Toward the Sea of Freedom (6 page)

On the Monday after Michael’s disappearance, Kathleen continued her work in the manor as usual. Together with Gráinne, she lit the fireplaces, whose flames cast ghostly shadows on the walls.

At least it was warm for the women—and Trevallion did not bother them. Moreover, Kathleen stole a few moments to look more carefully at the Wetherbys’ heavy velvet curtains and valuable furniture—she even dared to sit in one of the chairs, imagining an afternoon tea to which she had invited friends. If Michael was right, she, too, would one day have such lovely things, and a housemaid would light her fireplaces. In the New World, she would be free; she could earn money, become rich.

Kathleen gave in to her dreams for a few heartbeats—or rather, to Michael’s dreams. She did not need a manor herself, or heavy chairs or velvet curtains. Kathleen would have been content with a cottage—a cozy little house, covered in ivy, with a cute garden where she could grow vegetables and trees. It should have a nice living room and a bedroom, a kitchen, and perhaps another room for the children. Not just one tiny room filled with smoke from the single fireplace as in her parents’ house.

It suddenly dawned on Kathleen that she was dreaming of Ralph Trevallion’s house. The steward lived in just such a cottage a little removed from the village and manor.

No!
She chided herself for her thoughts. No house could ever make her marry someone as hard-hearted as Trevallion. Not to mention that she was carrying Michael’s child.

As Kathleen stood up somewhat cumbersomely from the armchair to return to her work, she heard loud voices in the house.

“Oh, my Lord, no! Oh, merciful Mary!” said Gráinne. The old cook and housekeeper was screaming and moaning as if her heart had been broken.

Kathleen ran down the stairs and found Gráinne in the manor’s vestibule, sunk down on the lowest step, lamenting and cursing.

“I can’t do anything about it, Gráinne,” Ron Flannigan was saying, his hand awkwardly on the old woman’s shoulder. “I just thought I’d tell you myself. Before Trevallion hits you with it. And before, before . . .”

“Before the soldiers come? Before they—oh no, they wouldn’t! They’re not going to throw me out, are they? Tear down my house? Merciful God, Ron, I’ve eight other children.”

Ron Flannigan shook his head barely noticeably. In his voice and entire comportment lay true regret. “I know it well, Gráinne. You’re a good woman, and they’re all good children. But you know the law.”

“English law,” Gráinne spat. “Ron, I’ve served the Wetherbys. These many years, I’ve always been true, never stolen—well, no more than a few bites of bread. If only the lord and lady were here. If I could throw myself at the lady’s feet. She’d have mercy, to be sure.”

“What’s going on here?” Kathleen asked. “What can be so awful, Gráinne, that—”

A look at Ron Flannigan’s face silenced her. Any encouraging word was inappropriate just then.

“They’ve arrested Billy Rafferty,” Ron explained. “They’re accusing him of stealing Trevallion’s grain.”

“But it wasn’t him!” howled Gráinne. “Good Lord, you all know my Billy. A little braggart, but just like a rooster—all talk. He’d never come up with the idea of stealing the lord’s grain. Who’d he sell it to anyway?”

“We don’t know,” Ron said seriously. “But they found money on him. More than three pounds; he can’t have made it anywhere else. Certainly not playing the tin whistle.”

“Playing the tin whistle!” yelled Gráinne. “The fiddler, that no-good Drury boy. I’d bet he . . .”

“Michael Drury has disappeared,” said Ron. “And yes, we can assume he had something to do with it. But your Billy was in Wicklow on Saturday, Gráinne, and came home drunk. And last night he got into his cups again, with friends; he paid for half the village. This morning at work they all smelled of rotgut, and your Billy could not stand up straight. Are you surprised Trevallion was asking about it? No one told him, if that’s what you’re thinking, Gráinne. Even though he spilled a few things last night to his drinking buddies around the fire. About the whiskey, the distillers, his wonderful new job in Wicklow.”

“Merciful Mother of God, if he tells that to the redcoats!” Gráinne crossed herself at the thought of English soldiers.

Ron sighed. “They’ll beat it out of him sooner or later,” he said. “But maybe it’d be better for him to talk. So far they’re blaming him alone. When it turns out that the Drury boy was involved too . . .”

An icy chill shot up Kathleen’s spine. Billy would betray Michael. It was as inevitable as the priest’s amen during Mass. He might even betray her as well. After all, he knew why Michael had risked stealing. And more than anything—merciful God—she hoped he knew nothing about Barney’s Tavern.

Kathleen’s mind raced. She had to warn Michael. She needed to get to Wicklow before the soldiers interrogated Billy. And then it would be best just to stay with him. She could not do any more anyway. Now it all lay in Billy Rafferty’s hands as to whether her family would be driven from house and home. When Trevallion learned that she had fled with Michael, he would accuse the O’Donnells of complicity.

Kathleen ran outside. Gráinne would not look for her; she now had bigger worries than the fireplaces in the manor. And Ron had hardly noticed her; he seemed not to know anything about her and Michael.

Heedless, Kathleen ran out onto the road. At least she had put on her shawl against the winter cold. There were a few things from her parents’ house she would have liked to bring along, but there was no chance of that now. Her mother and siblings were surely at home, and they would be able to tell that something was troubling her.

Kathleen said adieu to them all in her heart. Then, determined, she turned toward Wicklow.

Chapter 4

The road to Wicklow stretched out long and wide before Kathleen. She sometimes walked and sometimes ran, moving as fast as she could. Still, anyone on horseback would easily overtake her, as two riders already had. Kathleen tried to remain calm as she continued along the road. It would grow dark before she reached town.

Suddenly, she heard a carriage rolling up behind her. Perhaps Billy was already being taken to prison in Wicklow. Half fearful and half hopeful, she turned to look and saw two powerful dappled horses in front of the cart and a familiar man on the box. It was Ian Coltrane, son of the livestock trader.

“Well, well, who do we have here?” Ian grinned down at her. “If it isn’t little Kathleen O’Donnell. Whither goest thou, sweetheart?”

Kathleen forced herself to smile back. Ian Coltrane was handsome, a swarthy young man with flashing eyes. He was around twenty years old, somewhat older than Michael. He looked a bit like Michael, except his eyes were black like coal. People even whispered that the Coltranes had Gypsy blood.

Where his father, Patrick Coltrane, dealt in sheep and cattle, Ian specialized in horse trading. And he must have been making good money: his plaid jacket was new and padded and warm, his pants were made of leather, and his boots were solid. Kathleen looked at them almost enviously. Her own shoes were worn and not warm enough. Her feet already felt like ice blocks.

“To, to Wicklow,” she answered. “I’m, I’m visiting an aunt. She’s sick.”

Ian grinned. “So your mother sent you off with nothing but a woolen shawl?” he said, looking at Kathleen’s empty hands and her clothes, too thin for such a journey.

Kathleen blushed. Of course, she should have thought about that. True, the O’Donnells were poor, but her mother would have managed a little something for a sick relative, and surely she would have found a coat to better equip Kathleen for the cold. Likewise, Kathleen would have worn her Sunday dress for a visit to town.

“We, we don’t have anything to give,” she explained briefly. “I’m going to offer my aunt comfort and company.”

Ian laughed. “I could use some of that as well,” he teased her. “So if you’d like to offer me a bit, there’s still a spot open next to me.” He knocked on the box.

There was also a bench in the back of the two-wheeled cart where Kathleen would have much preferred to sit. But saddlery and tools lay strewn about, and beggars could not be choosers. So she climbed onto the box and took a seat next to Ian. He had the horses trot onward again. Behind the cart followed two more horses and a mule.

“And, and you?” Kathleen asked, though she was not at all interested. “Where are you going?”

Ian raised his eyebrows. “Where does it look like? Do you think I’m taking the nags for a walk? The horse market in Wicklow. Early morning in the square off the wharf. I hope I can make some money from these three.”

Kathleen glanced at the horses. She knew one of them.

“The black one isn’t young anymore, is he?” she asked.

That horse had pulled the cobbler’s cart since Kathleen was a little girl. Or was she mistaken? Wasn’t the cobbler’s horse already gray around the eyes? And didn’t it have a saddle sore on its back that was white? The horse that was now behind the cart was a gleaming black.

“That one? He’s six years old and not a day more.” Ian acted insulted. “Look at his teeth if you don’t believe me.”

Kathleen shrugged. The teeth would not have told her anything, but she could have sworn she had picked dandelions when it was waiting for its master in front of the cobbler’s workshop. Those were better days, when people did not cook the weeds on the roadside into soup. The horse had a sort of twirled mustache over its nostrils. Kathleen had never seen that on an animal before, and the cobbler must have thought it peculiar, too, or he would not have called the horse Blackbeard. But Kathleen did not want to argue with Ian. She was much too happy about getting a ride for that. The dappled horses trotted merrily onward. Surely, it was not more than an hour or so to Wicklow.

So Kathleen tried to move the conversation from the horses to more innocuous subjects. She asked about Ian’s father, whose business, according to Ian, was going rather badly.

“Doesn’t have any money at the moment,” Ian said casually.

This surprised Kathleen. Ian’s father was a tenant of Lord Wetherby too, but he was in a much better position than the others. Patrick Coltrane was not working off his rent, since he paid it with his income from livestock trading.

“At least not from cows and sheep,” Ian added, almost contemptuously. “What would they eat anyway? People are digging up the last roots themselves, after all.”

“But you can sell horses?” Kathleen wondered.

Ian laughed. “There are always a few rich gentlemen. In Wicklow and Dublin, some still need a horse—or want one. You just need to make it clear to them that a horse’ll make a lord out of a chandler. And in the country, the nags are cheap now.”

Kathleen wondered just how much these chandlers knew about horses. They might well buy old Blackbeard once Ian made them believe it came from Lord Wetherby’s stables.

“But I won’t be staying here long,” Ian ultimately revealed to her. “Not much money in this country. Enough to live, but if you want a bit more, no, I’m off overseas. I want to make a fortune.”

“Really?” Kathleen asked, suddenly interested.

Ian was the first she’d heard speak of emigrating out of true excitement rather than pure need.

“A, a friend of mine also talks about that,” she said. “And I, I . . .”

Ian looked at her curiously. “You want to as well? Well, that makes you the exception. Most of the girls you talk to about the colonies only tremble in fright.”

“Well, there is the crossing.”

Ian snorted. “The crossing. Fine, it’s not going to be cozy, and there won’t be much to eat. But compared to what you get to eat here, it would likely be better. Although you seem to me to be eating rather well, sweetheart. You are a lovely maid. And one with such vitality.”

They rode on for a while in silence. Then Ian looked at Kathleen, who was shaking with cold, with new interest.

“You cold, sweetheart?” he asked, seeming concerned. He produced a blanket and put it around Kathleen’s shoulders, pulling her a little closer as he did. “Come now, I’ll keep you warm.”

Kathleen was relieved they had just passed the sign for Wicklow.

Ian’s hand wandered underneath the blanket, across Kathleen’s shoulders and toward her neckline.

Kathleen pushed away from him.

“Could you, could you let me down here, please?” she asked.

Ian laughed. “Here? But we’re still practically in the wilderness, sweetheart.”

Indeed, this was a suburb in which cute cottages and gardens lay between small fields. They might still be a mile or two from the town center, the wharf, and Barney’s Tavern.

“My aunt, she lives around here somewhere,” Kathleen claimed.

“Oh right, the aunt,” Ian mocked her. “Shouldn’t I take you to her door?”

Kathleen shook her head. “No, no thanks. You’ve done enough; that is, I’ve had enough; I mean, I’ve imposed enough on your kindness. I can walk the rest of the way. Thank you very much, Ian.”

Ian arched his brows and tugged on the reins. The team stopped at once. “If you insist, your wish is my command. And perhaps we’ll see each other around.” He tipped his cap.

Kathleen clambered down from the box, forcing herself to smile at him. “Sure, on Sunday in church, if you’re ever there.”

Even if she were going to be back at the village for church, Patrick and Ian Coltrane often spent their weekends at livestock markets. This was the reason Ian likely did not know about her situation with Ralph Trevallion. Otherwise, he surely would have teased her about it.

Ian saluted once more before bringing the horses back to a trot. Kathleen desperately hoped never to see him again.

On the horse cart’s box, she had been nearly as cold as on foot. Now she had to force herself, quite stiff and exhausted, to put one foot in front of the other. But surely, it could not be much farther.

Indeed, it was not even completely dark when Kathleen reached High Street. She asked the very first passerby about Barney’s Tavern.

He pointed out the way to her. “You can’t miss it, child, just after the first turn. But what do you want with that place? You could earn more in others.”