The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2)

by Connie Johnson Hambley

  But his friends were long dead and alternate paths long grown cold.

  He had saved each article. The first had been buried deep inside the newspaper near endless columns of stocks and scores. Man Dies in Mountain Search. Murdering Heiress Sought for Questioning. He neatly folded the paper, keeping the story on top. Tuesday’s paper declared Death and Hoax Search Covered up. Wyeth Flees U.S. The byline, Dally Thorpe, was not even a name that was vaguely familiar, but the name Connaught was one all too familiar to him. He folded the paper and placed it with the others. He didn’t have to read them to learn the details but was happy that the articles placed Jessica in a favorable and sympathetic light. She had obviously inherited her mother’s grit. And from what he could tell about the direction of the series, she was going to need every ounce of it.

  Rosalie, his middle-aged housekeeper, quietly knocked on the door and entered. Rather than a maid’s uniform, she wore a simple gabardine dress and sensible shoes. A gold crucifix was pinned to her collar. “Excuse me, Your Excellency, Deputy First Minister Bragdon is here to see you.”

  Bragdon had been a steady presence in the government for as long as Kavan could remember. Unattractive exterior notwithstanding, he always seemed to be surrounded by women with tight skirts and nervous eyes, and men who never said no. Kavan would watch closely while Bragdon maneuvered through a crowd and manipulated even the strongest man with a whispered statement or stony silence.

  Bragdon had tried many times to tempt Kavan with women or booze—or once, boys—but Kavan held himself and never gave Bragdon so much as a whiff of a corruptible soul. Bragdon aspired to move beyond his title of “Deputy” and barely hid his ambition to be at the top of Northern Ireland’s government with at palatial office at Stormont. He needed to create his own career path despite being hated.

  The proposed talks for reunifying the Irelands would restructure the executive branch of the country and annihilate his carefully plotted rise. He had steadfastly cultivated the Minister of Home Affairs and was a key supporter of the Special Powers Act; an act that interred people as security risks of the state until such time they were no longer a threat—with or without formal charges. He found it easier to marginalize threats simply by incarcerating them. Bragdon worked hard to learn the weakness and mistakes of others. He used such knowledge to build his career and didn’t care who hated or feared him. Kavan was aware of Bradgon’s probing into his background and life and knew that none of Bradgon’s hooks had snagged on anything. Theirs was a long and tedious friendship, one marked by a profound inability to let one’s guard down.

  Kavan rose up from his chair and walked over to the rotund minister. “Reginald! Always a pleasure to see you, but this is a surprise. What brings you out today?” Kavan pulled himself up to his full height and flashed a smile as dashing as any in the movies. Dressed in the casual attire of the clergy—black shirt, black pants—Kavan didn’t attempt to soften the effect he knew his presence would have.

  Reggie Bragdon was a squat and arrogant man who hadn’t quite come to grips with the fact that he was woefully unattractive. Somehow, mirrors seemed to have eluded his universe, so the only indication to him that he was not movie star perfect was the fact he had to tilt his head upward to look most people in the eye. Even so, he found that he could still look down his nose at anyone else with ease.

  As a man of God, Kavan was presumed to be above human frailties, but something about the gnome-like man in front of him begged addressing. He took a slight step forward, knowingly that half meter too close, forcing Bragdon to take an uncomfortable half step back. Kavan enjoyed cloaking his welcome in the unspoken language of alpha.

  Bragdon gripped the outstretched hand and gave it a perfunctory pump. “Bishop Hughes,” he said with his usual formality and pomp, as if someone would reflect it back on him, “I came to offer my congratulations on your upcoming appointment to Archbishop. Long overdue. Long overdue.” He looked expectantly at the chairs and tea service.

  Kavan raised his eyebrows. “My ascension and move to Rome is not for several months. I hadn’t thought the news was out.”

  “It’s not,” he said, giving a satisfied smile. “I’ll miss having you so close to Stormont.”

  Kavan suppressed a wince and raised his chin. “Thank you. I’ve been happy to serve at the pleasure of the Holy See and am humbled by his confidence in me.”

  “Your appointment comes at a tumultuous time. You have always had the gift of understanding both sides of our conflict and helping others hear consensus when only words of fighting were spoken.” Bragdon cleared his throat and took a step toward the empty chairs.

  Kavan acknowledged the compliment and remained standing. “It won’t change my involvement in the administration of the different dioceses here. This is more of a change of title and address than duties,” he waved his hand as if to dismiss a larger thought. “But you seem to have more on your mind.” He took a halting step forward and smiled to himself when Bragdon almost invited himself to sit.

  “What I am going to say must be kept in the strictest of confidence. No one must hear of this before its time.”

  “Of course. I have always kept your counsel.”

  Bragdon coughed nervously into his hand. “I wanted you to hear it from the government firsthand. Sinn Fein will be offered a seat at the negotiating table.”

  The news shot through Kavan. Without changing his expression or the set of his shoulders, he lowered his head and gave a silent “Thanks be to God.” He took in a measured breath. “This change of heart is sudden. What led the British to decide that all parties should have a say after all?”

  “With all due respect, Bishop Hughes, you can say that bombs don’t make diplomacy but those filthy hooligans know better.”

  Kavan made sure to carefully etch his irritation with restraint. “Reginald, you know as well as I do that no one will listen to anything if they have one ear plugged by the muzzle of a gun. Linking a change of heart in the British with the bombing of Arndale will only serve to embolden another attack. You and I have had many discussions on this. The only path to lasting peace is for anyone with an interest in the outcome to have an opportunity for input on the process. People must feel their words are heard to stop their fists midair, and not just in Norn Iron. Surely you see it that way.” Beaming a benevolent smile, he waved his hand over to the empty chairs and signaled Rosalie for more tea. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  Bragdon settled himself in and fluffed his jacket. “We think it’s best that the announcement come from you at the retirement service this Sunday. You and Father Storm have had strong ties to the Irish community and hearing it from you will go a long way toward legitimizing the message.”

  “And they are certain that this announcement so close to Arndale won’t be misconstrued as success for darker strategies? The loyalists have long felt that Sinn Fein is the brain and the IRA the brawn of the same beast. The IRA will claim success for their tactics. Won’t they be right?”

  “Certainly not.” Bragdon waved his hand at the thought. “Merely a formality that they overlooked.”

  Kavan’s eyes narrowed as his smile widened. “My church has never been a pulpit for taking a side in politics. I’ve spoken to the hearts of men and the calling of their souls. I don’t meddle in their political bedfellows. I have been very transparent with you in what opinions I have heard and provided insight into what arguments may hold sway, but neither the Church, nor I, have ever been the government’s public mouthpiece, and I’m not sure it’s wise to start now.”

  As he leaned in on Bragdon, Kavan had the clarity he had been lacking for so long. Perceived as trodding the middle ground all these years meant that he had listened and given credence to both sides equally. Doing so cultivated an oasis of neutrality, becoming privy to the plans and confessions of many. He used that information and shaped his own agenda, but quietly, never venturing into the open. Publicly he wanted equality for all people and didn’t care what
government’s flag flew over his meetings. But privately, he yearned for his language and history to flow. He could be a Catholic in Greenland or Italy. But he could only be an Irishman from Irish soil. Neutrality was one thing. Being a tool was another.

  Bragdon’s offer reeked of manipulation, but the Deputy Minister certainly was not smart enough to work that out on his own.

  “Father Storm is deserving of the spotlight all on him and not to be sharing it with a political message,” Kavan infused his voice with friendship, even as he was feeling anything but.

  “I’m sure he’ll want to be remembered as going out on such a strong note.”

  Kavan remained firm. “I will not tarnish his final service with that announcement.”

  “I’ve seen you skirt the edges, Bishop. Wait until the mass is concluded to make your announcement, but do it that day when the cathedral is full of those who need to hear the word.” He waited for an acknowledgement, and received none. “Give me your promise.”

  They had been through too many trials and tests for Kavan not to recognize a trap. Bragdon had never asked for his word before and that seemingly insignificant fact illuminated his desperation. He manifested his most genial demeanor. “I only give my oaths and promises to God.”

  Bragdon started to press for more and leaned forward, eyes darting as he thought of other avenues to get the answer he wanted. They finally settled on the stack of newspapers, absorbing every detail. Kavan watched as Bragdon took a deep breath and sink into his chair. He could almost see the mental wheels churning that not getting an outright refusal was worth meeting today. Bragdon would think the offer was too tempting to be disregarded.

  Rosie set the tea service down and the men made a show of enjoying one another’s company, each secretly wishing the amber tea packed a mite bit stronger kick. When enough time had passed that Kavan was finally able to walk him to the door without offense, he went back to the newspapers and culled the pages for anything he may have missed. He read the international section for business deals. He read the police blotters for neighborhood skirmishes. Nothing indicated that Bragdon’s offer would have been coming.

  He was at a crossroads. Something nagged at him about Bragdon’s offer. The timing? This was a chess game he had played for far too long. He yearned to talk to someone openly, freely, the way he used to talk to Gus. And Bridget. They had understood.

  He looked at pictures of Jessica and felt the hot stab of loss as he saw Bridget’s smile. So alive. So vital. Bridget’s child seemed to cling onto the arm of that dashing fellow. Michael Conant? Connaught? He remembered how Bridget would cling to her Gean Cánach along the shores of Lough Neagh and for a moment, he was lost in the thoughts of a young man.

  He fingered the key hanging around his neck on a long woolen cord and wondered about the path not taken.

  MANCHESTER, ENGLAND

  DALLY GAVE A muffled “whoop” as she put down the phone. Monday’s paper did exactly what she had hoped. Interest in the Murdering Heiress had not waned. Circulation for Tuesday’s paper was up, and the tip line started to ring. Wednesday’s paper had the good citizens of England all doing their part in Dally’s drama. The numbers were modest, but anyone who made a pastime of tracking the beautiful blonde American were calling in her location and offering details—for a price. Whether the details were true or not didn’t really matter. The feeding frenzy mattered. Dally was going to do all she could to make sure the pacing was perfect for the upcoming weekend’s explosion of demand.

  Her story had moved up one page in the paper. The pictures she chose to run of the dashing Sheriff would be instantly recognizable as the surviving Connaught son. Don gave the article a huff-and-buff edit but nothing more because she essentially rehashed everything the American reporter had already published. Everything was going like clockwork. She checked her calendar and penciled in a time to get her teeth cleaned and hair highlighted for her television debut. She stifled an urge to rub her hands together and dabbed her nose instead.

  Don’s shadow darkened her desk. He threw a stack of papers in front of her.

  “Your story got a bit of interest.”

  “Just like I told you. It’s going to be a corker.”

  Don stared at her until she got the clue that she was supposed to read the papers.

  After a few minutes, she raised her chin and peered at him through her glasses. “So what? I was expecting injunction orders. You deal with those all the time. Besides, it’s going to help us sell more papers if Connaught tried to stop us.” She looked at the papers more carefully and gasped. “These aren’t injunctions! They’re cease and desist orders!”

  “It seems that American reporter didn’t take too kindly to you using all of her information and not crediting her. She says that all would be forgiven if you shared your research with her.”

  “Bloody hell, Don!” Dally said as a sneezing fit kicked in, “this is my story.”

  “No, Magpie, it’s not. This is the paper’s story, and I can assign it to any reporter I want. You will get this American reporter off my back by calling her and making nice. Throw her a few choice tidbits, then write Millie’s copy for tonight’s news.”

  Dally’s knuckles were white as she dialed the phone.

  BALLYRONAN, NORTHERN IRELAND

  JESSICA AND MICHAEL walked along the shore then turned up the path and into the woods. They had been out picking wild flowers, and Michael guided her away from the house. Sounds of saws and hammers could be heard before the stable came into view. The area that had once been the garage and loft had been demolished clear to the rafters. Slits of light shone through the aging roof. A grid of yellow tape and blue lines mapped out more box stalls. A handful of men were hard at work fixing roof shingles and replacing long neglected wood. Sweat slicked pale and freckled forearms. They worked in silent choreography paced by the steady beat of the hammers. Three men, shirts drenched or missing, struggled to put a heavy beam in place. A fourth man, hoodie pulled over his head, pounded a nail. Another carried lengths of wood and threw them down with a heavy clatter.

  Michael didn’t realize how tense he was until she turned to him. After his conversation with Murray a few days ago, he struggled with ways to help her feel connected and rooted. He searched her eyes for signs he was on the right track.

  “I guess this is all for me.” She turned a slow circle and took in all of the activity.

  “The property needs your touch. Creating your ideal facility will help you feel connected to the Irelands.” He tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice. “The barn needs to be upgraded. I was impressed with what I saw at Aintree, and you said the facilities at the cottage were too basic. What will we need?”

  “You mean, what do you need aside from electricity, running water, indoor and outdoor training rings, padded shower stalls, and—oh, yeah—horses? Aside from that I’d say you’re all set.” She tried to temper the bite of her words with an empty laugh. “Thank you. I can see you’re trying to keep me happy and occupied while you’re gone.”

  “The architects come again tomorrow to put finishing details on the plans we already roughed out. Meeting with them without me will help send the message that this is your project. I hope you request everything you need.” He swept his hand to the south. “There’s plenty of land for a track and indoor arena. I want you to design those, too. I, um,” he hesitated as he struggled to find the right words, “I want you here with me, Jessica. I want you to feel like you belong here... with me.” He used his fingers to comb through her hair, gliding the soft strands away from her face. Her forehead was starting to pink in the summer sun. She had true Irish skin. Whether she felt it or not, she belonged here. With him.

  She surveyed the activity. “The barn could start with ten horses and I could build from there. The connections made with Tully Farm and others at Aintree would put me in demand immediately. Doherty would put half his stable under my care even without your influence, and Electra would use me to source top-no
tch animals to sell in the States. It could be very successful.”

  The excitement in her voice gave him a flicker of optimism. “The life you tried to create in Kentucky you can create here.”

  “That life was based on a fear and a lie, and the life you want me to create here is the same life that got Gus killed.”

  His heart sank when he saw the determined look in her eyes.

  “Until I’m completely free of any involvement in the Charity, I’m not making any promises. I’ll help you design the facility, but I don’t know if I’m part of the long-term deal.”

  Michael’s pounding heart betrayed how desperately he wanted this, but he knew better than to press. Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the guards, rifle draped over his arm surveying the woods. He tried to steer her by the elbow to look in the other direction, but she gently removed herself and followed his gaze to the sniper. “This is temporary. We won’t always have to live like this. I’m leaving tonight to access the final papers of my father’s estate. I’m going to Switzerland.”

  “Does your uncle know that?”

  “He will when I return.”

  “And then?”

  “And then there will be no more secrets.”

  It didn’t make him feel any more secure when her only response was an aloof shrug.

  The worker lowered his hooded sweatshirt, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and watched the retreating figures. Then Tim dropped his hammer and walked behind the barn. Rummaging around his pack, he finally found what he was looking for. The day’s rumpled newspaper contained a story that made him nearly crazy.