Laurel McKee Page 16

  She searched the newspapers every day in vain for word of the Thirteenth. Troop movements were guarded, except for the rumors that flew down the streets and around the drawing rooms. Sometimes she had the foolish hope he might write to her.

  During the days, she lost herself in writing, in just moving through a fractured life. But at night… at night she could not sleep. The heat and her reeling thoughts kept her awake, tossing in her bed. And that was when she most remembered him.

  She remembered everything they did in that very bed. Every whispered word, every kiss, the way he smelled and tasted. How very, very alive she felt in his arms.

  Sometimes, also foolishly, she would close her eyes and feel again his head resting on her stomach. The long, rough silk of his hair as she ran her fingers through it, spreading it over her skin. His cool breath, the trace of his touch on her hip. The perfect moments there in the dark, when it was only the two of them. There was no army, no England or Ireland, just Eliza and Will. Nothing could touch them in that enchanted spell.

  But that all seemed so very long ago. Years, centuries, rather than mere months. Winter had given way to the combustible heat of summer. Peace to war. Certainty to terrible doubt. And she was alone.

  Well, not entirely alone, she thought as she stared down at her mother’s letter.

  She reached for her jewel case, lifting the enameled lid. The rosy-gold sunset light caught on the sparkle of diamonds, the glow of pearls, the mellow amber of her mother’s hair combs. She lifted away the top tray to reveal the compartment beneath, which held the real treasures.

  The pastel portrait of her with her sisters, which she had carefully removed from its frame and rolled up to place there. Her wedding ring, a reminder of where she had once been and would not return to.

  She added her mother’s letter and replaced the top tray, shutting it all up. As she reached for the bell to summon Mary, a loud noise suddenly tore through the tense, deceptively peaceful evening.

  Eliza ran to the window, leaning over the sill to peer down at the street below. A contingent of soldiers, heavily armed, clustered on her doorstep, pounding on the front door.

  Her heart pounding in echo, she slammed the window shut, throwing the latch into place even as it felt utterly futile. If they had come to arrest her, she could hardly lock them out.

  And what would become of her mother and sisters, then?

  She whirled back to the chamber, her gaze darting from desk to dressing table. She had long ago burned all her letters and papers and had even bricked up the hidden cellar doorway. She had never put her name on any of her writings. Even if they did lock her up in Kilmainham Gaol, they would have no evidence.

  Not that evidence was required, not when all of Ireland was under the iron fist of martial law.

  She grabbed her copy of Paine from the bedside table, stuffing it onto a bookshelf between innocuous volumes of poetry. Surely they would not notice it there.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the looking glass, her pink, flushed cheeks, the curls escaping from her scarf bandeau. Quickly, she tidied them as best she could, straightening the filmy fichu in the neckline of her yellow muslin dress. Did she look like a respectable countess?

  Strangely, she felt calm. Removed from the scene, as if she watched it from above herself. Was this how those sixteen men felt when Bond’s house was raided?

  “My lady!” Mary cried, bursting through the bedroom door. She had lost her cap, her eyes bright with panic. From below, Eliza could hear the pounding on the front door getting louder and louder. “My lady, what shall we do?”

  “Have the butler answer the door, of course,” Eliza answered, turning away from the glass. “What else do we do when there are callers, no matter how rude they are?”

  She took the jewel case from her desk, pressing it into Mary’s trembling hands. “Keep this safe for me,” she said, hurrying out onto the landing.

  She peered down at the foyer as the butler opened the door. He had been summoned so quickly, the collar of his usually immaculate coat was askew. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded as an officer pushed past him.

  “We’ve been instructed to search this premises for arms,” he answered, staring around at Eliza’s flagstone floors, her paintings, and her antique statues of Hermes and Athena and the Chinese vases of summer flowers on marble pedestals.

  “Do you know whose house this is?” the butler cried. “The Countess of Mount Clare! And her mother is Lady Killinan.”

  “We have our orders,” the officer said, waving around some papers.

  “Orders that I have a right to examine,” Eliza called, making her slow, dignified way down the stairs. “I have no arms here. Even my late husband’s fowling pieces were sent long ago to Mount Clare.”

  The officer gave her a small, reluctant bow. “I’m sorry, my lady, but we have information about this house we must examine.”

  “This house?” Eliza took the documents from him, searching the signatures. It was indeed a warrant to look for illegal arms, though she had no doubt they would keep a sharp eye out for other things as well.

  Eliza waved her hand. “Be about your task, then. I trust your men will take care with my furnishings.”

  “As careful as they are able, my lady. We must do a thorough job.”

  Eliza stepped aside, wrapping her arms around her waist as she watched the troops swarm through her foyer, up the stairs, into the dining and drawing rooms, the morning room, and the library. There was the sound of breaking china, chairs falling to the floor, and ripping fabric.

  As careful as they are able, she thought wryly. But she couldn’t help but feel frightened as they swarmed over her property. She had thought everything was destroyed or hidden, but what if she had missed something?

  She turned to find some of the servants clustered in the corner, staring at her with frightened eyes. Yet she still felt nothing but that strange, icy calm.

  “It is quite all right,” she told them soothingly. “They will finish their business and soon be gone. Let us go belowstairs and have a cup of tea….”

  “My lady?”

  Eliza paused in picking up scattered books from the floor of the library, glancing over to see Mary in the doorway. She still clutched the jewel case in her arms.

  “Don’t tell me they have come back,” Eliza said.

  “Oh no, my lady.”

  “Good. They found nothing—they won’t bother us again, not once my mother complains to Camden of our treatment.”

  “They had no right to come here in the first place!” Mary cried, startlingly angry. “Wretched bullies.”

  “True, they had no right. And they are bullies.” Eliza left off her task, leading Mary to the settee, which had been too heavy to upend. “Have they caused you some trouble, too?”

  Mary shook her head. “But my brother—he’s disappeared, my lady. My mother thinks he’s run off with the Defenders.”

  “The Defenders!”

  “Aye. I’ve been that worried about him, and about my parents, all alone in their cottage. If they can raid the house of a countess…”

  “Yes, I see,” Eliza said slowly. “Mary, I have been thinking I need to go back to Killinan to see to my own family and stay with them until matters calm down. I had thought to take you with me, but your parents obviously need you.” Eliza could do no more good here if her house was being so closely watched. They had found nothing this time, but the increased vigilance meant they probably would. And her family needed her in Kildare.

  “You can’t go back to Killinan alone, my lady!” Mary cried. “Traveling is not safe.”

  “I will take some of the footmen as guards, ones who have kin in Kildare still. It will be safe enough. My mother needs me, just as yours needs you.” She took the jewel case, rummaging around in its depths until she came up with a diamond bracelet. “Use this if you need it.”

  “Oh no, my lady!” Mary protested, shaking her head. “I can’t take that from you. I
t’s too valuable.”

  “It’s only for an emergency, if you or your brother need to leave the country in a great hurry.” She pressed the bracelet into Mary’s hand, closing her fingers over it. “And bring your parents to stay here, if you like. You can keep an eye on this mausoleum for me until I return. Can you do that for me, Mary?”

  The maid slowly nodded. “If it will help you, my lady.”

  “It will.” Eliza pushed herself up from the settee, terribly weary. “Now I must make my preparations. I’ll leave at daybreak.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Eliza could smell it long before she saw it. The sour, acrid tang of smoke, thick on the hot summer air.

  She pulled up her horse at the sharp curve in the road, pressing the sleeve of her riding jacket to her nose as the two footmen drew their pistols. It had been a quiet enough journey thus far, despite the inns crowded with fleeing people, and they made good enough time. They stayed mostly to the back lanes, away from the villages and the roads clogged with those same fleeing people; the new policy of free quarters meant far too many soldiers about.

  They had met with few people that day, stopping only to water the horses at a stream and gulp down a quick meal. But now it seemed their solitude was at an end.

  Eliza listened close. She could hear no flames, only smell that terrible lingering smoke and see the dark gray plumes of it drifting lazily into the sky. And then, too, she heard voices, shouts and sobs.

  “My lady, we should turn back,” one of the men said. She sensed the panic lurking under his words, and she felt the tightness of fear in her own chest. But she knew she could not flee. Though the village ahead was not her own, they were not far from home. She had to help if she could.

  “I’m sure whoever did this is gone by now,” she said, trying to stay steady. “We should see what we can do.”

  “But we must see you safe to Killinan Castle, my lady!” the other guard protested. “The longer we are on the road…”

  The greater the perils. Eliza was all too aware of that. But she urged her horse ahead.

  At first, it almost seemed the village was deserted. A few of the cottages were already in smoking ruins, the flames burned away to a smolder. Gardens were violently churned up, the summer vegetable crop destroyed. Two cows lay dead by the side of the road as terrified chickens ran through the dirt and the falling ashes. Their squawks drowned out a more terrifying sound—human screams.

  As Eliza listened carefully, she could make out incoherent, shouted words. They seemed to come from the woods stretching behind the village. She urged her horse forward again, her heart pounding.

  “My lady!” her guard called. “We should go back.”

  “I have to help if I can,” she answered. But knowing that didn’t stop the metallic taste in her mouth.

  She dismounted at the edge of the trees, holding tightly to the bridle as she crept forward. As the woods closed in behind her, blotting out the bright, hot sun of the day, the panicked voices grew louder.

  In a clearing was what was left of the villagers—and a group of soldiers in red coats. Eliza’s gaze swept over the scene, and for an instant, it seemed horribly frozen to her, like an exhibit in a macabre waxworks exhibit. The soldiers’ red coats were streaked with smoke and blood, and their faces were written with a grim determination as they faced a distraught, shrieking collection of women.

  At the edge of the clearing was a wagon, and three soldiers hauled a young man roughly onto its wooden bed. His bare back was streaked with crimson blood, his head lolling as if he was unconscious. The ropes that held him for the flogging still hung from one of the trees.

  “He didn’t do nothing!” a young woman shouted, lunging forward to try and catch at the man’s naked feet. One of the soldiers shoved her back hard, and as the woman fell, Eliza saw she was very pregnant.

  An older woman knelt by her, holding her in her arms. “Hush, Annie! The baby…”

  “But he didn’t do nothing,” the girl, Annie, insisted hysterically. “They can’t take him away!”

  “Oh, but we can,” one of the officers coolly replied. “We have the writ here, stating this man is hiding pikes for the United Irishmen. I’m sure a stay in the gaol will make him more cooperative. Perhaps you would care to join him there, miss?”

  The older woman clutched the pregnant girl closer. “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Traitors must pay the price for their actions,” the officer said. He seemed to be enjoying himself. He gestured to one of the other men, who started toward the girl.

  Eliza had seen quite enough. “What is the meaning of this?” she called in her best “ladyship” voice, striding into the clearing as she let go of her horse. She stopped behind the two women.

  The surprise of her arrival slowed down the soldiers in their grim task, but only temporarily. They finished slinging the poor, unconscious man into the wagon, and the soldier who was bid to fetch Annie paused to frown at Eliza in confusion.

  She gave him her haughtiest, most countesslike stare, then turned her glare onto the commander. She was aware of a man on horseback, near the treeline, his red coat dappled in shadows, but as he said nothing, she ignored him for the moment.

  “Well?” she said. “What is going on here?”

  “And who might you be?” the commander said, recovering from his surprise.

  “I am Lady Mount Clare, and you are very near my family’s estate at Killinan Castle. I demand to know the meaning of this outrage. Is the British Army now in the business of terrorizing innocent women and old people?”

  The officer gave her a sneer, but she could see from the shift in his gaze that he would not insult a countess. “These innocents have been making and hiding pikes, my lady. Probably meant to murder your own family and neighbors.”

  “Indeed?” Eliza gave an exaggerated glance around the clearing. “Where are these pikes, then?”

  His lips tightened. “They hid them before we arrived. They must have been warned.”

  “You mean you did not find them?”

  “I told you, my lady—they must have been warned of our coming. I am sure you would know nothing about that.”

  Eliza felt her face flame with a flash of anger. “You mean to say that because your informant was wrong, because these people are innocent of wrongdoing, you flogged a boy and torched their village?”

  “These vermin must be made to talk one way or the other. The safety of the country depends on it.”

  Her gloved hands curled into fists, Eliza took a step toward him. She was brought up short by Annie’s sudden scream. She looked down, horrified to see a stain spreading across the girl’s brown skirt. Was she losing the baby?

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” the older woman whispered. “The baby’s coming.”

  “The baby,” Eliza murmured, cold with a new kind of fear. The poor girl couldn’t give birth in the dank woods!

  “Baby or not, this woman is an accomplice to treason,” the officer insisted. “We have to take her in, along with her villain of a husband.”

  Eliza stepped in front of the girl, her arms held out. As if that would hold back a group of soldiers! “You will do nothing of the sort.”

  “My lady…”

  “Leave it,” the man on horseback said suddenly, his voice hoarse and rough from the smoke. He sounded amused and… and strangely familiar. But Eliza had no time to puzzle it out. Annie let out another scream, and Eliza fell to her knees beside her. Somehow, she felt far more helpless faced with a coming baby than with an armed patrol.

  The commander listened to the man on horseback. “Let’s go, then,” he told the soldiers. “I’m sure the man will tell us all we need to know once he is conscious.”

  He swung up onto his own mount, leading the soldiers and the wagon with their prisoner from the clearing. The mysterious officer vanished, and Annie was left to her fate.

  Eliza glanced back to see her guards hovering uncertainly at the edge of the trees. Some guard
s they were, she thought wryly.

  “Will one of you please ride on to Killinan village and bring back a cart and the midwife?” she called, worried Killinan would be in a state much like this one, burned and deserted. “And bring me my saddlebags.”

  As the confused villagers slowly gathered around, crying or muttering angrily, Eliza leaned toward Annie. The sobbing girl screamed again, shrinking back against the older woman who held her.

  “Shh, lass, ’tis only Lady Mount Clare,” the woman said soothingly. “Don’t you know her?”

  Eliza glanced up at her, suddenly recognizing her face. “You are Bridget Riley, yes? I remember—you used to sing at the ceilidhs at Killinan when I was a girl.”

  “That I did. And you used to dance until daybreak there, my lady.”

  “That was a long time ago, indeed,” said Eliza. “This is your daughter?”

  Bridget cradled the crying girl against her shoulder, as if she were a baby herself. “Aye, my Annie. And the young man they took away is her husband, Davey.”

  “They said he was one of them Defenders, that he made pikes,” Annie gasped. “He never did! He was just a farmer.”

  “Just wait until the Duke of Adair hears of this,” Bridget muttered fiercely. “He’ll see this right.”

  “Adair?” Eliza said. She remembered tales of the Duke of Adair, an Irish lord who fought fiercely to hold on to his estates—and who protected his tenants with an equal ferocity. He was an Irish patriot to the core, but far too independent to take the United Irish oath.

  “This is his land,” Bridget said. “He takes care of his own.”

  Eliza was almost afraid to know what that meant to someone like Adair. But Bridget would not say more about him, nor was there time. Annie gave another piercing scream.

  “Hush, Annie, you’ve got to lie still,” Bridget said. “The baby will come too fast.”

  Eliza shrugged out of her riding jacket, sliding it carefully beneath Annie. It wasn’t much, but it was better than lying on dirt and twigs. One of her guards gave her the saddlebags, and she rummaged through them until she found a container of water and a handkerchief. Soaking the heavy linen, she used it to bathe Annie’s face. The girl slowly quieted, sinking into a stupor of pain.