Stormfire

by Christine Monson

  Sean awoke on his own. He sat up, rubbing his stubbled beard. In her chair, outlined against the green drapery, auburn hair piled high, Ellen reminded him of Megan, only she had a quiet warmth his mother had lacked. Megan had been tempestuous, even incandescent, but never warm. "You're a rare woman, Ellen. Thank you for staying."

  She smiled. "George Ennery will wait. I tucked him into bed with a bottle of your best whiskey."

  "How is she?"

  "Becoming feverish. Doctor Flynn was here. If she hasn't regained consciousness by nightfall, you're to send for him."

  "Would you continue to be an angel and keep watch a bit longer? There's a thing I must do."

  "Yes, of course. I expected you to sleep for hours."

  Sean found Peg dusting aimlessly in the Rose Salon, "Peg, where's the child?" he asked quietly.

  She tucked the duster under her arm. "I bathed and wrapped the little fellow in a linen pillowcase. He's in my room."

  "Take me to him."

  A tiny bundle lay on the bed. The odor was horrible. "You didn't take him outside?"

  "To feed the dogs? Whether he's yours or Liam's, he's a Culhane . . ."

  "You knew two months ago, didn't you?"

  She could not read his voice or his mood, but she looked at him straight. "Aye. Ye had enough trouble without a babe into the bargain. I figured ye'd be findin' out in good time. Only I didn't know the babe was dead. I had no wish to see the lass and her child die in so mean a fashion, and ye haunted the rest of yer days."

  Sean touched the linen and she caught his head. "Nay, don't be lookin'. Naught of life's there. Bury him deep and remember him decently."

  High on the hill near Maude Corrigan's marker, Sean dug a hole with his hands and knife, then carefully laid the bundle in it, but could find no prayer to say nor the heart to push the dirt back into the grave. Rubbish. Burying his own son and Catherine's like rubbish. A spasm took him , then and a keening cry welled in his throat like the howl of an animal across the gray, windswept heath.

  "You don't have to go."

  Ellen kissed Sean gently. "You want to be alone. She may come around soon."

  "Ellen, I. . ."

  "Don't say it." She pressed a finger against his lips. "We've had wonderful times together; but I've always thought you were incapable of loving any woman deeply." She smiled with soft regret, her lovely eyes drawing him as they always had, but now with an irrevocable difference. "If I ever find a man to love me as you do your Kit, I'll snap him up like a starved trout." She took his hands.

  "Good-by, darling. Good luck. For your sake, I hope the girl lives, but whatever happens, don't let it destroy you. My house is yours. Don't stay here alone."

  He held her close for a long moment, but she knew it was for the last time.

  There was no need to call Flynn. Near sunset, Catherine, murmuring incoherently, stirred weakly in the blankets. Sean bathed her face and tried to trickle gruel down her throat, but aware only of mounting pain, she dazedly avoided the spoon. Her breath came in shallow pants; then a sharp spasm raked her eyes open, and with a cry, she strained against the pain as if it were a fearful, consuming lover. He held her shoulders. "Easy, little one." But she did not know him, could not distinguish his voice over tidal sweeps of agony. The dull pulsations rose into a livid, incoherent shriek, then plunged her into soundless depths where she drifted.

  For the next few days, Catherine, unable to endure for long the pain that lay in wait, wavered in and out of consciousness. Sean dreaded feedings; as careful as he was, the gruel induced coughing that left her torn and trembling.

  On the third evening, he carried her, wrapped in a blanket, up to his room, the splinted leg stiff from the knee down, the small head lax like a tired child's against his shoulder. Her cropped hair tickled his chin and he looked down at the long, ragged lashes that swept her cheeks. Aye. Rest, little one. Rest to fight again . . . and again. You've the heart of Conal, and a good English backbone, and my arm to lean on. Just don't let go.

  Peg followed him into the room and pulled the draperies, then came to stand with him by the bed. " 'Tis hard to hate her now. Just the day the Frenchies came, she asked me to look after ye. I'd have taken oath she wished ye no harm." She fell silent for a moment. "There's somethin' about the whole matter that's awry. . . . Will ye sleep now? I'll watch a bit."

  He left, but wandered instead to the empty ballroom. As he lifted the cover of the pianoforte and pressed a key, a single tenor note lingered in the room, evoking the image of a dark-haired girl poised en penchse before the long hazy windows; fleeting, ephemeral glimpses of a slender body in flight, vibrant as a firefly in the gloom. That spirit had been the real Catherine, the Catherine he had never known, had tried to touch. To seize. The idiot and the butterfly.

  When the doctor came that night, Sean asked the question that plagued him. "Where was Padraic those last days before the ball?"

  "With me," Flynn said, deftly changing dressings. "And he slept over, as he often does. Why?"

  "Kit said she had used Padraic to send a letter to Lord Lieutenant Camden, probably on the mail coach out of Donegal. But she couldn't have known exact details of the rebellion until after Fournel arrived. Wasn't there any time the boy could have gotten away for several hours, even as late as the day of the ball?"

  Flynn shook his head. "I kept him hopping."

  "Would he have passed the message to someone else?"

  "Not likely. Padraic worships Catherine and he's literal about commands. If she told him to take the message personally, he'd not have thought of relinquishing it." Flynn frowned. "He might have hidden it out of shame . . . you know, conflicting orders and all. He wanted to obey me, too."

  "No, Camden got a message, all right; only it wasn't sent from Catherine."

  "So, she was lying?"

  "Aye." Sean felt oddly relieved and wretched at the same time. Had Catherine loved Liam so much she would protect him to the last, knowing she might die for it?

  "Do you think Liam betrayed us?"

  "Not us. Me." Sean rubbed his head as if it ached and dropped it against the back of the chair. "At the last, he hated my guts. Maybe always; I don't know."

  Flynn finished bandaging, and took the patient's pulse. "Well, there's something you'd better know and face. Catherine's side is beginning to knit, but her strength is failing."

  "She'll live," Sean said flatly. "She was able to say a few words this morning." "Gibberish. Calling for her mother, the baby. I've heard her. Most of the time she has no idea who or where she is."

  "She'll remember."

  Flynn pulled on his jacket. "Then what? Her body has been fighting of itself, but given conscious, rational choice, do you think she'd choose life?" He opened the door. "If she awakens, you'll have a real fight on your hands."

  If only the pain would end. Late that night, nerves taut, Sean held Catherine down as she twisted with shrieks that slowly subsided as the pain exhausted her. He eased his grip and bathed her hot forehead and parched lips. "Maman," she mumbled, eyes slowly opening and following the movement of the cloth as he withdrew it. She tried to speak, but was unable to get past the pain. Then, almost inaudibly, she whispered, "Help me."

  Sean stroked her hair. "Easy, little one, I'm here. Don't try to talk . . ."

  "Please. I hurt . . ."

  "I know, kitten. The pain will pass. Try. You have to keep trying."

  Her fingers caught in his sleeve. "I. . . cannot. . . bear any more! You've . . . made me suffer as your promised." Her fingers tightened. "End it. I beg you!"

  Realizing what she was asking, he clamped his hands on both sides of her face, her heat seeming to sear him. "Damn it, no! You're going to live. I'll make you."

  "You . . . cannot hold me now." The dim flare of rebellion guttered in her eyes as her head slipped to one side.

  He left the room at a run and yelled down the stair, "Peg, get Flynn!"

  Flynn looked up from the bed. "She must have a priest."
r />   Sean stiffened. "No. I've seen it before. She'll give up."

  "That has already happened. Catherine's a practicing Catholic. Would you have her die believing she's damned?"

  Distraught, the young Irishman twisted away. "Do you want me to hand her over to Ryan? Where's the solace in that toad?"

  "The man matters not. It's God he represents, and only God can give her peace."

  Sean stared furiously at the small, still form in the bed. "Where was God when I brought her here?"

  Father Ryan's toadlike eyes slid up, his plump hands folded neatly under his cassock as he leaned back in his chair. "So, ye expect me to absolve yer whore?" The priest keenly savored the moment; it was almost the equivalent of a miracle. Never had he expected the stiff-necked Culhane to beg the aid of the Church, much less his.

  The dark man leaned across the table. "You will not call her whore, priest."

  Ryan felt a prick of apprehension. He withdrew his pale hands and fanned them. "But how should the Church regard her, Mr. Culhane? I've heard talk—"

  "Fishmongering gossip! Whatever Catherine is, I made her. She had no say in the matter."

  "I've heard differently," the priest purred.

  "How differently?"

  "She incestuously seduced her uncle, Michael Flynn."

  "You married her to Liam! You know she's not Flynn's niece!" spat the Irishman.

  "She willingly serviced ye and yer brother . . . she took part in orgies with yer men . . ."

  "Who fed you this incredible filth? Flynn's harpy daughters?"

  "I'm the father confessor of this parish," the priest answered blandly. "How should I not be hearing its sins?"

  Sean reached over the desk and jerked the man up by the front of his tunic. "Off your fat backside, you miserable turd! I've no time to play devil's advocate!"

  Sheer pig rage stifled Ryan's natural cowardice. "Yer bitch can die and be damned!" His last phrase ballooned out from a ruthless punch in the belly. He moaned.

  "Is that your last word, Father?"

  The priest gathered his bile and spat. The next blow was to his genitals; he screamed and fainted.

  Hearing a knock, Flynn left Catherine's side and went to the door. "Father? How good— Perdition! What the devil!" He was summarily dragged outside the room by a tall, hooded figure who closed the door behind him. "Sean! Where's the priest?"

  "Ryan is unavailable," was the brief response. "Is she conscious?"

  "Barely, but you cannot impersonate a priest! It's sacrilege! Besides, she'll know."

  "Kit's half out of her head. She'll not see my face. As an altar boy in Kenlo, I assisted at the Last Rites." He removed Flynn's hand from his arm and opened the door. "It will be on my head."

  Catherine's face was translucent, her breathing labored. "Father?" she whispered as Sean tucked her cold hand into his warm one.

  He stroked her eyelids closed, his voice a low, rasping brogue. "Peace, lass. Rest quietly."

  Her fingers tightened imperceptibly. "I would make . . . confession."

  Sean hesitated, the awful travesty of what he was doing seeping into his marrow. " 'Tis not necessary, child, if ye repent in yer heart."

  She did not seem to hear him. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." The confession poured out in a faltering, widening stream from a bursting heart. "I willingly became mistress of a man who raped me, then . . . came to love him . . . beyond honor, beyond life; but he would have opened the way to . . . endless bloodshed. I . . . betrayed those who trusted me. I defiled God's Holy Sacrament of Marriage . . . by pledging faith . . . to one whose wife I did not intend to remain. I . . ." She faltered, fighting for breath. "I brought misery and death to this land. And to a man . . . oh, God, help him! He's so alone." The murmur became almost inaudible. "Father . . . forgive . . ."

  Brokenly mumbling the Latin, the Irishman drew a jagged cross of oil and ash on his lady's forehead and took her hand. With ebbing strength, she pressed his hand to her lips, opening her eyes as she did so. And saw his heavy Celtic ring. She stiffened in horror and looked full into the shadowed face under the cowl. "You . . . mock me!"

  Desperately, Sean threw back the hood and planted his hands on either side of her head. "I mock you as you mock God! Would you die so easily and give your child to darkness? To stifle unanointed in your womb? To be damned to wander Limbo for eternity while its mother basks in God's limitless forgiveness?"

  "No." Her eyes went wild. "The baby's. . . dead. It must be!"

  "It lives."

  "No!" she gasped. "I don't. . . believe you! You're lying, lying . . ." The words died away.

  He could not find her pulse. Jerking out his dagger, he held it to her parted lips. A faint film of mist formed and faded, then another. He clamped her hands in his. "Stay. Hold on, little one. If God won't help you, cling to your demon!"

  And so, drawing her bit by bit from the seductive shadows that promised release, he clung to her, hour by weary hour, day after day, feeding her, coaxing, bullying until he scarcely knew what he was croaking. When she lay senseless, he bathed her and changed dressings as Flynn had taught him. And when the pain mauled her, he held her until finally his own helplessness and exhaustion strangled his hope.

  Is there no mercy in Heaven? She's suffered enough. I'm the one to blame. Give me her pain. I don't know how to pray. I only know she hurts.

  Early one morning, the girl's breathing eased and sweat beaded her brow. As the sun came up, she slept, worn out with the battle. Light-headed with fatigue and relief, Sean opened the curtains to let pale, golden light stream into the darkened room. In the mirror, he glimpsed a beard-stubbled face with burning eyes in hollow sockets.

  An hour and a hefty breakfast later, Sean fell asleep again in the big chair beside the bed and did not awaken until late afternoon. His eyes opened to meet Catherine's, still so dark their blue was difficult to distinguish, but without the blackness that spoke of intolerable suffering. "You look exhausted," she murmured Softly as he rose and came to the bed.

  He wrapped an arm around a bedpost. "There's not much I can say about what I've done. As soon as you're whole again, I'll send you home. You and your father will never see or hear from me again. I'll have a private account set up for you in London. You can begin a new life to lead as you see fit, without interference from your father or anyone else. If I may make a suggestion, America would be a good choice of residence." He turned away to gaze out to sea. "A new wind is blowing there, sifting away the old rotten seeds of this plague hole." Catherine said nothing. He had not expected paeans of joy. She had little left of home and family, even reputation, but still he had hoped „she would feel some relief. "Don't you believe me?"

  "I believe you," she replied quietly. "May I sleep now? I'd like to recover as quickly as possible."

  He retreated behind a polite mask. "Of course. If you need anything, I'll be in the adjoining room. Just ring that bell on the table."

  "Thank you." She closed her eyes.

  He left the room, feeling like discarded rubbish. But then, what had he expected?

  He was even less surprised when the remaining servants transferred their loyalty to their former master's elder son and left. Only Peg, Rafferty, and a young scullery maid remained.

  Because too few servants remained to care for the livestock, Sean auctioned the breed stock to neighboring landowners and gave the rest to local villagers. Only Mephisto, two coach horses, and a draft mule remained. The estate became as silently deserted as the original ruin brooding above the cliffs.

  Unaware of Shelan's alteration, Catherine slept most of the time, her body beginning to mend. Though Sean read aloud to distract her from pain-nagged waking hours and patiently fed her, their conversations were brief, polite, and impersonal. They might have been strangers. When she slept, he worked like a peasant in the stables and kitchen garden, deliberately losing himself in toil, breaking up hard clods of rock and dirt with pitchfork, boots, and hands; hacking peat from the bogs with a s
lane until his mind dulled.

  Nora, the scullery maid, sidled up to Peg's elbow as she rolled out a piecrust. "Ma'am?"

  The housekeeper jumped. "Will ye scare the wits out of me, girl? Ye're supposed to be sittin' with Lady Culhane 'til she wakes." The girl looked at her nervously and Peg softened. "Lunch, is it? I'm runnin' a bit late, but 'twill be ready in an hour. I'll not forget ye."

  The girl made no move to go. " 'Tisn't that I came for, ma'am. It's . . ." she faltered. "It's milady. She's awake, but. . ."

  Peg caught her arm with a floury hand. "What about her? Out with it!"

  "She don't know me."

  Peg sighed and relaxed her grip. "Oh, that's all, is it? Well, goose, I doubt if she's laid eyes on ye before."

  The girl's eyes widened. "But I don't think she knows anybody. I spoke to her plain and she didn't answer a word. 'Twas . . . scary, like she wasn't really there."

  Peg pulled off her apron. "I'll have a look. We'll not disturb the master just yet."

  Sean stroked the curls back from the still face. "Can you hear me, little one?" There was no sign his voice or touch registered. Dark blue eyes looked through, beyond him with a sadness that tore into his soul. He caught her head between his hands. "Kit, don't hide from me."

  Flynn gently caught his shoulder and nudged him out of the way. He pricked her instep with a needle, then again, harder. He looked up grimly. "I've seen this condition in asylums."

  "Ye mean, the lass is daft?" queried Peg.

  "It appears so."

  "I told her the baby survived," Sean said dully. "It was the only reason she tried to live. Finally, she must have realized the truth."

  Silent for a moment, Flynn rolled down his sleeves. "You'd do well to send her to England now to be among loved ones in happier surroundings. In time, she may recover."