Some Enchanted Waltz (40 page)
“Why is it women in your land regard men with contempt?” Adrian intruded on her for the hundredth time with another odd question.
“I don’t know.” Tara murmured, re-reading the paragraph regarding Conchobar’s evil scheme.
“Are the men rakes and reprobates in your era, then, completely without honor?”
Tara closed the book sharply. “Yes.” She replied with more annoyance than she intended.
“Your father seems an honorable man.” The pair of them gazed at the snoring man across from them.
“He’s from an older generation, one that still put a great stock in principles and morality.”
“And men of your generation do not hold such ideals?”
“Some do, it’s not that simple.” Tara exhaled sharply, remembering the many dates she’d been on that led to only one thing, sex, and that was the end of it. Most men of her age didn’t want marriage; they wanted to hook up for great sex with no strings attached. She glanced at Adrian. He married her to protect her from his enemies, and to protect her reputation. He was a true gentleman, worthy of the title. “I had to come here to find a noble and worthy mate.”
Adrian looked back at her with astonishment.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to find out what happens to Deidre and Naoise.”
“The King kills him, and she throws herself on the sword as Conchobar is about to run Naoise through a second time. At least that’s one version of the legend. The other one is that he kills Naoise and his companions, and locks Deidre up in a tower where she grieved for her lover for the remainder of her days.”
“Oh--You.” Tara swatted him with the volume, bringing a huff of outrage from his lips, which woke Dan. “I didn’t want you to tell me, I wanted to read it for myself.”
“
The lions of the hill are gone, and I am left, alone--alone.”
Adrian quoted.
“Dig the grave both wide and deep, for I am sick and fain would sleep.
The falcons of the wood are flown, and I am left, alone--alone,
So dig the grave both deep and wide, and let us slumber side by side,
The dragons of the rock are sleeping, Sleep that wakes not for our weeping;
Dig the grave and make it ready; lay me on my true love’s body
.”
“That’s beautiful.” Tara whispered, moved by Adrian’s quote
“‘Tis an ancient verse, spoken by Deidre as she lay dying beside her love, there’s more. I cannot remember it all.”
Tara hugged the book to her and turned the poem over in her mind. Star-crossed lovers like Romeo and Juliet.
“She said all that.” Dan snapped, as irritable as a bear at being awakened. “As she lay dying on the beach she made up a damned poem about it all.” He frowned, looking from Adrian to Tara with annoyance. “I need a smoke.” He felt his pockets for his pipe and tobacco.
Dublin’s narrow streets wound around and across the River Liffey. The coach passed Dublin Castle and Parliament House. Weary as they were from their long journey, the sights and sounds of that historic city wooed them onward through the streets. The old Guinness Brewery was there on St. James Gate, except it wasn’t the old Guinness Brewery anymore; Arthur Guinness had purchased it less than forty years ago. He had no idea how famous his little venture would prove when Guinness Stout would be exported throughout the world in the 21st century.
The coach turned onto Merrion Square. Newly built Georgian townhouses of red brick reached four stories above them on either side. Wealth and privilege were advertised in the ornate arched entrances with glass fanlight windows above bright painted doorways flanked by white colonnades. Elegant iron scrollwork fences lined each walkway to the entrances as well as the short lawns bordering the cobblestone sidewalk all down the square. Scrolled balconies dressed the higher story windows, inviting the affluent residents to open the French glass doors and step out on the landings to enjoy the fresh spring air of the capital city.
The coachman let down the step and Adrian descended. With a smile, he helped Tara from the vehicle and gazed proudly up at his new residence in Dublin. “Quite smart, is it not? I purchased it three years ago. My steward has seen to its furnishings and hired a meager staff. I do hope it meets with your approval, Lady Dillon.”
They rode through St. Stephen’s Green after breakfast the next morning in an open carriage. Adrian took them past Trinity College on Westmoreland Square, his alma mater and then they enjoyed the open air markets. It was a lovely day of browsing and site seeing, with lunch at the Shelbourne Hotel and more shopping as the day wore on. They had a quiet dinner in the townhouse that evening. Afterward, Adrian and Tara attended the opera while Dan stayed home as opera was not to his liking.
“I must attend a meeting this morning.” Adrian announced at breakfast on the third morning of their stay in Dublin. “My sweet, if you wish to go out in the city, I insist you have a suitable escort. Take two footmen with you. Dublin’s streets are not our fair Glengarriff town.”
“I’ll take care of my girl.” Dan winked at Tara, recognizing the Feminist lecture threatening to bubble forth. “And she’ll take care of me, as you well know she can.”
Tara covered her smile with her napkin as Lord Dillon’s face colored with embarrassment. He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and took his leave.
An hour later, they were strolling down Kildare Street, past Leinster House, a stately gray stone Georgian mansion where Lord Fitzgerald’s brother, the Duke of Leinster, resided. They made their way to St. Stephen’s Green and meandered through the park. It was nearly deserted at this early hour of the morning. Most of the fashionables chose to make their appearance in the late afternoon hours. Enjoying the warm spring air, they made their way to open air markets near the River Liffey.
Unlike the stately serenity of the upper class neighborhoods, the busy marketplace carried strong undercurrents of tension. Heavy footed soldiers marched through the streets. At every corner and alleyway it seemed there was someone trying to appear inconsequential while looking about the crowds with somber, assessing eyes.
“Why do I feel like we’re being scrutinized?” Tara asked.
“Relax. Enjoy the sights. We’re in the big city.”
“Maybe I am imagining things.” Tara tried to shrug off her impression.
“Could be.” Dan answered, “Marinette was a hick town. Glengarriff is even more remote. Perhaps we’re too countrified.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself rather than Tara.
Dan spied a tobacco shop, and led Tara inside with him. He inspected pipes for a quarter of an hour and spent another ten minutes selecting a tobacco. They walked about the market district and stopped to enjoy a cup of coffee in a quaint corner shop while a morning shower passed over. They studied people and commented on the different clothing styles of merchants, servants and nobles from their table near the shop window. When the skies were clear again they set out for home.
Dan turned about from time to time as they walked, scanning the streets behind them with a grim expression on his face. Tara knew at that moment she wasn’t imagining the queer feeling of being followed and watched.
They entered the bookstore to evade the feeling of being scrutinized from every angle. While Tara pretended to browse Dan stood behind her and surveyed the streets. The proprietor of the store offered help to an aged man who wanted the works of Jonathan Swift. He found the volume for his customer and moved down the aisle where Tara and Dan stood at the window watching the Militia drill past them in the street.
“May I help you find something, Mistress, Sir?”
“Are we under siege?” Dan asked. “I’ve never seen so many blasted redcoats.”
“Aye, Sir. The March Winds are coming, soon the air will be clear.”
“We must stoke the embers, fan the flames and then the winds will come.” Tara found herself answering, recalling the strange words between Adrian and O’Brien in the library at Seafield House. It was some type of code, she was sure of it.
The thin pated man nodded, smiling benevolently as he pushed his spectacles further up on his nose. “Aye, friends. We must fan the flames, and the winds will come to spread the fire. May I suggest a book for My Lady . . .?”
“Dillon, Lady Dillon, good sir, and my father, Dan MacNeill, from America.”
That pleased the plump man even more. “Thomas Byrnes, my lady, Sir. A pleasure it is. From America, says you, were you a soldier in the Revolution, sir?”
Dan opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head. He looked pointedly at Tara and then back at the window, where a man was being dragged down the street by an armed force of English soldiers.
Byrnes stood on his tiptoes to follow Dan’s intense gaze. “Aye, ‘tis a dangerous time for those who work for freedom. He who labors must do so with caution.” He reached left, grapping book from a display,
Gulliver’s Travels
, by Jonathan Swift.
The same book he’d given the man before them.
Tara kept her face bland as the bookseller measured her reaction to his offering with sharp, assessing eyes.
As Tara followed him to the counter, the plump man deftly placed a handbill inside the pages. “May I suggest you pay special attention to page 56, my lady? May God’s grace be upon ye.”
As they left the bookstore, Dan nodded to a strange man of the same stature as himself who appeared to be wandering aimlessly in the streets. The odd man winked at various passersby and nodded, behaving in a most conspicuous manner in spite of the soldiers and spies everywhere. The gigantic man extended a huge hand to Dan, smiling broadly like the simpleton he appeared to be.
“Sam’s the name. Be on yer guard, friend. They’re on to our scent. The bloody redcoats.” He nodded again, and winked conspicuously at Dan.
“Aye, Sam.” Dan slapped him on the arm companionably and rolled his eyes at Tara as they moved away from him. “Idiot. He’ll end up in prison with that wandering wit. I hope he’s not involved in anything serious, he’s a danger to those about him.”
They arrived at the townhouse to find Adrian absent. Dan took the book from her, unwrapping it from the brown paper and leafed through the pages until he found the pamphlet the bookseller had placed inside.
A low whistle escaped his lips as he read the missive. “Good grief, Tara, we’re in a nest of revolutionaries. Dublin is about to be seized.”
“Let me see.” Tara snatched the pamphlet from his meaty hand. Dan was right, the pamphlet proclaimed that the time was ripe to seize parliament and gain control of the city. It also proclaimed that rebel forces were waiting throughout Ireland for a signal to rise up as one and free Ireland and that a force was expected to land from France to aid the rebels in the coming weeks.
“
Adrian
!” Dan and Tara whispered with one breath as their eyes met. His business in Dublin was rebellion.
Dan quickly took the pamphlet and placed it in the fireplace. Crouching on his heels, he watched it until it was consumed by flames.
Tara knew true panic. Her head was pounding. She felt weak, sick, terrified. Slowly, she sat down on the sofa, holding her temples.
“You okay, kid?” Dan turned on his heels. He’d been watching her as terror slowly coiled its icy talons about her heart. “You look pale.” He rose from the hearth and came to sit beside her on the sofa. “Can you recall what happened in Dublin in March of this year? You were studying this time period when I asked you to come help me. I think that’s what your thesis paper was about, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I’ve been trying to remember--for weeks--ever since I met first Lord Edward Fitzgerald in Cork. I
can’t
remember, Dan.” Tara gazed intently at him, terrified by what she didn’t know instead of what she did.
“I bet it’s something to do with that paper I just burned.” Dan gestured to the crackling, black page lying in the fire grate.
“All I know is this,” Tara replied. “Adrian is in the middle of it all.”
A stark grey horizon met the rolling waves of the sea shore.
A tall, lean man dressed entirely in black with a black scarf concealing his features lifted his gloved hand to the gathered throng. “To Erin’s freedom, lads!” He shouted.
“And a salute to Captain Midnight!” The gathered warriors cheered, lifting their weapons in response.
A shadow blocked out the sun. Tara looked up into the sky. Dark wings passed over her, flapping with the promise of certain death. The figure was that of a man, a Darkling Fey swooping over the crowd with malicious intent. The gathered rebels started to disperse, to flee in wake of this aerial threat. They backed away, some ducking, others running as the Dark Fey warrior feinted and dove above, trying to scatter their ranks.
Adrian’s voice could be heard above the din. He was shouting to his men, commanding them to stand their ground, remain firm in their convictions. The Fey warrior stopped in mid-air, his attention fastened to the one man resisting the fear he was trying to inspire.
