The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2)

by Connie Johnson Hambley

  The name and number of the horse were an incomprehensible smear of spilled coffee and bled ink. The name of the jockey was barely decipherable. For one of the initials, Dally could make out a long downward stroke crossed over at the top. She had no idea if the letter was a “T,” “I,” “J” or something else. The last name was short and could have started with “N,” “W,” or “M.”

  The newsroom was full of stories about leads that broke on major news when the most inconsequential of facts were followed through on. Better yet were the stories that emerged serendipitously. Tracking down a vehicle theft ring? Icing on the cake is learning that a politician’s stolen Aston Martin was lifted in front of Miss Sukyurwhistle’s abode for wayward hussies. Having the name of a jockey might not lead to the big fish, but she could probably whittle a fifteen hundred-word article from their conversation whether they talked about the bombing or not. She could hear the interview now:

  ‘Ahem, Mr. Jockey. How does it feel that money from the stinking terrorists was placed on your hack?’

  Or,

  ‘I heard from some of the other stable hands that you were bragging about fixing the odds on this race. (A complete lie, but nerves get people talking.) Too bad it backfired on you, but now you can tell us who you were ringing in.”

  Or,

  ‘Mr. Jockey. I heard only your buddies bet on you. What were their names? Why do you think they wanted to blow up the Arndale Malls?’

  And when all else fails:

  ‘Mr. Jockey, who’s your boss? Who’s he sleepin’ with?’

  Dally doubted she’d get much of anything from some jockey about the bombing, but the stories that would inevitably spill would be interesting enough. Jockeys were a lowlife bunch, willing to snog your grandmother if it would buy them a pint or two. They usually hung around in clusters in the same old musty pubs and farms so this gent, if he could be considered such, should be easy enough to find. That is, if he was an English or Irish boy.

  With the private race pulling from all corners of the world, perhaps he flew in for the festivities. Dally made a note to ask the sports editor about the favored haunts of the jockey crowd and resolved to start pounding the pavement to the pubs tonight. Who knows? Maybe she’d get lucky and get snogged herself.

  Having some kind of filter and framework to work within made reviewing the passenger lists less daunting. She quickly sorted the lists alphabetically and methodically drew a line through each name that did not remotely fit the possible initials. It wasn’t long before she had a list of one hundred and fifty names from the commercial flights that she would check against the jockey registry being sent up by her buddy in Liverpool.

  The passenger lists from the private jets were much shorter and made her wish she had started there instead of dismissing it. She had barely spent a half hour looking at the names when one began to glow. Dally sniffed and wiped her tearing eyes as she put an asterisk by “J. Wyeth. Citizenship: USA. Country of Travel Origin: Ireland.”

  Maybe she wouldn’t need more time after all.

  BALLYRONAN, NORTHERN IRELAND

  JESSICA WOKE TO a room full of sunlight. She stretched her arms overhead and languished in the warmth of the bed cozy against the slight chill of the morning air. Leaded glass panes cast crisscrossed shadows along the floor. Rain promised to hold off long enough for some exploring.

  She threw on a pair of jeans and light fleece and padded barefoot down the long hallway and curving staircase to the kitchen. As much as Michael encouraged her to have his help prepare and bring her breakfast in bed, she refused, feeling awkward and self-conscious at all the fuss just for her. She was a do-it-yourself woman and felt more comfortable when she toasted her own bread, thank you. But when she pushed open the hinged door and found the central wooden table set for one with flowers, a pot of steaming coffee and the scones she complimented the day before, she knew she was fighting a losing battle.

  “Mornin’ Miss Jessica. Good to see you up and about today.” Murray, Michael’s portly and cherubic butler and general man-about-the-manor, greeted her warmly. He was infinitely easier to be around than the bristly Nan. Jessica welcomed his company.

  “Good morning. I could smell the scones upstairs. Thank you for baking more.” She settled at the table and allowed him to pour her coffee, not knowing how to decline politely his attention. “All I did was eat and sleep for two days. I’m not usually such a slug.”

  “Not to worry. Michael said you’ve been through the ringer and needed your rest, but if you’re feelin’ up to it, I’d be glad to show you around.”

  Jessica looked out the kitchen window over manicured gardens. The beds directly in front of the house burst with color—violets, thistles, poppies, clover, and daisies. Precisely clipped hedges formed intricate patterns when viewed from above and meandering paths when strolled. Larger beds located on the sides were a tangle of unpruned shrubs and untamed vines. The waters of Lough Neagh, flat and smooth on the windless day, reflected scattered patches of blue sky amid billowing clouds. She was anxious to walk the grounds. A wet gray curtain had obscured the world when her jet landed at a private airstrip, so she didn’t have a mental image of what the countryside looked like. As soon as her feet had hit the tarmac, a car pulled up and drove her over winding roads to Ballyronan.

  She had been vaguely aware of turning up a driveway through tall gates set in an imposing stone wall as the drive wound around another hill. Two wings, each with a peaked roof slightly lower than the central one, flanked the main part of Michael’s stately home. By her standards, it was a mansion, but Murray said tradition considered the home a simple hunting lodge. Each room had a view of gardens, sweeping lawns, or the lake. Even with the misty days, Jessica knew the home was nestled away from probing eyes.

  “Michael is the third generation of Connaughts to own the grounds,” Murray said, answering a question she didn’t ask but wanted to know. “Some say his grandfather purchased the home from an Earl of declining means during the Great Depression. Others say he swindled it. No matter,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand, “the families never used Ballyronan as a main residence. Magnus preferred living in the States and only stayed here during his infrequent trips to check on business. Michael spent summers and school breaks here.”

  Jessica nodded as she sipped her coffee. “He said they were the best times of his life.” The memories held and conjured by the sloping lands and crannies of the estate were good ones for him, even with their bittersweet tinge. “He said he started some renovations?”

  “Aye. Some. Seems he wants to erase his father’s presence and put his own imprint on it. The name ‘Connaught’ is descended from a line of Irish kings. Magnus wanted to reclaim the destiny. Michael wants to erase it.” Murray softened his expression as he spoke, acknowledging the difficulty of the direction Michael wanted to take.

  Jessica relaxed when she sensed Murray’s camaraderie with Michael. Destiny or not, this was a far cry from the family or history Jessica envisioned when she first met Michael. With the slow reveal of his background, she wondered what other secret gravities continued to pull them together. She knew Michael was introducing her to his world in incremental steps. Each revelation carefully calibrated. Each story carefully drawn.

  Murray spoke of Magnus’ history cautiously and did so only when asked. He responded with measured phrases and assessed Jessica’s reaction. Michael hated his father, surely, and spent years estranged from him, but the rejection hinted at being one-sided. Murray inquired about Jessica’s family in a way that suggested he knew more about her than she told him. She began to wonder if Michael’s and her alienation from their families was part of their deep connection, or something else?

  She grabbed a second scone from the basket and dabbed butter on it. Murray refilled her cup just as she reached for the pot to do it herself, bumping into his hands. He chuckled and offered her the cream. “Michael said you were independent.” He let her finish her breakfast without interruptio
n, then returned, jangling a ring of keys. “Each one is labeled. You can explore as you wish.”

  “I’d like it better if you joined me.”

  Murray beamed. “Thank you, Miss Jessica. I’d enjoy that.”

  With Murray as her guide, she explored the interior of the home with the same determination a child has in the weeks before Christmas when the Santa jig was up and the mother lode of presents was aching to be discovered. Same determination yes. Same excitement no. Rather than fueled by greedy anticipation, her search was pushed by a nagging drive of self-preservation. For the first time in her adult life, she relied on someone else. The experience created an odd push and pull. She wanted to stay wrapped in Michael’s cocoon, yet she couldn’t fully relax until every corner of his life was exposed. Opening his home, she knew Michael was trying very hard to win her confidence.

  They started at the top and worked their way down, checking doorknobs, poking into dusty closets, and opening drawers. She was happily surprised that nothing was locked or off-limits to her. Murray equally enjoyed the exploration of spaces he hadn’t bothered with in a long time. Some attic rooms were empty or used for storage and not disturbed in years, while others held an assortment of furniture and boxes. The next floor down was predominantly bedrooms, all were well appointed and comfortable. Fireplaces and sitting rooms sat empty and waiting.

  The master suite she shared with Michael was recently renovated. The smell of fresh paint and new carpets distinct against the musty and closed-in smells of the other rooms. A large bath, sitting room, huge bedroom, and closets the size of horse stalls comprised the suite. The brief exploration of the servants’ wing showed modestly appointed rooms, looking more lived-in than she expected. The main floor of the home held a library and office as well as larger rooms once used for entertaining groups of people. Most of those rooms were sparsely furnished, if at all.

  Her favorite was a glass-enclosed area off the living room. The pavilion-like structure was appointed with deeply cushioned sofas and rattan chairs.

  “This is beautiful!” The semi-circular room provided unobstructed views of the grounds. An ancient looking door opened to a graveled path and garden, and a small fieldstone hearth was at the center of one wall. “Mmm. What’s that smell? It’s wonderful.”

  “It’s peat. Even mid June, mornings can start chilly. I like to keep a fire going and the dried peat has a sweetness to it.”

  She poked the glowing lumps with a brass rod, sending a scattering of sparks up the flue. A rustic basket held more of the earthen clumps. “Family heirloom?” she asked, eyeing the dark woven branches.

  “Aye. From Michael’s mother. It’s a cherished bit of her. He says it reminds him how her presence always warmed a room.” As vast as the house was, and as thoroughly as she had looked, precious little of what Murray said belonged directly to Michael could be found.

  “I’d like to see more of what Michael feels is important.”

  “Fair enough. Let me show you his den.”

  Aside from the master suite, the den was the only other room where a faint smell of new mixed with the old. Plush carpet cushioned their steps in the darkly paneled room. Framed and fading photos of the Connaughts, deceptively happy, covered one wall. She studied the faces and could trace Michael’s intense stare and strong brow through his family’s line. Once cherished photos showed the sepia-toned humble beginnings of stern-faced men on ox carts. Others showed stoops—crowded with men, women, and ragtag children—in front of brick flats.

  The pictures progressed to full color photos displaying all the spoils of wealth and power. Slickly suited politicians and rosy-cheeked clergymen dotted the pictures. Jessica was not familiar with her Irish history. If she were, more of the faces would have looked familiar to her. Even so, she was stunned to see a smiling and young Magnus Connaught—looking like a stiff and formal Michael—standing in a crowd surrounding the dazzling John F. Kennedy. Jessica was unclear whether this photo was from JFK’s presidential years, but even the suggestion of the proximity of power was clear. Another showed a bishop, resplendent in the tall hat, vestments, and crosier of religious power, raising crooked fingers in blessing over a young Magnus’ bowed head.

  “What’s this,” she asked, looking at a picture of Magnus with a huge scissor in his hand, poised over a long ribbon.

  “Magnus was the money and the power behind schools, churches, hospitals and many, many jobs. He created a legion of men with fierce loyalties who would do anything for him. He fueled small businesses, too, with a steady influx of cash until they were strong enough to stand on their own. He gave the appearance that he shirked attention by donating anonymously or in the names of his sons, but everyone knew where the money came from. Michael was not alone in being blinded by the light of Magnus.”

  “Are there pictures of Michael when he was a boy?” she asked, eager to see them.

  “Not many,” Murray replied, uncomfortable with the truth.

  He rummaged through a drawer and produced several photographs. One showed Michael, about ten years old, with two other boys, each astride a lathered horse. One was clearly his brother. The other was vaguely familiar with sandy hair and deep-set eyes. Tim. The thought made her squirm.

  Murray continued talking. “Michael was not Magnus’ favored son. His older brother, Liam, was Magnus’ favorite.” He looked at another photo that showed Magnus’ arm draped proudly over the shoulder of his older son. Michael stood stiffly to the side. No photo of Magnus with Michael showed similar pride.

  “Liam? Isn’t that Michael’s uncle?”

  “Yes. The firstborn son was named after Magnus’ younger brother.” Dusty and forgotten behind a row of books sat another photo of Liam as a young man. A yellowed mass card tucked into the heavy frame showed the dates of his birth and death. “He blew himself up mishandling unstable explosives,” he said, uncharacteristically blunt. “Some say Magnus planted the bad chemicals after he realized Michael had the greater talent for management.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “When it comes to evil, I’d believe any story that relates to Magnus. We have no photos here of Michael after he reached his early twenties, the rift between father and younger son was deep and wide by then. You’re not to worry though, Michael has the soul of his mother in him.” He produced a picture of a beautiful woman, arms hugged around herself to protect against the chill wind that swept her hair back from her face. She looked out to the distance, a radiant smile on her face. In all the pictures, Michael’s mother looked like a lovely and gentle soul, and she was the parent who stood next to Michael with obvious parental love.

  Another photo of her and a mass card occupied the corner of Michael’s desk. “Michael said she died tragically, too.”

  Murray’s face clouded in pain. “Magnus said she killed herself when she thought Michael had agreed to join the Charity.” He quieted Jessica’s gasp with a raised hand. “I don’t consider any of it to be true.”

  One last photo sat in the center of the massive desk, marking a place of honor, showing Jessica and Michael together at a formal event in Kentucky. Jessica picked it up and studied it, carefully examining the imposters staring back at her. The memory of the Harvest Ball and the scheming Electra did to play matchmaker made her smile.

  “Michael told me about when you first met. He said you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He was gob smacked.”

  She could feel herself blush. “I didn’t know you were in the States,” she said, trying to deflect attention.

  “He would call me frequently to keep in touch. He never suspected how the two of you were connected. You were Miss Tess White then, a newcomer and a horse trainer.” His voice was gentle and without reproach. She liked him more for it.

  “And he was Sheriff Michael Conant, the respected and well-connected lawman of backwater Kentucky.” She smiled at the rush of potent and complex memories from that night. Despite both of their attempts to be someone else, they could n
ot hide the essence of who they were. The private code of wealth was tattooed into her as well as its sensitive radar, and when they met, finding each other felt like the missing puzzle piece clicked into place. “He couldn’t fool me. He may have been a lot of things, but a southerner he wasn’t.” They laughed. Michael fit the bill for an old New England family. The right prep school. Ivy League college. Their mutual attraction was instant and red hot.

  “Now he’s learning to be Michael Connaught.” Murray went to a drawer and produced a photo of five people. Michael was about thirteen. Magnus and his brother stood behind Michael and the younger Liam. Seated in an ornate chair was a much older man. The similarities of the brows and eyes were unmistakable, as was the bond of three generations of family pride.

  She nodded weakly. Murray meant no harm, but his observation jolted her in a way she didn’t understand.

  They had been exploring for hours and Jessica returned to the glass pavilion. She sat enveloped in the sweetly pungent smell of the peat fire, and mulled over each piece of Michael’s life as if it held a clue to her own. From the first moment they met, Michael was a powerful factor in her life and was relentless in his efforts to keep her safe. As transparent as he wanted to be, there were still things they were blind to. She questioned whether the unseen was as dangerous as the seen.

  The clouds had tumbled back in and rain pelted down on the thick glass. Regardless, the colors and smells were intoxicating. The mists rolled in from the lake, obscuring the shoreline and transforming the wooded area into a hobbit’s home. The gray wisps of fog thickened into the shape of a human and moved with slow precision along the shore. She froze, thinking again of the mists at the stone circle. She tensed as a man emerged cradling something long in his arms, a dog at his heels. He paused at the shore, looked out over the lake and up to the house, and continued walking. That was her first sighting of the armed guards that surrounded Ballyronan.