The Eden Tree (3 page)

* * * *

In the morning, with the brilliant sunshine streaming in all the windows of the old house, she half imagined that she had dreamed the whole thing. But when she bathed in the old fashioned clawfoot bathtub, she saw the faint purpled stain of bruises where his fingers had gripped her forearms. And when she pinned up her hair in front of the gilt bordered mirror hanging on the plaster wall, she saw the red marks his mouth had left on the side of her throat. She gripped the wooden chest below the mirror, swaying slightly, feeling again his lips and his hands. It had been real. No phantom could have made such an impression.

Linn was still reeling from the shock of the experience, which had opened up a new world for her. After the years of frustration with Rick she had almost believed that there was something wrong with her, that Rick had been unresponsive because she wasn’t woman enough to generate a response. But one moonlit interlude with the caretaker had convinced her otherwise.

She heard the sound of a key in the lock and then the hallooing of a feminine voice. Linn smiled. This must be the fabled Bridie. She picked up her robe from the bed and went out to meet her.

* * * *

Unlike Linn, Connor Clay had spent a sleepless night. He’d gone back to the gatehouse and paced around, then went outside and paced around some more. She was the last woman on earth he would have chosen to desire this way, but there simply was no choice involved.

So that was Kevin Pierce’s daughter. Faith, she was lovely. With that cascading yellow hair, silver in the moonlight, and that sweet, slender body she had captivated him. She would have yielded to him too, if he hadn’t realized who she was and stopped.

He should have known from the look of her. He’d seen enough glossy American ladies during his year in the States to recognize the type. That style, that subtle sheen and glowing healthiness of skin and eyes and hair, was a uniquely American trait. It came of vitamins and expensive cosmetics and treatments. The little number she was wearing, silk if he wasn’t mistaken, had probably cost enough to feed six starving kids from the Falls Road for a month. Connor slouched against the gatehouse door and watched the sun come up, his expression thoughtful. God, how he’d wanted her. Still did, truth to tell. His hands itched to feel her satiny skin again, his mouth to devour hers, his whole body to merge with that slighter, softer one. He reared up in frustration and kicked a mound of packed dirt. It broke and flew into particles, scattering clumps in a circle. This would never do. He hoped her visit would be a short one. Damn it. No, he didn’t.
 

He hoped that she would stay.

Inside the cottage the phone started to ring. He cursed softly in Gaelic. He never should have gotten the thing installed; people were always calling him and interrupting his work. And who would be ringing at this hour? It was just past dawn. He sighed and went to answer it. Whoever it was would only call again.

* * * *

The housekeeper proved to be a middle aged woman in a print dress, a shawl tucked over her shoulders. Her graying hair was screwed tightly into a bun at the back of her head, and a pair of reading glasses dangled from a chain around her neck. She crushed Linn in a motherly embrace.

“Well, if it isn’t Kevin’s daughter come home to us, all the way from America.” She stepped back, her hazel eyes dancing, and surveyed Linn smilingly. “Why, you’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you? You put me in mind of a cousin of mine from County Meath, so you do. That same fair hair. We don’t see much of that hereabouts; we’re all dark in the south, you know.” She took Linn by the hand and led her into the kitchen. “Sit yourself down, lass, you’ve come a long way.” She clapped her hand to her forehead. “Oh, I’ve lost my wits. I didn’t say who I was. You must be thinking I’m mad. I’m Bridie Cleary, love; I look after the house for the old man.” She quickly amended that. “For Mr. Pierce. At least I did. Terrible tragedy, both of them going so close together.” She removed her shawl and fingered the wisps of hair about her ears.

“I guessed who you were,” Linn said when she could get a word in edgewise. “How do you do, Mrs. Cleary?”

“Oh, Bridie, love, Bridie. Mrs. Cleary is my mother- in-law, still with us at eighty-five. Would you like some breakfast? I don’t know what we’ve got; I’ll have a look. Larry Fitzgibbon told me to keep on as I was so I’ve been coming down every day like always, cleaning and keeping out the vermin, you might say.” She went over to one of the cupboards and began removing some earthenware dishes.

“Just coffee would be fine.”

Bridie made a mournful face. “Only tea, dear. We don’t drink much coffee. Plus I’m told the brew we make tastes like dishwater anyway. What’s your Christian name, girl?”

“Aislinn.”

“Lovely.” The housekeeper beamed. “Lovely.” She crossed to the black iron stove and got the kettle. Linn looked around the kitchen. Attempts had been made to modernize it but by current standards it was still woefully dated.

“You made reference before to my father,” Linn said. “Did you know him?”

“Why sure I did, lass, sure I did. When he was young himself, before he went to the States.” The woman’s mouth drew into a thin line. “That was his father’s doing, and no mistake. He was a devil, that Dermot. Could cite Scripture for his purpose and get you to believe it.” She crossed herself hurriedly. “I’ll not speak ill of the dead,” she added ominously.

Linn filed this exchange away for future reference. She might be able to get more out of Bridie at another time. Linn had always wondered about the source of the quarrel between her father and her grandfather, and this woman probably knew more than she was willing to reveal on first acquaintance.

Bridie filled the kettle and put the water on for tea. “I know I have eggs,” she muttered. She turned to Linn. “Will you have an egg and some biscuits? There might be stirabout too. Porridge, that is. Just take a little longer.”

“An egg would be fine.”

“I hope you’ll stop with us for a while,” the housekeeper said. “I’ll have the cloths off the furniture this day and you’ll settle in nicely. Larry Fitzgibbon, that old blatherskite, said you might be selling the place. That’s never true, is it?”

“I’m not going to sell it,” Linn said firmly. “Mr. Fitzgibbon thinks I should. He feels that it’s too big for me to look after, too much responsibility. I know he means well but I have no family left at all. My mother died when I was born and now my father is gone too. My heritage is here, my roots.” And Clay is here, Linn added silently. She admitted to herself that he was part of it now as well.

Bridie Cleary thought so too. She shot Linn a sidelong glance. “Met the keeper, have you?” she asked slyly.

Linn could feel herself turning red. “The keeper?” she said, feigning ignorance.

“Him that lives in the cottage beyond, looks after the grounds. Good-looking young fella, strapping and wonderful tall, great mass of curly hair on his head.”

“Oh, yes. I ran into him last night.” That was almost the literal truth.

“I thought you might. He starts marching at sunset, like one of those vampires. Rattles ‘round all night like Tim Doolin’s ghost. It’s a shame, I say.”

“What is?”

Bridie shook her head sadly. “He can’t sleep, poor man. His memories keep him awake.”

“Why?”

Not surprisingly, Bridie was eager to talk about it. As a matter of fact, since she’d arrived she’d done far more talking than cleaning. She was at the moment making some ineffectual swipes at the countertop with a disreputable-looking rag, and breaking eggs with her other hand. Linn smiled to herself. Bridie was a bit more garrulous than fastidious.

“Well,” Bridie said, turning to Linn conspiratorially, “he was in the fighting up north. He was wounded, shot up terrible bad, almost killed entirely. Came south to recover and has been back these several months. All day he’s inside writing books and at night he walks. It’s a sight more than a body can bear, I’ll tell you that much. Fine young lad like that, it breaks my heart.”

“Writing what books?” Linn asked, curious.

Bridie shrugged to indicate that it was all beyond her. “Some are translations of the old language from what I’ve been told. I can’t read it, more’s the pity.”

“He translates Gaelic?” This was unusual. It was a difficult tongue and had been banned in Ireland for so long that it had almost passed out of memory. There had been a succession of movements to revive it but only a small group in the country were fluent in it. Linn had read an article about it coming over on the plane.

“Why did he come back here?” Linn asked.

“Did you not know? He was raised here, in that cottage. His parents worked for Dermot. His mother was in service at the house; his father ran the Pierce mines. All sold now. Those days are gone forever. But Dermot gave the boy the gatehouse, rent free, for as long as he wished to stay. So when he was hurt he came back home. And now he writes there and takes care of the place when it needs it. Not much to be done nowadays; most of it’s gone back to woods.” The woman removed the pan from the stove and put Linn’s egg on a plate. “So you’re a teacher, then? What do you teach?”

“I’m an associate professor of literature at a college in New Jersey,” Linn responded automatically, her mind on what Bridie had said about Clay. It was fascinating information.

“A professor of literature,” Bridie repeated, awed. “Grand, grand. There’ll be some competition for himself about the place, I’m thinking. How long will you stop with us?”

“The summer. I go back to work in the fall.” The phone rang in the hall, interrupting the conversation. Linn listened to the distinctive European ring—tinny, one-two, one-two. The sound echoed in the still house, making it seem louder than it actually was.

Bridie bustled to answer it, officious in this appointed chore. After a moment she returned, a sour look on her face. “It’s Mr. Fitzgibbon, asking after you.”

“I’ll take it.” As Linn walked past her Bridie leaned in and whispered, “I wouldn’t pay him much mind, dear. He’s taken the pledge at least ten times and it’s never stopped him from having a jar in my presence.”

Linn didn’t even try to decode that message. They were all speaking English around here, but half the time she couldn’t tell what they’d said.

“Hello, Mr. Fitzgibbon,” she said into the phone.

“Dr. Pierce. How are you this morning?” His brogue was deeper and thicker than Clay’s. He sounded like Barry Fitzgerald on the retro movie channel.

“Fine, sir.”

“Well, will you be coming in to go over those deeds, lass? If I’m to settle the estate legally you have to sign the papers.”

“Yes. I’ll be in this morning, as I said.”

“Brilliant. I’ve spoken to Con already and asked him to carry you along with him when he comes to town. It’s a long walk and I thought about you. He has a car and has to drop off a contract for me, so it will save you the hike.’‘

“Con?” she said faintly. She knew who he meant.

“Connor Clay, girl; you met him last night. He said so when I called him.”

“Oh, yes.” Oh, God. She was not going to have time to recover from that experience. He would probably be on her doorstep at any minute.

“He’ll call for you around ten,” Fitzgibbon said, confirming her fears. “I’ll say goodbye then.” The line went dead.

Linn replaced the receiver, wondering what else Clay might have said to the lawyer. Met her, indeed. He’d met her all right. She went back to the kitchen and told Bridie only that she had to get dressed. God help her, she was going into Ballykinnon with “Con.”

“Just have your tea, then; it’s all made,” Bridie said, smiling knowingly. “Take a bite of that egg, too. You’re all bones. You Americans are all starving yourselves to skeletons and I can’t think why.”

Linn downed the egg in two forkfuls and swallowed half a mug of tea. That should provide indigestion for the rest of the day. Then she sprinted for the guest room and tried to decide what to wear. She unfolded a skirt and blouse from her suitcase, then darted into the adjacent bathroom and dressed quickly. He would be on time; she knew it.

He was. She heard his voice moments later, talking to Bridie in the other room. The sound of it made her stomach knot. How could she possibly face him this morning after what had happened the previous night? Oh, well. There was no help for it.

Linn smoothed her skirt and grabbed her purse. She met him in the hall, where he was waiting. He looked up and she saw him in daylight for the first time.

Her impression of his appearance was confirmed. He had heavily marked brows and a bold jawline, a high-bridged nose and thin, well defined lips. He was very attractive in that special way that has more to do with coloring and expression than actual symmetry of features. He had the beautiful eyes for which the Irish were justly famous, expressive, thickly lashed. And his body, clad today in the omnipresent blue jeans and a plaid shirt, was as graceful as she remembered. He was perfectly proportioned, as if sculpted from the earth he was named for by some Gaelic Praxiteles.

He was watching her too, looking her over, comparing memory with morning reality.
 

And Bridie Cleary was watching them watch each other.

“Hi,” Linn said.

He nodded. “Hello, miss.”

“Shall we go?” Linn asked. Bridie was taking too great an interest in the proceedings.