The Heart Does Whisper (Echoes of Pemberley Book 2)

by Cynthia Ingram Hensley

  “Sean?”

  “Yes, Catie?”

  “You’re going to send queries to parish schools ten miles outside Cambridge tomorrow aren’t you?”

  “Go to sleep, lass. It’s late.”

  “Bloody bogger!”

  “Bloody toff,” he replied in a chuckle and then kissed the top of her head.

  ***

  Toby Patterson sat on the bench outside Sean’s office, staring intently down the tree-lined avenue that was the entrance to the campus. As usual, he looked as if he were expecting someone, willing someone to come walking down the lane—his father. Sean sighed deeply and said a silent prayer for both the father and the son. Only recently had the boy been showing up at the familiar spot again, and Sean was more than a little curious about Toby’s reasons. Was it the regular bi-weekly visits with his step-grandfather that drove Toby to seek the comfort he’d once found on that bench, or was it something simpler…like the return of warmer weather? The good news was that Toby was much less ritualistic. Sean was quick to note that the boy didn’t just appear on Mondays, and even better, Toby remained still in his meditation rather than the habitual rocking he’d done in the past.

  Feeling particularly hopeful, Sean left his office to join him. His conversations with Toby were always one-sided and never amounted to much more than the occasional nod or a slight shake of Toby’s head in answer to a direct question, but it was something.

  “How goes it today, Toby?” Sean asked with smiling emphasis. “A grand day if ever there was one. Eh?”

  Not taking his eyes off the lane, Toby scooted to one side.

  It wasn’t much of a welcome, but Sean didn’t mind. He sat down and filled the silence with a few more generic comments about the fine Savannah weather. He then glanced down at the child. On Toby’s lip and chin, he saw the beginnings of stubble. Adolescence was greedily stealing over the boy and consuming what little innocence was left after the tragedy that took Toby’s words — or the courage to speak them. It dawned on Sean that it had been almost two years since Toby’s mother was murdered.

  “You know, when I was a lad, I liked to get away and be by meself for a wee while too. I had four younger brothers, you see, which didn’t leave much in the way of privacy. Me ma liked to keep one of the bedrooms special-like, for guests and such, so there was two of us boys in one room and three in the other. We brothers had little in the way of secrets, as you can imagine.” Sean had often told Toby stories from his homeland, and he could tell by the way Toby listened so attentively that he was interested in hearing them. To Toby, Sean thought, Ireland must seem a million miles away.

  The boy scooted a degree closer—his way of telling Sean to go on.

  Sean smiled and continued, “Being the eldest, I was the thinker of our lot…kind of like you. Most days, I’d finish me chores as fast as I could, so that I might have a minute or two for meself. In particular, I liked going to this tall, square castle that sat on a wee rise overlooking Strangford Lough. A lough is Gaelic for lake. So I reckon you’d say, Strangford Lake in America. During the Middle Ages, there were a great many of these tall castles—tower houses they’re called or túrthithe in Irish. Oftentimes, I’d climb to the top and look out over the water. Strangford Lough is known for its drumlins, which were formed by massive glaciers. If you ever get a chance to see the drumlins in Strangford, you’ll notice they look like the backs of great dinosaurs or sea monsters rising up from the lake for a breath of fresh air. Other times, I’d just lay on me back and listen to the birdcalls. I was proud that I knew an oystercatcher from a tern and a tern from a gull. Me da taught all of us lads the sounds of the lough.” Sean laughed softly and affectionately at the mention of his father. “Me da would live under the stars if me ma would let him.

  “One day, when I was about your age, I climbed to the top of the tower house and fell fast asleep. I never woke until I heard men calling my name. I must have been asleep for quite a bit, for it was full dark when I woke. I peeked out and saw torches, er…flashlights, I mean, bouncing in the darkness and coming from all around. ‘Seany,’ they called over and over, and I realized…they’re searching for me. Sure that me father was going to make short work of my hide, I said a few choice curse words for my foolishness and made my way down.

  “On my way out, I ran headlong into Father Barry, who was on his way in. The poor man looked so relieved, you’d have thought he found the Holy Grail. He crossed himself and said, ‘Thanks be to God! The whole village has searched hill and dale for ye, lad.’ Father Barry is a Catholic priest. There are only three men of the cloth in Ballygreystone: a Catholic priest, an Anglican priest, and a Presbyterian reverend. If a soul can’t find salvation with the Catholics, the Anglicans, or the Presbys, they’re fair out of luck in rural Ireland.”

  Sean was quiet for a moment then, in a low voice, said, “I thought me parents would kill me, but instead, they hugged me real tight and then thanked Father Barry and everyone that had helped search. I was hungry, so Ma heated up me tea, dabbing tears from her eyes with the end of her apron. Then she and me da sat real quiet-like and watched me eat.”

  Toby’s brows knitted.

  Sean chuckled at the child’s unspoken question and explained, “In Ireland, in England, too, for that matter, tea is something you drink—same as here, but it’s also a meal…like supper.”

  Toby gave Sean a slight nod, though he still looked a tad perplexed.

  Smiling, Sean went on, “I reckon they had been too frightened out of their wits with worry to scold me. This may sound daft to you, but, sitting there, I sort of wished they would yell or give me head a smart clip—something.”

  There was a long pause, during which Sean joined Toby in staring down the avenue. The Live Oaks, draped heavily with Spanish moss, stood in ranks along each side of the drive. Sean could have sat there all afternoon in the gentle breeze, daydreaming of home, but duty called. He stood up and, with a tinge of regret, said, “Well, laddie, that’s all the story I have for today. I need to get back to work, and you should be gone before you’re late for your next class.”

  Instead of getting up, Toby’s head lowered, and his breathing intensified as if he were summoning up the courage to jump off the edge of a mountain.

  “You all right, Toby?” Sean put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and asked.

  “I know what y’all think. I know y’all think my daddy kilt my mama, but he didn’t.” Toby’s voice was so hushed and flat his words might have been lost in the breeze had Sean not been standing so close.

  Shocked, Sean took a moment to gather his thoughts then asked, “Do you know who hurt your mother, Toby? Who hurt you?”

  The child shook his head slowly, the wind lifting wisps of his straight, thin dirty-blonde hair.

  It was a risk, Toby might start rocking again or run off, but Sean took the gamble. He sat down beside Toby and put a comforting hand on the child’s knee. “How do you know, Toby? How do you know it wasn’t your dad?”

  There was a long silence then, to his feet, Toby replied, “It was late. I was sleepin’, and mama woke me up screamin’. She yelled, ‘Toby, go to the bar and get your daddy.’ There was somebody else there—in the house. I heard ’im arguin’ with mama. When I got to the door, he tried to stop me. He hurt me, but I got away. I ran to get Daddy, but my arms hurt so bad I had to sit down. I couldn’t run.”

  Sean saw that Toby was struggling to control a mounting emotion and instinctively pulled the small frame against him in a tight embrace. “Shhh,” he hushed consolingly. “You needn’t say more, Toby. You’ve done a fine job.”

  The child did cry then. In a high-pitched wail, Toby Patterson clung to Sean and wept pitifully until his heart, if temporarily, was unfettered of its heavy burden.

  ***

  Catie could hear a bell. What is it? She turned around and saw the big clock atop the library. She was back at Davenport—her girl’s school. She must be late for assembly. Why am I wearing my wedding dress? Catie beg
an to run and came up off her pillow like a shot. “Sean!” she cried excitedly, shaking him. “Sean, the telephone is ringing!”

  Sean awoke in a haze and fumbled for the receiver. Still half-asleep, he dropped it to the floor with a soft thud and cursed, “Bloody hell!”

  “Get it, Sean!” Catie said urgently. “It might be an emergency.”

  He threw back the covers, reached down, and retrieved the fallen receiver. “Hello!” he said, not pleasantly.

  “Brother!” Gabriel shouted from the other side of the Atlantic Ocean so loudly Catie could hear him. “You awake, mate?”

  “Damn it, Gabriel Kelly, if you’re drunk, I’m—”

  “I ain’t drunk, Sean,” his brother interrupted matter-of-factly. “I’m a daddy!”

  “What?” Sean rubbed his face, trying to summon a degree of coherence.

  “I’m a daddy, you eejit! And you’re an uncle. Tess had the baby!”

  “What’s the matter?” Catie pulled on Sean’s arm and asked.

  “The babe’s come,” he told her, putting his hand over the mouthpiece and smiling. “That’s wonderful, Gabe! So tell me…am I the uncle to a niece or a nephew?”

  “It’s a girl!” Gabriel fairly roared. “The prettiest wee colleen you ever saw! And she has all her fingers and toes. I counted them meself.”

  “A girl!” Catie squealed, clapping her hands. “Ask him what they named her.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Teresa, for her mother, Unagh, for her grandmother on Tess’s mam’s side, Catherine, for her godmother, and Kelly…of course. I call her Tuck.” Gabriel laughed with a giddiness Sean had never heard from his brother before. “Get it T-U-C-K?”

  “Well?” Catie tugged on Sean’s arm again.

  “Tuck,” Sean cupped the mouthpiece again and told her.

  “Tuck?” Her face scrunched in a way that said she didn’t quite fancy being godmother to a girl named Tuck.

  “I’ll explain in a minute,” Sean assured her then said to Gabriel, “I’m happy for you, Brother. I truly am.”

  “Thanks,” Gabriel replied more soberly. “Now get your scraggly arse back to Ireland and meet the wee girl. She’s pretty as a daisy, so she is.”

  Sean felt a sudden tug on his heart, a yearning for home. Gabriel sounded as if he needed him. “I’ll be there in no time, Gabe. You just take special care of my niece until then.”

  “Consider it done.” There was a catch in Gabriel’s throat, but he coughed it away. “I best be off then.”

  “Aye,” Sean said softly. “I’ll call ye tomorrow, you great eejit!” It was the manly, brotherly way of saying, “I love you.”

  “Tuck?” Catie repeated incredulously as they settled back down into the covers.

  “Teresa Unagh Catherine Kelly,” Sean clarified, already sounding drowsy. “Catherine for you.”

  “Surely they aren’t going to call a sweet little girl Tuck.” She wasn’t letting it go.

  “It’s Gabriel.” He yawned widely. “What do you expect? Now go back to sleep. It’s two in the morning.”

  “Tuck? Heavens!”

  ***

  Later that morning, Sean felt his stomach lurch as he put his hand on the door handle. He opened the car door then shut it again and gave the steering wheel a good smack with the palms of his hands. What the bloody hell am I doing here anyway? He rubbed the back of his neck. It was tight with weariness and lack of sleep. Unlike his wife, who within three blinks had gotten over her newest goddaughter’s name and was sleeping like the dead, Sean had lain awake the rest of the night, putting him in one of those moods—angry at everyone and everything.

  He was angry at Catie for not stirring, even though he tossed and turned beside her with purposeful exaggeration. And although he despised himself for it, he was angry at Gabriel for never following the rules but always landing on his feet. Unlike his devil-may-care brother, Sean had always played by the rules. Yet, he still had to work harder than Gabriel. He drew in and blew out his frustration in a puff of hot air. Hadn’t he made his own choices though? Certainly, Sean could’ve chosen the easier path, stayed in Ballygreystone, taken part ownership in Kells Down, and married a young, pretty village girl like Tess McLaughlin, who would never want for anything more than a husband, home, and children to care for.

  Children. That’s what was truly rubbing against his grain. Sean wanted children. But he and Catie would be adults about it. First, she must finish her education, and they must buy a house of course. Then there was his career to consider. Sean hit the steering wheel again. Why couldn’t he be more like Gabriel and just let life happen? He stared at the massive, tan building, surrounded by a tall, chain-linked fence, topped with barbed wire that gleamed sharp and intimidating in the morning sunlight. “No, Dr. Middleton, I’m no investigator,” Sean uttered to himself and got out of the car. The rules notwithstanding, he was going inside.

  It would happen that the long, fluorescent bulb directly over Sean’s head flickered on and off as if the damned thing was as jittery as he was. The room smelled of floor wax and felt imposing, despite the mustard yellow paint on the concrete walls. Something unintelligible blared over an intercom, and then a buzzer sounded so thunderous, he almost jumped out of his skin. The heavy door, which must lead to the prison cells, opened suddenly, and through it stepped Toby Patterson’s father—no doubt about it.

  Sean stood as the man, who matched him in height and brawn but lacked Sean’s youthful leanness, came to the undersized cubicle. Unable to offer the man his hand through the scratched, dirty glass that separated them, he gave Mr. Patterson a nod, adding a polite, “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Patterson.”

  “Ain’t nobody ever called me mister. It’s Tim,” the man scoffed, as he sat down. “Now tell me who you are and what you want.”

  “Tim,” Sean repeated awkwardly and took his seat as well. He stared at the man behind the glass for a moment, taking inventory of the traits Toby had gotten from his father: His fair skin, which reddened easily, exposing every sentiment, and hair as fine as feathers, though the elder Patterson’s was shorter and darker brown.

  “Listen, pal, I ain’t exactly got all day.” The man leaned forward and broke Sean’s trance.

  “Right,” Sean replied nervously. “My name’s Sean Kelly. I’m an administrative intern at Norbury, your son Toby’s school.”

  “Toby!” The man fairly came out of his seat. “Is he all right? These bastards won’t tell me nothin’ ’bout my boy.”

  Sean flushed, feeling utterly foolish for his stupidity. It hadn’t occurred to him that Toby’s condition and whereabouts would be kept hidden from the man convicted of trying to kill the child — father or not. If only he’d stayed in the bloody car. “Sir, I think I’ve made a horrible mistake.” Sean got up from his seat. “I’m sorry for taking up your—”

  “I didn’t do it!” Tim Patterson interrupted Sean, sounding desperate, white knuckles gripping the edge of the table he leaned on. “I was a first rate son-of-a-bitch husband, but I swear to God, I didn’t kill my wife.” He visibly swallowed then said in a tone that was both husky and persuasive, “And Christ Almighty as my witness, I’ve never laid a hand on my son.”

  Maybe it was because Sean genuinely wanted to believe him or maybe it was the pure earnestness in the convict’s eyes, but he believed Tim Patterson nonetheless.

  “Please,” the man implored further. “Please tell me about my son.”

  Sean pulled out his chair and sat back down.

  Chapter 24

  The doorbell was ringing as Catie came hurriedly down the steps. “I’ve got it!” she yelled towards the kitchen where Etta sang, “I’ve Got a Friend in Jesus,” to the rafters. Catie laughed softly to herself. She was truly going to miss Etta Oliver. Secretly, she and Sean had been shaking the bushes trying to find another situation for their friend, houseguest, and cook but to no avail. Etta Oliver, it seemed, had a reputation in Savannah for her outspoken ways…to put it mildly.
If it were at all doable, Catie would take the woman back to England, where a no-non-sense, snap-the-troops-into-shape housekeeper was more widely appreciated.

  “Mr. Robbins!” Catie said, looking as delighted as she sounded to see Miss Montague’s elderly butler on her doorstep.

  “Mrs. Kelly, would your parents have disapproved of your calling me Morris, seeing that I was a butler? I have grown rather tired of my last name in recent years.”

  Catie smiled. “No more than they would have disapproved of your addressing me as Catie. You might be surprised to know my father was somewhat liberal when it came to ancient British customs. Please, come in.”

  Mirroring her smile, Robbins stepped inside. “And you, Mrs.…er…Catie. Where do you stand on ancient British customs?”

  Catie gave Robbins an odd look. “Morris, I married an Irishman.”

  Robbins laughed. “Touché, my dear, touché.”

  “Won’t you come through and have some tea?”

  “I thank you for your kindness, but a taxi is waiting. Miss Montague’s estate has been settled at last, so I’m bound for London. My brother, Malcolm, has a flat with an extra bedroom. He’s asked me to live with him.”

  “Why, Morris.” Catie fairly beamed. “You’re going home.”

  “Home,” Robbins repeated with amazement, as if the thought had just occurred to him. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  “I’m so happy for you,” said Catie sincerely.

  “Thank you,” Robbins replied, seemingly warmed by her sentiment. “I’ve brought you something that I was able to salvage from the estate auction. It’s the letters your mother and father wrote to Miss Montague when they were teenagers. I thought you’d like to have them.” He held out a box with a purple and yellow paisley pattern printed on, a remnant of Annabelle Montague’s girlhood.

  “Morris,” Catie uttered then fell speechless as she lifted the lid and saw the multitude of envelopes that lay within, each one containing her mother’s or father’s own words. She couldn’t have been happier had the box contained jewels and diamonds.