The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2)

by Connie Johnson Hambley

  No tears streamed down Bridget’s cheeks. The two white coffins taunted her as did the shell of a mother she held in her arms. She felt nothing. No sorrow or hatred or love. The faintest of sounds, like a far off splintering of ice on a frozen lake, made Bridget turn her head. Listening, she lowered her head, ashamed at the realization that the source was from deep inside of her.

  The light slanted deeper into the sky, and the golden hues of the cathedral shifted to gray and silver, making the statues of Jesus, Joseph, and the Virgin Mary appear stark and white. A few people began to sift in for the service and take their places kneeling in deep prayer. Bridget and Mary were seated in a smaller chapel at the end of the cathedral’s transept. The funeral for the two children was the only service to be held that day. Bridget kept Mary in the back row until Father Storm motioned for them to sit in the front pew, the formal place of honor for the families of the dead.

  With a ramrod straight spine and shoulders pulled tightly back, Bridget guided her friend to her seat in the front of the cathedral. The pews filled with the few people of the community who knew Mary and her children and a few more who only knew the pain of a mother’s loss and came to console. No organ music played or thin soprano voice sang. To have either would have required the expected donation at the end of the service, and no one could pretend to put one forth. The only sounds were hushed whispers of mourners who greeted one another, muted sorrow and sniffles from those who truly grieved.

  Father Storm prepared for the service with the help of Father Kavan Hughes. Each priest had changed into the white vestments of mourning to recall the purity of the soul during baptism—not black, which Bridget felt best fit her heart. Father Storm’s full head of snow-white hair matched the white linen palls embroidered with gold crosses draped over each coffin. The altar boys wore black cassocks under their white albs, watching for their cues and carefully performing their duties.

  Bridget watched Father Hughes move from one side of the altar to the other, her eyes dry, and her mind clear. He was taller than Father Storm, straighter. She thought about their times at the lake, where they all laughed together, she and Mary and Kavan, and the times when she watched him play hurling with Gus, wooden Hurley sticks crashing and sometimes breaking with great effect. He was as competitive then as he was now; making sure his every move was that one bit better than his betters. He was here today as a favor to her, not Mary, and Bridget knew his sermon would be filled with fire at the loss they all suffered today. Kavan would not let the service be only about the loss of two children, but would make sure every person felt the blame.

  Bridget wondered if he felt the same guilt she did, for her failings were his, too. They worked side by side, scratching up donations and paying them out as best they could. He worked tirelessly to keep his flock fed and clothed and still found time to focus his energy on change. Did Geroid and Maeve brand his heart as they did Bridget’s? She knew they did.

  Kavan stood at the center of the altar and looked out over the congregation. When his eyes followed someone in the back, Bridget turned to see but only caught a glimpse of some boys in the shadows. When their eyes met, she saw them change for the split second that was enough. The friendship and connection they shared was acknowledged, and she was careful not to stare at him, dropping her eyes for fear he could see through her. Father Storm motioned for him to join them in walking over to Mary for the ritualistic greeting of the family before the official start of the service. Kavan lowered his head in respect and followed in the older priest’s footsteps. When Father Storm clasped both of Bridget’s hands in his own, Father Hughes clasped Mary’s. When Father Storm clasped Mary’s hands, Kavan grasped Bridget’s.

  A few more people shuffled in, keeping to the back of the cathedral, embarrassed by their late arrival. Bridget watched as Kavan narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, and she followed his gaze. Gus was in the last pew—on the aisle and closest to the door—his customary perch. He half-knelt, half-sat, hands clasped and elbows resting on the back of the pew in front of him. His bowed head supported by thumbs pressed to eye sockets, too heavy with knowledge and grief. He, too, was there out of his love for her. She wanted to run to him, screaming to stop his worship, telling him the truths she knew, but she could not, fearing that the release of truth would weaken her to the point of dissolution and ruin.

  The service began. Father Storm commanded the liturgy in Latin, held up the Eucharist, and intoned for their souls. The congregation was stone quiet as the soft chime of the gold thurible, hitting its brass chain, lulled them. Wisps of blue incense floated over the coffins, symbolically cleansing souls that had no opportunity for soil. The pungent aroma slowly crept along each pew. For Bridget, sitting closest, the minutes she sat inside of the cloud were wasted. She let herself breathe deeply, imagining the smoke filling her, swirling inside of her to be expelled along with her sins, but she knew that no amount of rite could absolve her. For those watching, Bridget seemed to touch the grieving mother in the most gentle of way, looking as if she knew that a firm hold could scorch through her friend like a tempered blade. They could not see inside Bridget’s heart or deep into her soul, for if they could, soft soughs of sorrow would have grown into searing cries of mercy.

  Bridget kept her eyes closed and head down, kneeling and standing by rote. Others looked on as she blessed herself, recited her Our Father’s, and received Holy Communion. She was the picture of a perfectly devoted friend.

  RAPHOE, IRELAND

  AS DAWN STRENGTHENED into day, Jessica’s eyes opened. The faint outline of the wooden cabinets and chairs came into focus as she realized with a start that she had fallen asleep sprawled over the kitchen table. Photos and papers littered the surface. Her back screamed for her soft bed, but she could see the slumbering form of Michael under the covers. Having him so near served to deepen her confusion. She wanted to be close but somehow feared that the safety she felt in his arms was an illusion. Opting to curl on the sofa, she yawned and let herself doze, too early to start her day.

  Her mind teetered in a state of half sleep, half dream. A watery image of the long, tree-lined drive that swept up to her childhood home drifted into focus. Margaret came onto the porch of their huge white farmhouse carrying Erin, arms and legs too long to be held properly, and placed her on the glider, propping her up with pillows and securing her harness. Bridget stood off to the side, wringing her hands. She looked over her shoulder, fretting about something in the distance, beyond the edge of her dream.

  Jerking awake, Jessica laid still and oriented herself in time and place. No sounds filled the cottage. Her back forgave its abuse as she stood and stretched. At some point in the night, Michael had placed a blanket over her but didn’t return to bed. Their growing relationship did nothing to lessen her turmoil. She couldn’t see how all the pieces fit together and that troubled her. Instead of glowing in the warmth of her reclaimed life, she felt hurt, angry, and isolated. She didn’t know if afraid should be added to the list.

  The grind of a hoof on gravel outside caught her attention. Michael sat astride Planxty and holding the reins of Kilkea. The massive chestnut horse arched his neck and almost danced with excitement.

  She dashed outside wearing the same clothes from the day before. A pair of worn jeans ripped at one knee, western style boots, blue oxford style shirt untucked on one side, with one of the thin camisoles she favored underneath. An old stirrup leather from one of her saddles cinched her waist, and a thin scrap of leather secured her hair at the nape of her neck. She rarely put time into her appearance. It hardly mattered. She could feel his eyes follow her legs and hips as she swung into the saddle in one fluid motion.

  “Morning,” Michael said with a lazy grin, working the southern gentleman’s charms as best as he could.

  Her stomach fluttered. She tried to ignore it. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing up there? I didn’t think you could ride.”

  “You’re not the only person who knows how to sit on a horse,
pull on its mouth, and make it do what you want it to.” He leaned down and handed her Kilkea’s reins. “Just take it easy on me.”

  Jessica started off on a slow walk until she had time to assess Michael’s skill. He seemed comfortable enough so she brought him up to a trot and then a slow canter. If he was nervous, he hid it well. They didn’t talk much on the ride, and she welcomed the silence.

  The morning air was fresh and cool and the only sounds were the scurry of birds in the rose thickets and the rhythmic thod of hooves on soft ground. Worried Michael may be too unskilled to ride a spirited horse, she glanced over at him and saw he was surprisingly comfortable. After a half hour of riding in easy silence, they pulled up into a clearing and dismounted. The one person who could see beyond the defensive wall she had built did exactly what she needed in that moment. He helped her down by holding her hips and guiding her to the ground, then he grabbed the saddlebags and produced a thermos.

  Jessica inhaled. “Oh my God, you have coffee! And the foundation on the cathedral didn’t crack?”

  He smiled at her pleasure. “I had it sent from Boston. Good old New England tendered rocket fuel.”

  “Seriously. I had given up hope. I asked Nan a few times, but she never seemed to be able to find any.” She took a sip, drawing in air to cool the black liquid. “Hmmm. Thanks. I’ll be able to lift mountains after this.”

  Michael dug around the bags and produced some muffins and a long lead line for the horses to graze while they ate. He motioned to a spot on the stone wall where two flat rocks made a decent bench.

  Jessica refilled her cup and watched him carefully. “Having my horse ready. Coffee. Working your charms. Not to mention you actually riding yourself.” She sipped her coffee and looked at him over the rim of her cup. “Something on your mind?”

  “Yeah. A couple of things.” He sat down beside her. “First, are you okay? I’m worried about you. You had quite a shock yesterday.”

  “I have a lot to mull over,” she agreed.

  “Why don’t you start by telling me about Gus and your family.”

  She drew in a breath and started from the beginning. “Gus worked for my father, um, rather, Jim Wyeth, for as long as I can remember. Gus and Jim made Wyeth’s Worldwind Farms the world leader in thoroughbred racing. I never knew their success was because the horses were doped and the races fixed.” She tipped her head in thought. “Gus was considered part of the family, but he never acted like it. The most time I spent around him was in the barn. Margaret and Jim would fuss around me, trying to get me to go to events they deemed ladylike and genteel, but I would rip the ribbons out of my hair and dash to the barn as soon as I was free. Gus got a real kick out of that. He was careful not to encourage me, but let me do what I wanted.”

  They sat in silence as Jessica struggled to reconcile those memories with a different reality.

  “What else?” he prodded gently.

  “After the accident, Gus stepped up. He traveled back and forth to Ireland a lot, scouting horses and shipping them back to the States. He and Bridget were solidly on deck when it came to running the farm and caring for me. It wasn’t until...” she swallowed, cleared her throat, and began again. “It wasn’t until I told him I wanted to take over the family business that he showed any belligerence toward me.” She looked at Michael with a mixture of contempt and grief. “You know the rest.”

  Michael flinched at her words but kept his tone measured. “Gus tried to keep you out of the Charity, and that’s why he was killed.”

  “I never imagined that Bridget and Margaret shared any history with Gus,” she said, shifting to get comfortable. “Bridget kept to herself when she came to live at the farm. They weren’t really together, like a couple. At least not that they let me see.”

  “You said she was sick? Of what?”

  “I guess her illness was something she fought for many years. She had trouble breathing and didn’t leave the house much. I’m pretty sure she had lung cancer, but she never talked about it with me beyond, ‘It’s God’s will.’ She died a few months before I graduated from Bowdoin. I never knew her as being vibrant or robust. Her journals were written by someone I never knew existed.”

  “Did Bridget ever write about Gus?”

  “These were her private writings, and she took precautions from being exposed if anyone spied on her diaries. She seldom referred to people by name. More often she identified them only with one letter or a nickname.”

  “So, who did she write about?”

  “I, um, I think someone named Gene Something. Oh, right! Gean Cánach. She was head over heels in love with him.”

  Michael turned away, making a failed attempt to hide his amusement. “Really? That’s who Bridget was in love with?”

  She tilted her head, not seeing the humor. “Yeah. She wrote about him a lot. It was a lot more than a schoolgirl crush, Michael.”

  “According to Irish legends, Gean Cánach means ‘love talker.’ He’s a male spirit who seduces human maidens.” His smile faded. “GC? Gilchrist? Could that be who your father is?”

  Jessica became agitated. “Bridget claimed she was a widow, but she never spoke of a late husband. The only fact I have was that she used ‘Harvey’ as her last name. I got the feeling that either her marriage was a short-lived mistake or that her husband died shortly after they were married. What if Gus was my father but Mr. Harvey was still alive? Bridget struck me as a very uptight woman who would do nothing as extreme as having an affair that produced an out-of-wedlock child, but after reading her journals...” she slipped into thought, “I’m not so sure. It doesn’t answer why they never appeared to be more than just friends when they lived on the farm.”

  Michael stretched his legs out in front of him and motioned for her to sit closer. “It does address the secrecy, the pictures, and the diary entries. You were away at school, and when you were home you barely paid attention to her. It’s possible you simply didn’t see what they wanted to keep from you.”

  Desperation and grief seeped into her voice. “If that’s true, then I witnessed my father’s murder.” Her voice was a taught wire. “And then I was framed for it.”

  So many layers existed, each one more painful and impossible than the next.

  She continued, pushing her hands in the air in front of her to shove away the thought. “No. I want to find out more about her husband—this Harvey. I haven’t found any reference to his first name. He could be that GC guy she wrote about.” Her voice faded and eyes shimmered. “But why? If they all knew the truth, why the secrecy from me?”

  Michael’s voice was gentle. “I want you to try to remember. Maybe there are connections you couldn’t see. Whatever Bridget and Gus did, they did for you.”

  “I don’t know that! Damn it!” She gnawed her finger. “How can deception be the same as love?” She swallowed back the urge to scream at him, at Bridget, at Gus. The sorrow that wanted to spill over didn’t, but she let herself be embraced, ragdoll limp, and stared over his shoulder.

  “I’ve pushed you too hard. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” she said, voice flat. “I’m always okay.” She squirmed to be released, the pressure of her emotions threatened to crack her in two.

  “No. You’re not. It’s got to be confusing for you. I know you hurt. Christ! I would change everything in a heartbeat if I could.” Reluctantly, he dropped his arms, using the motion to take her hands. His palms, rough with calluses, pressed on top. “This mess isn’t what either one of us wanted. We can’t stop moving forward just because we don’t like where we came from. We’ll figure this out together.”

  Jessica searched his eyes for deception. “You might be able to live with these truths, but I’m not sure I can. I need to understand.” She accepted his kisses, feeling his urgency and need for connection, knowing he wanted her. All of her. It didn’t matter to him if she felt incomplete and unwanted. He loved her regardless. Maybe that was a good thing, but she couldn’t be whole until she underst
ood not only who she was, but why. If Bridget had an affair with Gus, why was her mother ashamed of herself and embarrassed by the child that came from that union? She had grown up thinking she was the product of a loving relationship and a strong marriage. Finding out otherwise threatened to swallow her whole. Finding Bridget’s husband might help Jessica move toward feeling wanted.

  She pulled away and gathered up their picnic. The combustible mix of shame, hurt, and confusion came dangerously close to exploding. She watched him tuck the food back in the saddlebags through a haze of emotions. The ground under her feet disappeared and a tightness grew in her chest as if her heart were splitting from the effort of its beat. Her ears began to ring. She put the reins over Kilkea’s neck and swung up onto his back.

  “Let’s go.”

  This time, Jessica showed no mercy. She had ridden both horses before and knew what they could do. Then and there, she couldn’t have given a rat’s ass if Michael was capable of keeping up with her. She had to ride hard, for her. The ringing faded as anger replaced numbness, and all of it channeled into Kilkea. Immediately her horse was on alert. Kilkea’s muscles coiled as she wheeled him around. Within three strides, they picked up speed and cleared the first of the hedgerows, increasing their speed as they raced across the field. Jessica ignored the meandering paths they had ridden earlier and chose the most direct route back to the barns. Kilkea jumped ditches and walls, giving a solid clearance revealing the horse had more game than earlier training sessions had uncovered.

  Her breathing deepened and head cleared as her tension began to fade. The ground below blurred, and she could see only a few strides ahead for any obvious dangers. A hole. A sharp rock. A sudden dip. Any deviation could mean a broken leg for the horse and a broken neck for her. But her world shrank to the half-ton rocket she sat astride and for this one moment—this insane and perfectly encapsulated moment—she checked her brain at the gate and let hell flow. Opening up was reckless, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about the speed or about who her parents were or weren’t. She didn’t think about Kilkea, and she didn’t give a damn about Michael.