To Kingdom Come bal-2

by Will Thomas

  I sat down on the edge of the bed. My shirt was suddenly damp; my heart was pounding. “I care for you, as well,” I said. “More than you know. But I cannot accept what you … offer. It is not mine to take. It belongs to your future husband.”

  “But what if you are my future husband?” she countered, looking me in the eyes.

  “Then I should have it after we are married. Not now.”

  She slowly pulled the blanket up over her head. I heard her sniff back a tear.

  “I’ve been a fool,” she said from inside her makeshift cave. “You must think me terribly wanton. I’ve never done anything like this before in my life.”

  “I believe you,” I said. “And I’d never think you a fool.”

  “I don’t know what it is about you, Thomas Penrith,” she continued. “You’ve got me thinking the maddest thoughts and doing the wildest things. I’m not like this, you know. I’m a sensible girl.”

  “I know. I’ve been thinking the same thoughts about you, Maire.” I brought her hand to my lips and kissed it. She came out from beneath the blanket, which had disheveled her beautiful auburn hair.

  “I’ve been seduced by Paris and the pretty clothes and the opera,” she said. “And by you, or at least the thought of you. You aren’t like anyone I’ve ever met.”

  “I was worried that Willie might have had a prior claim on you,” I told her.

  “Willie,” she said with a sad smile. “Willie is wonderful and handsome and a man of great talent, but he is not a-a lover. You are a lover, Thomas. You smolder.”

  Smolder, eh? She said I smoldered. I had the absurd desire to go down to the street and inform passersby that I smoldered. Me, Thomas Llewelyn. Or was it Thomas Penrith? Or Charles Beaton? No matter. No woman had ever told me that before.

  “I’m sorry,” I muttered. “I care for you too much to allow this to happen. Part of me is mad for it, but another part will not allow it. I cannot stay here. I need some fresh air.”

  I threw on a jacket and was about to quit the room.

  “Stay,” she demanded, seizing my wrist.

  “I cannot. I must clear my head.”

  “No, I mean come to stay in Dublin when this is all over. Stay with me.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know what I’ll be doing.”

  “Stay, or take me with you.”

  My head was suddenly swollen with millions of thoughts. They were far too heavy for my weary shoulders.

  “Perhaps,” I said, as I dashed out into the hall. Having escaped the scene, I leaned my shoulders on the other side of the door and breathed in cooler, less electrically charged air. I heard a sob, almost a wail in the room behind me. My hand reached toward the knob, but I mastered myself. I ran through the hallway and down the stairs.

  In the street, a sound escaped my throat, a more masculine version of Maire’s wail. I could feel my heart thumping, shooting blood too quickly through my limbs and head. I lurched like a drunkard until I found a bench, where I collapsed and buried my head in my arms. When I’d taken this case, I hadn’t meant to fall in love.

  Was it love? Barker told me once that women were my weakness, and I tended to agree with him. I had not known Maire for more than a few weeks, but how long did a man need to know a woman before falling in love? There is such a thing as love at first sight. Certainly, Maire was a woman any man could fall for. I could picture going home to her after a day’s work, her fussing over me, looking at her by the fire. What had Thomas Hardy said, in Far from the Madding Crowd? “Whenever you look up, there I shall be-and whenever I look up, there will be you.”

  I madly combed my fingers through my hair. Who was I trying to fool? Did I really expect to go home from our offices in Craig’s Court to an I.R.B. princess? Would Barker allow it? Would she? Would I contemplate leaving my position as assistant to go build bombs for the Irish and become a traitor to England? Of course not. As Barker had told me, the minute she found out I was a spy, Maire would hate me with as much passion as she had almost just loved me.

  I got up, pulled my jacket collar up over my open shirt, and stuffed my hands in my pockets. I had hurt her. I hadn’t meant to, but I had done it, anyway. It was not her fault that she had been caught up in this. Damn her brother for involving an innocent girl in this dangerous business. And damn me for breaking her heart, because it was inevitable that I would. I was not going to leave Barker’s employ, and I would never build another bomb after this case, not if I had anything to say about it. So I found myself desiring Maire, yet not allowing myself to have her, wanting to go with her but forcing myself to follow the path I had promised Mr. Anderson and Sir Watkin-aye, and my own employer-that I would follow. In the end, if all went according to plan, the English would triumph, the Irish would be imprisoned, and poor Maire would be left behind to bear the brunt of my handiwork. By doing that which I believed to be right, I would make myself the lowest of bounders. There was no satisfactory solution.

  Mercifully, she was asleep when I got back. I crawled into my makeshift bed on the chaise longue, and soon was asleep myself.

  I awoke the next morning as she moved past my bed. A polar wind came with her. It was no less than I deserved, I thought, and I bore it stoically. I got up and threw on my clothes, leaving her to her toilette.

  “Why don’t you try the little cafe on the corner this morning?” she suggested. “I shall be down in a while.”

  Had she suggested a cafe in the middle of the Gobi, I would have found a way to get there. Anything to please her. I couldn’t bear her glacial coldness, and I felt I had behaved like a cad the night before, though I would have been a worse cad had I allowed myself … It was simply a matter of choosing the lesser evil.

  So it was that I was seated at a picturesque cafe in the middle of Paris, sipping a strong cup of coffee and spreading preserves over a warm croissant when Maire O’Casey came over to my table. She was wearing another new dress, an aniline-dyed cobalt blue that fit her like a glove. From somewhere in the city, she had purchased a rouge pot, and her lips were the color of cherries. With her hair pulled back loosely, she looked fresh out of one of the paintings by the fellow Renoir, who obviously had a passion for redheads. No man watching her-and, believe me, every man in the street was watching her-would have taken her for an Irishwoman. She looked like a Parisian society woman.

  I dropped my knife on the table. This was the vision from my dream, down to the last detail: the coffee, the preserves, the woman in the blue dress. She moved slowly through the crowd, leaned over me, and whispered in my ear. “I forgive you.”

  A jolt of electricity ran down my spine as if I were a tree trunk split in half. I don’t know if it was her breath on my ear or the memory of my dream.

  “Good,” I said, when I could finally breathe again.

  “But you are cold as a mackerel to have turned down the offer I made you last night.”

  I seized her hand. “Do you think it was easy? I would sooner cut my throat than do it again.”

  “Do not worry. The offer shall not be given again.” She ordered coffee and fussed over the menu, flustering the slavish waiter who groveled beside her. It was as if a knife were twisting in the area of my heart. She had worn the dress and painted herself so on purpose.

  “You are still angry with me,” I stated. “I deserve it. I beg your forgiveness, Maire, for hurting you in any way.”

  “I said I forgive you. You are a man, after all. What else were you made for but to break my heart?”

  “Oh, please, Maire!”

  This went on for some time. She was good at it, torturing me. Perhaps all women are. I was reminded how Barker could take hold of my collar and elbow and flip me in a way I hadn’t anticipated, and then get me in some hold where I would be writhing in pain if I didn’t give up. Maire did the same thing, only with words. At the end of fifteen minutes, I felt as if I’d been grappling for several hours and had come out the loser every time.

  “What shall we do t
oday?” I begged.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’m not much in a mood for seeing sights. Have you collected all you need?”

  “Everything but the satchels. I believe they have a good selection at the Paris Market in the Eighteenth arrondissement. It is a street market. You are a little overdressed, but you might enjoy yourself. If you’re feeling better, we could then see the Bois de Boulogne.”

  “I didn’t say I was feeling poorly,” she bristled.

  “Of course not! As you say.”

  There is something engrossing about a street market. It is like treasure hunting. Somewhere amid these piles of civilization’s refuse are treasures, one keeps telling oneself. It is as addictive as gambling. One keeps moving from one booth to another, convinced Marie-Antoinette’s hand mirror or Napoleon’s walking stick are in the next bin.

  As I purchased three dozen used satchels of all sizes and descriptions, I kept an eye on Maire. She was inclined to be aloof, but slowly the booths drew her in. She played with a small parasol that matched her dress, looking every inch a princess, and picked among the items in the booths with a listless air.

  “Madame is out of sorts this morning,” a voice said in French behind me. It was a woman of some fifty years, who ran a booth. She had a sharp nose in the middle of a round face.

  “Oui,” I responded. “Madame is very much out of sorts this morning.”

  “Naturellement,” the woman responded. “Now you must buy your way out of it. Get her something extravagant. Reassure her that you still care.”

  “What would you suggest?”

  “A necklace, perhaps, or a pair of earrings. I have a nice cross set with sapphires that might go with that dress.”

  “Show me.”

  I looked at the cross. It was small but elegant, very French. It consisted of four sapphires in a row, with one more on each side. Maire’s throat was bare, I noticed. The necklace would sparkle like the dress.

  “How much?”

  She named a price. It always sounded like a fortune when one said it in francs, but when I converted it in my head, it was merely expensive. I gave in with a shrug.

  “Avez-vous une boite?”

  I couldn’t resist giving her the box in the carriage on the way to the Tuileries. The gamble worked. She was delighted. She kissed me, forgave everything, and was the perfect companion the rest of the day. The icicle she had thrust between my ribs up into my heart melted away in the warm Parisian afternoon sun.

  23

  We came back to Liverpool two days later, our mission completed. Some sort of understanding had been reached between Maire and me, save that generally, when both parties in a disagreement reach an understanding, they both understand the terms. All I know for certain was that she didn’t seem angry with me anymore and we had been inseparable since she had forgiven me. Her gentle hand seemed permanently set into the crook of my arm as we strolled the deck of the steamer home. I knew better than to think that would bode well with everyone in the faction in Liverpool. Personally, I wondered how Barker would react. I had fended off a more permanent relationship, but somehow one seemed to have developed anyway.

  O’Casey and McKeller met us at the dock. I wondered if it was a show of genuine affection when Maire squeezed my left arm as we came down the gangway, or whether she was merely tweaking her brother’s nose. The way he screwed up his mouth, he certainly looked as if there were something that bothered him. As for McKeller, he was all grins and wiggling eyebrows in my direction.

  “It’s good to see you two,” her brother said, gripping my hand as hard as McKeller had. My other arm was still otherwise engaged, so my only defense was to squeeze back. “Did you have a safe journey back?”

  “It was uneventful,” I said, as our palms grew red and hot and my fingers began to ache. “The sea was calm.”

  “That’s good,” O’Casey continued, as if wholly unconcerned with the struggle going on. “And was the hon-Oww!”

  Maire had given his hand a sharp rap with her parasol. She was wearing her blue dress, and though she’d put away her paint pot for prim Liverpool’s sake, she wore her hair in the French mode. She had left the city an innocent girl and returned a Continental beauty. It was a wonder her brother was not wringing my neck instead of my hand.

  “Maire, you’re looking well,” O’Casey said with more than a trace of irony. He kissed her on the cheek. “Penrith, did you manage to get all of your work done while you were in Paris?”

  “You know it is always work first with me,” I told him. “By the end of the day there shall be several large parcels arriving at Victoria Station, to be left until called for. I was able to buy everything. Now I know why you Irish are so fond of going to Paris. If you know where to look, Paris is like a sweet-shop for anarchists.”

  “Mr. Dunleavy has asked that you return any monies you have left, along with your receipts, of course.”

  “Here they are,” I said, handing the depleted envelope to him. “And just where is your leader this morning?”

  “He is in London with your mentor. They are seeing how things stand down there.”

  “Bar-er, van Rhyn is in London already?” That was close. I had forgotten Barker was going to London and I had nearly blurted out his real name in shock.

  “Yes, and not a moment too soon. For a man with limited vision, he’s got eyes in the back of his head. He predicted we’d be raided, and sure enough, we were.”

  “Raided!” I cried. “Was anyone arrested?”

  “No. All they found was me studying Maire’s Gaelic in the kitchen. One of the constables was all for dragging me down to the station, but the inspector, a fellow named Johanson, knew there was not a shred of evidence to hold me on. That’s one I owe Mr. van Rhyn. When this mission is successful, we’ll be glad to offer him a permanent home in Dublin, if I have any say in the matter.”

  “Did they leave the place in a shambles, Eamon Patrick?” Maire demanded. Gone instantly was the Parisian coquette, and in her place was the Irish girl who kept house for her brother.

  “Aye, they did, I’m afraid. Fergus and I tried to put things back in order the way they were as best we could, but they were pretty thorough.”

  “Get my bags, gentlemen,” she ordered imperiously. “I’ve got a house to straighten.”

  McKeller and I collected the luggage and boxes she’d brought back from Paris.

  “ ’Tis a good thing we was raided, Penrith, old man,” the big Irishman said in my ear. “It covered up what terrible housekeepers we was.”

  “You stayed at their house while we were gone?”

  “Aye, we had a lot of planning to do. We’re on, Penrith! We’re going to London as soon as Dunleavy sends word!”

  “That is excellent news,” I said. Apparently a lot had happened since we left.

  “Maybe I can finally do something with this waste of a life o’ mine. Saints, but Maire did a lot of shopping in Paris. I think she bought half the bleedin’ town.”

  We were coming down the gangplank when McKeller managed to crack me in the ribs.

  “So, how was the honeymoon, ‘Mr. Beaton’? Is married life all they say it is?”

  I had some quick thinking to do. “These Catholic girls are strong. I stormed the battlements for days with every weapon in my arsenal, but all I got for my pains were a few chaste kisses.”

  “Aye, Maire’s a tough nut to crack, but keep trying. To tell you the truth, I’d prefer you to Willie as a husband for her. As far as I’m concerned, he’s too much of a dreamer.”

  “Is there anything else I should know about?” I said, as we began walking away from the docks.

  “There is. The house is being watched. They’re about as subtle as a herd of dairy cows. We’ll have to go into the next street and come in through the back door.”

  “Marvelous,” I said. It was not welcome news about the raid, or that the local constabulary were still surveying the house. I didn’t have Barker and his skeleton key to get me out if I were
arrested.

  “Oh, and Willie would very much like to punch your nose, I’m thinking. He danced quite a merry jig when he found out you and Maire were on your way to Paris. Most entertaining, it was.”

  “I see. So, tell me, McKeller, is there anyone else in this town that’s waiting to tear me to pieces, besides O’Casey, Yeats, and the police?”

  McKeller counted slowly on his fingers. “No. That’s the lot.”

  Taking a circuitous route to avoid the police, we eventually found ourselves near the O’Casey home. Slipping down the alley, we came up to the back of the house, where I could hear Maire before I saw her.

  I braced myself and went in.

  “Just look at this place!” she cried in the kitchen. There were dishes stacked in the sink and piles of laundry everywhere. “Did you let the pigs in here while I was gone?”

  I rather thought he had, but didn’t dare say anything. O’Casey sat in a chair at the table holding his head. He’d met his match or, rather, his superior.

  She wheeled on me. “And I suppose you brought a parcel of laundry home from Paris.”

  I almost said I had brought no more than she, but stopped myself. It was more than my life was worth. I nodded distractedly and went into the parlor. Everything was out of order. The Liverpool constabulary had gone through drawers, lifted cushions, and looked behind pictures on the wall. McKeller and O’Casey had not tried very hard to put things back as they had been before. Reasoning that I might be in less trouble if I were actually doing something, I brought my luggage in and carried it upstairs. Then, I began to carry her parcels and bags into the house.

  It didn’t fully register in my mind that Barker was in London until I set down my bags in our room. His bed was empty and had been stripped. He had decamped with Dunleavy and was now more than a hundred miles away. I’m sure his first order of business once there would be to give the colonel the slip and check in with our office. Perhaps he would communicate with Anderson and Inspector Poole. He might even find time for a reunion with Mac and Harm. Meanwhile, I was left in Liverpool alone, still relatively untrained and surrounded by a dangerous and desperate group of men.