed them away. “Perhaps the Fitzgeralds have contributed enough, or are you after more sacrifice, Mr. Putnam?”

“Without Avery, this entire peace process is in danger of falling apart. Never, since the partition in 1921, have Catholics and Protestants sat down together. The eyes of the world are upon us, Jillian. Everything is at stake.” He crossed the room, took her hands, and pulled her to her feet. “There is no one else,” he said bluntly. “You are the single person in all of Britain whom both sides will accept.”

She wavered. “Have you asked them?”

He breathed a sigh of relief. “No. I'll make the announcement in the morning.”

She laughed shakily and pulled her hands away. “Very well, Mr. Putnam. But if this turns into a fiasco and I fail miserably, it will be on your shoulders, not mine.”

He stared, struck by the change in her appearance when she smiled. Jillian's noblesse oblige beauty softened. Her eyes spilled warmth and light, and her mouth— Putnam swallowed. History had been changed by women who looked like Jillian Fitzgerald. A thought occurred to him, and he grinned. Something told him that failure was as unfamiliar to her as it was to him.

***

Two days later, Jillian walked into the lobby of the Royal Victoria Hospital for her weekly visit to the wards. What had begun as an obligatory duty routinely performed in her role as a politician's wife had become as necessary to her life as afternoon tea, a tradition she refused to share with anyone other than her family.

The convalescent wing had long-term patients, regulars, whom Jillian saw every week. The children's ward, preoperative, and recovery were most rewarding and among her usual stops. Oncology and the terminally ill were more difficult for her and required mental preparation. The turnover on these floors was frequent and tragic. She forced herself to visit twice a month and left immediately after. Today was not one of those days.

Jillian was pleased to note the cheerful wallpaper and large windows in the children's wing, the result of her fund-raising efforts for the past two years. After passing through two sets of double doors to recovery and then up one floor on the lift to post-op, she smiled, shook hands, and chatted with everyone who was awake, saving the small single room on the end for last. She looked at her watch. Two hours had passed since she'd walked into the lobby. She'd deliberately left the rest of her day free. The woman smiled when she walked into the room.

Jillian pulled up a chair and sat down. “Good morning, Mrs. Browne.”

“Can you stay for a bit this time, Mrs. Graham?” the woman asked.

“I'll stay for as long as you like,” replied Jillian, settling herself for a long visit. Colette Browne was a regular. Five different times she'd been operated on with minimal results. Her recovery had taken months, with most of her time spent in the hospital. She had two sons, one of whom could not remember his mother outside her wheelchair.

At first, Jillian stopped in out of pity. But with each visit she had grown to appreciate Colette's dry humor and her pragmatic wisdom, sometimes fatalistic, often hopeless, but always sensible, the line between right and wrong sharply divided. They had little in common, a crippled working-class woman with no education other than her own experience, and Jillian, born into a privileged family, who knew the names of every generation of her ancestors for a thousand years.

Without crossing the line into the forbidden territory of Christian names, both women exchanged confidences they normally would have kept to themselves. Because of Avery Graham's position, Colette intuitively understood that her relationship with Jillian could not progress beyond the walls of the Royal Victoria.

Jillian knew little of the life to which Colette belonged, but her innate sensitivity warned her away from broaching the subject of taking their friendship outside after Colette's periodic releases. Their conversations consisted of relationships with family and friends, dreams for the future, personal fears. Colette spoke of her husband, her children, and the hopelessness of life in West Belfast. Jillian shared her frustrations with her family, her difficulties with Casey, and finally, in a moment of reckless abandon and mutual rapport, the emotional toll of her ten-year-old agreement with a man who could never truly be a husband.

Colette, who had seen more than most women of Jillian's class, was not particularly surprised by the younger woman's confession. Before Avery Graham's marriage, there had been a good deal of speculation about his sexual orientation. His marriage had done away with most of the talk. Colette believed the rumors to be false until she met Jillian. The woman was thirty-five years old, uncommonly attractive, and a mother, yet there was an untouched quality about her, as if she were waiting for something. Colette knew about Avery's illness even though it had not been publicly announced. She knew how it would affect Jillian, the public person. She wondered how it would affect Jillian, the woman.

After their usual exchange of pleasantries, Colette asked the question that Jillian had come to address. “How are you holding up, dear?”

Smiling bravely, Jillian began to recite the practiced commentary she had prepared for the media. Then she made the mistake of meeting the sympathetic gaze of the woman who had become her friend. Her lips trembled, and her voice broke. Widening her eyes to prevent the tears from welling over onto her cheeks, she tried to go on but couldn't. Finally, she gave up, leaned her forehead on the rail, and sobbed.

Colette muttered a brief “thank you” for the full use of her arms. She rested her hand on Jillian's expensively coiffed head and murmured words of comfort.

Minutes passed. The combination of soothing words and gentle hands worked their magic. Jillian's tears stopped. She lifted her head, smiled tremulously, and reached for the box of tissue on the side table. “Thank you, Colette,” she said, and blew her nose.

Colette squeezed her hand. “You're very welcome, Jillian,” she replied. Both women smiled at each other, grateful for the milestone they had passed.

Jillian's eyes were no longer puffy, but her nose was still red when she heard the door to Colette's hospital room open behind her. At the sound of a masculine voice, she turned and smiled pleasantly. Her path had never before crossed with Colette's husband.

Danny Browne had learned to gauge the success of his visits by the way his wife responded to his initial greeting. Therefore, he waited for her reply before allowing his gaze to rest on the woman sitting beside her. When he did, he was sure the wild, uncontrollable lurching of his heart would send him crashing to the floor, a new patient of the Royal Victoria's cardiac care unit. Speechless, he stared at the girl who had promised to love him, the girl who had made him swear a sacred oath to come back for her.

Light from the hall silhouetted him, keeping his face and the details of his clothing steeped in shadow. Jillian's first impression of Colette's husband was that he was tall, with broad shoulders and defined muscles beneath his shirt and wool pullover. She wondered if he made his living out of doors.

It seemed as if he waited in the darkness for a long time before stepping forward. When he did, her eyes widened, and a jolt of awareness, like a current, passed through her. She felt anxious and uneasy as if every nerve were exposed. As she absorbed the details of his face, a thought, incredible in its enormity, formed in her mind. It couldn't possibly be, and yet— Logic discounted this man as a stranger. Intuition told her otherwise.

Colette was nearly ten years Jillian's senior, but her husband was not. He looked to be late thirties at most, with black hair, clean, sharp features, and eyes that went beyond description. They were dark gray in color, deeply set, and very clear, fringed with thick, feathery lashes.

Jillian was sure she had seen those eyes before, had dreamed of them, been haunted by them, but where? Why couldn't she remember?

Now, the message radiating from those eyes was unmistakable. He didn't like her. No, it was more subtle than that. He didn't approve of her.

There was something else there, too, a memory that was almost a connection, hazy and unformed in her mind. Jillian was too rattled by the man's regard to concentrate. His presence both frightened and energized her.

“Mrs. Graham.” Colette's voice broke through her turmoil. “This is my husband, Danny Browne.”

Jillian lost all ability to speak.
Danny
Browne. Colette's husband was Danny Browne, chief negotiator for Sinn Fein. Impossible! The name was all wrong. It didn't suit him.

Avery had spoken of Danny Browne often. He was Ian Paisley's nemesis. Paisley and Temple, leaders of separate factions of the Protestant Ulster Defense League, were no match for the articulate nationalist spokesman who relentlessly hammered at the loyalist position and looked good from every camera angle. Could this serious, silent man really be Danny Browne?

She needed to go home and think. Stammering like a schoolgirl, Jillian ignored Danny's outstretched hand and excused herself, saying that she'd stayed too long already.

Colette stared thoughtfully at the door through which Jillian had taken her hurried leave. Something had happened but she wasn't sure what it meant.

Danny's hand closed around a pair of beige leather gloves. “Your friend left these behind.”

“She'll be back,” Colette said, although the words sounded hollow to her own ears.

“How long have you known her?” Danny asked casually.

Colette shrugged. “Since the first surgery. She visits often.”

“You've been visiting with Avery Graham's wife for over two years?” he asked incredulously. “Why didn't y' tell me?”

She frowned. “Why do I have t' tell you everything? She's my friend.” She tapped her chest with her forefinger. “My friend. Do y' understand, Danny? This has nothing t' do with you. I didn't even tell her who y' are.”

Danny sighed with relief. She hadn't recognized him after all. Jillian's shaken composure was the result of learning that Danny Browne, Sinn Fein negotiator, was Colette's husband, nothing more.

“That explains why she walked out of here lookin' shell-shocked. It was hardly fair, Colette.”

“What do y' mean?”

Danny sat down on the chair Jillian had vacated. His shoulders sagged with weariness. “Right this minute, Mrs. Graham is tryin' to recall every word she ever said to you, on the small chance that she's divulged something that I shouldn't know. The price of such a friendship comes high, love.”

“Meaning that she thinks I didn't tell her about you to gather information?”

“Aye.”

Unexpected tears filled Colette's eyes. “I wouldn't do that. I know nothin' about y'r work. I thought she wouldn't come if she knew I was y'r wife.”

Sympathy and something stronger than mere disappointment shone from his eyes. “It seems that you took the decision away from her.”

Colette's voice trembled. “Do y' think she'll come back, Danny? I never had a friend like her before.”

Reaching out he pulled her into his arms and rested his chin on her head. He stared bleakly out the small window. “I know, love,” he whispered, “but I wouldn't worry. Jillian Fitzgerald knows something about loyalty.”

Lost in her own misery, Colette didn't bother to ask him what he meant.

***

Jillian, dressed in sweatpants and an Aran sweater, a glass of sherry in one hand, a news clipping in the other, sat cross-legged on the floor of the library at Kildare. File folders with papers spilling haphazardly out of them surrounded her.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” Casey asked from the doorway.

Jillian shook her head, stuffed the clipping into the pocket of her Aran, and smiled nervously. “Come in. I can use the company.”

Casey flopped down on the couch, groaned, stretched her arms, and tossed her head so that her curly hair fluffed around her face. “I've got to go back to school soon. If I don't, I'll never catch up.”

Biting her lip, Jillian stood and added more turf to the fire. “I suppose it's best,” she said slowly. “There's nothing more to do here.”

Casey sighed. Her mum would never come out and say what she really wanted. “I could stay another week if you need me.”

“You'll do nothing of the sort,” Jillian replied bracingly. “I'll be fine. In fact, I'll be busy. You belong back at school.”

Widening her gray-green eyes dramatically, Casey sat up and placed both palms against Jillian's cheeks. “I would like to stay until after the Stormont meeting,” she said deliberately. “How do you feel about that?”

“As if you're the mother and I'm the daughter,” replied Jillian sheepishly.

Casey grinned and leaned back on the couch pillows. “You're very retentive, Mum. But you already know that.”

“How could I not be, with you reminding me every minute?”

“I suppose you didn't really have a chance growing up with Grandmother,” Casey said thoughtfully.

“I suppose not,” said Jillian, finally amused. Casey was part elfin loveliness, part practical sage, and by far the best thing that had ever happened to the Fitzgerald-Grahams.

From the moment they brought her home ten years ago, she'd charmed the entire household, a petite hazel-eyed minx with skinned knees, corkscrew curls tumbling in every direction, and a histrionic sense of drama that never failed to bring Avery to his knees. He'd adored her and she him. The unnatural, museum like pallor that settled over the household when she returned to school demoralized Avery and Jillian to such an extent that they drove down the next day to bring her home for good. She was enrolled in the local public school, and a tutor was hired to supplement her lessons. Casey, who'd spent her entire ten years in institutions, was only too happy to remain at home with a doting father and a mother young enough to be her sister.

With a child's intuition, she understood without being told that she was dearer to both Jillian and Avery than they were to each other. Her connection with Jillian was understandable. They were members of the same family, closely related by blood. Yet she'd felt it with Avery as well. From the moment they brought her home, she was the one who made their family complete, and she felt her responsibility deeply, coming home from university often and shortening holidays with friends. Leaving Jillian so soon after Avery's death was not to be thought of. Of course, there was always Grandmother Fitzgerald.

Casey repressed a shudder. Never had two women with the same gene pool turned out so differently than her mother and her maternal grandmother. Not that Lady Margaret was rude or unkind or even unpleasant. She was just so unfailingly proper, so frustratingly opinionated, that it was difficult to bear her company for more than twenty minutes.

Occasionally, when her grandmother drove up from London, and Casey looked up from the telly or the book she was reading, she would find the older woman's eyes on her with an expression in them that could only be described as calculating. Mum and Grandmother Fitzgerald had very little in common and rarely agreed on anything. The strain on Mum to stay polite during Grandmother's monthly visits took its toll on her. Fortunately, Grandmother had moved to a flat in London after she was widowed. No, Lady Fitzgerald could not be counted on for support when Casey left for school.

She nodded at the slip of paper working its way out of her mother's pocket. “What's that?”

Jillian's hand flew to her side, and she flushed guiltily. “It's nothing.”

“May I see it?”

Slowly, Jillian pulled the photograph from her pocket and handed it to Casey.

“He's nice.”

“Who?” Jillian asked casually.

“The man in the middle. It's Danny Browne, isn't it?”

The color drained from Jillian's cheeks. “Yes.”

“I saw him speak once, in Belfast. Father knew him, didn't he?”

“Yes,” Jillian said again.

“Why are you looking at his picture?”

“There are others in the picture,” replied Jillian defensively.

Casey's straight black brows drew together, and she looked curiously at her mother. “Why are you looking at
this
picture?” she amended.

“Those men are part of the nationalist negotiating team,” Jillian improvised. “I'll be speaking with them at Stormont.”

Handing back the photo, Casey stood. “I'm going out to the stables. Ned says the new foal is due soon. Would you like to join me?”

Jillian shook her head. “Say hello to Ned for me. I'll see you in the morning.”

Sipping the last of her sherry, Jillian turned her attention back to the man in the picture. It was all very clear now, the deep-set, rain-washed eyes, skin more olive than fair, his lean height and squared-off jaw. No one who'd known Frankie Maguire as she had could mistake the man he had become. Who would have thought that Frankie, alias Danny Browne, the loyalists' curse, would turn out to be Colette's husband? Something hard and hurting and completely unreasonable twisted inside her chest. He had promised to come back for her, and all this time he was married to Colette.

For most of the last two hours, Jillian had debated whether or not Colette had intentionally deceived her in order to gather information for her husband. In the end, she'd decided against it. Politics had never entered their conversations. There was an integrity about the handicapped woman that could not be manufactured. Colette valued Jillian's friendship too much to abuse it. The omission may have been deliberate, but Colette's reasons were pure. Jillian was sure of it. Now, the least she could do for the woman was to keep her husband's secret.

A strange lethargy had taken hold of her. She wanted nothing more than to curl up on the couch, pour herself another sherry, and pull an old Jane Austen novel from the bookshelves. Instead, she stuffed the papers back into their files and climbed the stairs to her bedroom.

After a lengthy bath, she turned off the lights and stared out the long windows. It was nearly ten and closing in on July, the longest days of the year. Dusk had settled over the pasture. The tall figure of the Kildare kennel keeper surrounded by six frisky, white-bibbed pups appeared over the ridge. Jillian caught her breath. Deep inside her, something old and forgotten woke, uncurled, and readied itself for an imminent and painful rebirth.

The trembling began in her legs and moved upward throughout her body and into her fingertips, until she could barely untie the sash of her robe. Still shaking, she climbed into bed and pulled the duvet up over her shoulders.

***

Stormont had been the seat of Northern Irish government until 1972, when the horror of Bloody Sunday flashed on television screens throughout the world, ending loyalist home rule, a power imbalance the Protestant majority had enjoyed and mercilessly abused since the plantation era of the seventeenth century.

Jillian, dressed in an attractive green suit that deepened her eye color to pine, walked through the front entry and looked around. The marble floors and Greek pillars of the impressive entry narrowed to long paneled halls with carved wooden doors. Behind a large desk, a young man in military guard's uniform stared at her curiously.

“May I be of service, miss?”

It was past time to be afraid. She lifted her chin. “I'm Jillian Graham,” she said crisply. “I believe I'm expected.”

Instantly, his demeanor changed. Leaping to his feet, he nearly climbed over the desk in his hurry to assist her. “Indeed you are. Please, allow me to show you the way, Mrs. Graham.”

She smiled faintly. He was very young. “Thank you.”

Jillian followed him down the long corridor to two elaborately carved double doors. The guard knocked firmly on the wood panels. Both doors swung open, and she stepped inside. Six pairs of masculine eyes stared at her curiously.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said quietly. “I'm Jillian Graham, my husband's replacement but certainly not his equal. I'm afraid you'll have to put up with me until a more suitable candidate is found.”

A collective sigh broke the silence. Danny Browne suppressed a grin. She was every bit the diplomat that her husband had been and far more attractive. Had she deliberated for months over her entrance, she could not have chosen one more suited to wither the objections of her opponents. Her humility had scored innumerable points with both sides of the negotiating table. That, coupled with her appearance, an aristocratic name that was featured throughout Irish history, and her step down the social ladder to marry a commoner, gave her instant validity among the men elected to determine the future of the Six Counties, the same men whose ancestors had mucked out the stables and toiled in the fields of the mighty Fitzgeralds of Kildare.