“If I were,” he pointed out mildly, “wouldn’t I have a room at the castle?”
She weighed his response as she sucked her thumb, drawing blood from a cracked chilblain so it wouldn’t get on the clean clothes. With a practiced pucker, she spit onto the ground. “Fair enough.”
After another assessing stare, she dropped the basket of wet laundry and came toward him with one hand held out. “Here. I’ll fetch your water.”
“There’s no need,” he insisted, but she was not to be put off, so he surrendered the jug and while she was ladling water into it, some from a bucket of cold water, some from a boiling kettle, he reached into the basket, pulled out a cravat, and draped it over a nearby branch.
When the jug was full, she set it on the ground, then stepped to the mangle and began to turn the handle, making no remark as he continued to hang items to dry. “I’m Mary Fagan,” she said at last when she paused to shake the stiffness from her arm.
An overture? “Pleased to meet you,” he said. But to his nod of greeting she said nothing in reply. After he’d hung the last of the items in the basket, he picked up the jug. Best to return to the cottage, before the water turned cold. He could make another attempt at conversation later. “Thank you, ma’am.”
She made no acknowledgment of his departure. Inside the pub, two more tables had filled with men whose dirty boots proclaimed them farmers. Tenants of Dashfort’s, no doubt. This time, whether anyone spoke to or about him, he could not be certain, for they conversed entirely in Irish. Quickly, he crossed the floor and went up the stairs to his room.
He was a stranger here, all right. Cami’s fable about the possibility of sympathetic Anglo-Irish relations had been just that: a fable. Three days in Kilready—hell, three years—would not be enough for a supposed Englishman to earn these people’s trust.
And without it, he had very little chance of saving Tommy Fagan and even less chance of bringing the Earl of Dashfort to his knees.
Chapter 14
Paris had misjudged the people of Kilready in one respect. Three days was more than enough time to learn the story of Mary Fagan’s downfall. In sordid detail. From the mouth of almost every resident of the village…except, of course, for Mary herself.
He knew, for instance, how Mary had got above herself and dreamed of becoming a parlor maid at Kilready Castle. How, instead of being grateful to the housekeeper for taking on a clumsy girl, Mary had shocked the village by “throwing herself on His Lordship’s, er, charity.” Later, when the earl had gone to London and brought back a bride, the countess—“God rest ’er”—had straightaway sent Mary home in disgrace, rounded belly and all.
It took no great feat of imagination to construct another narrative of events, one in which Mary was not villain but victim. But the people of Kilready stuck stubbornly to their version, perhaps because Mary herself was too stubborn to contradict them—cold, hard, proud were the words he heard used to describe her again and again.
“What became of her child?” he had asked on occasion, always with the image of Tommy Fagan, lying ill in prison, burned onto his mind’s eye.
That question had invariably been met with shrugs. “Och, his mam’s not likely to be after showin’ off a bastard, now, is she?” he’d been told. Not a soul seemed bothered by the boy being hidden away. Not a soul seemed to realize the boy was likely gone from Kilready for good. And if these people did not care, for what sort of future was Paris attempting to save him?
On the morning of the third day, Paris awoke filled with a sense of desperation. How much longer was he going to be trapped here? He’d largely failed to persuade the people of the village that he was a sympathetic ear for their troubles. He was wasting his time in Kilready, time better spent helping Rosamund out of whatever predicament had forced her to flee. Time better spent persuading her to trust him, no matter how he’d behaved in the past.
After washing and shaving in what little water was left in the washbasin, though it was cold, he dressed in his last clean shirt. He was knotting his cravat when Mary Fagan rapped on the door.
“The blacksmith was just here, sir,” she called from the corridor. “Left your horse and gig waitin’ outside.”
He stepped to the door and opened it before she could leave. “Excellent news.”
She glanced around the room, pausing over the coat lying at the foot of his bed, the finest one he’d brought. “Looks like you’re after goin’ somewhere.”
“I need to talk with Mr. Quin, Lord Dashfort’s agent.” He doubted the man would be foolish enough to reveal anything of value. But at least then Paris could tell himself that he’d be as thorough as possible in his investigation.
“You’ll likely find him at the castle.” Like her eyes, her voice was wary.
“I’ll call there on my way out of town. Thank you.”
She nodded, turned to go, then paused. “Before you go to the castle,” she murmured over her shoulder, “you’d best know it’s haunted.”
“Oh, come now, Mistress Fagan,” he scoffed. “Surely you don’t believe—”
She chuckled. Or perhaps cackled would have been a more accurate description. “Gor. Mistress Fagan,” she repeated disbelievingly. She turned around to face him again and quietly shut the door behind her. “Go on. Have a seat.” She nodded toward the rickety wooden chair, over which he’d flung his greatcoat.
When it appeared he had little choice but to obey, he eased himself onto the chair. “All right.”
She perched on the edge of the bed. Facing her across the narrow room, he saw for the first time the remnants of prettiness in her face. Had circumstances all but stripped her of her youthful beauty? Or did she hide its signs deliberately now, knowing she’d caught Dashfort’s eye and hoping to catch no one else’s?
“I hear tell you like a story, sir,” she said after a moment. “Leastways, I know you’ve heard mine.”
Her words left no room for denial, though he would have liked to have made one. With one finger, he traced a crack in the chair’s joinery. “I have. But as to this nonsense about a ghost—”
She wagged a gnarled finger at him. “Hush. I know there’s a ghost. Seen him wit’ my own eyes, haven’t I? An’ so’s Mr. Quin. That’s why I’m tellin’ you.”
He parted his lips to express something—his disbelief, his incomprehension—but a sharp look from her kept him silent.
“If you go up there, he’ll be worried you came back because something got missed. A road he wants on no surveyor’s map, that’s certain.”
She smoothed a hand over the wrinkled bed linens, carefully avoiding his coat. “Now, listen. On that road that don’t exist, men ferry goods that don’t exist neither. Irish goods goin’ out, French ones comin’ in. All kept in the belly o’ Kilready Castle. Men have died to keep that secret, but I see no reason why you should be one of ’em.”
Smuggling, just as Graves had suspected. Paris’s heart began to gallop so hard he felt sure the ends of his cravat must be fluttering over it. Pray God if Mary noticed, she would think his response driven by fear. “Thank you for the warning, ma’am,” he said with a catch in voice. “I want no part of any bad business that might go on in these parts.”
Absently, he started to rise, uncertain what his next move ought to be. Though a bit of poking and prodding might provide a great deal of evidence that Dashfort was implicated in the smuggling ring, would exposing it, exposing him, ultimately wreak further havoc in Kilready?
“Sit, sir. Sit,” she commanded, thumping her palm on the mattress for emphasis. “Have ye forgot about th’ ghost?”
“I really don’t—”
“God’s truth. He exists, and I know it.” She lifted one hand and laid it over her heart. Shining spots of pink and white speckled the skin of her forearm; one burn was fresh and purplish red. “Didn’t I bring him into th’ world?”
It took
an inordinate amount of time for him to process her words. “You mean—?”
“My son. You’ve heard, I know, about my boy. An’ you know who th’ boy’s da is, likewise.”
Reluctantly, Paris nodded. “I know you were a servant at the castle, exploited by your master—”
“No.” Her face grew hard. “Twasn’t like that, no matter what folks think.” A pause as she studied him. “You don’t believe me, do you? But he was young an’ handsome then, an’ I…well, I wasn’t always a washerwoman.” Her voice softened a little as she spread her arms and turned her attention to their myriad injuries. No matter what she said, however, her willing participation in the affair did not make Dashfort less of a wretch. “He was mine long before he was hers,” she insisted, referring he supposed to the late Lady Dashfort, “and she knew it, too. That’s why she sent me away.” Slowly, she shook her head. “When he went t’ Lon’on, he never looked back… I didn’t expect him t’ marry me. But I never thought he’d leave me flat like he did. Well,” she added after a moment with a shrug, “an’ maybe he was grievin’ too. Her Ladyship had just lost her babe, after all. Don’t s’pose he ever knew when his other boy, my boy, was born.”
Her eyes were glazed now, lost in memory. “I didn’t think he’d live, my Tommy. A strange, sickly thing. Bore th’ mark of our sin, he did.” Paris’s breath caught, though he should not have been surprised by such a misguided explanation for the boy’s albinism. “He was only a few days old when Mr. Quin came t’ take him from me. Promised t’ see him well cared for. Oh, I shouldn’t have let him go…” Her words broke off on a moan of anguish. How Paris wished he could offer some reassurance, but he could think of nothing but the grim cell in Kilmainham Gaol. “Not long after that,” she continued when she had composed herself again, “the Kilready servants began to tell tales about th’ ghost what first cried in th’ nursery and then walked through th’ halls and now wanders—”
“Along a certain path,” Paris inserted, his understanding beginning to grow. Quin had seen an opportunity to use the child to prey on people’s fears. In order to keep them away from his illicit activities. Perhaps even to keep the earl himself away. “But how do you—? Ah. That’s why you became Kilready’s washerwoman. It gives you an excuse to visit the castle.”
“Once t’ month. Since he was a babe. I see him, an’ he sees me. But last week, sir, when I took the clean linen, he was gone. Vanished like the ghost they say he be.” She spoke in a surprisingly matter-of-fact voice about the disappearance of her child. It seemed her arms were not the only part of her that had been toughened by scars.
“Why are you telling me this?” he asked softly, in the way he might prompt a witness to say more than she intended.
“Because there’s somethin’ else foul afoot at the castle, Mr. Trenton. My boy went missin’ the same day as th’ girl.”
“The girl?”
“A month or so ago, an old friend of his Lordship’s came to Kilready with his sister. An Englishman. They say ’is Lordship did hope to marry the girl.”
“Did hope?” Paris echoed, reluctantly intrigued. “Does he have that hope no longer?”
“The girl didn’t take a fancy to ’im, as I heard tell.”
Perhaps the young lady in question had heard what had become of the previous Countess of Dashfort.
“And you think the two disappearances are related somehow?” A strange coincidence, certainly.
She shrugged. “Dunno. But I’d hate to see it be three.” She gave him a knowing look as she rose and he followed suit. “Folks do say there’s no snakes in Ireland,” she said as she stepped once more to the door. “I say the last one’s slitherin’ about Kilready Castle.”
“Does Lord Dashfort know his agent’s reputation among his tenants?”
“I don’t reckon he wants to know,” she replied with a bitter laugh. “All those years in Lon’on, don’ s’pose as he ever cared where th’ rent money came from, only whether it came when it was supposed to. It means dangerous business for some o’ the folks around here. But needs must, Mr. Trenton.”
He nodded. Needs must when the devil drives… and he had very little doubt the sort of devil Dashfort employed. Sadly, the unscrupulous landowner’s agent was a species of serpent that still thrived throughout the island.
Paris fished in the pocket of his greatcoat for his purse. “Wait. For the blacksmith,” he said, laying a few coins on her outstretched palm. “And for you and your father.” He poured out more than enough to cover his bill. “Do you read, ma’am?” he asked, as she let the coins run through her fingers like water, pooling into the palm of her other hand
“A little.” She didn’t look up. He’d send a simple note, once he’d returned to Dublin. To let them know what had become of the boy. Oh, how he hoped he would not be writing to report the lad’s death.
It took but a moment to gather his things. In the lane he found his broken-down gig and the equally broken-down horse waiting for him. He could feel the eyes of the village on him as he swung onto the seat and slowly made his way up the hill to Kilready Castle.
He’d hunched in its shadows once before, trying and failing to stanch Henry’s blood with his bare hands. As Paris rolled beneath the portcullis now, he glanced up at its teeth, surprisingly sharp and free of rust, having too recently been put to the castle’ defense. Unsettled, he guided the horse to a stop and jumped from the gig. He swept his gaze around the courtyard. From here he could see nothing of what lay below, neither the village nor the foaming waters of the Irish Sea. Easy enough to forget on what Kilready’s master depended for his—no, not for his survival. For his elegant charade as an almost-Englishman in London.
But the death of Lady Dashfort had put paid to that performance. The gossip columns had made much of the earl’s Irishness, despite his repeated assertions of his English birth and his English education and his English residence. In the end, though a peer, Lord Dashfort had been a mere Irishman in English eyes, volatile and prone to violence. And when Paris thought of the bloodshed that had occurred on these grounds not a year ago, he wondered if they hadn’t been right.
Lost in his thoughts, he did not immediately hear the little girl’s squeal. Or rather, the sound did not register. Too familiar, too much a part of the noise that surrounded him daily. But of course this squeal could belong to neither Daphne nor Bell. In the moment it took for that realization to settle over him, a boy’s voice added to the din of thundering hooves and rattling wheels.
“You there! Look out! I can’t—!”
Paris tightened the grip on his horse’s head, and the skirts of his greatcoat rippled as the dog cart and its occupants raced past. In a spray of gravel they managed to stop before crashing into the stable block.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the boy said breathlessly as he jumped down and raised his hat, quite the little gentleman. He glanced up at the girl on the seat, the one who had squealed. His sister, Paris guessed. “We oughtn’t to have been going so fast.”
The girl’s face bore no signs of chagrin. In fact, Paris recognized amusement twinkling in her eyes. The pair of them looked to be close in age to Daphne and Bell, the boy clearly the elder by a year or two, though slight of build. Both were fashionably and expensively dressed. And the boy spoke with an unmistakably English accent.
But all of those details were insignificant beside one glaring fact: The boy might have been Tommy Fagan’s twin. Oh, this boy’s hair was straw blond, rather than white, and his skin was fair in an ordinary way. The eyes, though, were the same hazel-brown, and the narrow features were unmistakable. It was like looking at a watercolor version of a familiar pencil sketch.
The commotion had drawn several hands to the door of the stable, though not one of them stepped out or spoke. Before Paris could think of what to say to the children, two men on horseback thundered into the courtyard. The boy fidgeted with the reins.
“What ho, my boy?” called the one in the lead, a man with the same blond hair and close-set, brownish eyes. He stopped before them, while the second man held well back, too distant for Paris to see anything of his features. “Didn’t I warn you not to let Crispin have his head?”
“It won’t happen again, sir,” the boy vowed in a voice that wanted to waver.
The girl’s smile curved wickedly as she shook her head, perhaps intending to underscore her brother’s promise, though the gesture gave the impression of adding to their father’s scold. Although she was still sitting primly on the seat, with her hands folded neatly in her lap, Paris wondered suddenly whether those hands hadn’t in fact been holding the reins.
“Are you—?” The boy swallowed. “Are you harmed, sir?”
“Not at all,” Paris reassured the boy. “But I daresay your father’s advice is sound.”
His words drew the attention of the man who could only be Lord Dashfort. “You are a stranger to Kilready, sir.” He looked Paris up and down. “A gentleman, by your dress.”
“The name’s Trenton, my lord,” he said with a bow. “I’ve come to speak with Mr. Quin.”
He might not have known that Dashfort stiffened at his words if his mount hadn’t tossed its head. The earl laid a steadying hand along the animal’s neck. “What about?”
“I’m with the surveying party that passed through last week. I was delayed in the last village by a disagreement over a property boundary. I assure you I won’t take much of his time. I would not wish to distract him from your lordship’s more pressing business.”
That answer seemed to soothe the ruffled the earl, who dismounted rather heavily and motioned for one of the stable hands to take his horse. “Come,” he said, gesturing toward the castle. “I’ll have a servant show you to his office.”
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