Laurel McKee Read online

  Her knees suddenly felt too weak to hold her up, and she collapsed to the floor. She wanted to cry, but it seemed her tears were used up.

  Will had been a precious gift in a dark time; she had always known he could not be hers forever. But now she saw that she had become greedy, because his loss broke her heart. It felt as if a part of her own body were torn away, leaving her cold and aching.

  “I’m sorry, Will,” she whispered.

  Slowly, slowly, she took a deep breath and pulled back into herself again. She had chosen her path, rocky as it was, and she had to stay on it, moving forward one step at a time.

  She rose to her feet, hurrying over to the window to close it against the night. The street was deserted again, silent in a deceptive peace. She drew the curtains shut and turned back to her room.

  The pamphlet was mere bits of charcoal in the grate, but she well knew that other problems could never be made to disappear so easily.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Will’s home at Moreton Manor was a handsome, respectable house, only a few decades old. Built of redbrick faced with gray stone, it would not have been out of place in London or Brighton. It was not as large as Killinan Castle, nor nearly as grand as Carton or Castle-town. But Will had always liked it and remembered it as welcoming—despite the people inside its walls.

  Today, though, welcoming was not quite the right word for Moreton. Chaotic was more like it.

  The front doors were wide open, servants carrying boxes and trunks down the stone front steps to the carts waiting in the drive. Even the windows were agape, maids leaning out to shout new instructions to those below.

  It seemed his mother was in a great hurry to decamp, Will thought as he swung down from his horse. He was weary after the journey from Dublin, but there would obviously be no rest here today.

  He left the horse with one of the grooms, striding past the harried servants and into the foyer. The marble floor was nearly covered by crates, with family portraits stacked along the walls. Even the draperies were gone from the windows.

  “No, no! Do not place the box of silver on top of the china; it will be utterly crushed,” he heard his mother cry, her panicked voice floating out of the drawing room.

  Will peeled off his leather riding gloves, slapping them against his palm as he contemplated the shambles of his home. Surely General Hardwick was quite wrong—there was nothing he could do from here. The populace was in flight from a menace that was as yet invisible and thus even more fearsome.

  He dodged around the crates, his spurs jangling as he entered the drawing room to find even more confusion. The pastel-green chamber, usually lined with glass-fronted cases full of china figurines, bits of antquities, and miniature portraits, was stripped. Maids were taking down the pale yellow draperies at the windows. The only thing still in place was the painting over the fireplace, a portrait of his mother seated on a bench in the Moreton Manor park, Will and his brother’s childhood selves clinging to her silk skirts.

  The real lady stood just beneath the painted one, directing the packing. Her blond hair was mostly gray now, strands of it escaping from her cap. Beneath its ruffles, her face was pale and strained, except for two bright spots of red in her cheeks.

  “Not like that!” she cried, rushing across the room to grab the offending crate. “Must I do everything myself?”

  Will strode across the wooden floor, bare of its carpets, to help the beleaguered footmen slide their burdens into place.

  “William,” his mother said, pushing back her loose hair as she stared at her long-gone son. “You have returned.”

  “So I have, Mother,” he answered. “And just in time, it would seem. Are you going somewhere?”

  Lady Moreton frowned at him. “You are as teasing as ever! Of course I am going somewhere; you are meant to bring my passports. I hope you did not forget them.”

  “It is lovely to see you, too, Mother,” he said, kissing her cheek. “And, yes, I brought you your papers.”

  “There is not a moment to lose.” She cast a suspicious glance at the servants hurrying around them. “Come with me.”

  She grabbed his hand, leading him out of the drawing room by a side door and along a back corridor. Will followed, curious as to what she was about. His mother had always been a nervous sort, prone to see the worst in situations. As the daughter and wife of staunch Tories, she disliked being in a county of Whig families and seemed to resent Will’s father for running off to London without her so often and forcing her to stay behind.

  Not that Will could entirely blame his father. He himself had always liked escaping to Killinan when he was young. Eliza and her family, despite their quarrels and disagreements, loved each other so much. Their teasing affection was a balm to a lonely young man’s heart.

  And when he fell in love with Eliza…

  Eliza. The memory of their parting burned in his heart. When would he see her again? How could he keep her safe?

  His mother led him into the library. Like the drawing room, it was denuded of its possessions, the books gone from the shelves, the paneled walls bare of his father’s hunting prints. Canvas covers muffled the carved furniture too heavy to move.

  And two of the tall windows were broken, the wall below them marred with black scorch marks.

  “You see, William,” she said, her voice trembling, “I must get away from here before they kill me.”

  Will knelt by the dark marks, examining the damage. It still smelled of smoke, the paneling buckled by flames and water. “What happened here?”

  “They tried to burn us out, of course. Luckily, I was sleeping in here with some of the maids, and we managed to put out the fire.”

  Will looked back at her, trying to imagine his fragile mother putting out a fire. “Why were you sleeping in here?”

  “There were rumors in the village of unrest. Lady Louisa Conolly and Lady Killinan went there to try talking to the tenants, to reason with them, the great fools. You cannot reason with animals!” Her voice rose. “I have always hated this loathsome place. I knew something like this would happen eventually.”

  He ran his fingertips over the wall, trying to fathom it. Someone had tried to burn Moreton Manor. Someone hated the Dentons that much.

  “I could not sleep in my own chamber,” his mother went on, twisting a handkerchief in her hands. “Just lying there in bed like some sacrificial victim. So I stayed down here, watching, and thank God I did or this house would be a ruin. Your brother’s legacy, such as it is, would be gone.”

  Will laughed. He was quite certain his brother Henry would not have cared. He would have just built himself a villa in Italy and stayed there with his mistress forever. But he… he was furious someone would frighten his mother, threaten this house.

  “I am glad you are home, William,” his mother said. “You will find those villains and make them pay for their crimes.”

  Will took her in his arms, feeling her thin shoulders tremble as she sobbed against his chest.

  “I was so frightened,” she gasped. “They… they broke the windows with stones, shouting horrible things. Then they threw in the torches. So much smoke—I was sure we would all be killed.”

  “Shh, Mother,” he said gently, even as his anger grew. “You are safe now. And soon you will be in England.”

  It was the crystalline crash of broken glass that tore Will out of his shallow sleep.

  For an instant, he thought it was just another dream, brought on by his mother’s hysterical fears and wild tales. But then he heard it again, the distant crackle of a breaking window downstairs.

  He swung out of bed, still fully dressed, and reached for the loaded pistol he kept ready. Eliza’s portrait sat next to it on the dressing table, her dark eyes watching him steadily.

  “Not this time, Eliza” he muttered, swiping the portrait into a drawer. He could not think of her now. He hurried out of the bedchamber, standing poised on the staircase landing as he listened for any other sound. Less than on
e day home and it felt like an eternity. At least his mother slept now; tomorrow she would leave.

  He had boarded up most of the windows that afternoon, and the house seemed a darkened cave, lit only by one lamp on a pier table outside his door. Obviously, trying to secure the house in any way was a futile endeavor, but the physical activity distracted him as he listened to his mother fretting.

  Only when his muscles burned from the exertion and sweat trickled down his spine did he lose himself for a moment. His other work, trying to find useful information for the authorities, was no distraction at all. As he had warned Hardwick, he had no spying instincts, no acting skills. He had not been home in years, and no one would tell him a thing. The servants were all silent, stony, shrugging away all questions.

  Which was a relief actually. He was a soldier, not a spy, and he disliked dealing in any underhanded methods. But was his work, his very identity, getting him into too much trouble now?

  And trouble in his family’s house. He crept lightly down the stairs, holding on to the pistol. All seemed silent now, and there was no whiff of smoke. Had he merely imagined it after all?

  But, no, there it was again. The faint music of glass falling to the floor, coming from the library, where they had first tried to burn his mother out. Well, by God, they were not going to burn him out. He had as much right to be in Ireland as they.

  Carefully, he eased back the library door, peering inside as he held the gun at the ready.

  It was very dark, all the windows boarded except the small decorative frosted glass panels at the top. The panels were, or had been, etched with the Denton family arms. Now they were shattered, as if the attackers were frustrated they could get no closer to the large windows.

  Will’s senses were heightened as they always were in battle. Now he could hear running footsteps on the gravel outside and could smell the hint of smoke at last.

  He took off running down the corridor and through the foyer, under the sway of the crystal chandelier. He threw back the bolt of the front door, rushing out onto the front steps as a strange recklessness took hold of him. He had had enough of waiting, of worrying about Eliza. He needed action now.

  As his gaze darted swiftly down the driveway, noting every ripple of the shadows, every cloud sliding around the cold moon, he saw they were not being invaded by a United army. One bush was on fire near the house, and three or four figures fled into the night.

  But it was enough. Filled with that cold anger, Will leveled his pistol and fired after them. One man screamed and stumbled, his companions leaving him behind.

  All Will’s instincts cried out to capture him now, but the villain’s pace was slowed. There were more urgent matters first.

  Tearing off his shirt, he leaped off the front steps to beat at the bush. Its summer-dry branches snapped, the flames licking closer to the other trees and shrubbery. It was a small enough fire now, but if he had not been awakened, it would have done its work handily enough.

  He knocked the flames out with his shirt, kicking at the last embers with his boot until there was only the smolder of a pile of charcoal. Then he slid his dagger from its sheath and prowled off after the fallen rebel.

  He was not that difficult to find. The moon was bright, the clouds vanished, and thick droplets of blood stood out on the pale gravel. It trailed away into the park, the footprints thick and blurry in the dirt.

  Will found him collapsed in a pile of old leaves, moaning softly as he clutched at his shoulder. Will knelt down beside him, and as he turned him over, he recognized him. It was Tom O’Neil, the grandson of some of the estate pensioners. He couldn’t be more than seventeen—too young to be out marauding at night, or trying to maraud anyway.

  But he wore a white badge on his sleeve, the mark of the radical Catholic Defenders, violent allies of the United Irishmen. A badge now stained with blood.

  “I see your friends have abandoned you, Tom,” Will said.

  The boy stared up at him with burning, hate-filled eyes. “I told them to go on. No sense letting a redcoat like you kill all of us.”

  Will glanced around cautiously, but it seemed Tom told the truth. He sensed no one else around them, waiting to jump out. But he still held his weapons ready.

  “What makes you think I’m going to kill you?” Will asked.

  “You shot me!” the boy cried.

  “You’re alive, aren’t you? If you get it seen to soon, it will be nothing. A scar to brag about with your Defender cronies. You’re lucky I didn’t blast your whole arm off for terrorizing innocent women like my mother.”

  Despite his dire situation, despite the fear in his young eyes, Tom snorted. “I wouldn’t say Lady Moreton is all that innocent. Been bleeding her tenants dry for years while you were off fighting for the limeys. But it weren’t me who tried to burn her house.”

  Will felt the chilly night wind on his bare, sweat-streaked back. “I suppose that bush just happened to burst into flames by itself?”

  “Don’t you ever read the Bible, redcoat? Maybe it was me tonight, but that was just a warning. Weren’t me the last time.”

  “Then who was it?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Oh, I think you do, Tom. And I am tired of no one talking to me.” Will suddenly tossed his dagger down, the blade’s tip sinking in the dirt right by Tom’s head.

  The boy’s eyes widened, and he tried to roll away. He fell back with a grunt of pain. “I don’t know, I swear! Could be one of a dozen groups nearby. But it weren’t us. We don’t hurt women, not even ones like Lady Moreton.”

  Will glanced over the wound, still seeping blood. “It looks like you’re losing more blood, Tom. We need to get you home to your grandmother.”

  Tom stared at him in suspicious disbelief. “You would take me home? You’re not going to finish me off?”

  “I just might. But I will take you home on condition that you tell me what I want to know of these dozen groups.” Will pulled his dagger from the ground. “Especially any plans they might have for Killinan Castle and the ladies there.”

  Tom shook his head. “I don’t know anything about Killinan, I swear!”

  “Oh, Tom, I think you do.” Will let the moonlight catch on the blade. “And I think you will tell me. Now.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Part Two, May 1798

  I don’t know what will become of us. A tithe collector was tossed off a bridge to his death yesterday, and there are nightly raids on local houses by rebels looking for arms. And I have your sisters to worry about! Anna thought someone followed her when she went for a ride last week on our own estate.

  Eliza glanced up from her mother’s letter, staring sightlessly out her open bedroom window. The spring days had turned hot and dry, with no welcome cool breeze stirring the green leaves. Outside, even now as the sun started to set and the day slid into evening, the sounds of war preparations went on: hammers, the slap of sandbags piling up, the firing of cannons, shouts and cries. It never ended.

  She rubbed at her pounding temples with a rosewater-soaked handkerchief. It had been like that in Dublin for months. In March, sixteen United Irish leaders had been arrested at a meeting at Oliver Bond’s house, and now only Edward Fitzgerald was free. But surely he would not be for long. There was a reward of a thousand pounds for his capture.

  And the city was caught up in the scandal of the upcoming Kingston trial. The spectacle of a wealthy duke being tried for killing his pregnant daughter’s seducer, his own wife’s cousin, was a vivid distraction from rebellion, from what was happening in counties all over the Midlands and the south.

  Martial law had been declared with free quarters—the forcing of private homeowners to give lodging to soldiers—imposed everywhere. There were rumors of the most violent measures to disarm Kildare. Floggings occurred at every crossroads, and in every village center, there were burnings and rape.

  A United Irish suspect captured at Wexford had been pitchcapped, a cap of linen filled with gunpowd
er and tar slapped on his head and set alight, and in his agony had named names. Certainly more arrests would very soon follow.

  And now Eliza’s own family was caught in the maelstrom, just as she had long feared. Her mother hated to complain; it was beneath the dignity of a lady, she always said. And dignity and position were all to her. If she wrote these things to Eliza now, matters must be even worse than she said.

  Eliza turned back to the letter, smoothing the pages on her desk.

  So many of our neighbors have gone. Lady Moreton and your husband’s mother at Mount Clare. Even Lady Conover. No one has yet disturbed the peace here at Killinan, but perhaps I was mistaken to stay here, with what happened to Anna. I fear we have waited too long, though. They say Athey town is already occupied by the rebels.

  I have visited Killinan village to assure them of my loyalty to them and to ask for theirs. For have I not cared for them all these years? Yet so many of the young men are gone, and some of our own ash trees have been cut down in the night for pikes. But I am sure we will be safe here; this is our home, after all.

  Oh, Eliza, it has been too long since we have seen you or had word from Dublin. I pray for your health and safety. Your ever-loving mama.

  Eliza carefully folded the letter. It must be bad at Killinan, she thought sadly. Her mother did so pride herself on her self-control, her propriety, her duty. She was called the Angel of Kildare for her goodness and beauty. Between those neatly penned lines, Eliza saw those traits cracking and falling away. Just like everything else in a world catching fire.

  She closed her eyes, picturing Killinan in her mind. The green fields, the shelter of the cool woods, the beauty of the gardens. Her home. But now the fields lay empty, even as summer was upon them. The woods cleared for pike handles and the house her great-grandfather had built vulnerable.

  And Will—where was he? What was he doing now? Such thoughts plagued her over these months apart from him, returning again and again even as she struggled to push them away. Remembering and regretting did no good, and yet she could not stop.