Exit Unicorns (Exit Unicorns Series) (39 page)

“We leave it to God to damn souls rather than taking such responsibility upon ourselves,” Jamie said easily.

“How convenient,” Reverend Broughton replied, never once taking his colorless eyes off of Jamie’s face.

“Well human judgment and error can be a damned inconvenient and ill-informed vice at times Reverend, or have you not found it to be so yourself?”

“Error at least requires action.”

“Touché,” Jamie said and rose gracefully from the table, “perhaps all of you would like to join me in the drawing room for drinks?”

“Of course,” the Duke said with forced joviality and Pamela began to feel rather warmly towards him.

In the drawing room with the guests scattered about in plush furniture and the tinkle of Mozart’s
Rondo alla Turca
 in the background, the talk turned to real estate, of the new money flushing through the streets of Dublin, the reawakening of the slumbering city on the banks of the tidal Liffey, coming up from the dreaming Georgian days of the last century to find men in mohair suits with harsh accents in her streets. And to witness the death of the old days and perhaps the death even of a nation, brought in chains forged by men who cared only for money. An Ireland of golf courses and resorts, tacky souvenirs and self-mocking patriotism, a Celtic theme park for foreign consumption. So all those who had gone away could come back generations later and shed a tear for the old country.

“Gentlemen, you speak as if we here in the North had concerns in the Republic,” Lucien said, “when our fortunes are untouched by their own.”

“Reverend Broughton,” the Duke said coolly, “my family seat is in Cork and has been for seven generations. For many of those generations Ireland was one nation and, God willing, will be again.”

At this astonishing pronouncement, Mozart’s moonbeam notes paused and fluttered into the opening of Handel’s Water Music.

“I didn’t know you held such nationalistic notions, Your Grace,” Lucien said and one had to listen very closely to hear the contempt in the words. “However, the facts are that Northern Ireland is part of the Empire, the British Empire and as such marches under a different standard.”

“D’you think England gives a damn about Northern Ireland?” Jamie’s voice sliced like a seared knife through butter. “Everyone else has shed the bonds of empire and gladly so, even Britain knows when a dead horse has been flogged. Northern Ireland is just the crazed relative in the attic that’s too embarrassing to parade even for eccentric company. The sun has not only set, Reverend Broughton, it’s sunk beyond retrieval and memory. England has used us when it was politically expedient to do so, but she has too many of her own problems at present to care a great deal about a bunch of fanatically loyal Irishmen and, make no mistake Reverend Broughton, to the English you are an Irishman regardless of what flag you fly and what colors you paint your curbstones every July.”

“In view of the fact that one million people in Ulster are of the Loyalist persuasion that may be a somewhat unfortunate view of things.”

“Regardless of religion, Reverend,” Jamie said mildly, “everyone in Northern Ireland needs to start looking forward rather than back.”

“And does looking forward mean looking South?”

“It means looking in all directions that the compass points, to Europe, to America and yes, to the Republic.”

“Well said, James,” the Duke said, accepting with a wink and a smile Pamela’s offer to refill his brandy snifter. “This global market notion wafting around in Parliament has its merits. Ireland will need to heal her wounds in order to be fit enough to compete on a world level.”

“Change for the sake of rich man’s banter? You’d have a hard time selling that notion to your average voter in the streets.”

“It’s only the orthodox who are afraid of change, Reverend,” Jamie said mildly.

“And it’s only the radicals who embrace change without questioning its long-term consequences.”

“At least,” Jamie replied, pausing to put more ice in his drink, “embracing requires action.”

“As you said yourself, Lord Kirkpatrick, touché. Tell me though, are you willing then to embrace a new Ireland of jerrybuilt houses and glass monstrosities, of people—poor people—living in stacked-up housing on the fringes of this new moneyed society?”

“Have a care for the poor, Reverend and how you use them as a figure of speech. If you take my father’s old seat in Parliament these people will be your concern, all flesh and blood, all with lives and hopes, fears and dreams. How do you propose to de-marginalize the poor, bearing well in mind, of course, that the vast majority of them are Catholic? Will you bring the Catholic ghetto inside the walled bastion of old line Protestantism? Will you sit down to tea in the Ardoyne? Will you break bread with the priests and kiss the ring of the Cardinals? Be wary in your use of the poor, if you make promises, they’ll watch to see that you keep them.” All this was said lightly, almost blithely as if he were discussing the mating habits of butterflies or some other contrary creature.

Across the room though, looking through the soft evening light, a flurry of sprightly violin notes reaching their apex around her ears, Pamela watched and listened and heard the discordant notes in his speech. The strain of the evening was beginning, however faintly, to show. And knew if she had sensed it so had the Reverend.

As apparently, for all his bluff and hearty posturing, had the Duke for he carefully turned the tables.

“James tells me you’ve a few opinions about my factories that you’d like to share, Miss O’Flaherty.”

Pamela swallowed and shooting a glare in Jamie’s general direction said, “Did he?”

“He did,” the Duke replied dryly but with an encouraging smile. “Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to come and sit by Edyth and I and tell me what these opinions are.”

After pouring herself a tumbler of whiskey for courage she sat near the Duke which put her in range of Jamie and the Reverend. She marshaled her thoughts and avoided the amused green of Jamie’s gaze.

“Perhaps first you’ll tell me what’s wrong with my factories.”

She took a deep breath and smoothing the brown fabric across her knees with a sweaty palm plunged in headfirst.

“Well to begin with they’re antiquated, the machinery dates back to the last century. The safety record is abominable; there’s been seven serious life-altering injuries in the last year alone. You’re in violation of at least sixteen different city ordinances that I can think of and the pay scale isn’t even seventy percent of the European average for similar industry. Benefits are close to non-existent, and the take-home pay is only enough to exist on, not enough,” she turned and met Jamie’s eyes, he nodded in encouragement and she faced the Duke again, “to dream on,” she finished in a rush of breath.

The Duke eyed her for a moment, a hard light in his eyes. “You’ve done your homework, I can admire that but what exactly do you know of these people that work for me, Miss O’Flaherty? Or are they statistics on a sheet to you?”

“I think I could relax better Your Grace if you’d call me Pamela.”

“Then I think it would be best if you left off with the ‘your grace’ bit my dear.”

“Deal,” she smiled shakily. “I live in the Ardoyne. It’s only recently become my neighborhood but some things don’t take an entire lifetime to understand. There’s a surfeit of hope wherever there’s a lack of employment, surely anyone can see that. Still, people shouldn’t have to feel fortunate to have any job, regardless of the meager pay and medieval working conditions.”

The Duke raised his eyebrows.

“Alright,” she acquiesced, “I’ll take back the medieval, but really you need to go into those factories, talk to the workers, see them as people with families, with needs and wants. With faces.”

“You’ve taken a socialist under your wing here, Jamie,” the Duke said but the words were spoken warmly and his wife patted his knee approvingly.

“I’ve been called worse,” Pamela said.

“Will you come with me then, if I go meet the people as you suggest, will you come along as a liaison? A link between neighborhoods so to speak, between the red bricks of Knockdean Park and the ones of Shankill Road.”

“I would, but I am as much of an outsider as yourself Your—”

“Percy my dear,” the Duke’s wife said warmly, “his given name is Percy and it’s not used often enough.”

“Percy,” Pamela amended. “I know someone who does belong to the neighborhood, who understands the lay of the land, someone that the people would trust. If he went with you it would be taken as a show of good faith.”

“Who is this person?”

“His name is Pat Riordan,” she said and took a nervous gulp of her whiskey.

“A name,” the Duke said dryly, “I’ve heard once or twice of late.” He eyed her shrewdly, “And if it’s not too impertinent may I ask how you are acquainted with this man?”

“I share a home with him and his brother.”

“I see,” the Duke said and she could see he was taking her measure, weighing her words and the reasons he had to listen to her advice. It was possible that he’d disapprove of her bringing Pat into the situation.

“Right then, young lady you’ve presented your case and I’ve listened. But that’s all just words isn’t it? You bring this young man,” he gave a wry smile, “to my offices on Monday morning first thing and we’ll see what there is to be done.”

“Thank you,” she said.

The Duke turned then to speak to the man on his right who worked with the Trades and Commissions Bureau. His wife patted Pamela’s hand, “You did a good job there dear; he really listened to you. Most brave, all things considered.” She shot a stern look over Pamela’s head at Jamie.

“Riordan is a name,” the Reverend cleared his throat, “rather famous in Republican circles, isn’t it?”

“It’s a common enough name,” Jamie said lightly, saving her the expense of answering.

“It’s only that someone in the public light has to be careful how far out into the fringe elements they venture, wouldn’t you agree, Lord Kirkpatrick?”

“One should always be careful when they stray out of their own element and when they do would be wise to remember they may not understand the rules by which this other world is ruled. Being on the road doesn’t necessarily mean you know where it leads.”

“You’re being rather cryptic, even for you, James,” the Duke said his attention turned back to the two men.

“Oh not at all,” Lucien said a benevolent smile on his lips, “Lord Kirkpatrick puts me in mind of an old Chinese tale wherein the Emperor is tricked into believing he’s merely visiting a friendly home when really he’s being borne across the ocean toward the enemy. A stratagem I believe it’s called, a military maneuver designed to obscure the true purpose or design of something. Am I right, Lord Kirkpatrick?”

The pale eyes met and locked with the hectically green ones.

“Smoke and mirrors, Reverend Broughton, so much in this world is smoke and mirrors,” Jamie said prolonging his stare until the Reverend blinked.

“Indeed,” Lucien murmured, “the appearance of a thing is rarely ever the true nature of the thing at all, is it? As you say, Lord Kirkpatrick, smoke and mirrors. And on that note, I believe I must take my leave of you. I thank you for a most pleasant and enlightening evening.”

“I hope you didn’t take offense to any of our differing opinions,” Jamie said, all polite charm.

“Certainly not, I always enjoy matching wits with someone of similar intelligence. Again thank you for your hospitality, no you needn’t walk me to the door, I know the way. You must attend to your other guests.”

“Indeed I must,” Jamie rose, all fluid grace and control. Pamela hoped she was alone in noticing the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. The sparring had gone on too long; the façade was maintaining itself on borrowed time as it was.

The Duke, casting a quick eye over Jamie himself, announced in loud tones that he too must take his leave as the hour was reaching unholy climes. Following suit, as indeed the Duke had intended they should, the rest of the company departed with effusive thanks and murmured invitations to their own homes.

Pamela retrieved the Duke and his wife’s coats herself, taking the opportunity to thank them for their time and consideration in listening.

The Duke paused in the doorway, as his Bentley slid smoothly round on the graveled drive. “Knew a chap named O’Flaherty, damned good businessman, American, well transplanted Irishman actually, any relation to you?”

“No, I’m afraid not, it’s a common enough name, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” he met her eyes in understanding, “you look rather a lot like him, funny world isn’t it?”

“It is that.”

Closing the door behind the Duke, she leaned against it in relief, exhaustion running into her full tilt.

“Well,” she said sensing Jamie’s presence behind her, “who won that round the Christians or the lions?”

“I’m afraid it was overall a bit of a draw, though we may have to award him the opening gambit.” His voice was grim.

“What’s wrong Jamie?” she turned seeking his face in the shadows.

“He’s been here before and the worrisome thing is he wanted me to know it.”

She strained the evening’s conversations back and forth in her mind, “Are you certain?”

“Oh yes, I’m certain. He made a comment about the scent of white lilacs and how heady they’d been in the spring. It was out of context and very pointed. He was here in the spring, or someone who works for him was and he wanted to be certain that I knew it. The question of course is why?”

“Too many questions and not enough answers. Are you alright, Jamie?” For he had slumped without warning against the wall.

“Fine, too much wine and not enough water I’m afraid.”

“Are you drunk?” she asked, guiding him up toward the stairs.

“There’s no need to insult my dear,” he replied, “twelve drams of whiskey, four firkins of ale and a vat of wine only lend a mellow sweetness to my spirit.”

“You
are
drunk,” she said opening the door to his bedroom and standing aside so he could enter unimpeded.

“I can hear all the hallowed generations of Kirkpatricks whirligigging in their Hebridean graves at the thought,” he sighed extravagantly, and flopped with a certain elegance onto his bed, managing to kick his shoes off in the process.