"Andrew," Fitz acknowledged.
"Fitzwilliam. I do hate to interrupt you . . ."
"No you don't," she muttered. Fitz frowned and tilted her chin up.
"Now Kitty." He smiled and kissed her temple. "Come in, Andrew. Why, just look at you! Is that yet another new suit of clothes?"
There was no censure in his tone, not a single hint of sarcasm or reproach. Fitz was genuinely pleased his younger brother had purchased the clothes.
"Yes, it is." There was an unmistakable note of pride in Andrew's voice.
"Now what would one call that particular shade?" Maura could tell Fitz was making every attempt to withhold a chuckle.
"Pomona," he replied, standing straighter as if to admire his own suit more fully.
"Bilious green," she whispered, and Fitz very nearly chortled out loud.
"It's splendid, Andrew, absolutely splendid."
"I need to speak with you, brother," Andrew said. Maura noticed in the brief time he had been out of the room he had managed to replace his beauty mark and restore his carefully rolled curls.
"Well, go on."
"Alone." Andrew smiled at Maura, but the smile did not reach his eyes. It crossed her mind that his more pleasant expressions seemed to pain him.
"Come, come Andrew." Fitz wrapped an arm around her. "Kitty will be my wife in a matter of weeks. You may speak freely before her."
"She's to be your wife, not mine." His mouth made an ever-so-brief petulant turn downward, so swift was the change in his countenance that it would have been easy to miss. "Fitzwilliam, please. I am desirous of speaking to you on business matters, and surely Kitty would find the topic dull as dishwater."
"Not at all! Honestly, I long to hear more of business. If I find anything dull, it's French fashions and new bonnet designs. I saw a woman last week with such a feather whim in her hair she looked quite mad!"
"That you find all matters of fashion dull is quite apparent," Andrew said between clenched teeth.
Fitz merely took a deep breath and coaxed her onto the sofa. "Very well, Kitty. Please, sit down lest you faint from the tedium."
"She already fainted today. I wonder Aunt Sarah did not tell you." Andrew made a great show of examining his fingernails. At once Fitz was beside her on the couch. "Kitty, are you unwell?"
She placed her hand along the side of his face. "I am well, indeed. I was simply hungry. I had not eaten since yesterday—I suppose I was just too excited about your arrival to think of food. I am fine."
His eyes searched hers, and she felt a strange tightness in her throat.
"Oh, Fitz," she breathed.
"Fitz," he repeated. "I like it, Kitty. But only from you. Only you."
He leaned forward, and she felt his warm breath on her cheek as he kissed her.
"I wish to discuss some business matters," Andrew stated. Fitz halted, a faint smile on his lips.
"Go on then, Andrew." He ran his hand through his hair once before turning his full attention on his brother.
"I wish to know if you have fully considered the matter I presented to you before your voyage." Now Andrew seemed to inflate with his own words.
"Please refresh my memory. What matter was that?"
"It was about trading in a certain item."
Suddenly he stood up. "I do hope you are not referring to what I am thinking of."
Maura looked up at him, his body tight with what seemed to be anger.
Andrew smiled. "Indeed I am. Why will you not hear me out on this? You have no idea of the riches that are to be gained from this venture. Vast, vast wealth awaits us, and we are perfectly poised to accept our due."
"No. No, I will not even speak of this." Fitz clenched his fist, then slowly released it when he saw her eyes.
"What is this about?" she asked softly.
"Matters that need not concern you," he said, reaching out and touching her shoulder.
"Nay, brother. Do not play the role of hypocrite. It does not suit you. The fair Kitty requested to hear this conversation. Think you her too dim to comprehend?"
Fitz was silent for a moment. "I merely believe she will look upon your suggestion with the same abhorrence as do I."
"Why do we not ask her then? Since she will soon be your wife, you are denying her the right to make her own life more luxurious. Pity."
"Very well." Fitz turned toward her. "My young brother wishes to embark on a new business venture. The item he mentioned earlier refers to human beings."
Maura shook her head, uncomprehending.
"Kitty, he wants to use the shipping concern for the transport and sale of African slaves."
The notion took her by surprise, and she gasped.
"Oh, Kitty, don't be such a simpleton," snapped Andrew. "There are far less savory things than the slave trade. And with all the money you would make, you could give freely to charity, to all of those filthy little urchins you are always knitting caps for. The Africans are little, more than animals, less than the value of a good horse or dog, certainly . .."
"Stop!" Fitz's voice boomed, and both Maura and Andrew jumped.
"I am ashamed of you, Andrew." Although he spoke softly, there was a quiver of danger in his tone that made him far more frightening than when he shouted. "Never before have I been so basely insulted. You wish to bring us all down in the greedy quest for more money. How much would you require, Andrew? Do you not have a suit of satin in mulberry, in peacock blue, in jardin yellow, and now, what be this vile color?"
"Pomona," Andrew whispered.
Andrew knew he had gone too far, Maura realized. He had always known when to pull back from his brother, but the lust for more of everything had made him incautious.
"Pomona," Fitz snapped. "Pomona."
"I must go now." Andrew backed away. "I am expected at Lord and Lady Downe's ball. And you are invited as well, Fitzwilliam. Good day, and welcome back."
It was astonishing how quickly, and with what agility, Andrew left the house.
"Pomona," Fitz murmured as the echoes of the slamming door faded.
"Kitty, what are we to do with him?"
"Fitz, does Andrew have any percentage of your business ventures?"
He slumped into the sofa, bumping the back of his head.
"Sorry." She winced, sitting next to him and gently rubbing the back of his head, the thick ponytail coming loose.
With a swallow he looked at her, a brief smile before he spoke. "No, my love. Not yet. I am waiting for Andrew to pass this unsupportedly troublesome age. Patrick does hold some shares, although Andrew doesn't know it yet."
"Patrick Kildare?" She almost shrieked the name.
"Of course. He owns shares of the shipping concern, a brilliant businessman and an even better friend. What ails you, Kitty?"
Part of her wanted to tell him she was not Kitty, she was Maura, and this was a dream, and Patrick Kildare was very likely plotting to kill him. She wanted to take him by the shoulders, warn him to stay away from the front steps. Perhaps he could go to America and get away from the politics and danger of Ireland.
Instead she simply leaned over and lightly kissed his cheek.
"Ah, Kitty." He sighed heavily. "What do you call this power you have over me?"
"Pomona," she breathed in his ear.
And after a stunned silence, Fitzwilliam Connolly literally roared with laughter.
"Maura!"
Someone was speaking to her from the end of a long tunnel, the voice was male and urgent. She tried to utter his name.
"Donal?" But it came out as a groan, and for a brief moment she was embarrassed.
"Maura, please."
In her half slumber she reached out and felt a powerful arm. He seemed to be holding her upright. Slowly, reluctantly, she opened her eyes. "Donal," she murmured.
"For pity's sake, don't you know how to operate the bloody gas?"
It was hard to focus. He seemed to fade in and out of her vision like a withering dream.
Still
he spoke. "You turned on two burners, but only lit one."
"One what?"
"For your tea. On top of the cooker, you switched on two burners but only lit one. Damn it, Maura, I shudder to think what would have happened had I not called."
Now she could see him fully, his strangely modern clothes, hair slightly ruffled where he had pushed a hand through. There were beads of perspiration at his temples, even though the day was chilly.
It struck her then Donal and Fitz were so alike—it was no wonder she had been confused in her dream. It was not so much a physical resemblance, although they were quite similar in build and coloring, and they both even had the strange bent finger on the left hand. It was Donal's expression more than anything that reminded her of Fitz, perhaps the way both men looked at her with complete, unwavering concentration. Perhaps that was it.
"I had the strangest dream." She sat up fully. Somehow she had ended up on the kitchen floor. Donal, too, was on the floor, and beside him was a jacket he had either been wearing or carrying, now in a crumpled heap. All of the windows were wide open, a breeze passing through the house.
"Here." He pulled the jacket over and placed it around her shoulders. "I had to break a front window-pane to get in. Sorry. I'll have it repaired as soon as possible. And the other windows are open to air the place out."
Then, for no apparent reason, a feeling settled over her, a sense of sadness, as if she could cry at any moment.
"How do you feel?" His tone was unexpectedly gentle, so soft she looked at his face. So handsome, features of pure masculine beauty.
"I had the strangest dream," she repeated.
"Did you now?" Adjusting the jacket over her shoulders, he gave her a slight smile.
"Would you care to tell me about it?"
"About what?" A vague panic rose. Did he want to hear about how she imagined him two hundred years earlier? How she made them a couple in love?
"About your dream. Would you care to tell me about it?"
"Oh, yes. The dream." Taking a deep breath, she tried to recall the details. "I was in ascendancy Ireland, right here in this house. It was absolutely gorgeous, really lovely, with crystal and candles and silver. It must have been about 1767, because we were planning the wedding."
"We?"
"At first it was just me and Aunt Sarah, but then Andrew came in, spoiled and petulant."
"I see. And you were engaged to Andrew?"
"No! Of course not. I was engaged to ... Fitz."
"The ghost?"
She shook her head. "In my dream he was real and vital and alive. He had just come back from a voyage, and he gave me sprigs of dried flowers from a lawn outside of Paris."
"That was very thoughtful of him."
"Yes. It was. Aunt Sarah wants him to wear pale blue at the wedding, but I can't imagine it."
"So you were Katherine Burbridge?"
"I'm not sure. I seemed to be me, although everyone called me Kitty." She bit her lip. "Funny. I just realized they called me Kitty, but in my mind I heard Maura. I was the same person, though. My hands and arms were the same. A piece of hair was on my shoulder, and it was my hair."
"Interesting. Anything else?"
She thought for a few moments, oblivious to the expression on Donal's face, of the way his gaze traced her form, every detail.
"Yes! This is amazing, Donal—I don't think Patrick Kildare killed Fitz. I can't explain it, just a feeling that I have, but it's too strong to ignore. Did you know Kildare was a business partner of his? Fitz seemed to trust him completely, as both a friend and an associate, and gave him shares in the shipping concern."
"Shares of the shipping concern? I don't believe so. I've read all about Kildare, and never have I heard it mentioned that he was a partner of Connolly's. But Maura, do you remember our phone conversation right before you fainted?"
"No," she replied uncomfortably.
"I called you because I was going over some of my mother's notes. She didn't think Kildare was guilty, either. Her editor didn't want her to delve into that
angle—too complicated, and she could not find the solid proof she needed. If it wasn't Kildare, then who was it? If Kildare was truly innocent, that meant he had to have been framed, and there was no logical winner in that situation, no reason for anyone to have killed Kildare."
"Ah ha." She brightened. "But what if Kildare was indeed Fitz's secret partner, then who would gain the most if they were both dead?"
Donal thought a moment. "That's easy enough—it would have been Andrew."
"Andrew. Honestly, Fitz has a blind spot when it comes to his brother. He's so astute in other ways but is unable to see Andrew for the rotten, spoiled twerp that he is. You should see the way he looks at me with those beady eyes, and that stupid beauty mark ..."
"Maura, it was a dream."
She crossed her arms, about to speak, and then remained silent.
"You had this dream because you and I were discussing this very situation when you passed out. Remember?"
"But Donal, this dream was so real, far more vivid than most of my real life seems. Even the scones, the tea. And my God, my corset was so uncomfortable."
"Maura," he warned. "Don't get too carried away."
He was right. Of course, he was right.
"But what about what happened to you last night?" His shirt was open at the collar, and the red marks over his throat had dulled to purplish blue.
"I still believe someone wants us to stay away, but that had to do with very human, earthly greed. That's why I was so worried when you dropped the telephone today. I thought whoever it was had harmed you."
"Oh." Then she looked directly at him. "Have I thanked you?"
"No. As a matter of fact you have not."
She leaned forward and kissed his lips.
Donal was right. She had imagined most of it, the rest had nothing to do with the supernatural and everything to do with property values.
He pressed his mouth lightly against her forehead. "Before I forget, the National Gallery has just put up the portrait of Katherine Burbridge Connolly. It's been down for over six months, a cleaning they said, although how long can it take to clean one canvas? Would you like to see your rival for Fitz's attention?"
It did seem absurd, especially in the light of a brilliant afternoon, in the sure safety of Donal's presence.
"Very funny." She grinned. "Just let me get dressed." Then she stopped. "I really should get over to the factory today. I want to talk to some of the old-timers about the changes coming up."
He rose to his feet, lifting her with him. "Plenty of time for that. No need to rush. You're in Ireland, not the U.S."
"Well..." She did want to see the portrait. "Fine. Just give me a few moments to get dressed."
He smiled as she left, although there was something strained about the expression. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, a sense of discomfort, perhaps. Or maybe he just thought she had an overactive imagination.
In any case, she was looking forward to seeing what Kitty looked like.
"She's not at all what I expected."
Maura and Donal stood before the large portrait. He had seen it before and was more interested in Maura's reaction than in the painting itself.
The woman was attractive, but in a pale, limp sort of fashion. Everything about her seemed tired, from her flat brown hair to her nondescript eyes. It looked like a hundred other portraits of some long-ago woman wearing quaint fashions and no makeup.
"A bit of mascara would have done wonders," she mumbled.
Donal shrugged. "The poor thing was not well, Maura. And she'd had a rough few months, from the murders of her fiance and then his friend, the sudden marriage to Andrew. To top it off, she was ill with some fatal disease. Can't remember what it was, undoubtedly the symptoms were elegant and ladylike. I don't believe mascara could have helped a jot with her life."
"Hm. She looks tired."
"She does. And I'll bet she knew it, too."
>
"Why do you say that?"
"Look at what she's holding in her right hand."
"Wait, there's a glare." Maura shifted position to get a better view. "I still can't see what it is."
"Dead flowers. She'd holding a bunch of dead flowers. Rather macabre, even for the eighteenth century, don't you think?"
They were small purple flowers. And Maura had seen them before. They were the flowers Fitz had brought back from Paris.
"Is anything wrong?"
"Donal, those are the flowers."
"What flowers?"
"The ones from my dream. The ones he gave her."
"No, Maura, really."
"I'm serious. He put them into the waistband of her dress."
"I'm sure you've seen this portrait, and then dreamed about the flowers."
"How could I have seen the portrait? It's been gone for months and months! Donal, this means my dream was true! It wasn't a dream at all. . ."
"No," he said firmly. "Maura, you have seen this portrait. It's in just about every biography of Fitzwilliam Connolly, including my mother's. You may have just glanced at it, but surely you remembered the details of the flowers."
She suddenly felt ridiculous. "You must think I'm insane."
He grinned. "I do. But that's another matter altogether. Now let's see, where is your Fitz? I believe someone with a very high moral tone has moved him to another wing. Wouldn't do to have them together." Then he whispered. "She married his brother, you know."
"Very funny." She couldn't help but giggle as they crossed into the next room.
"Ah, here we go. Would the two of you like to be alone?"
Maura didn't answer. Instead she simply stared at the portrait of Fitzwilliam Connolly. Everything was
the same from the last time she had seen the painting, including the too-large nose and the too-sinister eyes. Everything except for one vital aspect.
The man in the portrait was not wearing blue satin. Instead, he was clad in a simple black jacket, his hair free of wigs and powder. His breeches were a buff color, the boots gleaming but just slightly worn. It was very nearly her Fitz.
And it was exactly what she had tried to tell Aunt Sarah he would wear to the wedding. In short, the man in the portrait was dressed as the groom of her dreams. chapter 15