“It’s been one day since my last confession …”
Father Francis didn’t even pretend not to know who was on the other side of the confessional. “My child, what horrible sins have you committed since yesterday?” The moment he asked the question, the priest held his breath, remembering that Mariah no longer lived in the sheltered safety of the convent, but was a young woman living in a household headed by a very virile young man. An honorable young man. But a young man nonetheless with two equally virile young friends in residence.
“I impersonated the Holy Father in Rome.”
Father Francis smothered a chuckle and began to cough. If the truth were told, he always looked forward to Mariah’s visits to the confessional. Her transgressions were always minor and her confessions so entertaining. “I beg your pardon?”
“I did what only the Holy Father and the cardinals in Rome are allowed to do.” She paused. “I created a saint and a saint’s day, and I talked the household staff into going along with the lie, and worse yet, I encouraged them to lie to His Lordship, to tell him that it was tradition for the lady of the manor, along with the housekeeper and cook, to prepare food hampers for the poor.”
Unable to contain his curiosity, Father Francis asked, “What saint have you created?”
“Saint Elizabeth of Bohemia.”
Father Francis nodded. “And your reason for canonizing this new Saint Elizabeth?”
“It all started with the strawberry tarts. You see, Father, my guardian objected to my laboring in the kitchens all day.” She paused. “Did you know that ladies aren’t supposed to cook?”
“Yes, I’ve heard that,” the priest murmured.
She sighed. “Well, nobody has ever said anything to me about baking not being ladylike.” Warming to her subject, Mariah continued, “Ladies don’t cook—even if they know how—because they have cooks and kitchen staffs to do it for them, but what happens if a family should suffer a reversal of fortune and can no longer afford a kitchen staff? Who cooks the food the family eats? I’m not complaining, Father. I realize that my guardian is charged with the responsibility of schooling me in the ways of society so that I may take my place among the ladies there. But, honestly, Father, I see no harm in baking.”
“But your guardian does.”
“Yes,” she said. “He told the staff that I was not allowed to cook. But, you see, Father, I knew that unless I was allowed to bake, His Lordship, his guests, and the staff would be denied their daily bread.”
“How did you know?”
“Because Telamor Castle buys bread from the convent, and until I left the convent two nights ago, I was the head baker at the convent. And I thought it unlikely that the convent would be able to fill all of its bread orders until Sister Mary Benedict or Sister Mary Lazarus were able to take my place.”
“Ah,” Father Francis said. “So you found yourself on the horns of a moral dilemma. To go against your guardian’s wishes and bake or to honor your guardian’s wishes and allow the household to do without bread.”
“Exactly. So I created Saint Elizabeth of Bohemia and made today Saint Elizabeth’s Day. Because, you see, Father, as it turns out, charity work is one of a lady’s duties. I could bake bread to go into the food hampers for the poor and still be a lady, and if I were baking bread for charity food hampers, I might as well bake extra loaves for Lord Kilgannon’s table. For when it comes to baking bread, it’s just as easy to bake two or three dozen loaves as it is to bake one. Then I talked the staff into supporting me in the lie so His Lordship wouldn’t be angry at me for baking or at them for allowing me to.”
“So you did the wrong thing for the right reason,” Father Francis summed up the situation in one sentence.
“I’m afraid so,” Mariah admitted.
“You have been busy,” Father Francis said at last.
“Very busy,” she echoed. “And the worst of it was that not only did the staff support me in the creation of Saint Elizabeth’s Day, but they chose to add a few details to the story.”
“What kind of details?” the priest asked.
“One of the staff members, and I’ll not be saying who, suggested that it’s tradition for the master of Telamor Castle to pay annual tithes on Saint Elizabeth’s Day, and Lord Kilgannon has come to church today prepared to pay annual tithes for two titles and to distribute food hampers to the poor.”
“That’s the problem with lies,” Father Francis said in his sternest tone of voice. “Lying, even for the best reasons, is a serious offense. I’m afraid I can’t be as lenient with this list of transgressions as I was with the last one. You lied and you induced the servants to lie. And for that you must do penance.”
Mariah bowed her head. “Yes, Father. Three Hail Marys and three Our Fathers?”
Father Francis shook his head. “Since the currency of your transgression is in loaves of bread, I think it only right and just that you pray a baker’s dozen Hail Marys and a baker’s dozen Our Fathers.”
Mariah groaned, but did not complain aloud. “Yes, Father.”
“Have you any more sins to confess?”
“No, Father, but please, don’t tell Lord Kilgannon that there is no Saint Elizabeth’s Day. I don’t want him to feel as if he’s been duped.”
“But, my child, he has been duped. The master of Telamor Castle only pays half his tithes on Saint Elizabeth of Bohemia’s Day. The rest are paid on All Saints’ Day.”
“Thank you, Father!”
“You’re welcome, my child. Now, go and sin no more.”
* * *
“Father Francis, might I have a few words with you?” Kit waited until the priest said good-bye to his last parishioner—a short, rather rotund woman in a blue dress that had obviously been sewn when the woman was several stones lighter.
“Of course.” Father Francis lifted the hem of his cassock and hurried across the churchyard to where Lord Kilgannon waited on a stone bench near the walled entrance to the cemetery. He greeted the young lord with a smile, then glanced around for Mariah. “Are you alone?”
Kit nodded. “I sent Miss Shaughnessy on ahead to the castle. She has an appointment with the seamstress this afternoon, and she was so excited by the prospect of a new wardrobe that she could barely sit still during mass.” Kit looked over at the priest. “No offense, Father.”
“None taken.” Father Francis smiled. “ ’Tis a sad but true fact of life that oftentimes the most stirring of sermons pales in comparison to the excitement brought about by the purchase of a new frock.”
Kit chuckled.
“And Mariah deserves a few new dresses.” He looked over at Kit. “It will do my heart good to see her in something besides black. Buy her something in blue. There are enough of us going about dressed as ravens without forcing the innocent in our care to do the same.”
“Miss Shaughnessy and I delivered food hampers for the poor to the rectory. Your housekeeper, Mrs. Flynn, was surprised by the hampers and even more surprised to learn it was Saint Elizabeth of Bohemia’s Day.”
The priest blushed. “Yes, well, Saint Elizabeth of Bohemia is one of our lesser-known saints.”
“I’d venture to guess that she isn’t known at all, but that would only be my opinion.” He smiled at the priest. “Your housekeeper suggested I pay the tithe money I owe directly to you.” Kit pulled out a bag of heavy coins. “My father always pays in gentleman’s coin. I did likewise. I hope you don’t mind the guineas.”
“Not at all.” Father Francis pretended to be surprised. “There have been so many Saint Elizabeth’s Days since we had a master at Telamor Castle, I’d forgotten about the tradition.”
“I’m not surprised,” Kit said. “The tradition must be at least as obscure as the saint who inspired it. But all that matters is that Miss Shaughnessy remembered and reminded the staff about the food hampers. And we were fortunate that she was willing to spend the morning baking fresh loaves of bread.” He gave Father Francis a knowing look. “The tithes were For
d’s idea.” Kit offered the priest the bag of money and a place beside him on the stone bench.
“Under the circumstances, I don’t believe I can accept so large a donation.”
“Under the circumstances, I don’t believe you should refuse it.” Kit shrugged. “I have to pay my tithes, and Saint Elizabeth of Bohemia’s Day is as good a day as any. Take it. I can afford it and it’s for a good cause.”
“For the poor.” Father Francis accepted the tithes, but refused the seat on the bench. He slipped the heavy bag of coins in the pocket of his cassock.
“Yes, well, that, too.” Kit grinned. “But I was thinking more in terms of it giving Miss Shaughnessy a reason to disobey my instructions and bake.”
Father Francis raised an eyebrow in query.
“The scent of freshly baked bread lingers in her hair.”
“You noticed?”
“I never knew the smell of freshly baked bread could be so enticing.”
Father Francis gave Kit a mighty frown. “I don’t sell indulgences for past, present, or future sins.” He patted his pocket, making the heavy coins clink together.
“That’s good to know,” Kit answered. “Because I’m not in the market for them.”
“As long as we understand each other,” the priest said. “Because Mariah is … I’ve known her most of her life, and Mariah is special …”
“You said you attended her mother …”
Father Francis sighed. “I suppose it would be more correct to say that the good sisters at St. Agnes’s attended her. But I heard her last confession and administered last rites.”
“Was she ill a long time?”
Father Francis scanned the churchyard, then stood up. “Why don’t we walk as we talk?”
Kit stood up and the two of them began a stroll through the graveyard.
“Mariah’s mother wasn’t ill,” the priest announced when he and Kit were well out of earshot of the handful of people paying tribute to their loved ones buried in the cemetery. “She was found on the rocks below the ruins of the old tower.”
Kit shuddered at the thought. “What happened? Did she trip on the path and fall to her death?” He recalled the narrow path running parallel to the beach above the cliffs. It was slippery in places, but Kit didn’t remember it as being particularly treacherous.
“That’s what the people of Inismorn think, but Lady Siobhan didn’t stumble on the path and fall to her death. She was pushed.”
“Are you certain she was pushed?”
“In order to land upon the rocks, she had to be pushed from the path or from the tower,” Father Francis said. “If she had slipped on the path, she could have easily saved herself. It’s relatively simple to climb down from the path to the beach and back up again. There are dozens of hand and footholds.”
“It is possible that she jumped?”
“Never!” Father Francis was adamant. “She was in tremendous pain when we got to her, drifting in and out of consciousness, but she said she was pushed and I believed her. Lady Siobhan would never have willingly abandoned Mariah.” He shook his head at the memory of that horrible day. “No, Lady Siobhan was murdered. But, of course, the sisters at the convent and I are the only ones who know it. And Mariah.”
“Mariah?” Kit recoiled at the thought.
“Aye. She doesn’t remember it, of course. But she saw what happened. Mariah had just started as a day student at St. Agnes’s, and every day her mother would walk her to the convent for her lessons, then meet her when they ended. On that day the sister released her from lessons earlier than usual. Mariah waited for her mother for a while, then started home alone. It was spring and clumps of wildflowers were growing along the path. Mariah apparently busied herself along the way by stopping to pick flowers for her mother. But she reached the top of the path at the foot of the ruins in time to see her mother shoved to her death. She couldn’t tell us who it was. Nor could she describe him …”
“It was a man?”
The priest nodded. “Both Lady Siobhan and Mariah referred to a man. They said he pushed her. But Mariah couldn’t say who it was. Poor babe. She was only five at the time. It broke my heart the way she babbled about the bluebells she’d picked while she cried for her mother and for her da.”
“Mariah saw him?”
“Yes. Of course, the sisters and I are the only ones who know that. Even Mariah has forgotten. Thank God.” He paused in their walk to lean down and replace a bouquet of roses that had blown off a nearby grave. “She used to cry in her sleep and suffer terrible nightmares. The sisters said she woke up at night screaming for her mother and her father. But that passed with time, and she appears to have no memory of it.”
“Did you ever discover why someone wanted Lady Siobhan dead badly enough to kill her?”
“No,” the priest answered. “There was nothing unusual in her will. It was essentially the same as the one her husband left. In his will, Declan Shaughnessy left everything to his wife, Siobhan, in trust for Mariah. Lady Siobhan sold their house in London, and she and Mariah returned to Ireland, where, according to the old earl’s instructions, they were able to live off a comfortable income at Telamor while the bulk of the fortune remained in trust. And if anything happened to Lady Siobhan, Mariah became the earl of Kilgannon’s ward.”
“So why didn’t Mariah grow up at the castle instead of the convent?”
“The old earl was dead, and as far as anyone knew the title was dormant. Martin Bell, your father, Ford, and I were the only people privy to the fact that you had inherited.”
“What about Lady Siobhan?”
“At the time of the old earl’s death, Lady Siobhan was happily married and living in London, but Lord Kilgannon left instructions with Ford and with me, informing us that should Lady Siobhan ever wish to return to Ireland, she should be allowed to reside at Telamor if she desired to do so until you reached your majority. After that, the decision was up to you, although he asked that we try to persuade you to allow it if you were opposed to the idea. I wrote to Mr. Bell and to your father to tell them of the late earl’s request …”
“You mean my father, Andrew Ramsey, the sixteenth marquess?”
“No,” Father Francis said. “I mean the fifteenth one. George Ramsey.”
Kit glanced down at the ground. He knew George Ramsey, the fifteenth marquess of Templeston, was his sire. His and Drew’s. But the fact remained that Kit hated hearing it spoken aloud. He hated to think that his mother and the fifteenth marquess had ever been intimate. And suddenly he wondered how Drew felt about it …
Father Francis realized suddenly that Kit’s interruption had nothing to do with a clarification of which marquess was which, and everything to do with the fact that the young Lord Kilgannon didn’t want to acknowledge George Ramsey as his father. He waited for Kit to respond, and when he didn’t, the priest resumed his story. “Martin Bell and I met to discuss the old earl’s instructions, and of course, George agreed to the request. As I said before, George was always a chivalrous sort of fellow. He would not—could not—refuse to help a lady in need.”
“Did Mariah’s mother know I was to inherit?”
“No. Only Ford, Mr. Bell, George, and I knew that.”
“There must have been something her killer wanted, something he was willing to kill for,” Kit mused. “But what?” He turned to the priest. “You and the sisters at St. Agnes’s aren’t the only ones who know that Lady Siobhan Shaughnessy was murdered.”
“That’s true,” Father Francis said. “Mariah knows. But she has no memory of it.”
“There is one other person besides Mariah who knows,” Kit replied.
“Who?” The priest asked.
“The man who shoved Lady Siobhan off the path and onto the rocks.”
Father Francis’s eyes widened in shock. Gasping for breath, he clutched at his heart and grabbed a handful of fabric. For a moment Kit feared the priest had suffered an apoplectic seizure.
“Holy Mary, Mot
her of God,” Father Francis whispered, not as a curse, but as a profound prayer. “I never considered that. Do you think … Surely, he’s long gone …” He frowned.
Kit shrugged his shoulders. “It depends on what he wanted and whether or not he got it.”
“I pray God that he did.”
“So do I.” Kit found the idea of a serpent in his newly found Eden most unsettling, and the idea of that serpent striking out at Mariah Shaughnessy was too terrible to contemplate. He had promised her a London season, and he’d promised to teach her the things she’d need to know in order to succeed. The last thing Kit needed was to inadvertently invite an unknown killer into their midst. “How did Lady Siobhan come to be the late earl’s ward? Did she have any family or friends other than my mother?”
“No family,” Father Francis answered. “She was orphaned quite young when a fire swept through a hotel in which her parents, her younger brothers and sisters, and their retinue of nurses and governess were staying while traveling on the Continent. In the Black Forest of Germany, I believe it was. Lady Siobhan was spared because she was here at school at St. Agnes. Knowing that she and your mother were already inseparable, Lord Kilgannon took her in and became her legal guardian. She became his other daughter,” Father Francis answered. “She grew up, married, went to live in London, was widowed, and returned to Ireland.”
“What about friends? Acquaintances?” Kit asked.
“Oh, there were lots of friends and acquaintances,” the priest told him. “Here and in London.”
Kit groaned. “Anyone special? Anyone suspicious? Anyone who visited her at the castle, then disappeared after her death?”
The priest heaved a frustrated sigh. “Everyone stopped visiting after her death. Except for an occasional visit by the bishop and the archbishop in Dublin, and the visit you and your family made to Ireland when you were a boy, the castle was closed to all but me and the staff that remained as caretakers.”
“There has to be some connection. Some reason for an otherwise senseless death.” Kit frowned, wondering if he should broach the subject of his past.