"I do not hate you." His voice was rough, untried in the morning. He cleared his throat and smiled. "In fact, last night I believe I declared my love for you."
Was he joking?
"What. . . what did I say?"
"You snored."
"I... wait a minute. I don't snore."
"That's good to know." The smile left his face, and he, too, sat up fully. "Are you all right?"
"Why?"
"Do you remember last night, with Roger—"
Her voice overlapped his. "Roger. He was here and, and he . . ."
"I know. I saw what happened."
The unwelcome memories flooded back to her, of his hands everywhere, the terrible feel of his body on hers. Then Donal had arrived. She remembered that he came into the house and rescued her and muttered comforting words.
"Thank you." It was pitifully inadequate, but he reached out and brushed a piece of hair from her eyes. "You're welcome."
A new growth of whiskers lined his jaw, lending him a rakish air, and his eyes held a sleepy look that held her completely. In spite of his rumpled appearance, she had never seen him look so appealing. She had never seen anyone so handsome.
"Did you really declare you love me?"
"I did indeed."
"Would you care to repeat it?"
A slow grin curved his lips. "Not at the moment, Suffice it to say I made a complete fool of myself."
Something about those words made him pause. "You must think me an utter fool."
"Of course I don't. I only wish I had been awake. Is anything wrong?"
"I don't know." He glanced around the room. It had been different before, with crystal and candles and molding along the ceiling. Other things had remained the same, the mantel, the way the sun came through the windows. Another thought occurred to him.
"Who are Patrick and Andrew?"
Immediately she crossed her arms. "Why do you want to know? Did I talk in my sleep?"
"I'm not sure. I had a peculiar dream, all about a brother named Andrew."
"Go on," she said.
"It seems I had a friend named Patrick, and a fiancee . . . Kitty." Then he leveled his gaze at hers. "I must have imagined it, but it was so clear, so absolutely vivid I can even recall what I was wearing. The odd thing was that I wasn't surprised to find
myself dressed in eighteenth century clothes. There was barely a sense of wonder, just acceptance."
"Was I there?"
He laughed. "No, Auntie Em." Then he stopped. "But you were. You were there the whole time, and your name was Kitty. And I was ... my God, this is impossible."
"You were Fitz."
For a long while they simply stared at each other, wondering if what they were thinking was remotely possible. She broke the silence first.
"Do you remember anything about a dog?"
He nodded. "Boru. Andrew killed him and left him on the lawn. My father—" He stopped. "Fitzwilliam's father told her about it."
"Do you remember what happened next?"
"The father ordered new silver. I even remember the shop—Thomas Read on Crane Lane. But Maura, I know the store. It's famous, Joyce even wrote of it in Ulysses, on Parliament Street, right next to City Hall. It's been there for centuries, the whole shop sags and leans, it's so old."
"Was Parliament Street ever called Crane Lane?"
"I don't know."
"Do you remember anything else?"
"Andrew. He attacked you and tried to abduct you, and you and Patrick had warned me. Now I don't know how I know this, but he wanted to elope with you for your dowry. And I was completely blind . . ."
"It's okay, Donal."
"And you. It was you. I called you Kitty, yet in my mind and heart it was you. You were ill, something was wrong with you, but we all seemed to be pretending you were perfectly well. In a way this thing with Andrew was a distraction, a relief. It prevented us from dwelling on how sick you really were. Why didn't you consult a physician?"
"Because it wasn't so bad, at least not until just recently. The physicians would just bleed me and pronounce me hysterical or worse."
"You are so pale. I have this notion in my mind that I fear nothing, not a sudden storm at sea or being swept overboard. Yet I have real fear when I look at Kitty, terrible fear that I would never admit to, for admitting to the fear might give it more power."
"Andrew tried to take me."
"I know. It happened the evening before. And I somehow stumbled upon it just in time. Then Andrew vanished, but so did Patrick. He took the papers with the proof with him."
"And you don't know what they say, what evidence they hold."
"Because I was a fool, and refused to even look at them."
Again they lapsed into silence. Outside, across the street in Merrion Square Park, they could hear the shouts of children playing. A motor scooter rumbled by, the engine slowing as it turned the corner. A horn honked from someplace far away. But they did not hear the sounds. They were both stunned beyond comprehension.
"This can't be happening." She turned toward him, and he reached out and brushed his knuckles against her cheek.
"I know," he said.
"Wait a minute." She seemed to be shaking herself back to sensibility. "Okay, do you have a telephone directory?"
"Not on me. Why?"
"I just thought I'd call the shop you mentioned and see if they have ever changed locations."
"Brilliant! The place is a virtual museum, so whoever is there is bound to know the answer. Just call directory assistance."
She was already on her feet and headed toward the telephone in the kitchen. Donal followed closely.
"What do I dial for directory assistance? Four one one?"
"Eleven nine zero."
She dialed, then turned to him.
"Thomas Read on Parliament Street."
When she had the number she rang the store. A man answered, and she suddenly felt absolutely ridiculous.
"Just a minute, please," she said, then shoved the receiver over to Donal. He raised his eyebrows, then got on the phone.
"Hello. I have a question to ask you about your store .. . Yes. Yes, I know that, thank you. But what I was wondering, was the shop ever located on Crane Lane? Yes . . . Of course. . . . Sword making? Indeed, it is a dying art... Yes. Yes, I see ... I remember that as a boy. . . No, I was from the west, but we came here every summer. . . . Cork, in fact.. .. No. I'm afraid not, but the name is familiar. There are a lot of O'Conners in that part. . .. Thank you for your time. I will, and look forward to it. Thank you again. Goodbye." "Well?" She asked the moment the receiver was on the hook.
"We're invited to a sword-sharpening demonstration this afternoon."
"That's great, but what about the location?"
"The shop was established in 1670."
"So it would have been in existence by 1767."
"The original story was on Blind Quay, which as the man just said was slightly disturbing for a knife company, visions of putting out eyes with single thrusts and all that."
"When did they move to Parliament Street?"
"In 1765. There's even a drawer that's been stuck shut since then, and no one knows what the contents are. Isn't that fascinating? They are unable to open it because it's in a supporting wall, and any effort to pry it open may cause the entire side of the building to collapse. Hardly a comforting thought, as the man just said."
"Oh." Maura shrugged. "So we were all wrong."
"I never said that. They moved from their present location from the store's second shop. It was on a small street called Crane Lane."
She was silent, and he continued. "The current shop has been there since 1765, just two years before our dream, or whatever it is."
"And clearly the thing with Andrew and the dog happened well before that—in childhood." This did not seem possible. "Donal, are you sure you had no idea about the locations of the shop?"
"Why on earth would I know such a thing? I do not make it a h
abit to learn the lineage of all the shops in Dublin. And Maura, don't forget I've been in Germany for ten years, so my time in Dublin was limited to summer visits with my parents and my years at UCD. How many university students do you know of who research their own surroundings?"
"Of course. I'm sorry, I was just trying to figure out some logical explanation."
She came to him, her arms about his waist as he held her gently. It seemed right and natural, as if they had always been together, as if they had never battled or argued.
"Maura, there is something else."
"What's that?"
"I believe I left something at that shop."
"When you were a student?"
"No. Not me, then. Fitzwilliam. As I was speaking to that clerk, I remember placing an order that was never picked up."
"Odd."
"It's the same way in the dream I had. The background information was sketched for me, so swiftly that it was just there. Never was I aware of having the knowledge instilled. That's what happened on the telephone."
"I wonder why Fitz never picked it up?"
"Maybe because it's in the drawer that's stuck. And before he could retrieve it, well..."
"He died."
Donal nodded.
"I wonder—" she began, then stopped.
"Wonder what?"
"I wonder who we really are. I mean, what is reality, and what is a dream?"
Each was lost in thought, swirling notions that seemed absurd, even insane, yet kept proving to be true.
"This sounds like class discussion in a freshman philosophy course," he said at last.
"Or conversation after a few beers after the freshman philosophy course," she added.
"I'm only certain of one thing."
She glanced up at him, eyes questioning.
"I am certain that I love you. And I mean me, Donal Byrne, not someone from centuries long gone."
"Oh, Donal. I think I love you, too."
"What do you mean think?"
"Well, I am almost certain that I love you, but it somehow gets all tangled up with Fitz and Kitty."
"I suppose that will have to do." He sighed. "Perhaps if we set them to rest, we can see about ourselves."
"Donal?"
"Yes?"
"Do you believe in ghosts yet?"
"I'm not sure, but I'll tell you one thing."
"What's that?"
"I'm beginning to believe in something. I'm just not sure what the hell it is at the moment."
chapter 18
Donal's apartment wasn't at all what Maura had expected.
She'd imagined a Euro-chic, sprawling place with track lighting and Scandinavian furniture, all blond wood and pale leather and chrome. Instead, his home was rather small, on the second floor of an old brick building on the other side of the River Liffey The furniture was plain, almost suburban, but the touches were warm and homey. A three-legged iron pot served as a planter. The quilt thrown over the sofa was worn and stitched by hand. In the center of the living room was a worn chair, a hideous shade of burnt orange and avocado green. A drawing over the small mantel was of faces, some laughing, some pensive, others in conversation or alone.
"I drew that when I was first in Germany," he said when he saw her interest.
"You're kidding. You did this?"
"One of my many talents." He grimaced. "It's supposed to be—" He paused. "No, you tell me. Does it remind you of anything?"
"A pub," she replied without hesitation. "Not just any pub, though. It reminds me of Nesbitt's."
"That's exactly what I had in mind. It seemed too disturbing for the Germans who came to my flat in Munich, so I hid it away until I returned home. My wish had been to recall Ireland, not to torment others with a sea of Celtic faces. Can you give me a hand with this?"
In his arms was a large cardboard box so filled with papers that the top would not close. Donal kept the flap closed with his chin.
"Here." She took a corner, and together they lowered the box to the floor.
"All of my mother's notes on Connolly." Bending down, he placed his hand on the lid. "Years of work are in this box."
"Have you ever gone through these?"
"No. There was no reason, really. Until now, of course. And also . . ." his voice trailed off.
"Also what?"
"It was too painful. I remember her working on this book, going along with her on research trips. This was such a happy time, so many good memories, that to sift through her thoughts would be too difficult now that she's gone."
She folded her hand over his. "Maybe we should just forget this. Whatever information she had she probably used in the book anyway. There may be no point."
"No. There were a lot of ideas she was unable to
use, shreds of material that she was unable to pursue because of dead ends or her editor. Besides"—he opened the box fully—"I believe she would want me to go through them. Why else didn't she just get rid of all this? Here, you take this pile."
Handing her a stack of papers, he smiled. "Coffee?"
"No thanks. Maybe later."
And together they spent the better part of the day immersed in the life of Fitzwilliam Connolly.
At one time there had been solid proof of Andrew Connolly's plot to kidnap Katherine Burbridge. It had been widely reported in newspapers of the day, simply because Andrew had openly solicited help by advertising in Mr. Lynch's newspaper in Kilkenny.
"I wonder," Donal mused, pushing aside the remains of a sandwich. "Do you suppose copies of those solicitations would be in existence?"
"Nope." Maura reached her hands over her head in a stretch. "Your mother already thought of that, but the 1922 fire at the Four Courts here in Dublin destroyed most of the county's public records. And she checked in Kilkenny—no luck there."
"I remember that trip. We had a picnic on a hill, and I got stung by a bee." She glanced up and smiled. "Poor thing." "It was rather sad. Wait a minute." Straightening, he held a scrap of paper. "She made a stack of notes about Kitty and Andrew's unhappy marriage. Apparently there was no shortage of references to their discord."
"Of course, it was unhappy. Fitz was dead, she was forced into a marriage with a man she hated, and she was literally dying. Can you imagine how she loathed Andrew? That alone probably would have killed her, Where are the notes?"
"Damn. This paper was apparently clipped to the top. They must be here someplace."
But they were unable to find the papers. As Donal continued skimming the notes, she paused over a small notebook. Curious, she began reading.
"Maura, could you pass me that pen over there?"
She did not respond.
"Maura?"
Again, she remained motionless except for the intense turning of a page every few moments.
"Donal?"
She did not see the exasperated look he gave her as he stepped over the box to retrieve the pen.
"Your mother sensed him, too."
"Excuse me?"
"Here in this notebook. Your mother felt his presence while she was working, and it disturbed her a great deal."
"That happens to all biographers. I read about it once—when you're so intimately involved in someone else's life, you can't help but fall in love with them a little. That's why if I ever write a biography, I'm skipping Henry VIII and Adolf Hitler and jumping straight to Jean Harlow or Ava Gardner."
Slowly she lowered the book. "Your mother saw him."
"Henry VIII?"
"No. Fitzwilliam Connolly."
Donal chuckled. "Maura, you didn't hear what I
just said. All biographers seem to go a little crazy and become completely wrapped up in their subject."
"She was disturbed because he seemed to focus on you."
"What are you talking about?"
"Do you remember the nightmares you had as a child?"
"Every child has nightmares."
"While your mother was writing this book, she tucked you in one ni
ght, and thought she saw something out of the corner of her eye. Not long after that you woke up screaming that your brother was killing you."
"That would indeed be a nightmare, since I didn't have a brother. But as an only child, I'm afraid it loses it's effectiveness."
Maura was undeterred, her eyes fixed on the notebook as she continued. "So your mother came into the room, and you told her that you had the proof. Patrick had given it to you."
The smile faded from his face. "I said the name Patrick?"
She nodded. "And you put it in the yellow parlor."
"Maura . . ."
"I know. The yellow parlor on Merrion Square."
"What did she do? My mother, I mean."
"First off, she woke you up. But even awake you
kept talking about Andrew and Patrick. Do you
remember any of this?"
"No. But perhaps I was just aware of her work." "That's the thing. She says she specifically kept her work away from you, simply because she felt the story would be too disturbing."
"What about the research trips?"
"That came later, when it was already too late and you seemed to know more about the topic than she did. Part of her wanted to hear everything you had to say, the other part didn't want you to get so intimately involved."
"All I remember is being very interested." He rubbed his neck.
"You also told her that the proof was under the wallpaper in the yellow parlor."
"Now that makes no sense."
"Yes, it does. The first night I saw Fitz, when he was haunting the house, he was looking for something. He was searching the walls behind the yellow parlor."
"I wonder why my mother didn't check there?"
"She tried. But the cantankerous owner of the house, Delbert Finnegan, wouldn't allow her—or anyone else for that matter—to enter the house."
"I wonder why?"
"He was afraid."
"Of what?"
"Of losing his right to live there. You see, I don't believe old Delbert or I, for that matter, bear any relationship to Fitzwilliam Connolly."
"This makes no sense."
Finally she lowered the notebook. "I think I am a direct descendant of his housekeeper, Mrs Finnegan."
"This makes no sense," he repeated. "Where did my mother find that out?"