Nell (28 page)

“And yet you're willing to risk all of it if there's a child. I don't understand.”

“Children are all we've got. They're all that's important. It's how we go on. I won't have a child of mine not know who I am, what I am, or who came before him. That's why I can't give up my seed for Avery Graham t' claim the credit, no matter how fair and principled a man he was.”

Jilly drew a deep breath. It was time to tell him about Casey. She opened her mouth to begin. Connor stirred on her lap, turned his head to the other side, and drifted off again. Jillian stroked his forehead. Perhaps it was better to wait a bit longer, when Connor was somewhere else. “He's a dear lad,” Jilly said softly.

“Aye,” agreed Frankie. “He is, indeed.”

***

Casey saw the barricade through the trees and immediately applied the brakes as she rounded the curve. Throwing her arm across the back of the seat, she slid the lever into reverse. Before she could move, four men, their faces hidden behind black balaclavas, cut her off from behind. Three more came toward her on foot. Sighing, she released the wheel and waited for them to approach the car.

“Papers, please,” the tall one with the light hair asked politely.

Casey reached into her purse and handed over her license. “What's happened?”

The man stared at her license, looking from the picture on the card to Casey's face and back again. She was a pretty thing. He wondered how long it would take her to recognize his voice. “Four Catholic murders by the UDF,” he said gruffly. “We're not allowing anyone through unless we know who they are.”

Her eyes widened. “Tim, is that you?” she asked incredulously.

“You're mistaken.” He handed over her license and backed away. “Go ahead.”

Instead, she opened the door and followed him. “Tim Sheehan, I know it's you. Come back here and explain yourself.”

He broke into a run and melted into the trees. The men with him formed a single line blocking her view.

“I know that man,” she appealed to them, a petite brunette with wild curls and gray-green eyes. “He's a friend of mine.”

“If that's so, miss, you wouldn't want to be bringin' him any trouble, now, would you? Just get back into that fine automobile and be on your way.”

“Tim!” Casey shouted into the trees. “Don't do this.” Minutes passed. Defeated, Casey gave up, climbed back into her car, and drove slowly past the barricade. Why was Tim Sheehan, of all people, carrying an automatic rifle with a balaclava covering his face?

She would have known him anywhere. For the past six months, he had been her mathematics tutor. The abstracts of physics and computer science came much more easily to him than to her, and her exam results proved how effective he was. Casey had strongly resisted his suggestion that she no longer needed his services until he made her understand that there were other services he would much rather provide. That was two months ago. They had seen each other every day, until his mother's funeral. Tim had simply dropped off the face of the earth, leaving no forwarding address.

Seeing him here like this explained a great deal, but not everything. College students weren't ordinarily recruited by the Irish Republican Army. Perhaps she didn't know him after all.

The great iron gates of Kildare were open as usual. Casey negotiated the turn and drove slowly down the winding road to the house. In the front pasture, golden milk cows chewed on the rich summer grass, and in the back, sleek thoroughbreds whisked flies away with thick, shining tails. Where the sun dipped into the bosom of the downs, Connor Browne frolicked with the newest litter of collie puppies while his father and Jillian talked nearby. Casey smiled. She was home. Her mother looked happy, and there would be company for dinner. It was as good a time as any to share her news.

The spring lamb with mint was Mrs. Hyde's masterpiece. She served it with new potatoes, garden peas, and a fresh tomato salad. Chocolate cake, Casey's favorite, would be the grand finale.

Connor's mouth formed itself into the shape of a perfect circle when Mrs. Hyde brought in the cake ablaze with twenty-one candles. Casey glanced across the table at the longing in his blue eyes and held out her arms. “Come here,” she said. “I need a bit of help with these. Will you blow them out with me?”

His face lit, and within seconds he was seated between Casey's knees, his eyes on the dancing teardrop flames before him.

“Make a wish,” said Jillian. “Count to three and blow.”

Connor closed his eyes and breathed in while Casey counted. On three, they blew together until every wavering flame was consigned to charred wick and dripping wax.

Jillian's eyes blurred. Casey was a lovely young woman, warm, compassionate, charming, and quite good at wielding a cake knife. She sliced five pieces from the enormous round, dished them up on plates, and announced that she, not Mrs. Hyde, would serve coffee in the library. There, surrounded with beautifully bound volumes collected by generations of Fitzgeralds, she made her announcement.

“Mum. You've been wonderful to me, and I don't want you to think that because I did this, it reflects negatively on you or my father.”

“What are you talking about, Casey?”

“Let me finish.”

Frankie looked on with polite curiosity.

Casey drew a deep breath. “Today I had my adoption records unsealed. I know my mother's name, and I don't understand why you didn't tell me in the first place.”

Jillian froze. It was too late. Frankie would never know she'd intended to tell him.

Every instinct aroused, Frankie stared at Jillian. She was pale as death.

Casey continued. “Her name was Kathleen Maguire, and she was born right here in Kilvara.”

Jillian's eyes met Frankie's, saw the banked rage in them, and turned back to her daughter, praying that no one would notice the tremor in her voice. “How long have you had this notion, Casey?”

“Forever, I think. I've always wanted to know.”

“Why didn't you ask me?”

Casey's eyebrows rose. “When you told me about my father, I didn't realize you knew anything else.”

Jillian was silent. Frankie lifted Connor into his arms. “It's time for bed.” He nodded at Casey. “I've an interest in this conversation, lass, so, if you don't mind, I'd like you t' wait and finish it when I come back.”

Casey's brow wrinkled. “I don't understand.”

“Never mind, love,” Jillian interrupted. “Just be agreeable and, for once, don't ask any questions. You'll have your answers soon enough.”

Connor was exhausted. After a quick bath and a story, he did not protest when his father pulled the covers over him and turned out the light.

Jillian stood by the fire feeding turf into the flames when Frankie returned to the library. Her color was back. Other than a slight tension through her shoulders, she did not appear as if her world had fallen down around her.

Perhaps it hadn't, Frankie thought grimly. Perhaps she already had all that she wanted. He leaned against the mantel, crossed his arms, and waited.

Casey started where she left off. “Mum? What does this have to do with Mr. Browne?”

Jillian turned, her eyes on the younger woman's face, her hands clenched at her sides. “Kathleen Maguire worked here at Kildare Hall. She had an affair with my brother. When she told him she was pregnant, he refused to help her in any way. There was a struggle at the hunting lodge. Terrence fell and hit his head. Kathleen left Kilvara. I was thirteen years old. Later, when I was older, I tried to find her. Instead, I found you. Adoption was out of the question until I married Avery.”

Frankie breathed more easily. Even now, Jillian wouldn't betray him. Apparently, old habits died hard.

“But why did you tell me you didn't know who she was?” Casey's voice was thick with tears.

Jillian shook her head. “I don't know. It sounds ridiculous now, but at the time my mother was still sensitive about Terrence, and if I'd told you about Kathleen, the rest of it would have come out. It seemed such a private thing. I had no idea you were searching for your mother. I would have told you if you'd come out and asked.” Her voice broke. “You are my niece, Casey, a Fitzgerald, my flesh and blood. I wanted you here at Kildare.”

“What does Mr. Browne have to do with this?”

Jillian turned back to the fire. “Ask him,” she said flatly.

Frankie sighed, crossed the room to sit beside Casey, and took her hands in his. “My name isn't Danny Browne. It's Francis Maguire. Kathleen was my older sister. She came to me for help when Terrence fell. At the time, my father was the kennel keeper here at Kildare. Jillian and I were”—he looked at Jillian's tense back and settled on the word “close”—“I asked her to say she was with Kathleen the entire night. Then I went to see if Terrence was really dead. The
ghillie
found me near the body, and I was accused of his murder. After four years in Long Kesh, I escaped and assumed another identity. I learned that Kathleen was dead. Given my circumstance, there wasn't a chance I could take you. Ten years ago, I found out that you were adopted.” He stared at Jillian's unyielding back. “Until tonight, I had no idea who the family was.”

“Was Terrence's death really an accident?” Casey asked.

“Yes.” Frankie and Jillian spoke in unison.

Casey was incredulous. “Why would you take the blame for his murder?”

“It was a long time ago. Catholics had an even harder time of it than they do now. I was younger than Kathleen. I thought they'd go easier on me.”

“Did they?”

“No.”

“After all this time, you expect me to believe this was all coincidence, that you and Mum just happened to meet all over again?”

Jillian turned. “It's true. Frankie was sixteen years old when he left Kildare. I didn't meet him again until I knew Colette.”

Casey pulled her hands from Frankie's. “How convenient.”

“I'm sorry that you're upset, Casey,” Jillian said softly. “But I don't know what I would have done differently. You never asked about your parents. I love you. I wanted you. There's nothing more I can say.”

Frankie stood. “I'd like to know why you didn't tell me.”

“I meant to, but I was otherwise occupied,” Jillian said. “Surely you remember.”

“Aye, I remember,” he said bitterly. “I recall that you wanted something. The irony of it escaped me before, but now I realize why it was me you approached. Kathleen and I share a gene pool.”

“Please.” Jillian closed her eyes. “Not now.”

Casey's brow wrinkled. She looked at Jillian's ravaged face and then back at Frankie's furious one. “What is going on?”

Her innocent question silenced Frankie. “Nothing, lass,” he said gently. “None of it has t' do with you.” He forced a smile. “It appears you have blood ties with a good number of people. Connor, for one, is your first cousin.”

Casey's mouth turned up. “That's true. I've a whole new family to meet.” She turned worried eyes on her mother. “Why are you so upset, Mum?”

Jillian's eyes brimmed with tears. She wiped them surreptitiously away. “I'm not, love. It's been a long day. Why don't the two of you become better acquainted while I go up to bed?”

“All right,” Casey said dubiously.

Frankie stood. “Under the circumstances, perhaps it would be better if Connor and I left tomorrow.”

“No,” Casey burst out. “I just found you. You can't leave yet.”

Jillian lifted her chin. “You're welcome to stay for as long as you like. I have some errands in the city tomorrow and will probably stay the night in Belfast. If you need anything, Casey will see to it.” Keeping her eyes averted, she walked past the two of them, out the door, and up the stairs to her room. There she threw herself on the bed and buried her face in her arms.

She felt rather than heard the presence hovering over her. Nell's lilting voice attempted to soothe her.
It's not over, love. He's angry. That's all.

Jillian's fingers squeezed the soft down pillow. “I'm not entirely to blame. He never told me he knew who I was, not even when we—” She stopped.

I
know. Perhaps he was afraid.

“He said as much.” She sat up. “He also told me that he wasn't going anywhere. Interesting, isn't it, how quickly he can reverse his emotions.”

Nell sat down beside her.
I
don't think it will be easy for him at all. Give him time, Jillian. He's a man.

Jillian sniffed and reached for a tissue on the nightstand. “What does that have to do with it?”

Nell smiled wisely.
They
see
only
one
issue
at
a
time. When he resolves in his mind what you've done and why, he'll come around.

“And then what, Nell? What good will come of it? Frankie Maguire is an escaped felon. Danny Browne doesn't exist. Even if we could find our way beyond this Catholic-Protestant
thing,
what do we do then?”

Nell rose and walked over to the dressing table and peered into the mirror, once again fascinated by her own reflection.
You
were
a
great
help
to
me, Jilly. Do you recall any of it?

Jillian frowned. “I believe it was the other way around.”

Nell smiled and framed her face with her fingers.
I
didn't think you would remember.
She sighed.
The
Fitzgeralds
have
always
been
a
powerful
family. You do remember our history?

“Of course.”

Gerald's lands were returned to him. My father's reputation was restored.

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

Nell turned, a straight, slim figure with glorious hair and eyes that spoke for her like sunlight on sea water.
Why
do
you
suppose
you
were
given
your
husband's position, Jillian?

“Thomas Putnam said I was the only one whose presence both loyalists and nationalists would accept.”

Has
anything
changed
since
then?

Jillian shook her head.

Apparently, Mr. Putnam requires your services as much as ever.

“I suppose so.”

Are
you
accepting
compensation, land, titles, gold?

“It isn't done that way anymore.”

Isn't it?
Nell smiled mysteriously. Her voice was fading quickly.
Think
on
it, Jilly. What could the prime minister of England do for you?

Jillian panicked and scrambled off the bed, her eyes searching the room frantically. “Nell, wait. Don't go yet. I don't understand.”

She was gone. Of course she was gone. Nell Fitzgerald didn't exist, at least not outside Jillian's imagination.

The night was warm, but goose bumps stood out on her arms. She shivered. Nell's apparition came more frequently when she was troubled, just as it had when Jillian was a child, before Frankie had become part of her life. What would a psychologist say to this invasion of an alter ego who had answers that Jillian did not? She was a grown woman, long past the need for an imaginary friend. Perhaps all this was too much for her. Perhaps she was losing her mind.

She walked over to the dressing table and sat down. The faintest scent of rose petals lingered in the air. With shaking fingers, Jillian traced the oval of her face in the mirror. What could the prime minister of England do for her?

***

Jillian stared in horror at the front page of the
Belfast
Telegram
. Huge headlines, “UDP Responsible for Eight Catholic Deaths,” dominated the front page. Groaning, she gulped down her tea, grabbed her satchel, and picked up her car keys on her way out the door.

George Mitchell, the American arbitrator for the peace talks, had called an emergency meeting. A Protestant paramilitary group linked to the Ulster Unionist Party had claimed responsibility for the murders. Violence was in violation of the Mitchell agreement. All parties were to vote on expelling the UDP from the peace talks.

David Temple's furious face was on every news station, claiming the murders were retribution for the murder of King Rat, Billy Wright, a rabid anti-Catholic paramilitary who had boasted of nationalist murders while serving his sentence in Long Kesh.

Jillian could feel the tension thickening the air of the conference room at Stormont Castle. She bypassed the room where Sinn Fein and the SDLP, the Social Democratic and Labour Party, argued behind closed doors and, without knocking, walked into the unionist meeting. Smoke filled the air. Jillian waved it aside, sat down at the long table, and waited. Slowly, one by one, the men joined her.

“Well, gentlemen,” she said crisply, “it may appear that you have won, but you haven't.”

A stunned silence greeted her pronouncement. Gary McMichael, president of the UDP, broke the silence. “I beg your pardon?”

Jillian's varnished nail tapped lightly on the gleaming tabletop. “Those of you who despised the very idea of negotiating with nationalists believe you have found the means to destroy the process.”

McMichael cleared his throat. “I don't understand.”

Jillian's face was a mask of icy calm. “Come now, Mr. McMichael. The man who drafted his party's objection to an all-Ireland council, breaking down the ramifications of unification according to international economic systems, employment, industry, wage structures, dispersion rates, income tax, currency, social charges on labor, and European integration, doesn't understand?”

McMichael cleared his throat but remained silent.

“Let me make it clear for you,” Jillian said coldly. “It won't work, Mr. McMichael. I don't care if you've killed eight Catholics. I don't care if you kill ten thousand Catholics. Neither you nor your group of small-minded men will ruin what this government is attempting to do here.” She leaned forward. “There will be an agreement, Mr. McMichael. You will not be expelled from the talks. You
will
participate, and when this is all over, your signature will be on a document that will serve as a manifesto to all political and paramilitary organizations in this country. Do I make myself clear?”

“What if we cannot agree?”

She stood and smiled sweetly. “We will. Until tomorrow, gentlemen.”

Outside the room, Jillian leaned against the wall and took in deep, steadying breaths. One down, one to go. Bracing herself for the worse of two evils, she marched into the nationalist conference room, effectively terminating a half-dozen conversations.

Frankie Maguire straightened, his face expressionless, waiting for her to speak.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said firmly. “Due to certain developments, we will not be able to meet today. However, we shall meet tomorrow as scheduled.”

“All of us?” Seamus Mallon, the SDLP deputy leader, challenged her.

“All of us,” Jillian repeated.

Frankie swore audibly. “If the IRA had broken the cease-fire, Sinn Fein would have been out yesterday.”