Flight of the Earls (32 page)

“Do whatever you must. His death will be mine as well.”

They scattered before he reemerged and when Patrick did, his eyes were lit with fury.

“Who did this to him?” Patrick closed the bedroom door behind him. “I want to know now and you can save the lies.”

“It was an accident,” Pierce said.

“An accident? Did he just happen to fall on a blade?”

“He went mad on us on account of losing the fight. He tried to choke me.” Pierce pointed to the striations on his neck.

“You should have let him, you imbecile,” Patrick spat out. “Have you forgotten who this man belongs to? He'll kill me, he will. All of us.”

“Don't speak that way,” Tressa said.

Patrick took his hat off and ran his fingers through his thinning hair, looking like a cornered and wounded animal. “Could there ever be a more terrible night?”

“How did John lose?” Seamus asked, with a tinge of revulsion. “I thought Billy . . . I thought it was all arranged and by you.”

Patrick drifted over to the studded leather chair and slid down into it. “I did. It was.”

“Well . . . apparently,” Seamus said, “no one remembered to tell Billy.”

“You? What had you to lose? A week's earnings or two? What would you know about loss? No. This was well hatched by a skilled adversary, one I've been losing to for years. The fix was on us, boys. But worse than that, he'll think we took our vengeance out on his man John Barden. We're good as dead.”

“You two need to get out of here,” said Tressa.

“She's right.” Patrick nodded.

“We're not leaving without Clare,” Pierce said.

“You will if you care for her.” Patrick glared at him. “If she's seen with you now, she'll share your fate.”

Clare stepped forward. “We're not separating. We'll go together or not at all.”

“That's foolish talk, sister,” Seamus said. “He's right. We need to go our ways until this settles down. But what about Clare?”

Patrick rolled his hat in his hands. “Tressa knows where she'll be safe. Don't you, dear?”

The woman looked to Patrick with questioning in her eyes. “Over there?”

“Yes,” he said with resolve. “It's time. It's the only way now.”

“Where are you taking her?” Pierce asked.

“It's preferable you don't know in case you get caught,” Patrick said. “She'll be well taken care of. Much better than she is now.”

Clare's uncle stood. “Now get going, lads. Find yourself a dark cave and don't show your heads for quite a while.”

Outside, police whistles could be heard.

“Somebody must have heard the screaming,” Tressa said.

Patrick walked over to the window and peeked out, being careful not to be seen. “There's a door behind the bar. You know about it. Just don't leave by the front door. I think they are coming in. Godspeed to you boys.”

Tressa gave each of them a hug and Clare did as well, though her head was spinning with indecision.

“Be good to yourself, Clare.” Seamus kissed her on the cheek.

“Wait for us,” Pierce said. “We'll be back soon enough.”

With this they opened the door and they were gone, their footsteps echoing down the hallway. Clare shuddered as a thought came upon her that she might never see them again.
Should I run after them? Is it a mistake to let them leave me behind?

“Go, Tressa.”

“Are you sure about this, Paddy?” The woman's face was etched with sadness.

He took off his wool coat and put it on Clare. “'Tis no way, I fear. Perhaps he'll consider this settled and finally put an end to it all.”

Tressa started to cry. “I'm sorry, dear,” she said to Clare. “We must go.”

The whistles sounded outside again and shouts were heard. Patrick craned his neck toward the window. “They must of caught wind of the boys and are in chase. I don't know why they aren't up here yet. Go, woman. Be gone.”

Clare felt the urge to say good-bye to John, but she couldn't deny the urgency. And when Tressa grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the door, Clare didn't resist.

Into the shield of the darkness they fled.

Chapter 31

Into His Arms

“Are you all right, dear?”

Clare, who was rocking in a chair by the window in a corner of this musty room, covered her eyes and sobbed softly to herself. She was anything but all right. Was John Barden dead by now? Was her brother safe?

After a few moments, she gathered herself and wiped her tears with a handkerchief embroidered with initials she didn't recognize. “I'm sorry . . . a . . . Miss Winters. Yes. I'm fine. I just need some rest, that's all.”

Sitting across from her with a cup of tea in her hands was a slender woman in her late thirties who wore a bright blue, tightly trimmed dress, with brown hair swirled and steeped precariously high upon her head. “I know, love. You must be exhausted. Completely. But you have your visitor coming. We can't keep him waiting. It's all been arranged by Patrick.”

Clare glanced outside the window again, drawn toward the candles glowing in the night.

“They've been there for hours,” Miss Winters said.

“Who are they?”

The woman drew the cup to her lips and sipped slowly and audibly before clanking it back to its china saucer. “Oh, we see them about once a week. They are mostly harmless, saying they are here for the ladies. But in the end they hurt the girls because they can't earn if their patrons are fearful to show. Our customers don't care to be noticed by the people they share a church pew with on Sundays. Might even be one of their wives.

“Jurists, bankers, merchants, men of high reputation, pillars of the community—they all come to us here in the Five Points to escape the boredom. It's quite simple. We take care of their most basic needs, so they come back.”

“You make it sound so civil,” Clare said.

“Is it not so? Look at them out there, waving their Good Books and dripping with self-righteousness while they deny themselves their innermost thoughts and passions. It's a dishonest way to live, I think. From my eyes, that is.”

The reverberation of voices beginning to blend in harmonies emanated from the candle bearers. It was a hymn Clare didn't recognize, but she found it comforting nonetheless. It seemed her chaotic life had drifted so far away from the songs they sang, and she found herself longing to join in those sweet, soothing melodies.

“Why am I here?” Clare asked.

“Did not Tressa tell you? I thought she had explained it all.”

“She seemed as if she had more to say, but merely told me I would be meeting with someone who could help us. In our situation.”

“Then she did tell you all you need to know.” Miss Winters reached over to a teapot and poured more of the pekoe fluid into her cup. “Can I?” She motioned to the empty cup closest to Clare.

Clare shook her head and looked back out the window. “How can this man be of assistance?” It was hard to see much beyond the flicker of the candles in the moonless dark outside, and she had yet to see the face she was seeking. Even when Tressa had walked her by the evangelists to enter this building, he was not to be seen.

“I'm not free to share more than you were told,” Miss Winters said. “I just encourage you to relax and allow what is to be to be. Some would consider it an honor.”

Was that Andrew? There was a tall and slender figure walking among the elderly women outside. But did she want to see him? After all, he was just interested in her to get to Patrick.

There was a tap on the door that startled Miss Winters. “There. That's him.” She stood, straightened her dress, and patted her hair.

“You look lovely, dear,” she said to Clare. “Quite lovely.”

As the woman opened the door, Clare felt her pulse rising and wanted desperately to flee, but there was nowhere to go. She couldn't bear to watch who was coming through the door.

“Clare. This is Mr. O'Riley.”

Clare stood and turned to face the stranger. Small in stature, dressed sharply in a well-tailored jacket, he peered at her with darting hazel eyes, overgrown gray brows, and an aquiline nose.

“Yes. She is precious indeed. And reminds me so of someone I once knew well.” He held out a hand to her, and when Clare reluctantly held hers out, he grasped it tightly with both hands. “That will be all, Miss Winters,” he said without taking his eyes from Clare.

Clare pleaded without words for the woman not to leave her alone, but Miss Winters merely gave her a nod of encouragement. “Yes, Mr. O'Riley. Can I get you anything else?”

He shrugged with irritation and then Miss Winters slipped out of the room. The sound of the door snapping shut sealed Clare's abandonment. Only minutes earlier she was at the outreaches of fatigue, but now terror awakened her senses.

“Please, child. Have a seat there. We have much to discuss. I've been anticipating our acquaintance for some time, you should know. I know you better than you might think.”

Clare froze and glanced at the doorway.

“Oh, dear,” he said, a half smile curling on his lips. “There is nothing to be afraid of. Please.” He pointed her in the direction of two chairs in front of the fireplace.

She tucked back her dress and sat down, her body completely stiff with fright.

Mr. O'Riley went over to the door with a noticeable limp and pulled across the slide latch. He pulled his arms out of his jacket, as if it pained him to do so, and placed it on a hook on the back of the door. Rubbing his hands together he shimmied to the fireplace and pulled some long matches out from a box.

Eyeing the door again, Clare wondered what it was that was holding her back. Fear? Morbid curiosity? Concern for her brother?

He blew onto the small flame and the dry coal lit easily and spread. “There it is. That should do it.” On the mantel he pulled down a glass carafe and two glasses and he began to fill both. “Imported from Dublin. Have you been?”

“I have not yet been.”

“Roscommon, right?” He handed her a glass, and she took it with no intention of drinking. “Branlow?”

“How did you . . . ?” She felt her senses crawling with displeasure.

“Oh, Clare. I told you.” He set the whiskey bottle on the table between them. Then he pulled his chair close to hers and sank down, groaning as his joints bent. “Don't ever age. It's my greatest regret.”

In the background, Clare could faintly hear the chorus of a hymn being sung. It was too low for her to discern any words, but she found it reassuring.

“I understand you've been acquainted with my daughter?”

Clare shrugged and her finger circled the rim of the glass.

He cocked his head sideways. “No. Don't you remember?” He leaned in close to Clare and reached one of his wrinkled hands toward her chest, causing her to snap back.

Mr. O'Riley cackled, with the death throttle of a longtime smoker. “Oh, child. Be still.” Extending his hand at her again, she trembled as he reached for the chain around her neck and pulled out the pendant from her dress and cupped it in his hand.

Then it registered. Madame O'Riley. “She's your . . . ?”

“Yes, she is.” He laid the pendant back on her chest and then slouched back in his chair. “With the same surname still. Never married, although we had our fair share of suitors, including your uncle, a Mr. Tomas Hanley. And your father as well. Liam.”

“What about my father?”

“If it makes you feel better, your father knew my Rose years before he married your mother. You see, I knew your grandfather and your grandmother . . . the Englishwoman. They would come to market in Roscommon, looking for dairy cows, and they would always bring the two boys, Liam and Tomas. Those two fought all of the time. The two boys, that is. And when they saw my Rose. Well . . .”

“I don't believe you,” Clare said.

“It was innocent, child. They were two young boys, barely men. My Rose didn't think much of your father. Thought him too serious. But she did fall for your uncle. She said he reminded her of me.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Clare found herself repulsed by the very sight of this man.

He lifted the glass to his mouth and sipped the whiskey as he stared into the glowing embers of the fire.

Then Clare heard the voices again from outside. Lofting. Sweet.

“What wondrous love is this, O my soul, O my soul!”

“What wondrous love is this, O my soul, O my soul!”

“That's probably why I never cared for the man.” He laughed again. “But that didn't keep him away from my Rose. They were off again and on again. Even while he was married to your aunt, I'm afraid. Meara. Right?”

“Why must you tell me this?” Clare's eyes filled with tears.

“There's an ending to this. Hang with me, Clare. It's an interesting story.” He sipped his drink. “I learned early on your uncle had a rare talent I simply didn't possess in my business ventures. He's very good when it comes to people. They love him. Find him amusing. So I put my feelings aside and offered him work. We prospered. When I arrived here in this land of prosperity, I sent back home for him. He said he would only come if I would give him my Rose. So now you learn something about me.”