by Oisin McGann
As I have already said, I could spot her oncoming obsessions at a great distance, and immediately anticipated this one. There could be no doubt about what ‘great endeavor’ she had in mind, and it was no task for a woman, pregnant or otherwise.
“A charming fairy tale, my love,” I said. “Though I suspect that anyone suffering a grievous wound would be less than pleased to be plunged into a bottomless pot of porridge. And cooking food in a cauldron used to hold the diseased and the dying could hardly be said to be hygienic.”
“I’m being serious, Edgar,” Miriam said, taking my hands in hers. “The poor of this land are starving to death. I cannot describe the horror of what I have seen on my travels. Dying children, Edgar! Decaying bodies! I encountered a man walking along the side of the road carrying the stick-thin body of a dead child, her bulging eyes still open. On the walk into Newgrange, I saw families living like animals in ditches under makeshift roofs. I was told they had been evicted and driven away from their homes, reduced to little more than tortured skeletons by starvation. They looked like walking corpses and I was sure they were not long for this world. “Her face was twisted with grief. “Edgar, I feel a fool that it has taken me so long to see, but we have so much when others have so little. With … with the power you wield, we could do incredible things. And I don’t just mean charity—you control the way the land of our estates is worked, and all the food that is taken to the ports. You could set an example to the other landlords. You have the ear of the Lord Lieutenant, even the Prime Minister himself. You could make them understand what is happening.”
I tried to hide my exasperation. Miriam is very intelligent in her own feminine way, but she has little understanding of business or economics. It is a man’s world, and it takes a man’s mind to grasp how it is all organized. This is why the law does not allow for a woman to own property or run a business—they simply do not have the head for that kind of thing.
“Heytesbury and Peel are well aware of the situation, my love,” I assured her. “Don’t you think they have their own sources of information? Much is being done already. But it is a complicated problem, and these wheels turn slowly. If you interfere with the economics of it all, you risk doing far more damage.
“If you simply hand out money, the rebels could very well use it to buy weapons to fight the British, instead of food, and that could lead to even worse disaster. Nor is it as simple as flooding the country with cheap food—that would cause chaos. Businesses would collapse if nobody had to pay for anything. That is why the politicians make their decisions so carefully, methodically. They may seem to be dawdling, but the matter is well in hand.”
“You can’t truly believe in all that laissez faire nonsense,” she said sharply. “I realize there is no profit in feeding starving people who can’t pay for it—and we don’t want to upset the market, do we? But you can’t just amputate the dying peasants from your workforce as if they were an infected limb, and hope the rest will live on, Edgar. Turning your back is no answer to anything. You put the family business before everything, my darling, I’ve always understood that. But this is too big; it will affect everything. This is our country, and it is dying.”
“And that will herald a great rebirth, as you say your cauldron symbolizes,” I replied gently. “This is a traumatic time but, as a nation, we will be the better for it. You must believe that our future is in capable hands, and our leaders know what’s best. It will be painful, but we will pull through in the end.”
Miriam gazed up at me for what seemed like an age, and it was as if she read something inside me. It is one of her virtues that she does not ask anything of me more than once; she does not nag or try to coerce as so many women do. She knows my character, as I know hers. Her face changed, taking on a more placid expression, and she released my hands.
“Of course, dear,” she said. “You are right, as ever. But you won’t object if I use some of the family’s resources to engage in some philanthropic projects of my own? Soup kitchens, perhaps, or some involvement with the workhouses?”
“Whatever you feel you can do to ease the plight of the unfortunates,” I told her, resolving to ensure she did not get too firm a grip on the purse-strings. “I will support you in any way I can.”
“I have no doubt of it, your Grace,” she said. She only addresses me as ‘your Grace’ when she’s absolutely furious with me. “Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to get on with cleaning up this artifact. There are a number of eminent authorities who will wish to see it, and I want it looking its best.”
I took my leave of her, but unless I miss my guess, that won’t be the end of the matter. While she may have decided not to involve me, her mind is set upon a course of action. I will have to task Elvira, Eunice and some of the other women with keeping a watchful eye on her. She must not do anything to embarrass the family, or interfere in the workings of the estate. And knowing Miriam, there is every chance she might do either—or both.
Nate could not contain a smirk at the scene between his mother and father. That was the woman he remembered—light-hearted but single-minded. He remembered how his father had often been at a loss when faced with her simple, unyielding logic. Edgar could not intimidate her as he did everyone else. Tatiana had never known her mother, but Nate and his brothers had always suspected that Miriam had never been scared of Edgar because he never showed her the worst in his nature. Despite being an implacable blackguard, he was too afraid of losing her love. So he put up with behavior from her that he would not tolerate in anyone else. At least, until the very end.
Nate’s thoughts strayed to Daisy and Tatiana. Both were every bit as headstrong as his mother, in their own way. Tatiana, at least, had Wildenstern blood in her. And for all her innocence, she had excellent survival instincts. Daisy was another matter. Despite her formidable intelligence, she was weighed down by her peace-loving Christian beliefs. An absolute disability when living among the Wildensterns, most of whom hated her for her refusal to bend to rule or convention. Nate smiled to himself as he recalled some of their arguments.
There were so many memories of her that he savored: the suppressed defiance in her entrancing eyes; the way strands of her hair would fall across her face, never quite tamed; the way her lips parted when something caught her interest … But most of the memories that stuck in his head were composed of some put-down she had cast at him, or one of the many times he had driven her almost to profanity with his high-minded arrogance. And Tatty had always been there, thoroughly amused by the pair of them. It was funny the things one remembered about those one loved most, long after one had been parted from them.
Life would not be easy for either Daisy or Tatty in Wildenstern Hall. They too would be driven to defying Gerald and the rest of the family. Sooner or later, one of them would go too far and would suffer for it. A horrible fate awaited any woman who went against the interests of the family. Once again, Nate found himself wondering what his mother had done to incur his father’s wrath. Why had she been sent to the asylum, and then to that terrible cell in the attic of Wildenstern Hall?
“They’ve almost reached the Devil’s Ladder, sir,” Clancy declared, bringing Nate back to the mountaintop with a start.
He realized that a chill had settled into his bones as he sat there on the cold stone. Nate turned to look up at his manservant, who had the telescope up to his eye.
“That’s too close for my liking,” Clancy added. “We should not tarry any longer. And they appear to have a drawbreath. I think there can be no doubt about it now—they are Gerald’s men, and they are dogging us every step we take.”
A drawbreath was an engimal, often used—by those who could afford the expensive creatures—to clean the carpets of manor houses with their wide mouths. But many of them could also track scents better than any bloodhound.
“Not Wildenstern men—probably bounty hunters,” Nate replied, standing up and taking the spyglass
in time to see the last man disappear into the mouth of the gully. “But as long as your man from Limerick comes through, we’ll have horses waiting for us when we get down to the other side and our new friends won’t. We’ll put some distance between us and them.”
“Unless they’ve anticipated us, and sent a man ahead with their mounts,” Clancy muttered. “I suspect this is an uncommon group of manhunters. They move with purpose. This detour may not have been wise, sir.”
“It gave us a clear sight of them,” Nate pointed out.
“We did not have to come miles out of our way, and climb the highest mountain in Ireland to do that, sir,” Clancy replied. “Some might say you were looking for another unnecessary challenge.”
“Oh, might they indeed?” Nate remarked, while putting his book away and slinging his pack onto his shoulders. “Might they not believe that this was all part of my cunning plan, then?”
“They would not know, not being party to this plan to which you refer, sir.”
Nate suppressed a grimace and looked away, feeling a hint of shame at his behavior. True, Clancy was a servant, but he was also so much more.
“I’m sorry I’m keeping you in the dark about much of this, Clancy,” he sighed, looking back at his manservant. “After all we’ve been through together—all you’ve done for me—you deserve better than this. But this is a bizarre situation, where knowledge itself is the enemy, even more than Gerald himself. The very nature of his research is the real threat, and the less people know about it, the safer everyone will be. And I’m trying to put all the scattered pieces together, so I can understand my role in all this. You see, it’s not just Gerald that we need to be scared of. I’m part of the problem too. I’m sorry that I can’t explain why—even to you.”
“There is no need to apologize, sir. If that is your judgment, I trust it completely.”
“Really? I wasn’t sure I’d ever given you reason to trust my judgment.”
Clancy had the good sense not to reply. Nate turned away and started walking. One of the things he did not mention was that, having learned the truth about the intelligent particles, he had spent much of the last three years trying to keep their terrible potential from his mind. There were times when he had wondered if it might be better for everyone if he was dead. But learning that Gerald was still alive had put an end to that line of thinking.
So he had resolved to tell Clancy as little as possible, relying on the man’s loyalty, as he had for most of his life.
They set off north-west, down the ridge towards Beenkeragh, the next peak. The weathered layer of grass-covered soil was thin here, the jagged protrusions of stone pushing up like teeth through gums. Instead of climbing up towards the next peak, they turned left, scrambling down a dangerous scree-covered slope towards a pair of round lakes below and to the west of them; Coomloughra Lough and the smaller Lough Eagher. They were both carrying backpacks heavy with supplies and weapons, and Nate had a short-handled shovel lashed to his. The ground was steep and treacherous, and stones slipped from under their boots, threatening to fall away from under them and send the two men tumbling down the rocky slope. Climbing up these mountains was tough, but it was far more dangerous coming down. A badly twisted ankle could leave a person stranded, and there was little shelter against the harsh elements in these mountains.
After a few near-misses, the two men reached the small valley that held the two loughs. The tops of their thighs, the sides of their knees and the muscles of their backs burned from the exertion. Nate strode to the near edge of Lough Eagher, searching for a distinctive boulder he knew would be there. There was a rough ‘W’ carved into the underside of the rock, confirming he was in the right place.
A glance up the hill showed no sign of the men who were following them, but if they were in good shape, they could not be far from the top now. And Nate had no doubt these men were physically able.
Taking out his compass, he counted out a number of paces due east, taking him uphill again until he came to a patch of green grass that hinted at deeper earth. He shook off his pack, untied the shovel and started to dig.
In the past, Clancy would always have insisted he did any manual labor—and Nate would have agreed—but things had changed. This was a very personal moment, and Nate was no stranger to hard graft now. And he had to remind himself that Clancy was getting old. The manservant had struggled up the last stretch of Carrauntoohil, and he was breathing hard now, leaning forward, his hands on his knees. Nate looked at him with concern, but knew the man’s pride would not let him slow the pace, or allow Nate to take some of the weight from his pack.
“Remember when Marcus, Berto and I took a trip here years ago?” Nate reminded him as he dug into the hard, stony Kerry soil. “It was before Marcus was due to head off to America to take up the reins of the business there. It was the last time all three of us were alone together as … well, as friends—before we all took our different paths into manhood, I suppose. Anyway, we felt it was a significant time. Berto had brought this little steel strongbox along—Marcus and I didn’t know anything about it, but it turned out to be some of our mother’s personal effects. Things she had left with Berto before she died.”
Nate stopped digging for a moment, gazing at the ground.
“She and Berto always had a special bond. He was different from the rest of us—and not just because of his … you know, romantic tastes. He was the only one who ever had the nerve—or the bloody-minded stupidity, whichever you want to call it—to defy Father’s will. So while we were out walking up on the peak, he produced this box. Mother had not wanted Father to see it and I guess she gave it to Berto after their marriage started to turn sour, though I didn’t think of it that way at the time. The point was, Berto wanted us three to bury it out here together—without looking inside—where Father and the rest of the family could never know about it or find it. A kind of ceremony, if you will.”
He prodded around in the fresh wound in the earth until he heard a dull ‘thunk.’ Cleaning the last bit of soil away, he knelt down and used his fingers to scrape round the edges of a rectangular shape about a foot long and nine inches wide. Getting a hold, he pulled it out of the ground. It was a steel box, wrapped securely in an oilcloth in an attempt to keep it dry. Rust had crept across the surface of the box, but it was still intact.
Clancy was standing next to him now, watching with interest. The key was wrapped in the oilcloth and Nate picked it out and slipped it into the lock. Miraculously, it still worked. There was a click and Nate opened the lid.
Inside was a bundle of letters tied with string, a curled broken piece of metal a few inches long that appeared to be bronze—what might have been a piece from the rim of a large pot or urn—the folded front page and a few inner pages of a yellowing newspaper entitled The Nation, and a woman’s handkerchief stained brown with old blood. Nate took out the handkerchief and held it up, frowning as he examined it in the dull light of the overcast sky.
There was also a small tarnished silver flask that, when opened, revealed a clear liquid that was obviously not water. Nate sniffed it, frowning, but was unable to identify it. He held it out to Clancy, who held it up to his nose.
“Poitín, sir,” the older man said, pronouncing the Irish word ‘putcheen.’ “And from a strong batch, if I’m any judge.”
“What the hell was Mother doing with some of that stuff?” Nate muttered.
Poitín was Irish moonshine, an illegal form of alcohol brewed using potatoes and sugar. It was one of the strongest drinks in the world, and if distilled badly it was pure poison, which could leave a person blind, or even dead. It was not an appropriate drink for a lady. Nate put the bottle back in the strongbox, shaking his head in confusion. Carefully folding the stained silk handkerchief into his own linen one, he slipped the small bundle into the inner pocket of his jacket, left the rest in the box and closed the lid, putting it away in his pack. He
tied the shovel back on and stretched his limbs, rolling his shoulders before pulling the pack on.
Clancy had his spyglass out again, training it on the ridge above them.
“There they are, sir,” he said. “And I daresay they’ve seen us too.”
“Then it’s time to move,” Nate replied. “Let’s hope your man is punctual, Clancy. We’ll be in sore need of those horses. And there’ll be no more detours from here on in. If they like, they can dog us all the way to Wildenstern Hall.”
“I’m sure they look forward to the chase every bit as much as you do, sir.”
XIII
REORGANIZING THE DRAWING ROOM
DAISY SAT AT THE GRAND PIANO in the light of the huge bay window, playing the tune a little too slowly, and thinking about Nate. She had been more honest with herself about her feelings of late. Ever since the death of her husband, she realized she had become increasingly lonely. Her work, and the mystery of Gerald’s grand scheme, had helped distract her from that loneliness, but it was always there now, lying beneath her other emotions.
With a start, she realized what she was playing. It was Chopin’s Nocturne in C-sharp minor. The tune Berto’s manservant had heard being played on a violin, shortly before the man discovered his master’s decapitated corpse. The tune Gerald had played to hold Berto in place while he killed him. Daisy swore under her breath and pulled her hands back from the keyboard as if she had been burnt. In a moment of sheer exasperation, she slapped the keys, knocking a jangled bang out of the instrument. The sound of the jarred strings reverberated around the large drawing room. Daisy glared at the piano as if it were the root of all her troubles. She grabbed the book of sheet music that lay on top of the piano and hurled it across the room, the pages flapping like a panicked bird. It struck a tall side-table beside one of the sofas, knocking a vase of flowers to the floor.
