Slowly a somber cloud seemed to descend over the factory, and they whispered to each other and shook their heads as they relit pipes and returned to work or
tea.
"No, honestly. That was a very funny joke." But they didn't really believe her.
Jimmy O'Neil gave her a disappointed shrug, then suddenly he glanced just over her shoulder and his face brightened.
"Dotha misser blothdea!"
She knew better than to hesitate for an instant. "I know! Isn't that a riot!"
Without missing a beat, she clapped her hands and began laughing, bending forward and hoping that she looked convincing.
It took a while for her to realize she was laughing alone—the deafening sounds she was making by herself drowned out any other noise. She stopped and cleared her throat, a few giggles still coming out.
Someone was behind her. "Well, I'm certainly glad the announcement of my arrival has put you into such a good mood."
She spun around and was face-to-face with Donal Byrne.
He continued. "After our last conversation, I wasn't quite sure how you would react to seeing me." Jimmy said something and Donal gave Maura a look of surprise. "You must be joking," he said at last. Jimmy shook his head, shrugged at Maura, and left to finish his tea. "What did he say?"
A slow smile spread over Donal's face, a face she couldn't help but notice was absolutely wonderful in the natural afternoon light.
"You haven't the slightest clue as to what old Jimmy is saying, do you?" "Not the foggiest. What did he say?" "The less you know about that unfortunate joke, the better." He was wearing a pinstripe suit, a look she always thought was rather stuffy, but it seemed to work on him. He shifted, his own eyes perusing her, and she fervently wished she hadn't worn such a classically mannish outfit. "Oh," she said uncomfortably. "Did you get the book?"
"I meant to tell you, yes, thank you. That was incredibly generous of you." She lowered her voice. "I really can't accept. It's far too precious a gift."
"No. She would have wanted someone with an interest in Connolly to have it." He glanced up and waved at an employee who called his name. "But, Donal, it's inscribed to you. I can't accept your only copy, not one that your mother meant for you alone."
"Nah, it's fine." He looked directly into her eyes. "I have boxes of books at home." "Why?"
"She kept them for when she had book signings. Unfortunately, there never seemed to be the great demand we had all hoped for, although in scholarly circles she was quite the celebrity for a few months, at least until someone else came out with an interesting biography. I have my very own copy. Not to worry." She simply watched him, the light reflecting off his hair and causing his eyes to turn into an extraordinary shade of deep blue. There was just something so fresh and real about him, so very vibrant. And then a thought occurred to her. "Hey, what are you doing here?" He pointed to himself. "Me?" "Yes, you."
"You seem to be quizzing me a great deal lately concerning my right to be in Dublin locations. If you will please remember, you are the visitor, and I am the native son."
She ignored his answer. "Does this have something to do with your takeover attempt? It won't work, you know. I was going to discuss some of my plans with Jimmy O'Neil, just to see how he felt about the
changes."
His eyebrows raised just slightly. "But you don't understand a word that he says. How on earth do you intend to work with a man you can't understand?"
"Well," she began. He grinned, and she was unable to stop from returning the smile. "The language barrier between Jimmy O'Neil and myself is the very least of my concerns."
It felt good to hear Donal laugh, to see the way his entire face seemed to light up from within.
"So tell me," she prodded. "What are you doing here?"
"Well." He began to reach for her hand but stopped short and shoved his hands into his pockets. "I just thought I would come by and see if you would care for some lunch."
"It's past three-thirty."
"Well, then. How about a very early dinner?"
"How did you know I would be here?"
"I telephoned your house, and when there was no answer, I took a wild guess. My office isn't far from here. Shall we go, then?"
He crooked his arm in her direction, hands still in the jacket pockets. With only slight hesitation, she accepted the arm.
"You know, I don't believe you," she muttered as they left. "And after lunch I have to come back to see about the changes."
"Best do that tomorrow. They'll close up early today."
"Why is that? Kermit is keeping everyone entertained, so there's no reason to leave."
"Because it's such fine weather." He paused, his tone more serious. "The bottom line is that there isn't enough for them to do. There just aren't the orders they would need to work through the day."
There was no use arguing. "I still want to know why you are here, Donal." "For a meal. I owe you something posh after
Nino's." "I loved Nino's!" She hadn't meant to exclaim, but
he just smiled.
"I was afraid of that." He looped her purse more firmly about her shoulder, and they left.
"I believe there is romance in the air," someone said from a back room.
"How right you are, Jimmy. How right you au
indeed!"
Then another man added. "It's a good job she left before the Germans got here. What time are they to
arrive?"
"About half four, I believe. Donal has a government man to show them about, so it won't matter if he's not here."
The only word Maura could come up with to describe the restaurant was the same one Donal had used: posh. From the moment they entered the small stone building, when she battled an instinctive urge to genuflect, she spoke in a hushed whisper.
The place looked as if it had been stripped from the pages of Architectural Digest, with majestic windows and gleaming crystal vases on each table blinding her, every noise muffled by the rich carpets. The ceiling was beamed with what seemed to be ancient wood. The overall effect was one of modern lines blending in perfect harmony with classic details.
She also knew this would be a very expensive meal. Not knowing who would pay the bill—after all, his track record indicated a distinct ability to allow the
guest to pay—Maura decided that no matter what luxuries were available or what out-of-season delicacy awaited her command, a simple bowl of soup sounded just perfect.
Donal, however, felt more than comfortable.
"Is Kevin here today?" he asked as the host greeted them.
"I'm afraid not, Mr. Byrne." The host was an elderly gentleman who seemed to treat his position with great solemnity. Every word was spoken with the precision of an accomplished curate. "He has gone to cheer on his cousin at the Wicklow Sheep Shearing Festival."
"Is it that time already?"
"It is indeed, Mr. Byrne. And I hear the Kennedys from Galway have brought their cousins from Australia to compete. It should be brilliant."
"Not the same Kennedys with the sister who ..."
The host's voice overlapped. "The very ones, sir."
"That should liven things up a bit." Donal then turned to Maura. "Excuse me. Maura Finnegan, this is Dermot Hayes, the best restaurant host in Dublin. In all of Ireland, for that matter."
The man flushed with pleasure, the tips of his ears reddening, before modestly denying the claim. Then his thoughts turned to business.
"I'm afraid we are between seatings, Mr. Byrne But I daresay Hans will scare up something for you."
"That would be grand, Dermot."
They were ushered to a large table by a window, and much to her delight, she discovered the view was of an old wooden mill with a rocky stream propelling the paddles. She was so entranced with the scene that she was only vaguely aware he had ordered wine. "No. I can't," she hissed the moment Dermot left. "And why ever not?" His face held all the innocence of a choirboy. That illusion, more than the wine itself, alarm
ed Maura.
"Because I have work to do. Stuff that needs to get done. Telephone calls to make."
"And the weight of the world is on your shoulders. Let it rest a while, Maura. It's late afternoon, it's Friday, and anyone you'll call will not be in. Now, what are you in the mood for? More prawns, perhaps?"
"No. just some soup." "Soup? Is that all?"
"A bowl of soup," she said. Dermot had returned with a bottle of white wine, so chilled the glass was dotted with beads of condensation after the ceremonial pouring. Donal took a sip and smiled.
"Tell me all you want is a bowl of soup when you taste this," he urged. Reluctantly, she took a small sip. It was the best wine she had ever tasted. In fact, it was the best liquid of any sort she had ever tasted. "Oh."
"I believe she likes it, Dermot." "I believe your assessment is correct, Mr. Byrne." When Dermot left, Maura felt an uncomfortable quiet settle over the table.
"So I guess this is an old mill," she said after taking another sip of wine.
"It is. It was owned by a family with a singularly odd name for their chosen profession. Here, have some more."
"This is wonderful. What was their name?"
"Miller."
It took her a moment to respond, and then she began to laugh. "I wonder what came first, the profession or the name."
"A chicken or egg proposition, if you ask me." He tilted his head. "Do you ever wonder about names? My own, for example. Now I've often wondered if someone in my family had their ambitions thwarted because of the name."
"I don't understand."
"For example, I have a little-known talent."
"I'm not sure if I want to hear this."
"I bake bread."
The swallow of wine almost choked her. "Excuse me?"
"I'm serious. My mother made sure that I knew how to make soda bread. It was a point with her—she always wanted to make sure that if I had a pound of flour and a cup of buttermilk, I would not go hungry."
"Did it help?"
"It did. There were times when I first moved to Munich that I could barely afford the flour and milk, but I did have bread. And then, later on, the bread became a thing of comfort for me. No matter how cold or lonely I felt, the smell of the soda bread brought me right back home."
As he continued he refilled her glass. "So I've always wanted to be a baker. Now that's a secret, and I would appreciate it if you would treat it as such. But who would hire a baker with a last name of Byrne?"
"I once knew a veterinarian named Dr. Yelp."
"A banker friend of mine is named Swindler," he laughed. "And a fellow I know from university is a psychiatrist. How would you feel about telling your most private thoughts to a Dr. Frankie Strange?"
Dermot magically appeared at the table. "Hans has some lovely dishes, if you're ready to hear them."
"No, thank you. Just a bowl of soup, please." All she would have is soup. Nothing else.
"Could you give us a few minutes, Dermot?"
The host bowed and left, leaving a basket of bread on the table.
"Hey," she said before he could speak. "Do you know anything about how Fitz died?"
"Who on earth is Fitz?"
"You know, Fitzwilliam Connolly."
"You call him Fitz? I suppose as a distant relation you are granted intimacy." He smiled. "I... well, let me see. It's been a while since I've read about him, but as I recall, he was murdered by his good friend Patrick Kildare, who was in turn lynched by a mob of Whiteboys."
"Whiteboys?"
"They were a gang of young men. At first they caused mischief in the name of the Catholic cause, Nothing terribly serious, tearing down fences to allow their livestock to graze, minor vandalism of tithe collectors' property. They disappeared for a while, then reemerged with a more vicious bent."
"Why were they called the Whiteboys?"
"Because although they blackened their faces to escape recognition, they wore white smocks and feathers in their hats. The feathers were supposed to be a tribute to the Wild Geese."
"Who were they?"
"They were the Irishmen who fled their native land because of the Protestant oppression. The penal laws prohibited the Catholics from military service in the British Army, so the Wild Geese went to Europe, mostly France, where they became brilliant officers, absolutely brilliant. Even back then it was difficult for an Irishman to make a living in his own country."
At that he grasped the bottle of wine and poured a bit more into her glass, then dumped the rest into his. "Dermot, may we have another bottle?"
"Wait, Donal. I don't think this is a good idea."
"I think it's a brilliant idea."
There was no use arguing with him, she realized. When the wine came, he held the bottle over her glass until she moved her hand.
"The Whiteboys murdered Patrick Kildare because Kildare murdered Fitzwilliam Connolly." Donal wasn't looking her directly in the eyes. Instead he looked at his hands, the rim of the wineglass, the prongs on a fork.
"How did they know that it was Patrick Kildare?"
"Because Andrew Connolly saw the murder."
She gasped, and that sound brought his eyes to hers. "How old was he?"
"I believe he had not yet turned twenty."
"My God. Can you imagine what that must have done to his mind?" She thought of herself at nineteen, how sheltered she had been at that age, so sheltered she hadn't even realized it. What a different person she would be today had she witnessed a murder. It was the sort of thing that would change a person forever. Poor Andrew.
"Was he sure it was Patrick Kildare?" Donal nodded. "Absolutely. And even if there had been any doubt, there were papers to prove his intent. Andrew himself found them, evidence so damning that it removed every question. They've been lost, of course, but they were seen by Andrew, and he told others of their content."
"How depressing. So then he married Kitty?"
Finally Donal smiled. "You are on intimate terms, are you not? Kitty. Her name was Katherine Bur-bridge, the only daughter of Sir Garrett Burbridge. She was known as a beauty and a wit and an accomplished artist, as well. And, of course, she had been the intended bride of Fitzwilliam."
"That's one bit I knew about. They had been planning a big wedding. But that's about all I know about her. Do you know anything else? I mean, what her personality was like. I don't even think I've seen a picture of her."
"There's one in my mother's book."
"Really? There must be a section I missed. I thought I saw all of the illustrations." The moment she got home she was going to look for the picture of Kitty. She must have been beautiful, one of those delicate Gainsborough types draped in lavish folds of rich blues and greens and reds, her bare white shoulder rouged, perhaps a single gold or amber or sable tendril curled against her long neck. She must have been beautiful. "And I suppose Andrew and Kitty had children."
"No. Actually, Katherine died the following year."
"I didn't know that. My God, I didn't know that she died so soon." Why wasn't she with Fitz now?
Had she truly fallen in love with young Andrew? Another thought crossed her mind. "She died the same year she painted the portrait of Fitz."
"I suppose so."
"Do you remember any details of what she was like? Or how she died?"
"Who? Katherine?"
"Of course I mean Katherine. How old was she when she died?"
"I believe she was of an age with Andrew, perhaps a few years older."
"That's what he said."
"That's what who said?"
She was still wondering about Fitz and his Kitty, how he loved her. "That's what Fitz told me. He couldn't believe she would marry Andrew after they used to tease him so much ..."
Her words trailed off as she realized what she had just said. Donal was watching her, his expression unreadable.
"Go on."
"No. Nothing." She took a large gulp of wine. "What I meant is that in the books I've read about him, that's p
robably what he would have thought. After all, Patrick was supposed to watch after Kitty should anything happen to him."
"I've never heard that. Where did you read that about Patrick Kildare?"
"I don't remember."
"It certainly wasn't in my mother's book."
"No, I don't think it was. Maybe I made it up or got it mixed up with another story." Dermot was again at the table. "May I suggest some supper?" His expert gaze rested on the nearly empty second bottle of wine.
"Whatever you suggest." Whether he was speaking to Dermot or Maura, she could not be sure. Yet his eyes were decidedly fixed on Maura, on her face, steady and unwavering.
A warmth seemed to rush through her, and she had a vague sense of her face flushing from the wine or the length of the day or, more likely, Donal. It was Donal who caused the flush and the pleasant discomfort and the breathlessness.
"Let's go," she said.
Donal did not respond at first.
"I want to go," she repeated, heedless of the sharp intake of breath from the host.
"Dermot," Donal said, not looking up. "May we please have the check?"
"There is no charge, Mr. Byrne. You've given us much business, with your friends in town and ...'
"Thank you, Dermot. Thank you very much."
The drive back to Merrion Square took both a moment and an eternity. In what seemed a few seconds they were back at her home, a blur, a hazy moment. She fumbled with the keys, and they did not speak. There was no need for words.
A warmth radiated from him in the cold marble of her front hallway. For long seconds they simply stood, bodies not touching yet somehow feeling every inch of each other. He reached up and traced her cheek, tenderly, with such gentleness she closed her eyes, unable to watch the emotions shift and deepen on his exquisite face.
Did he whisper her name?
Her hands touched the fabric of his jacket, hesitantly at first, then more boldly she caressed his upper arms and slid to his shoulders. With one move he shrugged free of his jacket, and carefully slid her jacket from her arms, resting it on top of his on the floor.
Her throat had suddenly gone dry, and she savored the feel of him, the hardness of his muscles, the sharp angles of his collarbone. Beneath her palm she felt his heart pounding strong and hard, and he pressed a kiss on her temple.