sending?"
"No, no. I was just trying to psych myself into being able to maneuver this business deal. I am not really the cutthroat type in business or anyplace else for that matter. You know what I mean. I have to do a little posturing to myself. It honestly makes me feel uncomfortable, but I have to do it for the overall good." "You do well enough." "Maura, please. May I see you again?" She closed her eyes and leaned against the kitchen doorway. "There's really no point. I can't imagine you and I having any sort of relationship, not after that memo. And as for the company, well, I've decided to
keep it."
There was a long pause on the other end, then what sounded like a pen tapping on a desk. "Fine. You certainly have a right." The tapping stopped. "But once it goes into bankruptcy, which it should in a matter of months, if not sooner, I will be able to pick it up at a much lower price." "It will not go into bankruptcy." "It won't, eh?" A new edge came to his voice. "I suppose you'll use the same magical touch you've used on your company in the States. Have you notified your employees yet that the company can only stagger on for a month or so before you're going to have to cut jobs?" "How . . . Who . . ." "I made it my business to learn as much as possible
about you."
"And of course you are not cutthroat." Although she'd thought about it, especially with Donal, she couldn't recall ever hanging up on someone, slamming down the phone in midsentence without at least saying good-bye. But this time she did. The receiver hit the cradle with such force, her hand stung with the vibration.
Hanging up on Donal Byrne did not make her feel any better, did not give her any sense of triumph or satisfaction. Instead, it made her feel worse than before.
Somehow, in the back of her mind, she had thought they might become friends. The mishap with the memo aside, they had shared a fabulous evening. More than just a fabulous evening, they seemed to have shared something else, something special, although she wasn't exactly sure what. Maybe it was nothing more than a mutual interest in the factory. Maybe it was just the normal tension between a man and woman. Yet it had seemed deeper, somehow more potent than those everyday explanations
It was a nasty memo, but if he had written it the previous week, his explanation made some sense. For a brief moment she thought perhaps they could recapture the warmth of some of the quiet moments they had shared the evening before.
But she knew, with bitter certainty, that she had been wrong. He was just like Roger. Never ever could she be friends with Donal Byrne.
The ghost appeared again just at dusk.
Maura was slumped on the least uncomfortable couch, a half-finished cup of tea and the real estate sections of the Irish Times and the Independent spread out before her. Her reading glasses were forgotten on top of her head.
"I need your help," he snapped without preamble. "Sure." She moved the newspapers into a stack, with a legal pad on top to cover the copy. Of course he wouldn't realize the meaning of the sections or of the estate agents she had circled to call. Yet she did not want him to know she was planning to sell the house. He moved about with large, sure strides, devouring the space with every movement. "There is much amiss." "That's an understatement." "I fear I will not be able to rest until I know what
occurred."
Maura glanced up at him. He seemed to glow, almost as if his entire being was incandescent, as if he were pure energy. A breeze rustled the papers as he
paced nearby.
"I have a question to ask you." She put down the pen. "You want me to help you, and I will. Of course I will. But do you really want to rest?"
"And I cannot discover what occurred . . . Pardon me?" He stopped midstride.
"I asked you if you really want to rest." She took a swallow of cold tea. "You just don't seem like the
resting type." "That's absurd." He ran a hand through his hair,
loosening it from the tie. "How do you feel? I mean, this restlessness. Is it
uncomfortable in any way?" "It is bothersome, like an aching tooth. It needs
attention." "Yes, but will it make any difference? I mean, what
can you do from your side? The past is the past. I don't understand how finding out the ugly details will help you at this point in your life, eh. Well, whatever this is—at this point in your existence." "Are you going to quarrel with me at every turn?" "I hadn't thought about it. Probably." "Damn." For the first time he seemed to relax. "Is I that a chair?" He pointed to one of the more unfortunate examples of postwar furniture, an enormous, . battered lounger that had at one time reclined. Now it I simply squatted in its brown tweed cloak, as if shabbily confident of its rightful place.
Maura frowned. "Of course it's a chair. Granted, it may not be the most attractive bit of furniture, but it's still a chair."
"Forgive me. I have been unable to distinguish objects from my time to yours. They have blended together, a jumble of sorts."
"Can you still see stuff from your time as well?"
"Not well. They seem to be pale outlines, like shadows in the daylight, not dark enough to discern. Whoa..."
"Watch out! That's a recliner."
The chair performed for the first time since perhaps the days of Sputnik, the bottom panel glided out, bumping him into the seat. Simultaneously the back fell away, propelling him into the uncertain middle, cradled with his legs over one side and his arms flaying.
"Good God! Am I being devoured?" Maura jumped up and pressed the old wooden handle on the chair forward. "Here." She grinned, and just as quickly, she stopped smiling. "Thank you. This is quite comfortable, indeed. What is ... Maura? Is there something wrong?"
"You moved the chair, Fitz."
A stillness settled over the room, a calm tension as they simply stared at each other.
"Impossible." His lips formed the word, no sound seemed to escape.
She reached out her hand to touch him.
"No. No, do not!"
Immediately she withdrew her hand.
His voice softened. "I apologize. It is simply that— should my"—his hand clenched into a fist—"should my flesh, such as it be, prove to be unpleasant, I should not wish to offend."
She wanted to reassure him, but he was a man of enormous pride. No words could possibly change his belief. "Oh, Fitz." "Oh, Maura." At last the smile returned. "So you
will assist me in my efforts?"
"I really don't know what I can do."
"Is there a place where you can procure old newspapers, books? If Marsh's Library is still in existence, they might be of help. Anything that might assist me in reconstructing what happened at the end, anything at all, would be most appreciated."
"I hate to sound like a broken record, but—"
"A broken what?"
"Sorry. I hate to repeat myself, but what good will this do? It's not as if we can go back and punish the guilty party, or parties. It seems already that your friend Patrick did this to you, and that your younger brother came to the rescue and married Kitty."
"Please. Please—I am not good at begging. If you are too engaged in other affairs, I will most certainly understand and try to discover the truth myself. If not, could you assist me?"
This is not normal, she thought, watching his features. Instead of dealing with reality, with the very real issues pressing on her, it was all too easy to become entangled with Fitz and his long-vanished world. Still, he had become a friend and an important one. The truly unusual thing about his request for help was that she knew he was not the sort of man to have ever required much assistance from anyone about anything. That alone made his plea impossible to refuse.
"Of course," she said at last. "I'll be more than glad to help you."
"Thank you. Then I shall leave you." He rose from the chair with only slight difficulty. "Is this meant for comfort?"
"Yep. All you need is a wide-screen television and you'd be set."
His expression was blank. "I do not believe I wish to know what your meaning is. No good can possibly come o
f it."
"You're right." She looked at her watch. "It's just after six—I'll bet the library is still open. I'll check out whatever I can on you."
"I appreciate that."
Before she could respond, he was gone.
The library at Trinity College was open, filled with students looking tired, intelligent, and panicked. It was too late for her to find another library or Marsh's, and this one was the nearest to her home. She was just curious if there were some books on Fitz, if not, perhaps he would be mentioned in a general history book on ascendancy Ireland.
The atmosphere, with the milling students speaking in hushed voices about upcoming exams and papers due, was enough to give Maura a math anxiety attack, so she headed directly to the biography section.
There were no less than five biographies of Fitzwilliam Connolly, the oldest with a publication date of 1873, the most recent was from only a few years earlier. She wasn't able to check the books out, since she did not yet have a library card, so she took all five back to a desk and began to page through them.
After scanning them, it was obvious that the best of the lot was a book by an author named B. D. Finn. Maura was initially drawn to this particular volume because of a caption next to that loathsome portrait from the National Gallery. It read: "Posthumous portrait of Fitzwilliam Connolly, painted the year after his death. That simple fact may account for his sour expression and perhaps the uncharacteristically foppish choice of attire. From contemporary accounts, Connolly never wore brocade or satin, and, indeed, never sat still long enough for a portrait."
Maura laughed out loud—the author expressed exactly what she herself had known. She turned to the copyright page and discovered the biography had been published in 1976, well over two centuries past the time the writer could have known Fitz.
An odd thought crossed her mind—could Fitz have visited this author the same way he had visited Maura?
"Ridiculous," she muttered into the pages. A student who had just pulled up a chair at the same desk grinned in agreement before returning to her own work.
But the further Maura read, the more certainly she felt that this book was an accurate assessment of his life and, more significant to Fitz himself, of his death. And with each page, her sense of acute embarrassment grew. As an American, and an ignorant one at that, she'd had no notion of his importance not only within his own circle of friends but within the vast scope of the eighteenth century in general.
It wasn't simply his political views that set him apart from his peers. There were many liberal-minded men in the years leading up to the American Revolution. Fitz, however, had been a man of wealth, born to privilege as few were in those days or after. And rather than espouse his opinions, which included a complete repeal of the Catholic Penal Laws, which stripped the vast majority of Irishmen of their rights as both men and human beings, Fitzwilliam Connolly worked quietly from within the buffered, refined circle of the ascendancy. He attended the Rotunda balls, the hunts, the gaming tables on occasion, yet all along he was undermining the very foundation of the society that had given him wealth and position.
It was only after his sensational murder that his true character became generally known.
Before that, Fitzwilliam Connolly was considered one of the most important figures in Dublin society as well as in Dublin business. The two were rarely meshed—success in both arenas. Acceptance in one was usually a grudging result of mastery of the other, and merchant hands were considered base and too soiled to hold in refined society.
Connolly, however, was the eldest son of an established peer. His father had left him a fortune in estate holdings, horse flesh, artwork, a shipping concern, and that rarest of all commodities, cash. He was also given his father's title, which he used only when necessary to avoid a scene.
"He was a marquess?" She hadn't meant to say the words out loud, it was simply that Maura had never met someone with a title.
The lights flashed in the library, a signal that it would close soon. Reluctantly, she flipped to the back of the book, to the end of his life. A heavy, unsettled feeling weighed on her chest, as if simply reading the words would cause him to relive the pain.
"Are you researching the evolution of the wee people or perhaps the origin of the tourist?"
Maura jumped and looked up to see Donal Byrne staring at her with his strange, beautiful eyes.
"I... neither, if you absolutely must know." With a theatrical thud she slammed the book closed, causing a cluster of students to jump, pens to be tossed reflexively in the air, and more than one startled cry of "Jaysus!"
"Sorry," she whispered to the assemblage, then she looked back at Donal. "What are you doing here?"
He shrugged. "I like libraries, the people, the smell of the books, the quiet." He craned his neck to read the title. "So you're reading the biographies of your illustrious forebear. This one's the best of the lot." He pointed to the book she had been reading.
"I'm sure the author would be delighted to know that you approve. Now if you don't mind . . ."
"She was my mother," he blurted, then seemed to stiffen.
"Your mother?" She looked again at the book. "It says here the author is B. D. Finn."
"She used her initials and maiden name. See?" He turned the book to the back flap, where there was a black-and-white photograph of a lovely woman with dark windblown hair and the overly large collars of the mid-seventies. The copy said the author lived in the rural west of Ireland with her husband and young son. "I am the young son," he said so softly she could barely hear him.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Maura continued to look at the picture and could indeed see a strong resemblance. Without color, she couldn't be sure if his mother had the same eyes, but even in black and white they were striking, almost haunting.
"I didn't really get a chance to tell you. We're not on speaking terms, remember?"
"Ha ha." She smiled but did not look up at him. Instead she looked at the photograph of his mother, and out of the corner of her eyes she saw his leg, now leaning against the table. She could almost feel the warmth from him, he was so very close. "I'd love to meet her. I mean, she knows so much about Fitz, it would be incredible to actually discuss him with her. Does she ever come to Dublin?"
"She used to." A faint smile traced his lips as he stared at the picture of his mother. "When I was at university, she used to come here often, sometimes just to watch a hurling match of mine, other times she would come to my dorm room unannounced. The funny thing is, none of the other fellows minded. Other mothers used to send us fleeing to the nearest pub just to escape. But with my own mam, well, she would more than likely take us to a pub."
"She sounds great. Will she be coming to town anytime soon?"
He blinked at her, as if confused, then shook his head. "She died a while ago."
Instinctively, she reached out and touched his wrist. "I'm so sorry. I really didn't know."
"I know you didn't," he said softly, his gaze slowly shifting to her hand.
"If you ever want to talk . . ." Then she stopped. What was she doing? He clearly wanted no comfort
from her.
He stood up before she could say anything else. "Good evening, Maura." He did not look back as he walked away.
It was probably for the best, she mused glancing down again at the photograph of his mother. They had nothing to say to each other, nothing at all. It was probably all for the best.
"Bastard, bastard," he mumbled to himself as he crossed the Trinity College courtyard. A few people turned to stare, but the sight of a young man mumbling to himself during final exams was all too common on the campus.
She had offered to talk to him about his mother. Maura, who had only just then learned that he, too,
had lost parents recently, reached out to offer her warmth.
All along he had known that her own father had died a death every bit as slow and painful as his mother's. Yet even in their more extensive conversations, he never once mentione
d the fact or offered the most basic of condolences. He should have, he knew that even as he avoided the subject. Any human being with an ounce of integrity would have offered some sort of compassion.
He felt himself becoming more detached than ever from the rest of the world. Lack of sleep, perhaps. Or the unsettled state of his business affairs. Whatever the reason, he was uncomfortably aware that his behavior was not as it should be, that his actions did not reflect his feelings or his intentions. Instead of being kind, he was cruel. Rather than exercising patience he was intolerant and demanding.
What the hell kind of person had he become?
"Bastard, bastard," he repeated. This time no one gave him a second glance. chapter 9
Maura was relieved, and a bit disappointed, that Fitz didn't come during the night. She had stayed awake, puttering about the bedroom, stifling her yawns behind her hand, waiting for him to appear. The absurdity of the situation struck her just before she gave up and finally decided to go to sleep. After all, she was a grown woman, a businesswoman at that, with the responsibility of two companies in her control. Yet here she was in her nightgown waiting for a
ghost.
By the time she had given up and turned off the lights, she was exhausted and feeling more than a little foolish.
Pulling the covers up under her chin, she closed her eyes and thought about what she would do the next day. There was no use waiting. It was time to contact I a real estate agent. The sooner she could secure a buyer for the town house, the sooner she could begin
the alterations on the factory and pay off Finnegan's creditors.
Not seeing Fitz made the decision easier.
But, as she began to drift off to sleep, she did not see him appear in the corner of the room. He made no sound, no rustling, no movement at all. Instead he simply watched her, a faltering smile on his face.
"Good night, Maura."
Almost asleep, she murmured something and rolled over to her side, punching a pillow beneath her head.
"Good night," he repeated.