"Oh, Donal." They were now on the street, the cool night air a relief after the swirling cigarette smoke in Nesbitt's. "Didn't you hear what Charles said?"
He seemed genuinely mystified.
"I signed papers today to sell the town house. There is no reason anyone would want to frighten me out of the place. I'm leaving it willingly."
"I don't understand."
"Come on." She felt like crying. How much more explicit was she going to have to be? "I'm selling the Merrion Square place to save my company back home and to help finance the changes at the factory."
For a moment Donal simply stared just beyond her. What was she talking about? Didn't she realize that the papers she signed were for the factory, not the town house? "Oh, Maura," he sighed, shaking his head. "Did you read the papers you signed carefully?"
"Of course, I did." Then she remembered how hurried she had been, how many demands seemed to have been pressing on her when she was presented with the papers. All she had wanted to do was get the signing out of the way before she could change her mind. "Well, no," she revised. "Not really. I mean, Biddy Macguillicuddy told me all the details. She seems very competent, and I'm sure she must be familiar with this sort of thing."
He did not respond, and she peered into his face in the darkness, the handsome face, all planes and angles. "She's my real estate agent."
"I know who she is."
"Oh, all right." She crossed her arms, suddenly cold.
"Are you this way about all business matters?"
"What do you mean by 'this way'?"
"Lax."
"I am not lax."
"Why didn't you thoroughly examine the papers you signed? You should have taken your time, held on to them overnight, called Charles or another solicitor in to assist you with any details that you may have had questions about. Did you do that, Maura?"
"Not exactly. But I knew what they were about, just a standard form about the rights of the real estate agent to handle the property."
"Bloody hell. You may have donated your body to science or agreed to be used as practice skin for a tattoo school."
"Why are you so angry? It's my property. I know you and Charles see it as some sort of betrayal that I could ever part with the place. But don't you see? I have no choice—and it's all for a greater good, to save my father's company and to turn the factory around. I figured that would be more help to everyone than fixing up a town house. And maybe if the factory does well enough, I could buy the town house back."
His hands clenched, and she reached out and closed one of her own hands over his fist. He jerked away, as if she had touched him with a burning match.
"What have I done wrong?"
"Nothing, damn it, nothing at all." He seemed to be struggling with himself, biting back words he was aching to say.
"What? Please tell me what's the matter."
"Has it ever crossed your mind that you're no businesswoman?"
She did not reply for long moments and merely stared at him.
"Other than as an insult, is there a point to this?" she asked quietly.
"Yes! Damn it, why don't you do something you're good at?"
"Thank you so very much." Stiffening, she walked ahead, her eyes painful and prickling with tears.
He sighed, and followed after her, placing his hand on her shoulder.
"Please let go of me." Her voice was unsteady.
"That came out all wrong. It's just that there are so very many things you could do. You have so many talents and gifts yet to be explored, but circumstance has put you where you are. You remind me so much of someone."
"And who would that be?"
"It's simply that you have other abilities and interests, but you've been stuck as head of your father's company, now all of this. You've never really had the chance to explore what you want. And that's a shame."
"I suppose that's why you were so kind before in offering to take my latest burden from me. It's not that you were interested in the factory. It was altruism, pure altruism."
"Maura . .."
"Good night, Donal."
"You can't go back there."
She looked him full in the face, her own hurt and disillusionment reflected in her eyes.
"I believe I'll be better off inside than out here with you."
The house was just across the street, and without even waiting to hear what else he had to say, she began to walk, and then, when walking wasn't fast enough, she ran.
"Maura!" He called her name once, only once, before she disappeared into the house, the door neither slamming shut nor closing softly. It simply opened, and then she was gone.
"Maura," he said softly. "It's my own mother you remind me of. You remind me of her." And after he stared at the closed door and the flickering lights of Merrion Square and heard the sounds of the late night traffic, of laughter far away and a cat in an alley round the corner, he went home, too.
Perhaps the problem with being an American in Ireland had nothing to do with reality and everything to do with expectations—not just Maura's own expectations or those of the Dubliners she had met but the expectations and assumptions of the generations before her.
No matter how clear-cut a situation seemed, such as the simple fact of inheriting property, there were
layers upon layers of misunderstandings and confusion.
The main problem seemed to be communication. The very words the Irish used were colored with shades of mythology, of Gaelic expressions that didn't quite translate into English, while Americans used their words plainly with curt sentences and direct statements. She was accustomed to the American plainspokenness, the no-frills business talk of her economics professors.
The Irish instead lulled and wooed, instilling nuance and meaning into every word, even in business. Donal was almost an exception. Almost. Still he charmed and courted with his manner, an eloquence every bit as powerful as the words employed. Yet she had the distinct impression he was holding something back.
That seemed to be the only explanation for the way Maura was feeling, of the rioting emotions she was unable to shake off, emotions of such intensity that she didn't hear the tea kettle whistle as she sat in the kitchen. And when the sound finally did pierce her consciousness, she didn't jump as she usually did. Instead she moved slowly, with a languor she didn't really feel.
She hadn't seen Fitz all day and was beginning to wonder if Donal was right, that she had just imagined him. It was entirely possible, even probable, that he did not exist. The whole country seemed locked in a conspiracy to drive her if not insane, then just slightly off balance.
When the telephone rang, she wondered who on earth would call at such an early hour. Then she realized it was well past noon, and only she herself had been in a world of ponderous thoughts and drowsy movements.
"Maura." It was Donal. "I'm calling to see how you are. Did anything unusual happen last night?"
"No." She really didn't want to speak to him. There was nothing to say, nothing at all.
"You don't sound well."
She did not reply.
"Maura, there is something else. Two things really. I was going over my mother's papers, the ones from when she wrote the book on Fitzwilliam Connolly."
"Hum." She was more tired than she had realized, and suddenly all she wanted to do was sleep.
"She had doubts about Patrick Kildare being the killer. It seems her editor advised her against publishing her thoughts, simply because her notion of Kildare's innocence would raise more questions than it would answer. Would you like me to bring these over?"
Her eyes, which had been growing heavy, now closed. Never in her life had she been so exhausted, so utterly drained. She was also aware of a vague feeling of nausea, but that would go away once she slept. She knew it absolutely. All she needed was sleep.
"Maura, are you there?"
It was rude not to answer, but she was so tired.
"Maura? Answer me, or I'm coming right
&
nbsp; over____"
That was the last she heard, and then she was embraced by a dark, consuming slumber.
chapter 14
The fragrance of some sweet confection awoke her.
"Urn," she sighed, both in sleepy confusion and at the delicious aroma. Even before she opened her eyes she realized two things. One, she had not eaten since the night before. No wonder she was so exhausted.
And two, she had tied her bathrobe too tightly about her waist. Maura could barely draw in a full breath.
"Ah, there we go now." It was the voice of a woman, kind and consoling. "Have a dish of tea. He will be here presently, and we wish him not to see you so."
Slowly Maura opened her eyes. Almost immediately she recognized the front parlor, the way the sun streamed through the windows.
But instead of the shabby room with worn furniture and dust, she was in a beautifully restored Georgian sitting room. It was straight out of a museum, magnificent wood gleaming, elegant shutters on the windows. Blinking, she glanced into the hallway. The familiar black-and-white marble was there, but above was a tinkling chandelier with thick candles set into the crystal. Ornate molding, painted in a pale blue to contrast with the white walls and marble, was lavished on the ceiling and along the staircase.
Her feet hurt, and glancing down she saw they were encased in tiny satin slippers, embroidered with delicate shimmering threads. The heels were triangular, the toes pointed.
"I.. ." she began, and then saw the woman who had spoken.
Before she could even ask who she was, the woman patted her hand.
"There there, Kitty dear. Your Fitzwilliam promises to return from his journey by this evening. He never speaks but the truth, and I have known him since he was a babe."
Maura barely heard the words. The woman was in full Georgian costume, from a lace cap upon her gray curls to the wildly exaggerated, lavish folds of her skirt, two humps on either side of her hips like an upturned camel.
"Oh," was all she could say. The woman handed Maura a cup, and with trembling hands she accepted.
It was, indeed, tea, but more pungent than she was used to. A gleaming service was placed on a nearby table, with covered dishes and pots and a small stack of cups. And there she saw a silver basket filled with what appeared to be scones.
The older woman laughed. "Yes, my dear, we had them made for you just this morning! Let me fetch
you one." Her accent was most peculiar, not quite English, not quite Irish.
The scone was delicious, although the flour used to make it felt grainy on her teeth. So far she had said nothing, only stared at the surroundings.
From outside she heard the heavy roll and crunch of carriage wheels, the nickering of horses, the jingling of reins and gentle whispers of coachmen and riders.
This was the most fabulous dream she had ever had, and she was determined to make the most of it.
"Thank you," she finally said when the last crumb was gone. She was also clothed in costume, her own dress seemed to be a cream muslin, but light and airy, less structured than the stiff brocade of the older woman. She did, however, have the odd hoops at the sides, and beneath her skirt she could feel layers of petticoats and lace.
"Now, my dear," the older woman said. "We must discuss the wedding."
Maura smiled. "Of course!" Why not? This was her dream, she could do with it what she wanted. Might as well plan a wedding.
"Now, Connolly will have none of this, as you know."
"Connolly?" That was a relief. At least her dream involved a groom she knew. "I know. He cares nothing for fripperies."
What the hell was a frippery?
The older woman seemed to know, and she laughed a friendly chuckle. "Men! What do they know of weddings?"
"It is very nearly a shame we require them to round out the ceremony," Maura added. The older woman again laughed. "Oh, my dear! But with such a groom—can you imagine how he will appear? Gracious! Tis a good thing an autumn ceremony is planned, for there will be enough swooning at the sight of him without the heat of summer. Now, you did say you wished him in pale blue satin . . ."
"Ugh!" Maura's gasp startled the woman. "Excuse me, Aunt Sarah." Aunt Sarah? Well, it was as good a name as any, she supposed, and the woman didn't seem startled. "Aunt Sarah," she tested the name again, and the older woman merely peered at Maura more closely.
"Yes, my dear?"
"Well, I do hope no preparations have been made. I just feel Fitz," she paused and repeated his name. "I just feel Fitzwilliam would look ghastly in pale blue."
"But it is such a fashionable shade, dear Kitty. And pray, what other color should he wear? The world will wish to see him in colors other than the blacks and browns and grays he always wears. I declare, one would never take him for a peer from the plainness of his clothing. He appears more the clerk than the lord."
"I like that about him," she said more to herself than to the character in her dream. "He wears his hair unwigged and unpowdered, his waistcoat unadorned with flowers, his blouse free of lace. It suits him, for he is most certainly no fop."
"Of course! I would never accuse Connolly of being a fop or a dandy. Yet, well, my dear, he is just a bit coarse at times."
"Coarse?"
"Not in his speech or manner, mind you! No fault
could be laid at his boots for that. Still, a bit of polish would be splendid on his wedding day, think you not?"
"I think not. I have chosen Fitzwilliam, not Andrew." Her mind whirled for a moment. Andrew? Who on earth was . . .
Then it came to her: Andrew was Fitz's younger brother. She congratulated herself for remembering, even in the deep recesses of a dream, some of the secondary characters.
The older woman seemed shocked. "Of course! Why, never would I compare Andrew to his brother. Indeed, I wonder that they are of any relation at all, most especially brothers. There are times when his odd fancies cannot but make me laugh. There is such a vast difference twixt the two gentlemen. . ."
"Is there now?" The voice came from the doorway, and both women turned.
Maura almost laughed aloud when she saw the young man lounging against the arched threshold. He seemed to have stepped straight from a stage production, listed in the playbill as Languid, Useless Buck.
He wore green satin and lace and brocade, from the top of his outrageously wigged head to the silver decorative spurs in his glimmering boots. His slender frame betrayed youth, but there was a softness to him that spoke of little activity and much leisure. She looked at his face, pale with white powder, and wondered if the beauty mark just to the side of his chin was fake or real.
"Excuse us, Andrew," Aunt Sarah said crisply. "We were discussing your brother's upcoming nuptials. Pray leave us to our chatter." "Of course you were! And may I again add my heartfelt felicitations, Sister Kitty? How I do look forward to having your presence in this house even more constant. And I can think of naught that will give me pleasure as the very imaginings of a little Fitzwilly or Kitty to run about, chubby hands clutching all of value."
"How kind of you, Andrew." Maura smiled and nodded. "And indeed, what a charming image you conjure. I'm sure you will be much gratified to at last have playmates of your own intelligence and aptitude. I trust they will set you a good example."
Aunt Sarah gasped, but Maura barely noticed. Andrew's face twisted, a look of such malice and pure hatred, she held her breath. Instead of the languid youth, he was suddenly an image of ruthless fury.
Before she could speak further, the front door opened.
"Kitty?"
Immediately Andrew's face resumed the bland expression.
"Dear brother! How pleased I am that you have returned safely! And here is your dear Kitty!"
And then Fitz stepped into the room.
Maura simply stared, her heart pounding so hard she placed her hand over her breast, startled for a moment at how closely he reminded her of Donal.
Fitz cuffed his brother lightly on the chin, causing the b
eauty patch to flutter to the floor and powder from his wig to puff to his shoulders.
"Aunt Sarah, you seem in high joy and spirits." Fitz smiled. The older woman gave some sort of response Maura didn't hear.
Never once had he taken his eyes off her, and never once had she been able to even blink.
He was a wild vision in a battered three-corner hat, his hair bleached by the sun, his skin bronzed. With one sweeping gesture he threw off the hat and was at her side in two long strides.
Somehow she had managed to rise to her unsteady feet.
"Kitty." He spoke the name as an embrace.
"I. . ." she began, and then his lips touched hers.
"Now really, Lord Connolly, I cannot tolerate this behavior from anyone, even you. I am here as chaperon."
He pulled away for just an instant. "Go away." He grinned, and then tightened his hold on her.
And through her delirium she realized that Aunt Sarah, clucking to herself, had indeed gone away, as had Andrew.
"My love," he whispered.
Still unable to catch her breath, she merely looked up at him, touching his face lightly.
"How is it possible?" As he spoke she wondered at the warmth of him, the solid strength.
"How is what possible?" Her own voice was a rasp, but she didn't care.
"How is it possible that you have grown yet more beautiful these past four months?"
"Four months?" Her hands clutched his arms, his shoulders. "It seems forever."
"It does." Then he reached into the pocket of his jacket. "Here."
It was a sprig of purple flowers, pressed and dried. She smiled, touching the petals. "Whose estate did you plunder these from?"
He laughed, a joyous sound that seemed to fill the corners of the room. "Alas, my bride knows me all too well! I merely relieved a garden outside of Paris of these weeds."
"Weeds." Maura couldn't believe she was seeing him in the flesh. "These are most likely the rarest of flowers, grown with years of care and love."
"No." The smile left his face. "That is you, Kitty. The rarest of flowers."
"Oh," she sighed. He plucked the flowers from her hand and tucked them gently into the waist of her gown.
Suddenly there was the sound of someone clearing his throat from the doorway.