◆◆◆
As a member of the I.R.A., Ian McAllen thought there was no nobler person then himself. It was high time, he thought surveying the damage of the British merchant ships in front of him, that someone had the nerve to kick the English bastards back across the channel where they belonged! He only hoped he would get to kick a few more! Having returned from Cork yesterday afternoon, he felt a new sense of inspiration for Michael Collins’s cause, and now that he was back home his plans were just beginning! Already his fellow Irish patriots had been keen to begin, and he had not been disappointed as evidence of their actions now stood in silent tribute before him.
As Ian continued to survey the damage, happy to declare things had been blown to smithereens, his attention was drawn to the man who had just walked onto the dock. His eyes narrowed, there was something different about the stranger. As their gazes locked, Ian felt the anger boiling within his veins. He could read the disapproval and suspicion in the man’s stare. He was about to rise to his feet to confront the scoundrel when one of the men beside him shoved him in the arm as a signal asking if they should leave. There was something...the man was too finely dressed...his looks were almost English? Frustrated that duty called, Ian swore as the man tore away from his gaze. He continued staring at the stranger’s retreating back, for now, Ian muttered, the man would have to wait. Right now more pressing matters were at hand. He stood up from the steps and sauntered down the street, his henchmen in awed pursuit. Arriving at the local pub, they sat at a secluded table in one of the corners, and Ian bought a round of whisky for the bunch of men.
“So ya see lads,” Ian spoke downing a shot of whisky, “The only way to become independent is to get rid of all the Brits and those Irish who sympathize with them and their need to govern this fine land of ours.”
Mr. O'Connor rubbed his chin and poured himself another shot of whiskey. “So, what does Collins want us to do? Carry out acts of sabotage? We haven’t got as many supporters in town as he does down in Cork.” The other men around the table nodded in agreement.
Putting his arm around Mr. O’Connor’s shoulder, Ian leaned in closer to the table. “If we can convince more people to join us,” he slurred, “Then we can start our own Twelve Apostles regiment right here.”
“Aye,” Mr. O'Connor mused taking a draw from his cigarette, “I know we already have Collin Fitzpatrick and his brother Shane.” He nodded to the other two men at the table.
“And don’t forget Michael Flynn, Patrick Ryan and the Kelly brothers!” Ian exclaimed slamming his fist down on the table. “A round of ales lass!” he barked to one of the barmaids. “We’ve got some plans to make.” The men snickered as they took the tankards of ale that were set on the table.
“What we need,” Collin Fitzpatrick remarked, “is a lass on our side. No one would suspect a woman getting involved. Surely,” he chuckled, “the fairer sex wouldn’t associate with the likes of revolutionists.”
“I like the sound of that brother,” Shane uttered through sips of ale. “Who do ya suppose we could trust?”
“Me daughter, that’s who,” Mr. O’Connor grunted through puffs of smoke. “She might be headstrong, but she’s loyal to her kin. I’ll have a talk with her and tell her how it is.”
“No,” Ian grinned, “I’ll speak to her Mr. O’Connor. She fancies me ya know, even if she won’t admit it yet.” He snickered.
Mr. O’Connor nodded his head in agreement. “She’ll come around, I'll make sure she sees reason in such a sensible match.”
“Such a sensible match indeed!” Ian agreed, “Why she's the luckiest woman alive!” He smirked.
“It’s settled then. Here’s to making new family ties and to the beginning of a new era! An era free from English tyranny!” Mr. O'Connor slurred raising his pint into the air. The men around him did the same clinking their tankards and sloshing ale across the table.
Hidden behind the folds of his newspaper quietly watching the men from across the room, Robert tried to process all that he had heard.
Chapter 10
Robert was on edge as he thumbed through today’s paper. His eyes narrowed in concentration. He was relieved to not find any new accidents having been reported. After his trip yesterday to the port, it appeared for the moment that all was quiet. Quiet, however, was never good. Quiet was only an illusion that everything was normal and there was no need to worry. It was through the cover of quiet that dreadful notions could be breed and horrible deeds be planned. He unconsciously touched his breast pocket making sure that his letter to Captain Wesley was still safe. Robert trusted Dearing explicitly in the butler’s abilities to carry out his requests, but posting the letter was something he knew that he alone must do.
When he had finished eating breakfast, Robert headed outside. Since Katie’s implied threat, he had not seen her doing anything that caused him to suspect her involvement with the I.R.A, his own notes concerning her daily routines provided confirmation he reminded himself. She had merely been threatening him to keep her employment. Nonetheless, he was not going to inform her, or his other staff that he was again going to town on an errand. If Katie did have ties to the I.R.A., though he was doubting it, there was no reason to jeopardize his mission.
On his visit with Mr. Riley to the property, Robert had noticed an old bicycle in the barn. Yes, he could have easily had his car brought over with him for his stay in Ireland or simply hired one, but driving an automobile was a bit more conspicuous than he would like right now. If he wanted to remain unnoticed in his trip to the postal office, walking or biking were much better options. Inside the barn he found he had remembered right. In the far back corner, looking like it had seen better days, was a bicycle. It had the potential to fall apart as he rode, but it was a mode of transportation nonetheless. He wheeled it out, and after dusting off the seat climbed on and cautiously began to pedal. So far so good, he thought, hearing the chain squeak and the rest of the bolts rub from lack of grease.
Once in town, he rested the bike against the brick exterior of the postal building and looked appreciatively at his metal steed. The bike was indeed not something to behold, but it had been reliable in getting him to his destination and for that he was grateful. As Robert walked inside, he took a moment to quickly survey the surroundings. There were a few people penning letters and a couple paying for postage. It looked like everything was running as it should. He pulled the letter out from his pocket. “To Miss Charlotte Wesley.” He read the name over in his head. He and Charles had agreed that all of his letters to Captain Wesley should be addressed as if he were corresponding to his sweetheart. Hopefully nothing with this plan would go awry.
“May I help ya sir?” The man at the postage counter asked as Robert approached.
“Yes sir. Ya could help me get some postage for me letter to me sweetheart.” Robert replied in the best Irish accent he could manage.
“Right. I’ll get ya all set.” The man spoke taking the envelope from Robert’s hands.
“Your lass is in England? Not much time to see each other.” The man smiled looking up and holding Robert’s gaze.”
“Yes, well she is hope’in to leave her employment as a nanny and come join me here soon.” Robert replied appalled at how easily the lies were flowing from his mouth. But he knew he had to keep up the pretense of courting his darling Charlotte.
“I see. Well, I hope things work out for ya. That will be one shilling.” The postal clerk remarked.
Robert handed him the coin and watched the man roll it between his fingers.
“Not sure how much longer we shall be see’in these.” He smiled, “It wouldn’t surprise me if we get our own version of the Limerick Soviet’s note or some kind of Irish Republic currency in the near future. Till then, this will do.” He remarked matter of factly then stamped the envelope.
Robert turned to leave, the hairs on his neck prickling as he recalled how in April a workers soviet had been established, though briefly, in Limerick. If people ev
en outside of Limerick were so casually conversing about an independent Irish currency maybe Captain Wesley had been right to worry he realized, aware of the sinking feeling settling inside his stomach.
Back outside, Robert climbed onto his bicycle and began pedaling back towards Kerney Hall his thoughts concerned and on edge. He was not sure if the postal clerk had bought his Irish accent or his story about Charlotte, but it did not matter. He was doing his part, and he would continue to keep Charles posted. If the Irish were printing their own currency, the belief in British imperialism was not something that could be ignored, for they were not going to back down. How was he going to help keep this revolution from turning into a full scale war? How could he possibly keep the world from becoming engulfed again?
It was with suspicion and growing anger that Ian watched as Robert biked past and disappear out of town. He knew where he had seen that bike. It was Katie’s, the bicycle she had rode during the Great War to and from town to gather medical supplies for her mum. What he did not know was why this man, who looked vaguely familiar yet he did not know from where, was riding it. Just who was he, and what was he doing with “his” girl? Whoever he was, Ian was going to get to the bottom of what was going on, because if there was anything he knew, it was that whoever this man was he was going to pay!
Chapter 11
After Katie, Mr. Dearing, and Mrs. Sparrow had eaten their breakfast in the kitchen, the butler and housekeeper set about to complete the housework and Katie was left to clean the breakfast dishes and kitchen. As she scrubbed the cast iron skillet in her hand, she could not help but think her position had afforded her the better end of the deal; for she had cleaned and scrubbed Kerney Hall since her mother’s death and did not envy them their task.
Katie quietly hummed an old folk song as she continued her cleaning, and once the breakfast dishes were finished, she started a stew that could simmer on the stove until lunch and then made a batch of bread which she covered to let rise. Lord Clifton liked a smaller lunch since he would often take tea in the afternoon, so feeling like the meal was prepared, she left the kitchen.
Even though Kerney Hall was her home, with the presence of Lord Clifton and her fellow staff members, Katie could not shake the feeling that she was trespassing as she stepped into the study. She had completed her tasks so she should not feel guilty about grabbing a book from the shelf. This was her house, for goodness sake! As she walked quietly across the floor she could not believe how ridiculous she was being. Surely she would not be scolded for reading, that would be simply preposterous. She shook her head slightly at her foolishness as she drew near the bookshelf that held some of her favorite volumes. Her fingers were extended and close to grasping the spine of a book, when her eye suddenly caught sight of something that made her breath catch in her throat. Dropping her hand, she turned her attention to the sliver of paper that protruded from beneath a ledger on the desk beside her.
If she had not been near the desk, the tiny sliver would not have been visible. But standing beside it, her heart pounding, Katie saw the loopy lettering that had unmistakably scrolled Patrick O’Connor- I.R.A! What did this mean? What should she do? She hurriedly glanced over her shoulder, and seeing no one coming into the room lifted the paper into her trembling hands and read: Patrick O’Connor- I.R.A. overheard name mentioned at pub along with…Katie’s mind was racing. What had her father done? What had Ian McAllen drawn him into? Her father was not a member of the I.R.A., he couldn’t be could he? She continued reading. I believe this group of men to be responsible for the destruction of the merchant vessels and the deaths of several sailors.
Katie continued scanning the page. There was additional information about the merchant ships and the author’s conversation overhead at the pub. Who had written this? Lord Clifton? Mr. Dearing? Mrs. Sparrow? It did not make sense. She flipped the paper over and froze. Written on the back she scanned the page and felt her temper boiling within her veins. She now knew who had written this, how dare he spy on her! How dare he write down her daily routine as if she were some common criminal! Lord Clifton was not going to get away with slandering her father let alone her good name. It was despicable that she was employed by a man who was spying on her fellow countrymen and going to put a black mark on she and her father to the English government. Crumpling the paper into a ball, Katie shoved it into her apron pocket and stormed from the room ready to make Lord Clifton answer for his crimes.
Chapter 12
Katie had seen Lord Clifton biking up the road to the hall through the window a little while ago, and even though she was still furious, she had been surprised. She had completely forgotten about the old bicycle that had been in the barn until she had glimpsed him. What sort of business had sent him to town so early in the morning? More spying on innocent people? She thought sarcastically. Alright, Ian McAllen might not be so innocent she was willing to consent but still, she suspected Lord Clifton’s motives were not entirely for leisure. She heard the front door open and Lord Clifton’s brisk steps make their way through the foyer. Walking along the corridor, the crumbled paper burning within her pocket, Katie found her feet were taking her towards the parlor. What was she thinking? Was she really prepared to confront Lord Clifton? The sound of piano music, however, continued to draw her closer despite her reservations.
Katie raised her fist up to the door and softly rapped her knuckles against it. “Enter,” she heard Lord Clifton’s voice sound from within the parlor. She pushed the door, and leaving it open walked into the room. She opened her mouth to begin her verbal assault but the song, the music she felt her resolve begin to shake. She was livid with him and determined to make him address his wrongs, yet...did she really want to hear him play? With each note his fingers touched, she felt her anger softly ebb. His song, his skill was like her mother’s. Before she knew what she was doing, Katie found herself seated on the sofa. With each song Lord Clifton played, she felt the pieces of her heart she had thought were lost slowly begin to return. She had forgotten how much she loved listening to someone else play, and Lord Clifton’s talent was unsurpassable. Sitting in silence, her emotions moved by each composition, she did not feel the tears until she recognized the piece he was now playing, Franz Schubert’s “Ave Maria.” It had been her mother’s favorite piece to perform, a piece she had been unable to bare playing out of memory. Her shoulders shook in silent sobs as the music built then slowly faded as the song reached its conclusion.
Through her tears, she saw Lord Clifton push the piano bench back then rise to his feet. She brought a hand to her cheek and attempted to quickly wipe away the teardrops, but from the look on Lord Clifton’s face she knew he had seen them. He had crossed the floor before she had time to rise and now standing before her, she saw him extend a handkerchief. Katie took the soft white cloth gratefully and dabbed it beneath her eyes.
“Certain songs hold different meanings for each of us.” Robert spoke thoughtfully after a moment.
Katie nodded still clenching the handkerchief in her hand. “Ave Maria was my mother’s favorite song to play. I have not heard it performed since…” She felt the tears again beginning to swell. “You play it very lovely,” she spoke instead.
“Thank you.” Robert replied understanding the full weight of her compliment. “Ave Maria was a favorite of my mother’s as well.”
For the first time in his life, Robert felt the sudden urge to reach out towards another in unbounded comfort and compassion. He wanted to wrap his arms around Katie, to hold her and let her cry against his chest while he patted her back silently telling her he understood, it was okay, he was here for her. He was here for her? Robert suddenly realized he had never wanted to be here for someone else until now.
As Katie looked into Robert’s eyes, she had to hide the astonishment on her face; for it was as if the curtains which had shrouded his soul had been drawn back and she was for the first time seeing the real, the broken, yet timidly hopeful man he was truly inside. Suddenly flustered, Kat
ie turned her gaze towards her hands as her fingers softly rubbed the edges of the handkerchief between them. Her heart, pounding loudly, resounded in her ears as she silently prayed Lord Clifton did not hear it. What was the matter with her? She was forgetting her purpose for being here.
“I suppose ya better write down that I’m currently in the parlor.” Katie spoke. She watched confusion then realization spread across Lord Clifton’s face.
“How dare you snoop around my personal affects.” Robert bellowed feeling his temper rising.
“How dare I?” Katie retorted, “How dare ya spy on me like I’m some kinda thief or criminal.”
“That’s rich!” Robert spat furrowing his brows, “for someone to say who read correspondences not meant for them.”
“So ya don’t deny you’ve been spy’in?Well, Lord Clifton, do ya spy on all your employees or just your Irish ones?” Katie inquired feeling the blood pulsing in her cheeks as she withdrew the crumpled paper from her pocket and chucked it at him.
“You gave me good reason to keep tabs on you. With your blackmail threats to maintain your employment. You should be lucky I did not turn you over to the constables.” Robert spoke levelly regaining his composure as he squashed the paper beneath his foot. He had no reason to defend himself, Katie was entirely in the wrong on numerous accounts.
Katie felt her anger deflating. Had she brought this treatery upon herself? “Well, ya should not have tried to fire me without cause.” She spoke instead.
Robert turned, and pacing, ran a hand through his hair before returning to stand before her. “As your employer, I shall do whatever I desire. If you do not like how I keep tabs on my employees,” he narrowed his eyes and met her gaze, “then by all means, leave.” He spat icily.
Pretentious Hearts Page 7
