by Lily Silver
“You think I’d poison my lord Dillon, after the kindness he’s shown us?” Mrs. Chatham’s voice rose. “I’d take the entire vial myself if it would save the man.”
“That won’t be necessary, Madame, just the dosage you prescribed for Lord Dillon. Tara, there’s some cold tea in that cup. Bring it here.” Dan pointed to the table near the window. As Tara handed the cup to him, he set it on the table and then pried the vial from Tara’s tight fist. “Now, Mrs. Chatham, it’s four in the morning. If you drink this, you did say two drops? Am I to understand you will sleep for a long time?”
The housekeeper nodded. “Yes, until noon, or better.”
Dan held out the cup, and the vial to Mrs. Chatham.
Tara stood transfixed as the woman took the cup of tea and the vial from Dan’s meaty hands, moved to the bed where she set the cup down on the nightstand. Tara couldn’t believe this woman was so dedicated to her employer that she was about to drink the potion herself, just to prove it was not poison. Alfred Hitchcock would have loved it.
Mrs. Chatham uncorked the vial. Deftly, she let two small drops fall into the amber tea. She corked the vial, set it down, and swirled the tea cup. Without a word, she lifted it to her lips. Dan and Tara watched as woman swallowed with a grimace and set the cup in the saucer. “’Tis bitter. Best if ye put a pinch of lemon in it or sugar to disguise the taste.”
“That settles that.” Tara whispered to Dan as they watched the woman lift the cup to her lips again to finish the dose. “What reason would she have to commit suicide just to see my husband dead?”
“My thoughts, exactly. As a precaution see if you can keep Adrian home by other means first, if not, use this. The problem is, we don’t know how long it will take to affect him. And if he does end up at the meeting and then passes out, we’ll only have aided his enemies in delivering him helpless into their hands.” Dan moved to the bed as he spoke, peering curiously at the housekeeper to ascertain her condition.
Ten minutes passed. Mrs. Chatham sat with her hands primly in her lap. She seemed exactly the same.
They stood by, observing the housekeeper like a pair of doctors diagnosing a patient. “Mrs. Chatham,” Tara began. “I should like to know exactly what is in this little vial before I give it to my husband.”
“A base of black cohosh, to which is added two parts of Valerian Root and one part of Opiate paste. My mother’s recipe; a curative for severe pain, rheumatism, and a most effective sleeping agent.” The woman was beginning to weave as she spoke.
A low whistle came from the giant beside Tara. “Hell, yes. Opiate paste is basically morphine.”
“Not in this century.” Tara reminded him.
“Since the first century opium paste was used in folk medicine.” Dan replied, reminding her he had been a surgical nurse in the First Gulf War. “It was usually taken with a beverage as a pain killer or sleep inducement. Laudanum is the present form.”
“That’s right.” Tara realized slowly. “Dr. Magnus left a bottle of Laudanum for me at Glengarra to relieve the pain of my burns.”
“It’s a derivative of poppy juices, dried sap, which is much more highly synthesized in our century. Still, quite a powerful drug in this time period. And Valerian root are a form of valium, another sedative with rather dangerous properties. Well, kid, we’ve got our miracle cure for Adrian’s stubbornness.”
“Mixing two drugs?” Tara gasped, “That can’t be good. Valium and Opium? It could kill him.” As Tara spoke, the housekeeper dropped flat on her back on the bed.
“These people don’t have the pure distilled forms of the drugs like we would have in our day. You’ll put Adrian to sleep so he can’t go out and get his head blown off.” Dan leaned over the woman from the other side of the bed, listening to her breathing as he lifted her wrist and felt her pulse. “Like I said, use it as a last resort. Try to stall him first, maybe give him half of what she told you to.”
Tara gulped down the niggling doubts. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
Adrian was reading the morning paper at breakfast, unaware Tara knew the events that were to transpire that day—not just the planned events, but their outcome.
Mrs. Chatham had been moved by Dan and the butler to her room where she was resting comfortably. Mr. Chatham swore by his wife’s herbal potion, believing his wife would wake up later in the day and resume her duties.
Tara had taken matters into her own hands after Dan left to find Oliver Bond’s house and warn the others of the impending raid. She changed all the clocks. Each one was set two hours back, including Adrian’s pocket watch. His nocturnal wandering must have left him exhausted, as he slept until nearly ten in the morning. She didn’t know what time the meeting was, but Tara knew it would be early enough in the day as most of the men involved were businessmen.
To further divert Adrian, she took Dan’s advice and seduced him. By the time they arrived at the breakfast table, it was near the noon hour in real time, while the hallway clock stated it was nine forty-five.
When the clock chimed the hour of ten a.m. Adrian laid his paper down, took out his pocket watch with a frown as if he felt something were amiss. He sighed, finding it kept the same time as the grandfather clock in the hallway. He sipped the last of his tea, and made ready to excuse himself.
Tara rose before him, giving him a saucy look, she waltzed up to him. “Surely you aren’t leaving me so early? I thought we could spend the day together?” She spoke in a soft, feminine tone that she hoped was reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe. Trailing a finger up his thigh, she leaned into his tall frame as he rose from the chair. She hoped the potion she slipped him would start to slow him down and make him drowsy.
“Vixen.” Adrian teased with a gleam in his eyes. “I shan’t be more than a couple of hours. A boring business meeting.” He yawned, stretched languidly, and then drew her into his arms for one last embrace. His kiss was lazy, as if he were intoxicated.
This wouldn’t do, she had to keep him home, not send him to Bond’s house stoned, too lethargic to elude his enemies if her guesswork regarding the time of the meeting proved wrong. “Stay home, you’re exhausted. We could go back upstairs.”
“I’ve barely half an hour to make my way across town.” Adrian breathed, his eyes taking on a slight glazed expression. “The sooner I leave … the sooner I’ll be back, my little sprite … to … to resume our … Ach, I feel dizzy.”
“Why don’t you postpone your meeting, you look ill. Tell me where to send the footmen with a note that you’re unable to make it.”
“No.” His sharp tone took her off guard. “I need to be there. Release me.”
A few more minutes, that was all she needed and he would be out cold. “Nonsense. Whatever business you had scheduled can wait another day. You look pale, you’re ill.” Tara touched his brow. “In fact, you have a slight fever, upstairs with you—“
A loud stomping of feet and slamming of the door in the front hall distracted them. Tara assumed Dan had been successful in warning Adrian’s friends and was returning home. Good, he could help her get Adrian upstairs to bed before he passed out.
The door to the dining room was thrust open. Before the butler could interject, a tall, thin man with flaming red hair entered the room. Anger entered the room with him, a penetrating, threatening presence. His eyes bore the frightening gleam of fanaticism.
Adrian was unsteady on his feet, weaving slightly as he regarded the intruder with slow recognition. Damn that stupid potion she’d slipped him.
“Dillon, you traitorous bastard.” the intruder shouted. “They’ve arrested them all–Bond, Emmet, Sweetman, Doc. Nevin. Lord Fitzgerald escaped but they’re hot on his heels.”
“The meeting has not even started.” Adrian stood rigid, holding Tara to him as his eyes darted to the clock on the mantle.
“Warrants have been issued for all of us, includin’ your dead cousin, Hardwicke. How gracious of ye to include yer own false identity in the warrant. I supp
ose you believe that you are somehow protected from suspicion because you lead a double life. Well I’ve come to even that score.”
“See here, O’Reilly—“
“Posh, I knew all the while your kind would ne’er stand firm. The peerage would never risk their titles and lands to free the common man. Lord Edward included, damnation to his sorry-faced sentimentality and fancy speeches. I’ll be bound, he’d of run off sooner or later, too, yet he’d never betray us as you have.”
“O’Reilly, leave my house. I don’t care for your tone.”
“Betray us at Bond’s house, will you. We’ll see who meets the devil first, your lordship.” A pistol was drawn from O’Reilly’s coat. Before Tara could scream, Adrian shoved her to the floor as the gun discharged.
“Take that, ye bloody turncoat, and I hope ye burn in hell.”
Adrian doubled over, holding his stomach with a grimace. Crimson stained his white linen shirt as his hands became red with his own blood.
Tara rushed to him, screaming as he slumped into her arms and his assailant fled the townhouse. “Oh, God—no.” All her attempts to save him had been for nothing.
Everything became a blur, the blood on Adrian’s hands, her dress, and her own savage voice screaming as terror and hysteria captured her.
She must have swooned momentarily, because Chatham was supporting her, offering her comfort as he directed the footmen to carry his lordship gently up the stairs.
Tara watched it all, helplessly trapped in the chains of shock and disbelief. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Her love was supposed to be kept away from harm.
She looked about, shocked to find their neighbors filing in the front door, asking questions, milling about the hallway and the parlor. “Oh, God, the constable–I don’t know what to say.” He was questioning the servants.
“Hush, Madame. I’ll take care of it all. You stay with his lordship.” Chatham soothed.
“My father—“
“I’ll notify you as soon as he arrives.”
“A doctor—“
“Already sent a boy around, mum.” Chatham replied.
“And the arrests—the Directory?”
“Sh. I’ll take care of it, mum. His lordship needs you.” The urgency of Chatham’s words had the effect of a cold hard slap across the face. Yes, Adrian needed her. Eighteenth Century medicine could well finish him off.
She allowed Chatham to lead her up the stairs behind the footmen. The curtains were drawn. They carefully laid him on his bed and were undressing him.
He was semi-conscious, uttering not the slightest murmur of pain as the men carefully manipulated his body and removed his clothing. Tara took his hand. She lifted it to her face, cradling it against her cheek as Adrian stared up at the ceiling with an ethereal expression. Blood was seeping through the bedclothes, a sea of crimson against the stark white linens.
Adrian was dying. In spite of her attempts to save him, he was giving his life, spilling his precious lifeblood for his beloved Ireland, just like his father before him.
Chapter Thirty One
It was too late.
As Dan ran down the long alleyway, hoping to evade the men chasing him, he prayed that Tara had been successful in stalling Dillon. He hadn’t seen the tall Irishman among the men being rounded up and taken into custody at Bond’s House. His presence on the corner roused suspicion. Now he was being hunted with those damned rebels.
Four soldiers noticed him lingering, and they started to follow him as he quietly edged away from the gawking crowd. Dan’s heart hammered against his ribs, his breath came in short gasps as he hurried down the lanes and alleys, vowing yet again to quit his two pack a day habit before it did kill him.
Every time he crossed a street or turned a corner, the soldiers followed.
With no recourse, and little chance of escape now that he’d been seen, Dan rounded a sharp corner and jumped into the River Liffey. His pursuers shouted at him from the river bank, yet that was the least if his troubles. He dove under to evade the rain of bullets showering down on him. The current was stronger than it looked from the banks. He was not the best swimmer, even in calm water.
Dan gasped and sputtered as the current carried him toward the bridge. His head was dragged below the surface, and he fought to gain control, to reach the life giving air above him. His boots were heavy, weighing him down. As he was about to lose consciousness, hands pulled him up onto the muddy banks.
He was cold, so cold. And tired. He wanted to sleep.
“Up with ye. Before they see us.” A terse voice prodded.
Opening one eye, Dan looked into the bedraggled face of Sam, the half-wit giant he’d met on the street a few days earlier. The strange man had pulled him from the river just as he felt he was about to be sucked under forever by the strong current.
Gagging, and choking, he rolled over on his stomach and tried to gain his knees. Sam took an arm, and together they staggered to the shelter beneath the bridge, out of sight from the roaming soldiers.
“We’ll be safe here, friend.” The half-wit boasted.
“Not for long.” Dan replied breathlessly. “They’ll be looking under every bridge and in every hole, I’ll wager.”
Sam nodded. He crouched against the stone wall of the bridge as soldiers voices could be heard above them. The echo of horses and heavily booted feet above them made both men become still in breathless terror.
The captain could be heard above their heads, issuing orders for the capture and arrest of certain known rebels. “Fitzgerald is still at large. We are to capture him at all costs. Along with MacCormack and Hardwicke. Spread out, take any man who appears suspicious, regardless of his station. We’ve lords enough joining the ranks of the rebels. Shoot them if they resist arrest and ask questions later.”
The garrison moved on, sweeping out both to the right and the left as they reached the other side of the bridge. Dan was shivering, trying to keep his teeth from chattering and giving them both away as they stood eyeing each other like two rabbits caught in a hedge with the hounds sniffing about them. The sounds of horses’ hooves grew faint. Shots were heard in the distance and shouted orders to cease and desist.
Dan pulled Sam’s arm and whispered, “I have to get home. My daughter may need me. Can you tell me how to get back to Merrion Square without being noticed by the authorities?”
“That’s a nice piece of town.”
“My son-in-law’s place. I was out trying to warn the others about the snitch. I found Bond House too late. The authorities were already there.”
“Reynolds sold us out, he did. Gave ‘em the password.” Sam spat.
“I hoped to make it there in time to warn them. Never been in Dublin. By the time I found where Bond lives, hailed a hack to take me there, they were all over the place.”
“Yep, they got most of ‘em that were there. Fitzgerald and MacCormack escaped, along with Sampson. I can take you to Thomas Street, from there, it’s a straight line due east to Trinity College, not far from Merrion Square.”
The feather merchant’s house on Thomas Street was silent. Deathly silent.
Dan waited in the pantry while Sam talked with a black servant he called Tony.
Tony smiled and slapped Sam on the back. Apparently they were fast friends. Tony excused himself. When he returned, he beckoned Dan to follow him.
Up the servant’s staircase they wound, through the dark corridor to a large bedchamber. Within was a harried looking Lord Edward Fitzgerald.
“I say, MacNeill, a sight for weary eyes you are.” The tall young man moved forward to clutch his shoulder, regardless of the fact that they had never met.
“Sir?” Dan queried with a frown. He wanted only to get back to Tara, to find Adrian safely detained at Merrion Square with her.
“You are Tara’s father. Adrian and I are long time companions. Tell me, sir, have you news? Was Adrian captured? I saw him not at Bond’s House before we made our escape.”
“Tara was trying to keep him home while I went out to warn the rest of you.”
“Who told you we were to be found out?” The inquisitive eyes scrutinized Dan painfully.
“Tara had a dream,” Dan began, hoping to explain their foreknowledge in the most plausible way to a man of the eighteenth century. “A woman dressed in white appeared to her early this morning and warned her of the impending doom about to descend on Dublin. My poor child was so terrified by the aberration she woke the entire household with her screams.”
“The Banshee.” Lord Edward whispered. “She only appears to noble houses, mind you. Ah, Tara is an enchanting creature. It suits her that she should be so honored.”
Dan heaved a sigh of relief as the man accepted his convenient excuse without a flicker of disbelief. Just try such a flimsy explanation on a 21st century man.
“Tony.” The genteel man summoned his servant. “See Lord Dillon’s father-in-law safely home.” The black servant nodded. Lord Edward offered Dan his hand, and asked that he give Tony news of Adrian’s well being when they reached Merrion Square.
Half an hour later, the coal wagon drew up in the back of Adrian’s town house.
Dan was helped out of the dusty smuggler’s compartment beneath the wagon by a stranger who gestured to the opened coal bin a mere two feet from them, beside the back kitchen steps. With a groan of disgust, Dan crawled through the rectangular opening. He waved at the coal driver as he closed the iron chute. Dan was in the basement, soaked to the bone, black from coal dust, cold, tired, yet safe.
A flurry of footsteps above his head distracted him. The household was bustling with activity. There were shouts and strange voices. Insistent, interrogative voices.
Had Dillon’s enemies obtained proof of his subversive activities, tracking him down without him even being present at Oliver Bond’s house?
Dan tiptoed up the creaky stairs. He stood on the top stair, his ear pressed to the thin wood door, listening.
