Rescuing Mr. Gracey (27 page)

Alec’s stomach lurched; the room swayed. Ratcheting the stakes higher, Gracey continued, “Aye. I’ll steer them away, lad, and keep Joseph Smyth out of the middle as well—though I don’t know how to manage it. We risk everything, son. Your shenanigans have placed us all in danger, and so ya must assure me ’tis over between the girl and yourself. I need to promise those that’ll be with me come next month.”

Alec’s head pounded. Anxiety, like a snarling animal, consumed him. “Patrick keeps his job, Joseph keeps his field, and there is no march through Dolly’s Brae.” He swallowed a lump of bile and swiped burning eyes. “I leave Castlewellan for Banbridge in two days.”

“Ye are a Gracey running for political office and the protégé of the earl himself. Ya’ll need to divide yer time between here and the mill in Banbridge. I canno’ ask to divert and pull ya at the same time.”

“So help me God, Father. If I stay, I will denounce the earl and all the Orange and then marry Mary. Work your magic and see to my demands, for, believe me, I sacrifice more than you know.”

Gracey paused a long, agonizing moment. Finally, he nodded. “’Tis done.”

The room became oppressive, hateful. “’Tis done,” Alec finally whispered. Crushed beneath the bargain, Alec crashed from the house. Horror swept him. What had he done?

His knees buckled; the world whirled. Sadness, black and suffocating, collapsed him. How to stop this loss? How to stop this terrible empty ache?

He moaned as waves of nausea overcame him. Violently, he lost the contents of his stomach. “I’m so sorry…Mary…I’m so sorry.”

*

Alec roused himself from his dismal recollections. Thunder boomed above him. He wondered how he’d gotten here, beneath the bruising weight of a tree limb. Shoving the heavy wood exhausted him, and the knifelike pain in his head made him dizzy, but eventually, roaring in agony and frustration, he managed to lift the branch just enough to twist his body out from under it. Warm blood merged with icy rain and dripped from his nose. Lightly touching his head, he felt a large gash and a swollen mound above his eye.

Squinting toward the manor, Alec tried to fathom what he should do. Aside from his heartache, his body shivered, his vision seemed wobbly, and he knew his rubbery legs would not hold him. He coughed, cringing at the pain in his chest.

The manor was too far away, a thousand steps or more. He would never make it. Oddly, Alec did not care. He was too tired to care. Perhaps he’d dreamed all this anyway. Perhaps the last two days, including breaking Mary’s heart, were but a fuzzy illusion.

Leaning against the tree, he closed his eyes. He would just rest for a moment and hope the terrible nightmare would soon be over.

~ 22 ~

“‘To sprinkle on your heads.’”

The morning sky cast a rosy hue, belying the violence from the storm last evening. Alerted by a mother’s instinct, Isabella rose from her bed and rubbed her arms against the sudden chill as she neared Alec’s room.

She agreed with her husband that Ireland would never tolerate a marriage between a prominent Anglican and a Catholic laundress, especially considering last year’s harsh lesson given to the Orange by none other than Joseph Smyth.

But the impact on Alec’s heart had shocked her. Never had she seen him so distraught. Even more frightening, on the day he was to break from her, a stoic stillness, like a deadly spirit, overtook his posture, his voice, even his expression. All day, she observed him staring blankly out the library window as if he awaited an execution.

And then, like an assassin with lethal orders, just before dusk, he donned his cloak and slipped quietly away. She did not hear him return last night.

She turned the knob, his door creaking abrasively. When she peered inside, Isabella’s gaze first fell on the undisturbed bed, then darted about the room.

Her heart flipped.
Where is he?
An ancient, terrifying warning propelled her to act.
Has he done something desperate?

Hurrying through the long corridor toward the back of the manor, she rushed into each room, searching for evidence that he was somewhere within the residence. She flew down the stairs and scanned the library, the sitting room, the drawing room, the pantry, the kitchen. Still—no cup, no empty glass—the servants had no knowledge of his whereabouts. Nothing.

Ringo, his horse, slept within his stall and had not been ridden all night, according to the stable master. Isabella dashed across the wet grass, ignoring her drenched slippers, until she made her way toward the back of the house. Flying now, she tore down the garden path toward the old oak tree where Alec had had many a childhood adventure.

There she found him, lying slumped in a deadly heap beside a broken limb.

“Alec.” There was no reaction as she dropped down and lifted his head. His face was hot to the touch, his clothing drenched.

“Alec,” she whispered.

He opened unfocused eyes. “So sorry,” he mumbled deliriously.

“Help!” Isabella screamed. The wild echo drew the cook’s attention. The butler also rushed outside. Soon Alec was half dragged, half carried to his room.

“Alexander…Alexander, help me,” Isabella cried as they dragged her son into his bed. She had never been so alarmed. In addition to the fever, her son wore a terrible bruise on his chin, and blood leaked from his forehead to his cheek.

“Dearest Lord, have mercy,” she prayed, stripping his wet clothing and screaming once more for her husband.

Alexander stumbled into the room, struggling with his dressing gown. “My love, what is it?” His face paled at the sight of Alec stretched out on the bed unconscious. “What happened? Has he been attacked?”

“He’s been injured, and he’s burning up, Alexander. Help me. Lord, help me.”

Alexander swerved out of the room and boomed a string of commands. “Send for the doctor, send for the pharmacist. Get Mrs. Gracey cooling rags.” Swiping a shaky hand over his face, he yelled over the railing, “Hurry. Hurry.”

Within the hour, the doctor determined that Alec had a concussion from a blow to the head. However, he was more concerned about the fast-moving infection involving his lungs. Isabella had been given instructions to cover him, after several bleedings, with thick quilts, wipe moisture from his body with a dry cloth, and keep a fire in the room no matter the warmth of the day. Laudanum was to be dispensed to keep him sleeping.

Isabella agreed without question. She knew little how to care for her son. Only once had he required a doctor, and that was when he had fallen from the tree, slashing open his forehead and breaking his arm.

Yet, by evening, his feverish mumblings alternated with pleas or bursts of anger. Occasionally, he begged for forgiveness, whispering the name Mary.

Alexander retreated to his library. Though he easily led men, negotiated with the cleverest merchants, and battled with powerful politicians, her husband had no ability to handle the threat facing them now.

Alec roused only once when she tried to relieve him of a ragged handkerchief. Unrecognizable words growled from his throat, and his eyes flashed opened, frightening her with the anger behind the blue sparks. Afterward, as if it were precious gold, he clung all the harder to the tattered cloth.

By the third night, his dry skin cracked, his breathing grew shallow, and a rattle began. Strangled air wheezed as if squeezed through his lungs. Isabella watched the slow suffocation. Lifeless as the darkest night of winter, her vibrant son faded before her. Even his cries for Mary had disappeared.

Frantic, Isabella paced and prayed, then paced again. How could he wither inch by feverish inch with no remedy? Just before dawn on the fourth day, her head resting on her son’s bed, Isabella was inspired by one last glimmer of hope born in a mother’s desperate heart.

She sent for her trusted servant, Daniel, instructing him to ready a carriage. Disguised within a black, hooded cape, she rushed into the day’s first light and drove through jarring roads and steep hills into a land that divided two worlds.

Having stepped from the coach, she stood outside a grass-covered hut, absently noting the five acres of flax that had become so controversial. Isabella walked around the family vegetable patch, then paused outside a warped wooden door. Inhaling, she sent up a silent prayer that she was not endangering anyone. Her rap sounded sharp, even to her.

A young woman of perhaps twenty peered out. She was petite, fragile as a forest flower, her reddish-brown hair slipping out here and there from a white cap. Light pink flushed her ivory complexion, and then a scattering of freckles appeared. Confusion and wariness marked her finely sculpted brow.

Isabella lowered her hood and smiled. The young woman tried to contain wayward hair with a nervous swipe before she let her restless hands slide into the pockets of the worn muslin work dress that was one size too small. She tilted her chin. “May I help you?” Her soft voice lilted with an Irish brogue.

“Are you Miss Mary Smyth?”

She hesitated. Nodded. “Aye.”

Isabella guessed the little hut contained many listening ears. “Will you join me in a walk?”

Wide eyes skimmed Isabella curiously. Finally, with almost a sad resignation, she slipped inside the hut briefly, then returned with a worn cloak.

“Miss Smyth,” she began, mentally plotting the best way to tell the girl all the shocking news. “My name is Isabella Gracey. I am Alec’s mother.”

The girl startled, and her beautiful round eyes widened.

“I mean you no harm. I…I need you.” Measuring her words to prevent the young woman from fleeing, she spoke softly. “Alec is ill.” Isabella swallowed before continuing. “He very well may die.”

The girl gasped. Covering her mouth as if to prevent a cry, Mary shook her head wordlessly. She looked away, her small hands twisting. “What sickens him?”

“’Tis some kind of fever with a terrible cough…perhaps pneumonia.” Tears formed in Isabella’s eyes. “The doctor does not give him much hope. It seems to me Alec has given up fighting for recovery and daily fades more.”

“Ohhh,” she said, her lip quivering.

“I…I need you to help, if you are willing.” Exhausted, clumsy, she closed her burning eyes and inhaled. “I have a plan, Miss Smyth, but ’twill take both time and discretion. I am requesting you stay in my home, until he recovers sufficiently. Help me nurse him, give him something with which to rebound his courage.” Isabella touched her arm. “Of course, I would pay you for your time.”

Fear and uncertainty etched Mary’s brow, flushed her face. Hurrying the proposal, Isabella could not afford to give the girl time to ponder all the many problems in the plan. “If you would prepare your family for that possibility? Alec is most ill, and I do not wish to be away from him too long. If you will allow, I will share my thoughts in the carriage.”

The girl’s brow furrowed with worry. Fearful she might reject the offer, Isabella blurted the remainder of the information. “Perhaps if you could just tell your family that I’ve need of employment for a short-term house position that would double your laundress income. Of course, Alec’s identity as a Gracey and his dire illness must remain a secret. You do not even need to tell them who I am, if that is helpful.”

Without further prompting, Mary reversed her steps and rushed inside the hut. Isabella heard her gentle lilt but could not make out the conversation. Within minutes, Mary exited, carrying a stuffed cloth satchel.

As they barreled at breakneck speed down the horrendous road, Isabella spoke. “Miss Smyth, I owe you an explanation and some history. You see, a week ago, my husband received a note detailing Alec’s activities at Dolly’s Brae. Fearful that word may get back to the earl or the Orange, thus endangering our family as well as yours, Mr. Gracey insisted Alec end his association with you.”

The young woman jerked her head down as if the news had slapped her physically. Isabella reached for Mary’s icy hand and squeezed. “Obviously, much divides our lives, our histories, but your faith is the largest obstacle. My husband has never personally known a Catholic, and therefore, he has certain biases…”

Mary lifted watery eyes. “I did not know Alec was Protestant. I pondered the possibility after he…he left. Truthfully, I think my family would be opposed to a relationship as well.”

“I am grateful you understand the gravity of our situation. Please don’t be offended, but in order for you to feel comfortable in my home, and for Alec to get the full benefit of your help without interference from Mr. Gracey, I am going to ask you to do something difficult.”

~ 23 ~

“The Pope of Rome he did disown…”

Elegant, aristocratic, so very poised, Mrs. Gracey reminded Mary of a long-necked swan gracefully floating over her domain. One perfect, delicate hand rested upon her gray silk dress, palm up, fingernails manicured.
The mother of Alec Jordan. No, Alexander Gracey!

Mary tightened her callused hands under her cloak.
What are ya doin’, Mary Smyth?
Her head hammered with confusion; her stomach burned with anger.

Mary blinked her eyes, which were gritty from crying every day for a week. Alec had deliberately wiggled his way into her life, knowing that, in all of County Down, there was no greater enemy of a Smyth than a Gracey.

And now he had brought her to the same sin, forcing her to betray her heritage and weave her own net of lies.