Rescuing Mr. Gracey (42 page)

He could drink again, once more retreating, or he could clean up and pray that Mary’s memory would stay away long enough to let him breathe. Eat. Walk. Talk. His eyes shut.

Alec stumbled to the servants’ rope, calling Daniel to his door. “Have a bath drawn…and coffee…food…something light.”

He allowed the hot, steaming water to soothe and cleanse. The shave and food also helped to strengthen him and calm the tremors in his hands. For self-preservation, he shoved her away whenever the images arose and let anger replace his love.

He hated Ireland. And its prejudices. And the ridiculous aristocracy. And the divided religions that all claimed to be Christian. Ireland had done this to him. Ireland and its ancient warring clans who shifted every few centuries so they all had excuses to kill each other.

Despite his valiant efforts, Mary traveled into his thoughts, haunting, beautiful, forbidden. His throat grew tight.
Why?
She did not believe in him. She did not wait for him to lay out his plan. Instead, she agreed to marry the ridiculous farmer just because he had the correct religion.

He pounded a table. A sharp sting against his hand distracted him from the pain in his heart. But then despair blanketed him, and his head dropped below his shoulders. Had she just trusted him…

A pitiful gasp escaped. Alec clenched his jaw, his eyes squeezing against the horrible spasms that contracted his chest. Trapped, trapped, trapped inside this wretched emotion. He inhaled and, jamming his hands behind his back, paced. He had to do something.
Anything
. Time might alter his emotion, but meanwhile, this sorrow, this disappointment, this betrayal ate away at his sanity.

He stopped midstride. His brows rose; his eyes widened. What was he thinking? Grabbing his cloak, he whipped it over his shoulders and rushed from his room. “Mother. I’m late for an appointment in Banbridge and Newcastle. Be back in two days…”

~ 40 ~

“Dolly’s Brae no more!’”

“Joseph, we hate to ask ya, but most of us are wonderin’ if ’tis safe here.”

Mary did not have the courage to look up.

Daniel O’Hare continued, “Young Gracey himself was here just two days ago and yar daughter bein’ a particular friend and all.”

How she wanted to scream like a banshee and run and run and run right to the ocean. Had she not given enough to this nation? Regret twisted her stomach, squeezing the very air from her lungs.

She clenched her hands, her gaze on the safety of her bare feet. Oh, to be far, far away to an innocent time before she loved an enemy.

The room swelled with thick silence. Unspoken disapproval pressed heavily upon her trembling shoulders. She dared to look at the dozen Ribbonmen who waited for her father’s answer. But she knew they stared, accusing, judging. Shuffling from the heat of a dozen eyes, Mary lifted a tearful gaze to her father.

He smiled sympathetically, then folded his arms. Joseph asked Mary to face these people. He believed that hiding away, as she wished she could, would only make the rumors more potent. “I personally guarantee that Alec Gracey will not harm Dolly’s Brae. I’d lay my life upon that assurance. However, I understand if distrust remains. If that be the case, please go, with my gratitude for past commitment.” His soothing words, like a balm on a burn, gave relief.

No one left. Careful to keep her eyes cast upon her father’s hand as he sketched a picture, Mary stiffened her back with the resolve not to crumble. She needed to appear one of them, loyal, unashamed.

“The X’s mark the areas where we waited for last year’s march, but the Orange are sure to block that route this year.”

Thom O’Malley, a Ribbonmen organizer from the next town, interrupted with a growl. “I’m sorry, Smyth, but I can’t stomach making plans when Gracey’s lover is sittin’ here.”

Mary jerked from her chair. “I’ll not stay. I’ve no wish to hear about it anyway.”

“If ya ever insult me intended wife again, ya’ll be the one what leaves the room on yar backside.” Sean placed a heavy hand upon Mary’s shoulder, adding a crushing burden to her guilt. She cringed with shame, the contact almost revolting.
Poor Sean…doomed to marry a woman who cannot abide his touch
. Heat rushed her cheeks.

Maureen told Mary to sit, then turned toward Thom. “Are ya sayin’ me own daughter would betray her da, a man who led all of us to victory last year?” The matron’s expression, hard and flushed, challenged everyone in the room. The young man backed away from the thin woman’s glare.

Fortunately, Joseph’s low voice captured the wavering attention within the room. “I understand that rumors have damaged confidence in my leadership, but I will not have these accusations and insinuations made about my daughter. We are a package, her and the family.” He paused long enough to capture each person with a silent acknowledgment. “I will step aside and allow for new leadership should that be the majority vote.”

Mary turned her focus toward her tightly folded hands, but she heard a great shuffling behind her.

“Let us have a vote, then. Those who wish the Smyths to separate from this group, raise your hands.”

She heard soft brushing sounds but refused to look up. This was all her fault.

“Those in favor of retaining my leadership, raise your hands.” The room seemed an airless vacuum as she tried to inhale. Blood pounded, deafened.

Had she destroyed her family along with her own heart? She closed her eyes and imagined herself turning into water, dissolving from this chair, onto the floor, out the door.

“’Tis settled, then. Those who cannot abide by the majority vote may leave.”

She looked up and caught his bright blue eyes as they scanned the room and captured each person’s gaze. Two people left the hut. Once they had gone, he continued. “We’ll have no more talk about our personal business, then. Now, on to the plans for the Twelfth.”

That quickly, the talk shifted. She barely heard her father talking, sketching, planning. He braced his hands on his hips. “If we’re to be successful, we’ll need several hundred more volunteers over here.” His hand pointed to the lowest point of the pass. “And here…” His finger pointed to the highest part of the road. “We also need more scattered along the route. The more the better.”

“What if they breach the route, Da?” Patrick asked.

“We’ll need to have the greatest bulk of men at the entrance to Dolly’s Brae. Tell them to bring any device that may harm an attacker—pitchforks, shovels, or a pile of rocks. Those with guns will be with me inside the forest, but we’ll not use deadly weapons unless needed to defend our lives or our homes…”

“How many Proddies are we expectin’, Joseph?”

“I’ve heard over a thousand are coming to rally at Tollymore Park.”

A vigorous pounding at the door startled them all. Eyes darted as everyone squeezed into corners. Joseph scanned the room and placed his finger to his lips before glancing out the window. “’Tis Donnelly…”

Joseph flung open the door.

“They’re comin’…” the young man said between gasps. “Soldiers…they’re comin’ up the pass…hundreds are headin’ this way.”

A collective gasp ricocheted throughout the crowded room. Everyone, including her own family, bounced glances toward Mary.

Sean finally spoke. “What does it mean, Joseph? They’ve never invaded us before. Are they meanin’ t’ arrest us?”

“Gracey sent them here,” O’Hare said.

“Hush…the lot of you. Young Alec would do nothing to harm Mary,” Joseph said.

Sean tightened his grip on her shoulder. “Maybe so…but Alec’s father would have no problem causin’ her trouble…”

Joseph’s lips tightened. “Patrick, go and discover what you can. Be discreet. The rest of you, get home and hide whatever can be deemed a weapon in case they do a house search. If no word comes tonight or tomorrow, meet me at the pass before sunrise on the Twelfth. If you own a gun, go to the forest before dawn and wait until I get there. For the others, remember your rights. There’s nothing illegal about gathering on a hill with farming tools and rocks.”

As if anxious to leave the home of the most likely British target, the group hurried from the hut. Mary avoided looking at any of them, but the sharp pricks of guilt became unbearable.

Patrick returned moments later. “The Brits are spreading throughout the village but not entering anyone’s home. They’re taking up posts at the entrances to the village too.”

“Merciful Lord. This frightens me, Joseph,” Maureen whispered.

Joseph sighed, the weight of his leadership and allegiance marked upon his furrowed brow. “I’ll be going to the major on the morrow.”

“No, Joseph…surely not. ’Twill do no one good should they arrest you.”

“The best way to outmaneuver a fox is to go right up to his den. I’ll not be skulking around as if guilty of anything, Maureen.”

Another harsh rap on the door caused Mary to jump from the chair. Once again, Joseph peered through the window. Silently, he motioned the family to retreat to the various corners of the hut.

His hand ran over his ruffled hair, and he straightened his posture. With a deep inhale, Joseph opened the door to a darkly cloaked messenger. “Mr. Gracey sends this correspondence to Mr. Smyth.” A packet was thrust forward. Bowing, he left.

Mary’s heart crumbled. In the space of one moment, Joseph aged ten years, his face a pasty white, his furrowed brows etching a deep line upon his worried forehead. His lips thinned as he turned the letter in his hands. He looked up at Mary. She had a powerful urge to wrap her father in her arms and rock him like a wounded child.

Dear Lord. What have I done?

With a slow movement that spoke of his dread, he broke the seal. His mouth pursed and his brows drew down as he silently read the letter. The family held their breath as he repeated the action. She wanted to scream.
What? What…what poison is inside that page?

Repeating the action, he flipped open the second letter. His face now flushed a bright red, and his fingers clenched the paper as a vile enemy. Scratching the fluffy hair at the back of his neck, he looked up with exhausted eyes. He tapped the paper. “Well…good fortune has dissolved.” A steady gaze locked to Mary as if to assure her, then he wrapped a reassuring arm about her shoulders. “You get to have a break from laundry for a wee bit longer, my darlin’. All the clients in Castlewellan have discharged you.”

Maureen moaned and buried her face in her hands.
 

“Steady yourself, darlin’. That’s not all.” Joseph flicked a glance at Patrick. “Patrick is also unemployed.”

Patrick rose and slammed a hard fist onto the table before reeling to Mary. “See what your selfish love has done to us all, Mary? Ya’ve ruined us, ya have.”

Sean shoved Patrick back. “You’ll no’ be talkin’ to her like that, Patrick…brother or no.”

“Aye. I agree,” Joseph said, also shoving Patrick.

Great racking spasms twisted Mary’s chest until she thought she would break in half. “This is not from Alec. He would never do this,” she whispered.

Joseph pushed the papers forward. “’Tis signed
Alec Gracey
.”

“Da. You know him. He would do no such thing, no matter his pain. Ya know ’tis true.”

Joseph glanced down at the letter once more. “Well, it matters not who did it. Perhaps the senior Gracey wielded his power to hurt our family. Either way, we’ve the harvest. He can’t take that from us.”

“As if we can live on the harvest alone,” Patrick spouted bitterly.

Everything whirled and spun. She could not hear these things. She could not look at their hurt, their accusation.
No. He did not do this. He did not destroy us.

Mary tossed the papers into the air and rushed from the hut, running blindly past soldiers who gathered everywhere, past neighbors who shouted ugly remarks, past collapsed dreams and guilt and the chaos of betrayal.

Then she realized that her legs had carried her through Castlewellan to Gracey Manor. Mary tiptoed to the garden. Her empty arms cried for Alec’s hug, and her lips pleaded for his mouth. She released a muffled cry. Through blurred tears, she found a tree, then curled into a tight ball. From here she could see his bedroom’s balcony. There was a low light burning. He was there; she sensed him. Almost smelled him, felt him.

Hidden within the shelter of a hollowed oak trunk, Mary curled her legs into her chest and rocked, her eyes upon the small light, her mind coaxing him to appear.

Hours—haunted, devastating, shame-filled, and agonized hours—ticked away. Now fully dark, her face drenched with tears that would not stop, he appeared. She inhaled. Her breath caught, and her heart fluttered and tripped. She stuffed her hand over her mouth to prevent calling to him.

She watched as he repeatedly drank from the glass in his hand. After a moment, he reached up and pressed his palm against the windowpane, as if to touch her.
Do you feel me here, my love?
She lifted her hand and, aligning it, imagined covering his with hers. His head dropped. He buried his face inside the crook of his arm. He was convulsing, his head rolling within the cushion of his arm, back and forth.

Was he crying?
Oh Lord. How can we survive this?

She longed to rush through his door and into his room and cling to him with every breath. But that would destroy him…her…the nation.